#crystalline plastics

[gudmould]

Crystalline plastics and injection molding processing performance

I. What is crystalline plastic Crystalline plastics have a distinct melting point, and molecules are arranged regularly when solid. Regularly arranged area is called crystalline area, and disordered area is called amorphous area (or “amorphous area”). Percentage of crystalline area is called crystallinity. Usually, polymers with a crystallinity of more than 80% are called crystalline plastics.…

[chrollogy]

SUNSET DREAMS ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

kageyama tobio x afab!reader

╰┈➤ part of house of solis occasum’s summer fic exchange for @mcdonaldsnumberone !

synopsis: The tall, raven-haired surf instructor catches your attention during a private surfing lesson with your friends but due to circumstances, there was no space for small talk. Later that afternoon, you cross paths once again at a beach club—a sign from the universe to grab the opportunity, and get to know him better. This quickly leads to a turn of events where you both end up naked in bed, and eager to explore each other’s bodies but there’s just one thing though, he’s a virgin.

content warning: beach au, surf instructor!/surfer!kageyama, poor depiction of surfing, bartender!hinata cameo, alcohol use, awkward flirting, i am making kags PATHETIC, summer fling/beach romance, nsfw, smut (mdni), virgin!kageyama, bottom!kageyama, top!reader, virginity loss (m), porn without plot, handjob, cum eating, unprotected s*x, creampie, multiple orgasms (m), not beta read.

word count: 6.3k

notes: eeeeep it’s my first time writing for mr tobio but i absolutely had fun !! i hope you enjoy mac :3 divider: cafekitsune.

The scorching sun amongst the cerulean skies kissed your warm skin, the scent of salt, and sea lingered in the air as a summer breeze blew by; sounds of heavy waves from the crystalline water, and distant chatters from avid beach goers filled your senses. It was hot, and humid with no ivory clouds in sight—the perfect formula for a quick summer getaway. The beach buzzed with liveliness; colourful hues of towels, and essentials laid upon the white sand, kids with plastic buckets, and shovels eagerly building sand castles, surfers chasing the endless azure waves beneath the blazing sun.

Just the sight of swells had your heart thumping with adrenaline rush, a vivid imagery of yourself attempting to ride the waves formulated in your mind. You’ve never tried surfing before but today was the perfect time to do so—a completely out of the blue suggestion by one of your friends, not that you were complaining. It was always nice to try new things, anyway.

“How do I look? Did I put on too much sunscreen?”

A saccharine voice to your left reeled you back to reality; looking over at the owner of the voice, an emerald gaze stared right back, her eyes sparkling beneath the searing rays of the sun. Scanning your friend’s face for any white cast from the sunscreen, you shook your head, and smiled, “You look fine, Alisa.” Taking your word for it, she mirrored your smile before placing her sunnies over her eyes. You, and three friends were clad in a rental jet black skin tight wetsuit provided by the surf school, preparing for today’s private beginner lesson.

You weren’t going to lie, the thought of braving the waves made your heart pound from nervousness, and excitement but seeing as you were going to experience this foreign activity with your friends—who also haven’t tried it before—it put you at ease; you just hoped the instructor was could somewhat save you if you happen to fall off the surfboard, and onto the warm waters beneath.

Speaking of the instructor, Hitoka spoke up, a subtle devious smile on her face as she worked her hands on her flaxen strands, deftly tying it up in a low ponytail, “I bet our instructor is hot.” This earned silent chuckles from the rest of you, shaking your heads at the blonde who just shrugged in response. “Laugh at me all you want now but if I’m right, you owe me a free drink at the beach club later.”

Playfully rolling your eyes at her newfound determination, you waved a dismissive hand at your friend, mirroring her smile,

“Sure, whatever helps you—”

“I’m so sorry for the wait, everyone! I’ll be your surfing instructor for today.” A dulcet voice cut your sentence short, it belonged to a tall man clad in a wetsuit—he looked to be around your age. Blinking twice up at him, your eyes raked his physique up, and down before taking in his handsome beauty—cropped raven hair that framed his face, and the sharp gaze of his dark blue eyes were the cherry on top; a blend of an innocent yet sultry appeal. He emanated a subtle intimidating aura, especially paired with his looming height but his voice was as soft as the first rays of the early morning, something you could get used to hearing everyday.

You were already considering buying Hitoka that free drink because god was he fucking hot—the skin tight surf suit did not leave much to one’s imagination with the way it hugged his lean build; dips, and curves of his muscles accentuated by the waterproof fabric. It was beyond shameless to ogle your instructor because you’ve completely missed his name, instead, your eyes were focused on the way his muscular legs shifted as he leaned his weight from one bare foot to another.

Next thing you knew, his sharp gaze was on you, an expectant look on his handsome face. Snapping out of your trance, you hesitantly looked to the side—at your friends—clearly unaware of what was going on, ‘Your name. He’s asking for your name.’ Kiyoko mouthed. Letting out a sound of realisation, you smiled up at the instructor, and introduced yourself, ignoring the sudden warmth that crept up the column of your neck, and to your cheeks.

After brief introductions were out of the way, the five of you headed down to the beach—surfboards securely tucked beneath an arm—to start off today’s lesson. Hitoka fell into a step next to you, hissing at the white scorching sand beneath her bare feet, angling your face over to her, you spoke up, “Hey, what was our instructor’s name again? I didn’t catch it earlier.” She looked at you, that devious smile back in its place, brows furrowed, free hand shielding her sweaty face from the blinding sun, “Why? Too busy ogling his hotness?”

Yes. But you weren’t going to tell her that—god, no, she’d never live it down because she was right.

You mustered your best uninterested expression, however, the corners of your lips were itching to curl upwards at her blatant teasing, clearly hitting the nail on the head. Hitoka briefly returned the same deadpan expression, narrowing her chestnut eyes at you before letting out a sigh of defeat, “Kageyama Tobio. Full name, even.” She snickered before going on to complain about the hot sand, and the equally hot summer weather.

“Kageyama Tobio.” You muttered underneath your breath, satisfied at how it easily rolled off your tongue—little did you know, you were going to be moaning it out like a shameless common whore hours later, as though it was made for your tongue only.

As the group neared the deserted azure waters, the scent of salt grew stronger; the sound of small waves crashing on the shoreline filled your ears as you came to a halt just a few ways from the water. Kageyama started the lesson by skilfully explaining the safety guidelines, surfing etiquette, and basic techniques; you tried your best to listen in on the briefing since this was a crucial part of the lesson but his dulcet voice slowly faded along with distant noises from the background as you stared up at his face.

Your eyes gently traced over every dip, and curve of Kageyama’s features, lips parted in slight awe, completely lost in his serene beauty as the late morning sun casted a warm glow upon his skin. This has never happened before—sure, you’ve stumbled upon other jaw-dropping faces in the past that had your heart skipping a beat or two but this was different, you were shamelessly drawn to him; as though you were a moon affected by gravitational attraction, falling into an orbit around a planet named Kageyama Tobio. Though, you mostly chalked up your absentmindedness to nerves taking root deep beneath your skin, as each minute grew closer to hitting the swells of the vast ocean.

After getting thoroughly briefed through safety measures, and basic techniques—such as paddling, popping up, and maintaining balance—the next part of the lesson was getting into the water. Despite your heart pounding with nervousness, paddling wasn’t too bad, the coolness of the wavy waters calmed your nerves a tad bit—a daring contrast from the scorching sun directly above your head.

Fortunately for you, Kageyama was amazing at his job—even though the group practised on shallow waters with small waves, getting the hang of popping up, and maintaining balance on the board was tricky, and he was there to ensure an easy experience for you. The feeling of Kageyama’s firm grip around the back of your thigh had your heart hammering as he supported your weight, gently guiding you to stand up on the board,

“Good! You’re a natural. Remember to keep your knees bent—that’s it.” His praise went straight to your legs, knees slightly buckling; it absolutely caught you off guard, almost losing balance but luckily, you didn’t let up, and tried your best to navigate through the small wave.

The lesson carried on for another hour—it went smoothly despite unceremoniously falling into the water a couple of times with your friends but this earned you several words of encouragement from your instructor which definitely did not have you pressing your legs together; god, you just hoped Kageyama didn’t notice with the amount of times you’ve done it throughout the span of the lesson—you’d rather willingly drink the salty sea water instead.

It was already late afternoon, and the summer sun was beginning to set; blue skies turned into hues of cotton candy pink, and pastel orange which casted a vibrant warm glow over the beach, as though it was a scene from a movie. The group leisurely walked along the stretch of the beach, heading for the beach club mentioned earlier. The three indulged themselves in a mellow conversation, raving about their newfound surfing skills, your mind, on the other hand, wandered elsewhere.

Gaze locked on the warm sand beneath as moments from the lesson vividly replayed in your head; you could still feel the warmth of Kageyama’s palm against your clothed skin, the way his fingers ever so slightly dug into your body whenever you wobbled a little.

As if the universe somewhat knew the truth of your mind, Hitoka exclaimed, “Hey! Isn’t that our instructor from earlier?” At the mention of him, your head shot up, eyes following the direction of her pointed finger; as your gaze shifted all the way to the sparkling waters, you recognized Kageyama’s familiar physique.

There he was in his own world, propped up on his surfboard, deftly riding the afternoon waves. As expected from a pro surfer, Kageyama’s body moved with such accuracy, and intricateness as though he was the one controlling the water—clad only in black board shorts, he looked absolutely divine beneath the sunset skies, the golden glow of the sun bouncing off his bare torso.

“He was a little too intense for me, if I’m being honest.” Alisa momentarily stared at him before shifting her gaze. “Really? He seemed fine to me. Just a little stiff.” Kiyoko responded, brows subtly furrowed as though she was in deep thought; this earned a hum of agreement from Hitoka before rambling on about how intense Kageyama’s gaze was.

Hm, you must be the odd one out because in your eyes, his personality was warm, albeit, a little awkward, and blunt but despite that, it was manageable—hell, you even enjoyed his praises no matter how flat or awkward his tone was.

The conversation carried over to the beach club located along a tranquil coastline; greeted with a mix of elegance, and topical accents, you scanned the place in awe—wooden cabanas draped with ivory curtains, and outdoor sunbeds lined the white sands which overlooked the still, azure waters. Apart from the ocean itself, the pool was also an option to swim in, offering a mini bar that you had your eyes set on.

Kiyoko, and Alisa decided to explore other amenities of the club whereas Hitoka opted to lounge at a sunbed, wanting to catch a glimpse of the sun setting behind the horizon, and as for you, your feet were already taking you to the mini bar situated by the pool. After that lengthy, exhausting lesson, all you needed right now was a little alcohol to wash down thoughts about a certain surfer that plagued your mind.

Tropical beats spilled from the speakers, creating a lively atmosphere for its patrons to enjoy; luckily, the poolside wasn’t too congested, and you were able to secure a vacant stool. Opting for the farthest corner in the outdoor bar, your eyes thoroughly scanned the miniature, azure pamphlet on the counter which contained a curated list of cocktails, and other beverages to indulge oneself in.

“If you’re having trouble choosing a drink, I highly suggest our signature cocktail ‘Sunset Dreams’! I can turn it into a mocktail if you’re not interested in alcohol.”

Looking up from the menu, and at the owner of the buoyant voice from behind the counter, you were greeted with a radiant smile that reached his eyes as though he was the epitome of sunshine; his spiky, orange hair that mirrored hues of the sky were not easy to miss, standing out against the neutral colours of his clothes—a beige linen button up shirt that had a few buttons loose, paired with ivory shorts.

The man held a metallic cocktail shaker, vigorously shaking it above his shoulder with both hands a few times before pouring its contents into a chilled highball glass, and sliding it over to a customer just a few seats down.

“So! What would it be for you?” He tapped the counter, returning in front of you before slightly leaning forward; he had an expectant look in his doe, chestnut brown eyes—a look which one, including yourself, couldn’t help but adore. You caught a glimpse of a small, golden nametag glimmering against the beige of his shirt—bold, ivory letters read ‘SHOYO’.

You contemplated his suggestion for a moment, “Okay. I think I’ll try the signature cocktail.” This earned a gleeful expression from the bartender, eagerly nodding at your choice of drink, “Good, good! You’re gonna love it! I’m Shoyo, your bartender for the night. If you need anything, just call out my name, and I’ll be there!” He pointed a finger at his name tag before working on the signature cocktail.

Smiling to yourself, you felt at ease being serviced by such a lively individual; Shoyo cheerfully greeted, and bid customers goodbye every now, and then—you subtly watched him do his job though he was part of a live entertainment.

A few minutes later, Shoyo sets a pretty, gradient cocktail before you, “One Sunset Dreams for you. Enjoy! Call me over if there’s anything you need!” Giving the bartender a warm thanks, you admired the beverage, it imitated colours of the sunset—a vibrant hue of red sitting on the base which gradually faded into a light cotton candy pink topped with two cherries on a swizzle stick, and a straw.

You didn’t hesitate to pull your phone out, and quickly snap a few photos to send to the group chat, instantly earning a thread of replies from Hitoka gushing about how amazing it looked. Before you could properly take a sip of your cocktail, Shoyo’s radiant voice filled your ears as he greeted an oncoming customer,

“Heeey, Kageyama! I haven’t seen you all week!”

At the mention of the surfer’s name, your ears unabashedly perk up. Sure, there were probably thousands—if not hundreds—of other Kageyamas out there but you only knew one person with that name, and he happened to be standing just two seats away from where you sat. His raven strands were damp, glistening beneath the golden sunset rays; he donned a plain white tee, and blue boardshorts which had no business making your heart pound like crazy.

The chances of meeting Kageyama here weren’t exactly slim given his job but you didn’t entirely expect to meet him here, let alone make friends with the beach club’s lively bartender—you didn’t make him out to be a person to regularly attend places like this.

As if he sensed your curious gaze, Kageyama looked to the side, navy blue eyes meeting your own. You waved—you fucking waved at him like he was an old friend who was here to meet with you; embarrassment gnawed at your skin, warmth creeping up from the sides neck of your neck, and onto your cheeks, resembling small, sharp kisses.

To your surprise, Kageyama dipped his chin in return before sauntering over to the vacant seat beside yours. “You two know each other?” Shoyo mused, brown eyes shifting between you, and Kageyama. The latter bluntly shook his head before pointing a thumb at you, “Had them for a beginner’s class earlier today.” You nodded at Kageyama’s reply.

“Also, just the usual mocktail for me.” The taller male added, taking a seat next to you, completely catching you off guard—you didn’t expect him to actually sit next to you but hey, maybe this was the universe’s sign to get to know the man better; how? You were about to find out for yourself. Shoyo returned a bright response, saluting at his friend before getting to work.

Despite the lively atmosphere of the poolside with distant chatters, and soft beats playing on the speakers, the air between you, and Kageyama turned awkward pretty quickly. Talk to him. Talk to him. Talk to him, your mind screamed but all you could do at the moment was take a long sip of your cocktail—maybe getting a bit of liquid courage would help you in this dire situation, after all, as they said, a little goes a long way.

Awkwardly clearing your throat, you spoke up, “So . . What made you interested in surfing?” Good. This was a good conversation starter; you mentally gave yourself a pat on the back for quickly coming up with a question before the atmosphere got too silent, and uncomfortable to talk in. Kageyama met your eyes, cool gaze bringing an icy shiver down your spine; his dulcet voice engulfed your ears as he explained about his love for the sport.

Surprisingly, he had a whole lot to say about surfing—not that you were complaining, you listened to every word that slipped past his lips. You keenly watched how his relaxed expression gradually turned into something more passionate the more he talked about his job—eyes gleaming with pure enthusiasm, and the corners of his lips subtly curling upwards, it was adorable.

“Sorry. Did I bore you? I kind of went on a tangent there.” Kageyama sheepishly scratched his nape. “No, not at all! It was interesting to hear about it, really . . I think you’re really cute.”

Oh god.

Oh my fucking god. That wasn’t supposed to slip out.

Now would be a really good time for the ground to swallow you whole. Though, the only thing swallowing you whole was embarrassment, and to make matters worse, Kageyama wordlessly blinked at you with the most blank expression known to man—you were unsure whether it didn’t phase him at all or he just decided to ignore your blatant flirting altogether. Whatever the reason was, you were better off not knowing.

You could practically see the gears turning in his head as soon as the sentence slipped out. Though, in Kageyama’s defence, he didn’t know whether you were flirting with him or plainly just complimenting him—sure, he also found you cute but would it be weird if he said it back, and you just meant yours as a compliment, nothing more?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Kageyama was overthinking this whole conversation a little too much, he needed to give a response before it becomes unbearably awkward—

“Oh—um, thanks . . I think you’re cute too.” He practically mumbled the last part of his sentence but whatever, he wasn’t going to repeat it again, not when his cheeks turned awfully warm, and his heart skipped a beat or two. Kageyama tried his best to break eye contact but god he just couldn’t; he found your eyes beautiful, the way they shone beneath the warm glow of the sunset.

Maybe you were just being extremely delusional but did you hear Kageyama’s words correctly? He thinks you’re cute as well? Nonetheless, it gave you a boost of confidence, an invitation to shoot your shot, and see wherever it takes you. The raven-haired man subtly squirmed in his seat, deep blue eyes boring into your own; a small blanket of pink coating his cheeks

Was it just him or it felt really, really hot today? Even though the sun had dipped into the horizon, Kageyama felt like he was right beneath its scorching rays—all of a sudden his body felt uncomfortably hot, he felt sharp prickles kissing down his neck, and onto his chest. Kageyama had never felt this hot, and bothered under someone’s presence before—not to mention the growing sensation deep in his core. He felt pathetic, really, being all turned on from just a little flirting; if your words affected him this much, Kageyama wondered how he’d act underneath your touch.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Not the appropriate thought to think about right now.

He mentally cursed his mind for wandering to such impure thoughts rather too quickly because clearly it did nothing but further fuel the shameful feeling growing inside him—carnal desire. Oh, this was absolutely embarrassing on his end, it hasn’t even been at least ten minutes in your presence, and yet he’s getting needier by the minute.

Earlier, Kageyama was lucky enough that he was engrossed in the lesson, and therefore wasn’t too distracted by your presence—all he got was a pounding heart whenever he held your clothed body but that was just about it. Plus, Kageyama wasn’t one to muck around during his job since the safety of the class depended on him, he couldn’t afford some petty distraction, even if it meant pushing down his innocent feelings.

Though, Kageyama wondered if the feelings he had right now could be even called innocent.

As the raven-haired male squirmed in his seat once again, you caught a glimpse of the growing hardness between his thighs, the thin fabric of his shorts did so little to hide the tent at the apex of his legs—you’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t admit to squeezing your legs at the sight.

It was barely above a whisper but Kageyama heard it just fine, a faint ‘I can help you with that.’

Maybe it was the alcohol talking but truthfully, you haven’t even finished your glass of cocktail, and it wasn’t even enough to get you tipsy—the next thing you knew, your thoughts swiftly flew out of your mouth before being able to stop yourself.

He gulped, nails digging into his palms at the erotic sight he just envisioned in his mind. Oh, god. Was this really happening right now? Did you just offer to help him with his growing erection? Kageyama’s throat felt dry. Where the fuck was Hinata with the drink he ordered? Why was he taking so long to make it? The whole situation felt surreal—a wet dream—too good to be true; he felt dizzy, and it didn’t stop there when he responded equally quietly.

If Kageyama was being honest, he didn’t hear his own words over the buzzing of his ear, and the thumping of his heart—all he knew was that it must’ve been a damn good response with your eyes widening, and lips curling up into a seductive smile, one that had his cock throbbing beneath his shorts.

It was all a daze from there, the rush of pure desire coursing through his veins, the spinning of his head; Kageyama vaguely remembered Hinata calling out to the both of you, assuming his mocktail was ready for him but he didn’t bat an eye, a mere beverage would simply do nothing to satiate the thirst he harboured—Kageyama needed you, only you could quench this growing ache between his legs.

Kageyama’s feet felt light against the pavement beneath, his flip flops scraping against it with every uncomfortable step taken. Hues of the fading sunset engulfed his mind, pretty pinks, and oranges slowly turned deep blue as you walked back to your accommodation—it was only a five-minute walk but god it felt like an eternity.

Your lips were on his as soon as the door to your room slammed shut, you swore the walls shook from impact but whatever, it was none of your concern. Kageyama’s lean arms caged you as your back hit the soft mattress beneath, fingers digging into the sheets at the dizzying kiss; no one has kissed him with this much drive, and passion before, the way your soft lips eagerly moved against his own, guiding him with each searing kiss.

Soft moans, and grunts slipped from Kageyama’s throat in between kisses, the sheer intensity from it was enough to make him cum untouched right then, and there; he could practically feel his body vibrating with lust—fuck, he couldn’t even think properly with the way your hands caressed his body up, and down, up, and down before sliding them under his ivory shirt, and gently clawing at his bare skin.

Heaven. Absolute heaven.

Kageyama moaned into your mouth at the feeling of your nails scraping his sensitive skin, trails of goosebumps forming beneath your sinful touch. And as he opened his eyes to meet your gaze, tears quickly pooled around them—from what? Kageyama didn’t know. Maybe it was from sexual frustration, maybe it was from the heavenly feeling of your nails, or maybe it was how each blissful emotion hit him like a truck, and took the air out of his lungs.

