#i always hear him call my cats it and i always correct him and he doesnt do it and then my mom gets on HIS side instead of mine

[disneyprincemuke]

everybody talks too much

alternatively: logan accidentally forgets his relationship is meant to be a secret

(series masterlist)

"so the people want to know," the host pauses with a small grin. "why are you always carrying (y/n)'s stuff on a race weekend? it's been brought to my attention that it happens every weekend without fail."

a picture flashes on the screen, one of them entering the paddocks where he's got two bags over his shoulder. one that's visibly his with the fluorescent yellow, and another with a big black cat keychain hanging off of it.

another is presented: the race is over and he's got his helmet hanging on the tips of his fingers from the strap, and then he's got her helmet in his arms.

"well, it's just something we've done since we started our junior career, actually" logan shrugs, smiling at the memory. the conversation had gone simply when they were friends: carry her things to look like a gentleman.

the concept did actually work before they got together, girls gawking at his generosity and very gentlemanly behaviour. and it sort of just carried into their normalcy after they got together. it's also his subtle way of being able to play the part of her boyfriend to the public without giving too much away.

"and you know, she's my girlfriend, so i've kinda got to-" logan stops himself as he processes what he said in his head. he laughs sheepishly, a hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck.

the host stares at him, wide-eyed with a knowing grin. "i mean, my best friend," he corrects himself with a knowing point at her. "for like, a really long time. it's really just routine for us. i think before we got a lot closer, oscar was the one doing it for her a lot."

and thankfully for him, the host continues on with another question. and he just knows he won't hear the end of this from his pr manager, and his girlfriend would never let him live it down.

logan sighs tiredly, closing his mouth. across the table, oscar throws his head back roaring in laughter as he clutches his stomach. "it's not funny!"

"it's so funny," oscar wipes away a tear that's formed in his eye. "you called her your girlfriend in front of - what - hundreds of people?"

beside him, lily sighs tiredly and shakes her head. "i'm sure it was very nervewracking when you slip up like that."

"it was," logan sighs. he rolls his eyes and shakes his head at his earlier predicament. "i'm so lucky that the host literally just moved on without saying anything. but i know just from her smile that she knows i'm lying."

"mate, even alex can tell you're lying!" oscar bursts, holding his head in one hand with the other clutching his chest. "you've got to brush up on your lying skills. you guys will get caught before the season is over if you keep this up."

"keep what up?" she approaches the table, pulling the empty seat out next to logan. they all stare at her, logan just dropping his head in shame. he thought she'd have known by now what happened because it's all alex and george could talk about when he saw them.

lily shifts in her seat uncomfortably. "you don't know?"

"is there something i should know?" she laughs nervously, looking at lily and oscar. then she turns to logan, who's been strangely quiet. with his silence and avoiding her gaze, her smile drops and she slumps her shoulders. "did you do something? ba- logan, i swear if you dropped another one of my makeup palettes... i don't know what i'll do to you."

"i accidentally called you my girlfriend on stage," logan mutters, folding his arms over his chest. "i got too comfortable."

a small smile stretches her lips. she turns away from logan before resting her wrist on his shoulder. "i know."

"you know?" oscar's jaw drops. "and you're not mad?"

"it was getting a bit boring, anyway," she shrugs, picking up the menu that's laid flat on the table. "also, max approached me and told me what happened. and then he asked me, and then carlos came and asked me... and then alex and george..."

"you're seriously not mad?" logan frowns, peeking up at her slightly to meet her eyes. "i'm sorry. i know you don't want anyone finding out - it's honestly hard enough for you. you don't need problems like this making you feel worse."

"no," she laughs, squeezing his shoulder. "i think it's funny watching everyone put up a whiteboard with red yarn trying to connect the dots to debunk our relationship status."

she turns to logan and shakes him. "seriously, baby? don't worry about it."

logan sighs. "okay, if you say so."

"this conversation didn't go the way i'd hoped," oscar frowns, picking up his menu aggressively. "i wanted to watch you guys fight."

"you're such a good friend, oscar."

kidy/n

liked by sebastianvettel, oscarpiastri and 64,307 others

kidy/n guys don’t worry he’s still single and he’s been reprimanded for calling me his girlfriend 🙏🏼 (we made him pay me 20 dollars)

view 2,975 comments…

user1 my entire world has been shattered

user2 like exactly wdym it was just a mistake calling her his gf??

user3 no no theyre together in my head

liamlawson30 hey why am i there

kidy/n u were in the frame 🤷🏼‍♀️

liamlawson30 wow people dont even ask for consent anymore

kidy/n ok sry

logansargeant my sincerest apologies, i keep forgetting youre a single girlboss 🙏🏼

kidy/n apology accepted (i want 20 dollars more)

user4 NOOOOOOO TAKE THAT BACK

user5 LOGAN FIGHT BACK

user6 oh thank god

user7 k hater who asked u

oscarpiastri was funny watching logan get scolded

user8 leak the footage

oscarpiastri she took my phone away before so no video evidence ☹️

user9 Y/N U HATER

kidy/n it was necessary, he leaks too much 😀

user10 and here we thought logan was hard launching

user11 istg it it ever comes out theyre dating, im harassing her with this moment

kidy/n u wont ever catch me 🏃🏽‍♀️🏃🏽‍♀️

user11 y/n pls just date logan 🙏🏼

[hanjsquokka]

lee know × fem!reader , fluff , angst , comfort , non-sexual nudity , 0.7K words

this is all over the place but i wrote this when i was feeling down and it just screamed minho for me. also i recommended listening to those eyes by new west. i immediately thought of minho when i heard that. maybe i might write a fic based on it, but for now have this comfy drabble <3

sometimes, it felt like the world was out to get you. like it was just showing you reasons for why you weren't supposed to be there. maybe to other people, a simple act of mistakenly ignoring a hello was nothing. but when a cascade of tiny things happened like this, it was enough to put a dent in your armor.

maybe you were overreacting when minho didn't kiss you goodbye that morning like he always did. but you couldn't help but let your thoughts spiral into chaos. was he mad at you for something? you racked your brain but you couldn't come up with a single incident that could've caused him to get upset.

his cats sprung off of you when you tried to put them in your lap.

why was the whole world against you?

the coffee shop you went to gave you the completely wrong drink and you were too disheartened to correct it.

work was tedious and by the time you came home, you felt so beaten down, so through with everything, you didn't even notice your boyfriend in the living room, idly scrolling through his phone. his call for you went through one ear and came out the other.

you went for the bathroom and turned the tap on, entering the pool of warm water after taking off your clothes. knees pulled to your chest, you hoped the running water would drown out your sobs.

unfortunately, minho had the ears of a cat — maybe he picked it up after having his three cats for so long. he hesitated in front of the door, hearing your sobs made his heart break. was there something he missed? he nudged the wood open, stepping inside slowly and once again calling your name out.

“hey…” he crossed over to the bathtub and sat on the edge, “what's wrong?” he placed a hand over your head, stroking the damp hair.

you sniffled and paused your sobs long enough to speak. “do you hate me?”

he froze. he was baffled. shocked. “of course not… why would you think that?”

your ears turned red, he could see that much as you hid your face in your knees. you mumbled something but he could only hear incoherent babbles. “you didn't leave in the morning like you usually do.”

he was confused. his mind rewinded to that morning. chan had texted to come early for practice, so he rushed and —

a light bulb went off in his head, followed by a teasing smile. “ah, i forgot to kiss you goodbye?” your flushed face only gave it away. he chuckled, stepping into the tub with his clothes, not caring if they got wet. to your weak protest, he only said, “i've seen you like this plenty of times. there's nothing more to hide,” to which you whined. sitting in front of you, he uncovered your face and cupped your jaw. a smile was plastered over his face. a rare, beautiful smile that made his big eyes sparkle. a look he knew you'd never be able to deny. “let me make up for that.” he pressed a sweet kiss to your lips, relishing the taste of you for a few moments before pulling away. “now tell me what's wrong princess.”

an hour later, the two of you were tangled together in bed, the cats snuggled into the blankets. he stroked your hair, singing softly, arms wrapped around you protectively as if he was shielding you from the harsh world that was previously kicking you to the ground again and again.

“when you feel like the whole world is against you, remember that you have me, okay?” he said quietly, when he thought you were asleep, nestled into his side under the warm blankets when you were very much awake. those words were enough to soothe your wounds, a calming balm to all your aches. you didn't reply, letting silence fill the room until he began to sing softly again.

©hanjsquokka | copying, translating or republishing my work is strictly prohibited

[luveline]

For the Eddie/Roan/reader series have you written the first time Eddie and reader say I love you to each other? And if not could we get a little blurb for it? Like maybe Roan says it to reader first and Eddie is all like damn, I think I love her too and is just all heart eyes 😍🥰 please and thank you! This series it literally my fav 💕

thank you for your request beautiful ♡ eddie and roan—the munsons tell you they love you for the first time. fem!reader

Eddie's wearing the brand new pair of jeans you got him and feeling like a kid at Christmas. Seriously, this has to be the fucking life. Beautiful daughter, great Uncle, a home he's proud of and a job he doesn't mind, and now he has you, and you like him enough to bring him presents. What the fuck. 

They were on sale, you'd said easily, dropping them in his lap with a kiss hello on the cheek. He'd been reading on the porch, didn't hear you coming until you were already there. Where's Roan? I got her a nightie, is that okay? 

Said nightie flares pink around Roan's knees as you twirl her. She's standing on the green play table, every rapid footstep wobbling the hollow plastic. In each flash of her face before she turns away, Eddie sees himself —same sugary brown eyes, same smile. You're laughing, the nervous, overjoyed kind, 'cos you both know you shouldn't be doing it but you're not the one who has to say no to her. (Not that Eddie does it as often as he maybe should.) 

The jeans you got him are surprisingly soft. They're straight cut and need a little adjusting, but beside that they're perfect. Eddie really, really likes being thought of, trying to squeeze a thank you in between girly giggles. 

"This is super dangerous!" you warn Roan, drawing circles over her head with your joined hands.

"This is super fun!" Roan corrects, squealing as you speed up.

One too many spins has her losing her footing, but you'd been expecting it, and you catch her without any fuss. "Woah!" she yelps.

"Woah, I got you," you say, pep unfailing. You're getting better at carrying her, pulling her up your side to rest on your hip.

Roan giggles but otherwise goes quiet, not talking, only laughing as she looks up into your welcoming face. You cushion her legs on your arm so she doesn't fall, your smile turning puzzled. "You okay?" you ask, giving her a bounce like she's much younger than she is, a baby in need of comfort. 

"I love you," Roan declares, planting a kiss on your cheek. 

"I love you, too," you say without hesitation. Your gaze flickers to Eddie's, but it's not long enough for him to gauge any one emotion. 

Roan hums like this has answered a question and puts her arms down on your chest, not quite hugging you, not not hugging you. Your fingers spread over the small breadth of her back. You steal a moment, pressing the fat of your cheek to the top of her head. "Princess," you murmur, "that's so nice. Thank you for telling me. I knew you loved me because you're always showing it, aren't you?" 

"I am?" Roan asks. 

"I think so." Your smile turns bright, the parentese tone you've been learning like sugar on your lips as you say, "Ooh, I love you so much, beautiful girl! Let's have some cookies to celebrate." Your smile lands on Eddie. "Can we?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, of course you can."

You put Roan down. Eddie's lovely daughter immediately takes your hand and together you walk to the kitchen, little steps. Eddie stands there thinking to himself for a few seconds, new jeans and your big heart, a thousand things.

"Hey!" he calls, rushing into the kitchen after you. "Wait a second, Y/N."

You stare at him with wide eyes, hand stopped where it's extended to the kitty cat cookie jar. "Don't tell me there's, like, a fake spider waiting to jump out at me. I can't take it again, Eds, my heart will explode like that freaky movie." 

"I love you," he says. Smiling big, not particularly afraid to say it. He's known for a while, but Roan saying it so easily reminded him. He should let you know. 

You don't react with any subtlety. Roan's confession was easy, water off of a duck's back, you said it back fast. Now, you're still. Your funny smile is in a pouting frown, your eyes soft with emotion. "Yeah?" you say. 

"Yeah. I love you." 

"Well I love you too," you say. 

Eddie nods nonchalantly, a show, saying, "Yeah, I know," before he drops the facade and crosses the kitchen for you. Roan giggles as he picks you up in a hug, wrenching you from side to side. "You should know already–" 

"I do!" you say, wrapping your arms around his neck jubilantly. 

"Then why are you asking?"

"I wanted to hear it again," you say.

Eddie smiles into the skin beneath your ear. "I love you. Duh." 

"Duh," you say, sounding about as happy as he's ever heard you while he pulls his head back to grin at you. 

Roan laughs and pats at Eddie's thigh to be picked up. He grabs her under her arm with some effort and you help to bring her up into the hug. "I love you, too, daddy."

"You should definitely know I love you," Eddie says to her. He tells her enough, three times a day or more. He tells her he loves her when they're brushing her teeth, when they're putting their shoes on, when they're driving home from school. He tells her between mouthfuls of spaghetti and through laughter, Love you, weirdo. "Is this, like, lame if I start telling you both all the time, or am I allowed?" 

"Definitely allowed," you say quickly, eyes bright with enthusiasm. 

"For sure!" Roan cheers. 

Eddie can see the possibilities now, I love you shouted from car windows and down the phone, said into your neck and the palm of your hand. He doesn't know why he didn't say it sooner. 

[princessbrunette]

jj def the type of boyf to help you take off ur makeup properly and do your skincare routine for you if ur tired or just not feeling yourself that day , he knows every step from watching you like a puppy everynight :(( - 🍮

⋆₊♡⊹ ˖ ݁˚ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ˚ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ⊹♡₊⋆

whenever you were sad, jj always went the extra mile to make you smile without forcing you to talk about the problem ‘til you’re ready. this time around, you’re sat on the sink of your bathroom, your skincare items lined up beside you as you pout, just having finished crying off your makeup and having jj help you wash it off.

“alright, what’s the next step… next step, next step…” he mutters to himself, eyeing the miscellaneous bottles and tubs as he wiggles his fingers pensively.

“cleanse—”

“cleanser,” he interrupts louder, pretending he thought of it by himself. he gives you an obvious smile, shaking his head before surprisingly reaching for the right bottle. “knew that.”

he uncaps it, carefully pouring the liquid to make a pool in his cupped palm instead of onto a cotton pad like you usually do it. you frown, watching him dip two fingers into the watery liquid before smearing it on your face in random places like it was war paint.

“jj, that is not how you apply it—” he can hear the amused lilt to your sniffly voice, knowing his methods of entertainment had to be somewhat working on your mood and his lip flicks up into a near smile at this, pleased with himself.

“ah ah, i’ll have you know i’m the skincare professional here. i went to cosmonatology school to gain this important knowledge, thank you—”

“cosmetology.” you correct and he scoffs.

“pfft, shows how much you know.” he rubs the rest into your face before stepping back, widening his arms. “voila. see? i think this might be my calling.”

you let the smile sink onto your swollen lips, wet eyes blinking slowly like a pleased cat. you were so in love with him.

“what’s the next step?” you ask happily, softly.

“uh, lemme think, the next step.” he mutters, stepping into your space. “i think kisses, pro’lly— yeah that sounds right.” his voice drops lower as he brings you in, kissing you. jj always knew how to make you feel better.

⋆₊♡⊹ ˖ ݁˚ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ˚ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ⊹♡₊⋆

[flowersandbigteeth]

A Heath the Gargoyle part 2? It’s going to be the 1 year anniversary for his story soon (you posted Dec. 29 2022) and I’d love to see the couple’s relationship in a more established/long term phase. Maybe Heath is getting ready to propose so Y/N doesnt end up “dying alone eaten by local strays”?

I can't believe it's been a whole freaking year!!! Time goes soooo fast! Okay, I didn't make it the 29th...but I'm close ^_^

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Gargoyle (Heath) x F reader

Word Count: 3.5 K

General Plot: You and Heath go to a childhood friend's New Years Party.

Previous Parts

TW: nsfw gargoyle smut, extremally awkward party conversation, p in v sex, flying and being in high places if heights bothers you, discussion of depression, hurt comfort dynamic

“Are you sure this looks good?” Heath asked you, shifting on his feet and plucking at the silver tie you’d fastened to his neck to match your sparkly dress.

“It's perfect!” You beamed, smiling up at him and swatting his hand. “Don't look so nervous!” 

“I don't want to embarrass you,” he said, uncharacteristically shy. 

You snorted. 

“I’m more worried about the opposite,” you sighed. “Just…take anything they say with a grain of salt.” 

“What does that mean?” He asked. 

“Grace and I have been friends since we were kids because my mom works for her dad’s company…I kind of had to be her friend. Don't get me wrong, we were really close when we were kids,” you said. “But now I only see her for her annual New Year's party for my mom's sake. It's all I can stomach…how do I say this…she's kind of…competitive….You'll see.” 

The two of you stood on the doorstep of her boyfriend’s obnoxiously large house, the sound of the party inside filling the chilly night air. You wore a sparkly dress, and Heath a sharp suit customized to fit his wings. 

“Maybe they didn't hear me.” 

You hit the doorbell again, and it let out a hollow DING. 

“I’ve got it!” Someone shouted behind the door. 

You heard the sound of footsteps, and the door swung open to reveal Grace's boyfriend Mark. 

He was a better than average looking guy with blonde hair cut in a trendy style, wearing an expensive suit.

“Well…hello!” Mark said, his head tipping back to meet Heath’s eyes. “You’re…” 

His mouth hung open for a moment, at a loss for words, then they both spoke at once.

“Heath.” 

“Huge.” 

There was an awkward pause before you stepped forward and hugged Mark. 

“Thanks for having us over, Mark!” You beamed, shoving a bottle of champagne in his hand. 

Mark blinked for a moment as you pushed past him, pulling Heath behind you. 

“Grace’s in the kitchen!” He called after the two of you as he shut the door. 

“Hiiii!” Grace squealed as you pushed through partygoers to get to the kitchen. 

It wasn’t particularly difficult since Heath was bigger, harder, and wider than anyone in the room.

Grace looked beautiful, dressed in a glittery champagne bodycon dress. She'd always been lithe, her profile spruced up by a new pair of boobs Mark had bought her.

As usual, her party was perfect, every detail considered. There was a bartender wearing a bow tie serving drinks, the perfect music playing, and fresh flower arrangements everywhere. 

All the furniture had been removed to create a dance floor, and someone had specially designed gold lights to set the mood.

“So this is the man himself!” Grace exclaimed, looking up at Heath with wide eyes. 

“Gargoyle,” you corrected. 

