#it's printed on the back collar of just about everything (with the exception of a hoodie where it's printed at the middle back

[liferetainsitssparkle]

interested in whatever is happening here

[roosterforme]

It Won't Be Long | Rooster x Reader

Summary: How are you supposed to tell your family that you have to leave? Especially when everything still feels new and flawless and beautiful? Bradley knows it will be rough to break the news to you, but telling Everett will be so much worse.

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, angst, adult language

Length: 3600 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female single!mom Reader

This is a Batting Practice one-shot but can be read alone! Check out my masterlist for more!

"Oh, shit."

Bradley's heart sank as he read the paperwork that Maverick just handed to him. "Fuck," he groaned, fighting the urge to crumple up the pages. The sounds of conversation buzzing around him in the rec room faded to a dull noise that set his teeth on edge as he thought about how he was going to explain this to you. And even worse....how he would tell Everett. 

"Sorry, Rooster," Maverick replied, cuffing him on the shoulder, but Bradley didn't move except to shake his head a fraction of an inch. He should have known this was coming. He should have been prepared for this, but it felt like a slap in the face. You and he had only been married for less than six months, and he still felt like this was very much the honeymoon phase. How the hell was he supposed to spend a single day without you and Everett, let alone one hundred of them?

He'd been planning to take the three of you up to Disneyland for a little overnight trip during spring break. Kind of a precursor to a longer vacation to Disney World in Orlando in the summer. Well, now he'd be missing all of spring break. And he was going to miss opening day at Petco Park, too.

He vaguely registered that Maverick dismissed him early, and he heard Bob calling his name as he headed for the door. He stopped but didn't turn around as he told his future brother-in-law, "I'll call you later." He'd have to tell Bob and Molly soon, because you and Everett would need them if anything happened while Bradley was deployed, but he didn't want to talk about it with anyone until he told you himself. 

When he got home before you, it gave him plenty of time to mope while he got dinner in the oven. He decided to take a long shower, suddenly wanting nothing more than to change out of his fucking uniform. The Valentine's Day card he gave you a few days ago was still propped up on your dresser, and he sighed when he looked at the pretty flowers still blooming beautifully in the vase next to it. When he opened the card and read what he'd written, he wasn't surprised to find that he had it practically memorized after spending hours agonizing about what to say to his wife on a day dedicated to being in love.

Kitten, 

You changed my life and everything in it for the better last spring, and not a minute goes by that I'm not thinking about you. I hope you'll let me love you every Valentine's Day for the rest of my life. I hope you'll love me back for all of them. I'm so happy you're my wife.

Love,

Bradley

P.S.- How do you feel about wearing your collar, leash and your bodysuit tonight?

He set the card down again with a soft groan and stripped out of his uniform. The shower felt amazing, and he treated himself to your expensive body wash before he rinsed himself off. When he put on his sweatpants and started looking for a tee shirt, everything in his drawer seemed to have Top Gun or Navy Waves printed on it. He just wasn't in the mood for any of it since he knew he was about to have two conversations he'd really rather skip, so he pulled on the Phillies shirt that he got for Christmas from you and Everett.

The kitchen timer started going off at the same time he heard your car in the driveway, and Bradley ran back downstairs to get dinner out of the oven. "You're home early!" you said, bursting through the front door with Everett by your side, and for the first time since this morning, everything seemed more colorful and loud in a good way.

"Dad! I aced my math test!" Everett said as he came running into the kitchen, waving a sheet of paper in the air. "A hundred percent!"

Bradley's heart clenched as he picked Everett up in a hug and buried his face against him. "I'm proud of you, kiddo. That's what happens when you stop rushing through your homework."

He held onto his son a little longer than he normally would before kissing his cheek and setting him down. You eyed him closely as you dumped your work stuff on one of the chairs. He must have done something to give himself away, because a second later, you said, "Ev, you promised you'd take ten minutes to clean your room before dinner."

"Fine," he replied, his voice right on the edge of whining. Normally Bradley would remind him not to talk to you that way, but he let it slide right now. Everett headed for the stairs, and once he was out of sight, you were in Bradley's arms. 

"What's wrong, Coach?" you asked, running your fingers along his cheek before pushing them through his damp hair. "What's bothering you?"

When you gently kissed him, he didn't stop you. And when it took him a minute to reply, you didn't rush him. "Baby... I'm being deployed."

Your grip on him grew incrementally tighter as you whispered, "Oh. When?" 

His forehead met yours as he forced out the sentence, "I have to leave mid March, and I'm due back on Ev's birthday."

When you nodded, he could tell you were still letting his words settle in your mind. You took a deep breath and huffed out a little laugh as you whispered, "That's a long time."

Bradley swallowed down his guilt. "It's too damn long. I don't want to go fourteen weeks without you and Ev. I don't even like going a whole day when I can help it. I'm supposed to be here with you."

You nodded, and when you spoke, he could hear the tears in your voice. "We managed without you before, we can do it again. At least you'll get home on his birthday."

He collected you tighter against his body as he groaned. He would rather do almost anything other than miss his son's eighth birthday. "Kitten. Sometimes the dates aren't accurate. Sometimes the carriers run behind schedule. One time I returned a week later than I anticipated." 

You made a soft sound that left him reeling. "Well, if that happens, then I'll explain it to him. And we'll deal with it."

"Fuck," he grunted, slipping out of your grasp and gripping the edge of the countertop with both hands as his anger flared. "I don't want the two of you to have to deal with me missing out on celebrations. I already bought tickets for Ev and I to go to see the Padres on opening day! I was going to let him skip school! If I miss his birthday, I swear I'll be fucking sick, Kitten! And if Molly doesn't have the baby before March fifteenth, then I won't get to meet him until he's three months old!"

"Bradley," you whispered, ducking under his arm so you were right there between him and the counter. "Listen to me," you said, taking his face in your hands and kissing him. "This is why we love you so much. Because you love us so much."

You had tears in your eyes that matched his as he muttered, "I still feel like we just got married. Like every day with you is so exciting. And Ev didn't grow up with a military dad. He's not used to my lifestyle. I..." Bradley paused and dipped his head down, staring at your work shoes as he said, "I feel important every day because both of you rely on me for things around here. More than just my income. Ev and I do his homework together, and I like helping you cook meals. And I live for taking him to the park to play baseball. I live for it, Kitten."

With two firm hands under his chin, you shifted him so he was looking at you. "I said we would be able to manage without you because we did it before. We know how to do it. Not that we would enjoy ourselves, Bradley. My heart will hurt with worry every day that you're gone, and Everett will miss you because you're essential to his happiness. But this is part of your career, and you're very good at it."

Bradley knew he was crying now as he said, "I'll miss the beginning of his baseball season. He's the only one from his old team who is going to play real ball again this spring instead of tee ball."

You smiled and kissed his cheek. "All thanks to you. And I'll take a million videos for you to watch. I'll email them so you can scrutinize his technique, and then I'll help him improve. I mean, look how much more I know about baseball since I first met you."

Of course your words made him feel a little better. They always did. You always validated his place in this family when he started to doubt himself. "You've come a long way, Kitten. And it's a good thing, too, because I don't think Ev is going to lose interest in baseball any time soon."

You smiled as your lips skimmed his. "I really hope not since the two of you turned the extra bedroom into a Phillies shrine."

"Why are you both crying?"

Bradley's gaze snapped toward Everett who was halfway between the bottom of the stairs and the kitchen with a concerned look on his face. "Ev," he started, unsure how to handle this conversation. Part of him wanted to wait until after the three of you had eaten dinner, but right now, he looked very upset.

"Is Aunt Molly okay?" he asked softly. "She was crying the other day when she said the baby was hurting her back."

When Bradley still hesitated, you said, "Aunt Molly is fine. She texted me a picture of her swollen feet at lunchtime." Then you leaned in closer and whispered, "Do you want me to talk to him?"

"No," Bradley replied immediately. "No, I'll do it." But it was harder than he thought it would be to get the words out in a way that would make sense to a seven year old. Why had he convinced himself that he'd be good at this parenting thing? He didn't even know what the hell to say right now. "Grab our gloves," he told his son. "Let's go out back and toss a ball around before we eat dinner."

Everett perked up immediately and ran off, only to return with two well worn baseball gloves and a baseball. "Okay."

Bradley slipped on a pair of shoes. "Okay."

Wordlessly, they threw the ball around for a bit, the quiet space soothing the part of Bradley that was terrified of fucking this up. "Hey, Kiddo?"

"Yeah, Dad?" Everett asked as he threw a scorcher to Bradley.

"You remember how we talked about deployments before?"

"Yeah." His voice was softer this time, and his face fell a little bit. "I remember. It's when you have to go way out into the ocean and fly off of an aircraft carrier."

"Yeah," Bradley croaked, squeezing the ball as hard as he could in his right hand. "I'm going to have to leave to do that in a few weeks."

He watched as his son tried to be strong and keep it together, but then Everett's face crumpled as he started crying. "But you said that lasts for months," he said as he looked at the ground, and Bradley rushed toward him. "And I heard Jayden in my class say deployments are really dangerous."

"Ev," he replied, dropping the ball and his glove and kneeling right in front of him. He swiped at the tears with his fingers as he said, "I can't stand it when you cry. It breaks my heart." 

But Everett just cried more. "I don't want you to leave now. You just got here!"

"Kiddo," he whispered, wrapping him up in a hug. "I'll be back soon. It won't be long. Nothing we can't handle."

"But what if something happens to you?" 

Bradley's heart shattered and was immediately put back together. He hated making you and Everett worry about him, but the fact that you both loved him enough to care made him feel whole. He kissed his son's tear streaked cheeks and said, "The only thing that's going to happen is me flying around in my jet for a few weeks before I come right back home. Sounds pretty boring, right?"

He nodded against Bradley's shoulder. "Yeah, I guess so."

Bradley kissed his forehead and whispered, "I'll be so bored without you. I'm going to need you and Mom to take a bunch of photos and videos and email them to me all day long. And I'll need you to ace all your school assignments and be well behaved for everyone except your Aunt Molly. You think you can do that?"

Everett shrugged, but when his glove slipped off of his hand, he hugged Bradley around the neck. "I'll try, Dad. But I'll miss you."

A tear slipped down Bradley's cheek as he managed to say, "I'll miss you, too."

-------------------------

"It's not time yet," you told Everett as he sat on the couch with the iPad on his lap, staring at it longingly. "Ten more minutes. Why don't you finish your math homework while you wait?"

"Because I like doing my math homework with Dad," Everett explained as he looked at you like you were absolutely ridiculous for even suggesting such a thing. "I want to solve the problem with him."

Even though it meant you would have less time to talk to your husband about other things, you'd let Everett do math homework with him over FaceTime. It wasn't like Bradley was going to complain. They were two peas in a pod. Everett even had the Phillies current pitching stats printed out and ready to share. 

"You'll have to show him your countdown, too. We're getting closer."

Before Bradley left, he and Everett cut up countless strips of paper and wrote numbers on them so Everett could conduct a countdown until his eighth birthday. Until the day Bradley was supposed to return home. There had been a gigantic paper chain snaking through the house, but now you were down to your final ten loops. Just ten more days without Bradley.

When the iPad rang, Everett nearly dropped it in his excitement, and you ran in from the kitchen. "Dad!" he said as Bradley's handsome face filled the screen.

"Hey, Ev," he said, sounding exhausted and relieved. "I miss you, Kiddo. Where's Mom?" 

"She's right here." 

Your son tilted the screen, and Bradley sighed. "Kitten."

"Bradley! We miss you. Ten more days!"

A crooked smile broke out on his face, and he kept his eyes on you for a beat longer while Everett started telling him all about baseball practice with his new coach and how his baby cousin Charlie threw up yesterday and about how the Phillies won three games in a row. You lost him to your son just like you knew you would as soon as Everett asked him for help with his homework. 

You sat quietly on the couch while Bradley looked at the math sheet and helped him work through the problem. Then Everett showed him the remaining length of the paper chain countdown, and as soon as that was finished, Bradley said, "Great job, Kiddo. Now why don't you go clean your room up before bed while I talk to Mom?"

"Okay. Love you, Dad!"

"I love you, too," he promised. "And I'll see you on your birthday."

Everett handed you the iPad and ran upstairs to his bedroom. "After all that, I only get three minutes alone with my husband this week," you said with a little smirk.

Bradley groaned and shook his head. "I can guarantee when I get home, I'll be on you nonstop. Don't worry about that, Baby. We won't sleep for days."

You bit your lip and laughed as he groaned. "What do you want for your birthday, Coach?"

He glanced around the small room where he was sitting before he said, "You can find that information written in your Valentine's Day card. Maybe throw in some vanilla frosting, and I'll be all set."

"Sounds good," you replied, and his smile grew. "We'll count down to Ev's birthday, and then we'll count down to yours."

"Speaking of which, did you get his present ready? All wrapped up in a box?"

You nodded as your heart fluttered. "Exactly to your specifications," you promised, picturing the package you had stashed in the linen closet.

"Perfect. I need to make it up to him for missing opening day for the Padres. I hated disappointing him."

As you glanced around your living room at the remaining countdown numbers and Everett's completed math homework, you said, "Something tells me you could never truly disappoint him. See you in ten days, my love."

-------------------------

"Dad!"

Bradley rushed through the crowd on the dock and headed for his family. You looked beautiful, and somehow Everett looked like he grew six inches in three months, but everything was perfect again once he had an arm wrapped around each of you. He kissed your lips and squeezed you to his side. "I missed you, Kitten," he murmured, knowing you wouldn't be too mad if you weren't his main focus until later tonight. "Happy birthday, Kiddo," he said with a smile as he released you to hug his son. "I missed you, too."

Everett clung to him when Bradley knelt down, and he stood up again with him in his arms. "Last week, my new coach said I have a heck of an arm. And school's already over. Mom took a video of my last day on Friday. You have to watch seventeen new videos from last week. We can watch them together tomorrow before we go out for pizza with baby Charlie and Aunt Molly and Uncle Bob."

Bradley buried his face against Everett's shoulder, excited to hear him talking a mile a minute in person. "Absolutely. But first, let's get home and open your birthday present."

The ride in your car was filled with your voice and Everett's, and Bradley sat back with a smile on his face and his fingers laced with yours. "How was the aircraft carrier?" Everett asked.

"Boring, loud and uncomfortable. And they never showed the Phillies games on TV."

"We can watch the game recaps!"

Bradley was already daydreaming about taking a few days off work, lounging on the couch with Everett until lunchtime, going to the park to play baseball, and then making love to you all night.

"We can definitely watch the game recaps," he promised as you pulled into the driveway next to Bradley's prized Bronco. "But first, I really want you to open your birthday present."

He didn't change out of his uniform. He didn't even remove his boots. He just gave Everett the box wrapped in red and white paper after you handed it to him, and he watched his son tear into the paper while your hands came to rest on his chest. "You are the only birthday present that kid wanted," you whispered.

Bradley felt the flush rising in his cheeks as you kissed his neck, but Everett had the lid off the box now. "I don't know about that, Kitten. I think he'll like this one," Bradley replied as Everett put the Phillie Phanatic hat on his head and read the paper he found in the box out loud.

"Three tickets for the Phillies game at Citizens Bank Park! On the Fourth of July! Behind the dugout! That's where the Phanatic dances! We can see the Phanatic for real! In Philadelphia!"

"Told you," Bradley whispered against your lips as Everett ran around the living room, already thrilled for his first trip to Philly.

But you were shaking your head and looking up at him with the most sincere expression as you said, "Just wait for it."

And you were right. A few minutes later, after Everett's excitement for his Phillies tickets tapered off a bit, he asked, "Dad, can we build a blanket tent and watch Toy Story and eat popcorn?"

Bradley paused where he was unlacing his boots and smiled. "Under one condition."

Everett smiled back and shrugged. "Okay. What is it?"

Bradley tossed his boots aside and said, "We change into our matching baseball pajamas and grab the stuffed Phanatic from your bedroom. And Mom gets to join us, too."

"Deal."

An hour and a half later, Bradley was watching one of his favorite movies with two of his favorite people. You were feeding him popcorn and teasing his hair as you lay with your head on his shoulder in the blanket fort. Everett was sound asleep, draped across Bradley's chest, and it felt so good to be home, he almost started crying. 

"I missed this so much," he whispered, kissing Everett's forehead. "Missed my family."

You hummed softly as you raked your fingers through his hair. "Like I said, going to the Phillies game will be great and all, but having you home today was the only thing he really needed for his birthday."

Bradley grinned and asked, "And does my Kitten need me, too?"

You popped up from his shoulder and whispered, "Why don't you carry Ev up to his bed, and then I'll let you find out."

-------------------------

I love emo Coach Bradley, and it was definitely time to check in with the three of them. He never wants to be the reason Everett cries, but that kid loves him so much, it's unavoidable. Let's check back in with them again soon. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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[theragethatisdesire]

quick bright things - eren jaeger x afab!reader, 18+!!

okay hi. after my many-months writing hiatus, i am offering up this humble creation. welcome to the world of quick bright things, caught somewhere between a fairytale and a shakespeare play and a priceless piece of jewelry. this was inspired by....a lot of things, from midsummer night's dream to saltburn to the secret history to romeo & juliet like, you name it and i've probably crammed it in here. eren is a lot different than i normally write him (or read him, for that matter), i hope you all find him as lovely as i do! this will be 2 parts (for now...), i'm not sure what else to say except i'm happy to be back and i hope you all love part 1 ₊˚⊹♡

pairing: eren jaeger x reader

wc: 10.4k

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut.

cws: alcohol, swearing, smut, fingering, reader has female anatomy, wet dreams, allusions to cannibalism (idk that's a stretch it's more of a metaphor), exhibitionism, cum-eating, creepy stepsiblings, rich assholes, throat-closing amounts of sexual tension, i honestly don't even know what to put here

without further ado...

-

"Last year I abstained / this year I devour / without guilt / which is also an art."

“Now don’t forget: university is for discovery, for adventure.” Your mother tucks the front of your shirt into your skirt, tugs at your collar until it’s sitting prettily against the cliff of your collarbones. It’s not a good fabric, this shirt; it’s cheap and scratches uncomfortably at the summer sunburn still lingering on your chest. “It’s for finding your passions, your life path, yourself…”

“Darling, you’ve been philosophizing since breakfast. You’re going to give the poor girl a conniption.” Your father chuckles lightly, swinging the hammer at the wall of your dormitory and finishing the hanging of one of your many posters over your creaky, lofted bed. The posters are bright and colorful, almost garish in the pristine, ancient light pouring in from the windows. With a slow blink, you realize you’re going to take them down later, that they feel incongruous with the dust particles and the oak furniture.

“It’s alright, really.” You manage a smile of compromise, lips clamped tight to hold the flutter of nerves in your throat at bay. “I think I’ve got it from here.”

There’s an expectedly teary goodbye, a small monologue from your father about how much you’ve grown, and a few reminders from your mother to separate the darks and the lights when you do laundry, to focus on your studies. Just before she slips out behind her husband, she grabs you by the shoulders and presses her lips to the side of your head, kisses a blood-red print into the shell of your ear.

“Don’t forget. Find something.”

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Whether it started with that conversation or with the buildup that accompanied the thirty-six months of monotonous paper-writing and numb boredom of your first three years at Oxford, you can’t be sure. In truth, maybe your first three years weren’t all that boring, and they only seem so by comparison of everything that came after, but you can’t be entirely sure of that either.

What you can be sure of is that something down the line—between meeting Sasha in that class on Milton and squeezing her hand as the plane landed and the dozens of bottles of champagne you’ve consumed over the last weeks—something led you to this moment, standing in this kitchen somewhere outside Verona with your bare feet against the hot clay tiles, staring at the sharp angle of an unfamiliar, tanned collarbone. 

He’s coated in linen: a half-unbuttoned, burnt-orange drape of a shirt is rolled carefully up around strong forearms, and one large, boyish foot peeks out from his baggy jeans, propped up on its throne upon the opposite knee. A golden cross winks at you from his chest, nestled in the sparsest dusting of chest hair and dripping with the same peach juice that’s sliding down his Adam’s apple, from his strong chin, from the crooked smirk that’s pointed at you like a knife.

You recognize him before he speaks– this must be Eren. Sasha’s mentioned him enough times: the shock of rich, dark hair, the lakewater eyes, the way he leans back in his chair like a king and cocks his head like a trickster. This is Eren, and you tell him so.

“Guilty.” The sun compliments everything about him but his smile, a little too sharp with too much danger behind it. It’s a smile made for moonlight. “And you are?”