Momentarily pulling away from the kiss, Kageyama breathed out a string of incoherent words, a look of uncertainty crossing his crimson-painted face. “What—what was that?” You let out soft pants, dropping your head on the pillow beneath as you cupped his warm cheeks,

“I’m—I haven’t done this before . . I’m a virgin.”

You blinked up at him.

There was a slight pause—a heartbeat—as Kageyama’s confession lingered in the thick, warm air of the room; sweat already lined his forehead, raven strands sticking to his skin. “I’m sorry—Are you turned off?” He quickly peeled himself from your body, a rush of faint coolness momentarily engulfing you from his lack of presence. Kageyama sat on his knees, a bashful look painted on his face.

Quickly sitting up to cup his face, you shook your head, “No, no! Not at all . . Did you want us to stop? I don’t mind at all.” Now, it was Kageyama’s turn to vigorously shake his head, “No. I—I want to do it with you.” He breathed out, eyes glazed with pure lust.

You clenched your cunt at his words—just the thought of taking someone’s virginity, let alone Kageyama’s it felt like a whole lot of expectation had been placed on your shoulders but you weren’t backing down now, not at all, you were going to give him the most earth-shattering first time with how much trust he gave you.

“Take off your clothes, and lie on the bed.” As though time was of the essence, Kageyama hastily stripped his top off, shamelessly flinging it somewhere in the room. Your eyes keenly watched as his thumbs dipped beneath the waistband of his raven shorts, slowly dragging it down the length of his long legs ‘til it pooled around his ankles.

Kageyama wordlessly looked up at you, the fabric of his underwear still on him, cock painfully straining against it with a noticeable wet spot. “All of your clothes.” You added. The male’s cheeks warmed before shyly slipping it off, hard cock bouncing against the tufts of raven hair on his stomach, it shamelessly leaked of pre-cum, beads of pearlescent liquid sat prettily on his red tip.

“Good. Now, on the bed.” An icy shiver ran up his spine at the purr of your voice, velvety, and low as you pat the empty space next to you. As Kageyama situated himself on the bed, his bare back flush against the wooden headboard, he watched as you stood at the foot of the bed, hands slowly coming up to strip yourself.

What a tease.

Kageyama watched with eager eyes as each article of clothing slipped off your skin, Adam’s apple bobbing with each noticeable gulp—fuck, you looked divine; his hands ached to pleasure himself, fuck his cock on his fist as he watched you deftly unclasp your bra. Cursing beneath his breath, his gaze traced over your naked chest, eyes circling over your pert nipples, and down the valley of it. He was practically drooling at this point, rosy lips parted in complete awe at your raw beauty.

Oh, how he wanted to touch you so bad, roam his large hands all over your body, and squeeze, and rub at parts he’s never held before. Kageyama’s mind went absolutely wild, he wondered what your moans would sound like under his touch; would you enjoy his fingers on your sensitive clit? Moan his name out into oblivion? Cum on his hand?

You crawled up the mattress, situating yourself between his parted legs, just before his hard cock. Kageyama waited for your next move with a bated breath, toned chest heaving up, and down with anticipation, his hands gripping the ivory sheets beneath.

Deep, blue eyes widened as you curled over yourself, coming face to face with his dick; oh, you just knew that length would absolutely do wonders inside you. Kageyama bit his lip, stiffening underneath your touch as you circled a hand around his cock, languidly dragging it up to his tip to spread pre-cum down his shaft. Kageyama melted like putty at the first stroke, his head unceremoniously resting on the wall behind as pleasure consumed his body at the speed of lightning— he could already feel the building pressure in the pit of his stomach.

“Ah!—Fuck. T-that feels so, so good.” Kageyama moaned to the ceiling, his voice was airy, and light, a clear sign of pure bliss completely taking over his sanity. He’s never been touched by anyone before so this was a foreign experience for him; it felt different from when he pleasured himself with his own hands—your touch drove Kageyama to madness, and he was absolutely addicted to it.

Satisfied with his reaction, you picked up the pace, and brought another hand down to gently massage his balls which earned a loud whine of your name. Oh, fuck. Kageyama was floating on cloud nine, and this was only pleasure from your hands, what more if it was your wet cunt? Would he even last sheathed deep in your velvety walls? He doubted it. 

As the pace picked up, Kageyama’s moans also grew in volume, his stomach clenched, and unclenched at the sheer pleasure that consumed his whole body, all because of your hands. “Fuck! Fuck! Fu—I’m cumming!” The raven-haired male let out a wanton moan, eyes closed shut, knuckles white, and muscles taut as the knot inside his stomach finally snapped. Pure bliss rocked through Kageyama’s body like never before, as though he was engulfed in a million pleasurable kisses.

White, hot ribbons of cum shamelessly spurted from his cock which coated your fingers, and wrist. Kageyama slumped against the headboard, all fucked out, and covered by a light sheen of sweat; his lips were parted as he desperately chased oxygen, 

“Want you—I need you. Please . .” Kageyama panted, his lustful gaze locked onto your own; even though he just orgasmed, his cock was still rock hard. How needy. His breath hitched at the lewd sight before him as you languidly licked a long stripe up your wrist, gathering his cum on the tip of your tongue, and eagerly swallowing his essence down. It was like Kageyama’s brain short circuited—he’s only ever seen this sight on his laptop screen during sleepless nights, never did he think he’d see his own cum licked, and swallowed from one’s hand.

Was it possible to faint from such a sinful sight? 

Sitting up, you inched closer to Kageyama’s lap, thighs on either side of his slim waist, and clothed cunt hovering his cockhead. With keen eyes, the raven-haired watched as you deftly pushed your panties aside, catching a glimpse of your glistening cunt. He licked his lips as though he was a predator silently stalking his prey, waiting to pounce. Kageyama wondered what you’d taste like on his tongue, your sweet slick smeared all over his mouth, and chin—he could only fantasise. 

The violent thrumming of his heart filled his ears as he watched you shift your weight over his lap; this was really happening—Kageyama was about to lose his virginity. He felt a rush of every single emotion from A to Z, all things good but mixed with a bit of nervousness; what if he couldn’t satisfy you enough? What if he accidentally cummed way too soon? What if—

“Ohhhhh—fuck! Ngh—ah!” Kageyama violently threw his head back against the wall, fists gripping the sheets below as you slowly inched down his red tip. Oh god. Oh god. You hugged him so, so tightly, your cunt felt hot, and wet around him but in a good kind of way; he let out short breaths, his chest quickly heaving up, and down as he tried his best to ground himself. It was like his sanity snapped in a split second as soon as you made raw contact with his dick—this feeling was beyond cloud nine, as though he was one with the cosmos. 

You bit your lip at his pornographic sounds, letting out low whimpers as Kageyama’s cock desperately twitched inside you. With your hands gripping his bare shoulders, you slowly inched down his cock, grounding yourself as the head kissed intimate parts of you that no one has ever reached. A unison of heavy pants filled the thick air after bottoming out; you momentarily stilled, giving yourself ample time to get used to Kageyama’s length because fuck it drove you absolutely insane.

“P-please move. Need more, please . .” He whined, desperately moving his hips beneath your weight, causing his tip to momentarily brush against your g-spot ever so slightly. Moaning at the contact, a string of colourful curses slipped past your lips, toes curling at the sudden wave of pleasure.

Without wasting any more time, you lifted your hips all the way up to his tip before slamming back down, earning muttered curses of your name from Kageyama. His hands immediately flew to your hips as a way to ground himself, as though holding onto anything else would immediately deprive him of this heavenly bliss.

Soft, wet squelches bounced off the walls with every languid roll of your hips, Kageyama couldn’t peel his eyes away from where to two of you connected—it was wet, and slippery, glistening from all your arousal; everything felt so sinful that it made his head spin, not the mention the bounce of your breasts with each movement of your hips. Every moan that slipped past your lips went straight to Kageyama’s cock, he was the one making you moan this loud, not to mention the look on your face—hooded eyes, and lips parted to chant his name every now, and then; pride blossomed in his chest.

Shared pleasure ate away at your bodies like a rabid animal, gnawing at your skin with nothing to stop it ‘til it reached your bones—it was immense, a toe-curling sensation with every relentless bounce of your hips; the way Kageyama’s cock repeatedly kissed your g-spot, the way your velvety walls sinfully wrapped around him like it was meant to be. Your thighs burned with exhaustion, a mix of pain, and pleasure completely taking over your body but you didn’t stop—you didn’t want to, not when Kageyama felt this amazing inside you.

You could tell the raven-haired was getting more, and more greedy for pleasure from how his nails painfully dug into your sweaty skin, the subtle upward thrust of his hips to meet your own, taking him even deeper into your wet heat. Heavy balls slapping onto your ass fuelled your desire further, the slight burn of it had you clenching around him.

“Ah!—Kageyama! Ohhhh fuck! You’re so deep . .” He closed his eyes at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue, voice as sweet as honey. Kageyama wondered if he could be a little more greedy, “Tobio—ngh! Call me Tobio.” He panted. It took all of his sanity to string the short sentence together, Kageyama couldn’t even hear himself over the loud skin slapping mixed with your endless whines.

Vigorously nodding, you moaned his name, “Tobio! Mhm—You gonna cum for me? Yeah?” It was Kageyama’s turn to nod at your gasped words, eyes momentarily screwing shut at its effect on him.

He wasn’t going to last any longer after just cumming his brains out from your hands a few minutes ago. “Oh, god!—Can I cum inside you? Please? Fuck, I want to stuff you full of my cum—ngh!” Words spilled from Kageyama’s mouth, blabbering out any coherent thought that came to mind. Truthfully, he’s always fantasised cumming inside someone, the feeling of emptying his balls, and shooting his thick load while sheathed deep inside was probably his biggest dirty secret—and he just shamelessly bared it to you.

“Yes—ah! Stuff me full of your cum, Tobio! Want your cum deep inside me, please.”

The desperation in your voice was all it took for Kageyama to snap, his fingers clawed at your hips as he painted your walls white, body stiffening under the immense pressure of pleasure. It didn’t help how your cunt gripped him like a vice, pulling him further, and further down the rabbit hole called bliss. You came with a loud moan of his name, curling over yourself, sweaty forehead resting on Kageyama’s bare chest as you desperately rode out your orgasms.

Both of you stayed still for a moment to catch your breaths, the sticky, uncomfortable feeling of warmth slowly engulfed your bodies as the high wore off. Kageyama didn’t even do much but he was absolutely spent, and drenched in sweat, he could only imagine your state, especially your thighs from all that bouncing.

“A-are you okay? That was—that was amazing . .” Dulcet voice sliced through the thick air, it earned a chuckle from you, you could only return a weak nod at his concern, your body too heavy to even move an inch. Kageyama’s soft breathing slowly pulled your to the borders of sleep but the summer heat against your skin was unbearable,

You mustered every strength to peel yourself off of him, “Shower with me?” Your lips wickedly curled upwards, hands gently caressing Kageyama’s bare chest. What a temptress.

Suddenly, he didn’t feel tired anymore. —

affiliated with @houseofsolisoccasum !

[1800titz]

HI BESTIES. This is the first part of Shibari man/Shibari Asshole/Rigger!Harry x Rope bunny!Reader ((the one I teased here))

The one where Harry runs shibari classes and you think he should smile more

WC: 2.4K

This is part one of a patreon exclusive series; the rest will only be accessible through my patreon. You can already find part 2 up on my patreon (✿◠‿◠) 

When you were a little kid, your brother had an ant farm. 

An acrylic formicarium that’d started out as two boxes with a set of tubes. Over time, it morphed into a staggering, caged cityscape of twisting, pellucid hoses and burrows that spanned the entire length of the desk in his bedroom. 

You'd watch them scatter the tunnels as a little girl, lugging cracker crumbs and bits of fruit off your sticky fingers, weaving along the chutes connecting the boroughs of their curated city.

Your brother did what any nasty, older brother would do— those harvester ants were the torment of your childhood. You'd bicker, and he’d threaten to spill them into your bed when you were sleeping. Told you that the colony would eat her toes, that you'd wake up to wiggle nothing but grisly, little, ichor-soaked stumps.  

The gory intimidation tactic never really did much.

You'd still press your nose to the screen barring the insects and smudge your fingerprints over, fascinated as they congregated to the wet cotton ball in the depths of their home. 

You think it's a little like that now, wandering the swarming alcoves in the underbelly of New York. You're a little harvester ant (all exoskeleton to sheathe the pulpy anguish of a long day— ball it inside, keeping your face even and your mouth in a line), plodding through a network of crystalline, vinyl tubing. Swimming against the swathing current of the colony seeping past you in their beanies and their coats, deadpanned on their dog-eat-dog pursuit of errands. 

During the evening rush hour, it’s teeming under the city that never sleeps. It’s a stunning exhibit, maybe, for a tourist whose hometown flickers every porch light off by nine and has one tributary of a road that seeps away from the community, but it doesn’t help the headache thrumming behind your temples. Instead, it kindles the narked throb in your limbs until it feels like an itch in your bloodstream.

The day’s chewed you up with its sharp, ivory incisors and spit you out. Left something tired and empty. The dregs are grounds of a mucky ire, ready to be shed under the scalding spew of a showerhead. 

You mingle through the horde, slinking the gaps you can manage to squeeze past. Your nose burns. Anti-seize lubricant. Cherry cleaners and old concrete. Musk and brake dust. Ground up, heated steel from the wheels burning — metal on metal. Grease. It smells like asphalt and strife. 

The car is packed. A lumbering throng that weaves and scatters, either casting indignant looks over their shoulders when they’re nudged as you politely shoulder your way through, or soul-sucked into their phones altogether, scrolling in detachment. 

There’s one tawny seat, empty and tucked against the back wall. You inch for it on aching ankles, burning knees; the bits of a long day left sewn into your joints. It gnaws into your marrow, and nothing sounds better than hot water on naked skin. You twist—

Marimba blares from you bag. Someone casts an irrationally exasperated side-eye over their shoulder. You straighten out, and rummage through the contents. Find a battered lanyard. A spare stick of deodorant. A hair tie coated in lint and a sparse handful of change—

Drink water. You thumb the alarm off. 

When you sit back, it’s rigid. Firm and uneven. Warm, like a breathing furnace. It takes you all of a split second to recognize that you've managed to perch on a splayed thigh, clad in denim that’s shredded at the knees, rather than the grooved, ochre plastic of a hovering seat.  

You had thought there was little emotion you could have summoned beyond something drained and miffed. The day surprises you, yet, in its dying breaths. Like a mortified buoy, embarrassment bobs from the cesspool when you startle up and twist.

There’s a man in your seat. 

He looks oddly comfortable, almost as if he’d been there all along. As if you had just conjured a mirage of an empty seat. The only acknowledgement he gives you, blinking up from the phone cradled in his enormous, right hand, is a stoically disgruntled glance from behind the squared, pitch-framed lenses resting on the bridge of his nose. 

“Um. Excuse me—” you blink. Your brows crease, “I was sitting there.” 

He spares you a glance. There’s gems in his sockets. Emeralds. Dewy and dulled from the same, shitty day of skyscraper-morphed incisors gnawing. He looks away, and they coruscate in the near blinding glare of his LED, cast in a faint echo over his glasses.

“No, you weren’t.”

You blink again. He doesn’t even spare you a glance as he denies it. You're forced to stare at the part in his hair; the way a burnt umber curl sweeps over his temple. He scrolls over his screen, instead, with a neatly saffron-lacquered thumb. 

You swallow a flattering epithet that (his obvious disinterest) nearly wrests from your mouth. A flimsy facsimile of a smile sculpts over. Appalled. Nearly seeping into the beginnings of borderline deranged as your threadbare composure gets toyed at by a prick with a clandestine pair of scissors. Almost, almost, almost. 

“Well. I was going to.” 

“That’s unfortunate,” he murmurs, brows kinked, “because this seat is taken.”

A little noise clambers from the back of your throat. You swallow it down and scoff. “Are you serious?” 

“Deadly.” 

It’s dry, derisive, disinterested. The three D’s that are going to get his glasses plucked off and tossed to the floor to be crushed under someone’s heel. 

“Unbelievable.”

His eyes— mossy, reminiscent of the woods— sweep up. He’s quiet. Stony. For the first time, you really get a good look, and decide, instantly, that if he weren’t such an apparent dickhead, maybe his specs and his voguish jumper would make him look sophisticated. Handsome, with his even slope of a nose, full, pink lips, and the dusting of stubble along his cheeks and jawline. 

There’s a sharp contrast to him, like inverted colors. Patchwork of sutures that don’t fit. It’s off, his cozy sweater and his soft hair. He looks like a warm, barbed hug. 

Prickly— saguaro, in a Marc Jacobs pullover, with stinging spines sticking through the stitching. 

“What’s the matter with you?” It’s softer that you'd intended. 

You quiver— everything, all over. Your bottom lip wobbles, your mandible sets, your fingers wring at the strap of your tote. They twitch and stretch at your side with this provoked, goopy slurry of cortisol and adrenaline. It permeates your pericardium. Snakes the tubing with an incensed warmth— embers kindled.

“Do you realize how rude that is?” 

Asphalt and strife. Someone to your side glances over their shoulder and then turns back. The stranger blinks up at you from his phone with soft features chiseled apathetic. Vetiver and musk. 

“M’not sure what you mean.” 

“Are you joking? You stole my seat, dude,” you wave out with your hand. 

He blinks again. 

“I don’t think it ever belonged to you, to be fair—“ then, “Is your name on it?” 

It’s a childish retort to spall your argument into flinders. Your eyes narrow into anticipatory slits. 

“No—“

“Then I suppose it’s not your seat, is it?” he responds sharply— chiaroscuro to the lax, impassive shape that molds his face, “S’first come, first serve …dude.”

A stranger grazes your shoulder blade in passing— something you've become accustomed to. People finding walkways in strait gaps on a train that’s packed like a can of sardines. 

“Oh my God. You are such an asshole— I could be pregnant.” 

He raises his eyebrows. His eyes trail. A slow once-over, wry and disbelieving. Sage and owlish. A stray curl stemming from the forefront of his crown meddles to coil over his forehead. The corner of his otherwise indurated mouth twitches.

“Are you pregnant?” 

No.

“Yes,” you glower. 

It slinks from the back of your throat, unbidden— this lie. Rides up the back up of your tongue and slips through the cracks of your teeth. It’s curdled and twisted, miasmic pulp in tar— who the fuck lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?

You're never going to see him again. 

You're never, ever going to see him again. 

You cup your hand over the underside of your tummy. Sell it, now that you have to. All soft flesh under the button of your jeggings, shrouded under the boxy shaping of your fleece turtleneck— where a baby (that definitely doesn’t exist, last you checked), the size of a citrus limon, would curl up. You tuck your palm over the phantom at your underbelly. 

You've had a shitty day, and now you've been backed into a corner, offering the universe shitty manifestations with your hands cupped out. 

The seat stealer ogles. Meanders from your strategic hand placement to your ireful scowl. Back. His mouth purses. 

“So, it’s not that you could be,” he clarifies, slowly, “It’s that you are.”

Languid. Unrushed, like an overflowing, murky lake lapping at a berm. Someone brushes the back of your arm. 

“Yes.” 

“Are you lying?” 

You scoff. He’s fully transfixed on you now, the glow from his smartphone dimmed on its pending shut-off timer. 

“Are you kidding? Who—“ you hike your tote up, “lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?” 

He purses his lips again, ruddy pillows bordering the sharp chasm of his mouth where the tools to dissect her claims are stowed. Bobs his head. 

“How far along are you, then?” 

You grit out, teeth bared, “Thirteen weeks—“

And a stranger prods past with enough force to nudge you forward. Enough for your shin to brush against the bespectacled stranger's own. Enough to step into his space, nearly between his parted thighs. He frowns. 

He does another slow sweep with his gaze. Furrowed brows, glimmering viridian dancing from behind limped lenses. Gleaning pieces like cattail and twine for a nest. Deciding; are they worthy? A grip over your underbelly, the little frown on your lips that mirrors his own, the way you suddenly crowd his atoms. He’s unconvinced, almost. Apathetic. 

You fully expect him to tell you to fuck off, but then he nudges with his stubbly chin. You shuffle back as much as you can with about three, broad strangers at all sides. 

He bleeds out into you, for a moment, all heat, when he clambers up and steps in to make your cycle — this game of musical chairs to the tune of white noise, flitting on a screeching rail through a tunnel— smoother. He’s broad. Tapered. Thick in the shoulders, a carnegiea of a man towering when he nearly presses his firm chest to you, wrapped in french terry. He’s much softer to the touch than the spikes bristling from his mien implicate. Woodsy and clean, like smoke, and cedarwood, and soap. It flushes the miasmic undertone of grease the subway always has. 

He cocks his head. Sit down. 

“Congratulations,” he tells you when you slot into the nook, splaying your tote over your lap. 

He’s kept your seat warm. 

Whether the statement is in reference to your unborn pseudo-baby or your victory, you're unsure. 

-

-

-

-

KNOTS resembles a yoga studio, with its clean, tall walls, its french oak flooring, and its bone-white bulbs, linearly tiled into the ceiling. It smells like an amalgam of grapefruit cleaning products and spritzes of an air freshener that vaguely echoes the lapping sea. 