“Right! Right! Henry, wasn't it?” 

Heath gave her a humble smile and stuck out a hand to shake hers. 

“Heath. Nice to meet one of (Y/N)’s friends.” 

She held his hand a moment too long before she dropped it.  

“(Y/N), shame on you for keeping him hidden away!” 

You blushed and put a hand on Heath’s arm, unsure what to say. The two of you had been half hibernating for the winter. You tended to get a bit of depression during the cold, dark months. Heath was more than happy to snuggle up with you and his fluffy little cat Aero and cuddle, which is all you really wanted to do from November to April.

People usually imagined gargoyles sitting stoically in the snow and menacing passerbys, but Heath liked to nest, tucking you both in piles of warm blankets and reading to you while you shared snacks.

Her eyes traveled from the tip of his folded wings, down the trim suit was wearing, to his clawed feet. 

“I can see why,” she went on, her mouth hanging open for a moment before she caught herself. “I'm so glad you two came!” 

“I've been missing my best friend! Let's get you some drinks!” she squealed, leading you out of the kitchen.

Heath glanced down at you and raised an eyebrow.

“Best friend?” He mouthed at you, and you shrugged. 

“Pomegranate martinis for us,” she said to the man behind the bar. 

“What do you like to drink, Heath?” Mark asked, appearing with the bottle of champagne you'd brought and handing it to the bartender. 

“Whatever you've got with Whiskey.”

“Gotcha, big guy,” the bartender said, tossing bottles elegantly as he made the drinks. 

When you were all set up with beverages, Lily led you out onto her back patio. 

“Look at this,” you said, taking in the beautiful outdoor space. “You've been hard at work! It's beautiful out here!” 

She'd put in layers of neatly trimmed flowers and bushes, which were dusted in snow. White lounges were arranged to make comfortable seating areas warmed by blue glass fire pits. The massive pool glowed, steam drifting up from its surface. It looked like it had come straight out of a magazine. 

“Isn't it? Mark got the best landscaper in the state! I'll give you his card!” 

She frowned at you. 

“Oh, you're still in that icky old apartment, aren't you?” she asked.  "You've got to get out of that place. Aren't you afraid of mold? It's terrible for your complexion."

“(Y/N) lives with me. Gargoyles like high places, so I have a flat downtown,” Heath corrected her, then smiled down at you. “Though the only plants we have are potted.” 

“Heath is really good with plants,” you said, smiling back at him with warmth. “He’s made us a whole jungle on the balcony!” 

“Hmm,” Grace hummed, eyes dropping to Heath’s large hands. “You look like you're good with your hands, Heath. You’ll have to come by sometime and give me some lessons.”

Heath’s eyebrows rose, glancing down at you for help. 

“How’s work going, Mark?” You asked to change the subject. 

“Mark got a promotion,” Grace said before he could answer. “He's a senior account manager at Dawson and Shields.” 

“Congratulations, Mark,” you said politely. 

He raised his drink and put a possessive arm over Grace’s shoulder. 

Before anyone could speak, one of Grace’s’s friends practically ran towards you, eyes on your hulking boyfriend. 

“(Y/N)!” Mary wailed, throwing her arms around you in a way she’d never done before. 

“Oh…Oof!” you gasped, catching her weight. “Uh…nice to see you again, Mary. This is my boyfriend, Heath.” 

He put his hand out to shake hers, but she shoved her body past it, attempting to plaster herself to his chest.

“We do hugs here!” Mary brayed. 

He took an awkward step backward, gently pushing Mary off of him with one large hand. 

“Sorry,” he said, tapping his nose. “Your perfume. My kind is very sensitive to scent.” 

He folded his big body down and tucked his nose into the spot where your neck met your shoulder, tapping a small kiss into your skin and subtly sniffing your neck as if he was cleansing his pallet. 

Mary’s face turned bright red, and she took a step back. 

“Are you still working at that bookstore?” Grace asked, filling the awkward silence.  

Before you could answer, she turned to Heath.

“I've been trying to tell (Y/N) it's time to get a grown-up job for years now. I mean, who works minimum wage at some shabby little bookstore at our age, don't you think?” 

Heath glanced at you and tipped his head to the side in a way you recognized as annoyance, though didn't look it. He took a sip of his drink to hide his frown.  

“What do you do, Grace?” He asked when he’d straightened his face.  

Excited to talk about herself, she went on, her hands waving around as she talked. 

“I'm a beauty influencer!” she said. 

“Beauty…influencer?” Heath asked. “I'm not sure I know what that means.”

She stuck out her chest to show off the Chanel necklace resting just above her cleavage. 

“I model jewelry, makeup, and nails,” she said. “Then I do reviews on all the products!” 

“Oh..uh…neat,” he said, trying to be friendly for your sake.“I didn't know that was a job. Do the brands pay you?” 

Her bright smile fell for just a moment before she plastered it back on. 

“Well…No, but I'm hoping to get some sponsorships this year!” She said. “I have 1,000 followers on TikTok!”  

Heath gave her a blank look. 

“Tik… Tok?” He asked, glancing down at you for guidance. 

“Um…it started as an app for teenagers to lip-sync popular songs, but now lots of people use it!” you explained. 

He raised his eyebrows but was at a loss for words.  

“What do you do for work, Heath?” Mark asked. 

“I own a shabby little bookstore,” he said before taking a long drag of his drink. 

“Oh!” Grace said with a stilted smile. 

There was another incredibly awkward silence. 

“Well, I think that's wonderful!” Mary cheered, squeezing his elbow. “There aren't enough brick-and-mortar stores these days! Everything is online!” 

Heath brightened, though he took a half step away from Mary.

“We do a lot of online business, as well.” 

He brushed his heavy hand over your hair, affectionately. 

“We?” Grace asked. 

“I made (Y/N) my co-owner.” 

“Wow, sleeping with the boss, (Y/N),”  Mary snickered. “I never thought you had it in you.” 

You blushed, but Heath folded you under his arm. 

“It’s the other way around,” Heath chuckled, brushing his thumb over your bare shoulder as he spoke. “(Y/N) is the boss. She’s got more of a mind for business than me. I'm just a book nerd, but she’s a marketing genius. Sales were dropping the year before last, so she managed to turn the store into more of a destination. Since she took over things, we've started focusing on hard-to-find antiques and hosting auction events. Profits have quadrupled.” 

“Oh!” Mark said, snapping his fingers. “Of course! You own Gargoyle Book Gallery! That's a legend! My boss loves antique books...first editions and all that. He raves about your spot all the time!” 

Heath tipped his drink at Mark. 

“Donny Shields, right? He comes by for poker night.” 

“Poker night?” Mark asked. 

Heath nodded. 

“Some guys from the Business League come over on Saturdays to play a couple of hands of poker and shoot the shit,” he explained. 

Mark’s eyebrows shot up. 

“I'd love to get in on that!” He said, eyes almost green with envy. "Can't imagine the conversations over that table!"

Heath shrugged. 

“We’ve got a full table now, but if a spot opens up, I’ll ask the guys,” he said. 

Grace decided too much time had passed without anyone paying attention to her. 

“Now that Mark is on track to be partner, we are going to buy a new house!” she said. “I don’t understand how you can stand to live in a tiny apartment!” 

Mark looked at her like he did not, in fact, want to buy a new house. 

“We’re still discussing it,” he said. 

Grace smacked him on the arm. 

“Don’t be silly, Mark,” she said. “With your raise, we can afford something bigger!” 

“I mean, I spend a lot of money on your stuff for TikTok, Grace,” he murmured. “Maybe if you were pulling in some revenue-” 

Grace smacked him again, harder this time, and gave him a look that said, “Shut up if you know what’s good for you.” 

“This place is really nice,” Heath offered Mark, trying to be diplomatic. “Plenty of room for a family.” 

They both spoke at once. 

“We aren’t starting a family.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought when I bought it.” 

You and Heath glanced at one another and took long sips of your drinks. 

“I have my career to think of!” Grace said while Mark found somewhere else to look. 

“That’s a pity. You’d be a great mom!” Mary said. “You could be a mommy blogger. Your fans would love that. You and Mark would have beautiful babies.”  

“Of course. We have excellent genes,” Grace said, enjoying being complimented. 

Her eyes slid mischievously to you. 

“What about you two?” she asked. “Are you thinking of starting a family?” 

You and Heath’s eyes met. 

“Maybe,” Heath said. “If you want to.” 

Your cheeks warmed, but not from embarrassment. 

“I’d like that,” you said. 

Grace frowned. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked. 

The two of you looked at her, confused. 

“You know, because of your mental illness. You wouldn’t want to pass that on to your kids…and how can you be a good mom with depression?” 

Your heart dropped, and tears flooded your eyes. It shouldn’t have gotten to you. You knew how Grace was, but it still hurt. It was something you’d always felt a little insecure about. 

Heath’s mouth fell open, and he shoved his glass into Mark’s hand. 

“It was nice to meet you, Mark,” he said before he scooped you up in his arms, and with a heavy pump of his wings, the two of you shot up into the night sky. 

He flew a couple of blocks away, before he stopped and hovered in place.  

Tears slid down your cheeks, leaving an icy streak as they cooled. 

“Are you okay?” Heath asked as the two of you hung suspended in the cold December air.

You sniffled, wiping your tears. 

“Yeah…I told you…Grace is competitive. She doesn’t like anyone looking better than her,” you whimpered. 

You felt a low growl in his chest. 

“That’s no excuse,” he said. “I think you’ll be a great mom. I’m not the least bit worried.” 

“But what if she’s right?” you asked. “What if I’m a terrible mom? What if my kids are messed up or something?” 

Heath let out a chuff with no humor. 

“That’s nonsense, teacup,” he said. “Depression is pretty common…and you manage yours just fine. Nobody is a perfect parent, and everyone has different challenges. Grace sounds like some kind of eugenicist. It’s creepy, to be honest.” 

“Are you sure?” you asked. “You don’t wish you had a perfect girlfriend like Grace?” 

Heath laughed out loud. 

“Grace is not the perfect girlfriend. Sooo far from it. I kind of feel bad for Mark, to be honest,” he said. “You on the other hand…” 

He tucked his head in the crook of your neck, smattering kisses over the skin. 

“You are smart…sweet…patient…incredibly patient,” he whispered, kissing you or nibbling with each word. “I have no idea how you put up with that woman.” 

“You get used to it,” you murmured. 

He tipped your face up to his. 

“I don’t want you to get used to that kind of meanness,” he said. “I don’t want to control who you see…but I don’t like them. I’d rather spend the rest of New Year's with you if that’s okay, not some snobby weirdos.” 

He adjusted you in his arms, nudging you to loop your legs around his waist. You pressed yourself against his warm body to chase away the chill of the night air. With one arm holding you to him, he cupped the nape of your neck, guiding your lips to his with the other. 

He tasted like oaky whiskey, making your mouth water. His heavy kisses chased any thoughts of Grace or the party away. 

Hovering in the inky night with the twinkling lights of the city sparkling in every direction, your only focus was Heath’s thick hand holding you securely in place and his lips on yours. 

You ground your hips into his body, delighted to feel his hardening shaft meet your core. 

His hand slipped down your neck, tugging the front of your dress down with a stiff jerk. The straps snapped, and your breasts tumbled out. 

“Heath,” you gasped, but he hushed you with another deep kiss before speaking. 

“It’s dark. No one can see us. Let me make you feel good.” 

He dipped his head, drawing a peaked nipple into his mouth. The contrast of his hot tongue and the chilly air made you quake. He licked and sucked one nipple and then the other until you’d completely forgotten everything going on below. Your world shrank to just Heath and all the decadent things he could do to your body. 

Your head fell back, pleasure snaking up and down your spine as he delighted you. Thick fingers roughly shoved the skirt of your dress up your thighs, and he traced your slit, growling at how wet you were for him. Another swift jerk and your shredded panties were fluttering a hundred feet down to the snowy earth. 

You gasped his name, but he was high on your scent and taste, wholly focused on giving you pleasure. He screwed two fingers inside of you, opening you up for him. You let out a needy whimper when they pulled out for a moment but were quickly replaced with his tail, thrusting in and out of you. 

You hardly heard the buzz of his zipper, your eyes rolling back in your head. With a tight thrust of his hips, his tail slipped away, and his thick cock filled you. He clutched your ass with a deep, satisfied grunt. 

A hundred feet up in the sky, you didn’t dare unhook your arms from around his neck, so you were at his mercy as he slammed his shaft into you. You bleated lusty yelps with every smack of his heavy balls against your skin, clinging to him for dear life. You were dizzy from fear blending with pleasure, your breaths ragged gasps. There was nothing between you and falling to your death but Heath’s enormous arms and powerful wings. 

“You’re so fucking perfect, (Y/N),” he growled into your ear, practically feral from the way your channel spasmed around his cock. You were tight, wet, hot, and the only woman in the world he wanted. Gripping your ass, he used your cunt like a fleshlight, slamming his cock into you over and over again. 

The tip of his naughty tail circled your clit, pushing you closer and closer to your end until there was nowhere else to go, and you went careening over the edge. With the addition of your pussy strangling his cock he couldn’t hold back any longer, his final thrusts savage and bruising.

Your stomach dropped as he lost control of his wings for a moment, and the two of you dipped into a free fall for a few seconds. You felt his searing cum fill you as you screamed into his chest. The confusing sensation of falling and his cum filling your womb slammed you into another unexpected orgasm. You bounced in his arms as he steadied the two of you. 

“Heath!” you gasped, your nails digging into his neck. 

“It’s okay, teacup, I’ve got you,” he muttered as he titled his wings, and the two of you streaked across the city. 

Instead of heading home, he deposited you on the roof of a tall building downtown. 

“Wait here,” he said, zipping his fly, and before you could say anything, he swooped away. 

When he returned a few minutes later, he was holding a bottle of champagne. 

“Where did that come from?” you laughed as he settled next to you and tugged you into his lap. 

“I stole it from a party going on down there,” he chuckled. “Don’t worry, they have plenty.” 

You giggled, leaning back into his chest, while he popped the top, aiming the spray off of the edge of the building, before tipping a little into your mouth.

There was a pop, and fireworks exploded in the sky across the city. 

He turned you around to him, slipping something out of his pocket.

"I wanted to do this tonight...but things didn't go quite as planned..." he said, appearing suddenly nervous.

You tipped your head to the side, confused until he opened the little box in his hand revealing a pretty ring.

"Heath!" you gasped your hand going to your lips.

"(Y/N)," he said. "Since the day I hired you, my world changed. At first it was just a fantasy crush. I mean, as your boss...I felt like it was wrong to act on it...but something about you is irresistible. It was impossible not to fall in love with you. Impossible not to steal you away.

Then we started dating and for awhile, I thought that was enough...but as the year went on...I realized I was happier than I'd ever been and you seemed...happier than I'd ever seen you...So...I want to make this permanent. If...you want that..."

Your eyes danced from the ring up to Heath's eyes. More fireworks bloomed in the sky, and you could see them reflected in Heath’s dark irises.

"Are...you asking me to marry you, Heath?" you asked.

"I guess I forgot the most important question," he said, giving you a shy chuckle. "(Y/N), will you marry me?"

Tears filled your eyes again, but this time for the best reason.

"Yes! Of course! I love you, Heath! I want to be with you forever!" you said.

“I love you, too (Y/N). Happy New Year,” he said quietly, slipping the ring out of the velvet and slipping it on your finger.

“Happy New Year, Heath,” you said tucking your head into his cozy shoulder and watching the fireworks make your engagement ring sparkle.

[aspinyyy]

HybridCat!Bachira x Fem!Reader

| All characters are age up!

Sypnosis: Bachira is so clingy and needy asf. He is quite bratty but only does that to get your attention tease you and annoy you. He who loves to be pampered and spoiled to your friendly affection but he sees it romantically. Dw it's smut and fluff :DD practically him being submissive but wild in the bedroom.

♛┈⛧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈⛧┈♛.・゜゜・༶•┈┈⛧┈♛

Warnings!: Minors do not interact! NSFW, ofc it's smut. overstimulation, obsession implies to reader, reader gets dumb fucked, breeding kink, praise kink, dacryphilia, and honestly it's badly written but it's been fueled by my itching brain so yeah. Pronoun for the reader is you.

[word count: 2.3k]

| thank you my dear beta reader for correcting my horrendous grammar and spellings. And no, I am not deeply sorry for making you have seizures >:D

You let him stay at your house since you never had any company other than yourself. The house you own was previously filled with laughter and tears with your family but as time goes by, only what's left was a lone tearing eyes and laughs from you.

The cat introduces himself and his name is Bachira Meguru. He was practically behaving like a good kid in the first two weeks but as the time grows between the two of you, he's starting to get a little more naughty.

First, he made pranks to laugh at you, yeah it was all fun and games that you also enjoy because he's just startling you. Not until he started to get more rabid, scratching at your door when you left him outside of your room at 2 am after you found out that he's sneaking into your bedroom. *Oh darling, he just wants some cuddles with you* Day after day, his pranks and teasing got a little worse. But you paid it no mind. Thinking that it's just his weird ass shenanigans and his cat personality on its own nature. And no, you don't know why he's being like this. *In fact he actually has a big crush on you ever since you picked him up in the cold streets.*

"Hehe~ You're so cute~" You sneered at him before he let out a chuckle as he nuzzled his head on your shoulder. Making you wonder how he could be so touchy whenever you're sitting or even laying down —always making sure to be there and make physical contact with you. Could be snuggling, or sometimes like this —laying his weight against you, or just simply fiddling with your hands. You tried to shake him off from your shoulder but he clings to you, refusing to let go. His head lays on your warm thigh —planning to sleep on your lap. His purrs are loud enough to hear despite the TV's volume. He closed his eyes while his thumb rests on his mouth *like a small baby.* You couldn't help but to melt on his adorable nature which made your hand automatically caress his hair, petting him to sleep.

After a few hours, your legs are feeling sore. You gently shake him awake but instead he grabbed your wrist and cupped it to his cheek, still sleeping like there's no tomorrow. You groaned and tap his cheek. "Silly cat... Wake up! " He opened his eyes, feeling groggy. He then nips your finger. "Ow! What the hell?! " He didn't release his grip on your wrist, instead he intertwined his hand with yours.

"Morning, my little bunny~" You snickered at his sudden name calling *trying to ignore 'my'* but deep down, that actually made you blush. But the fact that he is still on your sore lap, you frustratingly whined. "Get off me! You're heavy... " You fake your pouting while poking his supple cheek with your free hand. He grunts, however, thanks to your luck, he actually got off from your lap. To your surprise, he wrapped his tail on your waist.