A memory surfaces in your mind, a cautionary childhood tale. “You can never let a fairy know your name,” Emma tells you, graver than death, crouched in the bushes beside you, “or they steal you away, and you can never be human again.”

“Well?” Eren says expectantly, head leaning even further to the left. He’s studying you, the baggy linen pants pooling around your toes and ruby-studded ears poking out of a fray of frazzled bedhead. You feel naked, feel a wild urge come over you and wonder how his eyes would glow at you if you were. You shiver, goosebumps raising in the stuffy summer air. When his lips twitch, you realize Eren’s noticed; you feel feverish.

You mumble your name at him, as if it’s something given unwillingly. Waking the espresso machine seems like the right thing to do with your hands, and you’re grateful for the noisy mechanical sounds it provides to shatter the still morning. You bring an absentminded hand to rub over the tip of your ear, feel if it’s grown to a point yet.

“We haven’t met, have we? I feel like if we had, I’d remember.”

God, you wish he’d stop talking.

“Well, do you go to Oxford?”

“Sometimes.” You roll your eyes, and he laughs, little bells and glass shattering. “I’ve been abroad for the last semester. I flew in from Egypt a couple of weeks ago.”

“Hm,” you hum to yourself, choosing a small red cup for your morning coffee. You aren’t sure what to say; the most exotic place you’ve ever visited was a seaside town three hours from your house.

You can hear his newspaper crinkling; the sound of him putting it down betrays his arrival behind you, but you still don’t expect the puff of warm breath over your shoulder. He comes into your space like he belongs there, like there’s never been a door that wasn’t held open for him to stride through. “Are you still asleep?”

Before you can answer, you hear a shriek from down the hallway, and you breathe a little sigh of relief, thanking whatever ancient gods that belong to the hills you’re in for the interruption. Venus springs to mind, and you swat her and her entourage of Graces away from you with a huff.

“You absolute asshole!” Historia comes barreling into the kitchen, dramatic, fluffy dressing robe spilling out into the unrelenting summer heat behind her. You realize that in the three weeks you’ve spent with her, you haven’t once seen her in the actual kitchen, watching the way the breakfast chef’s eyes widen at the sight of her as he hurries by with an armful of eggs.

“Stori!” Eren elegantly catches her best attempt at a tackle with the good grace you assume he does everything with, breaking out into a warm peal of laughter. “Since when do you not love a surprise?”

“Since always.” Historia’s face is scrunched up where she’s buried it into the crook of his neck, forehead red with the effort of squeezing Eren as hard as she can. “You could have at least called, I mean– ugh, I didn’t even get the chance to get your favorite–”

“Relax.” Eren urges her, rubbing soothing circles into the small of her back. He carries them both over to his seat, plopping down and curling her up in his lap like a child. Eren holds his cup of coffee to her lips temptingly, and Historia shoves it away with another scowl. You hide your giggle at her antics behind your espresso, not wanting to remind them of your presence, but enjoying the show all the same. “Brat.”

“Ow,” Historia hisses when he pinches her thigh, expression lightening when she catches sight of something on the wall. “I always forget how pretty the kitchen is here.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“Still getting dressed.” Historia’s blue eyes turn to the frescoed ceiling with an irritated huff. “You know he can’t stand to be seen in his pajamas.”

“That’s because he doesn’t wear any,” Eren remarks with an eye roll of his own. “You could have called to let me know we’d adopted such a pretty houseguest for the summer.”

Your face burns with acknowledgement, and you can feel your toes curling into the clay bricks of the floor hard enough to scrape the tip of your pinky. Eren seems satisfied at your bewilderment, letting his eyes drag over your hardly-covered chest lazy as a wandering mouth.

“Why would anyone wear pajamas under those heavy duvets? It’s almost thirty-two degrees out.” Armin breezes in in a feigned display of nonchalance, but you can see the way his eyes skim over Eren like a ship narrowly avoiding an iceberg. The Titanic was inevitable, and so is the gravity of Eren sitting golden on the other side of the room.

“You look good, Min.” Eren squints his eyes at Armin’s shirt, nearly identical to his own. “Where’d you get that?”

“You left it last summer,” Historia hums, tucking her head under Eren’s chin and nuzzling into his chest more completely. Armin makes a soft snort of irritation, grabbing for a fig in the bowl of fruit on the counter and beginning to rummage through the cabinet drawers.

“Do you want half a fig?” Armin’s cool gaze slides to you, and you shake your head, feeling a little underwater as two lifelong relationships unfurl in front of you, your mind still fuzzy from last night’s wine. “Historia?”

Historia says no as Eren says yes, and Armin makes his sound of annoyance again before continuing his rummaging, muttering about the inconvenience of finding a knife.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” Sasha, still disheveled with sleep and grinning bright as Christmas morning, pops her head around the doorway. “Shouldn’t you be overseeing the construction of your pyramid?”

“I’m not dead, Sasha,” Eren laughs—it really is distracting when he does that—pulling Sasha onto his other knee, ignoring Historia’s grumbles of discontent. The NYU Men’s Lacrosse t-shirt that Sasha cropped too short rides up, exposing the swell of her breast, but no one acknowledges it. Eren’s hand tucks in snugly around the curve of her hip, easy and natural, and you wonder if his fingers have ever itched to travel up under the hem of her tiny sleep shorts.

“Not dead yet.” Historia glares up at him venomously, reluctantly making room for Sasha to pile onto Eren and smother his face with kisses. Sasha pulls away from him suddenly and frowns.

“Peaches?”

“Where are the knives in this fucking kitchen?” Armin’s growl of frustration is loud enough to make you jump, and Sasha giggles at you.

“Jesus, Armin, you’re going to kill her, and it’s not even noon.” Sasha slips off of Eren’s knee, practically bouncing over to where Armin’s viciously jiggling a locked drawer. She slides open the drawer next to him and draws a long, wide knife from it, passing it to him with the blade extended and her eyes on you. “Did you meet Eren?”

“Careful of his hand!” Historia squeals, shooting an arm out towards Armin as if she can deflect the tip of the blade from across the room.

“It’s fine, Stor.” Armin’s voice floats across his nearly-bare shoulder, mild and careless as it grazes the collar of the too-big button down sliding off of his slim frame.

“That knife’s a little big for a fig, Sasha.” Eren stands, placing Historia on the table and pinching her cheek when she scowls at him.

“There’s no such thing as a too-big knife– listen to me. Did you meet Eren?” Sasha’s fingers are gripping into the flesh of your arm– hard. Your eyes widen in surprise at the urgency in her eyes, like if you haven’t been introduced to Eren, there’s grave danger afoot.

“We met.” It happens quickly and easily, the slide of his heavy arm around your shoulders. You can feel your body tense under the lazy weight of him, big hand wrapped around you like it belongs there. “I don’t think she’s particularly fond of me.”

Eren shoots you a wink that you’re sure is intended to mean something, a reference to an inside joke that you have yet to establish, maybe.

“I didn’t say that,” you say in your own defense, wanting to yank Sasha to the side and demand to know why she hadn’t warned you that Cupid himself was going to greet you in the kitchen this morning. Armin slices the fig neatly in half, a strangely practiced motion performed by small, soft hands. He offers it to you again insistently, and frowns when you shake your head.

“I said I wanted it, ‘Min,” Eren says with a hint of red to his words, snatching the halved fig from Armin’s hand and biting into it voraciously, little pieces of the flesh spattered around the corner of his mouth.

“You’re such a brute,” Armin scoffs, picking the meat of his half out gingerly with an oyster fork that you don’t remember him grabbing from the drawer.

“Why don’t you like Eren?” Sasha pouts at you, grabbing the hand that’s squashed between yours and Eren’s hips. Your palm feels hot against her fingers.

“I said I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say much of anything, to be fair.” Eren’s got the fig pressed to his mouth, digging his teeth and tongue around in the husk of it obscenely enough to make your cheeks warm. Being so close to him is filthy, that cross around his neck is looking you straight in the eye to make sure you feel it. 

“Eren’s always a pest,” Historia provides from her perch on the kitchen table, picking at her perfectly manicured toenails, “why would she like him?”

“You like him plenty,” Armin says, not looking at her. It’s not the first time that’s been brought up, if Historia’s answering sneer is anything to go by.

“You’ll love him if you give him a chance.” Sasha smiles hopefully at you, nodding.

“Yeah,” Eren grins down at you, teeth colored with fig, “give me a chance.”

“Eren, you’re going to scare her off,” Armin says with a roll of his eyes, peering around Eren’s broad shoulders to look you up and down. The way his eyes drag over you makes you feel like there might be a stab wound somewhere on your person that you don’t know about yet, the adrenaline of the moment keeping you numb.

“Back off her, Eren,” Historia echoes, “she’s fun, I don’t want you to make her leave.”

“She’s not going to leave.” Eren looks directly at you as he says it, something in his smile growing imperceptibly darker. A dare. How much will you let me get away with?

You stare and stare at him, ignoring the continued bickering of Armin and Historia in the background. He’s golden and blood-red, oil smeared on his forehead and a crown of thorns nestled in his dark thatch of hair if you look close enough. If you’re not imagining it, his hand might be tightening around your shoulder, maybe he’ll leave a purple bruise on it.

“Of course not,” Sasha interrupts your thoughts, thumbing at your cheek affectionately, “she belongs here. With us.”

“She’s our little fairy,” Historia giggles dreamily, referencing the long-winded fairy tales you drunkenly make up every night, casting each other as heroines and knights and dragons.

“Right,” Eren agrees, not breaking your gaze, “our little fairy.”

The only thing that comes to mind is your childhood friend, Emma, looking on at you sadly with her muddy toes, watching the wings sprout from your back.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Days lug themselves by, barefooted and dragging their heels, and most of the time, even the monotonous rise and fall of the sun doesn’t help to differentiate one calendar block from the next. Like a bat, or maybe a slinky, silvery fish in an underwater cave, you rely on your other senses to track the passage of time.

For example, today, you know it’s a Wednesday because Maria, one of the three house chefs, brings fresh peaches up from the co-op down the hill every Wednesday. Sasha’s spent the last thirty minutes hand feeding you peach flesh as you lounge by the pool, insisting that you suck her fingers clean of juice and feeding you little sips of champagne each time you sober up enough to tell her that that’s lewd. Historia swats at you and giggles at the smacking and slurping sounds you make around Sasha’s fingers, oiled-up palm landing on oiled-up hip with a wet slap; Armin admonishes her quietly from his seat beside her, insisting the girlish noises emanating from the three of you are tearing him from his book. You can feel Eren watching, too– that’s all, though. Always just watching.

You wonder how opaque the lenses of Armin’s sunglasses are, perched haphazardly on your nose, wonder if they’re doing a good job of masking the slow lick of your gaze over Eren’s skin, wonder if you care. Maybe the champagne is finally getting to your head.

“We should go in soon,” Historia sighs, a hand tossed across her forehead. She’s a little movie star, built for the golden age. “It’s so hot.”

“It’s always this hot,” Sasha argues, and you can practically hear the furrow in her brow, not willing to take your eyes off of the trickle of sweat running down Eren’s chest to see it for yourself. You’re really getting the hang of it, this opposite-sense thing. Everything’s upside down here in the heat.

“She’s getting hungry,” Armin supplies, wiping the sweat off his palms to reach up and turn the page of his novel. Brideshead Revisited. A little on the nose, isn’t it?

“I am not!” Historia hates when people point out her appetite, but not really. She kicks up a fuss because it’s “ladylike”, and she’s advised you to do the same.

“You are,” you sigh, really feeling the heat sink into you even with the heavy, lazy movement of lolling your head to face her, “you always get hungry around this time.”

“What time is it, then?”

You don’t reply– you don’t know the answer.

“I think we’re all hungry,” Eren, ever the peacemaker when he can find the time to be so, sits up, letting the shirt that’s been shading his face fall into his lap. Your eyes track its descent– even that seems slow. He says something to you, managing a crooked grin while he squints in the heat of the sun, but you don’t hear it.

“Huh?”

“Everyone except you, anyway,” he repeats himself, reaching over Sasha and smearing his thumb through the peach juice collected on your chin. Eren’s thumb disappears between his pink lips, and when he sucks on it with a satisfied hum, your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt.

“I guess it’s getting close to dinner,” Sasha says regretfully, picking her wristwatch, a priceless Braus family heirloom, up from a puddle of orange juice and tanning oil. “We should probably clean off.”

“I might even shower twice,” Armin rubs a hand over his belly with a grimace, “this tanning oil makes my skin greasy.”

“I feel disgusting,” Historia agrees, sliding red toes into her sandals and standing with a dramatic stretch.

“Filthy,” Eren murmurs in agreement. He’s still staring at you.

“I’ll be in soon. I’m so close to the color I wanted for today– I just need, like, ten more minutes.” You peel down the strip of bathing suit stretched over your hip, showing off the distinct mark of yesterday’s color and today’s tan.

“You’re crazy,” Sasha scoffs, throwing some designer sarong her mother lent her over her shoulder, “I’m melting.”

Armin and Historia pause their bickering over who gets to wear Armin’s Cucinelli belt to dinner—Armin wants it for his trousers, Historia for her maxi dress—just long enough to offer a momentary goodbye, breezing along into the house with Sasha. You settle back into your chair and take a deep breath, letting the sun sink into you just long enough to forget that you’re not alone.

“Open up.”

You’ve been enjoying this game of trading one sense for another, and you keep your eyes shut firmly, letting your jaw fall open and your tongue hang out. A piece of peach, fleshy and dripping with juice, finds its way onto your tongue, pinched too roughly between strong fingers. When you close your lips around the fruit, the fingers stay with it, frozen in their pinched position and forcing you to suck the peach from them, to swallow around them, to run your tongue along them and get as much of the meat as you can. When the fingers withdraw from your lips, you open your eyes and gasp quietly.

Eren’s leaning over you, a solar eclipse that smells like tan skin and sounds like Campari, and in the silhouette of the sunlight, you think he’s smiling.

“You’re still hungry,” he says, a question that’s left its punctuation mark behind. You think of Historia, of the improper shame of revealing your appetite. You dodge.

“I’m never hungry.”

“Never?” Eren crawls over you to kneel between your legs, propping one of your ankles up on his shoulder. The game you started is ripped out of your hands, chess pieces flying into the pool, scattering across the table, knocking over bottles and matchbooks. It’s so silent out here in the sun it hurts, and you almost miss the constant buzzing horseflies of early summer.

“Never.”

“If you’ve never been hungry,” Eren muses, tilting his head so that his cheekbone fits into the sensitive arch of your foot, reaching a hand down to splay it wide on your belly, “you’ve never been full.”

“How do you figure?” Your words come out throaty, waterlogged.

“Can’t have one without the other.” Eren shrugs, turning his head to the side. His lips brush against your heel, your Achilles’, the swirly seashell dangling from your anklet. You dig your teeth into your bottom lip, toes twitching behind his ear. “I don’t believe you, anyway.”

“No?” You try to tilt your head coyly, like your heart’s not clawing and scratching against your throat to get to him. Hungry, indeed.

“You wouldn’t stare like that if you didn’t want to.”

You’re taken aback, but not enough to fall out of the moment– Eren’s lips closing around the knob of your ankle slowly, like the pit of a fruit, make sure of that.

“Didn’t want to what?”

Eren’s hands meet the cushion on either side of your head hard enough to rattle the chair, his long, tanned body stretching over yours. He’s close enough to brush his nose against yours, but you can still see the hazy green of his eyes flicking here and there on your face: from your eyes to your lips to the beauty mark on your cheek. Your poolside lounge feels more like a butcher’s block under your taut spine.

Sasha’s told you about the wolves in these hills, that they howl murder at night, but they’re sleepy and indulgent in the heat of the sun. One of Eren’s canines catches the light and glints at you as he grins.

“Eat yourself sick.” He practically spits it into your mouth, one thigh pressed into where you’re sticky and sinful, and he chuckles under his breath when you shudder under him, feverish in the late-afternoon heat.

Before you can even think of biting back, Eren’s off of you, picking your sandals off of the ground and sliding them gently onto your feet, stopping to run his palm from your ankle to your kneecap with an appraising hum. 

“We should head inside,” he says evenly, offering a hand to pull you to your feet, “I’d hate for us to miss dinner.”

You don’t have anything to say back to him, letting him lace his fingers through yours like lines in a play, interspersing seamlessly with the summer scenery. Eren leads you through the kitchen, waits patiently for you to take your sandals off, and waves you on your way up the stairs, saying he needs a cigarette. As the distance between you grows, your mind grows clearer, and you turn on your heel, calling down to him from the top of the stairs.

“Eren? Eren? Where are you, Eren?”

“Call me something else,” Eren pokes his head around the corner, smoke pouring from the grin on his face, “whatever you want, really. Make your own name for me.”

“You stare at me, too,” you say, tearing through his impishness. Eren cocks his head, unperturbed, smile growing wide as he nods.

“I do.”

“So you’re…” You can’t bring yourself to say it, not where it might echo in the cavernous hallway, where it might take the form of a confession. You scamper down the stairs, nearly sliding on bare feet, almost crashing into Eren when he appears at the foot of the staircase, catching you with two broad palms on either side of your ribcage. You pluck the cigarette from his mouth, stick it between your own teeth, narrow your eyes accusingly, and whisper: “You’re hungry too.”

“For every man hath business and desire, Such it is.” Eren takes the cigarette back, pulling on it and making a clear show of trying to hide a smirk.

“Hamlet?”

“A woman with teeth and a brain,” Eren tilts his head at you, “aren’t you something?”

“Do you always quote Shakespeare when you want to fuck somebody?”

“Only when I want to fuck you.” Eren stubs the cigarette out on the ancient oak of the staircase railing, grins up at you brilliantly, smiles brighter when he notices how obviously flustered you are.

“I need to go take a shower,” you say hurriedly, choking on the remnants of your shame and your confidence as they burn out in your throat, making an attempt to back up the stairs away from him. Eren laughs at your attempted escape, catching you by the wrist and pulling you close to him, close enough to dizzy you on the tendrils of smoke still sticking to him. Your breath stills, your heart slows as Eren wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you together, skin on tacky skin.

“Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” Eren coos to you, mouth moving against your cheekbone. “C’mon, just one bite.”

“He that is proud eats up himself,” you hiss a quote back at him in response, ripping yourself from his grip and scrambling up the stairs, heart pounding and cheeks burning. You can hear a lovesick sigh follow you up to your room, and hope that the slam of the door behind you is enough to keep it from touching you.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

The murky waters of your vision ripple out into clarity, and you’ve found yourself in a forest. You’ve been here before, you recognize the tall, thick trunks and the bed of fallen leaves under your feet. You’ve been coming here since you were a little girl, been wiggling your toes in the greenery since before you could remember. You never come alone.

It appears just as you remembered: a blinding glimmer of light, a flame for a head, and ribbonlike wisps of energy that beckon you like arms, like love. One step towards it, and it disappears, vanishing into nothing with an echo that might be laughter. You think it’s happy to see you.

When it reappears a few feet away, you take your first steps, sighing at the feeling of the wild enveloping you, of the prickling of your skin, kissed by the chill winding through the trees. You wish you could explore this place, so familiar and so strange all at once, but you know you have to keep moving, keep following the lights as they lead you deeper and deeper into the forest. They won’t hurt you; you aren’t sure why that’s true, aren’t sure why you keep moving. You just know better than to stop.

They lead you over a familiar path, winding past a creek, over a bed of flat stones with an ice-cold creek running over them. You never tire here, legs pumping and arms working to push yourself faster. You’ve never caught the lights, and you aren’t sure if you ever will, but again, you know better than to doubt. It feels like hours, feels like minutes, feels like purpose, chasing these lights through the forest, but suddenly, something’s new.

There’s a little chirping sound, almost conversational and too high-pitched for you to understand; you’re not even sure if you recognize the language. It ricochets around the bones in your body, touches something ancient in their marrow. You almost jerk your head to the right to find the source, but you resist, pushing ahead on your path as the lights lead you deeper. You get the feeling that you’ve gone off-script somewhere, that this is a part of the forest you haven’t seen before, but the warmth in your bones shoos your doubts away. You’ve never been this far, but it feels like home.

A growl curls around the shell of your ear, plants fear right in the center of your chest. Your eyes widen at the light before you before it disappears; you frown at the next one, not daring to speak but demanding an answer anyhow. The lights will save you, won’t they?