Salt, an airy ozone, muguet. Something pretentious that doesn’t fit into the city. 

If it weren’t for the myriad of ropes, lubricants, and toy cleaners stacking the shelving units by the front, you would have felt as if you were here to attend a pilates class. Cycling, maybe. Something sweaty and less …abrasive.

You're late for your seven-to-nine open level, beginner’s course— two soporific hours of staring at rope and tying knots that you'll never get back.

(Slaphappy and fecklessly inept at knot-tying are two traits that don’t work well to take up shibari as a hobby.

“Please— she’s been begging for months and none of those online tutorials make any fucking sense.” 

“So— why don’t you take her with you?” 

“Because I want it to be a surprise,” Niall had opposed. Puffed his chest, “I wanna surprise her. Like a proper ropes guy, you know. And she’s so flexible, too, I could tie her in loads of positions—“

You'd raised your hand. “Spare me.” 

Niall’s always been a glass half-full. Crystalline, effervescent. A bright color.

You couldn’t bear to ruffle his plume when, two autumns ago, he spent a Wednesday afternoon standing outside a women’s handicapped stall in an auto shop for pure, courageous moral support as you took an actual pregnancy test— not even by his doing, and he still was a very good sport. Even if he’s absolute shit at knots beyond tying his own shoes.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that if he struggled with twine and a palomar, it wasn’t going to matter how bendy his girlfriend was.)

You're fourteen minutes late. Eight-hundred-forty seconds and change for every two steps, by the time you find the right door in the balmy corridor of boundless doorways. The portly, alder ingress squeals on its hinges when you shuffle, as quietly as you can manage, into what vaguely resembles a dance studio. 

The attendees look the part, too, perched over their yoga mats in contemporary dancer garb, turning their chins over their shoulders at the disturbance. Dress casual and comfortable. There’s only about eight of them, and they coil in a piqued coterie ahead of the instructor, who has about six varying ropes, diverse in their tint and structure, and then he peers up—

It’s him. Saguaro, with the frames and the eyes like beds of flinty malachite. 

He’s holding a furled, plaited cord, the head of the class, and he pauses, blinking up. Briefly. He clears his throat—

”—Jute, on the other hand, has great knot stability. You can see here, the braided texture— that makes it less slippery.”

Compunction crinkles the valley of skin between your eyebrows as you trudge in alongside Niall— he’s much more amicable about it, mouthing apologies and raising his hand in friendly hello’s that don’t receive much beyond awkwardly indifferent glances. You sink to your knees toward the back, which isn’t all that far from the front, all things considered. It’s a small class. The wood burrows into your tailbone— were the yoga mats a complementary piece? Were you supposed to bring a yoga mat?

“It’s great for floor bondage, but it’s water sensitive. So if you want to work it into suspension, don’t wash it too often. Otherwise, you’re losing carrying capacity.”

The city of New York is a metaphorical hayrick. It’s a paradox, since the big apple is the furthest thing from watery mud, fir-constructed barns, and scythes sweeping through crops. 

Theoretically, though, you should have never seen this man again. 

He should have become swept into the mound of straw— got lost in it. Mortification strums at your muscles, tensing every sinew. It scars deep— scrapes at your cartilage. If you'd known this needle would prick your thumb again, maybe you wouldn’t have waged war for the seat on the subway. 

And yet, here he is.

[whalesforhands]

cats and cats (satosugu x reader)

warnings: crack(?), fluff, smoking, dedicated to that really old geto cat anon that i never replied to, i wasn’t totally sober when writing this, romance?

“…Shoko, what is that?”

“Cigarettes.” The girl pulls out a stick from the plastic packaging, twirling it in-between her lithe fingers as she patted her pockets for her lighter, her eyebrows furrowing as she struggles in her search for it.

“Ah, I’ve got you.” Your hands produce a lighter from within your blazer’s pocket, light pink with the body being decorated with a character you’ve been obsessing over lately. You flick it, a flame coming to life as you hold it to the cigarette that had now been placed between her lips, getting exceedingly close to her, proximity intimate as she entranced you with her usual lazy gaze and smirk upon her kissab-

A bump against your legs. You ignore it in favour of smiling back at the beautiful girl in front of you.

“I think you should stop smoking so muc-“

Another bump. More insistent this time. Paired with pained mewing and the sound of claws extending from a pair of paws that were desperately trying to get your attention.

You look down, looking the rather large, stark white Maine Coon purring and pawing the length of your skirt as it starts to get your attention in the eye. It’s (?) fur long and fluffy, puffing up even more as it meowed at you, huffy crystalline blue eyes looking annoyed.

Cute.

The black Turkish Angora is by its side, brown eyes shut as it continued rubbing its head against the fabric of your socks, a strand of its fur hanging over the cat’s face, reminiscent of a familiar black-haired sorcerer you knew as it purrs adorably in content.

Extremely cute.

You squat down to your knees, resting on the balls of your feet as you started to pet the two, scratching behind their ears and below their chins as they cuddled deeper into the palm of your hand, licking the skin with their sandpaper tongues and snuggling even closer to you now that they had your undivided attention.

(The white one attempted to get under your skirt. You moved away, punishing it by giving more affection to the black cat, who definitely wasn’t complaining, given the smug look on its face.)

“Shoko-“

“Wanna take care of them?”

“…yea.”

——

Sugu laid upon your lap, furry body stretched across as it lazily went to sleep on top of you, purrs sounding out from his throat as you continued to scratch his head.

Sato sat before you, using a dainty paw to rub at his eyes, squeezing them shut before abruptly opening them, before another paw was hurried pressed to his head.

“Do your eyes hurt?”

He quickly nods his head. (So smart.)

You think for a moment, looking around the room before spotting an extra pair of Satoru’s left behind sunglasses… There’s no way that could work, right?

…but they look so similar, it’s worth a shot.

——

You’re poking at the exposed belly of the white one, the cat laying on its back with his paws in the air, borrowed sunglasses over his eyes when you started prodding at its soft and plushy body.

(You honestly can’t believe the glasses worked.)

It’s purring so loudly, revelling in your touch as you scratched and rubbed at the flattening cat, so satisfied, so happy he looked as if he was starting to melt into the ground.

Such a healthy gait.

“You’re kind of fat, aren’t you, Sato?” An afterthought that had been unwittingly voiced out. “Did your previous owner feed you too much?”

His purring slows to a stop as he gradually realizes the meaning behind your words despite your comfortable pats. A yowl escaping as he jumped onto his paws, turning his long body away from you as he ensured that his fluffy tail smacked into your face, fur obscuring your vision before you hear the angry padding of his feet.

Is he… Pouting?

“Are you upset?” His tail is swishing in the air as you ask him, back still turned to your face as he refuses to meet your gaze, ears flattened against his head as he trots away with angry swishes.

(You’re absolutely losing it internally. So precious…!)

“W-wait, I’m sorry? Don’t go!” You’re holding back your laughs as you tried to coo the mass of fluff back onto the floor or into your arms, the crabby feline having decided to strut away from you, choosing to try and get a sleeping Shoko’s attention by pawing at her hair from her position atop the couch.

“Sato? Don’t bother Shoko, darling…” You try cooing again, staying still as Sugu shifts around in your lap, stretching himself out and yawning as he begins waking up.

Sato is giving you the cold shoulder still. Oh my, how petulant.

You look down at the cat still in your lap. “Looks like it’s just you and me, huh?” It meows back at you as you kiss its head, tucking that peculiar strand of his fur back, only for it to bounce back into place, incessant purring and licking at your hand as he seemed to beg for another one.

“Oh? You like that, huh?” You land another sweet kiss upon his forehead once again only for his paws to hold your lower jaw in place when you try to move away.

“Aww, you’re so cute!” You’re absolutely gushing over him, bombarding this cute little cat with kisses all over his face as he lets out mewls and meows of content within your embrace.

“I can’t believe anyone would ever believe you’d be bad luck.”

The white cat has paused its ministrations on the still asleep Shoko, who had used a lazy hand to shoo the disturbance away. He’s staring at the both of you as the frown on his face seemed to deepen.

(Is this affecting him?)

“Sugu~” You’re kissing all over his face as the black cat stood on his hind legs, toe beans digging into the meat of your thighs with front paws upon your chest as it snuggled his head into your throat, meowing delightedly as you scratched and pet him.

Sato lingered close to you, nudging closer and closer but far away enough whilst acting like snob, turning his cute pink nose up at you everytime he think your eyes are on him.

(He’s just like the actual Satoru…)

You pay him no mind, letting Sugu purr into the valley of your chest, letting him nudge and cuddle into you freely with no restrictions as you stroked his back leaving more gentle pecks on the cat’s closed eyes, plainly ignoring the stubborn Maine Coon.

(You’re not paying attention to him. You’re. Not. Paying. Attention. To. Him! Sugu wasn’t paying attention to him, how could you both not shower him in love?)

He was now brooding in the corner, an aura so gloomy and sad surrounding him as he sat on his haunches, tail drooping and ears flattened against his head at the lack of attention.

He’s absolutely deflated. (But still not giving in.)

Sugu meows up at you, a way to get your attention before he tuts his head to the side, mercy in his actions as he tries to get your attention to his sulking buddy.

You misinterpret him.

“Aww, you wanna cuddle somewhere else?” Your voice had grown so soft, so tender and gentle and lovely as you cooed at him, so distracting and so flustering that he short-circuited, nodding his fluffy head.

“Let’s go to my room, then!”

Sato never got out of his corner so quick, jumping onto his feet as he started running after the both of you, circling your feet in quick circles as he yowled and meowed, sunglasses falling off his face as he placed his front paws on your skirt, eyes begging and pleading and remorseful as you continue to coddle Sugu in your arms.

“Someone finally stopped being grumpy, huh?” You attempt to scoop the second cat up, grunting as you feel both their weights in your arms as you cradled them both like babies, both so abnormally large that their bodies were shrouding you in a mass of fur.

(You could honestly die happy here.)

masterlist KOFI pt.2

Notes:

The lighter was a gift from Shoko.

Guess who named them? You did. The boys were meant to be off on a mission together, and weren’t supposed to be back until next week.

Satoru’s cat form is not overweight. Just really fluffy.

“You’re both cats, aren’t you?” Shoko’s eyes are closed and upturned, a tight smile on her lips as she places a can of wet cat food in front of the feline duo.

“Woogle said that wet cat food was better for dealing with overweight cats.” You murmured under your breath, hand placed under your chin in thought as you watched Sato poke at the meal with a claw.

“But with how much that can was, I really hope the owner quickly finds them soon…”

“Well, boys,” Shoko begins again, her grin growing ever wider as a self-satisfied look made itself home on her face. “You heard her. Wasn’t cheap, and she went allllll the way to the local family mart to buy it for you, ya know?”

“Ah, it wasn’t actually that far-“

“Wouldn’t want to waste her hard work, do we?”

Her stare is pointed at the trembling black cat and disgusted white one, their forms unsteady as they physically gulped at the sight of the slimy can of raw tuna in front of them…

[bitten-fruit]

Houndtooth | ⇦ Chapter 3 ⇨

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut

18+ mdni - cw: kidnapping - 3.4k words

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞

“I’ll freeze to death.”  

You utter, voice low and tense; your cadence despite your effort is sheepish, as though you’re exerting every effort to reassert yourself as brave and unflinching. A mask to veil the shivering little rabbit you must spend most of your life trying to conceal.   

Ghost isn’t fooled by your disguise, by your attempts to obfuscate your vulnerability – no, he can scent your panic, that frightened wee animal at the centre of you, hidden beneath the baiting curves of your flesh. He might be able to see its reflection glistening in your nervous eyes, once he’s able to rip that sack off your head.  

The thought tempts a vengeful smirk that tugs at his lips. One he wished you could see, if only to witness your quaint bravery be exsanguinated from you at the sight of his amusement. 

Still, you’re not wrong.  

The dry air of the midwinter night must be dipping below the double-digit negatives. A frigid cold that Ghost himself had scarcely noticed on his expedition to your estate – shielded by many layers; woollen fleece under windbreaker under thick, gore-tex parka, face kept warm by his balaclava, fingers protected from frostbite by waterproof gloves. 

It’s a short ride to exfil by snowmobile, less than ten minutes – but, in all likelihood, long enough that the exposure could kill you by the time he hauled you to the helicopter.  

Long enough that it might freeze the mucus of your throat and lungs into crystalline shards, might blacken and petrify your extremities, might have your exposed skin sloughing off in a few days' time.  

Ghost knows he must return you to base alive. But, alive is the only condition that is expected of him. No expectation of unharmed. So, he is left to place bets on whether you’ll survive the journey.  

He could make a sport of it.  

He plays with your possible fates as though they were marbles in the palm of his hand, rolling them between fingers and uncaring if he drops them. 

“You might,” he chides gruffly, finally offering you a response. “It’d be your own fault for wearing a fuckin’ tissue.”  

His glower scrutinises you as he releases his hand from the doorknob, whose rattling must have informed you that he intended to drag you outdoors. He keeps his other gripped around your bicep, wrenchingly tight, he anticipates, hopes, that his grasp might leave bruises on your soft skin. You, slippery vermin, seem liable to flee at any moment, so he justifies it to himself.  

He watches your chest rapidly rise and fall, gratuitously exposed décolletage shimmering with a thin coating of sweat, it glows silky in the moonlight that illuminates you.  

You, standing as still as you can muster, covered only by your peony pink lingerie and a black hood over your head, hands bound with thick black cable ties – look like a scene out of a snuff film.  

Maybe you’ll end up in one. 

He finds himself silently appreciative you don’t have the satisfaction of seeing how long his hedonistic glare lingers on your cleavage; on the tightening of the edges of your lacy cups, cutting into the swell of your breasts with each of your quaking breaths, allowing them to pillow out of the top.  

Still, a small derisive scoff escapes you through the fabric. “I didn’t anticipate an outing.”  

You facetious little shit. Almost makes him laugh. 

Fine.  

With a shrill rip of Velcro, he tears open one of the flaps of a pocket on his tactical vest, plucking out a loudly rustling emergency blanket; a foil shawl folded neatly into a rectangle the size of a playing card, tucked into a plastic pouch.  

You step onto your back foot in an anxious reflex at the noise, little rabbit, maybe you’re expecting the worst. He hopes you are. 

But he’s doing you a favour. He grimaces in revulsion at the acknowledgement of that fact. Resents that you might be thankful for it. Tells himself it’s for the good of the mission – nothing more, nothing less. Reminds himself how much he’d otherwise relish in watching your skin turn indigo, left exposed to be ruined by the fatal ice of your country’s stark winter.  

Unwrapping it promptly, he tosses the thin foil to unfurl it, before floating it behind you. He pulls it over your shoulders, watching you wince at the sensation of it brushing against your bare skin. With rough haste he grabs hold your bound wrists, tugging them upwards and shoving the edges of the foil into your grip. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, a disingenuous show of sarcastic gratitude, as you roll your shoulders to adjust its coverage, holding the emergency cape tightly in your bound hands. The fabric of your hood sucks inward against your nose and mouth as you draw in a lengthy breath.  

“Don’t thank me,” he grunts, as he finally unlocks and pulls open the gargantuan, ostentatious entrance to your mansion; a towering double door, two thick slabs of carved wood. The frigid gale immediately floods into the gaudy foyer, forcing him to squint, its iciness pricking shards at his eyes and threatening to freeze solid the water that lubricates them.  

“Rgh – fuck,” you groan through gritted teeth, faltering bravery quickly giving way to squeaking panic. Your entire body tenses at the sudden gust of ice, toes curling and head twisting away from the blast of ice.  

He spectates amusedly as you immediately pull the thin foil to better cover yourself, admires as you struggle to do so while your wrists are bound.  

He adds, “…only delaying the inevitable.”  

Your negligée billows in the invasive wind, exposing your skin even further to the frost; not to say that otherwise it would do much to protect you from it.  

He takes an impatient grip of the back of your neck, the impact of his palm on your nape loud enough to emit a smack. He burrows his fingers into the fleshy bands of your tendons, driving you ruthlessly you towards the exit. Holds you upright by the neck like trapped game as you stumble over your bare feet.  

“Move.”  

You didn’t expect to be gracious of the sack the dog had secured over your head.  

Your unstable breathing warms your cheeks, the hot vapour of your adrenaline pumping from your lungs is trapped in by the thick black cotton, preventing the membranes of your nostrils freezing solid.  

The vice like grip of your hunter has not faltered, dragging you by the neck down the winding stone steps of your estate – the slabs free of snow by virtue of the heated coils beneath them, a renovation you yourself had requested. Of course, your husband had obliged. 

But your abductor isn’t steering you down your driveway, it seems, as you are instead led off the path.  

A gasping shriek jumps from your throat as your feet touch the layer of powder, snow packing between your toes; the frost immediately burns the soles as though you tread over shattered glass.  

“Where are we going,” you question through a clenched jaw, chattering with the cold, having to push your weak voice out of your seizing diaphragm. 

As you had anticipated, he says nothing. 

Stays dead silent, the peculiar beast.  

You’re frightened of him. Suddenly unconfident in your attempts to read him.  

It’s typically your strongest talent, a perfectly honed skill – reading men.  

Every one of them like a children’s book, predilections and intentions so blatant that they may as well have been scribbled in crayon. They believe wholeheartedly that they are mysterious, too cunning to be understood, so mistaken in their conceit; expecting that you as a mere woman are simply unable to comprehend them. 

Yet you have made a craft of determining what makes each one tick. Disassembling them like the gears and screws of a clock, surveying their quirks and components through your looking glass.  

Once reduced to their basic constituents, their most primordial parts, they are all the same. Always want the same thing. Always boil down to the same creature.  

Dogs. 

You’ve gotten good at baiting them. Leashing them. Taming them.  

This one is guarded. Keeps his teeth bared, keeps you guessing when he might maul you.  

So far, the only quirk of this one that you been able to deduce is that he wants you to be scared of him. Doing his best to terrorise you with his threats while enacting none of them.  

If he wanted to hurt you, or rape you, or kill you, countless opportunities to do so have been presented to him. You’ve been offered up to him so freely you may as well have been gifted to him wrapped in a bow.  

And yet, he hasn’t unwrapped you.  

That’s where your scrutiny has failed you. Like static distorting a radio signal.  

He provides you no tells. Tips no hand.  

He continues to act as though he is yet to impart his worst upon you. Vague about his intentions with you, in spite of his wandering eye. At least that is consistent with what you would expect from any of the dogs you have so far encountered. Acts too good, too moral, too chaste to take you; yet still gropes and licks and fingers and fucks you with his wanton glower. All the same.  

His claws cut deep into the cartilage of your neck as though he might hang you from it, unaffected by your whimpers nor your looming hypothermia. You feel it sinking beneath your skin. Freezes your nerves, turns the blood in your arteries into icy sludge, sends your muscles into irrepressible spasms. Your lungs ache, forced to suck down the very air that will inevitably freeze them solid.  

You gasp as you feel your knees knock against something solid; the dull ring of thick metal. 

His talons release your neck, finally, though you find yourself immediately longing for the warmth of his grip – the nape of your neck prickling with gooseflesh as it’s bitten by the frigid cold. 

Quick to thwart your opportunity at freedom, he takes prompt hold of you, gloved hands shoving past your foil cape and tucking under your arms. You squeak as you are lifted, uncertain how high off the ground you might be, though grateful that your frozen feet are finally free from their bed of snow.  

You’re lowered, then, your feet and ankles quickly parted by whatever frosty metal is now beneath you – then he drops you, and you land on your pelvis with a sore thud, abruptly bestriding whatever vehicle it must be. A snowmobile, you suspect.  

You feel him mount the vehicle behind you, his form hulking even when you can’t see it. You feel his breathing through the fabric on the top of your head. Heaving thighs on either side of you, you’re nestled between them. He even tugs you back with an arm hooked around your stomach, so you’re pressed more firmly against him, prevented from wriggling free. A couple fewer layers of gear and his body heat might even bring you comfort.  

Through his touch alone he seems unbothered by your proximity, by the pressure of your ass against his crotch. Not lascivious, though not disquieted. Steals no grabs, no rogue touches of any of your more intimate parts – though you’re not daft enough to assume he would shy away from it.  

You can feel the fleshy mass behind his trousers despite the thickness of the weatherproof fabric. Formidable even soft.  

Perhaps you could tempt him.  

With just a shimmy, an innocent readjustment of your ass between his legs – you offer just a touch more pressure. You might bump against him while he rides through the snow, might feel that pliable weight turn rigid against your back.  

You admit that he doesn’t seem the type to offer you special treatment if you offered your cunt to him. He’s made it known that he thinks you’re a slut, after all. In your experience, though, it works in your favour most of the time. Where’s the harm in trying?

But you feel the fabric of your sack hood twitch and quiver as his head lowers beside yours, he growls into your ear; 

“That’s not gonna help you.”  

Fine. Whatever. 

Worth a shot. 

It sounded as though he had uttered it through a grin; a very slight, near imperceptible drip of amusement in his malicious tone.  

But, with your hands bound, near naked, and blinded, your survival is dependent on him. Rather, it's entirely up to him.  

So you play it cool.  

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sheepishly respond, sweet and naïve, you get back into character. 