"Where are you going...?" Bachira asked as he scratched his eyes. Without a second thought, his arm slipped in to hug yours on his side —not letting you go until you gave him affection.

"I'm not going anywhere– Oh.. Right.. I just remembered something. Do you wanna pay them a visit? You know, our new neighbor who just moved in yesterday?" Bachira grimaced as he coiled his tail on your waist.

"No. I don't care about them. " Your eyebrows furrowed, giving him a strained smile.

"I heard that they also have a cat! Don't you wanna meet them? There’s a chance she could be your mate~" Your finger teasingly poked his cheek but his golden eyes went dark.

There is definitely something weird about him —he was not too happy that you mentioned about the neighbor's cat to be with him. Bachira suddenly pounced on you and pinned you down on the couch which made you yelp unwantedly. Bachira is currently topping you with his slender yet muscular body which is covered with the thick baggy fabric of his hoodie and joggers.

"But baby... You're my mate. "

"..."

You were utterly speechless, shocked, and helplessly bound from his tight grip on your feeble wrists —pinning you down on the couch domineeringly. Bachira is closely inching to your face as he stares at your plushy lips.

"What do you... mean?"

"Mine."

"Wha—" Your words cut off suddenly as he crashes his lips onto yours. He closed the gap between you then trailed his hand to your head while the other caress your cheek. Your brain is too shocked to process what he just said.

"Mmh! Let go!" You tried to push him off but he's hugging you so tightly while deepening the kiss. His tongue caved into your moistened mouth after prying it open, humming and moaning while teasing your tongue with his. The wet noises surround the room, *music to your ears* you can't help but to shut your eyes tight—giving up on resisting—too intoxicated to his sloppy kiss.

Your arms glide to his neck, wrapping him in your embrace. There's no need for words, his gaze is enough to lure you into his lust. A slim strand of saliva connected your mouths together for a second as the both of you broke apart.

"Pretty bunny... Let me fuck you, yeah?"

Without letting you answer, he tore off your clothes leaving you in your underwear. He attacked your neck while ridding himself of his own clothes. "Look so pretty like this~" He murmured as he continued nipping your neck leaving marks.

Every touch of his sends a cold shiver to your loins. He sunk his teeth to your collarbone, marking you as his. A pained moan slipped out from your mouth and your nails dug to his scalp, fueling him to go further.

His skilled digits trailed down your covered core, subtly sliding over it "So cute~ All wet, just for me. " He smugly whispered as you bit your lower lip trying to muffle the mewl threatening to slip out of your lips. A hand cupped your cheek, gazing at you with his lustful golden orbs. He strokes the thin fabric covering your wet mound painstakingly slow, making your hips move heedlessly.

His hands stripped off your underwear, tossed it somewhere on the ground, completely exposing your sloppy drenched slit. You have never been so flustered before, you're completely naked —exposing your flawless body to his greedy eyes. He stared at you for a while, studying your body in every inch, completely mesmerized.

His slender fingers teasing your bud "My bunny... Don't worry, I'll be gentle~" His voice murmured in a husky whisper next to your ear. *biggest lie you'll ever hear* Your muffled moans softly slipped out from your mouth while grasping the utmost top of the back pillow. His lubricated finger from your juices made its way inside your gummy walls, making you mewl and widen your eyes.

This strange unfamiliarity felt so good, pleasuring you as he gently moved his finger back and forth between your walls. You close your eyes at the overwhelming sensation, letting yourself just feel Bachira’s finger inside you as they press and explore the sensitive parts of your body. His eyes never left you, watching you closely and studying your sensitive reactions. His ears twitch whenever you moan and whimper for him —those obscene sounds you make are music to his ears, he would gladly play it on repeat all day just to make his mood better.

You hitched as he kept hitting the same sweet spot of yours—curling and angling his finger as you felt the building knot in your stomach. Another finger slipped easily inside of your tight wet folds. Your mouth gaped and eyes rolled back as his two digits hastingly impaled you. The sound of your wet mound and your lewd moans got him all aroused.

He smirked, knowing that you're near your climax. Your hands snake to his back and dig your nails as you feel your orgasm blow in soon. His pace didn't stop—he giggled as his fingers got sucked tightly inside your folds. After a few quick strokes, your back arched and your toes curled —you reached your overwhelming climax while taking your heavy breaths. He pulled out his fingers then peppered you with his kisses on your cheeks.

".. Baby.. We're not done yet. "

"H-Huh? But.. Ah–! "

You felt his hardened throbbing length reposed on your cunt after spreading your legs wider. He couldn't hide his blush and looked at you with indefinite lust in his honey golden eyes. His hand cupped your knee and his other interlocked with yours. "Please? May I~? " He sounds so needy and probably will never back down no matter what. He wants to fill you in with his member. He wants to be inside of you. And yes, he's desperate.

In the corner of your eyes, you saw how big he was. You wondered if you could actually take it. Maybe it will destroy you, yet you cannot stop the greedy cat in front of you. Leaving you with no other choice, you nodded slowly —still not used to how things turned out this way. Bachira could never be much happier and slid his length inside of your tight wet slit slowly. He moaned and gasped as he entered, filling you in with his fat cock.

"Pull it out! It hurts! " He leaned closer, kissing your tears on your cheeks. "Shh.. It won't take long. I'll have you bouncing on me later~" Bachira completely ignored your whines as he started to move. He pulls and pushes deeply inside of you slowly, making you knit your brows and pained moans skid out from your mouth.

You can feel his hot member throb inside of you. "So fucking tight... God... You're so good.. My bunny~" His whimpers pivot closely next to your ears. His free hand creeped on your tit, teasing your hardened nipple. The sensation made you almost lose your mind, making you feel over the edge. His cock started to pick up the pace, kissing your cervix and hitting your g-spot. Your wet teary eyes blubbers, making lewd moans that you've never even heard before, then the pleasure starts to take over —the rush of dopamine makes you reach your second orgasm— you gasped and accidentally scratched his back with your nails.

"F-Fuck! Ah! S-Stop! "

He didn't pull out just yet, still hitting your abused pussy with a rapturous impale after cumming on his dick. A rim of your juices circles on his length—making him fasten his pace once more. Your chest is torn of your broken moans, which bubble up in whimpers and hiccups up on your throat. Your body isn't cooperating with you anymore, and the only sense you can summon is sufficient to repeat the single thought that is on your mind—Bachira. You moaned his name loudly, and your hips rolled with his. He grunts, letting out a whimper.

"Gonna fill you up with my kittens, yeah?...'M gonna fill you up inside~"

He held you closely to his chiseled chest—thrusting rapidly. Your head falls back, mouth hang open as his hips explode into you with the ferocity of a man possessed. He strikes that spot inside you. You felt his hot thick liquid buried inside of you as your legs trembled against his, your calves digging into his sides. Both of you catching your ragged breaths. He pulled his length out of your filled pussy with his cum—spilling out till it reached the foam.

"... That's bad... My bunny, you should take everything in! " He stammered before picking you up, carrying your tired body into a bridal style. He threw you in your bed, topping you with his hardened cock—rocking it slowly on top of your battered cunt. His sinister eyes didn't subside at all. He plants kisses on your stomach as he giggles—like a kid got to play with their favorite toy.

"My mate looks so pretty like this~" He lifted one of your legs and placed it on his shoulder. He nips at your inner thigh, marking you once more. You couldn't help but to moan after slipping his cock into your cum-filled pussy—sending overstimulating shocks to your body.

"Hngh.. It goddamn hurts… " You whimpered, panting, and composing your breath as he fucks you continuously—not stopping till dawn kiss your skin— molding your mound mercilessly into the shape of his inhumanely size cock. Your eyes rolled back, lips parting slightly as your tongue hangs out of your mouth. Carelessly creating loud flowing moans, frolically thrusting his dick in and out of you.

You voice out his name, babbling muffled whimpers about how good he is. In less than twenty minutes, he broke you entirely, and he's so pleased with himself. You're now topping him after he lifted you, enforcely shifting positions on the bed. His hands tightened around your hips, drawing you in as his hips moved. He continued to thrust at you quickly while continuing to kiss your cervix and stroke your g-spot. Despite your desperate attempts to regain your breath, you whimpered, shivered, and begged for more as you lay on the bed.

Soon afterward, he came to your exhausted pussy once more. His warm, creamy liquid filled you up again. Tears were streaming down your cheeks, and all you could manage was a muffled whimper. As you attempt to form words, your lips twitch. He gave his best effort to comfort your broken body, licking and kissing your salty tears.

"My bunny, you're such a good girl… You're so good, ahh~… Let's have another round, shall we? "

When he was done talking, he grinned. His hands descend to your back and firmly grasp you, allowing his still-rock-hard dick to slide in.

[warletscarlet]

Wild Kratts Headcanons

genuinely have no clue if this fandom is dead or not but I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole and it isn’t stopping. So anyway here we go! All of my hc’s are strictly platonic, Krattcest shippers back away rn 🤺. This is the 2D characters and not referring to the actual people! I know the characters are basically them but this is specifically for the cartoon. they’re all headcanons I either liked or had myself.

-Being as close as they are, Martin and Chris are very physically affectionate with one another (and with the Tortuga crew at times, but mostly the bros). They’re always giving each other hugs or leaning on the others shoulder, or Chris just straight up climbs onto Martin’s back/shoulders.

-With their friends, the boys are always giving them hugs, small shoulder touches, things like that. It’s their natural way of interacting with the people they care about.

-The Kratts have been found sleeping in trees various times (mainly Chris). At this point nobody questions it though they do get worried about him falling out and getting hurt.

-The Kratt Bros are also sometimes found sleeping in the same hammock, whether it’s in the Tortuga or hung up on a tree branch. They usually do this when the other has a nightmare or after partially tough missions (I.E:Flight of The Pollinators, Platypus Cafe, plus other episodes but these are the ones I heard about most and I haven’t gotten to watching too much of the show again yet). Touch is their love language and sometimes they need this to remind themselves the other is okay.

-Chris climbs basically everything. He loves climbing and if you took him to a rock wall climbing gym he’d have a field day. You can find him in the oddest places on the Tortuga.

-Aviva isn’t the most touchy person but will give hugs out of gratitude/happiness.

-The brothers share a single braincell. That is all.

-Jimmy has a very close relationship to his grandmother and was raised by her; which is why he knows all of her recipes.

-Aviva is like a mom friend. Not in the sense she’s motherly but in the sense she has to babysit two hyperactive brothers who are constantly running around/getting in trouble and breaking things.

-Martin can carry Chris no problem (on his back, shoulders or bridal style), but Chris cannot carry Martin on his back/shoulders for long. Though he can hold him bridal style (as we have seen.)

-The bros are huge nerds. If you ask them about animals they will talk for HOURS about them.

-Koki is downright fabulous and can rock anything. Don’t @ me.

-Martin has ADHD and Chris has autism. Martin fidgets, gets distracted easily, and can act impulsively (though reels Chris in when Chris is the one being impulsive). He tends to run off during creature adventures. He has combined presentation ADHD and Martin also has a tendency to forget to charge his creature pod.

-As for Chris, he has autism. He doesn’t recognize social cues and corrects people when he thinks they’re wrong about something, and doesn’t realize when they’re annoyed with him for it. He also can be pretty blunt. And he has to keep things organized, such as how he organized all of his creature disks and hates them being moved out of place.

-Chris, out of everyone, cusses the most. He doesn’t around the Wild Kratt Kids but he will when with the crew/his brother. He has definitely called Zach a motherf*cker and Aviva and Martin found it hilarious.

-The Tortuga Gang have frequent movie nights, but they will never watch a movie where an animal dies with the brothers. They WILL cry.

-After the Tazzy Incident, Chris still has some Tazzy traits. Mostly just sharper canines but also more sensitive senses. He can’t hear, smell and see are well as he could when in tazzy form but it’s definitely increased from normal. His eyes also do that thing cat eyes do when they’re in the dark and the light hits them. Has 100% given Martin heart attacks and absolutely has used it to mess with Zach.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Something Full-Bodied and Red

Did a thing. Here's period smut!

It hits you right as he says, “No need to bleed by yourself, my love.” Your jaw drops. You stare at him, in his words, all agog. “You… are you saying…?” “Offering my companionship during your trying times? Yes, I believe I am. You smell delicious, Eleanor. I’ve been thinking about devouring you all day.” No mistake as his gaze slides down to the extra padding beneath your trousers. Or the way his pupils eclipse the red irises.

Or: Aunt Flo comes to visit. Astarion is delighted to make her acquaintance.

You really should a known when Gale made an—objectively-speaking and you even knew it at the time—simple statement about the best path to take. The day is hotter than Satan’s ass crack, y’all are sweating and miserable, and the rage surges up in you like goddamn Plinian eruption.

You say something along the line of, “No one asked your opinion, and yet here we are, listening to you talk anyway.”

It’s too far. You know it. Knew it before you even opened your mouth in that split second judgment call.

Gale’s face falls before he picks it back up and resettles his blasé mask.

Shit goddamn fuck.

Everyone hears it, too. Even Astarion gives you a Look.

“I’m sorry, Gale,” you say. “I really am. I’m…that was an asshole thing to say.”

His smile is still a couple shades cooler than usual. “It’s alright. The heat is getting to us all, I believe.”

An olive branch, when you’re the one who snapped.

“I mean it. Heat or not, that was rude of me. ‘Specially since you’re right.”

Cause he is. Heat melts your brains to pudding, and you were about to stomp y’all past the correct intersection to take y’all back to the inn.

His smile thaws a touch. He inclines his head.

“Now you’ve done it,” Astarion says. “He’s going to be insufferable all day.”

“Being correct is not being insufferable,” Gale says, one finger held up, the spitting image of some college professor. “Especially when it saves all of us time and effort in this truly insufferable mugginess.”

Poor man don’t know muggy. That’s when the backs of your hands sweat. Muggy is when the air’s so wet it’s almost hard to breathe. It’s one-hundred-and-thirteen goddamn degrees Fahrenheit with ninety-five percent goddamn humidity.

But you keep that shit to yourself because you fucked up and he’s owed a dunk on you.

As y’all turn up the (correct, this time) road, Astarion sidles in. Gives you a glance and the smallest line creases his brow.

“’M okay,” you say.

He nods. Bumps his hand against yours in his totally-not-a-stray-cat way of asking for attention. You thread your fingers through his gloved ones, and the both of you pretend that don’t soften his entire posture.

The inn is only half full. They got alcove beds along the walls, so you and Astarion decide to share. The two of you set up the privacy screen, and he changes into sleep pants while your back is turned.

Cazador McFuckface is dead. Astarion is a free man, and y’all have been intimate. But you still give him his modesty, always; it seems to please him beyond words. You can tell in the soft sigh as you turn away and leave him to it. In the languid movements of his limbs as he finishes and slides onto the mattress (only grumbling a little at the poor quality of the linens). In the roundness of his eyes as he stretches out and waits for you to join him.

He's still a murder hobo and a thieving, snarking, asshole gremlin. But there’s more to him, now.

You fiddle with your trousers. It really is too hot to sleep in clothes; back home, you always slept bare. It’s how you landed on an alien ship buck-ass naked.

He seems to sense this dilemma. Murmurs, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

And then gives you a saucy little wink, the dork.

So you shuck off all but your smallclothes (that he sewed for you; nothing says “You’re fine I guess” like a man sewing you some drawers) and scooch in after him. He shuffles closer to the wall while you reach up to untie the cord holding the bed curtain open.

It’s only the illusion of privacy—Lae’zel murmurs to Shadowheart across the room and Karlach’s familiar snores already fill the air. But it’s a mental thing, and you turn and Astarion snuggles into you.

“God that’s nice,” you say.

One benefit of him being undead is the man don’t produce body heat. Which means he’s nice and cool against you. Which was real weird at first (something air temperature shouldn’t move or speak), but it’s him and he’s safe, so this feels like him, like safety.

He groans in response—the downside of undead is the man don’t produce his own body heat. Which means his joints get achy unless he’s fed within the last day, or he’s got a nice, large lover blasting him with her own furnace heat.

You’re tired and vaguely hurting. Astarion likes to be the little spoon, and when he’s facing you, he koala’s onto your front. Face tucked in against your neck (or your cleavage; “you make a fantastic pillow, darling”), arms wrapped around your middle, legs all tangled with yours.

But it’s so damn hot, and the walking was too damn long. Your body thrums. Bastard won’t settle. You become too aware of his habitual breath fanning your skin. Of his coolness against you. The arm slung over your ribs.

It’s easy to imagine that mouth of his opening. Tongue snaking out to lap at you, blunt front teeth nipping up and up. Until he finds your lips and—

You shift.

His crotch is right there. Ain’t nothing going on, but you know now what he feels like when he presses against you. When he ruts against you, eyes closed to slits, forgetting to breathe. His hand around yours on his cock as he shows you how to pleasure him. The salty, bitter tang as he comes in your mouth—

“Shit,” you say and shift your legs. Astarion nuzzles against your neck but otherwise says nothing.

Y’all’ve had sex in public. Had sex in an alley. In an inn. But none of those was this close to y’all’s friends. Curtains muffle sound about as well as tent fabric, but they been pitching their tents away from your shared one for some time and for a damn reason. You always thought you were quiet. Turns out, with a partner, not so much (it’s the shit he says; his pick-up lines were so over-the-top they was kinda funny, but when he means it? Who-wee).

You sigh. It’s been a long day. Y’all need to sleep.

You try to shift your hips without dislodging him, hoping to find the right angle to ease the general achiness—

“That’s going to make it more difficult for me to trance, darling,” Astarion says against your skin.

(You don’t shiver. That would be too desperate. And even if you did, he don’t mention it.)

“Sorry,” you say. “Kinda restless. You wanna sleep in separate beds?” Then he looks up and even in the curtained gloom, his eyes pick up that red shine like a monster in the woods come to lurk.

Okay, so you absolutely shiver. You feel his smile, slow and syrupy, against your collarbone.

“Who said anything about leaving?” he says.

This man. What he does to you. You try to run your fingers through your hair, but it’s dark, you’re human, and you catch his ear instead.

Now he shudders. Presses a kiss to where your neck and shoulder meet.

“Are you…?” you say, because you ain’t always good at reading people and this man in particular is real good at getting himself misread on purpose.

His cool fingers slip down your belly to tease along your smallclothes as his mouth opens to suck on your neck (it’ll bruise). His fingers trace lower, lower…

You clasp a hand over your mouth.

“Offering to help you work through whatever has you so bothered?” he says.

Heat rushes between your legs. You are so horny for him it’s ridiculous. His hand lifts so he can trace along your outer thigh. Then his knee slots between your legs.