Shrieks from overhead, guttural, animalistic calls, howls and chatters of excitement; you never presumed to be alone in this forest, but you never presumed to be in danger, either. The lights urge you on, vanishing and regenerating at an alarming rate, your feet drumming against the forest floor faster and faster. A sliver of moonlight begins to glow from the trees a ways off, an indication that there’s a clearing ahead, and you shove the bile in your throat down, swing your arms faster, ignore the frantic fluttering of your pulse in time with the bestial chorus ringing clearer and louder from the trees with each passing second.

You do, against all odds, manage to launch yourself into the clearing, and the moment you feel the soft cushion of moss under your feet, as opposed to the branch-littered, crunchy path of the forest, you nearly stumble to your knees as your eyes adjust to the sudden brightness of the clearing. The grumblings of the woodland entities have quieted, an almost awestruck silence settling in the open space around you.

“There you are.”

Your head snaps up comically fast– “You?”

“Me,” Eren says, that razor-sharp, moonlight smile lighting up his face. He looks…right here, as if the forest is extending a sense of belonging, as if he’s been here longer than the ancient trees themselves. Even the little crown nestled atop his head is fitting: a tangle of brambles and thorns and leaves tucked into his dark locks. Is that a throne under him, that mass of branches and leaves and some silvery metal you can’t place?

His eyes glow in the starlight, illuminated with a certain hunger that you can feel reverberating through your bones. It should be frightening, but it’s enticing. You feel welcome.

“What are you doing here?” Your tongue is slower on the uptake than your mind, and you can feel the suspicious expression folding your facial features, hiding the thrum of anticipation the sight of him brings.

Eren cocks his head pityingly, smiling at you in a way that would seem predatory if it wasn’t so entirely disarming, so entirely inviting. Your feet are bringing you closer before he even speaks— you know why you’re here before he says it.

“I’ve been waiting so long,” Eren beckons you onto his lap, firmly grabbing your shoulder and silently demanding you straddle him when you try to turn away from him, “you’re beautiful, so…alive here.”

He takes a bit of your hair between your fingers and rubs it, satisfaction flickering over his face. It’s then that you realize how little fabric covers you; really, it’s only a thin, wispy excuse of a dress, hanging in tatters around your body and leaving your skin free for the taking. Taking notice of your dress leads you to take notice of another pressing matter: Eren’s naked beneath you.

“Where are we?”

“Does it matter?” Eren reaches up to toy with your hair again, smiling gently. He tilts his head up, asking you for something you can’t identify, but that you already know you’re willing to give. Your soul, maybe.

Your lips meet his in a tentative brush, a motion that feels shy, but practiced. It’s a reflex, an instinct, to kiss him this way. Eren groans gutturally against your mouth, pressing into you deeper, digging his fingertips into your bare skin. The chorus of inhuman chatter erupts around you both again, and you jump, almost pushing away from him before he stops you with a firm hand against the small of your back.

“Sh,” he whispers, nipping at your chin, “don’t pay them any mind. You’re with me, remember?”

It’s difficult at first with the ever-growing hum of life around you, but it grows increasingly easier to melt into him, to lose yourself in the rhythm of him. He’s thick and hard underneath you, pressed right where you’re already slick and ready for him, and he’s got a tight grip on your hips, working you against him to make sure you feel it and oh– do you feel it.

A debauched gasp pours from your mouth to his; Eren sinks sharp teeth into your bottom lip with a grunt of approval, pulls you up to situate you over his twitching cock. You can feel the lecherous eyes of the woodland creatures, spirits, monsters, whatever they may be around you, looking in on the sticky, tangible arousal building between your bodies. The steady glow of Eren’s eyes, the prick of the thorns in his hair under your fingertips, the insistent weight of him pressing against the wet heat of you: all of it keeps you grounded, keeps your hips rolling into Eren like your life depends on it, like it’s what you were born to do.

“Are you ready?” Eren murmurs, quiet as the grave, stilling your hips and lifting you.

“I’m not sure, I–”

“I’ve been waiting so long,” Eren interrupts, “so long for you– you’re ready for me, I know you are.”

And with that, he’s sliding you down onto his cock, splitting you open, dropping your jaw. The cacophony from the forest grows deafening, but the glowing eyes in the brush streak and blur as your eyes flutter closed, a stuttered moan falling from your lips.

“Oh–”

“Knew you were ready,” Eren sinks his teeth into your collarbone, lets you wiggle and roll your hips until he’s situated comfortably inside of you. “You were born for this. For me.”

You can’t even bring yourself to disagree, to refute, to question. It’s godly, the way he fills you, the twinge of pain in the pit of your belly that doesn’t waver, no matter which way you squirm. The longer you sit, perched upon him– you feel something akin to divinity, akin to prophecy ringing through your bones. You were born for this.

“Eren…” It’s more of a sigh than anything, a confession and an admittance of guilt, a repentance. He likes the way it tastes, you can tell by the way his hands grip you harder, roll you along his cock faster with an urgency that betrays his calm, adoring gaze. He’s sinking his claws into you, bit by bit, and you’re better for it. You belong here, with the night on your skin and Eren nestled inside of you.

“Don’t ever leave,” Eren smiles gently, as if it’s a choice, “stay with me forever.”

The pleasure’s beginning to peak in your stomach, the howls swirling in the air around you start to feel more like a blanket, the moonlight like a crown. His hands are so hot they almost burn, his tongue licking up your neck feels like a baptism. Your back is arching, your blood is rushing, the stars are speaking to you– what are they saying?

Your fingernails have left angry indents in your throat where you’ve clutched into the skin in a desperate attempt to regain your breath, shooting up out of your slumber with a vicious jolt. Your head spins with the sudden movement, the antique furnishings of the room bleeding into candlelit blurs as you heave for breath.

“Sleeping?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the gravel of Eren’s voice, having believed yourself to be alone. Some instinctual part of your mind almost remembers falling asleep on the loveseat in the glass-enclosed sunroom earlier, one too many martinis to thank for that, but you can worry about that later– Eren’s your priority now, shirtless and leaned against the doorframe with one eyebrow raised and a very telling flush rising to his cheeks. The chilly wetness between your legs brings your dream to the forefront of your mind. Had he heard, somehow?

“What are you doing down here?” You do your best to narrow your eyes into something convincing enough to pass for annoyance, unsure if you’ve managed to pull it off with the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

“Water,” Eren says simply, raising a glass you hadn’t noticed he was holding, “but it seems like you might need it more than I do.”

“I don’t–” He ignores you, crossing the room to hand you the ornate glass. Your throat is dry, and so you drink, eyeing him suspiciously as you sip.

“Dreaming?” The corner of his mouth twitches almost imperceptibly.

“Nightmare.” You push yourself up to sit, crossing your arms defensively over your chest. “How’d you know?”

A long pause, Eren’s eyes dragging over you slowly, your skin burning. “You were squirming.”

“It was disturbing,” you say truthfully, looking over your shoulder and half-expecting to see some horrible monster leering at you from the doorway, salivating over you and Eren, “but I’ve had this same dream since I was a kid. Part of it, anyway.”

“Need company?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaken by the dream and how low Eren’s pajama pants hang on his hips, “I just need to get to my real bed. I’m sure sleeping outside had something to do with it.”

“That’s not true.” Eren’s scooping you up into his arms before you can open your mouth to argue, as if you even would. This isn’t unusual for him; you’ve grown used to his tendency to touch you, to hold you close to his chest as though you belong there. It echoes in your head, you were born for this. A shudder wracks through your body. “Cold?”

“Mhm,” you hum, not trusting your own voice. Eren nuzzles your head deeper into his shoulder, lets you get a noseful of the scent of him. Dewdrops, mankind, a rotting forest floor. It gives you a disconcerting sense of deja vu.

“Sleeping outside is good for you,” Eren goes on, scaling the stairs with impossible ease, “my mom used to tell me that.”

“Is that so?” It brings a sleepy little smile to your face, despite yourself: the image of a messy-haired, fussy baby Eren, curled up in his mother’s lap and looking up at the night sky.

“Sure.” You can hear the nostalgia in his voice. “The stars can talk to you that way, through your dreams. They show you where you’re supposed to go.”

Your blood runs cold at that– does he know? How could he? He’s a man, not a mind-reader, not a mystic. Right? You let him carry you to your door in silence, the only noise being the padding of his bare feet down the Turkish carpet runner in the hall. When he gets to your door, Eren finally starts to move to let you down, and your mouth moves without your permission, voice small and echoing in the still nighttime air.

“Eren?”

He freezes, muscles locking you in place against his chest. “Yeah?”

“Was I talking in my sleep?”

Eren settles you on your feet before answering, leaving one lingering hand on your hip and bringing the other up to brush at your cheek. Your eye must have been watering– his thumb catches a stray tear. His smile is a little too sharp when he answers.

“No, why?”

“Just wondering.” Relief courses through your body, but your muscles stay taut under his touch.

“Okay,” Eren looks you up and down one more time, as if he’s making sure you’re all there, “goodnight, then. I hope your dreams get better.”

When he turns to go, the broad silhouette of him growing darker as he retreats, you remember something fragile underneath the floorboards.

“Wait, Eren! You forgot your water.”

“My what?” When he turns to face you, he’s still grinning– baring his teeth, more like. You think you’re imagining the glow in his eyes, too fresh from that dream.

“Your water. I think I have a cup in my room if you need it.”

“Oh.” Eren waves a hand nonchalantly through the air, catching a stray stream of moonlight. You can see the dust particles dancing around his hand, enchanted by his movement. “Wasn’t thirsty."

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

It’s a slinky, dazzling dress; Elie Saab, Spring 2005, maybe? 2006? Sasha had lent it to you, insisted upon you taking it, really. It’s got to be worth at least your years’ rent payment, dripping with Swarovski and cut low and square across your chest, and easily the most decadent thing you’ve ever worn but– it’s family dinner night. No expense is spared.

Historia sits across from you, reaching one dainty hand out for Armin’s negroni, nearly dipping the massive drop-pearl charm on her bracelet into the first course: a cold, cucumber soup. Armin nudges her meaningfully, scowling and handing his glass to her, glancing apologetically at the stiff-backed butler across the room, who wasn’t looking anyway. Sasha’s at the head of the table, working on Historia’s serving of the cucumber soup, dunking focaccia bread into it in a voracious manner that you’re sure wasn’t outlined in the etiquette courses she’d endured as a child. And he’s next to you, naturally.

His dinner jacket looks out of place on him, oddly enough: angular and overly formal, as well-fitting as it is. You wish it was a little greener, a little more playful, something to match the Eren you’ve gotten to know under all the glitz and glamour. It’s too human for him, really, but that thought makes you shudder faster than you can shove it to the side.

“Wasn’t that the girl from Luxembourg?” Sasha asks through a giggle, finally leaning back to allow the butler to collect the remnants of her first course. Historia frowns at her, gulps back nearly half of Armin’s cocktail.

“No, the girl from Luxembourg was a slut. He wouldn’t have touched her.”

Armin and Eren exchange a look that implies that, whoever the slut from Luxembourg might have been, she didn’t escape their clutches unscathed. Historia notices the guilty smile dimpling Eren’s cheek and smacks Armin in retaliation.

“Ouch, Stori!” Armin scowls right back at her; if you didn’t know about Armin’s father’s remarriage to Historia’s mother, you’d think they were actually related.

“She was a slut,” Historia sniffs, finishing the rest of Armin’s cocktail in a second swig.

“It was Eren’s idea– you’re always punishing me for what he does.” When the staff place the second course, some sort of ceviche, in front of him, Armin crosses his arms over his chest and looks away like a huffy child. Sasha laughs and swats at his shoulder.

“Don’t pretend you don’t have your own hand in things. You can’t blame everything on Eren.”

“Maybe he can,” you shrug, the champagne going to your head. You’re feeling impish, feeling like one of them. Wildly, you reach a hand up to pinch at Eren’s cheek, smiling to yourself when you feel it turn warm under your fingers. “I mean, just look at him. He’s a devil.”

“Am not,” Eren scoffs, slapping a hand on your leg and shaking it playfully, “you weren’t there anyway. Min’s very convincing when he wants to be.”

“I am.” Armin smiles at you, head tilting intrepidly. “I can get Eren to share anything I want, I bet.”

It feels loaded, like a challenge, and Eren’s fingers tighten where he’s gripping your leg. When you chance a glance to the side at him, his jaw is tense, gaze focused on Armin like a threat, like a predator.

“Not anything,” Eren says, voice low and dangerous, more somber than you’ve ever heard him. Armin’s face falls for a millisecond, scrunching his nose at the murderous glint in Eren’s eyes, before he clenches his jaw and glances between the two of you with a haughty smirk.

“Est-ce vrai? En êtes-vous sûr? Tu l'as dit toi-même - je suis convaincant quand je veux quelque chose.”

“Ne commencez pas avec moi, pas pour ça.” It’s hardly louder than a murmur, but the threat carries all the same. You look to Sasha with widened eyes, hoping for a translation, but she’s chewing slowly on a bite of her ceviche, looking at Armin, Eren, then Armin again with a strange expression you’ve never seen before.

A heavy silence settles over the table, Eren’s fingertips leaving sore spots through your dress where they’re digging into your thigh, and Armin’s eyes dancing over Eren’s face, that same smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Daring.

“You two are so in love,” Historia gripes with a roll of her eyes, smashing the carefully-cubed ceviche on her plate into a mush. You eye the smear of meat on her fork disdainfully and set down the bite you had been about to pop in your mouth, opting for your glass of bubbles instead.

The jokingly grumpy lilt of Historia’s comment seems to cut the thread of tension that had grown taut between the two men, as Armin allows Sasha to pull him away from Eren and back into his corner of the table with her and Historia. Their conversation drones on, the ethics of Eren and Armin’s tendency to tag-team women fading into the background as you wait for Eren’s hand to slip from your thigh. It doesn’t.

His thumb rubs idly over the slit of your dress, brushing it back and forth over your bare skin for just long enough to get you used to the pressure of his palm beaming heat through the thin fabric, get your guard down. And then his fingers slip underneath, grabbing into the hot flesh of your thigh.

You jump ever so slightly, flighty as a fawn, and Eren chuckles under his breath beside you when you choke a bit on your champagne. He’s cool—stoic, even—as he bashfully bats away the scandalous insinuations of Sasha and Historia’s storytelling, the lewd raise of Armin’s eyebrows at the mention of a certain leggy redhead in Prague. His hand stays steady, possessive and permanent on your leg. When Armin and Historia start arguing over yet another of Armin’s alleged missteps with one of her college friends, Eren takes the opening to lean into you, murmuring into your ear.

“What’s got you so jumpy?” His breath puffs out hot and sensual against the shell of your ear, and you can feel your earring lifting with the movement of his lips. He’s so close.

“Not jumpy,” you answer under your breath, trying to keep your composure.

“Hm,” Eren hums, leaning back just enough to study your profile, “wasn’t sure if you’d dozed off, started dreaming again.”

Your head whips towards him in what is surely an uncouth accusation of insinuation, borne of shock, but luckily, Armin’s too busy being hand-fed ceviche by Sasha and scolded by Historia to notice. Other than his eyes, Eren’s stiller than death, watching over the antics with the littlest smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. His eyes, though, flick down to you, glinting like a dare.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means something?” It’s a challenge, and you realize too late that the rope around your ankle has cinched, and you’re caught in his trap.

“No,” you say, hoping for more conviction in your voice, but it comes out as a breathy whisper. The corner of Eren’s mouth twitches, and it pulls an irritated huff from you.

“Tell me about your dream. The one that woke you up the other night.”

“Tell you– w-what? Here?”

“Yes, here,” Eren repeats you, quiet and calm, keeping one eye on your bickering friends to ensure you’re kept all to himself, “unless it’s something you can’t share.”

The blanching of your face tells him everything he needs to know, and that sickening admission almost overshadows the fact that he knows. He undeniably knows, now; maybe not the specifics, but enough to know that you had woken up sticky and gasping after a sinful dream. Maybe he even knows it was about him. 

You’ve given up on trying to understand the otherworldly elements of Eren; the way he seems to appear at inopportune moments and know what you’re thinking at every turn, but this is too much. You quickly realize that while you’re not sober, you’re certainly not drunk enough to deal with him, and you finish your glass of champagne in a single gulp.

“You’re one to talk about sharing,” you hiss at him, trying to will away the goosebumps prickling your arms as his fingers inch higher, skating along soft skin. Eren’s demeanor falters, if only for a moment– he looks frustrated.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Eren leans into you, brows furrowing. “I don’t share just anything, and especially not just because ‘Min wants a taste.”

“Am I yours to share?” That heavy swig of champagne has gone straight to your head it seems, as you turn your face up to him defiantly, finally saying the quiet part out loud. The weight falls off your shoulders like a head, and you can almost feel the itch of the guillotine at your neck as the words leave your mouth. Eren, ever the gentle executioner, only lets the calm fascination return to his face, brings his fingers further up your thigh.

“Tell me about your dream, hm? They’re not listening, it’s just you and me.”

He’s only inches away from where you’re already beginning to grow hot and wet– he hasn’t even done anything, and you want to chastise yourself over the undeniable need beginning to bubble inside you. Eren’s smiling so sweetly, as if he’s lulling you into a sense of complacency, and your tongue hangs heavy in your mouth, eager to spill your secrets.

“I…I’m scared.”

Eren’s eyebrows raise and his smile grows a bit toothier, disbelief written plain on his face. “Of me?”

“Sometimes,” you say, small and honest as the grave, “it’s like you aren’t real.”

“I’m very real,” Eren insists, two fingers pressing against the damp silk of your panties, his eyes lighting up when you stifle a gasp, “doesn’t that feel real?”

“Wait–”

“The dream,” Eren says again, increasing the pressure of his fingers, “were you scared of me there, too?”

“Yes,” you whisper, ashamed and painfully cognizant of the feel of him between your legs, “I was in a forest, running after the little lights, they– I’ve seen them for a long time.”

“Since you were a child,” Eren repeats your confession from the other night. He’s reading you, you realize, not like a book, but like a poem. You couldn’t put the difference into words if you had to, but there’s a certain melody to the flickering of his gaze over your hot face.

“They’ve never led me anywhere before,” your words hitch in your throat, stopped dead when Eren’s fingers start rubbing circles over your swollen clit. The silk is thin and soaked, and his fingers slide over you in a way that feels god-given. Your jaw hangs ever-so-slightly, the butlers coming to change the course. You wait for Eren to slip his hand out from under your dress, fearful of the staff watching as he toys with you, but he only nods encouragingly.

“Keep going.”

“Um,” you stammer, swallowing thickly and glancing at the plate of bleeding, rare filet in front of you, “they took me to a clearing in the forest. There were creatures, ones I’ve never seen before.”

“Did they hurt you? Any of them?” A furrow appears between his eyebrows, deep and concerned. Some small part of your brain, muted since Eren’s hand slid beneath your dress, worries itself with why Eren seems so disquieted with your dream– it’s not like you actually could have been hurt, it was only a dream. Wasn’t it?

“No, they stayed away. They just made a lot of noise, but they all got quiet when…”

A knowing smirk. “When?”

“When I saw you.”

Eren pats your thighs gently, urging them apart; he looks relieved, exhilarated, unreal. If you didn’t know better, you’d think his eyes were glowing in the candlelight. Armin, Historia, and Sasha’s clamor across the table grows louder with each passing second, but as soon as you begin to wonder if you should be doing a better job of hiding what’s very clearly happening under the slit of your dress, Eren’s fingers have wiggled their way beneath the fabric of your silk thong. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, eyes widening.

“I was glad to see you,” Eren says quietly, “in the dream, I mean.”

“You said you’d been waiting for me,” you whisper, keeping your voice low to hide the whine scratching at the back of your throat, “that you’d been waiting a long time.”

“I bet I was,” Eren hums thoughtfully, grinning viciously when he sinks a finger into you, clearly relishing the way your fingernails tighten into his wrist. “I never lie.”

“Even in a dream?” You feel fuzzy and warm, blinking moony, worried eyes up at him. Eren shakes his head in confirmation, curling his finger and making your thighs clench. “You put me in your lap, and–and, you had a crown. It was nighttime, I think, and the moon was really bright. You were inside me.”

Eren slides another finger in to match the first, and you’re hardly able to stifle a moan when it comes fluttering through your teeth, a breeze of a sound compared to what you’re struggling to keep captive in your chest. Eren’s other hand reaches forward to grab a small piece of the carved steak, brings the meat up to your mouth and brushes it over your lips.

“Eat,” Eren instructs, smiling placidly as you mindlessly obey, biting into the red meat, “but keep telling me.”