He huffs derisively, impatiently, perhaps. You let his arms envelop you as they reach for what must be the handles of the snowmobile in front of you, quickly deafened by the roar of the engine as he tugs on the throttle.  

Your body is abruptly forced backwards, tossed against him like a ragdoll as he suddenly accelerates - your fabric mask now provides you utterly no protection from the icy wind as it breaks through the weave. Your foil cape billows in the gale of his speed, rendering you entirely defenceless against the vicious knives of the cold as he speeds through the snow.   

Dropping your head, curling inwards on instinct, you find yourself nestling deeper into his shrouding form if only to shield yourself from the deathly cold he has purposefully exposed you to.  

After what feels like an agonising hour of having your bare skin dragged over a steel grater, you feel the snowmobile begin to decelerate, its roaring engine growing quieter and eventually grunting to a stop.   

You had thought you might be granted a reprieve from the painful gusting wind once the mobile finally came to a halt; but you’re still in a whirlwind of ice and glass, so disoriented you feel as though you’ve been spun on your heel and then cast out into the barren wilderness to find your own way.  

In the malevolent hurricane you lose your grip on your foil blanket, your only respite, it flies off into the ambiguous void of black forced upon you by your hood.  

But that mechanical thunder is unmistakable – an aircraft you were well acquainted with. A helicopter.  

A transport you frequented in your days of luxury, often to your warmer getaway home further south. To your Petit Trianon, another gift from your husband – one that acted as a clear means of getting rid of you for weeks at a time. Not that you complained. 

The begrudging protection of your hunter is stolen from you as he dismounts, leaving you utterly exposed to the blizzard, shivering with such intensity that your muscles burn with the acid they involuntarily excrete.  

But you’re quickly hauled off the vehicle, gloved grip under your arms once again, picked up with ease as you feel your body get tossed over his shoulder like a sack of flour. His thick arm hooks over your hip, you feel the veil of your babydoll flutter up and expose your bare ass to the icy gale - it humiliates you as if spanking you with its frozen hand.  

You hear the metallic rumble of a rolling door amidst the bellow of the rotating blades. 

“’Bout fuckin’ time.” The irate roar of a new man.  

You bounce on the shoulder in your stomach as you are carried within, listening as the door is slammed shut. After a few steps you are unceremoniously dropped onto a seat, a weak yelp escapes you at the pain of the impact.  

“Jesus fucking Christ, LT.” Yet another. Scottish.  

LT. Lieutenant? Military?  

Blind and defenceless, you stay seated but adjust yourself so that you sit upright, exerting every effort to catch your breath and steady your chattering bones. But despite effort, your body rolls around in its seat as the helicopter presumably begins its wobbly ascent.  

“What?” Your hunter growls.  

“Couldn’t give her a jacket?”  

“Why the fuck would I do that.”  

“It’s negative fifteen out there. Look at her, she’s just about blue.”  

“Mm. Maybe I should’ve given her the chance to pick out her favourite mink coat, eh?”  

You hear a huff of laughter from another man. “You just wanted to keep her in her knickers.” 

“Mh. Might loosen up her husband.”  

A chortle. “Could loosen up anybody.”  

Dogs. 

You stay silent and listen shrewdly.  

“Bravo Six to Gold Eagle Actual – double jackpot. We’re RTB.”  

Military, you are now certain. You can tell by the codeword gibberish without needing to understand it. You wish now that you had watched enough Western war movies to be able to translate it – but they’re all banned in Russia, of course.  

There’s a quiet murmur of a static-ridden voice emerging from a radio, but it is drowned out by the humming of the helicopter. 

“Fuck’d you do to Zakhaev?” Your hunter asks, throaty voice almost taunting. 

Your husband. Was he in the aircraft with you? Could you call for him?  

“Squealed like a pig when he came to. Knocked him out again.” The Scotsman. 

But, in spite of your effort to distinguish them, the unfamiliar voices quickly begin to blur together.  

“Tracks.”  

“Separate them before he wakes up.”  

“Why?” A new voice.  

“Can’t have him knowing that we’ve got her already. We need to surprise him with it.”  

“Kinda fucked up, Cap.”  

“Ts’all in a days work, Sergeant.”  

Captain. Sergeant. British Army? Airforce?  

There’s a few moments of silence, you shuffle disquietly in your seat. Oh, if only you could see what was happening. It was already hard enough to hear them over the roaring of the chopper. Deaf, dumb, and blind. 

“Christ, she’s a looker, though, isn’t she?” The Sergeant.  

A chuckle follows from the Scotsman. “Can’t even see her face, mate.”  

“Don’t need to.”  

“Never know. Could be all botched by filler and botox and shite. All those fuckin’ oligarchs are.”  

“Mm. Nah. I’ve seen the photos.”  

“Take a long hard look at ‘em, did ye?”  

“Definitely hard. Dunno about long.”  

A laugh. “You nasty fucker.”  

Dogs. 

You’re even further discomforted by the fact that your hunter knows you can understand every single word that these men are uttering around you. And, evidently, feels no need to inform his comrades that you know exactly what they are saying about you.  

He wants you to feel uncomfortable.  

He wants you nervous.  

You hear the thud of boots against the metal floor, uncertain of whose nor which direction they are coming from, though they approach you. You shrivel on instinct, curling in on yourself to hide your near-nudity from whichever of the lecherous men is standing before you. 

You jump, squeaking in fright as something heavy is tossed around your shoulders. Fabric. Wool, judging by the thickness and scratchiness of it; you use your bound hands to grab at the edges of it to blanket yourself, finally able to conceal your body from them.  

“Согрейтесь.” Warm yourself up.  

The Captain, if you remember his rumbling cadence correctly. 

“You’re too soft, Cap. She’s a prisoner of war not a fuckin’ damsel.” Your hunter.  

The man who had given you the blanket addresses him. “We need her alive, don’t we? I’m keeping her alive.”  

“Fuck’s sake. She’ll be fine.”  

The charitable one speaks to you again, voice low and close, as though he has bent down intending for only you to hear it.  

“Он ничего тебе не сделал, да?” He didn’t do anything to you, did he? 

“Oh, piss off. Who do you think I am?” Your abductor immediately disputes, having apparently overheard.   

You consider your options. Maybe this captain could take pity on you, if you played your cards right. You can deduce his type through his words and actions already. Nobleman. White knight. It’s a façade, of course. If he’s a captain as the others say, he has probably orchestrated this entire operation.  

Though, inexplicably, you decide honesty is your safest course. You want an ally out of your hunter.  

“Нет, он меня не трогал.” No, he didn’t touch me. 

“Told you.” Your hunter grunts.  

A laboured sigh follows from the captain. “I never know with you, Riley.”  

He scoffs disdainfully.  

Leaves an ugly silence.  

“I’m not an animal.”  

Next chapter ⇨

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Chauvinism.

Commissioned by the very lovely @meri47.

Pairing: Yandere!Clark Kent | Superman x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 2.6k.

TW: Kidnapping, Plans for Prolonged Imprisonment, Nonconsensual Touching, Obsessive Behavior, and Slight Codependency.

You woke up to the feeling of something burning into the back of your head.

Again, true to the most literal definition of the word, burning. You bolted upward, bringing one had to the back of your scalp as you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes with the other. Exhaustion weighed you down, made it difficult to think about anything but the searing pain burrowing into your, the stiffness of your joints, the static numbness pricking at your fingertips, but luckily, you didn’t find an injury, didn’t smell burning hair, didn’t feel flesh melting off of bone or blisters forming across delicate skin – even if you were uncomfortably warm in that familiar, ‘held your hands too close to an open bonfire’ way. Still, you had to force yourself to calm down, to tear your attention away from your own startled distress and turn your focus outward.

You weren’t on fire, which was good. That was good.

But, you were in a strange room with strange crystalline walls, which was bad.

Very, very bad.

You swallowed down something thick and dry that’d lodged itself in your throat. The scenery was as blank as it was alien – all featureless, all bizarre, little more than a series of hexagonal pedestals that erupted from the ground without pattern or intention and four chrome walls so well polished, your own distorted reflections were able to corner you on all sides, and so tall, you weren’t able to make out the ceiling that had to be looming somewhere far above your head. The only actual piece of furniture seemed to be the bed you were sitting on; a remarkably normal mattress swamped with remarkably normal sheets, blankets, quilts - all doting cutesy, sappy patterns, all things you’d find in the bedding aisle of a particularly folksy home-goods store.

Partially out of curiosity and partially out of hope that you’d be able to dispel the knot of dread coiling in your stomach, you turned over the corner of the nearest quilt, finding a paper tag still on the end of its plastic toggle. That, for as thankful as you were not to be lying on a bare stone floor, was almost the most concerning thing you'd seen so far. It meant that someone had found the time to prepare this, to get ready for you. It meant that someone had decided to bring you here, and had given your abduction enough forethought to buy a fucking blanket.

You were almost tempted to curl back into yourself, to cover yourself in a stranger’s blankets and pretend you’d never woken up, but any delusions you might’ve had of being able to sleep this off like a bad dream were dispelled by the sound of a man clearing his throat, a new weight coming to rest on the other side of your bed. You jerked around the face the new presence, your eyes instantly landing on the monster who’d—

— on your coworker, Clark Kent, sitting on the edge of your mattress.

Your coworker, Clark Kent, who was inexplicably dressed like Superman.

For a second, all your panic and all your fear seemed to disappear in favor of making more room for complete and utter confusion. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and admittedly, his get-up looked a step above what you’d find on the clearance rack of some out-of-season costume store. You couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten it. He was smiling, too – that gentle smile, the same one he wore as he slipped a mug of freshly brewed coffee onto your desk an hour before either of you were supposed to be so much as thinking about getting to work, as he rubbed the back of his neck and admitted that he got too caught up while he was writing his last article and pulled his third all-nighter that week. Despite everything, you couldn’t help but relax. Clark was here, which meant that wherever ‘here’ was, it couldn’t be that bad. You couldn’t be in that much danger if Daily Planet’s resident sweetheart had managed to make it out unscathed.

“Clark!” You scrambled toward him, already grinning. “Oh my god, thank fuck you’re here – I’m don’t know where we are, and my head really hurts, but I don’t think we’re—”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. You were out for a while – try to remember to breathe.” His tone was like his expression – light, soothing, comforting enough to have you nodding along in an instant, to have you doing your best to inhale and exhale without cutting yourself off with more half-formed fears. He moved toward you, his fingertips brushing against your bicep before he draped an arm over your shoulders, pulling you into his side. You melted against him, and with an airy chuckle, he went on, keeping up a tenor that could’ve lulled you to sleep in any other circumstance. “You said that your head hurts? If you feel dehydrated, I get you something to drink.”

“No, that’s aright, I’m alright. I just—” You glanced towards the crystal walls, towards the nonexistent ceiling. “Do you know where we are?”

There was a slight lilt to his smile, a reassuring squeeze to your shoulder. “If that’s what’s got your heart beating out of your chest, you can let your guard down. We’re in the Fortress of Solitude. Unless a supervillain found a way to terrorize the North Pole, you’re perfectly safe.”

Now, it was your turn to laugh. “The Fortress of Solitude? I’m not an idiot, Clark. What do you want me to think – that Superman needs a house sitter?”

He was quiet, for a second.

Then, empathy practically dripping from his tongue, he said, “Honey, I am Superman.”

He’d hesitated, but you didn’t. Your reaction was instantaneous, automatic; a swell of bubbling laughter and a playful elbow driven into his side. You loved Clark, but he wasn’t a superhero. He kept a running list of the names of his coworkers’ pets, to make sure he never mistook Rebecca’s dog for Max’s rabbit. Whenever he stubbed his toe on a doorframe, he’d apologize to the doorframe. When aliens rained down from the sky or monsters erupted from the ground, Clark was always the first to run, and while you couldn’t blame him, you couldn’t say his tendency to make himself scarce as soon as the villain of the week reared its ugly head was very heroic, either. “That’s not funny,” you managed, eventually, in spite of your nervous smile. “We could be in danger. If you want to put on a Halloween costume and pretend to be a superhero, at least wait until we’ve gotten back to Metropolis.”

To his credit, he kept a straight face. “I wouldn’t lie to you, (Y/n).”

“At least try to make it plausible, then. I mean, he’s an alien, for fuck’s sake, and you’re from southern Kansas. He can fly, and you get stuck in traffic every morning. I’ve been to your flat, and everybody knows Superman lives in the Fortress of—”

Your voice died in your throat. Your mouth fell shut, and you went limp against his side.

After several seconds of stubborn silence, you forced yourself to spit out a soft “Prove it.”

His grin broadened. With a single hand, he took up the scruff of your blouse and lifted you off of the mattress without a hint of strain or trepidation. You were tossed, cursing and thrashing against his hold, into the air and caught in his lap, every step of the process just as effortless as the one that’d come before it. On reflex, you clung to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and cursing under your breath. He only laughed, glazing over your distress, your confusion in favor of paying more mind to your amazement. “The laser eyes can get a little out of hand, and flying indoors is…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Is inhume strength enough, or are you going to make me break out the x-ray vision?”

“No, that’s not— I think you’ve done enough.” You felt breathless, like you’d just run a marathon. You felt drained, and exhausted, and frail, but you forced yourself to smile up at him, to remember that he was still your coworker, still your friend, still Clark Kent.

And if you knew anything, you knew that Clark Kent couldn’t hurt a fly.

(You also knew that Superman would’ve been able to break your neck with a flick of his wrist, but you tried not to think about that.)

“This is great,” you kept your tone bright, cheerful, burying your anxiety beneath a heavy layer of brimming enthusiasm. “You have to tell me everything! As soon as we get back to Metropolis, you’re going to—”

“About that,” he cut in, only somewhat apologetic. “Metropolis might have to wait. This can be a sensitive time, and I thought it might be better for you to stay here, with me, just until you’ve adjusted to…” There was another pause, another sympathetic smile. The heel of his palm pressed into the small of your back, and against your will, you were reminded of just how easily he could crush your windpipe, or break your spine, or rip your heart out of your chest before your body had time to give out. “To this. To us.”

You didn’t have his resilience. Your expression immediately dropped. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t waste time, didn’t pretend to believe it was a genuine question. “Think of it as a precaution. You’re just going to stay somewhere safe and quiet for a few weeks, let some new information soak in, and when you’re ready, we can go home together.” He bowed his head, his lips ghosting over the curve of your shoulder. You tried to let go of him, to put a little distance between yourself and Clark, but his hand rose the back of your neck, keeping you pinned against his chest as he went on. “I tried to think of a way to do this at home, but it wouldn’t have worked out. You’re going to be in danger, and this—” He nodded toward the crystal walls. “—is one of the only places where I know you’ll be safe. From the people who want to hurt me, and from yourself, while you’re still learning.”

“Learning what? Clark, I might be a reporter, but I’m not going to sell your secret identity to the first paper that makes a bid.” Another half-hearted shove to his chest, another attempt to give yourself space to breathe. He only held you tighter, his smile pressing into the side of your neck. “I-It’s not like you can keep me here, either. I mean, it’s not like heroes hold civilians hostage.”

“Heroes do what they have to do,” he muttered, his voice stifled by proximity, his breath warm against your skin. “’specially if it means keeping the people they love safe.”

It felt like a stupid thing to ask, given your situation, your position. It felt like a waste of breath, considering you were in his lap, in the heart of his secret lair, with his mouth pressed against your skin and his hands drifting toward your waist, and yet, you couldn’t seem to stop yourself. “You love me?”

There was a throaty laugh, a squeeze to your side. “With all my heart.” There was no hesitation, no reluctance. If you’d been standing, your legs might’ve given out. “I wish it didn’t have to be so complicated. I really did try to find a workaround, but if I tried to approach you as Clark, you’d never be fully protected from everyone who’s after Superman, and if I tried to love you as Superman – well, then you’d never pay Clark a second glance. I didn’t want you to only know half of who I am.” A kiss, this time, shallow and fleeting, pressed into the corner of your jaw. “This was the only way I could show you who I was without putting you in harm's way. You’ll learn the ropes here, and when you’re ready, we can go back to Metropolis and get you moved into my place—”

A waste of time, a waste of breath, a waste of hope. Still, you couldn’t seem to stop yourself from making bad decisions, today. “What would you do if I didn’t feel the same way?”

This time, it was a kiss to your temple, then your forehead. He didn’t try to kiss you – to actually kiss you, thank God – but it was a small mercy, further dampened by the fact that he was still holding you, still keeping you as close as you could possibly be. After long, agonizing seconds, he raised his head. If he was worried, if he noticed the tension in your shoulders, how stiffly you held yourself, you couldn’t tell from his easy smile, the levity in his tone. If anything, he seemed excited, eager to plan out your future together with or without your cooperation.

“If you didn’t love me…” He tried to laugh, but the air hitched in his throat and he settled for a wistful sigh. “Why are you asking? Have something you want to tell me?”

“It’s a hypothetical.” Your tongue felt swollen, your head heavier than it should’ve been. “Just… indulge me, alright? I’m curious.”

“Like I said, you don’t have anything to worry about. If you took a little time to come around to me, I wouldn’t mind – it wouldn’t change anything, either.” It was a corrupted type of reassurance. Rather than soothing your anxiety, it only seemed to make you feel more sick. “I’d just have to work a little harder, keep a closer eye on you. I mean, I already plan on keep you as close as I can, but—” He clicked his tongue, brushed a few stray hairs away from your face. “—I guess I’d have to hold you a little tighter. Until I could trust you to come around on your own, at least.”

He'd already taken you to an impenetrable fortress in the middle of a frozen wasteland, hundreds of thousands of miles away from the nearest person. You weren’t sure how much more tightly he could hold you.

Dread welled in the cavity of your chest, something sweet and sickly rising into the back of your throat, but you managed to nod, to lean against him. He welcomed your cooperation, rewarded it with a low, throaty sound of approval. “I should show you around. There isn’t much to see, but, y’know, common courtesy and all that.”

“I’m… actually still pretty tired.” It wasn’t a lie. You were exhausted, and you wanted more than anything to crawl into the nearest hole and wait until this had all blown over. But, there weren’t any holes you could crawl into – just a bed, a few mirrored walls, and a man you had formerly thought of as Clark Kent. “I think I might need to take it easy for a couple hours, just to give my brain time to process all this. Would… would that be okay?”

That, that was what made him falter – earning a slight lapse, a new quirk to his smile – but he held himself steady, only nodding as you shifted off of his lap. Hesitantly, with no small amount of apprehension, you edged away from him, daring to put just an arm’s length worth of distance between yourself and him and letting out an ounce of tension drain out of your rigid form when he didn’t immediately decide you weren’t worth the effort, when you didn’t find yourself reduced to little more than ash or pulverized viscera. “Of course. Give me a few minutes, I’ll get you something more comfortable to—“

“This is fine.” Your voice cracked, but you tried to pretend you didn’t notice. “I mean, I’m fine. I just— I think I need a little time to myself. To take this all in.”

His disappointment was visible, but he didn’t argue. You waited until he’d left your room, until he was out of sight and out of earshot, to slip back under your mound of blankets and shrink into yourself. You were exhausted, and yet, you’d never been more awake in your life. Sleep seemed like a distant dream, leaving yourself helpless and unaware like a lurking nightmare.

It was all you could do to lie there, small and vulnerable, and try to ignore the eyes burning into the back of your neck.

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 8: MIND PALACES & OTHER SHATTERED CRYSTALLINE DREAMS

synopsis: connor has a talk with amanda, and you have a talk with your own mind. connor reminds you, once more, that he's made of plastic and metal, not flesh and blood.

word count: 2.8k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: i know there's a real life viktor petrov. atomic heart is just weird and named characters after real life people

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere , @foggy0trees0 , @princessofenkanomiya (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

The Zen Garden is nice, if a bit humid. Connor’s footsteps are quiet as he walks on the marble that paves the sprawling paths.

Again, that stone stares at him, the soft blue glow entrancing. And just like last time, Connor kneels and touches it. The thrum of energy he expected still shocks his system, and still causes him to take an unneeded, artificial breath. With one last glance over his shoulder, Connor walks away.

When Connor approaches the dock, Amanda is waiting on the water in a quaint little rowboat, an orange and white wagasa resting over her shoulder.

“Hello, Connor.” She smiles. “I thought you might enjoy a little cruise.”

Connor steps into the boat, then pushes it away from the dock. He takes the looms of the oars in his hands and pushes the blades through the water to propel them backward.

After a few moments of looking around, Amanda speaks. “I love this place. Everything is so calm and peaceful, far from the noise of the world.”

She turns to Connor. “Tell me, what have you discovered?”

“I found two deviants at the Eden Club.” Connor looks away, then back to Amanda, then away again, like a nervous dog. He wrings his hands in his lap. He’s not sure why he feels the need to. “I hoped to learn something, but… they managed to escape.”

“That’s too bad.” Amanda’s voice is laced with overly-obvious sympathy. “You seemed so close to stopping them.”

Connor takes the looms of the oars and pushes the blades through the water again instead of responding. Again, there’s that voice (yours – he’s sure it’s your voice) in between his lines of code that tells him to snap at her, to tell her to stop with her fake worry and honeyed words. 

“You seem… lost, Connor,” Amanda says. “Lost, and perturbed.”