“Be a dear and bring this up over my hip, hmm?” he says, tapping a pattern on your thigh. “Open your legs for me, my love.”

“But everybody’s so close.”

He sucks at the damn love bite. He loves leaving marks on you. You think you like him leaving marks on you.

“So long as you stay quiet,” he says, voice gone soft and lilting as his fingers tease under your smallclothes to stroke lower.

The rest on AO3.

[thurio-edau]

SBG GANG MENTAL ANALYSIS

first of all, I should explain what I am going to do. starting with Ashlyn, I'll analyze and/or theorize the group. because there is a lot of depth to all their characters and I've really been wanting to do this for some time. it will be a total of 5 posts instead of 6, because I will be analyzing Tyler and Taylor together due to obvious reasons. I will also cut them at the beginning because they might be long and also there will be triggers.

Part 1: Ashlyn Banner

I'm starting with Ashlyn right here as the protagonist and the leader of the series. Ashlyn's probably won't be very long since this is not a character analysis and instead, a mental characteristic analysis. even though her character is written so well that doesn't mean she has to be mentally sick, since she seems to be... well the most stable one -until the recent chapters-

what I'll be starting off with, will be autism. even though it's not confirmed fully in canon, Red herself said that she wrote Ashlyn with autism in mind so in this analysis I'll mostly go through with the symptoms she shows and how it explains her character.

her most obvious and constantly repeated symptom is her sensory issues. she is able to hear phantom noises and other things no one can hear due to her hypersensitive hearing.

from the beginning of the series, she has been repeatedly struggling with loud noises even though she wore earplugs or noise-cancellation headphones. Ashlyn herself said that she didn't want to make friends growing up, one of the reasons being her sensitive hearing allowing her to hear everything. you'd also probably be wary of things like it if you had her hearing; any gossip, talking behind backs, rumours etc. would not be pleasant to hear and you'd be aware of everyone's true side.

the group understands her problems with her hearing being too strong, and looks after her whenever there's anything loud. which was first seen at the arcade if I'm correct, Taylor asked her if she'd be alright and Aiden got punched in the face while he was worried about her.

or the time Taylor and Logan were shooting at the centipede phantom, due to the bullets making extremely loud sounds for her. or in the facility, when Logan told her to cover her ears to take down a phantom.

from the moment she was born, she had always been sensitive to any loud sounds. reminding here that autism is a neurodivergency, which means someone's brain is diverse than most other who we call neurotypicals. autism, ADHD, bipolar etc. are neurodivergencies that cannot be obtained later in life, and has always been at the person's brain.

I see myself in her frequently, I also wear earplugs constantly and my friends are aware of the sensory issues I have. her reactions to said sensory issues are written really realistic and correctly.

next, boundaries and distancing.

once again, since the beginning, Ashlyn has been distancing herself from everyone around her. this part will mostly include Aiden due to him not understanding boundaries and having passed Ashlyn's lots of times.

autistic people tend to avoid eye contact, physical touch -if the person is not very close to them- and also usually not very expressive. for the love of god, the first time we see her geniunely smile is halfway through the series, when they get the car keys. the group's reaction to her smile is hilarious, even.

after the events of that night, Aiden is trying to understand her boundaries. he's an affectionate/caring person inside, and wants to hug her but keeps it low by just holding her head.

here we learn he did, indeed, hug her when he kept her from falling and Ashlyn even allowed it when she realized how scared he was for her.

despite keeping her boundaries always high, she let it happen this time, learning how to open up to people. before this night she was always on guard

by time she starts to see them as her actual friends, like the found family they are. autistic people are similar to cats actually, like those stray cats that will claw you instantly if you look at their eyes for long or make sudden moves to pet them. the cat sniffs your hand first, you feed it for some time, then a slight touch. the cat gets used to you after your own efforts to get close to it. Ashlyn is a similar case, she had to almost die to get used to them and accept them.

next, special interests. this part is a bit short but I feel as if it still counts to be honest.

ever since her childhood, she's been very interested in dancing. losing track of time as she does, not being interested in any other things if it wasn't related to ballet, making it a very important part of herself. her love for dance/ballet made her not take any interest in anything else like her self-defense classes her parents tried to give, and they were really surprised once she asked them to do it this time.

like cmon she has a literal dance mat on her room

which basically wraps the main symptoms! I can't really think of any detail symptoms for now because it's midnight here but I'm thinking of updating them each time I get more ideas. for the next part, mental disorders.

personally, I must say that I don't think she suffers from any mental disorders or illnesses. she's not depressive, just closed off. you might ask anxiety but she herself had said she isn't shy or nervous, she herself just doesn't like to talk a lot which is fully valid. Ashlyn hasn't showed any problems in talking in front of audiences, she isn't paranoid -her hypersensitive hearing doesn't count since it's not paranoia; she knows what's in there because she hears- and seems to be mentally more stable than the rest of the group. I also don't think she has anger issues the way Ben and Tyler do, it's just that everything got on her nerves quickly before she got used to the team.

she doesn't mind being the leader of the group and definitely isn't scared, as seen as how she went up against Tyler when they first were in the phantom dimension.

Ashlyn is basically the autistic girl who doesn't like talking much and has high boundaries, but once she warms up to her friends she's willing to do anything for them as seen as the recent episodes in the facility. I'm almost fully sure that she is autistic, considering the signs she shows.

sorry if this was a bit boring! the next ones will definitely be more interesting because the rest of the characters have interesting backstories and oh boy some disorders, I just wanted to start with Ashlyn to see if I could do this the way it was in my mind. I'm sure the rest can be pretty good!

I'd like it if anyone else mentioned more stuff. next up will be Aiden, who has a plethora of characteristics and it's definitely going to be really interesting. thank you for reading so far but I won't be writing Aiden's now because hhhhhh i need some sleep

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

Hello! May I make another request?

Can I request a Frederick x fem reader. Ya know the scene where he pulled out the gun and pushed orphy with it and pointed it on the ground when he told Alice to place the box on the ground? (Him with a gun is so hot) can it be like a similar situation, for example reader and Alice are close friends and they went to the manor together. nsfw

I was just talking to @turbulentscrawl about the THAT scene, buddy only had one round and if he shot it then his glass jaw was done for lolol also based it off this post

Rated Mature | Warnings: Reader has a past (tm)

Alice deserves to be called 'good girl' (listen!)

“A single barrel pistol,” Cold, “Meaning you have exactly one bullet.” The Composer's eyes narrow at your words, “Once that bullet is gone, you will have only maybe that cane of yours as a weapon or you better start running.” Laying out his choices.

Alice stands behind you, rather you place yourself in front of Alice who looks at you surprised. Back at the orphanage, you always were the defender the children flocked to; Alice too back then looked up to you.

Still does as she knew for this investigation she will need an ally. Someone to watch her back.

“Better make that shot count, Frederick.” This is not your first time being held at gunpoint, sadly as a kid, you were the fighter. It was your only way to survive, none of the adults helped— Whether they cared or not, it didn't matter, you had to fight. As you got older, you got involved with the wrong side of the law. A driver, the type that helps with getaway driving and deliveries– No questions asked, no identification shared on your side.

Frederick looks at you, you know desperation when you see it.

The roar of thunder echoes, blood spills, and Frederick stands there in shock.

You grunt in pain but strike him with a right hook, he stumbled backward holding his face, hand dropping the cane in his hand.

“(False Name)!” Alice catches you before you fall to your knee, blood slipping out of your shoulder from the bullet wound. “Are you crazy!?”

You laugh as Frederick doesn't get up as Orpheus, who so happens to show up after the showdown, restrains him with a rope he found at the stables.

“Is the bullet out?” Alice nods at your question and points to the ground where it landed, “Good. Remember what I showed you?”

Alice does first aid, not her first time patching you up after a firefight.

“Good girl.” A low voice to have only for her to hear you as she makes a sling using your jacket.

“Gonna dump him in the same spot as his great-grandmother's favorite horse?” You ask Orpheus who gives you an inquisitive look.

“She is not my great-grandmother.” Frederick corrects you.

“Whatever, we can just say he went missing.” Shrugging then hissing at the pain.

All of them look at you like you said something horrible.

“He almost killed me, remember!”

You once told Alice, as a joke, that you would stay with her like the Cheshire cat as she makes her way down this rabbit hole. You are loyal to her, always have been since the orphanage. And even as the world turned to a new nightmare, as the truth about the manor became murky yet clear, you remained steadfast to your word. 

Driver, this is the title given to you upon the first match.

The game is akin to a story you have read once during your late shifts of being the getaway driver. Something about man being the greatest beast to hunt. This game is just like that.

A single hunter versus five survivors. Only, the twist is that everyone has strange abilities that can make or break a game.

Ciphers. Exit gates. Dungeons to escape. Chairs, the fucked roller-coaster ride seats with loads of fireworks under it with a timer attached.

It's a sick game you are forced to play with others.

You try to put science to all this but none of it makes sense. Maybe… You hate having to accept this is outside the realm of science you know or logic that is well, logic.

Alice is not safe, and you aren't either, but she is your priority.

Two ciphers down, fuck this game, the hunter is tailing you like a wolf hungry for meat. You stumble as you climb through a window after using a pair of gloves that boost your speed.

The hunter loses you thanks to a person titled Batter.

You limp over to a toolbox looking for hopefully some form of first aid— That miracle syringe Doctor has.

The people in your group are Journalist, Batter, and Composer.

Yeah, strange seeing— much less being in a group with a guy who nearly killed you run over, after priming the cipher, to you and patching you up the best he can. His hands are steady, nibble, and quick as they all had to learn how to patch each other up. This isn’t a game one can win by playing lone wolf, in order to survive everyone has to work as a team. Even if that means working with someone who tried to kill you.

Now, to say you hang that over his head is not true. In the line of work you had been in, you sometimes had to work under pressure with people who may have threatened you with any form of physical violence. You rolled with the punches, often literally, but you lived. Life hardened you, and you moved on (though moving on does not mean you forgive them). Guilt bites at the Composer in a way that you had not expected.

Relationships are not unheard of but rare. One-night stands are not rare but not as common because most do not want to deal with drama while trying to get through a match.

You were open to having sex, it is a destresser and you can do it with no strings attached. Luca was one you had bedded a few times, fun guy. Norton too but he is a messy one, the mood swings had ended the arrangement fast (though you did let him have it when you both got into a fight in the duo match).

Past adventures, the present adventure is the man now kiting with you against Naiad.

The gate currently opened (thanks to Alice), is blocked by the mer-bitch (you… dislike her or rather going against her).

Composer takes a hit to distract as he hasn’t taken any damage during the match. You follow up by shooting the hunter with the flare gun then dashing to follow out.

The match ends in a victory for the survivors.

“See you tonight.” Upon entering the manor you pat his shoulder before leaving off to check on Alice.

Frederick Kreiburg could be considered boring.

There are not always nights with that raw passion that would make the Gods blush sort of thing. Nothing like romance novels with the life-altering sex the protagonists have.

It is… Well, it is like making love honestly.

With Luca, you had fun. Playful and a lot of teasing. With Norton, it was like a fight, rough and hard that left you swore for days. Even the time you slept with Demi after a long of partying, it was fun and sweet.

With Frederick, this love. He is the composer and you are the orchestra. Each symphony played with care, practice, and with love.

You never made love before. Sex is one thing, fucking around is another, but love is different. It is just as consuming as lust but lingers longer than lust. It has you biting your lip as Frederick removes your slippers from when you bathed, his lips kissing the top of your foot, his hand massaging the soreness under your foot.

It is like being worshiped and adored in a way lust cannot give you.

He travels upward slowly, his gloves tossed to the floor, your leg brought up to rest on his shoulder and the other leg guided to open you up to him.

Like a flower, or something poetic.

“Frederick.” You don't realize how pent-up you are until he kisses the inside of your exposed thigh. The bathrobe opened and slumped around your waist. “Fuck.” Moaned out.

He enjoys making you sing, enjoys seeing that hardened exterior crumble to expose that you are just as starved just as him. He takes his time preparing you. Every action is blessed by a tune he knows you ask later what song he is singing. You enjoy hearing him talk about his music.

When he finally lets you cum, you nearly jump him in your eagerness to get him naked. The Composer is different from you, you like that.

“I love you.”

To think he pulled out a gun and had shot you during the struggle.

“Say it again.” Between his legs.

“I ah l-love you.”

The hum of an old song, Clair de Lune, sounds pretty, as you blow him is fun. He has to guess the song before he cums.

The fun part is after when you let him gather himself before the union. The crescendo (you told him and found it amusing that you tried learning musical terms to flirt with him), the part that you both have to fight to not be so loud. Even if his room is free of neighbors (a few less than other sections), you more than once had to tell Naib to shut up with the teasing about Frederick moaning.

Yes, you possess those moans and the Mercenary does not need to be an ass.

The low, yet comforting part, is the post-orgasm part.

Lying there basking in the glow. You are clingy and praising him endlessly, it is something you enjoy doing with your partners. He falls asleep fast when you ‘overwork’ him, the man needs the sleep and you need to let out some post-match steam.

[papaver-decervicatus]

Cat/Mouse/Den: Pt. 1, Cat

Alone on wilderness patrol, König’s radio intercepts an enemy transmission meant for a SpecGru sniper. Within a beautiful and capable woman’s crosshair, something electric and treacherous takes root in his heart, and he decides to tempt his doom. It’s a game of cat and mouse, and it’s been far too long since he has had anything worth hunting.

CW: Obsession, stalking, canon typical violence, intrusive thoughts, unsanitary wound care

Authors Note: Huge shout-outs to @kneelingshadowsalome and @sprout-fics for writing some really great fics that inspired me to write this and for being such kind beta readers!

This work is inteded to pass as x reader or x OC in third person POV, German is from google translate, feel free to correct me if you can!

This project started out very small and has definitely spiraled out of control. To all readers, please enjoy and let me know what you think!~ Caedis

Pt. 1, Cat | 1.3k words | König POV | NEXT

“They call you… Maus?” König says into his radio. 

It’s a mistake. That he’s heard the transmission. That he found her position. He’s sure that she sees him, he knows he’s good as dead. 

He’d seen her file in a briefing. Some SpecGru sniper, relatively new to the force. Accolades nothing short of damn impressive but with a general disposition against war. She’s a good rule follower unless she hates the rule and then she tends to do her own thing. Overall, mixed bag, but too useful to refuse. She wouldn’t be on the force if she weren’t some sort of useful. 

Most of what he’d thought was, “Wow, really? That many targets? Seems temperamental. Wish I could’ve been a sniper. Seems much more peaceful.” And then a much quieter, general, passing: “She’s pretty.” 

And that was it, really. When he got moved to solo wilderness patrol, it was Klaus’s idea to give him intel on who he thought would be most likely to be on patrols alone. As the resident wilderness expedition expert, he thought it most reasonable to give König and a few others on similar patrols the basics on her and a few of her comrades. Quite mundane for his line of work, all things considered. 

The irony isn’t lost on him, that him doing the very thing her file warns his upper command about, “doing his own thing,” is what will kill him. He’s out about five miles from where he should be, dangerously far. But, he always had a weakness for the mountains. When he realized his route to do shipment surveillance was close to a ravine, there was no question in his mind that he was going to check it out. 

And it’s got him in a good-looking lady’s sniper scope, right as the sun sets behind her. She’s got a perfect shot. 

What's that silly English phrase? Curiosity killed the cat? 

He smiles about it, though. He’s happy it’s a sniper. Happy it’s a pretty one. 

“You’re not my target.” Is her response. She shouldn’t be able to radio back to him. 

Strange. 

“Not an answer. And who is then?” He quips back into the static, still not quite sure he believes she’s there. Even at every possible disadvantage, this is still his territory, he’s still the king of his little domain, of this minuscule set of battle strip. It’s pathetic, the only place he feels any sort of peace is at war. 

“Negative to both.” 

“Playing hard to get. That’s fine with me.”

He hears her chuckle before she shuts off her end. 

This is… most exhilarating. 

He finds her in the tree line, and he smiles. She’s across the 80-yard-long ravine. There’s a creek at the bottom, and interesting flora marks the cliffs all the way down. He wonders what wildlife drinks from the stream down there and if there are any decent caves he could find an opening to. If any could fit him, that would be. She’s found a good post, in the branches of an inconspicuous tree. That’s right, she specialized in tree climbing and tracking if he remembers her file well enough. It’s a pretty perch, no wonder she chose it. 

A younger part of him is jealous. The older part smothers that part down as he takes in the view. 

The sun is setting behind her. She’s very far away, but his skin prickles to life knowing that he’s being watched. The exposed rock of the ravine flames to life with amazing browns and reds, and the stone sparkles like rubies and tiger’s eye stones as the sun's rays catch it. 

It’s a beautiful place, really. It’s not such a bad place to die, he thinks. She’s a good shot. She’ll do it quickly. Nothing to fret about, really. It’s his own fault, anyways. 

He knows if he runs to or from her, he’s dead. So he stands still. 

Waiting. 

For what?

He doesn’t know. A fairy tale? An Angel? A sign from God? His own comms? The common sense to radio his own and tell them about the fucking sniper in the tree?

He doesn’t know. 

So he waits for her to make the first move. 

“If you turn tail,” She warns, his radio crackling to life, “I won’t shoot.”

He’s going to die, might as well have some fun at it. 

“I will- if you tell me why they call you Maus.” His accent lingers on the word, just about the same in Deutsch as it is in English. Maybe that’s where the Brits got the word from in the first place? Some Germanic mountain peoples from long, long, long ago? 

He can’t see her in detail, she’s much too far. But with his hazy memory of her file, he imagines her face contorted in with the effort of deciding what to do. He thinks of her blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face. He thinks about her flexing her fingers around, but not squeezing, the trigger. 

She seems to chew her lip on this one. He already knows her code name, it’ll do very little good or bad for him to know just why. 

“I’ll bite, soldier.” She says, hurriedly, like someone might walk in on their little game. Like the teacher is about to find the two kissing in a supply closet at the school. Like she knows this is bordering dangerously close to bloody. 

“Quid pro quo?” She asks. 

It’s not a no. 

He smiles. His cheeks get red as they flick upwards in a grin of pure giddiness. What a fun way to die. Playing a silly little game like this? Fantastic!

“I think you know.”

“König?”

“Ja.” To his delight, her accent scraping its way around his call sign, the only name he cares about at this point, isn’t half bad. Being so seen on the battlefield should make his chest tighten, but not quite like this. It’s wrong, but then again he actually enjoys war so maybe he’s never quite been right, either. 

“Why?”