He waits patiently for you to chew around the bite of steak he’s offered you, eyes searching you for something– what it is, you can’t be sure. Your mind is wobbling around the flashes of memory of your dream, distracted every few steps by an overwhelming rush of pleasure from between your legs, Eren’s fingers curling incessantly against your walls. You swallow, never taking your eyes off of him.

“You fucked me.” The confession is breathless when it leaves you, and even through the haze of what you pray isn’t a rapidly-approaching orgasm, you don’t miss the way Eren’s shoulders stiffen, the way his eyes flash. 

“Did I fuck you, or did you fuck me?” Eren murmurs back to you, mischief in his eyes and a tense gravel to his voice. “You said you were in my lap, after all.”

“I—oh, god—I don’t know,” you’re barely able to keep your voice low, a little whimper interrupting you, “Eren–”

“Keep going, it’s okay,” Eren’s fingers don’t slow– in fact, they begin to move more harshly, “you’re safe with me, you know that. I showed you in the forest, didn’t I?”

“Mhm.” You can’t stop your forehead from falling onto his shoulder, teeth digging into your lip so hard you aren’t sure if that coppery taste is from the steak, or your own blood. The conversation in the room, despite being made by only three people, feels like a deafening rush in your ears. 

The realization hits home that Eren’s going to make you cum all over his fingers in front of your friends, the staff, and your dinner, and he’s going to wrench it out of you in a matter of seconds, if the tightening of your gut is anything to go by.

“What else?” Eren practically growls in your ear, low and hoarse. “Is there anything else?”

“You asked me– fuck, you asked me something.” Your hips are canting forward into his palm, your face tacky and warm thinking about the couture fabric under you, now drenched in your cum and sweat. “Eren, you have to slow down, please–”

He’s merciless, pumping his fingers into you ceaselessly, rendering you a lost cause. “What did I ask you?”

“You asked—oh, my god—asked if I, if I would stay with you forever.”

“What was your answer?”

You can’t respond, not with the way you’ve stopped breathing to swallow down the debauched moan bubbling in your chest. Your entire body tenses, strung tight as a bow around Eren’s fingers as the knot in your stomach unravels, cool, inevitable release finally crashing over you. Eren works you through it, murmuring little hushes into your hairline, and placing a comforting hand over your fingers that are digging into his wrist, smiling against your forehead as you slide your hips back and forth over his hand.

You manage to pull the whole thing off impressively subdued, no more than a tinny whimper leaving your lips, only to be absorbed by the sleeve of Eren’s dinner jacket. When you dare to sit up, to meet Eren’s eyes, he’s still looking at you expectantly, as if that wasn’t enough.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” you whisper, waiting for Historia to chastise you, or Armin to make a lewd comment. The three of them are still arguing, Sasha stealing bites from Armin’s plate each time he turns to snap at Historia, who’s now sitting amongst a crowd of empty crystal glasses.

“What was your answer?” Eren says again, pulling his fingers from you and smirking at the glisten that stretches down into his palm.

“I woke up,” you say with shaky conviction, trying to glare at him.

“Are you still scared of me?” Eren asks innocently, picking up a piece of his steak with his hand and feeding it to you again. Your cum mixes in with the flavor of the steak, gives it a certain tang and salinity that makes your heart beat faster, even though you’ve just floated back down to consciousness.

“I– I don’t think so, but…” you trail off, looking down at the plate. Eren brings another piece to your lips, letting you bite half and giving the rest to himself, not missing the opportunity to suck on the tips of his fingers. Your thighs press together when his eyes flutter shut, knowing what he’s tasting and watching him revel in it.

“But what?”

“I don’t think I understand you,” you confess breathlessly, “I think that’s what scares me. I spend all day looking at you, and I never feel closer to understanding you, to really touching you. It’s like you’re not…” you trail off in search of the right word.

“Real?” Eren cocks an eyebrow at you.

“Human,” you say without entirely meaning to, widening your eyes at him in apology. “I’m sorry, not in a bad way necessarily, but– you feel…like you’re above me. In a sense.”

“Above you?” Eren frowns, forgetting his dinner entirely and looking straight at you with rejection written all over his face, wrinkles you want to smoothe over with your thumb.

“I just…” you sigh, finding it harder to meet his gaze by the second, “I don’t understand what you want with me.”

“Still?” Eren tilts his head. “Even after that?”

“The dream?” You nearly chuckle in exasperation. “It was just a dream, that’s all.”

Eren frowns a little, reaches for your glass of champagne– oh, god, when had that been refilled?– and hands it to you. He watches you take one sip, and then another, that concentrated pull of his eyebrows never ceasing until you reach a shaky hand out for your fork, beginning to feed yourself small bites of steak. His perplexed expression ripples out into one of contentedness, smiling gently as he watches you take care of yourself.

“All days are nights to see till I see thee, and nights bright days when dreams do show me thee,” Eren finally says, looking at you very much like you’re supposed to be parsing something out from his quote.

“On to the sonnets now, are we?” You cock a playful eyebrow at him, despite your tired, slouching posture and your repeated attempts to keep your guard up. Eren grins mischievously, leaning in as if he means to press the tip of his nose to yours.

“I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say–”

“If it be love indeed, tell me how much?” You’re quicker than him on this one, a vicious little smirk cutting across your face when you manage to cut him off. Eren’s eyebrows raise, impressed, but you don’t keep him down for long.

“There’s beggary in love that can be reckoned,” Eren finally says, twirling the ring on your pinky absentmindedly. You don’t even remember when he laid his hand atop yours, but it feels heavy and comforting, and so you let it lie there, just for the time being.

Your post-orgasm exhaustion hits you like a train, the temptation to slump against Eren’s shoulder winning out over your propriety. You’ll sit back up by the fourth course, you tell yourself, nibbling on a large piece of parsley that had come as a garnish on your plate. Eren doesn’t seem to mind the weight of your fuzzy head nodded into the cotton of his shoulder; in fact, he seems to adjust himself so you can nuzzle closer, eyes blinking owlishly as you reach for your glass of bubbles. You’re teetering dangerously close to the edge of unconsciousness, and you almost wouldn’t care, until something catches your eye.

Over the rim of your glass, Historia is staring at you. It’s not a look of admonishment, but more…caution? Concern? Pity? All you can discern for certain is that Historia must have seen everything Eren did to you, everything he’s still doing to you, taking a caviar bump off the back of his hand and laughing at Armin, shoulder shaking under your cheek. Historia’s brows furrow at you, her bottom lip wavering slightly.

You sit up suddenly, ignoring the way the room spins with the speed of your action. Eren turns his head to you, surprised, only to follow your gaze across the table to Historia. You’re trying to keep from looking at him, but you can’t help yourself, watching his expression crumple into something stern and disparaging.

Historia withers for only a moment, before narrowing her eyes at him threateningly. Eren squeezes his hand around yours. Sasha shoves Historia admonishingly for not listening to her joke. Armin’s eyes focus in on where your fingers grip your champagne flute hard enough to turn white.

You think you see a few pairs of familiar, glowing eyes in the bushes outside, peering in on the scene at the table. You think you need to go to bed.

[verefex]

Caged Giant (Titan Origins) pt 4

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Content warnings in tags. It's hard being a titan.

How long had it been since that day? Crashing through the planet’s atmosphere, encased in rock, emerging from the cracked halves under tons and tons of soil.

Sky’s memory was foggy. It may have been a year. Perhaps two or three years.

“Here it is.” The giant said as his enormous self stood before the impact site. A tremendous crater, ringed by mounds of earth and rubble. In the center was a large meteor, mostly buried. Tire tracks and boot prints littered the ground, indicating that humans had investigated the site.

“It’s huge…” Lark said as she peeped out from the giant’s collar.

“Yup. This is where I woke up.” Sky said as he approached the center of the crater and crouched down, touching his fingers the dark space rock.

Lark became excited upon seeing the giant touch the meteor. Her curiosity got the better of her and she tugged at the titan’s shirt.

“Can I look at it? I’ve never seen a meteor before.” She asked, trying to hide her excitement.

“Sure.” Sky laughed as he reached up and let Lark jump into his hand before lowering it to the ground. Lark hopped off and approached the meteor, little blue eyes wide as she gazed up and down the surface.

“It looks like it’s been split in half, such a clean cut…” She uttered as she ran her fingers along the edges. It reminded her of a geode, with the inside being a lighter color than the rough outside.

Sky crouched over her, examining the buried meteor. He furrowed his brows as he gripped the edge, noting how clean the cut was, almost as if a laser split it open.

Lark gazed up at the enormous man above her, engulfed in his shadow. She found herself staring at his intense, serious expression.

“...Sky?” she said timidly, and the giant’s face turned to look at her.

“Huh? Oh. It’s just, you’re right. It was split almost perfectly down the middle. There’s no way it could have broken so evenly without a guide.” The giant’s words were solemn.

Lark looked from the giant’s face to the meteor. She nibbled on her knuckle in thought.

“How did you get encased in a meteor in the first place?” Lark asked the giant.

Sky blinked, then sighed as he sat back heavily on his rear with a loud thump. Lark stood frozen as the ground shook her, and she was met with the towering torso before her, his legs arched above on either side.

“I don’t remember.” Sky said softly. “I don’t remember anything except waking up to dirt falling into my eyes. I dug my way out between this broken hunk of rock. I was so exhausted and weak, I fell asleep as soon as I freed myself.”

Lark was quiet, intently listening to the giant as his hulking body surrounded her. Her little frame knelt down on the ground in the wake of the titan’s shadow.

“And when you woke up…?” She urged the giant to elaborate.

“I… felt this hunger that has never left me since then. Gnawing, aching, compelling me. It’s the only thing I’ve known, the only constant. I didn’t even have a name. I knew I came from the sky, so that was what I called myself.” The giant uttered as he recalled more and more.

“I started to learn about this planet, as I satisfied my hunger… I’d gain knowledge whenever I consumed something new. Humans. Animals. Plants and minerals. Nothing was off the menu. And there are endless things to discover on this planet.” Sky’s face became darker as he went on, and Lark’s nervous little hands gripped her thighs in the presence of an enormous all-consuming being.

“So… is that your goal? To… eat everything?” She asked.

“I don’t know.” Sky huffed as he stared at the meteor again, almost wishing that it would talk to him and provide answers.

“It was the same thing every day for me… until I got captured. And then I met you.” The titan eyed the small woman under his gaze. “Since then I have been… conscious about the decisions I make and how they impact the lives of humans. Until I find out what my true purpose is here, that’s what I’m sticking to.”

Lark felt her cheeks warm as the weight of her decision to free Sky became apparent. She found herself devoted to unraveling his mysteries, anything to keep him interested in her.

Is that really what she wanted? She shook her head.

“Wow, that’s… really awesome.” Lark smiled up at the giant as she stood up. “It’s unfortunate that you don’t remember anything about your past, though.”

“It’s all I’ve known, so it’s fine.” Sky said as he leaned forward, gripping his thighs as he stared down at the human peering up at him. “I just don’t know where to start looking for answers. This meteor doesn’t tell us much.”

“You sure about that?” Lark asked cheerfully. “Maybe you can dig it out and see the full thing, that might help.”

Sky grumbled as he looked at the partially buried meteor. It was under heaps of dirt, but perhaps Lark had a point.

“Alright. You might want to stand back.” The giant said as he reached down and plucked Lark off the ground, then leaned over and set her safely to the side.

The titan then rolled up his sleeves on his pristine white jacket and got to work scraping dirt away with the largest rock he could find. Clouds of dust filled the crater as he dug and dug, his jacket now a shade of rusty orange as he finally loosened enough earth and was able to pull one half of the meteor out of the ground with tremendous effort.

The two observed the cylindrical rock. The outer surface was rough, but smooth to the touch, like cooled lava. The most curious trait, however, was the interior. Rather than rock, it had a likeness to metal, with a green sheen inlaid with etchings and port structures.

“I guess it’s… not a meteor?” Sky rumbled as his fingers ran across the etchings.

“Wait, let me see!” Lark yelled from the edge of the crater, and Sky reached over and picked her up, bringing her up to the inner surface.

“You’re right, it’s etched metal.” Lark said as she touched the smooth, curved surface from the safety of the giant’s hand. “It’s like it was manufactured this way.”

“Huh… look at the outside, too. It’s not even rock, it’s just burnt and melted metal, I think?” The giant said as he touched the rough outer edges.

“It probably looked a lot different before being burnt up coming through the atmosphere… I can’t believe you survived the crash, Sky.” Lark said, looking up at the confused titan from his palm.

“Must be really tough stuff. It kind of looks like an escape pod, so it’s meant to crash. But that still doesn’t explain why I’m here in the first place…” Sky sighed as he stood up and looked at the giant melted pod, the other half still mostly buried in the earth.

As the giant stood, clouds of dust and dirt fell from him. From his outstretched palm held at chest height, Lark could see streaks of brown and orange all over his jacket.

“Oh, your coat!” She said suddenly, and Sky looked down at himself. He blinked and looked at Lark with a calm expression.

“It’s fine, it’s washable.” The giant said as he used his fingers to brush off some of the dirt.

“Hmm, well it’s not like there are washing machines for clothes your size.” Lark sighed as she examined the titan’s enormous thick coat, padded and lined for warmth. She then blinked suddenly as she realized something inexplicable about the hulking man’s wear.

“Sky… where did you get that coat, anyways?” She asked up at the giant. “You didn’t even have a shirt on when I first met you.”

“Uh… I don’t know how to explain this, but it kind of just appeared.” Sky said flatly as he held the woman in his hand closer to his face.

“...please try to explain.” Lark replied, her face blank.

“Okay, so, after we escaped and parted ways, I was pretty cold without most of my clothes. It does take a lot for me to get cold, but the next night I remember I started shivering. Then, my insides glowed blue under my skin, and I got real warm.” Sky said as he gestured with his free hand, then grabbed the loose collar of his jacket.

“And then, these clothes appeared on me. And I been wearin’ em since.” The giant shrugged.

Lark, speechless, glanced down at the giant’s palm, which was covered with a thin, black fingerless glove. She picked at the fabric, deeming it rather sturdy and very similar to a glove she might wear.

“So your body… glows, and creates things out of thin air.” She chortled.

“I know, it sounds stupid.” Sky sighed, bringing Lark closer to his face. “But I’m not complaining. I’d be walking around almost naked otherwise.”

“Yeah, what a… shame that would be.” Lark said with a cheeky smirk.

The giant raised his eyebrows curiously at her comment. “Hmm?” He rumbled questioningly as he stared down Lark, who suddenly became shy and averted her gaze from his looming face.

“I mean, maybe, if we were in a warmer climate.” Sky shrugged. “It’s pretty damn cold here. I like it though.”

Lark leaned back into the giant’s palm and hugged her arms. “It’s alright… I wouldn’t mind living somewhere warmer. My team has been here for a while and it’s barely gotten warmer than 50 degrees.”

Sky chuckled as he glanced down at the woman in his hand, admiring her petite size.

“My body is very warm, you know. You can live in my pocket if you want.” The giant giggled as he gestured to his coat pockets on his hips. “But… nah, I mean, you must have a home or something to go back to, huh?”

Lark shook her head heartily and scooted along Sky’s palm, where she wrapped her arms around his enormous thumb. “I want to be with you.” She said firmly, hugging his thumb.

Sky’s expression softened as he gazed at the adorable little woman clinging to his thumb. His heart fluttered at her dedication and trust towards him.

The titan lifted his hand up to his mouth and pushed his soft lips into Lark’s body, feeling her warmth, her minuscule proportions.

“What made you trust me so much?” Sky whispered, incredulously, as he pushed his lips against her.

Lark froze up as the giant’s mouth whispered directly into her ear, his breath smelling faintly like birch.

“You… didn’t eat me.” She responded timidly, still clutching his thumb as his face smothered her against his broad palm.

“I could. Right now.” The giant rumbled, and Lark could hear his tongue scraping against the back of his teeth, directly behind her head.

“… I know.” Lark said softly, closing her eyes tightly, ever so hopeful.

Sky’s throat rumbled with a soft growl as he parted his lips, then his teeth, and suddenly his mouth had encircled her, trapping her between his palm and his enormous, blue mouth overhead. It took everything in her not to scream, to trust this mischievous giant with her own life as she forced herself to let go of his thumb and roll onto her back, staring up at the channel of his tongue, the grooves of his palate.

The interior of his mouth was partially illuminated only from the light pouring in from the gaps between his lips and his palm. While her back was against his palm, she was completely inside of his mouth, his teeth and tongue encircling her with no escape.

Her breath caught in her chest as she reached out and touched her delicate fingers to his tongue beside her.

“Sky. Enough.” She said shakily, forcing her eyes to stay open as his mouth surrounded her.

The titan grumbled as she touched his tongue, wanting nothing more than to close his mouth around her and seal her inside. But he obliged and withdrew himself, leaving her shaking in his palm.

“Huff- you’re no fun.” Sky said breathily, smiling warmly down at the tiny woman in his hand.

Lark stayed on her back, glaring up at him with a pout as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Just cause I trust you doesn’t mean you should push it!” Lark retorted, and Sky couldn’t help but giggle mischievously.

“I know, I know…sorry.” The titan licked his lips and moved his hand away from his mouth, eyeing her carefully. His appetite was certainly whetted by her proximity to his jaws. He had to be more careful.

“It’s alright… no harm done.” Lark said as she sat up in his palm and crossed her legs, nestling into the giant’s warm hand.

“So, where would you like to ride from here on out?” Sky said as he gestured to his body.

“Ride? Um…” Lark leaned back and took in the enormous breadth of Sky’s imposing stature before her.

“You do have a lot of pockets. How about the chest one again?” She said as she started to fuss over her hair and tousle it back into place.

“Good choice.” Sky said as he lifted the tiny woman up to his left breast and unzipped the pocket. He tilted his palm towards the opening, and Lark gingerly stepped inside and dropped to the bottom of the pocket.

Being flush against the giant man’s chest warmed Lark to the core. She found herself smiling as she nestled into the bottom corner of the fabric pouch. As Sky walked with his enormous heavy steps, Lark was comforted by the sway of his gait. It really was a perfect place for a small human such as herself.

Sky smiled as well, feeling her fluttery little body against his right breast. His fingertips grazed the outside of the pocket protectively.

“Shall I zip you in, seal your fate?” The giant grinned as he tugged at the zipper, pulling the tab slowly along the teeth.

Lark gasped as she looked up at the opening of the pocket, the light dwindling as the enormous zipper teeth came together in a neat row.

“Hey, no! There’s no way I could pull that back open!” She whined, standing up awkwardly in the fabric folds and stretching her arms up. Her fingertips only grazed the teeth of the zipper.

Sky merely laughed and left the zipper halfway closed. “I’m kidding! I want you to be able to get out if you need to.” He patted the pocket gently and continued walking, consciously aware of the tiny life tucked away against his breast.

Very few humans lived in the remote wilderness of the north where Sky roamed. Aside from temporary settlements and camps, such as the one Lark came from, he was unlikely to encounter many people. Titans, on the other hand, were known to travel in a wide range.

Sky let out a long, pained sigh as he stood still. He gazed down at his breast pocket where Lark was safely snuggled into.

“Hey Lark. I know you agreed to stay with me, but… it will be dangerous if I meet another titan. I don’t know how well I can protect you if things get ugly.” Sky rumbled as he pulled the zipper outwards to peek inside his pocket.

Lark peeked up from the bottom, gazing at the giant’s worried eyes through the zipper opening.

“You mean like a fight? Do titans attack each other?” She asked.

“I might. It depends on how cooperative they are.” Sky replied. “I intend to only ask questions… I gotta learn more about myself. I don’t know where else to look for answers, and the meteor only complicated things.”

“Hmm… well, I’d still rather stay with you, Sky. I trust that you’ll keep me safe…” Lark said as she looked up and placed a small hand on the giant’s breast, a tiny reassurance within his pocket.

“I’ll protect you, Lark. If anything, I might just have to hide you somewhere you can’t be stepped on or crushed on accident.” Sky said while touching his fingers to the outside of his chest pocket. “Just wanted to uh, forewarn you. Though I’m sure you know other titans aren’t as gentle as I am.”

Lark let out a laugh. Though Sky was the only titan she had really met, she was well aware of the dangers. “Yeah, I won’t go waltzing up to another giant… don’t worry!”

Sky glanced down at his pocket again and grumbled, placing his hand over his entire breast protectively. The cold northern air chilled his enormous body, but his pocket remained warm, tucked against himself. Lark would be safe from the cold as long as she was with him.

As he walked, the titan suddenly winced as his stomach tightened into a knot. He had been ignoring it for the majority of the day, but the pain was now amped up to a 10.