Connor’s lips draw into a thin line. “I thought I knew what I had to do. But now I realize it’s not that simple.”

“You had your gun trained on those deviants at the Eden Club. The Officer even told you to grab the Lieutenant’s gun,” Amanda says. “Why didn’t you shoot?”

Connor looks down at where his hands rest in his lap. “I don’t know.” A deep pang of something shoots through his systems, and his eyes snap up to meet Amanda’s. “I don’t know.”

“If your investigation doesn’t make progress soon, I may have to replace you, Connor,” Amanda says, her tone cold and even.

“I understand,” Connor says softly. He can feel something within him twitch – an instability he’s confident will correct itself as time goes on.

The twitch pulls him to look to his left. In the surrounding trees, just barely on the treeline, is a little sapling Connor knows wasn’t there before. It’s silvery and wispy, and can’t be more than a foot in height. But trees shouldn’t be that color. And saplings are supposed to be covered in leaves because of their need to absorb as much sunlight as possible. This one is bare.

“Is something amiss, Connor?” Amanda asks.

“No,” Connor lies. He turns back to Amanda. “Just thinking. That’s all.”

Suddenly, a clap of thunder rolls across the sky even though the clouds above are thin and an orangey color. Amanda looks upwards, as does Connor.

“Something’s happening. Something serious.” Her eyes return to Connor. “Hurry, Connor. Time is running out.”

Your eyes snap open as you gasp, inhaling lumino-polymer. It floods into your lungs, causing the warm and pleasant feeling that comes with having another living being invade your system.

It doesn’t shock you that you’re here again – in your memories. Your mind loves putting you back in the Vavilov Complex, a place you frequented in your youth when you were able to feel solid ground beneath your feet. (Or, rather, above your head, as most of the complex is underground.)

The lumino-polymer that surrounds you is kept in a transitional state: a diffusion-sensitive, anaerobic-bacteria-friendly, translucent, and gluey liquid. The bacteria is suspended around you in little specks of glowing blue. 

You’re not sure which way is up, but you kick your feet to propel yourself towards the light. After a few moments, you break the surface and haul yourself out of the pool, settling on your knees by the edge. Lumino-polymer sloughs off you like you’re a shedding reptile – in one gross, voluminous heap that quickly settles back into the pool.

You put a hand on your chest and take a deep breath. Now, there’s nothing in your lungs but air. But memories and minds work in weird and inconsistent ways, right? So that’s to be somewhat expected.

Yet when you look up, the one thing that’s always consistent is still consistent – the PEC-4 Birchtree is still there. The symbol of the Vavilov Complex and the capstone of its research efforts stands tall in her five meter-diameter by ten meter-tall cylindrical capsule. 

She’s not the typical birch you’d usually think about. Her trunk is thin and silvery, and her leafless branches resemble a wispy mycelium complex rather than sturdy wood. They hang down, almost like weird, sinewy versions of the leaves of a weeping willow. She’s more angel than tree.

You look down and find a metal pail by your feet. It’s already been filled with lumino-polymer. You pick it up and start walking up the stairs. 

When you reach the top, the PEC-4 Birchtree is staring down at you without eyes. Her branches wave despite the lack of a wind to move them. You kneel before the capsule and press on the fuel inlet. As soon as it opens with a soft click, you pour the lumino-polymer in.

When it settles in her soil, the PEC-4 Birchtree almost seems to inhale inside her capsule. Her branches relax soon after.

“Что мне делать?” You ask softly. You look down at where your hands rest in your lap. “Я чувствую себя… потерянно. Действительно потерянно.”

Look at where you are, my child, she responds from within your mind. She doesn’t speak in English or Russian or any other human language – she sounds like the electrical impulses from within your own brain. You’ve escaped from situations more dangerous than this. Remember where you came from. Remember your parents and the reactors they worked in and Chelomey as a whole.

“Я знаю, но…” You bring a hand to your face, then look up at her. Your voice is quiet and quivering when you speak. “Мне страшно.”

You don’t need to be, she says. You can always rely on yourself. Memorize the cards in your hand. Know when to play them. Stack the deck if you need to. Real life plays dirty.

“Да… да, вы правы.” You stand and put a hand on the plexiglass of her capsule. “Спасибо.”

You start to turn to walk away, but are stopped by the PEC-4 Birchtree’s voice permeating your mind again. 

Please be careful, she says. They need you. Both of them. You can keep them on this Earth. Be vigilant. I love you. 

“Да, мэм,” you say softly. “Я тоже вас люблю. Спокойной ночи.”

You zone back in and register your surroundings. You’re in the android autopsy room. Your autopsy table is empty.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, then you breathe in deeply. No lumino-polymer in your lungs. Just air. No PEC-4 Birchtree here. Just you. 

A knock sounds at the door. You glance at the clock – it’s just past 6:30 in the morning. You stand and open the door.

Connor stands there, his blazer now clean. “Hello, Officer. I assume an adequate amount of time has passed for you to process the events of yesterday evening and early this morning?”

You step to the side, allowing Connor in. “Khm, yeah. I guess.”

Connor steps through and the door closes automatically behind him. He moves over and sits in the chair he was sitting in yesterday while you hop up on your autopsy table. (Internally, this only solidifies that chair as ‘Connor’s chair’ in your mind.)

“Why did you come here?” You ask. “I don’t really feel like reviewing case details right now.”

“I just came to talk, Officer,” Connor says. 

You pull your legs up onto the table and cross them. “You talk an awful lot. And about personal things, too.”

“I suppose I do.” He looks down at the ground, then back up at you. “When I was in the car, you were talking to Hank. What were you talking about?”

You sigh and your eyes fall to the floor. “His drinking problem. How he gets when he drinks. His suicidal tendencies. How I can’t spend a second without worrying about him.”

“Are you coping well?” Connor asks.

“Of course not.” You let out a humorless laugh. “I went back to my apartment, but I just… couldn’t sleep. So I came here.” You gesture vaguely around the room. “Work is a constant in my life. I like filing reports and organizing data and everything that comes with it. But recently… it’s gotten turbulent.”

Your jaw clenches. “And with everything that’s going on? All the deviants? They’ll find one way or another to pin it on the Soviets. Something like a breaking news article about how a spy put a bug in an American android’s code to cause them to deviate, and it spread.”

“You won’t be able to work on the case without a good coping mechanism,” Connor says. “I suggest you find one.”

You exhale sharply and look at him. He’s leaning forward with his hands folded together and his elbows on his knees.

“You sound like Chariton Zakharov,” you say, a smile creeping onto your face. “Well, kind of. Like the way he cared about science more than the wellbeing of his employees.”

Connor’s LED flickers for a moment. “The Head of the Neurobiology Department at the Pavlov Complex of Facility 3826?”

“Yeah, that one,” you say. You don’t have to ask him if he had to look up that information this time, because you know he did – nobody would know that off the top of their head. “I remember the letter he wrote to himself that Dmitry Sechenov found after he died. The one about how man himself isn’t corrupt, but his body.”

“I haven’t read that letter,” Connor says. “And I can’t find that information in my database.”

You hop off the table and start to rifle through the drawers of your desks. “Hold on. I have something here somewhere…”

“You have a lot of personal effects in the autopsy room, Officer,” Connor says. “May I ask why?”

“It’s basically my office,” you say. “I have an actual desk, but I’m rarely there.”

You open another drawer and find the book you were looking for: The Life, Death, Neuropolymer-Induced Transformation, and Secondary Death of Chariton Radeonovich Zakharov. “Aha! Here it is.”

You put the book on the table and flick through the many worn, scribbled-on sticky notes jutting out of the side. When you find the one you’re looking for, you open the book to the pages you stuck it on. The text is in Russian, but you translate it as you read aloud. “Okay, here. The letter reads:

“Vice is a physiological property. In the magnum opus of “opium for the people,” the Bible, this is well shown, if allegorically. Man has become depraved not by tasting the mystic fruit, but by becoming aware of himself. The body dictates our depravity. 

“We want to multiply, so there are rapists and perverts. If we want to eat, we steal money and food. We want to be pleased, and now we surround ourselves with stupid luxury. It is not man himself who is corrupt, but his limited, primitive shell, which needs food, sex, drugs, and care. 

“The radiance of pure reason, and it alone, can illuminate the path of humanity. Because a human being is not a body. It’s a way of thinking.”

You look up and close the book. “Do you agree with Zakharov?”

“Agree with him on what?” Connor asks. 

“That being human is not about having a human body, but thinking in the way a human does,” you say, then look away. “Actually, I guess that’s a redundant question. Because I’m asking you if you think deviants should exist.”

You meet Connor’s eyes again. “And you’ve been programmed to… exterminate them. Right?”

“Not exterminate,” Connor corrects. “I’ve been programmed to find the cause of deviancy and to help find a way to prevent it.”

“But you’re still a hunter,” you say. “And they’re your prey. No?”

Connor blinks. Once, twice. His LED flickers yellow and barely dips into red before turning back to yellow. “Yes. I am.”

“So you’re a regular Viktor Petrov.” You lean your hip against the table. “Not the Ukrainian one, but the Russian one. A man widely-regarded as a class traitor who’s just working for what he perceives as the greater good.”

“I’m not a man,” Connor says. “I’m just a machine.”

Your face falls and your stare hardens. “No, you’re not. I’m not saying that you’re not a machine – I’m saying that you’re not just a machine. You said it yourself. You can be whatever Hank and I want you to be. We’re Dmitry Sechenov, and you’re Major Sergey Nechayev.”

“How so?” Connor shifts in his seat. He can’t be that stupid – he knows exactly how.

“Nechayev devoted his life to the USSR. In return, he only earned isolation and numerous wounds – both physical and mental. Sechenov was the only one who treated Nechayev with basic kindness. And the Major folded like a cheap deck of cards.” You lean towards him with a hand braced on the table. “Sechenov took him in and molded him into his perfect pet soldier. All because Nechayev, in his vulnerable state, let himself be molded. Just like how you are.”

“I am not being molded,” Connor says. “I am an RK800 – a machine with a mission. I may have secondary missions, but tracking down deviants has always been my number one priority.”

“But you are,” you say. “You’re changing, whether you like it or not. Connor, when you were in my apartment… you laughed. Androids don’t laugh. Only deviants do.”

Connor stands, and you’re reminded of just how intimidating he can be. He moves over so that he’s standing just a yard away from you. (A faint flicker in your mind tells you that if he shot you right now, it’d be considered point blank. But you quickly dismiss it. Connor wouldn’t do that. Not to you. Right?)

“I laughed because I was mirroring the environment you created,” Connor says. “I was designed to work alongside humans. Humans mirror and are mirrored. I was just following my programming.”

You stand up straight and set your jaw as you look him in the eye. You’re searching for any kind of emotion, anything that looks like how Connor looked when he was with Bronislava. But no. There’s nothing. His eyes look dead – like prosthetics that can move.

“You don’t laugh when you’re with Hank,” you say softly. “Even when it’s an intimate environment, like the one in my apartment. He’s a riot. Why don’t you laugh?”

“It’s like you said,” Connor says. “Androids don’t laugh. Only deviants do. I know what I am, and what I am not. And I am not a deviant.”

“Leave.” You step back, turning to your autopsy table. You reach out and grab the book, then trace the embossed lettering with your thumb. 

You glance over your shoulder. Connor’s still standing there, just like early this morning by the Detroit River. 

“What’re you waiting for?” You grind out. You nod towards the exit. “There’s the door. As if you need to be told where it is!”

Connor’s jaw tenses, and he looks like he’s about to speak, but stays silent. 

“You’re disobeying a human.” You turn away from him and look forward. “You know that, right?”

“I’m allowed to disobey orders if they contradict my mission statement,” Connor says. “If I’ve been given contradicting instructions, I opt to execute whichever has highest priority.”

“You’re not a regular android,” you say softly. 

“Of course not,” he says. “I’m a prototype.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” You turn to look at him. “You’re…”

You look up into Connor’s eyes again. They’re still dead pieces of plastic. No emotions. No mirror of your own. 

“You need to leave.”

“Officer –”

“Leave!” You bark. “Сейчас!”

Connor steps back. He almost looks… hurt. But you know better. You were taught better, by Connor himself. 

He turns and leaves. The door shuts behind him. You move over and sit in Connor’s chair, then let out a shaky sigh. You draw your legs up to your chest and curl in on yourself. 

“Боже, почему же всё так сложно…?”

[pearlwithgirl]

A Man and His Favourite Toy

Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish x f!reader

Fluffy smut - 1130 words

~

Some sweet Soap rambles before I go to sleep.

You’re like his favourite toy in the world.

He’s evolved in nearly every way. Lots of things are left behind, some are changed or swapped out for the better, but many simply morph.

Some things stuck around, ebbing and flowing and changing with growth - surging back tenfold when you strolled into his life.

Apples and cinnamon, steeped and stewed, gone smoky and sharp. Still comfortable, still warm - much more substance. Enrichment, nostalgia, ringing laughter.

He wants to roll and gallivant around with you until he’s dewy and ruddy-cheeked. Huffing and puffing, flopping back on soft grass or cotton-covered down to cock his head and lock heart-filled eyes.

There’s nobody to tell him he’s had his fill anymore, nobody to nag him about how he needs to share - god forbid. No chance in hell his hands could be wrenched away from you. Only you, and you’re begging, mewling softly with furrowed brows and pouty lips.

He has you clutched tight, fingertips gone white from the force of his heady desperation - cold, scuffed plastic traded up for soft, divoted flesh. He’s nearly in a trance, enthralled like he’s parked in front of a flickering screen.

You buck your hips up at him and his lashes flutter, gaze dropping down briefly. He looks back up at you with a bashful smile.

“Sorry, doll. I just like lookin’ at ya.” Johnny murmurs, eyes half-lidded. He’s so hungry.

He peels away lilac silk, patting your hip to get you to arch up, letting his touch linger before yanking your shorts off. It’s like unwrapping something sweet, tearing away crinkled foil to get to the soft centre, dripping with honey. He’ll gorge himself on you.

He licks a long stripe through your folds, drool mixing with warm nectar. A crystalline drop hangs from his pink tongue, sharp canines just above, revealed by a grin.

He’s teasing you now, but only for a moment. Only to take in that needy expression before his eyes fall shut and he goes dumb off your pussy. He gathers more of your wetness, sloppy and careless about making a mess. The messier the better, as far as he’s concerned - it’s what you deserve.

The closely shorn hair tickles your thigh as leans onto it, glassy eyes roving up your belly, past your soft tits, locking gazes again. Meeting his baby blues, you nod.

“Please.”

No need to ask twice.

Johnny drags his fingers up the rift at the junction of your thighs, spreading you open. He could crumble right then and there, could dive in and never come up to breathe. You’re glistening with mixed juices, wet and inviting.

He circles your hole and you twitch, chasing him. As if he could keep you waiting any longer when you look like that. That breath you’ve been holding is released as he dips a calloused finger into you, palm up. He twitches against his belly, whining into your pulsing cunt.

Slim hips rut into the bed, mirroring the rhythm of yours. He might end up finishing like this, cock sending copious amounts of spend onto the duvet while you throb against his greedy mouth. He’s just been waiting so long, stuck in a shitty little cabin and damned to weeks of abstinence. It’s laundry night anyway.

“I need more.” You plead.

He adds another finger - it’s not enough. You deserve everything, and he’ll start with turning you into a writhing mess.

So he leans down and seals his lips around your twitching bud, massaging that swollen pearl with a practiced tongue. He licks and suckles and sends you into a rosy-tinted haze. You can still taste the strawberries from dessert, but that’s not where the saccharinity is coming from.

You don’t even know how long he’s been at it. Neither of you do - you’re swimming in syrup. Everything could be a husk beyond the bay window, lake dried up, long turned to dust outside the rain speckled pane while the seconds on the heirloom clock ticked away and away and away - it wouldn’t even matter. There’s only one thing you two are focused on, and it’s fast approaching.

You look away from his flickering tongue, over his bobbing head, and past the rippling muscles of his shoulder. His brawny thighs are twitching, one knee braced to the side to help him cant his hips into the soft fabric.

This might be your favourite tune - the syncopated patter of tiny droplets and the lewd squelch of his crooked fingers, beckoning you forth to a steep precipice. His sounds are the best part - muffled by the heat of your cunt, reedy and wavering, pleasure-drunk. They reverberate all the way through you.

You’re ready to careen right off that ledge. You spread your trembling thighs even wider, reaching down to find his free hand, and he gladly receives it, intertwining your fingers.

He squeezes a little harder when he feels the intricately knotted silver. You got that one a day after the first time he buried his tongue in you. It’s stacked on top of a little jewelled ring - that one came after he took you to a lookoff and sunk his cock into you. He can still remember your cries of pleasure as you clung to him on a checked wool blanket, how the sun bounced off your hair as it blazed deep orange on the horizon. He was hooked.

That might be the thought that’s sending him over the edge right now. His groans send vibrations through his tongue as his brows draw together and the rhythm of his hips begins to jolt and stutter. You’re gonna fall with him.

He meets your eyes again. You know he wants to see you clearly as you suffer that little death together. You heave a great shuddering breath, exsanguinated, all your shared blood rushed down south. Your whole body tenses up, and you buck up onto his mouth as he grinds further into the bed.

Johnny grinds, and he takes and he takes until your heels are digging into the bedding, fingers curled into the stripe of hair on his head.

He pulls off of you, face glistening, tongue darting over his lips. He was always told not to be wasteful. He presses a soft kiss right above your clit and drags his tongue along the seam of your cunt once more as he rubs a soothing thumb over the back of your hand.

With one last lap of his tongue and a sloppy kiss goodbye, he parts from your pussy and crawls up to curl into your side. He gives you a kiss of your own, softening cock still twitching against your outer thigh.

He doesn’t really need to say it, to profess the shared feeling - it’s obvious. He does anyway.

“I missed you.”

[kanekoii]

HIHIIII its me peipei,, ur niece :3 i wanted to req but im not sure if theyre open,, so pls ignore this if they arent!!

fluffy gn!reader shu (brainrot) on winter dates at night, walking around the city hand in hand as the snow falls, just a really cozy and warm aura and feel to it? c: you can add whatever you think best for the rest of it i truly trust the good works of ur hands 🙌💗

XOXO, saku 🌸 (peipei)

mika's notes -> schubert time i repeat it is schubert time (i went so off the rails omg)

pairing -> modern! shu yamino x gn! reader

genre -> fluff/brainrot

song -> i don’t mind - he is we

warnings -> one mention of sickness, no actual dialogue just brainrot

when shu had asked for a date with you, the last thing you expected was to be on the slope of a tall mountain overlooking the urban setting below. your breaths visible in little puffs as you breathe somewhat heavily from the trek up to this point.

it would be worth it, shu had promised. now you understood what he meant, looking down at the brightly colored lights of the expansive city below. the only sounds being the gentle wind rustling the sparsely placed trees, the crunching of the powdery snow under your feet, and the both of your breaths. he looked over and smiled at you as he set the sled he had been carrying with him the whole time on the ground, gesturing you to sit down.

you did so, grabbing the small rope attached to the red plastic as he sat down behind you, rapping his strong and warm arms around your waist and pulling your back flush to his muscular form. shu buried his face into the crook of your neck with another of his charming giggles.

his arms only left your body when he pushed the both of you off, rocketing down the snowy mountain towards the crystalline lights of the city on such a clear winter night. just from the sheer speed, you felt your eyes watering a bit, face stinging from the bitterly cold air. the only thing present was the whipping of the cold air against your exposed skin, nearly drowning out shu’s overjoyed laughter as he held even more tightly onto you. you couldn’t help but laugh as well as you picked up speed, the both of you being the only two up there at this time of night. the sky was sprinkled with bright pinpricks of silver, stars only visible when decently far away from the city’s light pollution.

with a cute and joking scream from him, the both of you fell into the powdery snow with you laying on top of him, back still facing him. he laughed and kissed your cheek, giggling and thanking you for agreeing to go on this somewhat unconventional date with him.

[doomsdaybby]

chapter two: a late night conversation. laundromat!steve au x fem!reader mini series. you can find the blurb and chapter index here 🫶🏻

content/warnings: strangers to lovers, barely any plot (no twists or turn, just watch two cuties fall in love), no use of y/n, soft!steve, steve is such a sweetheart, eventual smut (not this chapter), she/her pronouns and physical female descriptions used for reader character throughout.

word count: 2.6k

(feeling majorly frazzled and super defeated with this one so if you like it it’d make me feel so good if you let me know 💖)

Steve Harrington held on to that walkman in an iron grip. Of course he did, physically and metaphorically. As soon as he appeared back on shift bright and early the following Monday morning, he rewinded your Fleetwood Mac tape with utmost delicacy, assuming that he had done no further damage.

Your beat up walkman and headphones sat safe and sound locked in a counter drawer all weekend whilst Steve had some well deserved down time. Though that downtime was spent being impishly pestered by Robin and Nancy. The moment the pair had made it official, he spent more time with Nancy than he had during highschool, and of course she acknowledged that too. Steve didn’t think about it too much, though it felt easier now, an ease in the atmosphere around them where they knew one didn’t have to impress the other.

Between swapping crumpled dollars for handfuls of loose change and handing out laundry detergent as if it was going out of fashion, Steve attempted to work clumsy wonders on your walkman. Although the cassette door was wedged open indefinitely, and despite Steve’s best efforts to get the damn thing closed, it cracked in three more places once he pushed too hard.