It’s his turn to laugh and rush out a response. He sits down on the ground and opens his legs as wide as they’ll comfortably go and rests his cheek in his hand propped on his thigh. If he’s going to die, he’s going to give her a pretty show. He’s going to die comfortably lazing around like a cat on a windowsill, taunting the stray tabby outside who so desperately wants to claw him to death. 

“You first, Schatz,” he downright purrs into his mic. He’s no fool, if he could see her up close, he would not be flirting with disaster like he is currently. 

He can’t see her, she’s much too far away, but he imagines her chest constricting beautifully and her biting her lip. He imagines her lips pressed into a thin line while she claws into her upper arm, trying to regain control. Like it’s all a silly game. And, maybe it is.

Cat and mouse. 

He likes the sound of that. 

Her voice returns to him, low and slow like she’s dragging her tongue over every syllable like she’s trying honest-to-goodness to taste him. 

“Maybe next time, König.” 

He can hear the smile in her voice. Maybe she’s enjoying the game, too?

A shot rings out, and his blood whistles and boils. It hits the tree 6 feet to his left at exact head height. His ears start to ring, but he’s entirely unharmed as birch bark splinters around him. 

“Position compromised, moving.” Is what she radios to her command. 

“Rog, Mouse.” Command calls back. 

He sees movement from her position, but he knows she’s much too far for him to get to her in time. He laughs bright and loud and gets himself up off the ground. 

“Nächests mal, kleine Mäuschen.” Next time, little mouse. He says, to no one in particular. It’s been a long while since König has had so much fun like this on the battlefield. At a genuine disadvantage, put into a position that size and strength alone won’t remedy. And he’s sure as hell not ruining it by telling anyone, no matter how dangerous that is. 

A game of cat and mouse? 

Good. 

It’s been far too long since he had something worth hunting.

[smilesstyless]

So are still open to older!Harry one shots because hears one…

Older!Cop and/or Firefighter Harry and plus size! Teacher Reader and she’s helping the kids calm down because there was a fire or a suspicious person or package on school grounds and then goes to her asks if she doing ok (btw they are already dating or something) sorry if isn’t good or makes sense

I’m sorry it took sooooo long :)

The school had to call the firefighters because there was a fire in the chemistry lab, the primary school was next to the High School, and they had to get out too. They don’t want the fire to spread.

Y/n was calming down the kids who were crying, she was hugging Amanda, who is a shy kid. She doesn't really talk, when they have art, she is concentrated on the things she’s doing right now. Once she gave a picture to you.

Your boyfriend is a firefighter. He makes sure everything is okay.

Harry was looking for you, and he found you on the other side of the schooyard. He saw you talking to a little girl. His smile gets brighter every second he looks at you.

“Thank god you’re okay. I looked for you for at least ten minutes,” he sighs with relief.

“Hey,” he looks down at you. You grab her by her armpits and lift her up and she rests on your hip. She hides herself in your neck.

Hi h,” she smiles slightly. She’s still busy with Amanda. She pecks his lips for a moment. The kids around her yelled ‘ew.’

“Are you okay? I know it wasn’t— but I have to make sure you’re alright.” He smiles, Harry is a few years older than you. He loves to take care of you.

“I am, but Amanda is still shocked,” Harry takes her into his arms. She looks confused at her teacher. Harry’s smile is big, and so is y/n’s she loves to see him with kids.

“I’m Harry,” he smiles, “You don’t have to cry, it was just a little fire. Were you scared of the sound the school made?” She nodded her head.

“You’re fine and Ms. Y/l/n is also fine. If you hear that sound again. I’ll check on you after I’m done working. How does that sound?” Harry’s voice is a bit higher than usual. He always does that when he’s talking to kids, he doesn’t wanna scare them with his deep voice.

“Good, thank you, Harry,” she wraps her arms around his neck.

•••

The next day she made something you weren't allowed to see. At the end of the lesson, she gave it to you. “Please give it Harry,” she smiled shyly. She's in first grade and you didn’t care right now to correct her.

“You can do it yourself,” Harry waited in front of the class until you were finished teaching. He stands up and walks into class. He kisses the top of her head. Amanda hides behind her teacher's leg.

“You wanted to give something to him,” Harry knelt.

“I don’t bite,” she walks slowly forward toward Harry. She hands him her picture.

“I drew you and y/n and also a cat who you were saving.” She didn’t have a problem with the kids saying her first name.

“Thank you, that’s so sweet of you,” she smiled shyly. As she looks at the door she sees her dad.

“Daddy,” she yells. “I gave this nice firefighter my picture,” she points at Harry who’s looking at her dad and Amanda.

“Is he the one from yesterday?” She nodded her head.

•••

“That’s so nice of her, did you ask her to do that?”

“No, I wasn’t allowed to see it until the end of the lesson,” Harry puts the picture on their fridge.

[puppy-coded]

cat!{e.m.}

✰ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: light swearing

✰ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Eddie Munson x fem!reader 

✰ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1350 words

Eddie had come home from work only to hear a faint ‘meow’ from under the trailer. He all but crawled under it to get the cat he knew was under it. He was so excited when he was finally able to get the cat.

He was especially excited to show you, hoping you were a cat person.

He held the cat to his face and kept moving so the cat would face him. “Okay, Cat, be as cute as possible. I’m gonna show you to my girlfriend and we both need a ‘yes’ on this one,” He whispered to it.

The cat very vaguely ‘nodded’ and he went into the trailer.

“Hey babe! Look who I found under the trailer.” He said loudly, causing you to pick your head up from your book. 

You stared at him from your spot on the couch before answering. “... Dustin?”

“What? No- Why?” Eddie faltered, trying to figure out what you were trying to connect.

“Kids obsessed,” You shrugged.

“No. I found a cat.” Eddie told you.

You shot up, throwing your book down without a bookmark. “Oh my goodness gracious a cat!” You said happily, going over to your boyfriend to pet it.

Eddie smiled proudly. “Yeah, cute isn’t she?”

“How do you know it’s a she? Did you check?” You asked.

Eddie grimaced at the thought. “No, it’s just the vibe I got. What do you want me to call the cat? It?” He asked with a fake laugh.

“Let’s take it to the vet just to make sure first of all and to see if there’s a missing cat poster.” You suggested, grabbing a jacket and Eddie’s keys.

“Also, vaccinations and worms right?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah. That too.” You said, already out the door. “Can I drive?”

“Fat chance,” Eddie called. “Hold the cat in your seat.”

. . .

You and Eddie were nervously waiting in the waiting room for the cat. You were holding onto his arm and curled into the chair and his leg was bouncing like crazy. It’s always bouncing but not as fast as it was when you were waiting for the cat.

The vet came out with the cat and called you two up. You got up there and the vet smiled at you two.

“Okay, first of all your cat is so cute. She’s-” The vet started.

“Ha! She! I was right,” Eddie celebrated, sticking his tongue out at you.

You laughed at his reaction. “Eddie, let the vet talk.”

He crossed his arms and pointed to the vet. “Right. Sorry, continue.”

The vet nodded and continued. “Well, she’s a very healthy cat and is a very good age to be semi-trained. I’d snatch her up since she’s not on the ‘missing pets’ poster.” She informed you.

Eddie was nodding along the whole time. “What about, like, the medical stuff? Like vaccinations and sh... stuff.” Eddie corrected.

“No, just because she’s still pretty young. I would bring her in once she hits the one year mark.” The vet told him.

“She’s still a kitten?” You asked.

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” You and Eddie let out at the same time.

You got your cat back and took her to Eddie’s van. He got in and was almost squealing when he saw the cat. 

He started the van and started to head in the direction of Petland for stuff for your new cat such as food.

“We have a cat!” He said excitedly. 

“We have a cat!” You responded. “What do you wanna name her?”

Eddie was silent for a second before responding. “What about... Bella?” 

You shrugged. “Meh. How about Charlie?” You suggested.

Eddie made a face when you suggested it. “Doesn’t do anything. What about Wendy?” He asked hopefully.

“Ooo! I like Wendy.” You agreed, kissing the cat on the head. “She seems like a Wendy.”

Eddie smiled at you and Wendy. “Good, because it’s the name of the lead singer of a band I like.”

“Figured.” You sighed dramatically. “What color harness should we get her?” You asked. “I was thinking purple.”

“Definitely purple.” Eddie agreed. “Pink is overdone.”

“Agreed. Matching leash?” You asked, already envisioning how walking around Hawkins with Eddie and Wendy would probably go.

Eddie saying “duh” was all that interrupted your thoughts of a peaceful cold weather walk.

“What type of cat food?” You asked. 

“Dry.” Eddie responded quickly. “Wet would probably get everywhere.”

“Also expensive as all heck.” You chimed in, nodding. “Brand?” You asked, scratching Wendy behind the ears when she meowed at you.

“Uh... Let the cat decide?” Eddie suggested.

“Okay, I’m down.” You shrugged, putting Wendy down in front of three separate brands of cat food.

Wendy went straight to one of the bags and immediately started pawing at it. You picked Wendy back up and Eddie threw a bag over his shoulder since it was heavy.

“Is Wendy gonna be an outside cat or inside cat?” You asked.

Eddie gasped dramatically. “Babe, what kind of question is that? Inside.”

You shrugged. “Just asking because I grew up in the middle of nowhere and had an outside cat that disappeared after two years.” You defended. “Remember Fiona?”

“... Makes sense.” He nodded. “But she’s not disappearing on us.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, thinking about what you and Eddie had just done. “Are we qualified to be pet parents?”

“No.” Eddie said flatly. “But we’re doing it anyway because this is probably the closest we’re gonna get to having kids.”

“Oh thank god!” You responded, putting a hand to your heart.

. . .

Eddie had been outside all day and you had no idea what he was up to. Every time you went to check on him he would wave you off.

Eventually he came back in and was really excited. “Babe! Look what I made Wendy!” He held up a small flower crown proudly in one hand.

“Oh my god cute!” You exclaimed. Wendy looked up from her food bowl at the noise and came over to meow at the two of you.

Eddie held up two more flower crowns that could fit the both of you. “The three of us are matching now!”

“Eddie. That is so cute. C’mere Wendy.” He put yours on you and you picked up Wendy. 

He situated the crown on her carefully and she meowed again. Wendy pawed at it until it fell off. You put her down and she ignored the flower crown.

“It’s the thought that counts babe.” You assured Eddie with a kiss on the cheek.

. . .

You and Eddie were laying in bed quietly doing things when Wendy came into the room. She crawled through Eddies arms and laid on his chest. Eddie kissed the top of Wendy’s head and put his new song on the nightstand.

You watched the whole thing go down with a smile. “I have never thought I’d be jealous of a cat for cuddling with my boyfriend but here we are,” You sighed. “She’s stealing the love of my life.”

Eddie chuckled and started to pet Wendy. “There’s enough of me to go around ladies. No need to push.”

You covered your face with your book and groaned. “Oh my god, shut up.”

“Quit. You love it.” He said, reaching out to you without disrupting your cat.

“I do but you’re still a weirdo.” You told him, turning over to put your book on he ground next to your side of the bed.

“Yeah. I’m Wendy’s weirdo.” He agreed.

“Eddie,” You giggled.

“Yours too. That was always implied,” He mockingly defended.

You turned to face him, propping yourself up and resting your head on your hand.“We’re gonna be great parents.”

He looked at you slightly taken aback by your statement. “I thought you didn’t want kids?” He asked, tilting his head slightly.

You smiled gently. “I changed my mind. You’d be a great dad.” You complimented, tapping his nose.

“Stop, I’m gonna cry.” He said, fanning his eyes.

You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm. “I was being serious asshole.”

“I know.” Eddie said, disrupting Wendy so he could kiss your cheek before you went to bed.

[yeyinde]

Hello :) English isn't my first language , so please correct me if anything is wrong . First of all you're writing is ABSOLUTELY AMAZING ! ! ! I don't know if you're taking requests but if you do can you please write an RZ|Michael Myers x shy reader , in which Michael comes home after a kill and finds his S/O showering and can it be smut ? But , if you don't take requests right know and you don't want to write about Michael , that's totally fine . Anyways , I hope you're having a wonderful day <3

ahhhhh, thank you so much!!!! 🖤🖤 i am absolutely taking requests, and i do write for Michael (i have been working on some peepaw Myers smut on the DL for a bit now, so my apologies if some of OG Myers mannerisms bleed in), but love all versions of MM, so thank you for giving me an excuse to flex my hand with some RZ Myers~

and sorry for the delay! i wanted to get reacquainted with RZ Myers so i spent some time watching the films again to get a better grasp on his movements, mannerisms, and the little idiosyncrasies i could spot!

i really hope you enjoy this! and - sorry, again: this kind of got away on me, and its maybe-sorta-kinda clocking in at 11K. oops. 🥹

⤷tw: gratuitous smut, fluff, mentions of gore and death, Michael being Michael, dom!Michael

You tell yourself you're not nervous, that there is nothing to be nervous about in this strange little microcosm you've fallen inside (snatched, dragged, locked in a gilded cage where you are tucked away from a world that might lash out and hurt). 

No, nothing at all. 

In this ethereal, otherworldly place inhabited only by two (and your cat - cats, really, because you love all of your strays equally) there is no set routine; therefore, there is nothing to be worried about since something like this could only be fretted over had you the luxury of normalcy. Of established rules. Regulation. Schedule.

It's silly to worry, then. Silly and stupid and pointless. 

You're not nervous. You're not.

But the anxious knot that gnarls inside of your chest spools and thickens with each passing minute calls you a liar. 

The clock in the corner ticks the time down like an augury, and your eyes bounce between it - this ugly grandfather clock with a pendulum that hangs too much like a noose for you to ever enjoy the sonorous lull - and the back door, as if in those scant microseconds, he would appear in the doorway, head hanging low to avoid clunking his forehead off the trim - because he's just so tall, just so massive -, and would just be standing there, watching you. Like he always does. Staring. Assessing. 

For such an indomitable, unfathomable mountain of a man, he's surprisingly catlike. 

A silent, stealthy jaguar hidden in plain sight. 

(There is a predator in this picture!, your aunt shares on Facebook. Can you spot him?

You never do. You don't have an eye for locating hidden danger, and when you scroll down, spotting the cat lurking in the red circle, you realise you weren't even close.)

When you look at the back door once again, there is nothing crowding the archway. No one lingering near the basement stairs. The open hallway is empty save for your bins lined up in the small mudroom that connects to it by a set of three steps on the halfpace.

You know the layout of your house like the back of your hand, just like you know the places he likes to hide. To wait. The little enclaves barely conceal the sheer, absurd bulk of him, and they're all empty. 

You hear nothing. Not the rattle of the lock. The creaking of the cellar stairs. Nor the unmistakable sound of his muffled breathing. 

You're not worried. Saudade doesn't belong in your heavy chest. 

Tick tick tick… 

There is nothing to be worried about. 

Tick tick tick… 

Your gaze tears away from the door, the clock, when the familiar jingle of the local news station cuts through the tenebrous clouding your living room. 

The man - clean, sharp, greying around his temples - jogs a stack of papers on the curved desk, his mouth set in a grim line. 

It's been nearly a month since you've seen him last. 

He comes and goes like the many strays you pluck from the alleys and take home, nursing them back to health, feeding them until they're plump and nourished, and then letting them wander back from wherever little corner they originated from, knowing that you'll see them again when the rats thin and the new litter is able enough to hunt on their own. 

Scarcity is what brings your family together. 

"...A series of murders are once again shaking up the county. No curfew is set as of late, but the police are urging the public not to wander at night alone, to stay in large groups, and to lock all windows and doors…"

Hunting in Haddonfield is scarce lately. 

You taste copper on your tongue before your bottom lip starts smarting as your teeth break the flesh. Your tongue rolls out, smoothing over the irritated skin, and wiping away the droplets of blood that pool in the seam of your mouth. It's salty, astringent. The metallic tang makes your mind wander, drifting to him. 

Like a magnet, your eyes are pulled back to the hallway. 

The taste of blood reminds you of him. The thick, heady scent of rust seems to exude from every pore on his body. The burning miasma of decay. Death. 

(Danger, something in the atavistic recesses of your mind spits. Danger and doom. Demise.)

"...Seven more bodies were found-," you blink, gaze focusing on the dim hallway that sits, stagnant, vacant, and turn your head back to the television. Faces flash on the screen behind his head. Their names sit in a little white rectangle below the last image of them alive, happy. 

The one in the middle looks familiar. A familiar stranger. 

It hits you when you spot the little mole on her chin. 

The bubbly clerk at the mum'n'pop grocer on the outskirts of the city. She always pretends to ring up your tampons and pads, but each time you sit in your car and glance at the receipt, they're never there. 

It's done with no words. She isn't seeking recognition, or plaudits.

The last time you saw her, she added a bag of chocolate clusters to your order, perching them on top of the box. You walked in looking like death and hunched over from the cramps that turned your face nearly ashen with pain that day. No words. No inclusion of nearly nine dollars and forty cents on your bill. She even grabbed the expensive brand - the one that uses all-natural ingredients. 

She winked when you looked at her. A secretive little thing meant only for you. 

And now - 

You suck in a shuddering breath through clenched teeth. The temperature drops. Your teeth ache from the cold. 

Sometimes you like to pretend that the world doesn't exist outside of the four walls that close in around you. That everything else is a bad dream, an illusion. It's just you on this lonely island on the outskirts of a town that bred the unequivocal evil that haunts the shadows and hunts down those misfortunate enough to stumble in its ravenous path. 

Just you, him, and your cats. 

And he, of course, is the shapeless chasm of evil skulking the town and butchering the lovely shopgirl who gives you free chocolate when you wander in like an omen of death. 

It's not his fault. 

The excuse is thin. Sorrow gnarls inside of your chest, edging into the anxious thrum that steady billows up, polluting you with that fretful, nauseating sense of worry. 

You know you can't just mark down the residents that are off-limits. No such thing exists to him. The concept of unkillable is as confounding to him as this whole thing is to you.

But - 

As much as you like her - liked - you've made your choice, haven't you? The sorrow is overwhelmed by the worry. 

What if the police found him? What if someone hurt him? What if, what if, what if - 

What if he never comes back? 

This whole thing started on an ephemeral moment of happenstance. You wandered out into the alley right beside your house, pstpstpst'ing in the dark with an open bag of Temptations whilst you searched for that little stray who ran off with your socks - the cosy kind that keeps all your toes warm - when you stumbled into a wall. A warm one. Fever-hot. A hand lashed out of the caliginous recess, sealing around your arm before the gasp in your throat had a chance to pass your lips. 

It felt like a vice. 