Sky halted, standing still among the trees. His glowing blue eyes scanned the treetops, deliberating on which one to take a bite out of. Yet, as he brought his mouth up to the leaves, he stopped.

This wasn’t right. His body was telling him it was hungry for something else.

The titan blinked. When was the last time he ate humans?

“Damn…” Sky grumbled, gritting his teeth as he stared at the leaves in front of him, a snack he had eaten many times before when he was desperate. The thought of choking them down right now made him nauseous.

Lark, sensing the giant’s turmoil, peeked her head out of his pocket’s zipper and looked up at him.

“Sky, you okay?” She asked timidly, and the giant did not look at her.

No, he didn’t dare look at her, so small and vulnerable in his pocket, with her taste still faint on his lips. He merely closed his eyes and clenched his jaw tight.

“I don’t know. Stay in the pocket, Lark.” He rumbled lowly, reaching up with his fingertip and gently pushing her back down into the depths of his clothing.

“Hey-!” She squeaked as she was forced inside, even more so when Sky promptly zipped the pocket all the way shut.

The giant breathed deeply, feeling his lungs swell and his guts cramp painfully. This had certainly been the longest time he had gone since devouring Lark’s kind. He had to keep her safe, no matter what. Safe, and oblivious.

The titan turned in place and walked purposefully towards a hillside he had passed by earlier. He had caught a glimpse as he was walking of a dirt road winding through the trees, a pathway paved by humans.

Inside his pocket, tucked against his pounding chest, Lark was fiddling nervously. Rocked this way and that by his strides, her efforts to reach up and undo the zipper were fruitless. She was helpless, all she could do was sink to the bottom of his pocket.

What was he planning to do? She had to know. While the giant was distracted, she focused her attention on the seams lining the bottom corner of the pocket with her small knife.

Sky followed the dirt road, his giant boots plowing through trees and rocks as he scanned the area. It was unlikely, but there was a chance there would be humans somewhere along the road, either by vehicle or in a campsite.

Sure enough, the giant’s long strides brought him to a small camp. Three tents surrounded an electric portable stove on the top of the hill. No sign of a fire or smoke, a telling sign that the inhabitants were trying to avoid detection.

Two humans appeared out of the tents, alerted by the titan’s presence. Geared up in tactical camo gear, they immediately began shouting into their radios as Sky wasted no time in reaching down and grabbing them both in one hand.

Sky stared at them both as they struggled in his hand, feeling his innards rumble with anticipation. This was it, the cure. He wasted no time in cramming both of the men into his mouth and sealing them inside despite their protests.

Under his jacket, Lark had slipped out of the hole in his pocket, and was making her way down along his enormous body. An audible swallowing sound filled the air, and she froze somewhere along his abdomen.

“Sky…” she whispered, horrified, as her proximity to his stomach gave away what he had just put in there. Indeed, the muffled cries of the two humans the giant had just swallowed whole emanated from within.

The titan felt himself go into a trance-like state as his body immediately responded to his latest meal, and a warm glowing feeling washed over him as the pain in his guts subsided. He let out a long sigh, then leaned back in satisfaction, just in time for Lark to slip out from under his jacket.

“Woah!” He yelled and fumbled, reaching down to catch her before she hit the ground.

“What are you doing?” Sky said with a gasp as he brought her close to his face, cupping her in his palm. She shuddered briefly before looking up at him in horror.

“You ate them!” Lark cried, pointing her finger at his enormous face. “People, you ate people!”

Sky stared at her guiltily, covering his mouth with his free hand. Now that his stomach pain had subsided, he was able to think more clearly. Didn’t he tell Lark directly that he would not be eating other humans?

“...I forgot.” He mumbled.

“How could you forget? It’s not like you ate them on accident!” Lark cried, pounding her tiny fists into his palm.

Sky bit his lip as he leaned over and stared down at his belly, which was happily full of squirming. Now that he had finally eaten, the thought of letting them back out was agonizing.

“You don’t understand… I have to.” He retorted, his gaze avoiding Lark’s.

“You have to? What will happen if you don’t eat humans? What about eating trees, like before?” She cried.

“I couldn’t continue any longer. It hurt… my insides felt like they were on fire. Now it’s fine…” Sky uttered.

“Sky…” Lark said, defeated, crumpling in his hand at his words. Her entire body shook as she was forced to witness such atrocities. All she could think about was how whoever was eaten was still alive inside of him… for now.

The titan sighed, glancing around his surroundings. He felt guilty for exposing Lark to this without much warning. If she just stayed in his pocket, would things have been better? She certainly would have still heard the commotion.

“I’m sorry. Maybe all this was a mistake.” Sky said as he crouched down and held his hand against the ground, with Lark on top. “If you stay with me, you’re going to witness stuff like this. I can’t change who I am.” The giant’s expression was solemn.

Lark’s lip quivered as she looked up at the giant, then down at the ground, at the empty encampment.

“You’re going to leave me here alone?” She asked, staring up at him with big eyes.

“Don’t worry, there’s one person left.” Sky said, nodding towards one of the tents. Lark followed his gaze and stared inside, indeed catching a glimpse of its occupant. Sky’s enormous hand reached over and plucked the tent off the ground, exposing them.

With a surprised expression, the last human in the encampment froze in Sky’s shadow. It was none other than Devon, the unfortunate man who couldn’t seem to catch a break from the titan.

“Oh god, it’s Devon… don’t leave me with him!” Lark whined, pointing her finger at the cowardly man.

Devon scrambled in place and stood up, clenching a rifle in his hands. Sky’s huge body eclipsed the area, a look of amusement on his face.

“You again…! You’ll pay, titan… for eating my men!” Devon shouted, aiming his weapon and Sky and pulling the trigger… a click. He had forgotten to load any rounds.

Sky, heaving a sigh, cupped Lark in his hand and leaned closer to the shouting man.

“Hey, don’t be so upset. They were very satisfying.” The titan said lowly, eyeing the lone human who was currently fumbling with reloading his rifle.

“Shut up, you!” Devon said, gritting his teeth as he finally loaded his gun and aimed up at Sky once more. The titan blinked, staring at the tiny gun pointed at him, and brought his hand up, over Devon, and clapped it down on top of him.

The man was flattened instantly under the giant’s massive palm, and when Sky removed his hand, Devon was reeling from the shock, sprawled on his back in pain. Sky took the opportunity to pinch the man’s leg between his thumb and forefinger, lifting him off the ground as his rifle tumbled down, out of his loose fingers.

Lark watched, still cupped in the giant’s other hand, as the limp body of Devon was lifted up by his foot, dangling precariously between Sky’s fingers. Her eyes grew wide as she realized what the giant’s intentions were.

Sky caught her gaze and looked at her, holding Devon up next to his face threateningly. His expression was stern.

“So, you don’t like this guy. Are you going to protest if I eat him, too?” The titan uttered, and Lark could hear the malice dripping in his voice.

“I…” Lark stammered, suddenly feeling like she was the judge, jury, and executioner of this one man’s life. She didn’t particularly hate Devon, but he did vocally advocate banishing her from their group.

“You don’t have to watch. I’ll make it quick.” Sky said as he slowly brought the dangling man to his mouth.

“H-He won’t feel any pain, right?” Lark asked innocently. Her hands started to get clammy as she braced herself for what she was about to see.

Sky shook his head. “No. At least, I don’t think so. They usually quiet down after a little while.”

“...until they get dissolved in acid, right…” Lark shuddered.

“No, that’s not it. Titan’s bodies are different from a human’s. Remember how I mentioned my insides glowing? It happens after I eat, as well. The light grows warm and disperses nutrients throughout, instantly. At least that’s what I think.” Sky said as he nodded down to his torso, clad in his warm jacket but a faint blue glow could be seen underneath.

Lark stared at his middle, her eyes indeed picking up the faint glow within the titan’s body.

“Really? So… that light in your body is responsible for regulating your organs, and… manifesting clothing and equipment for you…” She said curiously, head tilting as she contemplated the complicated nature of the titan’s body. “That’s pretty handy, you know. I wonder what else it does…”

As Lark sat comfortably in the giant’s hand, Devon was slowly coming-to, held by his leg in front of Sky’s face. He gasped as he was held upside-down, so high off the ground, staring at the titan’s mouth.

“Hey, no, no, no…” He said, flailing his arms as he swung back and forth from the giant’s fingers. “C’mon, you don’t gotta eat me too!”

Sky turned his attention to Devon, feeling his appetite growing by the minute.

“If I let you go again, you’ll just try to shoot me.” Sky retorted, already feeling impatient about delaying his meal.

“What? No, of course not! You really think that gun can do much damage to you anyways??” Devon squeaked helplessly.

“You could take my eye out. Not risking it. Besides, I’m not satisfied with just the two.” Sky said lowly, opening his mouth and raising Devon above it. Just as he was about to drop him inside, Lark piped up below.

“Wait! Sky, hold on.” She said, patting the giant’s hand. Sky glanced down at her, mouth still partially open. “We could… use this as an opportunity to see what happens in there…”

Sky raised an eyebrow at her words. He closed his mouth and leveled his head to look down at her in his palm.

“...go on.” He said. Lark bit her lip nervously, suddenly feeling rather put on the spot.

“Well, um, since you’re eating him anyways… what if we hooked up his body cam and transmitted it to my phone?” Lark said, holding up her device. “All of those suits have them.”

Sky smiled, impressed by her boldness to use a fellow human in this way. Devon, of course, protested loudly to the idea.

“What?? Oh come on, you’re gonna use me as an endoscope?” He squealed, and Sky merely flipped the man’s body into his hand and closed his fist on him.

“Didn’t expect this from you.” Sky laughed as he brought Lark up closer to his face. “Isn’t that rather morbid?”

Lark blushed at his words, fiddling with her phone as she perched in his palm. “You know what? Yes, it is. You were right, by staying with you I have no choice but to be complicit in… this. So, let’s make the most of it, and maybe if Devon cooperates well enough, you can let him go afterwards?”

Sky huffed, glancing upwards as he considered her request. He hadn’t considered letting humans free after swallowing them whole before. The process did not appeal to him, but he cared for Lark a lot, and if this is what he had to do to make her happy, then it was worth it.

“Fine. Let’s try it.” He said, bringing his hands together and opening up his fist in his right hand, which contained the disgruntled Devon. The man grumbled as he scrambled onto his feet, only to fall onto his rear once Sky’s hand tilted enough.

“I didn’t agree to this bullshit.” Devon grumbled as he started undoing the straps on his pants and boots. His clothing was quite bulky, so he wanted to minimize the risk of getting lodged in the giant’s gullet on the way down.

“That’s too bad.” Sky said, eyeing the man carefully. He could tell Lark was uncomfortable being so close to him, but it was only temporary.

“I just gotta set my app to your cam’s frequency…” Lark said timidly as she peered at Devon’s chest camera. The young man glared at her, unsure if he should be furious or thankful for her idea. He shook his dark hair and leaned back, turning on his camera.

“50602.” He uttered as the camera powered on. “That’s the code.”

Lark avoided his gaze as she punched the numbers into her phone. The devices connected, and she could view the camera.

“All set… um, good luck.” She said with a wave to Devon, who sneered back at her.

“Yeah, thanks.” He said sarcastically.

“Hey, be nice to her. She’s doing you a favor.” Sky said as he brought Devon up to his face.

“Not so much as she is doing it for her own creepy needs. You two sicken me.” The man said, feeling the dread rising inside of him as he was brought close to that terrifying, blue mouth yet again.

“You’re not gonna change my mind. Just relax and enjoy the trip.” Sky said with a smirk, before tilting Devon into his mouth.

The man grunted as he was tilted inside, the giant’s enormous size easily engulfing him and surrounding him with his teeth and blue maw. He fell flat on his palms in the middle of Sky’s tongue, with a clear view of his throat before him.

Lark watched her phone with bated breath as the camera fogged up from the titan’s hot breath. All she could see was the blue of his tongue, before the screen went black just as Sky swallowed.

Devon was tilted into Sky’s throat by his powerful tongue, sliding down head-first into the darkness. He grit his teeth as he was forcibly squeezed down, his small size effortlessly fitting inside the titan’s esophagus.

After what felt like an eternity in the giant’s throat, Devon reached Sky’s stomach, where he was suddenly dropped from the throat and into the bottom. He landed with a thud, rolling down the side of the titan’s stomach until he was flat on his back, trapped in the pit of Sky’s belly.

Sky let out a satisfied huff as his empty stomach was filled. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them as he brought Lark up to his face to observe her. She was staring at her phone, admiring the look of the inside of her enormous companion’s gut.

“It’s… bright blue…” She uttered, noting how the inside of Sky’s stomach lit up with an ominous glow.

Devon shivered, scooting himself backwards from the pit of the giant’s stomach. His breaths were coming out rapidly as he looked around his environment. Every fold and ridge of the titan’s stomach were illuminated by a bright blue glow, which emanated from underneath the flesh.

“Holy shit…” He said, fully expecting to see the half-digested bodies of his comrades inside the titan’s stomach. He was completely alone inside; not a trace of them were to be found. Devon’s eyes went wide as he realized his time was very limited before he was completely digested.

“Are you done yet??” He yelled as he continued backing into the walls of Sky’s stomach. Just then, among the inner gurgling and groaning of the giant’s guts, a pulsing mechanical sound whirred around him. The glowing flesh of the titan’s stomach became brighter, and waves of lines traveled up along the folds from the center.

Lark stared at her screen in disbelief as Sky’s stomach appeared to be scanning its contents, surrounding Devon with waves of light. “Something crazy’s happening… I think it’s bad news for Devon.” She said as she looked up at Sky, who was eyeing her curiously.

“My stomach feels very warm.” Sky said as he glanced down to his middle. He grimaced, knowing he would have to empty it.

“Get me outta here, this shit’s crazy!!” Devon wailed as he plastered himself against the walls, and the waves of light got more and more intense.

Suddenly, the giant’s stomach contracted, and its contents were squeezed upwards. Devon was forced back up the wide throat he had just slid down and in just a few seconds, he was back in Sky’s mouth, utterly soaked in fluids.

Sky leaned over his free hand and calmly opened his mouth, rolling Devon’s limp body off of his tongue and into his palm. The man lay there, dazed after being squeezed so hard on all sides.

“Is he okay?” Lark asked timidly from the giant’s other hand, and Sky nodded.

“Yeah. That was close, though. Another minute and he would have been gone.” The giant said as he cupped his hand around the regurgitated human.

“You’re goddamn kiddin’ me. That was insane. I hope you two know that.” Devon groaned as he sat up in Sky’s hand and started wiping globs of spit off his face.

“Hmm, but you’re probably the first human to get eaten by a titan and survive…” Sky said thoughtfully, running his tongue along his lips, savoring the remnants of flavor.

“Well, whatever you are, you sure as hell ain’t like us. Blue insides. Glowing, blue insides at that. And what must have been a damn full-body scan…” Devon said rather lowly, as if he was talking to himself.

“Do you think… it’s an artificial organ?” Lark said thoughtfully, mostly directed at Sky, who looked at her rather incredulously.

“Artificial? Like, you think I’m not comprised of flesh?” The titan asked, tilting his head at the curious little woman in his left hand. “I guess… I never thought about that. I… don’t think I’m artificial, but, maybe parts of me are…”

“I am not going back in to get a biopsy.” Devon retorted, sitting with his back turned to both Sky and Lark as he squeezed moisture out of his hair and clothes.

Lark glanced at the disgruntled man and bit her lip. He looked awful, drenched in digestive fluids with his hair and clothes matted down. She looked down at her phone and ended the stream to his body cam, saving the recording.

“I think it’s about time to let him go.” Lark said, glancing up at the titan, who nodded in agreement.

“Yeah. Thanks for taking the plunge.” Sky laughed as he bent down and brought Devon lower to the ground in his hand. The man scoffed before hopping off eagerly.

“As if I had a choice…” Devon seethed quietly as he promptly walked back to his tent and started drying himself off with a rag.

Sky then stood up and turned his back to the campsite, walking away without another word. He held Lark close to his chest, cupping her protectively as he walked, enormous stride easily taking them a good distance before finally stopping.

Sky sat down with a contented sigh, spreading his legs out as he cupped Lark in both hands and held her close to his face as he leaned over. He gave her an exasperated smile.

“I feel like I have more questions than answers now.” He said, using his thumb to gently rub Lark’s petite shoulders.

Lark smiled warmly as the giant touched her. Despite his enormous size and terrifying appetite, the titan’s hands around her were a welcome feeling.

“Do you still think we’d be better off parting ways?” She asked timidly, looking up at the titan with big eyes.

Sky’s eyes narrowed, and he smiled as he shook his head.

“We make a good team, don’t we?” He rumbled as he touched the tip of his thumb to the top of her little head. Lark giggled in response.

“I’m glad.” She said softly, leaning into the giant’s warm embrace, his touch already numbing her to the memory of his recent meal.

[oftenwantedafton]

Personal Space - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 3

Rating -Explicit

Warnings - none for this chapter

Also available on AO3

taglist @123124133

Back inside the office, it’s as if none of it had ever happened. No insults hurled. No reprimands. No time spent outside, doing…whatever that was. You take charge of the next client. Steve’s pleasantly surprised by how well you handle the meeting. Maybe the harsh words have done you some good.

Maybe it wasn’t the words at all. Maybe it was the other…

There’s a bit of a routine to end the day. Coffee mug rinsed a final time. Blinds closed. Lights turned off. The schedule for the next day printed and left on top of his desk, the job hopefuls’ files pulled. You’re familiar with it now. Moving in sync. The last lamp is switched off, the room much darker now that the cozier lighting has been extinguished and the outdoor light is barred from entering. There’s a little illumination from a night light panel set low on the wall near the door. Enough to see by before closing and locking the office for the night.

“Do you have everything?” At least you aren’t lugging around that foolish oversized backpack anymore. The miniature version that serves as your handbag is much more tolerable. The top strap is hooked in your fingers. Raglan moves forward, thinking you’ll open the door.

You don’t. You remain standing in front of it. He’s only just realized you’re wearing a lavender blouse. Something you’d already had in your wardrobe, or a nod towards his favorite color?

“What are you…” The rest of the sentence is lost. You’ve dropped your bag. You’re leaning against the wooden surface behind you. Meeting his stare. So many shadows in the room now. Your face underlit from the wall’s fixture. There’s so little space between you and your mentor. “Move away from the door.”

“No.”

“Move…” It was happening again. His breathing going ragged. Yours matching his. Your palms resting flat against his chest. Lifting and falling in rapid succession. “Inappropriate…have you reassigned…” He cannot form complete sentences. The threat comes in soft pants.

“Is that what you want?”

He thinks on that. Isn’t that what he wants? To have you gone, to have his solitary routine returned?

“I want…I want…” His hand rests heavily on the side of your throat. Thumb pressing along your jaw. Your fingers clawing at him now. Nails scratching against poplin. What does he want? His mouth on yours. He places it there.

“Steve. Steve.”

It takes him a moment for the false name to register. The daydream dissipates. He’s still seated at his desk. The last client of the day across from him. You’re frantically trying to get his attention when discretion clearly isn’t working.

He clears his throat. Mumbles some excuse, leaning forward. Heat creeping underneath his collar. To indulge in the fantasy of it bad enough; to do it in the middle of a session with a client worse still. He’s always prided himself on his professionalism. Yet here he was, making an absolute fool of himself over some girl he barely knew. All because he’d touched you and…

His grip on his pen tightens. He was doing it again. Losing focus. You seem to realize he’s struggling and you take command of the conversation. A relatively smooth transition, all things considered. Placement found. Applicant dismissed. He releases his death grip on the writing instrument and flops back against the chair with a heavy sigh of relief.

The older man feels your eyes on him. “What?”

“What happened? You just like zoned out. Mid-sentence. I thought you were having a seizure or something.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Is he? No, not at all. But he’s not about to divulge the reason why. So he tells another lie. What’s one more on the already massive heap piling up?

“Yes. Just tired. Didn’t sleep well last night. Anyway, we’re done for today.”

There’s an eerie sense of deja vu as the office is shuttered for the evening. Except you’re not blocking the door. You’re hanging back, waiting to follow him through it. He tells himself he’s not disappointed.

The ride on the elevator is silent.

You’re parked directly next to him today. Serendipity or perhaps a deliberate move on your part. He struggles opening his door, distracted, watching you settle behind the wheel. You begin pulling down the decorations, removing everything he’d mocked earlier. His fingers cease their fumbling. He walks around his car, lightly tapping the key against the glass of your passenger window. You glance over, then hit the button to unlock the door.