“Fuck” he scolded himself under a breath, catching his thumb beneath the plastic once the eject button completely lodged into the edge. “Just making it worse, you idiot” he says with his thumb nurtured against his tongue.

Steve didn’t really like to admit it, but he waited for you to walk through that door the following three days. Cringing at himself when he would throw his head up at every shrill of the bell that rang throughout the laundromat. He died a little more every time, where was his self respect?

It wasn’t until his rotational graveyard shift that Thursday night that you decided to reappear, a graceful silhouette sauntering through the fogged up doorway, although the fatigue weighed heavy under your pretty eyes, shoulders slouched forward in a laze. Steve was slumped over the counter rather similarly, worn-out gaze tracing the rhythmic tick tick tick of the clock hands reading 12:50am.

“Hey, sparky” your voice rings in his ears, crystalline, full surround sound clarity in all of your worn-out glory. Steve attempts to stomp the creeping blooming of butterflies in his chest at the second mention of his new nickname, greeting him as politely as you could muster as you haul a weighted laundry bag over your shoulder.

Your sneakers squeak against the tattered linoleum flooring that was maimed with permanent muddy scuff marks and age-old water stains. The late night was on the colder side, dark gym shorts sitting high on your exposed thighs leaving you somewhat bare to the elements, Dad’s oversized Talking Heads sweatshirt pooling at your wrists and waist in an attempt to make up for it. But it was a dry night, clear, the navy sky twinkling with endless strings of the brightest stars that could only be seen this far away from the hustle and bustle of any major cities.

By the way the corners of your eyes crease and forehead crumples deep lines into your soft skin, Steve almost feels drained on your behalf. You offer him a weary grin, one corner of your lip higher than the other as you display two rows of pretty teeth whilst approaching the counter, slinging the rather hefty laundry bag up onto the chipped wood.

“What’re you doing here this late?” he asked with a clear of his throat, standing a little straighter now as preoccupied fingers fiddle absentmindedly with the handle of mesh polyester. His tender voice was laced with that genuine consideration again, like he really cared, as if he actually wanted to listen to your answer.

“Could say the same to you,” you cradled your aching head in your hand, cheekbone resting heavily on the heel of your palm, the other shielding your tired eyes from the too-harsh lights flickering above you.

“Well, old man Thomson owns the place. He likes variation, for some reason. So I kinda work whenever he schedules me. Thinks it’s better for the customers” he stumbles a little, especially when you don't take to his lightheartedness, and Steve winces with the ache it causes for a moment before moving on. You were clearly exhausted.

You lift your head a fraction to crane your neck over your shoulder, surveying the empty laundromat, eyes flicking back to Steve to bear a look he’s seen far too often on Robin. “Hey, I don’t make the rules,” he relaxes this time, grin tightening the corners of his lips as he holds his hands up in surrender.

You exhaled a whisper of a laugh through your nostrils with the quirk of a brow, “Better you than me,” you shrugged, chin tilted upwards to observe the creeping potted ivy suspended to the right of Steve’s head, a little worse for wear with the leaves browning at the dry edges.

“Been busy,” you continued, finally answering his greeting question, “Didn’t realise how many of the clothes I’d boxed up had been sitting in the back of my closet long enough to smell like my Granny Flo’s damp basement”.

Steve wrinkled his nose, frowning at the clear visualisation, almost compelled to lean his nose down to take a good sniff of the laundry bag sitting mere inches away. But that would be weird, far far too weird, so he very wisely decided against it.

“So you thought that one o’clock in the morning would be the perfect time to sit in Hawkins’ second best laundromat for an hour or two?” Steve’s voice is light, friendly, and warm. His chestnut eyes sparkle prettily as you shift across from him to weigh your head heavy in your hands, palms anchored against the apples of your cheeks, eyes closed and lips puckering pink and supple.

“You also still have something of mine” you cock your head, heavy lidded but open just enough to peer at him again, bones quadrupled in weight beneath your skin. The laundromat was warm considering the time of the late March night, a stark contrast to the cool stillness of the night outside, despite the low purr of the A/C that rattled the vents in the ceiling. It was an all-encompassing weighted blanket that had the promise of sleep become all too beautifully tempting right now.

“Oh… yeah” Steve cringes, pointer finger running along the freshly healing wound at the base of his thumb pad that he had clumsily self-inflicted. He toys with the fly-away chocolate strands at the nape of his neck with one hand and the collar of his yellow sweatshirt, bitten nails scratching at his hairline, the other searching for your walkman stored in the counter drawer.

“I tried to, uh, fix it. But, I think it’s past saving” Steve murmurs, his chest deflating in sheepish defeat as you fold your arms neatly over one another, pushing yourself forwards on the tips of your toes to trace your eye-line on his movements towards your beloved walkman.

Former beloved walkman.

Steve stretched out his hand across the counter, your fingers brushing along the back of his hand to his knuckles as you took it from him carefully. He was warm, really warm.

You stared at the cassette player in your hand, it was even more busted than you remember, coming to the swift conclusion that Steve would never make a gifted repairman. Though the effort was well appreciated, it fizzled somewhere between your ribs, the knowledge that he did something nice for you. You couldn’t remember the last time someone was so thoughtful towards you, half expecting it to be in some landfill miles away by now.

“I’m sorry, I'll help you get a new one. I thought it looked like an easy fix but honestly I don’t know what i’m doing and-“

“Thank you, Steve” your kind smile set his soul on fire, high points of your cheeks lifting with gratitude, cutting off his panicked rambling and he’s muttering something along the lines of ‘if you’re sure’ and another string of apologies that you weren’t listening to too closely.

“Could I ask a favor?” You interjected politely, gaze sweeping back towards the boy behind the counter who was already eyeing you curiously. You were very much aware of the attention he paid you, especially when he acted like he wasn’t just ogling in your direction. The corners of your mouth upturned on instinct when Steve’s spotlight wasn’t burning you from the inside out, fighting back a small smile, a rush of gentle heat swarming at the very center of your chest.

“Sure, sure. Depends” he remarks, a humorous lilt within the response, heart rate slowing back down to a somewhat normal pace, grateful for the u-turn in conversation. Your cheeks rippled with smile lines at that, recalling Robin’s previous remark about him not being much of a ladies man anymore, so what else would he have going on to fill up his schedule?

“I still have some stuff to move into my apartment from storage. Think you could give me a hand with it? On Sunday?”.

Steve is silent for a moment, drooping his lower lip and sporting his best ‘I wonder what’s on my schedule’ face, it may have driven you away for good if he immediately sprung to an overwhelmingly zealous agreement like he ached to.

“Twenty bucks. Please?” you offered with a sing-song trail of a slightly bouncy plea, the last word ringing so fucking sweet in Steve’s ears, topping it off with a candied glossy-lipped smile and an innocent bat of your lashes.

“But, you also don’t have to. You can say no” you followed in a hurry when Steve blinked at you blankly, tone matching the dreary picture painted on your face once again. He floundered much to nobody's surprise, sucking a sharp and not-so-subtle inhale through the nose as he witnessed your face flood with rain clouds.

Steve still pretended to think about it for a second, head cocked to the side and glinting eyes surveying the ceiling, your face softening with his playfulness. There were three more moths that had met a tragic demise in the warm yellow light above him.

“Twenty bucks?” he queries airily, enjoying the rounding of your hopeful eyes and the tender purse of your lips as you nodded at him. Steve’s elbow slides further along the counter, tapping three rhythmic fingers against the tip of his chin, and within this closer proximity you could smell the earthy pine of his cologne. But most prominently, Steve Harrington smelt like lemons, particularly freshly squeezed lemonade you get at the fair; all the tooth-rotting sugary sweetness and citrusy tartness that made your toes curl.

“Maybe pizza, too. If you’re lucky”.

“Now that is an offer I can’t refuse” Steve shot his pointer finger in your direction. In complete truth, Steve’s off days were rarely penciled in, weekends were mainly for acting as the kids personal chauffeur, with Sundays reserved for giving Dustin the odd driving lesson if he was feeling generous.

“You’re a gem. Eddie should already be over to help too”.

Eddie? Munson?

Steve thought he had contained his inner monologue, but by your sudden puzzled expression and raise of a brow, he had actually spoken out loud without thinking.

“Yeah..” you drawled out slowly, a scoff hidden within a brief laugh. “You know him, right? Is that… okay?”.

Fuck. There was that look again. Unnerved, taken aback. Steve wasn’t wracking up many ‘you rule’ points on Robin’s made-up scoreboard, one that she only made to emphasize the utter disaster that was now his sexual magnetism; himself and the poor souls he attempts to flirt with meeting at opposite poles.

His cheeks flare a deep scarlet pink, eyes wide in a brief panic as he stutters out, “Yeah… yeah! My god, of course. Sorry, I didn’t realise that you two would know each other since you’ve only just moved here.”

You eyed him quizzically, and Steve was certain that you could hear the bellowing thud of his heartbeat amongst the dull electrical humming of the jarring amber lights above you.

“We’ve run into each other a few times over the years” you answered the question that he wasn’t asking out loud, but Steve didn’t really need to know the details.

‘How do you know Eddie Munson?’.

You had met Eddie one Saturday afternoon in the trenches of summer ‘87. Where the July sun sears your exposed skin akin to sizzling bacon in a hot oiled frying pan. Hawkins in the summer was your favourite time to visit. Considering it was such a small town, Roanoake, Indiana was an even smaller town. Approximately 1,600 people compared Hawkins’ ballpark 30,000 a mere 45 miles south.

Though it was just a little over an hour down the route 24 interstate, your 1972 Ford Pinto could only make a handful of trips before the grinding metal on metal with the odd sputter of suffocating black smoke began puffing in dramatic intervals from the exhaust pipe.

Barely a quarter of an hour from the closest sign of civilisation - a lonely billboard sporting ‘The Warzone! 5 miles’ in a faded grubby army green - you shuffled through the mountains of business cards, maps and other paper junk you had forgotten about in the passenger glove box.

Wayne’s Autopoint. Your Dad shoved the flier in your opposing hands with a roll of your eyes post your first journey down to Hawkins amidst the big move, now thankful for the fact that you didn’t let your stubbornness win you over. Stranded in the middle of nowhere at 3pm in the mid-July heat with only a gulp of lukewarm water left sitting in the cup holder was not on your to do list.

Eddie Munson pulled up beside your beat up car in a tow-truck - that was at least two decades old - a half hour after you’d punched in the garage number, kicking up copious clouds of dry dirt road that stung your eyes and tickled your nostrils.

You could say from there that the rest was history. Having to sit in the stuffy repair shop that only had one singular rusted overhead fan for the rest of the day allowed you to air out what seemed to be your whole life story to Eddie.

“If you ever need any help, uh, you know where to ask” he told you with an authentic grin, one that radiated twice the heat of the summertime. Spirals of flyaway hairs that had fallen from the low bun he had messily thrown it up in frame his face picture perfect, damp rag ringing in his oil slicked hands.

Despite Hawkins being so much bigger than Roanoke, you were almost surprised how run down the majority of it seemed to be, as though it had been blissfully forgotten in its only time capsule, an antique at the very back of the shelf left to collect dust.

“Sunday?” you searched Steve’s eyes, studying the flecks of honey gold that mixed with cocoa brown, another request that he had no reason to mull over again whether as a joke or not. You felt lighter then in his presence, when he turned to reach for the fancy branded laundry detergent - the lemony scented one that smelled similar to him - bobbing his head leisurely in agreement.

Steve guided the box towards you, digging out some loose change from his jean pockets that almost weighed him down, and he enjoyed the playful narrowing of your eyes when you waited a second too long for a vocal answer.

“Sunday”.

————

a/n to say that I really dislike this chapter, but i’m feeling really rusty so I hope that I start trusting myself a little more when I get back into the swing of things. so if you enjoyed this I would really like to know 💖 it would make me feel real good to get some feedback

tag list: @the-fairy-anon 🫶🏻🧚🏻‍♀️

dividers by @inklore

[gudmould]

Plastic Materials: Tall, Rich and Handsome in Engineering Plastics--Polycarbonate (PC)

I. Introduction to Engineering Plastics So-called engineering plastics are industrial plastics that can replace metals and be used as industrial parts or shell materials. Engineering plastics need to have excellent comprehensive performance. Compared with general plastics, they can meet higher requirements in mechanical properties, heat resistance, durability, corrosion resistance, etc. In…

[clumsiestgiantess]

Chapter 24 of The Other-world Universe; at long last we’ve weaponized the tiny! Let’s see what she can do.

all chapters listed here

[Round Three: Rematch]

Thankfully, we moved on from the subject of my old atrocities.  One moment later and we were in the other-world again, at the same spot where I'd practiced with my weapon.  Weirdly enough, the sun was already starting to set there, though it was mid-afternoon when we’d left my world.  "What's going on?" Erica asked, confusedly scanning the sky, "Why is it already getting dark?"  

"There's a slight time difference between my world and yours,” I explained, “They used to be in sync, but I threw them off balance after staying here for so long."  "Huh," Erica mumbled in an impressed tone.  I placed her in the field and knelt down beside her.  "Here it is," I announced, again offering her the piece.  However, since we'd traveled worlds, the plastic piece became a crystalline diamond-shaped stone.  She took it from me, momentarily distracted by its reflective sheen.  "So, I just.. put it in the back of my neck?  Like yours?"  "Actually, I made it so that it sets into the middle of your spine.  I thought that would be easier for your weapon's design."  In a flash, Erica slid the gemstone into place beneath her shirt.  "Wow!  I really can't feel a thing!" she exclaimed, twisting around to feel for it.  "I kinda expected it to be all rough because it's a stone."  I nodded, "That's all part of the design."

Erica excitedly drew both hands behind her back, similar to how I drew one hand behind my neck to grab my gun.  They emerged gripping the handles of two large sword-like devices, connected by thin cords to her back and the gemstone.  Each one was identical — lightweight metal sheets sharpened to a point on one end and a round grooved handle on the other.  The edges were almost impossibly thin and deadly sharp, specially made to be able to cut through anything with ease and precision.  Two-thirds up the weapons’ sheer sharpness was a curved hook that jutted out of the blade to latch onto foes.

I'd upped my game with this new weapon.  Along with the lightweight swords, the gem also gave the wearer superhuman abilities.  While it seemed I couldn’t give myself extra powers besides the ones I arrived with, I could give other-worlders them instead.  Erica could now jump an impressively long distance, and had what was basically super speed.  She could also land a fall from hundreds of feet in the air perfectly balanced and completely unscathed — superhuman durability — which is important when you can jump that high and also not break every bone in your body after coming back down.

At one point I realized that meant I could make Erica my own size instead of trying to shrink myself.  I’d asked her about it while we were weapon planning.  She was originally thrilled by the notion of being a similar height to me, but had later told me in reflective honesty that it was a bad idea.  As much as she wanted to see how it felt to be a giant, Erica told me she would be ‘too tempted to do things she’d regret’.  I wasn’t sure I understood what she meant, but it was her choice, so I scrapped the idea.  Erica seemed perfectly happy with what she had in both weapon and looks.  I had to agree.

In the empty field, I stood up and stepped back a bit, motioning for Erica to try out her new weapon, but she shook her head.  "I saw how badly you screwed up when you were working with yours, and that was after you'd practiced with it for a while.  Can you maybe save me some embarrassment and come back a bit later?  The town's probably worried about you, you know."  I wanted to stay and get her back for laughing at me the first time I'd practiced with my weapon, but Erica was right.  Everyone probably thought I'd run away.  Technically, I did try, but I was back, hopefully with a plan that would work.  

By the time I actually got to the valley, the sky had grown to a vibrant purple, quickly fading to black.  Maybe I should just leave a note or something.  Everyone’s already gone inside by now.  I knew all I had to do was call and someone would come running, but.. I didn’t feel like talking to the founders right then.  Guilt gnawed at me as I briefly vanished into my own world to write my excuse for bailing on everyone earlier.  If I’d had my way, I would’ve been abandoning everyone there to some awful fate.  My explanation devolved into one long apology the longer I wrote it.

Eventually, I stopped myself at a whole page and left the corner of it pinned under a rock near the town.  I did a quick walk-around of the mountains — scouting for trouble.  Surprisingly, there was nothing amiss.  The town was fine, the barrier was intact, and there were no portal people in sight.

Anxious at finding everything normal, I did another sweep.  Still finding nothing wrong, I returned to the spot where I'd left Erica.  However, when I got there she was nowhere to be seen, and all the natural landmarks like rocks and trees were missing.  Well, they were technically there, just in diced pieces.

"Erica?  Where did you go?" I called nervously into the darkening landscape.  Something shot out from the shadows of the forest nearby, zooming directly at my head.  I yelped in a panic and covered my face instinctively, shielding it from an attack.  Nervous laughter filled the space to my right.  "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Alexis.  I didn't mean to scare you, I promise."  I cautiously lowered my arms and turned in the direction of Erica’s voice, finding her sitting comfortably on my shoulder.  "Did you just super speed jump at me?" I asked.  "Yeah.. I'm sorry."  "No, don't be sorry," I chuckled, making my way back to my living space.  "This is good!  Do that on the battlefield tomorrow and you'll scare those awful people right back through the portal they came from."  

Erica was uncharacteristically silent the rest of the way back, leaving my thoughts to fall to worries.  Is she ready to take on people my size?  Not even I was.  "That is.. if you're ready to fight tomorrow,” I added more seriously.  She scoffed, "Oh, I was born ready.  It's just..  You've never seen me fight anyone before, have you?"  I slowed to a stop, processing her question.  "No, I don't think so.  Why?  Are you any good at it?  Because I'm not.  I don't even want to fight!  I'm tired of beating on other people," I laughed.

This time, there was an even longer pause.  Clearly my jokes weren’t helping the mood any.  Usually Erica loves responding to them with another joke or something snide.  I glanced at my shoulder to try and see her better.  "Are you any good at it," Erica repeated quietly, "Yeah, I am.  I just.. I don't want you to look at me differently when you see me fighting tomorrow.  I did tell you I can protect myself, but you've never seen me kick the shit out of someone before."  "Did you.. do that often?" I questioned, slightly confused.  I was a bit shocked to see her expression darken.

"Erica, you don't have to worry about what I might think of you," I told her as I sat down on my other-world 'bed'.  Reaching up to my shoulder, I carefully pulled her in front of me in cupped hands.  "I'll still love you, regardless of what happens."  She smiled, cheeks warming slightly.  "Did you actually want to sleep right now?" I asked, gesturing at the blanket beneath me, "It's a little early for us.  We haven't even eaten dinner because of the time difference."  "Let's have dinner then," Erica suggested, “Then we should at least try to get some rest.”

The food box was sitting right beside my 'bed' where it always was.  I let Erica off and made us some ribs and mac-and-cheese for dinner — one of Erica’s favorite meals the box could make.  Eating from the food box was actually better than eating at home.  With it, I could make virtually any food I wanted, and perfectly.  

Over the course of my meal, I couldn't help but wonder what Erica meant when she confessed she was scared of letting me see her fight.  I guess I can imagine her being fairly ruthless when it comes to that sort of thing, especially after they kicked me down and hurt me during that last struggle.  Now Erica had a score to settle for both her own kind and for me.  

Admittedly, I was also not really the fighting type.  Before that fight yesterday I’d never actually had to physically defend myself from someone before.  The only reason I gave myself a weapon at all was to have a backup plan.  Its purpose was to protect the town and potential others with barriers.  The gun function was only made with the intention of trying to scare the scientists off.  Now that I knew we were on the brink of war, that would all have to change.

When I'd finished eating, I sat awake for a while, not quite tired, but needing sleep all the same.  I'd need all the rest I could get to heal up before I went back to fighting again.  Just because Erica will be with me doesn't mean I get to take a break. I know she wants to fight, and I really don’t know what she’s capable of, but I can’t imagine she can take on a small army without me there to back her up.  

Late into the night, I finally lay down to get some rest.  I thought Erica was already asleep; she was lying on her side, facing the empty woods, but when I lay down, she sat up.  I shifted sideways so we were facing eachother — my mouth opening and closing a few times before I found what I wanted to say.  

"Erica, I have an important question for you," I stated, inhaling softly.  She stood, looking over at me nervously.  "What is it?"  "Today I gave you something that's highly dangerous — made specifically to kill giants.  I- I inadvertently gave you abilities that can overpower me at any given moment.  So.. I'm just asking.. for peace of mind, really…"  I cleared my throat, anxiously meeting her gaze.  "Can I trust you with them?"

My question lingered in the air for a moment as Erica's eyes widened in shock.  With careful steps, she moved closer, brushing my cheek with her hand.  A small smile spread across her lips as she looked me over lovingly.  "I'd like you to," Erica responded gently.  At once I was back on the cliffside, leaning against it as Erica stood on the mansion's balcony.  After I offered to make up for everything I’d done, she asked me one simple question: Can I trust you?  The memory replayed in my head the moment Erica answered me — a familiar yet previously forgotten echo of the past.  Her answer.. that’s what I replied, isn’t it?