The unrelenting coil of iron wrapped around your arms, squeezing the bone with such unfathomable force that your knees quaked from pain leaking into your forearm. 

The bag dropped from your shaking hands, spilling shrimp and lobster flavoured cat treats all over the dank, grimy alley floor. 

You couldn't see anything through the gloom or the sudden vertigo that ensnared you when you glanced up, trying to catch a glimpse of the mass of pure strength perched in front of you. Your head swam as the man's sheer length stretched on for aeons, never ending, roiling up nearly two metres tall. 

Your knees buckled. 

His hands gripping you was the only thing that kept you from collapsing into the murky puddle below. 

Through the town, murmurs erupted about the Shape. His history leaks blood and misery - mayhem and calamity follow him wherever he wanders. He's an omen of death. Decay and pain, murder, is his auspice. 

He's pure evil, the flashy doctor on the television set ground out, tone severe. His brows furrowed tightly together as everyone else around him hurtled blame and reason. He ignored them, his gaze unwavering as he stared into your very being through the monitor. Stay away from him. If you see him-, there was a hitch in his voice; and then, solemn. The silence of the newsroom was palpable: well, you'd be better off praying for a swift death. 

And so, that's what you do. 

"Please, please-," you don't pray to god. Gods. Your pleas are meant for him even though the black eyes that gleam in the low moonlight that hangs over you like a portant all tell you that it's futile. He doesn't listen to prayers. Your breathless orisons fall on deaf ears. 

You think about your cats. The ones locked inside your house right now with no escape. Food will run low. Water. You don't have many friends that keep up with you often enough for them to notice your absence. 

It's then, at that moment when his hands squeeze and your bones creak under the strain, that you wish you didn't prefer your own company over that of others. Cats. That if you weren't so docile and content to be alone, someone would notice the glaring lack of you, and rescue the poor strays you trapped inside your charnel. 

"Please," you choke, eyes burning with tears that stream down your face in rivets. It's your last adjure, plea, to whatever humanity is left to rot inside of him. "P-please just open my door…? My cats are inside, and I-"

The clouds overhead split apart. The milky glow of the moon illuminates the dim alleyway, cutting through the tenebrous cloaking the being that grips you from the shadows. 

The murky light makes the deep splashes on his chest look almost like ink. 

You thought it was his head. 

Oh, god. You'd been pleading with his chest this whole time. 

You glance up, nervous, shaking, and are met with the waxen mask, creased with age and covered in grime. Blood, perhaps. The sight of him, the way the back of your head has to nearly rest on your spine to stare at his face, makes you shiver. Makes your hands tremble and your heart thunder inside of your chest.

It would be very logical for the blood in your veins to run cold.

But with the intense, piercing way he stares down at you, chin tipped toward his chest, it spumes molten, liquid heat that rushes through you with enough force that you feel a little dizzy with it. 

Oh, no… 

Oh -

He bends down, and the thick, metallic scent of blood overwhelms you. Dirt. Sweat. The miasma of rot makes your heart give a painful thud. Fear. Terror. 

(And something else.)

His breath turns stertorous. 

You brace yourself, tensing for the sudden paroxysm of a vicious attack, your mind flashing with all the things you did, didn't do, should have done, and will now never get the chance - 

- He lurches, and then like a pendulum, swings back. 

You're jerked forward when he falls into the trash behind him, clattering against the bins stacked up near the garbage shoot. 

The silence that settles over you is smothering. 

You expect him to get up, to finish what he tried to start, but he doesn't. He lays, motionless, in the gutter. His grip on your arms slackens, and they fall, limp, to his sides. 

It's then that the damage to his torso reveals itself to you. The blood coating his body wasn't, entirely, foreign. 

He's injured. 

You hesitate. 

You should leave him here to die. Call the police. Thank your sudden stroke of luck. Kiss the ground and look for some deity to worship for this salvation. 

You should, but you don't.

(You've always had a soft spot for dirty strays.)

He comes and goes, now. Like the many cats you feed. 

Wandering around before slowly ambling back to your house in search of more sustenance. 

Somewhere in the muddled awakening, when he blinked his eyes open and found himself staring at the white popcorn ceiling in your living room, catching sight of you careful dabbing at the sweat drying on his brow after the rupture of a fever, you - and your house - become something victual for him. 

It was tense, at first - and really, it still is - but in the interim of patching together the gory remnants of his abdomen and breaking down in the solitude of your bathroom, huddled in the basin as water rippled across your skin in a baptism of sin, you found purpose in the murkiness that enshrouded you. 

The dubious morality nearly crippled you, leaving nothing but an empty husk of regret and terror as his skin knitted itself together, sealing over the wound that, had it been left in the trash, would have killed him. The infection, poisoned blood, animals - it would have all contributed to a corpse in the alley. 

The stench would have drawn notice to his final resting place, and the reign of terror the chasm of evil, the Shape, brought to your town would finally be over. 

And yet -

There was something itching in your pericardium that made leaving him alone feel tithe abysmal as the brief relief of letting him die. 

This is your fault. 

Your lip aches. Your tongue lolls over the broken skin, soothing the sting. 

Whatever it was that made him decide not to kill you when he felt your hands on his forehead, when he saw you trembling in the corner, gasping for breath and praying for a swift end, is a mystery to you. 

But maybe there is no logic. You feed the strays because you want to. 

You buy the extra cat food, and litter, and spend your earned money to get them spayed and neutered and cared for, not because you have to, but because you just do.

And maybe it's the same for him. 

You're somewhere in the middle of unkillable - for now - and nourishment.

Or you were. 

Then something inside of him snapped, evolved. 

You weren't here when he slipped inside of your home like he belonged, flinching at the state of him dripping gore in your mudroom, and then slowly, cautiously, skirting around him, fretting in the background. 

You weren't there.

No -

You were at the vet. 

When you returned, cat cradled under your arm and dozing off the effects of anaesthesia, you were met with an eerie silence, and bloodied footprints pacing across your floors. 

You had just enough time to set the cat down on the landing when his hand lashed out through the aether once more, grabbing your delicate neck and slamming you against the wall so hard the photos you hung (all pictures bought from Ikea to make your mudroom a little less drab) clattered to the ground, cascading glass and broken wood over the messy floor.

His breath comes in great, heaving rasps; anger seeps into every crevasse as his eyes, feverish with bloodlust, bore down at you. 

The apoplectic fury that roars through him is sudden, unexpected. He'd been so docile toward you thus far. Your defences lowered, almost, when weeks passed and he made no move to end your life. 

He crept around your house like he belonged, watching you from the doorway of your bedroom as you slept. It was the most he'd done to shake your sense of comfort and privacy. 

He never touched you, except that time in the alley and when he'd first woken up, both times grabbing you out of reflex rather than intent. 

This - 

This is purposeful. 

The quick rise and fall of his chest makes your toes curl in confusion, fear. 

Why now? Why he is - 

He leans in, the wheezing breath sounding muffled and garish behind the latex, and then he - 

Sniffs.

It's so unexpected, so jarring, that your head thumps against the wall when you flinch. 

Why is he - 

His hand reaches up, grasping at the wispy, tangled hair of his mask, and with a great tug, it's pulled from his head, and dropped - discarded - on the floor. 

You've only seen him barefaced when you lugged him into the mudroom, and settled him on the carpet between your couch and coffee table. It wasn't his choice; you'd removed it in your search for additional injuries. 

This, however, is all him - his choice, his decision.

And it baffles you. 

You don't know why he took the mask off, why he's so angry - why he keeps coming back, why he stares at you so much, why he does what he does, why you - 

You find out with the briefest flutter of his eyelids narrowing at you. His nostrils flare. And then he moves, plunging his head closer to you until your foreheads are pressed taut together, and suddenly - unexpectedly - his mouth is on yours. 

He doesn't move. His lips are lax. It might not even be a kiss, you don't think, but then his head tilts, slanting his mouth over your own, and his lips part, only just, and it's then that you realise that he is kissing you. 

Or in proxy of it, anyway. 

He mimics the right movements, but there is no action beyond that. It's almost as if he doesn't know how people kiss, just that they do, and this is what it looks like when you stand off to the side and watch. 

Movies. Real life. The images you've seen play in your head over and over again, lining up perfectly with the way his head moves, the way his body leans into you, bracketing you against the wall. His hand around your throat keeps your chin up, your head immobile, while he cocks his head to the side in a mockery of romance that's so utter endearing you nearly pass out from blood that rushes to your cheeks. 

Oh, god. 

Michael Myers is kissing you. He doesn't know how, but he's trying, and it's - 

Oh, god. Oh -

It changes the chossy foundation established between you. 

Michael stakes a claim on you, on your house, that is incomprehensible to you; this abstruse chasm in which you're precariously balanced on the precipice, gazing in at the inscrutable abyss that looks back at you, and kisses you, and pulls you close, and smothers you with the sheer absurdity of it all, is confounding. Beyond reason. 

You haven't initiated any of it. 

All the lines crossed between you were at his hands, his whim. When he strips you bare and looms over you like a starving breast, a ravenous god, you let him - willingly, eagerly - but you never breach those parameters on your own accord. 

The abrupt physicality of your evolving - something - with Michael Myers wreaks havoc on your poor, straining heart. The embarrassment comes in a maelstrom. You skirt away from his grasping hands, gasping and flushing scarlet as the blazing heat of his body sears your skin. 

It's too much sometimes. 

To go from near death, to a ramshackle symbiosis of sorts - a ghastly, unspoken agreement in which you are not to be killed provided that you aid him when he comes skulking through the alley, and meandering about your haven like the very same alleycats you pluck from the barren streets -, to this, is, well, odd, to say the least. 

Was it there the whole time for him? Did he look at you with his lidded gaze from the onset? Did that dark hunger spool inside of him from the beginning or were the embers flamed by something you did after? 

Was it the empty house he wandered into that set him off? 

(Does it really matter?)

"...If you see any suspicious figures, do not engage, and call local authorities right away-," click.

You toss the remote on the cushion beside you, leaning your head back on the rest, gazing listlessly at the ceiling. The swell of panic hasn't subsided, but it's all futile. 

Michael has no collar. He comes and goes on his own, driven back to you by that strange unknowable thing that makes him desire you, that makes him tug you on his lap and paw at your body until you're quivering from his touch. When he finally sinks inside of you, all thought is dissolved into frayed synapses that spark, filled with nothing but pleasure. Logic, reason, questionable morality, the existential ennui that drapes over you like a stormcloud, only seeps into the tenebrous when he is around. 

And he hasn't been around for nearly a month. So, it comes in vicious waves, now. 

Maybe he found whatever he was searching for in your flesh, and didn't need it any longer. Maybe the tremble in your hands caused by his touch, the briefest brush of his skin nearly overwhelming you, and the etiolated countenance you carried when he loomed large and imposing, in your space, was disinteresting to him. 

You've seen it before in the others, haven't you? 

Hunger satiated. Thirst quenched. They wandered away from you, no longer needing the aliment you provided. 

You should be thankful that his curiosity has been abated. 

(But like most things you ought to be, you aren't.)

The only constant with Michael is a trail of bodies and the habitual sense of fear and unease as he lurks in the crevasses of Haddonfield, waiting to happen upon his next victim. 

He leaves you in a state of pell-mell and uproots your bucolic existence with his confounding presence, and the strange way he fits you inside of his world. 

Your thoughts are plagued by uncertainties that make your stomach churn with knots; a festering mass of unease and anxiety. 

You need a distraction. 

Your eyes glance furtively toward the hallway - barren as it has been for the last month - before the little sigh of dejection passes through your lips. 

It's silly to worry. 

With one last hopeful glance at the still empty hallway, you rise from the couch, and drift toward the washroom adjacent to your bedroom. You'll scour the nerves off under the scalding nozzle, and then watch something cheesy and stupid - a mindless movie you turn your thoughts off before falling asleep. 

Peanut Purrter and Jelly swarm you when you stand, mewling for the food they already ate, and you bend down, scratching behind their soft ears. Out of all of the cats, these two are the most affectionate. They never leave your side, either. You picked them up out of a bin, took them home, and they quickly decided that the outdoor life was just not for them. 

It happens sometimes. 

All their wants are fulfilled in the sanctity of your four walls, and they seem content to live out the rest of their days wandering through the halls, and watching the birds from out the window, or the fish in your tank. 

Jelly pushes his soft, orange head into your palm, eyes slipping shut as his loud purrs fill the hallway, and you can't stop the little thought that slips out of the recess where notions of grandeur and impossibilities are let to rot, wondering if one day, Michael will find that, too. 

(And then, embarrassedly, selfishly, you wonder if it would be with you.)

You bury your flaming cheeks into Peanut's lush fur, and use her as a shield to hide the silly little thoughts that roll inside of your head late at night. She's happy to go along for the ride, content to paw at your hair and flick her tail over your arms. 

"How stupid," you murmur into her fur, the flush spreading like a fever. 

She bleats in response.

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The shower eases the tension that builds, settling the cortisol that pools inside of you.  

Thoughts of Michael slip down the drain, but only just. He lingers in the periphery - has since you first found him in the gutter and dragged him inside - like an inescapable shadow. Your hands scrub over your face in a futile attempt to wash the blush off your cheeks. 

It's easy to push the idealistic musings into the chasm that chews them up and spits out realism. 

It's the worry of the unknown that refuses to relent. 

Is he hurt? Did he get caught? Why hasn't he come home -

Home. 

No. This isn't his home. His home is a dilapidated house in the suburbs of Haddonfield. 

Your little bucolic abode on the fringes of the wilderness is not home to him: it's a refuge. A place to get his needs met and lay low. 

A means to an end. 

The thoughts gnarl inside of you, festering under the weight of uncertainty.

You wish you could ask him, but even if he was here, you know you wouldn't. The words sat on your lips so many times before only to be swallowed down quickly by the fear of rejection, of pushing him into a corner. 

You reach for the soap and wonder where this is heading. Maybe he wouldn't return. Maybe he didn't need you anymore.

Maybe -

There is a rustle. A looming shape just outside of the blue cover. And then your curtain is wrenched back. 

The startled scream is smothered in your oesophagus at the sight of him, brooding, massive. He takes up all space in your small washroom - so tall that he has to duck his head down to look at you lest his view is hindered by the curtain rod. 

(Can you spot the danger? You didn't even know it was there-)

He appears almost as quickly as he disappears. His eyes never waver as he watches you huddled under the scalding spray of the shower head, hands curled between your breasts as you lather a bar of soap in your hands. 

(Sea salt and eucalyptus. The loam scent reminds you of him.)

You flush, hunching further as his usually impassive stare hardens, brimming with an intensity that is only matched when he's angry or victorious after a kill. 

Michael peels back the shower curtain, exposing more of your nude, wet flesh to his burning gaze. 

"M-Michael-," you start, stuttering over his name, but the rest turns into a breathless huff of surprise when he pulls off his mask, and ducks under the rod keeping the curtain in place, clambering into the shower behind you. 

As soon as the water hits the leg of his jumpsuit, grime and dirt bleed off of him in rivets, turning the pooling liquid black. The brackish water sloshes as he steps in beside you, looming over you. 

The shower seems comically small in comparison to the length and width of him. His shoulders hunch, head dropping to avoid hitting the waterproof ceiling. You shuffle back, numb with surprise at his unexpected appearance, and with the way he moves - agile and graceful, despite his size. 

He fills the space, pushing you back to the opposite wall with the nozzle directly over your head. It reaches to his sternum, the weeping spray drenching his jumpsuit until it's nearly black from the water and the dried blood that runs down the length of his torso. 

It must be uncomfortable, you think, but he makes no move to undress, and seems completely unbothered by the oddity of the situation. 

It's been a month. Not much has changed. He is still the same strange - deadly, dangerous - man he'd always been. Always is. 

Your smile is a touch wobbly, filled with nerves of a new kind; the same anxious thrum wells inside of you at the sight of him. Your mind oscillates between terror, fear, and that primal pool of self-preservation that quickly rips through you, and bellows to stay still, to hide so that the hulking predator can't see you, can't devour you; and the unmistakable sense of relief at the sight of him standing so close to you. 

He's here, your mind chants like a broken record, tone shifting like a swinging pendulum between nervousness, fear and happiness, solace. 

Michael has a tendency to wring out every iota of intensity in each emotion you feel. There is no slight, no halves - it's whole. All. You're never slightly happy to see him. You're exuberant. You're never a little scared of him. You're terrified. 

You've never felt this way about anyone else before. The visceral emotions he makes you feel leave your mind spiralling on a downward descent off the edge of a steep precipice. 

And even now, with him towering over you like an inescapable wall of pure strength, you're wracked with tremors from the force of the relief, the conflict of fight or flight, and the undulating sense of contentment at having him so close to you. 

"Michael…" you murmur again, caught between terror and need. 

The slightest narrowing of his eyes is all he gives you in response. His chin dips down, meaningful, purposeful, and you know, you know, what he wants. What he came for. 

Covered in blood that doesn't belong to him, fresh from the abattoir he makes of your town, you can't help the thrum of want, need, happiness that spumes inside of your chest, consuming the worry, the fear, in one quick bite. 

It's gone, dissolved by hydrochloric acid and the unrelenting urge to close the chasm between you and the bulk of his body where you stand, barely brushing past the last rib of his torso. Michael knows. Of course he does. 

You were naïve in the beginning when you assumed him to just be a mindless killer; that the eyes that gazed at you were vacant and unseeing. 

Michael Myers is more observant than you could have ever fathomed. 

Nothing escapes him. 

Not the tremble in your lip, the spasms of your shaking fingers, the glistening water that runs down your flesh, already prickling with goosebumps despite the steaming heat of the shower.

He can see the need, the want, brimming up in your eyes as you gaze at him fleetingly, unable to match his stare, and overcome with that burning tang of embarrassment, shyness, that overwhelms you when he stands too close. 

He can see the war in your mind: 

Yearning for proximity until all you can feel is his heavy flesh on yours, merging together into a muddled mess of euphoric pleasure.

And;

The hesitation to get too close. The nervous thudding of your heart when he moves, like a scared little animal of prey stumbling upon a resting predator. Unsure what to do. How to approach. And if you even can.

It becomes too much. Your eyes drop - submissive, docile - to the white panelled floor below, watching the blood run over your feet, staining the mat pink with the gory residuum of seven - known - victims. It makes you recoil slightly, toes curling in the river of ichor. 

Michael’s head tilts. Another display of impatience. 

Right. Your teeth sink into the soft bed of flesh. Nerves turning to ash. 

Your hands shake when you reach up, knuckles brushing over the metal chain of his zipper as your trembling fingers grasp the pull. Michael keeps his intense, heavy gaze on you as your fingers spasm, too nervous to take the lead and undress him. 