Crammed back inside next to you. Knees hitting the dashboard.

“What do you want?” You pull the last of the clips off the air vents.

“You don’t have to do that. I didn’t mean…”

“Yeah, you did.” The rearview mirror is now unadorned. The cup holders are filled with the former decor. “Let’s see, what’s next on the list of my flaws. Oh yes. What’s wrong with my clothes?”

His head drops back against the headrest. It’s too short and it hits him at an awkward angle. “Nothing. I only meant you should wear things that are better tailored to suit you. It doesn’t really matter.”

“And that was nothing at lunch today too, right?”

“I…apologize for the inappropriate behavior. It won’t happen again, I assure you.”

“That’s what you’re apologizing for? Out of everything that happened today?” You scoff in disbelief.

He tips his head in your direction. Glasses sliding down with the motion so he’s looking over the tops of the frames at you. “Fine. I was unnecessarily harsh about certain things I said earlier.”

“That’s a funny way of saying you’re sorry.”

“I’m not sorry. You do need to toughen up. I’ve been too lenient.”

“I don’t understand. You told me to socialize and get to know my coworkers—”

“—Because they can be assets.”

“Is that all people are to you? Just tools to be used?”

“No one does anything in this life without motivation for personal gain.”

You look away, fidgeting with the last clip you still haven’t placed in the cup holder. “I think that’s a really sad way to view things.”

“I’m simply being realistic. Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. You don’t have to do all of this for my benefit.” He waves his hands. “Just don’t be so sensitive. People will take advantage and walk all over you.”

He reaches for the door handle.

“You’re the only person I have even resembling a friend. You told me to go back home to be with the ones I’ve left behind. There aren’t any. You’re it.”

“You should make another, then. I’m not what you’re looking for.” He shoves the door open and exits. So uncharacteristic of him, not to just reach out and take what he wants. But that was a trait he’d harbored when he’d had another identity, lived another life.

Now he is just the middle aged career counselor. Focused solely on work. Reclusive.

Alone.

***

You’re talking to someone outside Steve’s office.

A client who’s young, attractive, he’d recognized the man’s appreciative gaze on you. Speaking as if the older man wasn’t even present. Flirtatious smiles. Friendly off topic conversation that is now extending past the allotted visit, continuing in the hallway. Low murmurs and the occasional laughter. The career counselor grits his teeth. Shuts the applicant’s folder and thrusts it back inside the filing cabinet, slamming the drawer with more force than necessary. He gets up to make another cup of coffee, trying to casually view what is happening beyond the open door. You’re finally saying goodbye, striding back into the room. Today, of all days, you’re wearing the suit that compliments your curves, the hem of the pants and sleeves of the blazer just the correct length. A little narrow v of blank skin at the base of your throat he’s haunted by, trying to avoid looking at and failing miserably.

You seem to notice his stern gaze. “What?”

“When I said you should make friends, I didn’t mean the clients. It’s unprofessional,” he says disapprovingly.

“We’re not friends. We just met. We were only talking.”

“That was not ‘only talking’.”

“I have to socialize with someone, don’t I? Since you’re treating me like I have the plague.”

“I’m not. It’s called maintaining professional boundaries. Personal space, like we’ve discussed before.” He takes a sip from his mug. Watching you wilt a little. Quiet when you return to your seat.

He settles back into the leather swivel chair, placing his cup on the worn coaster. The phone rings. A new client coming in the next day. Reaching for the stack of Post Its to jot down the name. Jostling the coffee by mistake, reaching to grab it before it can spill, your own reflexes kicking in, moving at the same time. Fingers colliding. His friendly tone suddenly tight and cool. Controlled. Neither of you has moved. Still touching. Warm fingers, warm beverage heating the ceramic. He hangs up the phone, staring at your joined hands.

The social worker’s fingers slide off the mug, his hand settling on the desk. Yours curl around it. Small over large. Smooth over rough. He lets you turn his hand over, tracing over the creases of his palm, the callouses of his fingertips. Your digits weaving between his. Holding his hand properly. Interwoven. Linked. How long had it been since he’d held someone’s hand? Whose had it been? A child. His own; someone else’s. Led further into the restaurant, into the darkness.

“Steve.”

He blinks. Swallows. He shouldn’t be allowing this. How insufferable you are. Infuriating. You’re simply impossible to work with. He should have you reassigned to someone else. He should push you away.

He holds tighter.

***

You return from morning break the next day and place a small white envelope on the desk blotter.

“What’s that?”

“Wedding invitation. It’s this Saturday. Short notice, but it’s really nice they invited me.”

You withdraw the card inside and check the box announcing you’re attending.

Steve grunts. “Oh, yes. I received one of those awhile back.”

You look at him. “Are you attending?”

He scoffs. “Of course not. Why would I?”

“Because it will be fun. And they’re, you know, our coworkers.”

“Have you ever been to a wedding?” You shake your head. “They’re not fun. The catering is usually terrible. Sappy speeches. The time absolutely drags.”

“It says I can bring one guest.”

“That’s standard.”

“Come with me.”

A look of disbelief. “Why on earth would I accompany you when I declined the invitation myself already? I just finished telling you how much I dislike them.”

“Did you dislike yours?”

Raglan’s features darken. “Overstepping.”

You duck your head. “Okay, sorry. But let’s go together.”

“I’ll consider it.” He’s not sure who’s more surprised when the words leave his mouth. Why the hell would he do that? He has no intention of going. None. You smile for what seems like the first time since your recent confrontation. His weakness.

By the afternoon he’s agreed to accompany you. “Fine, I’ll go. But you’re in charge of the gift. I’ll pick you up. Be ready on time.”

He’s rewarded another smile. “Really? You’ll go with me?”

“I will attend.” As if there’s a distinction. Going but not necessarily as a couple, of course. Merely agreeing to also be present. Almost a coincidence, really. Nothing improper about it.

That’s the mantra that’s running through his mind.

***

It never occurs to Steve to consider what you’ll be wearing to the event.

So when you exit your appartment building in a sleeveless lace affair with a modest neckline and a hem that finally hits you properly he has to suck in his breath a little roughly. High heels. Hair styled. The most put together he’s ever seen you.

You tuck a gift bag behind your seat before you settle inside the car. He has to clear his throat before he can properly greet you. “Hi. You look nice.”

You grin, smoothing your hands over the lower half of the dress even though it doesn’t need it. “Thank you. Not immature, right? Not going to be embarrassed to be seen with me?”

You weren’t letting this go. Well, he can hardly blame you. “No.”

“No, not immature, or no, not embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“Neither. But we’re not…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Not going as a couple. Just both attending. Surely you understood the distinction. Well. He decides to leave it alone for now, for the sake of the occasion.

***

Once again Raglan finds himself occupying the last row, one in from the aisle while you settle into the folding chair beside his. It’s an outdoor wedding, beginning late afternoon into early evening. The weather is perfect. The career counselor folds his arms, fixing his gaze on nothing in particular while waiting for the ceremony to start.

He can feel the anticipation wafting from you. Sees you fidgeting and can’t resist hissing a reprimand. It’s like holding the collar of a golden retriever puppy, all full of nervous energy. A lost cause.

He doesn’t know the couple getting married that well. They’d met at work, and that was about the extent of what he was aware of. Lets his mind wander while the music cues up and the bride walks down the aisle beside her father. Very pointedly avoiding thinking about his own personal experience with getting married. It was a lifetime ago now. When he’d been someone else.

As predicted, less than ideal catering. Small portions. Bland food. Slice of cake so thin you could practically see through it. His face hurts from plastering a smile on it so often. Murmuring the same noncommittal greetings to everyone he encounters. Issuing obligatory congratulations to the newlyweds. People are starting to break off into groups. Casual music after the couple has their first dance. His attention wavering more and more.

“Do you dance?”

“Not to this contemporary selection, no.” His arms are folded across his chest again. Closed body language indicating he wants to be left alone. By the other wedding guests, anyway. The rest of the table he’s seated at is mercifully devoid of anyone else at the moment. No small talk has to be made.

“But you can dance,” you persist.

“You should go over there. Have fun.” He nods to the space that’s been set up as a dance floor.

“Come walk with me instead.”

He glances over at you. “And go where?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It’s a country club. Plenty of places to go. I need to stretch my legs. Come on, Steve. Please?”

He considers the well lit area they’re currently seated in. Weighs that against being alone with you, somewhere cloaked in shadows. Surrenders with a sigh. “Alright. For a few minutes.”

You’re struggling in the heels. He recognizes it immediately. Waits while you stop long enough to remove them. Carrying them hooked on index and middle finger. Nylon covered feet now tredding on cropped grass. There’s water near this tee, faintly visible. The sounds of the party fading behind. It really is pleasant out.

“Okay. Now dance with me.” You bend to place your shoes on the ground.

“What? That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“No one can see us over here.”

“There isn’t even any music.”

“I’ll hum for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

You move to stand in front of him. Reach for one hand. The other curling over his shoulder. His own unoccupied one sitting stiffly on your waist. He doesn’t want to do this. Why does he keep giving in to you?

He doesn’t recognize whatever melody you’re attempting to recreate. The entire thing is foolish. Turning you in a circle. An abrupt dip down that has you giggling like mad. And he’s actually smiling. Enjoying this. Being with you. Pressed this close against you.

You stumble a bit, wincing, your improvised tune abruptly ending. “Sorry, my feet are killing me. I feel like I’m getting a blister.”

“Sit down.” You struggle a bit in the dress. It’s a long way down for him. But you both manage. He taps his thighs. “Let me see your feet.” You shift, stockinged feet now in his lap. Hands gently probing, assessing. “No blisters yet but you should probably keep the shoes off as much as possible. You’re not used to wearing heels, are you?” He hasn’t paid much attention up until now but he thinks you always wear flats to the office.

“No. And they’re brand new. I just got them because they matched the dress. I thought they were pretty.” He hums, maybe in agreement, maybe in disapproval. “That feels nice.” He hasn’t stopped touching you, now massaging your sore extremities without even realizing what he’s doing.

His hands abruptly abandon you. “Anyway, you’ll be fine,” he says dismissively. You sigh, moving until your legs are stretched in front of you. Your bare shoulder close enough to nearly brush against his clothed one.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I can’t promise I’ll answer.”

“Why do you always wear long sleeves?”

“Overstepping again.”

“You told me I needed to be more aggressive with the applicants. Firm. Decisive. Direct. Focused. Getting to the point.”

“True, but I’m not a client. At least you’re retaining something,” he adds. Not mocking. Maybe a little proud.

“It doesn’t bother me if…”

“If what?”

“If you have some, I don’t know, some condition you’re ashamed of.”

“It’s not a condition.” He hesitates. Fumbles with the button of his shirt sleeve, shoving it up. Reaching blindly for your hand and guiding your fingertips to his forearm.

“Scars,” you realize aloud. “What happened?”

“Accident at a previous job. And no, I’m not giving you any more information than that.” Your fingers trace the furrowed skin. At first curious. Now the touch has evolved into more of a caress. It feels good. He doesn’t want it to. Swallows loudly when you lift the appendage. Allowing you to manipulate the limb. Mouth grazing knuckles. Fuck. Immediate heat to his groin. He needs to stop this, right now. “You shouldn’t…I’m not who you think I am.”

“What do you mean? Steve?”

It’s exactly what he needs. Bringing him back to reality. The person that you want doesn’t exist. Not really. It’s the facade you like. Not the man underneath. You don’t know who he really is. Can never know, because discovering that means a return to what he was before.

“We should probably leave.” Dragging his arm free from your warm touch. He hates it. Absolutely despises himself for not pressing you down beneath him and kissing you under the stars. But at least you’re safe. That was more important.

He knows you’re hurt, confused. That happy little bubble you’d recreated popped again. Stiff goodbyes to the bride and groom before leaving. A silent ride back to your apartment.

“Thanks for going with me.”

“I’m…glad I did. Genuinely.” It is the truth. He’d enjoyed himself, in spite of everything. Because of you. He likes being with you.

“I don’t understand you.” You reach for his hand again, and he allows it. Because really, at this point, what does it matter if it happens once or twice or a dozen times? He’s already crossed a line with you he never should have.

“Why do you fight yourself so much?” Your voice is quiet.

Because that hand you’re holding so gently has done terrible things. Because there is so little keeping me from doing what I want, from tearing right through this fragile barrier between us.

Those are the real answers, but he can’t tell you that. So he simply says “Because.” Which is no answer at all. He stares at your still joined fingers. “It’s not a rejection based on your merit as a person. You deserve to know that.”

“Is it because we work together?”

“Well, that’s a definite drawback. Workplace relationships are never a good idea.”

“The age gap?”

“Are you calling me old again?”

“Maybe.” A small smile.

“That’s another concern. But that’s not the main reason.”

You shift in your seat, turning your body more to his. “What is the main reason?”

“I can’t tell you that. Not any differently than I already have.”

“But you do like me.”

“You’re…tolerable, at times.”

“Tolerable.”

“Yes, I like you,” he admits, his voice tight. His gaze shifts to the windshield. It’s too difficult to look at you. To see that hope. That desire he’s certain is mirrored on his own features.

You reach for his glasses, slipping them free before he can stop you. You carefully fold them and tuck your arm behind your back. You know what you’re doing. He knows it, too. Playing along. Leaning. Grasping. Tugging the gold framed lenses free. Your face tips up. That ripe mouth he wants to defile within reach. So close. Just the slightest movement would bring his lips to yours. Touching you. Tasting you. The barest little shift is all that’s required.

He leans back, away from you. “You should go inside and soak your feet and get some rest. I’ll see you Monday.” Staring very hard at nothing. It’s a cold dismissal. Contrasting so starkly from the warmth stoked inside of him. He heaves a shuddering sigh when you finally exit his car. Watching your retreating figure. How much he wants to chase after you. Drag you against him. Surrender.

And you would, too. He knows you’d succumb to him. Do whatever he wanted.

If only he’d ask.

[whumble-beeee]

Tortured? I Was Tortured Once.

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 5

Content: disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, past captivity references, torture, threats, begging, blood

* * * * * * * *

Except from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[{When hero-keeping in the short term}... it's imperative to do everything in your power to keep your identity a secret; wear a mask to hide your face, cover as much of your body as possible to minimize the amount of prints, hair, or other forms of DNA/evidence you could leave behind at the scene. Use a voice modulator, and if you can help it, don’t even be in the same room with the hero when they are conscious. Most importantly, do not tell the hero any identifying details about yourself, your loved ones, or your past.

This is solely to protect you, the dastardly villain! Should the hero ever escape or decide to take revenge (not that a hero would ever dare, as long as you follow the instructions in this guide!), you want to make it nigh impossible to find you and hurt you, lest they turn you into their captured villain!]

* * * * * * * *

“Alright!” Deeby clapped his hands together, chipper than ever. “So, back when I was in the early days of my job, I sometimes made some… questionable choices. Dangerous ones. Not that what I do isn’t dangerous, I can handle the dangers of the job. I mean I fucked with the wrong people. Powerful people. Not in the sense of… y’know, what you have. Super-powers. I mean like they were like a crime lord or CEO, lotta money, lotta power… God, I was a fucking idiot. But hey, live and learn, right?”

He brushed at Stan’s cheek to ease his attention up and away from the floor, where it had been firmly located since the start of the monologue. Stan just leaned away slightly and tried not to let his burning eyes brim over into tears. “I’m still here, right? Still kicking, so I must have done something right.”

“Unfortunately…” Stan mumbled.

“Repite?”

“Nothing.”

Deeby tilted his head matter-of-factly. “Look, if you’re gonna be defiant, at least do it loud and proud, bud.” He ruffled Stan’s hair much too aggressively for Stan’s liking.

“Might actually respect you if you did that. Anyway, I’m sure you can figure out what basically happened after that; I got hired to rough up some asshole’s waste-of-space trust fund kid, gave him back with a couple bones broken and a couple extra bullet holes, but he was fine, then daddy got mad and managed to find me somehow, and here’s where it gets really interesting, bud. You wanna know what this chain’s for?”

He reached up and jangled the metal loops reaching down from the ceiling, and the chain shifted just enough to barely nudge into Stan and nearly send him careening backward again from fear.

“Uh…” He’d been doing his damndest to ignore the mercenary and retreat into himself, and was actually half succeeding right up until the required audience participation. The question just served to jarringly rip him back headfirst into the painful and hopeless despair of the present situation. “Not–... Not really…”

“Sucks to be you then, I guess. So I get knocked out and kidnapped, and I wake up in this, like, fucked up white-tiled torture room with like a drain in the floor and suspicious cabinets and all that, and then I'm strung up in the center of the room–...”

He grabbed Stan's arms and wrenched them up all the way above his head, so his wrists were together in Deeby's hands and held flush with the chain. Then he pulled up even more. Stan squeaked and briefly struggled to tug away, but quickly fell into pliable stiffness under the mercenary’s warning stare. So instead, he stretched as tall as he could, shoulders pressing the sides of the collar into his neck to try and relieve the tension. It didn't really work.

“...–Like this. So I was literally hanging from the ceiling from my wrists, feet barely even touching the ground, cuffs grinding into my wrists so bad they were already bleeding when I woke up, it hurt like shit. Hold your arms up there, would ya bud?”

Deeby let go of Stan's wrists and he immediately pulled them back into his sides. No way he was holding himself in a torture position. No way.

That was until the mercenary regrabbed his wrists and slammed them back up into the chain, leaning down slightly and getting way too close to Stan’s face. He could feel the body heat radiating off the man.

Stan leaned away as much as he physically could, which wasn’t much with his arms holding him excruciatingly erect.

“You’re really starting to get on my nerves,” Deeby growled, not a trace of his usual smile highlighting his fiery eyes. “Hold the position or I’ll lock your handcuffs up there just like they did to me and we can roleplay it exactly as it played out. You wanna do that instead?”

Stan managed a minuscule shake of the head. He was sure he’d be able to feel the bounty hunter’s breath on his face if it weren’t for the mask.

“Speak up, runt.”

“G-got it,” Stan breathed.

Deeby more tentatively let go of Stan's wrists this time, an unnecessary precaution, since Stan grasped the chain and held onto it for dear life so as not to anger him further.

This isn't so bad. He lied to himself, Deeby mercifully backing up to more than inches away from his face. At least there aren't any flashbacks now. Just have to hold the chain.

“Yeah, just like that. Perfect.”

He held up his fingers to create a fake camera frame around Stan. As if he knew exactly what picture he wanted to paint with Stan's body.

“So I woke up like that, hanging by the wrists, and of course I recognized the guy because I do my research, y'know? So I woke up and I already knew exactly what was happening. He tried to monologue at me, I bantered back, the guy was getting all pissy because I guess I was too smug or whatever. And… well, I forgot to say, when I woke up, they'd taken off my shirt–”

Deeby started to twiddle at the top button on Stan's button-down and, with an amount of force that surprised the both of them, Stan slapped his hand away and nearly toppled to the ground jumping backward.

“Don't touch my shirt!” he yelped. He tripped over the chain that anchored him to the corner sending spirals of agony out from his knee again before he stabilized himself and stared at the mercenary in abject terror.

Deeby stared back in disbelief. Then a flash of danger, a slight tilt of the chin, furrowing of the eyebrows, a tensing of the shoulders.

“You… really don't know when to quit. Do you?” he growled.

Stan took another small limp back. “I–”

“I'm not gonna take your shirt off.” Stan barely withheld the primal urge to fully turn around and run when the mercenary surged forward, grabbed Stan by the chain of the handcuffs, and yanked him forward. The southern twang rang so hopelessly clear through his wrathful voice. “I am many unsavory things, but a perv ain't fuckin’ one of 'em. Get back over here and stay before I kick your ass again.”

Then once again, Stan found himself with his arms pinned above his head and flush against the chain. Though this time, the mercenary clamped his hand over Stan's own, pressed them in so hard that Stan's fingers smushed painfully between the chain links. He didn’t even try to struggle. Just tried to shrink away from his towering presence and keep his eyes on the floor. Not let Deeby see the redness of his eyes that threatened tears.

“So, Stan, whaddya think they did to me next?” Deeby questioned, humor all but gone from his voice. “Strung up, shirt off, completely helpless and at their mercy. What would you do if you were a sick sonofabitch getting revenge on the person who tortured your son?”

Stan stared off to the side. “I… I don't…–”

“Oh come on, bud, you must have some sort of idea. Can't think of a single way you'd hurt–”

“No, no, no no nononoNO!” Stan mutter bordered on shouting as he started trying to yank his hands out of the mercenary’s grasp and only succeeded in yanking them hard enough that he was being held up solely and much more painfully by the cuffs themselves.