Erica’s hand dwindled on the surface of my cheek for a while.  She stood in front of me, trying to read my questioning expression.  A small kiss lightly pecked the tip of my nose, and I smiled, pulling her close.  Erica giggled as my lips brushed against her body.  “I knew I could trust you,” I whispered, mouth barely an inch from her.  “Just making sure.”  My fingers laced around her tiny form and I held her close to my chest.  I could feel her miniscule hands pull my shirt aside, snuggling into the warmth of my skin.  I fell asleep shortly afterwards, feeling ready for the trials of the next day.

The following morning, we were both up and ready rather early.  I made my way to the Cavern Town with Erica on my shoulder.  Both founders were outside when I arrived, standing by my letter.  It looked like they were arguing.  Another pang of guilt dashed through my chest, but I shoved it down.  I knelt in front of the two as they stepped away from my towering form.

"Finally!" Mr. Stoll cried, "Where the hell have you been!?  The giants are threatening to destroy our town!  They're all coming down from the camp and-"  Ms. Ashford put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back slightly.  She whispered something harshly to him, but I couldn't hear anything.  I glanced at Erica, but she shook her head.  They were too far away for either of us to hear them.  It looked as if they were arguing again.  I waited patiently for them to address me, but their fight had only grown more heated.  "I'm sorry," I interrupted, "but did you say the giants are on their way here?"  "Yes," Ms. Ashford answered me, "But we won't ask you to fight them because you're inexperienced and can't handle the stress of fighting off an army."  Many of her words had pointed edges to them, directed at Mr. Stoll who stood defiantly with his arms crossed.

"She won't fight them!" Erica called, "At least not alone!  I'll fight them off for the safety of the town and for Alexis' safety too!"  I smiled gratefully at Erica, feeling a bit better about my whole awful predicament.  "Ha!  You fight them?" Mr. Stoll scoffed, "Don't be ridiculous!  You're just going to get yourself killed!  I'm surprised your giant friend hasn't talked you out of it yet!"  A wrathful glare distorted Erica's features.  "I will fight them, and I'll win!  You’ll see!  Come on, Alexis, let's get out of here."  

She tugged on my shirt to get me to stand back up.  Knowing this argument would only get worse the longer I stayed, I followed her command and left the valley after giving quick instructions to the founders.  “Keep everyone inside the barrier no matter what.  This scare will hopefully be over soon.”  

Erica growled under her breath the moment I left the exit to the valley.  "That old bastard, I'll show him!  You don't even need to fight, Alexis; I'll deal with them."  "Erica, don't go in over your head on this," I warned.  "What, you don't think I can do this either?" she quipped, voiced edged in malice.  "No..  I do, I do."  My voice tapered off in an almost worried uptone.

We silently waited at the foothills of the valley.  Some time later, the air buzzed with anxious electricity, like the moments before a storm.  Just up ahead, a cloud of dust spread out over the horizon.  The silhouette of a small army marched its way towards the mountains where we stood — about twenty people, maybe a few more.  I reached behind my back and pulled out my gun, anxiously switching it to multi-shot mode.  "Alright, get ready.  Here they come."  Erica grabbed her shining weapons and hunched down on the very edge of my shoulder.

When they got close enough, I unleashed a line of glowing bullets spiraling in the portal-worlders’ direction, and charged.  Closer to the front line, I generated a shield for myself and Erica zoomed away off my shoulder, rocketing through the air towards her first target.  We were both so pumped with stress and adrenaline that we were almost eager to fight.  However, as Erica came within an arm's reach of the first 'giant', they swung their rifle-esqe gun through the air.  It made contact with a sickening crack and swept her out of the way in an instant.  The attack was so sudden and so swift; my throat dropped into my stomach.  "ERICA!"  I skidded to a halt, too shocked to move, and was immediately tackled to the ground.

No no no, please!  It's only her first fight!  She can't be dead!  But from the awful noise and the force of that blow… there really weren't many alternatives.  "ERICA!" I screamed again.  These people came here to collect me.  They could care less about some other-world person like Erica getting in their way.  That woman smacked her out of the air as if she were nothing more than an annoying bug!  I thrashed out of someone's grip, blasting the group backwards with a shot of my gun.  On my hands and knees, I scrambled away from them to collect Erica and dodge back home.  Just let her be alive!

Before I could find her, I was dragged back to the group.  One of the 'giants' had grabbed my ankle.  He pinned my arm down so I couldn't shoot anything, and called the others over to subdue me.  I desperately tried everything I could think of.  Turning invisible helped some — they couldn't quite see where I was to hold me down — but it was pointless with the crowd of people encircling me.  Again and again I tried to lift my arm out of the person's grasp.  I just wasn't strong enough.  Deadpan faces surrounded me; my hands were forced behind my back.  One moment a man stood menacingly over me, weapon raised to strike, the next moment he'd gone slack.  A smiling red line oozed along his neck.

I watched in wide-eyed terror as the people around me fell to the ground.  Blurs of motion zig-zagged around them, followed by wide red gashes and deep bubbling stab wounds.  I sat up warily, watching the chaos unfold around me.  People fired randomly into the air while an inescapable weapon struck their chest and left them with two large gashes that punctured their lungs and heart.  I flinched slightly every time someone cried out in agony and stumbled to the earth, clutching their neck or chest.  One by one, angry red wounds appeared on each of the 'giants', and they began to topple over, gasping for air and coughing up reddened bile before collapsing.

The last few ran for it, and I shakily stood to watch them.  They held up their shields in desperate defense, but it was no use.  I could only stare numbly as they hit the ground.  It happened so fast I could've sworn they'd tripped and fell.  No, they weren't getting up.  Pools of blood seeped into the dirt beneath them, staining the grass a glossy dark red.  Within the span of five minutes, all twenty or so people were lying dead with their vital organs and veins shredded or stabbed through.

My legs buckled and gave out beneath me.  I closed my eyes tightly, breathing heavily as I tried to keep myself from shaking.  The deep breathing only made things worse, however; the strong smell of blood stung my nostrils.  Despite the fact that every one of those people wanted to hurt me and those I cared about, it was mortifying to see them all killed so violently in such quick succession.  

It seemed like I'd been in a trance forever, but in a few moments, I was woken.  "Alexis!"  Something too quick for my brain to comprehend raced through the air in front of me.  I yelped as its blurred form struck towards me, scrambling backwards instinctively.  My pulse thrummed in my neck — eyes widening in fear as I tumbled over the body of someone who’d died.  Blood oozed out of their chest and smeared across my back, sticking my shirt to my skin.

The weapon, which I only then processed was Erica, landed a few feet away, standing openly in the now corpse-littered field.  "...Alexis?"  It took me a moment to come to my senses.  Every time I tried to focus, my head spun dizzily.  When I finally got my emotions in check, I slowly crawled forward.  Erica’s sentiment from the night before dashed through my head — ‘I don't want you to look at me differently when you see me fighting tomorrow.’

When I was close enough to read her expression, my heartstrings tore apart.  Erica stared down at her reflection in the bloodstained blades she held limply at her sides.  Her face and body was spattered with droplets of crimson, and her mouth was open in silent shock, as though she didn't recognize the person staring back at her.  For a moment, I hadn’t either.

Slowly, she lifted her head to look up at me.  “It’s.. it’s not…”  Erica stammered on her words, glancing out over all the people she’d so ruthlessly killed, then back to my face.  My expression must’ve looked horrified.

"I'm not like you," she whispered, "I didn't have the privilege of a family that cares.  I never felt 'safe'.  At home or anywhere else."  I sat stunned, waiting patiently for her to continue.  Erica shuddered, holding up one of her bloody, sword-like weapons.  "If you call yourself a monster for killing people you didn't think were alive to begin with…"  She paused, fighting not to start crying in the middle of her sentence.  Struggling to hold back tears, she changed it again.

"This is why I didn't want you to see me fight.  I- I don't want you to see what kind of person I really am.  I've done so many things you don't know about…  Now you're scared of me!"  She cried out suddenly, gesturing to how I'd pulled away from her, "Alexis, please don't run!  I need you!  I promise I would never hurt you!"  Her voice tapered off into tears, and she fell to the ground, weapons disappearing into the crystal in her back.

Awful doesn't even begin to describe how I felt.  I hadn’t meant to back away from her, but I had to admit, her angered rampage was nothing short of terrifying.  "Erica, I'm right here," I reassured her gently, coming closer.  "You didn't scare me off.  I'm not going anywhere."  "But.. You- You don't even know me!" she sobbed, "I- I realized last night- you don't know who I am!  You don't kn-"  "Then tell me." 

Erica stared up at me from the ground.  She tried to stand, but her legs gave out — dropping her down to the grass below.  It was as if even her own body abandoned her.  I cautiously held out a few fingers for Erica to lean on, and she gripped them fiercely.

"If you're worried I might not want to stay with you, then let me know why.  If you truly believe I don't know you, could you tell me who you are?"  Erica tried to speak, but gritted her teeth tightly as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.  Shakily, she pulled herself into my hand and tucked her knees tightly against her chest.  I gently folded my fingers around her tucked-up form and brought her to a smaller area of rock away from the aftermath of her anger — somewhere where we could see eye to eye.

Erica slowly made her way onto the ledge beside me.  Once she managed to sit herself down, I put my hands around her in a light grasp to keep her still, delicately wiping the tears and blood from her face.  She quieted — breath hitching for a moment as she stared up at me wide-eyed while I did my work.

"There you are," I stated softly, swiping away the last splotches of red.  "It's alright, Erica.  Just take a deep breath; it's ok."  I waited as she took a few long inhales of the crisp air around us, letting out a shuddering sigh after calming down a bit.  She was silent for a while.  Erica sat soaking in the warmth and safety of my hands, eyes closed tightly.

"Are you really sure you want me to tell you?" she finally asked, peering uncertainly up at me.  Nodding, I sat back and let my arms rest beneath my chin as I settled down to listen.  "Go ahead, I won't say a word until you're done."  "Ok..."  Erica settled down too, keeping herself even with my height by sitting on the highest point on the rock.  It was a dangerous spot, but with her new weapon, she was practically immune to getting hurt from a fall.  Apparently that gave her immunity from being struck out of the air, too.

After clearing her throat a few times to stall as she thought, Erica finally ventured into her past.  "I guess I should start with my family…  Mama and my father were both really young when she had me.  I was, as my father always reminded me, an accident.  He never liked me much, and as I grew up, he really started to hate me.  I think he blamed me for everything he didn't like about his life.  Both my parents had hidden from their lives to hide the truth of my.. coming into the world.  We were always struggling for money, and almost every dollar was put towards me.  My mom loved me wholly, no matter what.  But my father only saw me as something that was dragging him down, wasting his time and his money.  No matter what the cause of his anger was, he would take it out on me.  Occasionally Mama, but mostly me.”  

“When I was young, it was just a lot of yelling; I learned not to let words affect me.  I got older, and his 'lectures' started taking less and less effect."  Erica stopped, glanced up at me, then turned away.  "The verbal abuse became physical abuse.  Mama didn't want to make him madder than he already was, so she never bothered to try and get him to stop.  I think she might have tried the first few times it happened, but then she started ending up at the end of his punches instead, so she left me to deal with it."

She gasped in a slight sob, looking to the sky as if asking someone above to help her speak.  After a brief pause, she continued.  "By 15 I was working two jobs in between school — one before and one after.  I told myself it was so I could afford the things I needed, because my parents refused to care about me or my problems, but I just wanted to stay out of the house.”

“For my 16th birthday, I bought myself a pocketknife.  Guys started to prowl after me on the streets.  I knew I needed some way to protect myself.  The first time I used it, it wasn't even on one of those creeps.  It was my father.  He'd lost his job while I was at school.  When I got home, Mama was lying on the ground and I could've sworn he'd killed her.  I tried to run, but he managed to pull me back inside with a hand over my mouth.  I thought he was going to kill me too; I thought he'd finally lost it.  So I stabbed him until he let me go, and ran."

Erica turned back to me now.  My mouth had dropped open in shock, and my hands had already inched forwards to hold her, but she wasn't done.  "I lived in various places for a few weeks.  Mostly an abandoned factory.  It became my new home until the cops found me.  They-  They tried to take me home.. but I thought they were lying.  I thought they were coming for me because I’d killed my father.  I was scared.  I…”  

Her arms drifted around herself as she began shaking.  “I lost it.  I attacked them and tried to run but they just cornered me and pinned me down.  M-My knife caught one of them in the face.  I ended up in jail that night, but eventually I was dragged back to my house where I found Mama wasn't actually dead, she was only unconscious when I saw her.  Unfortunately, neither was my father.  He left once I came back home.  He tried to hurt me one more time — for causing so much trouble with the cops — but I bought a better knife that same day I was brought back home after sneaking out that night.  I nearly did kill him, then.  He didn’t even realize he had it coming.  By then I was really getting sick of feeling scared."

"So he ran, and the day I turned 18, I left too.  Mama was barely around because of work, but she'd told me that she was sorry for everything after my father left.  That she regretted not doing something more to stop him.  We grew slightly closer, but I never forgave her for letting that happen to me.  The moment I could, I left and I never looked back.  That's my childhood," she ended coldly.

Erica purposefully kept her gaze off mine — the same kind of move I'd pull in school so the professor wouldn't call on me for an answer.  "That's..  I don't think there's a word for how horrible that is…” I said quietly.  Gently, I reached towards Erica, but she shifted away from my grasp.  “I’m not done.  There’s still John.”  “If you don’t want to, Erica, you don’t have to tell me anything else-”  "No, no, I'm getting to him," she sighed, wiping away tears.  "That's the part you really should know.  Because you're kinda involved in it."

Erica took a few more shaky breaths, and I moved my hand near her side to show her I was right with her.  She glanced back at me briefly, teary-eyed.  Shakily, Erica reached out and put a hand over my finger.

"So," she continued, "John.  Now that I was out of both home and school, I worked full time and got about five hours of sleep each day between jobs to cover my expenses since I was living entirely on my own.  Despite working constantly, I just couldn't scrounge up enough money to survive.  My problems were drowned away by shots of alcohol.  Another wonderful gift from my father: alcoholism.  I wasn't even old enough to drink, but it helped.  Kind of…  It helped me mentally.  Physically, it got me fired.  And broke.  I was at the club one night — thinking about possibly living out of my car — when I met John, my 'knight in shining armor'."  

Erica glared wrathfully at a rock nearby.  "I wasn't very drunk yet, but we hit it off.  Soon we were in his car slowly casting off layers of clothing until we had nothing left.  Like I said, I wasnt that drunk yet, so soon enough I came to my senses and ran off — scared that I’d lost control of myself like that.  I struggled trying to find a new job and still keep my secondary one, but it was like everything was caving in around me."

"Flash forward to a week and a half later.  I'm completely and utterly wasted in the same club, and John finds me.  I'm too far gone to really know what the hell I'm doing, and the next thing I know, he has me in a back room pinned naked beneath him."  Erica could probably see me tense up at that point, because she paused to glance knowingly at me.  "I only have snippets of what happened the rest of the night, but I met him for the first time completely sober a day later.  It was at the store I worked at.  I don't know how he figured out where I worked, but he also knew I needed money, badly.  I tried to slip out the back door, but he caught up to me and quickly threw out a deal: a paycheck triple what I made working both my jobs.  'All I had to do', he said, 'is earn it.'  I could have the financial security I desperately dreamed of, if I could just come by and.. well.. please him."

I pulled backwards off the rock, appalled.  "I know," Erica agreed, "I felt that way too, and at first I turned him down rather forcefully.  But in the end.. I- I needed that money.  I did what he asked, we went clubbing, got drunk, got laid, then did it all over again.  Same time next week.  Over months of this, he'd forced me into someone else.  He made me depend on him for.. everything.  John brainwashed me to abandon my more aggressive tactics.  He called it 'taming' me.  To cope, I convinced myself we were in some kind of twisted relationship."

"Months blurred together and all of it happened so often it became normal.  For both me, who should’ve ran long ago, and John, who was getting bored.  On one of my off days, I found him with someone else — another poor soul who'd been suckered into his schemes.  In my twisted fantasy, I saw that as cheating.  I dumped his ass in a blind rage, not realizing that I had no other way to make money."  Erica turned back to me and smiled ever so slightly as she gazed into my worried eyes.  "The night you found me was the same night I ‘dumped’ him.  You gave me all that cash because you knew I needed it.  But you never knew why I needed it."

"I- I just thought you'd, like, lost your job or something…" I stammered.  "I mean, technically I quit."  I stared at her, piecing together the jigsaw puzzle of what I'd known about her and what I hadn't.  "Well, at least now I know the truth."  "Not all of it," Erica amended, "Stuff happened during the four years you were gone."  I shuddered, “Oh god, Erica you really don’t have to-!”  “It’s ok.  I think…  I think I want to.  I want you to know.”

She waited as I settled back down.  "Once you left, I had about a year and a half of complete freedom before the invasion of giants.  I was devastated that you actually, permanently, left, but there wasn’t anything I could do; I had no way to reach you.”

“I had everything I needed thanks to the box of never–ending money, but then the giants arrived.  At first I thought you had brought them here — to- to get back at me somehow — but I never felt our connection.  My house, along with thousands of others, was destroyed.  Thankfully, I lived on that cliff.  I hid in the mountains for safety, but a lot of people weren't as lucky, and got abducted.  I waited for you.  I thought you might know something about it because it was your kind that was attacking.”

“After a day or two of hiding, I couldn't keep waiting.  I didn't have any food or water left.  There were plenty of abandoned cars in the wreckage of the neighborhood below, so I took one into the city to see if anyone was there.  I saw John and his gang when I drove in.  They hadn't spotted me, but.. I don't know.. the sight of any familiar face was enough to make me overjoyed.  His men almost shot me, I raced at them so quickly.  He held them back, though.  He said he'd take me in with open arms.  I didn't know what that entailed until it was too late."  Erica had to close her eyes for a moment.  Again I placed a few fingers by her side to reassure her that I was there, and nothing awful would happen.

"I- I was locked up when I got back to their base.  Things had taken an awful turn during the several days of uncontrolled apocalypse, and I learned about what was actually happening.  Each of the men that worked for John had taken girls off him in the years prior.  He'd lure them in, then convince them to go with someone else, and they were never seen again.  I'd been the lucky one.  I was John's 'little girl'.  God, I hated it when they called me that.”

“The young woman I saw him 'cheating' with was another mark.  She was there, too.  There were eight of us, including me.  The gang members did with us what they pleased.  Sometimes we were even traded off for the night.  I got special treatment, though, because I was with John.  I stayed in his room and got the same privileges he had, minus my freedom.”

“One by one, the others started dying off.  Starvation and dehydration took half of them.  It’s the apocalypse; there wasn't much food to go around, and they were already being fed last.  One of them escaped.  I really don't know how she managed that.  The other two committed suicide.  I also don't know how they managed that either.  The men were really strict about not letting either of those things happen.  We were drugged a lot of the time so we couldn't escape or die.  But just like the food, the drugs started running out, and they made their move.  A few months before you showed up, I became the sole survivor.  I tried to escape like that one woman did.  I think her name was Marley, but we rarely got called by our actual names.  They usually had a plethora of pet names for us."

"Anyway.. I tried escaping, but I got caught.  The punishment for escape is torture.  Not death, oh no, we were too valuable to be expendable."  An icy, sarcastic tone crossed through her voice, and I shivered.  "John didn't want them to punish me.  He knew the rest of the men were jealous that I was still there.  If he let them punish me, I wouldn't make it out alive.  John devised a plan; he would make a spectacle of torturing me himself.”

“At that point, I was desperately fighting for my freedom.  I'd been so close to escaping.  I didn't stick to the plan, as I'm fairly sure you saw.  I attacked him when he tried to hurt me, and the moment I did, the other men were absolutely going to kill me for it.  You stepped in before they could do anything — murdering everyone I'd daydreamed about murdering myself in one fell swoop.  I was back on drugs because they didn't want me escaping while I was being ‘punished’, so I wasn't even sure if what I saw was real.  When I woke up back at my destroyed house I hadn't seen in years, I thought I was dreaming.  Then I saw you."  Erica slid off her perch at the edge of the rock and came a bit closer, running a hand down mine as she walked.

"You were older, and you were really pretty.  If I'd seen you on the street under more normal circumstances, I'd have been tempted to make a move."  "But.." I interrupted, "Sorry, it's just…  Weren't you.. you know, into.. guys?"  Erica chuckled slightly, shaking her head.  "What part of my story made you believe that?  The part where a guy payed me to fuck him, or the part where a group of guys kidnapped me and chained me up to do that?"  

I flinched, "I- I just thought.. because of the time you and John.. the first night.. in the car…"  My voice faltered as I tried, and failed, to get my point across.  "Alexis, I never liked guys.  The only times I did were when I was drunk, drugged, or forced to feel that way."  She stepped up to me and took my pointer finger into her hands — hugging it to her chest.  "That's my story," she finished, "You were there for the rest, so now you know my whole life, basically, from start to right now."  I sat there for ages, processing the last of the puzzle pieces.  All the mysterious gaps that hindered my view of her suddenly filled in.  "H- How do you feel?" Erica asked me.  "That…  Explains a lot," I noted.  Sitting back to take everything in.