Like a skittish little mouse under the paw of a cat, you tremble. Paralysed. But not with fear - with nerves. 

It's been a month, you want to say. You're not prepared. You're not - 

It's a lie, though. You laid in bed for the last four weeks with your hand under the covers, and his name on your lips like gospel. 

If anything, you're over-prepared. All too eager to feel him. To let the boogeyman take you. 

The thoughts running through you make you shiver. In your musings, Michael's head tilts.

The amplitude of his patience is deep, but not endless. 

His hand reaches up, closing in your own. His palm swallows your hands with an effortless ease that makes your knees quake. 

The implication in his action is clear: hurry up. 

You nod, mostly to yourself and you scrounge together the nerve that is quickly being eroded by the cascading water pouring over you. The grind of the metal teeth peeling back on the zipper, the rush of the water, and Michael's deep, even breaths are the only noise that fills the small - too small - shower. The muted cacophony echoes against the ceramic walls, reverberating through you. 

The zipper snags on the grove, and can go no further. You swallow thickly, eyes darting up to catch a glimpse of his expression covered under the damp, tangled curtain of his long brown hair. An inky abyss stares back at you. Under the impassivity of his expression, the vat of unfathomable black churns and froths with intense, burning fervour.  

He shrugs his shoulders, and the jumpsuit slips down from the weight of the water, pooling at his ankles. 

You flinch when his cock springs up, freed from the loose confinement of his overalls, and you think you catch a glimpse of his canines when he spots the bloom of blood spuming under your cheeks. 

You peek up at him, stomach knotting with a flutter of nerves that batter relentlessly at your soft lining, anxious to escape the prison it's kept in. His teeth are hidden by the even seam of his lips, expression veiled with a thick veneer of that same implacable nothingness that's reflected on the latex laying dormant, forgotten, on the carpet. 

When you finally meet his gaze, Michael's eyes flutter. And then he drops. 

Michael sits in one swift movement, dropping down to the shower bench behind him. His knees jut forward on the seat that's far too tiny for someone so big. 

Without him looming over you, you feel like you can breathe again. Quick breaths are eagerly stolen into your starved lungs. His proximity alone makes you sweat, makes you feel like you're being smothered. Hypoxia sets in until you're dizzy with it.

His hand reaches out, wrapping around your arm in that same too-tight, too firm grasp he always uses. 

It would be a lie to say he doesn't know his own strength by now. Michael Myers is very aware. Very attuned to himself in a way that you don't think any other person could ever manage to be. There is no unknown with him, no indecision. No unease. When he does something, it's always with purpose. 

So, when he takes hold of you like this, a shade away from burgeoning pain, you know that this, too, is done with meaning. And when your gaze drops to the floor, unable to meet the burning smoulder that stares at you, expectant, waiting, you see the purpose very clearly. 

He's hard. 

The moment your gaze brushes across the pearlescent precum pooling on his flushed, engorged head, his cock twitches, jerking against his broad, firm stomach. 

The hot water is limitless with your tank. It'll never run out so long as the electric light keeps it burning. But the spray that grazes your skin feels icy compared to the heat thrumming in your veins. You feel hot. Feverish. 

Panting into the steamy, oxygen-starved basin, you hastily snap your eyes shut, squeezing them tight to stem the sudden torrent of want that rages inside of you at the sight of him - knees spread in the perfect picture of languour, one hand on you, an effortless shackle keeping you from escaping, and the other limp by his side, knuckles brushing against the ceramic shower seat. 

He's probably tilting his head in that way he's wont to do - a little dip of his chin that conveys and implacable: well? and you can almost hear the accompanying, what are you waiting for? echoing in the stifling chamber. 

Your face is on fire. The embers flicker and drop sparks across your chest, spitting at the tips of your ears. 

You can't - 

Well. You simply can't. 

But Michael doesn't understand the concept of no, of wait, of this is too much and it's been so long and he's too -

Overwhelming. 

Everything is: his presence, the way his intensity feels like physical weight bearing down on you, his absurd size, his indomitable prowess and strength that sometimes makes your knees buckle and your limbs slacken in fear, his insatiable appetite -

He's hungry. Your teeth chatter from the shiver that rockets down your spine. 

There is no preparation for when his hands seal around your waist, unamused by the embarrassment that overtakes you. It happens too fast for you to keep up. His muscle coil, tightening, and then you're being heaved up into the air, suspended over his lap by nothing but his brute strength. 

Michael moves you around like you're a life-sized doll, filled with nothing but spooled polyester cotton. And to him, maybe you are. You're a malleable thing that flushes blood red in his presence, the hue never failing to catch his rapt attention immediately, and pique that little part of his brain that wants more. Little nips decorate your chin, neck, collarbones, chest - all a buccaneer smear of blossoming brands in the shape of his teeth; his insatiable lust for that particular cardinal shade manifesting on your flesh. 

He stares at them after. Eyes fixed on the burst capillaries that pool blood just under your skin. His breath is always a little quicker when he sees them the next morning, a little raspy, ragged. 

(He'll push you, then, against the wall and take you there, eyes never straying from the soot-coloured stains smearing flaxen and violet.)

There is no illusion of control with Michael. No sense of shared power or leeway. The ebb and flow begins and ends with him - his whims, his wants. You're merely adrift in the current, clinging to driftwood as his currents drag you along. 

It's here, perched on top of him, in a position where - had it been anyone else, you might have considered yourself in control, where the truth of that really stands apparent. 

Your knees aren't even touching the bench. They're folded up, caps pressed into the seam of the wall and Michael's hips, legs folded under your thighs, and toes dangling off the edge of his bent knees. 

He holds you tight, refusing to let you go, and pulls you taut to his chest until you can go no further. 

Even with you perched atop him, he has to angle his chin down to meet your gaze. Big. Towering. Mountainous. His arms flex, muscles coiling under the tawny flesh that barely contains it, and it's the jut of his veins that makes you gasp, eyes lidding as desire spools inside of you. 

Sometimes you like to imagine what he would be like had he chosen a different path in life, one void of bloodshed and terror. A model, you think, delirious with the hard press of his body against yours - so fragile and delicate by comparison. He'd be lusted after by an endless stream of people desperate, like you, for just a graze. 

It feels a little taboo to touch him, but you're imbued with the visceral sense of cacoethes.  

Unable to stem the itch in your palms, you press them against his chest, feeling the hard plains of his body under your fingertips. His skin is warm. Chest dusted with a flaxen smattering of ulotrichous hair. It prickles against your skin when you rub your hands across his broad torso, tentatively running them up toward his collarbones.

It had taken quite a substantial amount of courage - of the liquid kind, no less - to touch him of your own accord. He seemed rather pleased when you did, when your hand reached out and felt the bulk of his forearms, so wide that there was still a finger-width of flesh poking out around your thumb and pinky. His muscles tensed under your curious prods. The first tightening of his corded arm seemed largely out of the unwonted brush of your skin on the outside of his usual demanding design. Then he relaxed. His muscles flexed, as if to show you a proper demonstration of his indelible strength. 

His skin rippled. Veins bulged, pressing taut to his flesh. 

The sight of it made your mouth water. 

Still does, you think, eyes greedily taking in every inch of his exposed skin, the expansive flesh offered to you is irresistible. Your hands roam, free and unhindered by the usual hesitation that encapsulates you. It's the distance. The time apart has chiselled open a rapacious hunger inside of you. 

Michael watches as you paw at him desperately, eyes widening, breath stuttering when his chest expands under your hands. Your palm passes over his heart, and the steady thud is almost jarring. It knocks through the haze of want that overtook you, and you find yourself almost surprised, like always, when Michael's humanity is confirmed. 

He's not a husk driven by basic needs. Evil. 

He has a heart - one that beats just like yours. 

You pull back, your palm lifting off of his chest until just the very tops of your fingers remain on his skin. 

Sometimes you convince yourself that he's a spectre. Ichor and evil are confined in the pulpy sinew of a human. A matryoshka of sorts where the exterior seems largely normal - or as normal as someone as massive as he is could ever seem - but the inside is filled with empty layers all stacked together. 

Murder. Bloodlust. Mayhem.

Carnage. Death. Decay. 

It muddles together in your mind and makes you think of him as a quietus. A being that does not belong in this realm where ghosts and demons and ghouls are relegated to the altar where they are condemned by a vicar. Cast out of the established spectrum in the material world that closes in on you like a noose. 

The dense, solid flesh under your hands confirms corporeal nature, but everything else about him mystifies you. 

A little part of you wonders if he really is a quietus prowling around in this moral plane; an escapee from the pits of hell left to wreak havoc on the world of the living to satiate that lust for calamity that brims inside of his slate-coloured gaze; the same hue as death, decay.

The same eyes that ensnare you - captivate you - rendering you mute, silent, in the echoing cacophony of the dead that bellow at you, their blood running down your drain, congealing on your toes. 

(You wonder, then, what it says about you that you're willingly perched on the lap of Stygian ilk like a poised queen on a throne of skulls. 

Right where you belong.)

You meet that smouldering gaze.

He's surprisingly accommodating today, you note, glancing at him through the wet veil that hides his expression from you. Your fingers twitch on his chest. You're overcome with another inadvisable whim - the urge to sink your hands into his hair and scrub the dirt away from his ashen locks is hard to ignore, but that might be pushing the limits of what he allows too far. 

You dig your nails into the flaxen hair on his chest instead, grounding yourself against the silly notions brimming up inside of you.

It's in those musings over your unexpected caprice that Michael's patience wears. 

His jagged nails bite into the flesh on your hips, the stinging prickle of a furze meant only as a warning. He wants something. You're taking too long. He's getting impatient. 

But the thing is: you don't know what it is he wants. 

Your lower lip juts out, and you sink your teeth into the plush skin. It would be easier if he spoke, telling you what it is you're doing wrong, or if he showed you what it was he wanted. But it's futile. 

He does neither. Michael gave you a warning, and now he waits. 

The nervous gnashing in your chest grows under the intensity of his stare. His eyes narrow just a touch, fixed on the pink slip of your appendage poking out. He's so focused on it, that you feel like you can breathe a little better without the weight of his gaze penetrating into your being. Eye contact with Michael Myers fills you with the maddening urge to roll over and show your soft belly, to bare your vulnerable neck in submission. 

Your tongue flicks up, swiping across your upper lip. His eyes follow it. 

You do it again. Again -

Just as you're beginning to catch on to what he wants, he tires of the little game you're (unintentionally) playing. 

To him, you're toying with him. Holding up a piece of meat and dangling it in front of his maw. 

You flush, stuttering out a simpering apology, but Michael cares very little for the placating words you attempt to persuade him with. The burn of his unyielding grip burrows into you again, and it's the only warning he gives before he wrenches you forward, pulling you until your breasts are flush with his chest. 

He devours the broken gasp of his name that stumbles from your lips, feasting on you like a starving beast. 

Michael is a quick learner. Almost as soon as you opened your mouth, moulding your lips against his, he picked up the finesse behind the action, and consumed you. He doesn't let you take control of the kiss - once he learnt the little things that make you pant into his mouth, moan brokenly against his tongue, his hunger grew. His kisses leave you breathless in a way no one else has ever managed. 

Like most things in your life before Michael, kissing was always just okay. A prelude. A chore. 

And now you whine against his lips as his tongue lashes out, filling your mouth in search of more of your taste. 

It's good, now. Great. Amazing. An explosive sensation of searing heat, and kiss bruised lips. You pull away, gasping for air, and feel the sting on your mouth from the force of his ardour. 

Lidded, hazy with want, you pull yourself closer to him, whimpering when his cock presses into your navel, smearing precum across your wet skin. 

It's been a month. A month of nothing. The scent of him left your pillows weeks ago, and your imagination was barely enough to quell the rapacious ache inside of you that longed for the firm, unyielding press of his body over yours. 

And now, he's here. He's yours for the taking. 

Your fingers itch again - the urge to touch is strong. Consuming. 

But you don't. You flush a deep maroon, tipping your chin away from his gaze, and rock against his lap, seeking a quiet, unnoticeable pleasure. 

He's too much. 

You can't ever bring yourself to give into the greediness inside of you, and instead take what little you can get away with. The idea of just -

Taking feels a little too sacrilegious. A little too bold. It's not in your nature to do so, and the idea of testing those implicit boundaries with Michael is a little too daunting. 

So, you cant your hips against him, squirming in his lap to abate the ache growing inside of you with what little motions he'll allow as Michael nips down the column of your throat. His mouth on his skin, teeth burrowed into your pulse point, the thick length of him so close to where you want him, need him, is too much. 

He catches the bloom of red under your skin when you blush, feels the stutter of your breath as it crawls up your throat. The want in your voice, the need, is palpable when you choke out his name. A soft, meek little thing: the coo of prey, begging so prettily for reprieve.

Michael buries his chin into the curve of your neck, forcing your head back. His hands slide, bracing over the delicate vertebrates of your spine. They're almost fluid in his hand. The bones in your body are as easy as papier-mâché for him to snap. To break. He could ruin you. Sink his canines into your jugular and tear out your flesh, letting you bleed to death in his lap. He could keep the sensual arch of your back going, pushing and pushing until he snapped you in half. You're so -

Fragile. 

His cock twitches against you, spitting prespend over your belly. His cock burns hotter than a brand, molten against your skin. 

Michael's arms tighten around you, fingers digging into the knobs of your spine. Panic wells inside of you. He's going to do it - snap you in two -

-and Michael -

-picks you up effortlessly once again, and holds you over his aching cock. 

There is no foreplay tonight. He won't slide his hand between your soft thighs to feel how wet you are for him, fingers toying with your slickness until you moan out his name in that particular cadence he likes best. He won't drag them up, making you see them glistening with your desire. Forcing you to acknowledge your want for him, to see it glimmering on his hand. Evidentiary proof that your body yearns for him. That you belong to him.

He won't because he's impatient, now. Your wiggling, the little gasps of his name, the way you cling to him and fit in his lap, have all worn his patience down to nothing. 

(To Michael, he's had nearly a month of edging, foreplay, with each of his kills that left him half-hard and aching, and on the verge of wandering back to your familiar abode to satiate the burn in his loins.)

He'll take you like this. 

And maybe later, when he wakes in the middle of the night with you slumbering peacefully beside him, in the spot you belong, he'll slip under the covers and spread your aching thighs apart, rousing you to the sensation of his mouth devouring you, tongue greedily lapping at your centre until you're a quivering mess, begging him for respite that'll never come. Not when he hasn't had you in nearly a month. 

This is only an appetiser. 

You know this by the darkening glaze in his eyes as he pulls you close, grasping you tight, until the flushed head of his cock slips between your thighs. Shuddering from the way the blunt tip presses against you, you scramble to find purchase as he steadily lowers you down. His cock slips inside, stretching you wide to make room for the rest of him. 

Michael doesn't do things in halves. 

There is the slightest hitch to his breath once the first inch passes, bringing tears to your eyes at the burning stretch of him filling you. Once he's found his mark, he leans his head down, nuzzling into your neck.

You know what's coming. You know - 

But there is no time to prepare yourself for the suddenness of being split apart while his teeth sink into the soft flesh of your neck. 

A shrill cry is ripped from your throat when he bludgeons into you, the head of his cock battering into your cervix in a way that has you seeing phosphenes with your eyes wide open. Your toes curl, fingers dig into the flesh of his broad shoulders, body spasming with the sudden paroxysm of him being seated so deep within you. 

His jaw is vice on your neck, and for a moment you fear that he's going to pull away with a chunk of your flesh, but it's gone when his teeth go slack, and his tongue runs out with rapacious greed to lick up the fresh blood that spills down your chest in pink rivets. 

You sob, quaking from the suddenness of it all, and try to abate the hypoxia from inking out your vision. The abruptness, the pain of the bite, the burn of the stretch, all knocked the air from your lungs, and you struggle to come to yourself through the overwhelming sensations he ripped through you. 

It's a mercy that he stays still, letting you adjust to his girth as he laps at the blood he spilt, nipping at your broken flesh. Michael is big. You barely had time to marvel at the size of him before his urgency to fill you became too much, but you feel it now with incredible clarity. 

It pushes to the very edge of your mettle, teasing the resiliency of your body until you feel like you're on the verge of splitting apart. Broken, irreparably, by the thickness seated to the deepest depths inside of you. You shift, wincing at the way his cock moves when you do, the base of him stretching you in a way that has you heaving brokenly into his chest. 

It aches. He feels endless. You pry your fingers from his shoulders, only slightly remorseful at the sight of four indents cutting through his flesh, and drop your hand down to your stomach. More than a little delirious on that white-hot pain, you almost think you can feel his cock through the layers of tissue, pressing against the skin of your abdomen. 

"Michael-," you sob, head spooling with the thick haze of pleasure-pain that ricochets down your spine. 

He knows what you want. What you need. He always does, and while he might be a right bastard when it comes to giving it to you when you want it, he never leaves you dissatisfied. But this - the watery stream of blood leaking over your collarbones, dripping down your breasts, is what he cares for most, and so -

You'll wait. 

You pant. Squirming on the throne of his lap in a desperate attempt to find that spot inside of you that makes you see an array of refulgent nebulae behind your eyelids. 

Your walls tremble, body shaking, but slowly, slowly, the ache inside begins to spool, coiling into something different. Numbed pleasure seeps out of the place he's nudged, seated so firmly against, and begins to leak into your bloodstream. 

The first, quiet gasp that's ripped from your chest verges on absolute bliss. It's a call. A beacon. 

And Michael answers. 

Michael plants his feet firmly on the floor, and you feel the flex, the coil, of his strong hamstrings pull taut. Too busy admiring the strength in his body, you fail to recognise the signs. His hips jerk suddenly, pushing upward with enough force to jostle you. You gasp, slipping on his hard, wet skin, and slamming into his chest. Your hands reach up, holding onto his shoulders as Michael begins to move under you - the prowess of a tiger, a caiman, pure muscle barely contained by the prison of its flesh. 

He doesn't wait for you. 

All you can do is cling to him desperately, eagerly seeking purchase from the deep, demanding thrusts he batters into your body from below. 

His mouth is on yours again, swallowing the hiccuping moans you make, the keens, as he pistons into you. The pace he sets is rough, a touch brutal: he forces himself in as deep as he can go, pauses there just to let you feel it, and then pulls out until only the tip of his cock remains, and he waits again. It's a brief second, but they come so sporadically that you can't work out a pattern, not when the firm press of his cock inside of you knocks all logic out of your head.