He couldn't take this anymore, was Deeby gonna torture him or not?

“I can't think of a single way I'd wanna torture someone! I'm not some– some freak sadist kidnapper-torturer like that guy! Or like you!!”

Deeby hummed lightly, unfazed by yet another one of Stan's outbursts, holding the cuffs firm. “You'll learn.”

Stan growled and yanked again, hard enough that when they didn't give it all, he actually lifted into the air slightly. He cried out from the bite of the metal digging into his wrists and scraping into the top layers of skin. A few drips of blood started to pool on the surface.

If Deeby noticed the scarlet now smeared across Stan's wrists, he didn't show it. He just pulled the chain of the cuffs up further. Stan's elbows locked straight up, pressing into the side of his head. He almost had to go up on his tiptoes.

“Besides,” the hunter continued nonchalantly. “What he did to me isn't what I would do to you, if I were to torture you.”

“IF!?” Stan groaned, trying another weak yank against the cuffs and sending small lightning bolts of pain down his arms. “What do you mean ‘if’?! What–… What do you call this?”

Deeby shrugged. “Foreplay?”

Stan froze dead in his tracks. He could physically feel all the blood leaving his head and rushing down straight to his feet. Foreplay? As in… There was… Ge wouldn't, right? There was no way.

“Y-you–...” He could barely even get words to form properly, barely able to suck in enough air to even speak. “You–... Wait, you–”

“Cálmate, Stan, Christ, it was a joke. Loosen up. Wanna know what I would do, though?”

“Ah…”

His head felt like it had just been dunked underwater. Or maybe that was the concussion coming back haunt this waking nightmare once more. Who’s to say? Why not both, make it a party.

And yet, Deeby still leaned down to whisper in Stan's ear; “There's a reason I put the leash chain on your good leg.”

Before Stan could react, Deeby leaned back on his heels and pulled the chain hanging from the ceiling with him, unbalancing Stan just enough that he had to try to take a step forward to readjust, except the fetter on his ankle caught on the very end of the leash. He couldn't get his good leg under himself for support. Which left–

Stan let out a yelp as his full weight fell onto his injured knee, shooting rivulets of pain all the way up to his spine. And couldn't shift his weight off of it with how to chain dragged him out, so when his knee immediately buckled to save himself from the screeching pain, he had the new problem of the cuffs knawing into his already bloody wrists, which made him scream again and claw desperately at the chain and the hand holding him up until he was death gripping the chain in a half pullup. His arms were already shaking from the strain of it.

“DEEBY!!” He choked out. “Deeby! Deeby please stop, stop, I can't AUAGH–” He slipped and spent agonizing moments flailing before he got another hold again, moments in which Deeby didn't let up at all, despite Stan's amiable requests.

“Deeby you said–!” he could barely squeak out a phrase through the tear-blurred vision and gasping breaths and the sheer amount of concentration it took to focus through the already horrible aches and agony the clench onto the chain and hold himself up and not make it worse. “You said no torture! You– you said–! Let go! You said you wouldn't–”

“I said I wouldn't hurt you if you did what I told you to.” Deeby retorted nonchalantly, pulling back on the chain just a bit more and wrenching Stan even more off balance. “Which you didn't.”

“Let go–!” Stan tugged as hard as he could. No give.

“Repeatedly.”

“I can't–” Stan's voice cracked. His hands were on fire clutching onto the cold metal links. “I can't hold this, I can't, I can't, please let go-o, it– it hurts! Please!”

“That's the point, bud, it's a stress position. It stresses you. You’re doing great, chiquito, taking it like a champ.”

Little droplets of blood left bright red tracks down Stan's forearms as whines squeaked out from behind his gritted teeth in place of the full blown screams he refused to let out.

“I hate you.”

“Tell you what, bud. If you can shut up for just 30 seconds, no whines, no cries, no begging or grand sweeping declarations of feelings, I'll let you down. Deal?”

“That’s–!”

“Take it or leave it. Deal?”

“Deal–! Deal!”

“Great, now mouth-shut.”

Stan immediately squeezed his lips together as violently as possible and focused every single fiber of his being into holding himself up, keeping off his bad knee and not letting the cuffs scrape his arms to bone while also not squeaking in pain or cursing Deeby out. That may have been the hardest part of the entire balancing act. His muscles burned with the strain. His hands started to slip on the chain from the sweat, so he gripped harder, hard enough that his hands started to go numb. That was fine. Less pain, right? Was thirty seconds over yet? Stan just had to pray that Deeby would keep his word this time and actually only do thirty seconds. God he would give anything to just go home. See his family again. Be out of this hell.

Then a new, perfunctory voice shattered his fragile concentration. He'd been so laser focused hadn't even noticed someone else enter the room.

“Oh, did I interrupt an intimate moment? I can come back in ten minutes if you two wanna finish up.”

Stan’s grip slipped on the chain and he cried out, catching himself after an agonizing centimeter fall and praying to anyone that would listen that Deeby wouldn’t get mad at him for it. Though Deeby didn't seem to care too much anymore as his own grip holding Stan's cuffs loosened and a small growl ementated from the bottom of his throat.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Then Stan was suddenly freed, cuffs no longer held in the iron grip of a bounty hunter, and he collapsed to the floor in a graceless heap.

* * * * * * * *

Next

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy | @pirefyrelight | @cakeinthevoid

[sin-sidejob]

Insidious Inside Job: Halloween pt. 1

Note: Inspired by skoshibuns fanart on instagram + I have songs linked with each segment for the specific portion that goes with the monster, the plot, or both

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Minors DNI, AFAB + GN PRONOUNS, monster-fucking, blood, inhuman creatures, the undead, various Halloween-y phenomena + food mention + cockwarming + literal blatant sex with monsters and creatures of the night + probably more

Content: smut, spooky scary spectral holiday smuttening, monster and inhuman creature fucking, usual debauchery you can expect from me, dicks and puss, inhuman and monster genitalia, reader has AFAB nethers/genitalia and a cunt but I don’t describe about tits so folks are safe, I used gender neutral pronouns all throughout as well. Mentions of underwear and generalized clothing but no bras or gendered articles of clothing except just underwear and general clothing.

! ! ! This is part one, with Gigi + JR + Glenn + a bonus character. Part two, which will be posted and located here, includes Reagan + Brett + Andre + Robotus + Myc! ! !

Gigi Thompson: V A M P I R E

• song: Bloodletting (The Vampire Song) - Concrete Blonde

- She’s quite literally the hottest woman you’ve ever met, even though her body is stone cold forevermore — you and her met by chance, her needing to feed and finding you irresistibly alluring and you thinking you’ve struck the lottery and are about to have the best fuck since — well, ever.

- Gigi kept getting confused, torn with the need to sink her teeth into your neck and taste that metallic sweetness, like copper pennies bathed in honey, but pulled back during every opportunity and opening she had in the cover of darkness to do it. She had watched you from afar for a while, far longer than you had even known her or had her on your radar. You were so naively oblivious, just a darling little thing in the line of sight from Gigi’s reddened irises.

- but the one night she forced herself to just get it over with, make a meal out of you, she kept acquiescing, changing her plan from luring you out and killing you outright to lingering a little longer, playing with her food. Then it shifted to going out, toying longer, and sharing food in some dark corner of a restaurant, to following you home and getting invited in.

- and here you are, bright-eyed and eager, so dazedly star-eyed that you’ve got no clue what her intentions truly are with you. That she could shred you into ribbons and suck you dry if every precious drop of blood within your thumping, steady veins. But she doesn’t. Oh no, Gigi’s body craves more than just the ambrosial vice seeping through your heart, she wants your touch, to taste the other parts you have to offer. She makes a full meal out of you, long manicured fingernails traipsing across your skin as she sheds you of your clothing, letting it slide off your skin to puddle on the floor in a wrinkly, hazardous mess.

- Gigi leaves little marks of deep burgundy lip prints across your collar, marking you a necklace in her kisses around your oh-so-tempting throat, shedding the last of your clothing sans some drenched underwear she peels off. She urges you into your bed, making an idle comment about the poster bed canopy that shrouds the two of you even more from sight. Gigi pries your thighs apart and settles into her hors d’oeuvre, teeth sunken in and hidden away in order to lap at your pulsing clit, sending her nerves alight. She wants to cut you open and leave you raw, eat everything from you until there’s nothing left. She wants to utterly consume you. To know everything about all of your parts, the intricacies of your thoughts, crack you open like a geode that only her undead eyes get to see. Get to feel the crystalline facets within that no one else could have ever uncovered.

- instead of carving you open, she lets you bestow your own offerings, having her touch shatter you anew and burst you open as you cum on her tongue endlessly. she treats your cunt like a blessed goblet, letting her lips and tongue worship the pooling slick that drips forth onto her awaiting mouth to savor all the facets of your taste. It’s so much better than she could have ever fathomed.

- in her latest sprawl of meals they’ve been mediocre, the equivalent of a microwave dinner in the range of quality of bloodletting. But you, the way your slick feels against her tongue and glosses her already dark, puffy lips, enveloping her heightened senses like a murky fog, you’re nothing short of bewitching. and she doesn’t plan to let you go.

- She eats you out with fervor, the pads of her fingers prying your legs apart and being careful with the digits, knowing the glossy nails are pointed and sharp, making sure her thumb against your clit rolls in circles and shapes in a pressure that drives stars behind your eyes. Humming against your weeping slit, she comes up for the air she doesn't need, lungs as still as fake flowers laid upon a grave. "Don't you taste divine," Gigi purrs in the dark of your room, eyes alight in a manner that had your pried open legs wanting to shut an rub together as you squirmed, more than just hot and bothered. No, you were practically steaming and Gigi felt it, her cold skin soaking up your warmth like the last look at a lover.

- She wishes she could just bite her nails down shorter to play with you even more, slide her hand into the warmth of your cunt and play around, finding your most tender spots and drinking whatever you have to offer her. She could live a hundred undead lifetimes in just what you have offered already in this night alone. Gigi doesn't know how or why, but she gives you her attention and care and hopes that all the words she hasn't said come forth in her lips against your heated, still full-of-life skin.

- She cages you in and has you beneath, bare and only wearing the remnants of a button-down top she tore off of you in order to bite and mark up your chest. "Can I fuck you?" emerges from you, and it's not rushed or hurried as it flies from your puffy, swollen, and kiss-abused lips. It's calculated, and your eyes are lidded low and glimmer in the light and Gigi wants to remember the sight until her final days. It has traces of what home used to feel like to her and stutters a feeling in her heart that lay dormant for decades, centuries even. God, you're so darling, so she will continue to call you as such.

_ "You dont have to ask me twice," Gigi utters with a grin so sweet, you taste the sugar in your mouth just from the sight of it, "Be a doll and help me out of this dress?" Your hands hurry to remove her clothing, practically falling asunder when you go to remove her tights and find stockings in their stead, thick bands for her garter belt, and the thin straps holding them together. She could kill you between her legs and crush your skull like a rotten melon and you'd still be beaming from ear to ear.

- Once she's stripped, clad in a lingerie set that clings to her like it was painted on, thin slivers of silk and velvet cup her breasts and have transparent panels that shimmer, making her body lie behind what looks like erotic slivers of stained glass windows. The panties match, thin bows on the sides tying them together. The garter belt emphasizes the sway of her waist and the curve of her hips and is taut lower at the ties to the stockings that make your mouth both dry and flood with too many yet not enough words. Yeah, you would willingly die at the mercy of her hands without concern.

- You get her settled among the pillows beneath the canopy of your bed, feeling as if she was meant to be there, always with her languid form curled and splayed across your sheets and rubbing her thighs together and reaching a manicured hand out to pull you closer, into a holy hell you'd enjoy ever step into the descent of.

- Paused for a moment, you shake back to reality with a sway of your head and reluctantly move away, looking back as you step away at her and cheekily utter "just stay right there, I'll be just a moment," and smile at her gentle laugh. You sort through a drawer, pulling forth a special little toy you never thought you'd get to use, a little double-ended number you'd love to christen with her cunt. Turning back, you nearly drop the toy and the bottle of lube at the sight of her, hair across her shoulders and bra straps lowering dangerously down her shoulders as she shallowly bucks into her hand that's in her panties, moving lazily. Her eyes open and peer up at you, and she grins something wicked when she reaches her free hand across her thigh and pats her flesh, beckoning you forth.

- You practically hurdled into bed.

- Eager hands pry her thighs apart while you busy yourself in darting kisses across her collar, teeth moving to bite at her bra straps and drag them both down before leaning back, settling between her spread thighs to reach back and flick the clasp off of her bra. Gigi shucks off the garment, tossing it aside in the room and enjoying the way you fall slack and in awe of her partially nude, finding her chest nothing short of exemplary.

- "are you even real?" you marvel aloud, feeling as if you're in the presence of a statue come to life as if some renaissance statue woke and wandered into your life, your heart, and your bed. Lucky you.

- "I could say the same for you. Such a sweet thing you are." Gigi murmurs in response, eyes doting in equal to her caress of your side, feeling the warmth of your ribcage and beating heart beneath, seeing the chills sprawl across your body at her ice touch. Her legs spread and she pulls the ties of her panties, silky bows undone as she removes and tosses her underwear, bare beside her garter and stockings. You wish she could kill you, it would be kinder than this.

- She smirks, leaning back and nestling against the pillows, hair sprawled around her head and shoulders as she grins up at you, "Oh but I think living suits you much more." Gigi shucks off your tattered blouse and you toss it out of the way, lowering down upon her and kissing her body, marveling at her breasts and the peak of her perked nipples with your tongue, practically at home and near creaming when she snakes a hand across your hair.

- You make your way down to her cunt and find her clit, sucking and licking with greedy eagerness, hands sliding beneath her thighs to lift them over your shoulders. She takes it from there, locking them at the ankles while she takes your hands in hers, sliding them up her body until she plants them over her tits, and you oblige, palms cupping handfuls and rolling thumbs across her nipples in flicks while you busy yourself with lowering to her lips and licking through them.

- "oh fuck, a little harder," she asks, pleading in a pitch that lifts, voice airier and lighter now that you've got her at your generous, plentiful mercy. You'd give her the world, everything you could reach and beyond. "You need not ask again." you tease, echoing her words from earlier when you nose her clit briefly through a patch of curls and return back to breach your tongue in her cunt, moaning at the taste and squeezing her chest while you did so, smiling against her cunt as you feel her shudder and draw you in.

- "you taste fucking immaculate," you murmur while breaching for air,, looking up at her from between her thighs, taking a moment to tease. One hand stays on her breast while the other lowers to help you part her lips and then slides into her cunt, two fingers entering without issue and scisssoring in her cunt, spreading and then curling upwards. Gigi jolts and arches, lip tugged between teeth you envy. You almost halt when you spot fangs, pronounced and pointed against her lower lip. A normal reaction would be fear, disgust, maybe even some anxiety or paranoia. Not you - you just fuck her faster, better, and want those teeth buried in your neck.

- "holdin' out on me, huh?" you breath against her clit, grazing teeth against it and soothing with your tongue, suckling between sentences to see her shake and tremble, "should've known you were something unearthly, too pretty to be normal." You fuck your fingers into her, sighing in gratification at the sound her soaked cunt makes when you play with it, pinching her nipple and sending her crying out as you feel her hips lift off the bed occasionally,. grinding into your face and you are savoring every single second.

- You've peaked the moment she became interested in you, but you've surpassed everything and everyone when you managed to get her attracted to you and now, rendered into a bundle of high-strung and coiled nerves, ready to snap.

- She comes with a cry of your name on her lips, mouth gaped and enticing with those sharp canines you wanna' toy with. But that's for later. Now, you clean her up and bide your time with the touch of tongue and fingertips, soothing her and ushering her down from the high of orgasm, murmuring her name like a holy prayer and beaming from between her legs, calling out once her red eyes lock upon your grinning form betwixt her stocking-clad thighs.

- "wheres that toy you had? I'll fuck us with it then suck your veins dry and keep you around, you're never leaving if you can fuck me like that and look at me with all that love in your eyes." Gigi promises, like a god laying across an offering bed, handing you the world in a gesture so soft that it wins over the pillows.

- Lucky you indeed.

JR Scheimpough: G H O S T

• song: Ghost Of A Texas Ladies Man - Concrete Blonde

- you weren’t going to let a gossipy rumor of ghosts hold you back from owning a fucking perfect Victorian mansion — listed reasonably and in your price range — in the country, just thirty minutes or so commute from your work.

- it had a goddamn greenhouse, fuck them ghosts.

- you adjusted well, reapplied polish after re-gritting the checkerboard tiles in the main walkway, weeding the garden and scattering oyster shell fragments and slate for the landscape, running gas and electrical through the house to turn on the sconces with those scalloped, filigree light fixtures now aglow. You made that house your home and even that kitchen was amazing. You loved every minute of it.

- until the house began to turn on you. Lights flickering at odd hours, almost seeming to be talking, flickering in response to words or actions. The trees whistling during overcast days in a manner that seemed too ominous for outdoors. Movements in the corner of your eye. Fuck all that.

- you were this close until the breaking point, the crux within the ordeal, to calling in someone to cleanse the house or bless it.

- the master bathroom was nothing short of lavish, marble tiles in ornate patterns littering the floor with cornflower blue ceilings and ornate wallpaper, littered with filigree and ornamental flowers and imagery, pastel greens and blues only further enamoring you with the room. It had a walk in shower, updated with an overhead shower head with a rainfall spout and jets, a bench, and one of those glass window panes. The double sink with the decorative brass faucets, resting below a giant mirror. And the pièce de résistance was the tub.

- a gorgeous oversized claw foot bathtub lay apart, seated in the center of a tri-paned window overlooking the backyard landscape and garden, drenched in sunlight. It was only furthered by the crystals you hung in the windows, fragments of prismal glow dotted around the room, twinkling like a rainbow broke and scattered it’s pieces in your home.

- you’d been taking a break from working on the house this weekend, wanting to just relish in it and let your aching bones recuperate. Bath soak makes the water almost thick, a thin gloss of it sticking to your limbs that peak out from the water. Bubbles are spread throughout the water surface, glimmering with minuscule reflections of the noon-day light from the windows that send them towards your shiny skin.

- your neck is perched on the raised lip of the tub, arched perfectly for your posture and just so that it allows you to rest your eyes. Until the crystals on the window begin to sway and spin, and the large vanity mirror above the sink fogs over with a chill that you don’t feel near you just yet. It fogs over partially, a murky space where one would sit on the sink counter makes you realize those rumors were real.

- stark naked, tub-bound is an unfortunate state to realize you did have spectral housemates.

- “if you’re going to stare, at least let me see what you look like. Even the playing field here fucko.” You’ve got no clue where you found your voice, nor why it spoke of its own accord, but you know you should not have said that but it’s too late now.

- in a shimmer, the form appears, perched in a manner that drips with cheeky and smarmy bravado, displaying an older man who seems all too glad to see a human in the flesh - yet you kinda like his spirit.

- he’s donned in glasses, framing colorless eyes drenched in a void sans the ice-blue irises gazing at you. He’s got on a pinstripe suit, a few decades too old to mean he’s died recently, looking like a Halloween advert for a Mad Men episode.

- “well, isn’t that a warm welcome.” His voice chitters, almost otherworldly with how it seems to phase in and out of your ears, hovering like even sound is trying to decide whether to believe in him. “Hello babydoll, pleasure to finally speak with you. I’d shake your hand but, Y’know.” He feigns nonchalance, gesturing vaguely and you’re not sure if he’s alluding to the fact you’re buckass nude or that he’s unable to touch things – only phasing through them in that spectral nature.

- “didn’t stop’ya from waltzing into my bathroom and watching me.” You pause for a moment, eyeing him warily and sinking lower in the tub before the curiosity creeps inwards, twisting and invading like ivy crawling up brick, “what’s your name?”

- the ghoul’s head tilts, smiling in an amused way that’s both endearing and mocking, eyes shining like ice cubes twinkling in a water glass, “JR –“ he cuts you off as your mouth opens, “No not junior, just J-R.” He trails, eyes locking on you briefly from where they would pretend to find the wallpaper interesting, “yours?”

- and so you utter your name aloud, watching him almost relish in it as if your name was a secret that he’d been searching for. He repeats it, pronouncing it correctly and seems almost casual before he grins, “pretty name for such a cute little thing such as yourself.”

- you’d strangle him is he wasn’t already dead.