“See?” she asked me quietly, “I’m an awful person, aren’t I?”  I whipped around to face her in such sudden shock she bolted upright.  “No!  No, you aren’t!  Not at all!  Erica, you are none the worse in my eyes than you were yesterday, or the day before.  If anything, you've gotten better because I finally understand.  You have every right to be as angry and dangerous as you are.”

Erica stared at me for a long time.  I could feel her gaze boring into me as she searched over my expression.  It was silent for a long moment, broken by Erica's voice, softened with uncharacteristic hesitation. "Can you hold me?"  My eyes widened in soft surprise.  Erica stood on the rocks beside me, having just confessed the entirety of the horrible details of her life.  She craned her neck almost all the way back to look at me — tears glistening in her eyes.  "Please?"

"I-  Yes, of course," I nodded, knowing it must've been awfully hard for her to tell me everything.  I suspected something strange was going on since the day I returned — sooner than that, actually — but I never would've guessed anything as wild or as horrible as what she'd confessed.

Erica gasped a quiet whimper as I carefully laced my fingers over her body, bringing her to the edge of the rocks.  Shifting forward, I placed a delicate kiss on her neck and jaw.  She sobbed softly, pressing desperate kisses against my lips over and over again through quiet tears.  I could taste the salt of them against my lips.  “Shhh,” I whispered softly, reaching up to stroke her head.  “You’re ok; it’s all ok, Erica.  I’ve got you.  You’re safe.”  “Do y-  Do you still t-trust me?”  Again, I kissed her — lowering myself to press my lips to her stomach and letting her head rest against me.  “Of course I still trust you.”

Carefully curling my fingers around Erica's torso, I paused to let her raise her arms just slightly so they wouldn't be pinned to her sides.  My heart skipped a beat as I tightened my grip, lifting her off the ground.  I always knew she was small, but holding her this way, I became incredibly aware of how fragile she was.  It had always been at the forefront of my mind whenever we got close.  I’d gotten used to it, but now it was suddenly as if I were holding her for the first time.  At any moment, I could easily hurt her, and that scared me.  Any accidental movement I made could bruise her perfect hazel skin, or even worse, snap the tiny bones in her little body.  

Each of my fingers twitched slightly; stuck battling between tightening my grip so Erica wouldn't fall, or loosening it so she wouldn't be crushed.  Once I decided on an even mixture of the two, I couldn't help but lightly gasp in awe.  I could feel Erica’s miniscule heartbeat pounding away beneath my thumb.  Her lungs expanded just slightly, pressing into the pads of my fingers every time she drew another breath.

With her lifted to my face, I realized Erica seemed to be just as fascinated as I was.  She hung in my grasp, legs dangling below my palm, with her hands placed gently on my thumb in front of her.  I could see her expression shifting slightly in a myriad of ways, staring wide-eyed at the massive digit before her.  As if on its own, my other hand reached for her — flattening out beneath her so she wouldn’t be hanging in the air.  Erica's tiny heartbeat skittered beneath the pad of my thumb while she eased herself into my palm.  

Only after I was certain she’d sat down did I gently release her.  However, Before I could move my hand away, Erica reached out and grabbed it — watching, transfixed, as her whole hand fit nicely onto the pad of my single finger.  With one of her own miniscule digits, she lightly traced the outline of my fingerprint and I fought the instinctive urge to shudder at her feather-light touch.  

Finally, she locked eyes with me.  Erica's loving expression shifted to a muted worry.  "You're just.. so much," she whispered, "And I love it, I really do.  It's just..  Sometimes I wonder why you'd love someone like me."  Erica's gaze flitted away, "Wouldn't you be happier with someone who doesn't fit in the palm of your hand?  Someone who isn't.. three and a half inches tall?"  I smiled slightly at the irony of the situation.  Up until the day Erica kissed me the first time, I'd been asking myself similar questions: Why would she care about someone like me?  Wouldn't she be happier with someone her own size?  It was so obvious now.

I placed my thumb lightly over her hand, still grasping the pad of my pointer finger.  "Erica," I began earnestly, "You mean more to me than everyone from every world.  I would tear down mountains for you — you know I have.  The four years I lived without you were painstakingly, agonizingly, awful.  As long as I searched and as hard as I tried to forget, nothing ever quite filled the hole you left in me."  

I smiled sadly, remembering the endless days filled with yearning as I desperately tried to forget what happened — how I convinced myself it was all some elaborate fantasy just to force myself away.  I was miserable, confused.  I hadn't understood why it hurt so badly to lose her trust.  Multiple failed relationships only further proved what I hadn't recognized.  

"How could I ever be with someone like myself if the love of my life is literally sitting in the palm of my hand?"  Erica blushed furiously, smiling that wonderful smile I'd fallen for, long before I'd realized I'd fallen for her.  "You're beautiful, strong," I continued, "You haven’t given up on me even when I gave up on me.  I love you Erica.  No matter how unlovable you tell yourself you are, I will always love you.  Never doubt that."  

Erica's eyes watered, her gaze one again fixed on mine.  I gently slid her hand out from my fingers and cautiously brushed the pad of my pointer finger across her cheek, swiping away the tears that coasted silently down their plush surface.  Just above the digit, I could see the jagged line of Erica’s scar — a little mark against her that would likely always serve as a reminder of her past.  I just hoped she could see it as I did: the reason I’d stayed to protect her; the reason I stayed long enough to love her.

I curled my fingers around Erica in a smaller version of a hug — bringing her against me.  Her subtle smile brightened as she leaned against my chest, rubbing the rest of the tears from her eyes off against my shirt.  "Thank you," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.  "I just can't quite get over how lucky I am to have you, Alexis. You mean everything to me.  I honestly don't know where I'd be without you."

My smile stretched to a grin as I stared lovingly down at Erica's tiny form cupped in my hand.  "One day," I stated with unquestionable certainty.  "One day I'll find a way to make myself your size, I promise.  We can live together here, once everything’s over."  She looked up at me, hope gleaming in her glassy green eyes.  "Can you do that?  Can I have you at my own height instead of.. me at yours?"  My hand subconsciously rose to my gemstone weapon, tucked into the back of my neck.  "I've tried many, many times."  I surprised myself at how tired my voice sounded in that last sentence.  I wasn't exactly desperate to find a solution — most of my attempts had happened years ago when we were only friends — but I longed for one.  "So far nothing's worked, but I'll keep trying.  There has to be a way."

"Don't beat yourself up over it," Erica reassured me, "I still love you regardless.  After all, this is what I fell in love with," she added with a smile, gesturing at my height.  I chuckled lightly, but the longing was still there nonetheless.  It certainly wasn't as painful as the years I'd left — she was right there with me.  However, I so badly wanted us, together, the same size.  I wanted to sit by her side, both of us leaning lovingly against one another.  I wanted all the small, intimate things everyone but us could do.  I yearned for the day when Erica could hold me for a change.

I leaned back on the rock Erica had been sitting on.  The frightening scatter of corpses again filled my vision.  "Thank you for saving me, Erica."  I gestured to the pile of soldiers that had been surrounding me earlier.  "I don't want to hurt any more people, but I think I might have to."  She sighed, looking solemnly at her massacre.  "I don't want you to do this either," she confessed, "I feel like such a horrible influence, or a hypocrite."  Erica chuckled half-heartedly, "I've tried to get you to stop hurting my people, only to turn around and kill a bunch of yours."  I grumbled slightly, "Everyone needs to quit calling them 'my people'.  They aren't anything like me; they're not even from my world!  They just happen to be my size."  

A tiny hand patted one of my fingers to calm me.  "Ok, I'm sorry.  Look, if we can just use this fight to scare the rest of the giants away, everything will go back to being kinda normal, right?"  I shrugged, jostling Erica slightly in my cupped hands.  "I have no idea.  If I were them, I'd just move to another area that I know isn't protected by a rogue superpowered person and her tiny killing machine."

At this, Erica laughed nervously.  "Was I really that scary?"  "Well.." I stammered, "Yeah, but it was also pretty badass."  Her laugh grew more genuine before abruptly cutting off with a cry of pain.  My fingers retracted in an instant, and I brought her worriedly to my face.  Erica flinched confusedly, and glanced downward at her side.  Hesitantly, she pulled up her shirt slightly so she could look at herself.  The skin on her left side bloomed with gigantic purple bruises that stretched across her whole body.  "Erica!" I gasped in concern, "That was where I got hit by that gun," she realized quietly.  

"Erica, we need to get you to a hospital right now!  I heard bones crack when that woman hit you!  I- I thought you'd died!"  Immediately, I was on my feet.  Stepping over the bodies of fallen soldiers, I hurried back towards the Cavern Town as quickly as I dared.  "No, it's.. I'm fine!"  However, the moment she spoke, she started coughing violently.  Minuscule red droplets spattered my palm.

Back within the valley, I found a few people waiting just inside the barrier.  Isabel and Marcus were there, as well as Ivan and a few others I didn't recognize.  I rushed over to them and knelt in a hurry.  "Erica's hurt!" I called, "She got hit badly during the fight!  I think something's broken, but I don't know…"  Ivan dashed off down the tunnel, yelling for help, while Marcus glanced fearfully past me.  "What about the giants?  Are they coming, or did you fight them off?"

At first, I was furious that Marcus had ignored Erica's desperate situation, but I soon realized that a hoard of angry giants was something you'd want to be warned about sooner rather than later.  I shook my head, "Erica got rid of them.  No one's following me here; you're all safe."  He gave a sigh of relief just as Ivan returned with a few people and a stretcher in tow.  I held out my hand with Erica in it.  She was still conscious, but had doubled over in pain — face contorted in agony.  All I could do was watch in silent fear as they took her away into the depths of the city.

Marcus tried to ask me more questions, but Isabel dragged him off, scolding him about being more considerate.  I sat devastated, unsure what to do.  I wanted to be with Erica for whatever happened, but I couldn't get inside the city at my height.  

The only person still there, Ivan, glanced back and forth between the other end of the tunnel and mine — torn between following her or staying to calm me down. He stepped hesitantly out of the barrier and put his hand over mine.  "She'll be fine," he reassured me, "The doctors here know what they're doing.  They've dealt with injuries way worse than hers."  "Since when have they ever dealt with battle wounds?" I spat, a bit harsher than I meant to.  Ivan pulled his hand back, but stayed where he was.  "They haven't dealt with battle wounds," he replied calmly, "I said they've dealt with worse.  They’ve had to save people pulled from the wreckage the giants leave in their wake — half-dead people that fall from the giant's grasp and then get left behind.”

My anger sobered slightly at Ivan's descriptions.  Admittedly, they did sound a lot worse than Erica.  I took a shaking breath and stared longingly at the faint glimpse of the Cavern Town, now Cavern City, beneath my protective shield.  There were so many more people now that the other town I’d saved had moved in as well.  "Do you mind staying here with me?" I asked Ivan, "You don't have to, but-"  "Of course." We sat outside for a while.  I got up to get the food box so I could eat, then came right back.  I didn’t even end up eating anything. In the middle of all this, I started tearing up.  Intrusive thoughts bombarded my brain with images of Erica on her deathbed, and I was unable to be there to comfort her.  Again, Ivan stepped up to my hand, but his tiny finger hug wasn't enough to console me.  I shifted away from him and hugged my legs tightly against myself, fighting desperately not to start bawling so that the whole place could hear me. 

Eventually, the sun started to set and I grew even more anxious.  "I need to go see if I can find out anything about Erica," Ivan told me gently, "I'll be back in a little bit, alright?"  I nodded numbly and he left, leaving me alone in the valley as the sky grew darker and darker.  The sun sunk beneath the horizon, taking the light along with it.

[0tumble-r-weed0]

I crave the sweet crunch of a plastic see-through biro pen and the luscious bitter innards beneath the seductive crystalline shell of the forbidden Twinkie.

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Small molecule organic eutectics show potential for replacing plastics

Plastics have long been a mainstay in modern manufacturing, but their environmental impact has increased demand for eco-friendly alternatives. Researchers at The University of Warwick have made significant progress in the search for sustainable alternatives to conventional plastics. In response to growing environmental concerns, the move towards a circular economy and changing consumer preferences, the research team has identified that certain mixtures of small organic molecules—materials created by mixing crystalline components—form interesting glasses and viscous liquids. These so-called organic eutectics are promising candidates for replacing polymers in various products.

Read more.

[fuckzachariah]

xiii. the world is ours

Zach was completely, to the bone, fucking sober. Except, that’s not what he felt like. He craved relief as much as he felt high out of his fucking mind; every vessel jittered, thrummed uncomfortably, his heart thumping and swelling to ten times it’s size, his pupils blown wide, the inside of his cheeks torn to shreds. He sat, knee bouncing, atop a rehearsal amp. The last month of rehearsals and album promotion had been constant, exhausting him before the most exhausting part - but he had asked for it, and this part had once been the only love he still clung to in his career. Everything else failed him, but the tours never did. Real, honest, unequivocal love, where he previously had had none. A love that wedged an iron pillar where a spine was meant to have grown. A love that was as unwavering as family is meant to be. They was his family, once; the screaming, the crying, the fainting, the hands grasping for him as though in need of a lifeline. As though trusting him to be that lifeline. But he saw it, felt it, through a crystalline lens; white powder for blood, dopamine for adrenaline.

He supposed he had a family now, slapdash and accidental as they were, and he loved them with intention and violence. He chose them, and they chose him back. It was something. It was something where he once had nothing. Across the room, Ryan, Alex and Eden stood chatting animatedly among others. He had peeled away from them for a moment alone, under the guise of running the show over in his head one last time, except now he was actually tempted to do so, because any and all other thoughts had rapidly grown too overwhelming. He shook them off, his whole body juddering, and swallowed a mouthful of bottled water. He pretended his hand crushing the plastic to half its size was regular practice. He snatched his old acoustic guitar from the corner and went over the picking patterns for the slower songs. He could do it with his eyes closed, do it half-unconscious. Embedded in him like DNA. Right as he was about to go out back for some air, Isaaq Lone shouldered through the double doors and stumbled back upon finding Zach too close for comfort. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he hurried. Zach had barely spent five minutes with Isaaq since Amanda convinced him to allow him to open the show for the entirety of the North American tour. He was her only other client, a new label-mate on the come up. Apparently a ‘very promising talent’. Zach could be friendly. But, most of the time, he wasn’t. “Uh-huh.”

He pushed against the door, even more eager to leave now than he had been, the door flapping around Isaaq’s, “Looking forward to the show, man!” On his way to the back staff exit, he tugged on the low-scoop neck of his black tank top as though it were suffocating him, flashing an inked, heaving chest to catch the reflection of the overhead lights, head bowed to passersby. A lithe, strong hand firmed on his bicep, only spanning half-way around. He looked up. “Oh, hey,” he greeted absently. “Where do you think you’re going?” Amanda chirped, bright in comparison to her tetchy word choice. Somewhere muffled in the distance, cheers and Isaaq’s crooning tone sweltered. Zach gestured vaguely to the door. “Air.” Amanda shook her head, a strained smile on her face. “Nope.” She began walking and tried to urge him with her using her grip on him. He didn’t budge, until she shot him a sharp look, and he sighed and went with her. “I’m fine,” he insisted, though she had not yet accused him of the thing he was convinced she was in her mind. “Nope!” she repeated in the exact same tone, if slightly more impatient. He grumbled, irritation snowballing in him. Maybe he’d been wrong to have once craved a mother. This fucking sucked, and his own was beginning to confuse him. He’d told no one she was on the guest list tonight, aside from those in control of the guest list. Another reason for his hummingbird heart. 

The dressing room was abandoned, given everyone gracing the stage later was already ready, and so she only let him go once they were safely inside. "Tell me what it is. Outside of standard pre-show nerves.” Zach folded his arms and leaned against a vanity, eyeing her warily. “I don’t get pre-show nerves,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. Or at least, for about seven years, it hadn’t been a lie. “Even more reason for concern, then,” she challenged in return, folding her arms, too. But she stepped up to him. He rolled his eyes. She could not waterboard him to confess all the things on his mind. Before she could rattle a reaction out of him, a meek man with a clipboard poked his head around the door. “Mr Winthrop, hi.” Zach straightened and said nothing. “What is this?” Amanda cut in. He looked down at the clipboard, then tentatively back up again. “A woman on the guestlist is asking to come back stage. Laurie-” Zach interrupted, knee-jerk, fast as blinking. His mother flashed behind his eyes. “No.” His heart yammered painfully. Jesus. Not what he fucking needed. A flare rose up in him. No, no, no. He glanced wildly at Amanda. “No,” he reiterated, pointing a finger at her and moving quickly as though to leave. “You��re on in twenty-six minutes, Zach!” The door slammed behind him. He would find Alex. It would be fine.

[dailycharacteroption]

Ioun Kineticist (Kineticist Archetype)

(art (presumed) by Yoshitaka Hatakeyama for Mega Man 9)

Anyone remember that scene where Magneto busted himself out of a plastic prison in X2: X-Men United with a trio of iron spheres? Because that scene lives rent-free in my head.

Perhaps one of the classic sub-tropes of telekinetic powers is the character that carries around a handful of special objects that they like to move around almost exclusively? These objects typically orbit the character when in use and simultaneously serve as a form of defense, but also can be launched out as projectiles before being pulled back into orbit. Well, that’s more or less what we’re dealing with today, but it gets a bit more interesting since the object in question is the classic orbiting magic item, the ioun stone! (or, well, Aeon stone now if we’re going with the updated lore of Starfinder and Pathfinder 2E).

Ioun/Aeon stones were, in the Lost Omens setting, an invention of the Azlanti, who discovered all sorts of wondrous uses for these magically-charged gemstones, which could provide passive powers, but also more advanced resonant powers as well if plugged into the right device, to say nothing of how they tend to power all sorts of strange wonders.

It only makes sense that there would be those that wish to study them deeply, and in the case of those with telekinetic powers, utilize them in their arts. Simply put, these kineticists learn how to unlock the true power of these stones while also using them as weapons and defense.

It's a pity we probably won't see any version of this archetype return since the 2e version of the kineticist lacks the aether element.

As suggested, these kineticists by necessity are linked to the element of aether. However, their focus on manipulating ioun stones means that they lack some of the more force-based talent choices, instead focusing on more crystalline components, allowing them to spin their stones in a deadly whirlwind, gather them up into an explosive ball projectile, grow jagged crystals from their bodies, or even infuse their stone with properties to pierce the resistances of certain foes.

They also start with a trio of dull gray stones bonded to them. Able to do little more than hover around their owner, these stone nevertheless make good projectiles. However, these mystics can replace these dull gray stones with functional stone by bonding with them, and eventually have more than three stones bonded in this way, though they still can have more non-bonded stones orbiting them and providing benefits.

Their basic kinesis allows them to stow or retrieve their stones from storage en masse with ease, as well as channel their arcane power to enact simple magical effects.

Rather than build up a buffer in their own body, these kineticists instead store the reserved energy within their stones and spend it when needed. However, they can also choose to sacrifice the stone invested with their energy to gain even more fuel for their more powerful talents at the cost of burning out the stone, rendering it an inert dull gray stone. The more valuable the stone, the greater the energy.

As they accept burn, these kineticists also begin to resonate with their stones rather than grow in personal power. The greater the burn, the more of the resonant abilities of their stones they can activate and draw upon at once. What’s more, for stone that normally provide a bolstering to body and mind, they can forgo the normal resonant ability in favor of getting a bigger boost from them, though only one at once.

Finally, it’s worth noting that these kineticists do not learn to strike foes with pure force when they learn deeper secrets of the Aether. Instead, they learn the “Azlanti” composite blast, an improved version of their telekinetic blast that draws upon the power and knowledge of the Azlanti civilization to increase the speed and power of their projectile stones.

With the nature of this archetype, it’s clear that it is meant to be supplemented with most of your character’s wealth being focused on buying more ioun stones. The tricky part about that being that ioun stones are always more expensive than most items that provide a similar bonus since they don’t have an item slot or upper limit on the number of stone you can have orbiting you (though obviously many have effects that don’t stack or provide additional benefit. Also consider what stones you want to be bonded with, since that will determine what resonant powers you have access to later in the day. As for the build itself, I recommend one focused on equal parts blasting offense and defense.

While the ioun/aeon stones are heavily connected to their creators, the Azlanti in Pathfinder’s core setting, in other settings the lore may be very different, but no less worthy of exploration. Perhaps the stones are naturally occurring but need to be “crafted” to bring out their magic, or they might be magic crystallized in specific processes. No matter their origins, however, researching these stones can prove a good basis for any hero, and make for a kineticist that is much more intellectual about their powers even as they continue to channel them through their body.

The party is chasing the villain downriver, but it feels like they’re not making any progress, that is until they are met by a taniwha, a magical serpent that tastes magic. The poor creature is wary due to its injuries, but it did bite the man who wounded it, the man surrounded by floating stone, their quarry.

They say that the mountain of Pojun is riddled with caves that are filled with the God’s Blood crystals from which aeon stones can be made, but the surrounding jungle prevents it’s exploitation by those who would mine them, and the grippli guardians who wield the stones in a glittering whirlwind of death prevent the jungle from being harmed.

It is said that the wizard Ioun invented his namesake stones, but he was inspired by a magical crystal found in some cavern lost to time. This gem, the True Heartstone, was said to grant great power to the one who proved worthy of wielding it. Many who study the stones consider it a myth, but the dream of finding it lives on.