Synapses overheat with each delicious drag of his cock against your gummy walls until they misfire, filling with a slurry of oxytocin and dopamine, rendering you stupid, dizzy, and drunk on the thickness of him, the way he fills you, and slams into the places inside that make your nucleus accumbens coruscate like a supernova. 

His hands clench around your hips, lifting you up off of his aching, hard cock, and forcing you to meet him in the middle of his next thrust. It rattles through your core until your voice is hoarse from the cries he rips out of you. It borders on the blissful equinox of being too much, too painful, and too good, too euphoric. 

All you can do is cling to him. Let him move you around how he pleases.

His breath quickens in tandem with your mewling sobs, head nuzzling into your chest when he lifts you up, and he pants into your wet flesh, head cushioned by pillowing softness of your breasts. 

The flesh is much too unblemished for his liking. 

His teeth sink into the soft underside of your breast, leaving behind a ring in the shape of his teeth that has your walls fluttering around him, squeezing him tight as the sudden burst of pain is perfectly complemented by the brutal pleasure he forces into you, head battering harshly into the gummy walls that have you singing his name in adulations. 

The sweet sounds you make spurn him on. The brands he decorates on your flesh split and bleeds as he trails his mouth through the valley of your breasts. 

His molten mouth seals over your aching, hard nipple, and pleasure whites out that place inside your head that worries. Your hand snaps up, burrowing in the messy tangle of his locks, pushing his mouth firmly into your chest, unwilling to let the way his tongue feels rolling over your buds go. He's sadistic, you think, fringing on utter delirium. He'll let go. You know he will.

His body rumbles with a growl when you tug on his hair, forcing his mouth to stay latched onto you. It vibrates over your sensitive flesh and makes you paw at his chest when the pleasure liquifies, roaring through your core until you can taste the cosmos on your tongue. 

It's not a warning. You know this because his mouth turns harsh, ravenous. He brutally fucks into you, pulling your body down to meet him with each thrust until you're howling his name so loud that you're sure the police department can hear your echoing cries rattling through the city. 

Your body dissolves in his hold, limbs turning phospholipid. The only thing keeping you together is his burning hands on your flesh as he moulds you in the ways he wants, bouncing you on his lap as molten pleasure courses through you. 

The coil tightens. Michael pulls away from your nipple, pushing his head between the valley of them, and pants into your sternum. The deep, haggard breaths he takes has you shuddering over him, so close now that you can feel it spreading liquid bliss through your body, pooling in the pit of your belly. 

Pleasure congeals in your marrow, and all at once you're on that precipice, careening over as you cum on his cock, sweet hymns falling from your lips as Michael's cock bludgeons deep inside of you. 

His hips shift, canting into you in a thrust that feels distinctly weakened, lax, compared to the others, and it's then that you hear it. A little grumble in the pit of his chest. He batters inside of you in quick succession, hands gripping you tight enough that you wonder, vaguely, drunk on the feel of his cock spearing into you, if he'll break your ribs before he finishes. 

In the muted slurry of your mind, you have the wherewithal only to glance up at him through your wet lashes when another rumble reverberates through your being.

And really -

It's enough to send you careening over that precipice once more.

His eyes flutter, full lashes dusting over his ruddy, wet cheeks. His chin tips back, jaw clenching to bite back the groan you feel ripple through his chest. You stare, mesmerised as his Adam's apple bobs. His fingers squeeze you tight, pushing your hips down on his lap as he struggles to fill you with every last millimetre of himself. 

Michael holds you steady, powerful thighs flexing under you, and then he lifts his hips, bludgeoning into you with enough force that you cry out his name, eyes widening at the deep pleasure, the burn of the stretch, the too-full feeling of him forcing his cock as deep as it will go. He jerks once, twice, and it knocks the air from your heaving lungs. Liquid heat fills you as he spills himself inside of you, and you mewl at the feeling of being too full. It's too much. Your eyes roll back as he grinds his cock inside of you, chasing the frayed ends of that intoxicating cudgel of pleasure that ripples through the two of you. 

Your spine is liquified. Body dissolves with the spray of the shower that patters across your back. 

You slump in his grasp, falling against his heaving chest. 

It's too humid. Too hot inside the shower, but your legs are mush, bones brittle and charred from the surge of electrifying pleasure that lacerates through your being. You can't move. Won't. You gasp wetly into his chest as the deluge of bliss spools inside of your veins. 

You blink, then, dazed. 

When Michael fucks you, it always ends up feeling like a battle. Like you rolled out of the combat zone, battered and bruised, aching in ways that sex shouldn't make you feel. 

But it's good. So good.

He's ruined you. Now, forever. You don't think you can live without the feelings he wrings from your being - the white-hot pleasure that rockets down your spine until you're screaming hymns in his name. 

It's the sensation of a freefall of a vertiginous precipice, and the unrelenting waves of panic that envelops you as you spiral downward toward an unseen end. What lay at the bottom is hidden by the murky abyss that spools inside of your mind whenever he's close, chasing out all logic and thought, all reason, until you're putty in his hands. 

You slump in his lap, sucking in desperate gasps of balmy air as your body reassembles; atoms fusing, molecules merging until you're flesh and bone once more.

You can't speak. Your throat aches, ripped raw with the force of your cries, but you whimper out just to confirm that you are, in fact, alive; that his intensity, the brutal way he fucked you, didn't send you into the heavens. It's a coo drenched in repose. A satiated sound. Lax and languid. 

Sagging into his chest, your limbs melt. Bones turning once more into putty. Reassumebed just to dissolve in his hold once again as the electrifying aftershocks of the post-orgasmic haze thicken in the spiralling slurry of your mind. 

Your head nuzzles into his chest. Another sigh passes your stinging lips, ghosting over the thick expanse of his chest. 

You could sleep like this. 

Tired eyes smeared with the residuum of many sleepless nights blink, wet, sticky lashes fluttering over his skin. It's a struggle to stay within the confines of reality. Your mind slips, easing into that metaphysical place where nothing except these four walls and the solid bracket of his body exist. The world fades into the aether. Forgotten. Discarded. Nothing matters but you and Michael. 

Under your temple, his chest rumbles with another sound that makes you keen in response. The modern synapses have faded into ashes, leaving nothing behind but pure primalism. 

And when your predator calls for you, you answer.  

It's the only affirmation he needs. His arms close around you, locking behind the soft curve of your ass. The movement makes you purr into his chest. The coarse dusting of hair tickles your nose. 

You're slipping, slipping - 

And then Michael stands. Abrupt. Purposeful. 

You squeak at the sudden movement, eyes snapping open, and dizzy vertigo overtakes you as your weight drops into the solid plinth of his arms. 

Michael's breath ghosts across the shell of your ear in something that might be almost mirthful, humourous, had you not known him. 

A burning flush singes the apples of your cheeks and the skin of your chest when he moves, and the motion jostles him - his cock still deep inside you. 

"M-Michael-," your whimper ends in a gasp as his spent cock twitches inside of you at the sweet way you mewl his name. "You-"

He ignores you, stepping out of the shower without even bothering to turn it off. 

He makes no move to grab at the fluffy towels you keep in the closet by the sink, nor does he seem bothered by the puddle of water each footstep leaves behind. You shiver when the cool air grazes across your wet skin, burrowing your head deeper into his neck, greedily seeking the warmth that seems neverending with him. 

In half the steps it usually takes you, he arrives at your bedroom, slipping inside with ease that warms your chest. You know he isn't the type to dawdle or worry about preamble, but the familiarity and comfort in which he moves inside your space, your home, fill you with the threads of contentment, happiness. You hide your blossoming grin, this silly little thing that tugs at the corners of your lips, into his flesh, and breathe in the loam scent that still clings to him. The heady musk of ozone and humus that is so uniquely Michael it makes your heart flutter. 

When the squall of that mushy affection recedes and your face isn't making the most outrageously gooey expression, you pull back, glancing up at him. 

You'll dry off, dress, and slip beneath the sheets with him beside you, finally getting the rest that evaded you for nearly a month. You wriggle in his grasp, straightening yourself for when your feet meet the ground. 

But it doesn't happen. 

Soaking wet, he stands at the end of your bed, and then turns on his heel, dropping down with you still perched in his lap. You gasp, jerking upright, but he doesn't let you go. 

In a fluid motion that leaves you reeling at the absurd agility of a man so damn big, he tightens his arms around you and shuffles on the bed until his head is under the pillow. He sinks into the mattress, unbothered by the way the bedding sticks to your skin, and the growing wetness under his back. 

The deep heave of his chest as he exhales in something that can only be utter contentment quickly dissolves the protest that pools on your tongue. They stick to the roof of your mouth before being swallowed down when his arms wind around you, closing out the modicum of distance that separates you as two beings. He tucks you under his chin, securing you to his body. 

You barely surpass sixty percent of his overall body weight, and the fact quells the little fear inside of you, the one digs in deep and says, oh no, you're going to crush him. Michael seems more than content to use you as a weighted blanket, his body lying supine on the bed that feels much cosier with him in it. 

Weeks of fretting over his safety are dulled under the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and the feverish heat of him that seeps into your marrow, making you repose in the unintentional succour his arms bring you when they wind around your back, locking you against his chest. 

There is no escape from the prison of his arms.

This gilded cage sometimes feels too overwhelming, too stifling, too much, but he wasn't the one who locked you inside. You shut the doors of your accord and handed him the key - free to come and go as you tended to your plumage and your strays. 

All thoughts and fears are adrift in the somnolent haze that fills the anxious flurry of your mind. Who cares about the linen? About morality and the consequences of lying with a devil. Does any of it matter when his arms around you feel like home. 

You nuzzle your cheek into the coarse hair on his chest, pressing your ear against the steady beat of his heart. Your pericardium pickles. Ataraxia floods your being.

"Welcome home," you murmur. 

And under you, Michael sighs. 

[truthseeker-blogger]

I always share pictures of Justice, but this is Miss Gracie, "the princess", Matt calls her, when Justice bothers her and tells Justice she came well before him and show her some respect.

When we correct Justice, Gracie stands her ground and seems to understand what is transpiring.

When we first got Justice at 7 and half weeks, he would bring toys to her to play, but she was having none of that.

She's 12 years old and has mellowed with age, but rarely, if ever let's anyone hold her, but she loves to be petted.

She doesn't care for fancy food, but is particular about the texture of canned cat food and the flavor.

She was born along with her litter mates under our high school teacher's neighbor's porch.

We've had her since she was fairly young, maybe too young. I think she was 5 and half weeks old.

I wouldn't even shower if she was out of my sight when she was a very young kitty, just like with a human baby. 😄

She's adapted fairly well to this limited space as long as she is fed and her litter box is changed, she's good. 😹

I'm sure she must miss her huge catTV though 😔

Or her catio

She's a very good, still agile girl though

❤❤❤

She probably misses seeing and hearing the birds too 🐦

We miss the peacefulness of nature too.

Update *

I found this for Miss Gracie 💗

I'm sure there are other videos she may enjoy. It'll be exciting to watch her expressions watching and listening to the laptop my son gave us when the display on mine stopped working, possibly from the moisture in the room when we had that mold issue during this past summer.

My son also does this for his bird. 🐦❤

[normal-thoughts-official]

You are getting me intrigued about Bladeweave, and i want to know your thoughts on:

A) Do they get a pet together? (The correct answer is yes)

B) Do you imagine them like, in a specific Bladeweave universe, or like canon-ish one, but like after the Hell Trip?

C) Do you think Tara and Wyll team up to make sure Gale doesn't forget to take care of himself and then Tara teams up with Gale to do the same to Wyll?

D) What do you think Wyll's father thinks of Gale?

Also feels weirdly nostalgic to be on your asks

omg hiiiii beloved. first of all finish the damn game 🔫 second of all damn i missed your asks 💕

in order:

A) they get a frankly ridiculous amount of pets but neither of them will admit it because they're the "they're not my pets, i just feed them" kind of mfs. i mean, that's canon on gale's end but we all know wyll is just as bad if not worse with the whole "hm actually animals are fully fledged individuals who belong to no one but themselves and only a tyrant would wish to conquer them and reduce them to something to be owned and,"- bullshit.

(also, honestly? after being called a pet and a pup by mizora for so long, the last thing he wants is to be reminded of her. and considering how in wyll origins he says his biggest fear is to become the devil he was made to look as, i think it'd be highly triggering for him to say anything at all that sounded like it could've come from her mouth, even in a completely different context. so, no, he'll never have "pets", he'll have loyal animal friends whom he feeds and takes care of and who live with him and always come back to him but they're not pets how dare you)

gale is more of a cat/tressym person, and of course tara is gale's friend first and foremost and wyll and her mostly bond over their love for gale. wyll however has no discrimination when it comes to species and i mean none. he'll show up at the tower or wherever else they live all like "hey gale so hear me out" and it's just as likely that he'll have a cat, a dog, a pigeon, a horse, or a crocodile in tow. gale just sighs and goes magic up whatever sort of specialized environment their new tennant will need because he knew what he was getting into when he married Literal Disney Princess, got-speak-with-animals-as-a-cantrip-out-of-a-devil-deal Wyll Ravengard. those are mostly wyll's friends (not pets, the dekarios-ravengard household is completely pet free, ignore the first 10 levels of the tower) but they also get along well with gale too. he makes them tea when they to to their area upstairs for a chat or whatever

B) usually the canon universe, yes. i mean it's fully possible to have a canon run without ever even meeting karlach so it's not like i'd need a fully fledged AU if I didn't wanna include the going to hell part (plus other ending possibilities im not spoiling you about). but also i feel like gale is the kind of stupidly self sacrificial mf who would go to hell with wyll and karlach if that's what it takes, both to be with his love and because karlach does deserve to live and be safe. and he knows that he can help try to look into arcane solutions for her heart. and if anyone understands having a ticking time bomb in their chest and needing support to grow back hope that you'll be able to live without it being a risk, and deserve to, it's him. wyll's saved him from his own time bomb; he would never deny karlach the same sort of redemption, especially when she got in that situation through no fault of her own

so, yes, i can imagine him joining them, even if not 24/7, and trying to help with her heart before they come back. and then we can have bladeweave and karlachzel (? what's their ship name called man) or Fucking Whatever lol. i mean part of the appeal of wyllach to me is that i feel like it makes 0 difference whether it's platonic or romantic, so i can see a platonic helping each other in hell before we can go back to our respective baes sort of situation

C) duh. tara and wyll have a whole routine they've executed to perfection for when gale is having a bad depression day, or a bad back/joint pain day, or an orb flare-up day, or whichever other flavor of disabling situation gale faces (semi-)regularly. tara is both relieved to have someone else to take care of him (both so she gets room to take care of herself as well and just from knowing that no matter what, someone else has gale's back) and pleased to see that, at least as far as depression days go, gale has been having those less and less. not because true love cures all or whatever but because now gale has a significant support network with all the tadfools, plus with the orb stabilized he doesn't have to fear going out, seeing his family, and making friends anymore. nothing is perfect or cured but slowly and steadily he's been building the kind of support net that allows him to breathe and keep himself alive more easily, you know

as for wyll's own disability days, tara is kind of slow to trust and even slower to show said trust. naturally she would always be there to support them both when wyll needed, if anything because it mattered to gale. but it was mostly supporting gale while he supported wyll at the beginning, because she was still wary of anyone who could potentially break her wizard's heart and make him even more fragile

also, he kind of waltzed into her house and then started bringing dogs. yuck.

but wyll is nothing if not explicitly and selflessly loving of gale and completely polite and respectful of tara's boundaries, which means he earns her love faster than any other humanoid ever has. so at first she was kind of tsundere about it - trying to hide her concern when wyll was having PTSD episodes by being kind of focused on gale, being a bit snarky (although never in a mean way), that kind of thing. over time though she fully gave up on pretending and became very involved in helping him. nothing like having a tressym purr to help pull you out of a flashback, or having someone to pet during a depression day, etc.

she is also one of the few people who always keeps in mind that wyll is not, in fact, fully sighted. whenever they go somewhere new or something changes in the layout of the tower she always helps him figure out clues to make up for his lack of depth perception while he's getting used to the state of things. gale also has a tendency to clutter and leave his stuff everywhere when he's particularly invested in a subject so she always makes sure to point out to wyll if there's anything in his path. especially when they're in waterdeep, she always takes the lead when they're walking through crowds, helping make the way so wyll won't bump into anybody by accident. with gale she's more of a supportive friend/housemate but with wyll she goes full on service animal without him ever asking. neither of them ever say anything about it but when she starts doing it wyll knows that he is, officially, part of the family. and most of all, loved

(and they take care of her too, of course. with food and pets and help when she's in pain or sad too. gale is aware that he put quite a heavy load on her when she was literally the only thing keeping him alive after the orb, and wyll is endlessly thankful to her for making sure he was cared for during that time. so they make sure she has all the resting and support she needs, and she is, quite frankly, the most spoiled tressym in the sword coast. wyll also went to ridiculous lengths to make sure everything in their tower was accessible for a non-opposable-thumbs-haver, especially the wizardy stuff because tara is, as gale said, a fine wizard on her own right)

also, sometimes she kneads the bases of wyll's horns when they hurt or feel particularly heavy, physically or emotionally, and it's really cute

D) difficult one. i kinda struggle to imagine ulder having a good relationship with any of wyll's partners, considering he... like... didn't even have a healthy relationship with wyll lol. so he'd probably be distant and kind of strained, but as far as partner choices go, i feel like gale is some of the best he could be hoping for among the tadfools. he is smart and can be charming, and he thrives with older people tbh. ulder wouldn't be a fan of the fact that he's the wizard-living-in-a-tower stereotype and has never really gotten his hands in the mud, so to speak, but gale is respectful, polite, interesting to talk to, intelligent, compassionate, and honorable and ethical to boot, which i think ulder would see as more important. also, he obviously loves wyll, and there's not much more ulder can ask of a partner, especially after he himself failed to provide wyll the love he needed for so long

so i believe he'd like him, although they'd never really be close. the real question though is what gale would think of ulder, because while i think he would be nothing if not polite to him, especially since he knows how much he means to wyll, i also think gale would be playing 5d chess to subtly insult his parenting skills at every opportunity. he is way too nice to be explicit about it but the way he keeps going for the softest, most subtle and hidden of stings, can be more devastating than calling him a bitch. ulder will suddenly realize that two weeks ago gale implied that he was a dumbass, and given that he only noticed that afterwards, he feels like he was probably right. it keeps him up at night sometimes, trying to figure out if gale lightly insulted him or was genuinely just commenting on the weather. the fact that it drives him mad only makes it all the more satisfying to gale. wyll has no clue this is happening at all

this got long and far too detailed but I won't apologize cuz what did you expect really. anyway i love they