- he laughs, and you realize with horror you said that aloud. “Didn’t think you were that kinky, aren’t you full of suprises!” You toss a soap bar in his direction, not expecting the thud nor the sound of it hitting the floor after it landed off his - apparently solid - chest.

- You catch a glimmer in the dead eyes of JR, they flash red — for a millisecond only, just enough to show he’s not just the pretty charmer sitting on your sink. And unfortunately for you, that unnerving danger is just your thing. He notices.

- dark eyes glint and that Cheshire grin returns, JR busying himself with rolling up his sleeves as he notes the dilation in your pupils and the way your legs rub together, water rippling and sending barely-there glimpses of what lies beneath the soapy water of your body.

- “Oh, a mighty kinky thing you are. All hot and bothered for a ghost — pity. But why leave you all to your lonesome here?” He drawls, winking as he steps off the counter and his shoes click at the tile floor, black loafers so shiny they look freshly polished in the midday light. “Why not, keep your lively, darling self company? Hmm?” JR hums a note, nearing the tub and sitting on his haunches, forearms resting on the lip of the tub and teasingly pretending to peek downwards but keeping his attention on you.

- “that —“ you pause, caught up in ice cube eyes that you cannot seem to pry away from, struggling to find the weight of your tongue and get it to work, “that may work.” And he smiles, always smiling, this specter, “what a wonderful answer. Now — how about we get you out of that tub.”

- Y’know what, you would go along with your previous advice. Fuck them ghosts.

- Sitting up, slow enough to let the water adjust and not slosh over the side of the tub and ruin the fluffy bathmat nearby, you maintain eye contact while the suds drip down your chest and expose your torso. You lean up to hover near him, not feeling any chill but just a presence, a wave, that emanates. The closer you are, the stronger it feels, and when you run a sudsy hand over his temple, brushing a stray hair back, you feel him. he’s real. and he’s determined to show you just how much.

- JR’s about to move, most likely kiss you, but you lean back. Completely pull away. And he looks dejected and it’s a dreadful sight on an already dead man. You stand, stepping out the tub and move to grab your towel. It’s gone.

- “missing something?”

- you turn, an eyebrow raised in what is currently the longest moment of you having a complete absence of self consciousness or shame, and fix him with a look and glance around for your bathrobe and towel that you knew you had in there.

- “this is a bit ridiculous,” you roll your eyes at his expectant look, muttering to yourself that this is the most ob-fucking-scene moment of your life, “towel please.”

- “nope. quite like how it’s going without one personally.” JR muses, pursing his lips to avoid smiling while standing and rocking back and forth on his heels.

- “oh sweet fucking christ—“ “I thought I told you my name” you’re this close to abandoning the plan of fucking the ghost but you turn and see he’s got your robe, which was on the other side of the room, in his hands outstretched and ready for you to step into.

- you do, bare feet against tile now sending a shudder than sprawls through you, settling goosebumps across your skin and for you to visibly squirm, only to get enveloped in your plush bathrobe and have him usher you into the sleeves. It’s quite domestic as he loosely ties the robe, large bow barely closing the fabric, still revealing the entirety of your legs and barely covering your pelvis.

- His head hovers around your shoulder, him standing behind you still with hands perched at the tie-belt of your robe, “still want company?” and with his voice, the eerily charming timbre of it, how could you deny yourself the opportunity?

- you murmur your answer before you yourself even process it, nodding and saying a soft absolutely just before you turn around, stepping backwards and grabbing onto cold hands and leading him into your bedroom. You thumb the knuckles and realize they’re very soft and that the chill isn’t so terrible, not overly cold. Warming him up wouldn’t take much if anything at all.

- “darling place you’ve got here,” he jokes, brows raising as he watches you walk then seat yourself on the edge of your bed, “just love what you’ve done with it.” JR continues to stand, fiddling with his tie and buttons before he halts his movements, hiding the hesitation by feigning the intention to move them to his pants pockets. you’re about to ask why, but then you see the glimmer of indentions near his Adam’s apple, pearlescent skin dusky mauve and periwinkle, understanding sinking into your features that he cannot miss. He chuckles, the dark and bitter kind and that red glint almost appears but instead that ice blue turns white then back to the clearish hue.

- “Guess I stuck my neck out for the wrong guy.” And you swallow, knowing that’s certainly a story for another time but you move on seeing that he wants to as well, rising to smooth your palms across his shirt vest and to begin undoing his tie. In a normal circumstance, it’s quite sweet, the image of you wrapped up in a bathrobe and undressing him from the remnants of a suit as if getting ready for bed. But this is no normal circumstance, and you two are far from a normal pair.

- And as you feel at the skin of his neck, bared of his starched shirt collar and tie, you look beyond and thumb at his jaw and lean to kiss at the juncture near his ear. “Well, I’m here now,” you trail off, feeling barely-there hands hover at your waist, “if that helps?” He barely moves and already has you splayed on the bed, peering up at him and seeing him slowly shift from being semi-transparent to completely opaque. Solid. Still ghostly but physically there and it’s a relief, not wanting to voice your concerns of spectral sex and how that really would work.

- “It does.” JR grins, chilled hands shucking off the bathrobe and leaving it beneath your frame until your bare hips lift up and he tugs it out from under, tosses it, then pauses. He leans back, hands flexing and his teeth biting into his bottom lip as he gazes up and down at all of you, admiring blatantly. “Oh honey, it really does.”

- you’re already soaked, which is a relief to you because you didn’t want to navigate foreplay or delve overly so into exploring each other’s bodies. You wanted him, wanted to know how he felt, how he’d feel filling you. JR delivers.

- cold, dead, dextrous hands lift your thighs up and rest the underside notch of your knees on his forearms. His appears shifts, like a ripple rolling over a still waters surface, appearing and disappearing all at once. His shirts unbuttoned and partially tucked into the back of his slacks, belt gone and pants undone. JR almost looks like he’s wearing a thick choker or a necklace and you pointedly avoid looking at it, knowing it’s not the place or time to call attention to a death mark.

- instead you grab onto clothing that feels like it’ll flutter away in your hold, unreal, not there, and tug him closer so he’s looming overhead — and if it wasn’t for the spectral visage, he’d look completely normal. As completely normal as a businessman from the 60’s could look. “Eager little thing, all neglected and alone in this big ol’ house.” JR croons, cheeky and feather light, feeling like a stuffed down pillow yet like a switchblade all the same, “not anymore, you’ve got me, dont’cha honey?”

- that’s the moment he removes his cock, blue tinged and with a weepy, bulbous tip, and slides it through your folds with emphasis. Snake oil salesman. Con man. You never want him to leave. You let out a thick “ungh-huh,” grunting response, squirming at the feel and wanting him in already, petty and petulant and wound up like a turn-dial toy, ceased in your puttering about.

- “Aw kitten, I’ve got you,” he murmurs once more, unnervingly genuine smile on his face. It’s crooked, imperfect. Good. “Easy for me, breathe — I’d demonstrate, but that’s just one thing I can’t do.” And just as your lips part to comment, he slides in, fat cockhead breaching your walls and nestling deep inside. It’s cold, foreign feeling, practically glasslike within you but it sends you clenching and grinding weakly back onto it, feeling your bare hips brush against wool-blend slacks and the weight of his gaze on you.

- “what a perfect, snug little fit this cunt has,” he muses, almost more intrigued than turned on. But he falters as the shift of your hips, eyes flickering like they’re phasing in and out, there one second the next they’re gone. “Fuck, do that again,” he orders after an angled grind while you clench your walls around him, sending his ragged and eyes aglow.

- you do, you clench and he bends you like a pretzel in response. Thighs to your chest, dick now kissing at your cervix which’ll end up bruised by the end of the day, and him even closer now. He’s not as cold, almost as if he’s warmed up. Did you do that?—

- “oohh yes, yes — you feel fantastic, so good to me,” JR babbles, hands splaying across your belly flat while the other is near your head, “so, so good to me.” He whines a bit in his thrusts, overwhelmed with pleasure as you feel the same. The foreign sensation fades as your hot cunt warms him, welcomes him, and stretches to accommodate. His pelvis and slacks brush against your clit, sending nerves alight and twinkling behind your eyes like the fractals from the prisms in the bathroom, rainbow shards scatter behind your eyes as JR steadily fucks into you. it takes you turning your head in an attempt to bury it in the sheets and comforter for you to realize you’re not actually on your bed. Oh, no. In fact, you’re several feet in the air above it.

- That’s hot.

- weeding a hand through his hair, you tug and bring him closer to your frame to press against you, thighs sandwiched between your body and his as his face looms above, eyes now half lidded and sapphire blue. his kiss is so cold it’s warm, tingly up to your toes, almost like spearmint threaded through your bones and body like a puppeteer’s strings. it doesn’t take many more thrusts, many more shifts of his incorporeal form to send you shuddering and gasping, clawing at him and crying out silently in an open mouthed cry as you cum.

- JR follows, unable to not fall under the same petite mort as you do, finding it much sweeter than the actual thing with the view he finds himself surrounded by. Pretty little breather, so eager to take him. He supposes having a housemate won’t be so bad.

Glenn Dolphman: SWAMP CREATURE

• song: It Will Come Back - Hozier

- you shouldn’t have gone this far out onto the boardwalks alone. Should’ve packed extra AA batteries for your flashlight, grabbed the stun gun from the glovebox of your car, sitting stagnant and useless in the National Park’s car lot.

- but now, now you’re alone and the suns starting the creep and inch downwards in the horizon, setting brackish and green water inky blue and drenched in oranges and yellows. It would be gorgeous and ethereal is you weren’t alone, and surrounded by open water and more threats than friends. You’d been there all day testing water and recording data for water pollution, making sure the water clarity was still as high as it was last month. The internship in the park’s department was new, testing your limnology skills and knowledge of freshwater ecosystems. But this place blended just likes it’s water, fresh and salt, murky and clear. And with the sun setting, that line got crossed. You’re in no man’s land, where the gators swim free.

- you won’t see morning.

- shutting off the flashlight allows you to conserve what you can for the night, same with your phone as you pace and try to figure out how far from the entrance you are and how much daylight you have left, gauging about 45 minutes to maybe 2 hours of light. Then, darkness. You feel like crying.

- there’s a tree, thick and stable with roots deep within the mud settled next to the wooden walk you’re on, and you settle against it, back rested on the wood and your legs sprawled on the walks planks, fiddling through your bag and wishing you’d brought more than your your water testing kit and supplies. Like a fucking knife, flare gun, something actually useful. What’s the goddamned chapstick gonna help with, making you look good for the gators?

- moving water unnerves you, the sound heavy and laden with weight, something slow moving underneath you and the thin, wooden slats. It has you getting on your feet in milliseconds and rushing in the opposite direction, knowing it’s at least closer to the beginning of the park. You run until you can’t and it’s already too late, suns gone down and abandoned you in the horizon, the light begins to fade with it. There’s the lurking after light, still hazy and silky in the clouds and it’s clouded the air. And you sit back down, curled in on yourself and trembling, eyes darting around yourself for any flicker of movement in the water.

- you hadn’t heard the water move beneath you as you ran earlier, hadn’t counted the shadows in the depths. Fatal mistakes.

- shadows lengthen then dissipate as they blend with the darkness that surrounds you, and you lean back and groan, practically whimpering as you hold in a cry. The water ripples around you, your form a little dot within a giant circle of ripples resting on the thin plank board walkway of the park.

- chest rattles are all that you feel, shaking like a leaf on a tree is all you can do as you worry about what we’re the last things you said to your loved ones, the last texts you sent, fuck you weren’t going to catch the show premiere for next month. Then the water ripples still, completely unnoticed by you. Again.

- you’ve turned away, looking at the horizon when it emerges, watching wistfully as the light fades and the darkness creeps in around you finally. Webbed digits spread against the wood supporting beams from underneath, it’s head precariously perched beneath the surface and slowly edging forwards and upwards until the eyes are the only lifted feature above the Spanish moss and algae-coated water surface. Golden brown eyes stare ahead, almost hazel if not for the unnaturally shaped pupils and too-glittery irises, reflective and almost iridescent as they flicker light in shades of gold leaf, chestnut, moss, and phthalo. You turn back and lock with them immediately in your line of vision, and your body seizes. You want to cry, want to scream and run, fucking beg. What the fuck is that thing. You want your friends and a blanket and to be woken up from this nightmare.

- but you’re frozen, and this is real.

- the form inches forward, so slowly you almost didn’t notice in your panicked state, creeping in the water in a way that couldn’t remind you of anything human. No alligator moves that way, no snapping turtle shifts like that. It’s too far up for a shark to make it in this brackish water, too fresh for that. Hell, catfish don’t get that big. This ain’t River Monsters. This is your reality. Hell.

- and the hell before you gets bigger until the arms splay across the wooden slats, water dripping down to soak the beams and lifting the body up and out, knees from bulky legs notched at one edge. It looms above you, dark eyes staring down into the very depth and well of your soul, practically toying with the dregs of whatever’s down in the bottom. Your eyes are wide, scream silent and stagnant in the bottom of your throat, tears welling in the corner of your saucer plate eyes while you lean down against the surface of the boardwalk and think of your loved ones and shut your eyes tight.

- It grunts then lumbers forth, head peering down at you with eyes unyielding and unrelenting, as harsh as staring directly into sunlight. It does not move after a few moments, just staying put. When your eyes open and warily look upwards, staring at what you expected to be death in the face, your mind goes blank.

- it still is a beast, a creature of proportions unknown to mankind or otherwise, something for the pages of nautical maps in the old ages to have painted alongside sea serpents and sirens. This, this is unfathomable.

- Whatever it is, looming overhead like death's scythe mid-swing sits still. Bulky arms and legs support the weight, and arms on both sides of your torso with legs kneeling outside of your own. The face is narrow, blunt nuzzle protruding with a murky green appearance all over. There are scars and gashes, all paler pinks and greys with the gouges healed and appearing old. Faded and worn, leathery.

- your attention is drawn back to reality once you hear a deep-pitched chitter, sounding more like a rattle, emanate from its chest and throat. It's almost playful, and then you catch the eyes and they've changed. They look human.

- Before you can say anything or voice a concern, the blunt nose of the beast leans down near your neck, and you freeze, wondering what it's doing. Instead of its mouth opening and teeth sinking into your flesh, tearing your throat and life out, it bumps at your pulse. The softened feel of its nose nudges at your neck, once, twice, and huffs a breath of warm air.

- It leans down on what would be the equivalent of shins and forearms, water dripping from its form and soaking your khaki shorts and your work shirt, underwear growing damp with how drenched the articles of clothing become. Your hands are at your sides, cheek pressed to the wooden board beneath you as you feel its breath and puffs of hot air at your neck. There's barely anything you can see around his form, its size so massive it blocks your peripheral.

- you hear it growl out near your ear, limbs brushing yours, and it repeats the noise then you realize with a shock that it’s speaking, the garbled, drowned tone emerging through its throat like reaching through muck and mud.

- “pretty.”

- your freezing and cold, firghtened and expecting death to soon take you, and yet the sound of the backroad gravel and unearthly, rough voice pulled you forth. Almost like a sirens song, luring the sailors directing the course of your consciousness into the sea to sink to the bottom in ribbons of flesh and tissue.

- you think, until you don’t, when a leg notches between yours and this thing, this behemoth above you, grinds against you. There’s a small, still present logical part of yourself but even that braincell jumped ship the second the thick, pulsing muscle of its thigh hit between your clothed, soaked legs.

- growls and animal-like chitters and coos go unheard as your mind blanks over and you’re lifting hands to feel across its arms, his arms from what you could understand, and dart across jagged tissue scars and roughened, thick skin as you lift your hips up and grind you hips into its groin, rewarded with a hot huff against your sticky collarbone and a thickening fleshy weight growing against you.

- “smell r’good.” Comes out slow and jumbled, but sweet for a horny swamp monster that’s about to fuck you stupid. You almost laugh, smoothing a hand up a shoulder in disbelief and wondering just how truly main character you were until you get your clothes quite literally torn off of you into ribbons upon the boardwalk planks and slats, clad barely in underwear and your shoes that stayed on your feet, your ankles hitched over his thighs. Your legs couldn’t even touch his back let alone lock over them.

- “thank you,” you murmur, grinding against him again and keening when his teeth graze, the creature pressing more weight against you once his dick unsheathes. You don’t see it, can’t with the closeness but you feel it. It’s hot, and a spare hand wanders to toy and find with wonder that it dwarfs your hand. Good for you. “Gonna’ take care of me?”

- where did the real you go and what monsterfucker took your place, fucking a swamp monster in a National Park — and no dinner? Damn.

- it huffs an approving groan, nodding a blunt nose against the slope of your neck and at your mercy as your hand plays with his dick, feeling it move and twitch wildly in your lax grip. You carry on, grazing fingertips over a blooming cockhead and weeping slit, running over ridges and veins until he grows tired and tears your underwear in half down the central seam, prying your legs open and grinding his dick through your slick, the sound echoing almost.

- with a lip tugged between your teeth, hands scramble for purchase as enormous arms and sides, digging in your nails a tad once that blunt, flared cockhead drags across your clit then slinks in, breaching your cunt slowly and stretching it. You take inch after inch in an achingly slow pace, whining and twisting in this things hold and wanting to get fucked already, but it knows better. Cant break a new fuck toy on the first go.

- it’s tedious but rewarding in the end once you get nearly three quarters of its dick in you, pulsing hot and twitching against taut walls, feeling full and warm in contrast to your icy skin from the cold, warming up slowly but surely.

- the creature edges forth in a small thrust, testing the shift then picks the pace up rapidly, hips snapping as a hand lifts your ass up from beneath in order to sink in more of his dick and see it disappear into the warmth of your cunt.

- pressure builds, making your toes curl first and your nails dig a bit into the bicep muscles of the arm your holding onto, another flattened across the back of a shoulder blade and rocking softly back in forth to meet thrusts, voice too broken to scream out, whimpering and moaning out for this monster above thats both the softest and most impressive sex partner you’ve had in a while.

- God Bless National Parks.

- after a while the pace steadies and the continuous brush of his giant dick, making a mess of your pretty cunt and sending slick dripping down your thighs, gets you close to cumming, feeling that warmth spread up the back of your legs and in your belly, blossoming forth in your rib cage and chest, curling around your heart like silken ribbon.

- the steady pat patt patting of his balls against your ass also sends you into a hormonal frenzy, loving how warm and treasured you were in the moment. The pressure builds and you start muttering and crying out, legs shaking around his thighs once it builds closer, a litany of “gonna’ cum gonna’ cum, gonna’ cum please lemme’ cum f’you.” That sends the pace to perk up as well as the behemoth, a shift lifting your ass in the palms of his webbed hands and thrusting you back and forth on its cock, using you with as much ease as one would fuck a sex toy.

- a few bruising knocks of that mushroomy, blunt tip against your cervix sends you creaming around his cock, just in time for him to cum and fill your greedy cunt while you’re agape and shut-eyed as the tremors wrack your body, falling victim to the power of orgasm, wracking your brain like a fog that slowly fades into a haze.

-The once rapid thrusts stutter and fade, continuing until you’re both fully spent and dated and you’re weighted down with a heavy beast that’s the warmest weighted blanket you’ve ever tried, feeling content all plugged up and held. Felt great, fan-fucking-tastic.

- the giant hands holding you tight splay over your heated, damp and sweat-slicked skin and shift, you press a kiss to its cheek and dart more down his neck, nosing it so sweetly he draws you even impossibly closer.

- later on, when you’ll go to work and be unafraid in the dark and cheery and bright in the day, it’ll be due to the rippling force hiding in your shadow as you make your rounds and tend to your tasks, biding the time until nightfall.

- and you feel it’s eyes on you always, but instead of a weight clutching at your throat or coiled between your ankles, it rather lies across your shoulders like a well-beloved overcoat. Warm and powerful and strong. Roughened. Uniquely yours in the best of ways. Especially when swamp creatures are concerned.

— Bonus —

Delaney Whitmore: T H E D E V I L

• song: Personal Jesus - Depeche Mode

- Waking up in the same day, over and over, endlessly for what has been a week now is already getting old. You’ve been shot, run over, electrocuted, and even gutted. Dumped into a ravine. Drowned in the lake with weights and chains, got hit by a train, even got your throat slit. You want it to be over and you’ve got no clue what’s going on. There’s only so much one can learn from Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, and it seems that even he ain’t doing you no favors. You're tired, traumatized, reeling day in and out, and facing death with a chagrin belonging to even the most exhausted reluctant heroes. But you are no hero, no, you are a stranger, a normal person, trapped in an endless loop and feel as if the eyes of ouroboros are gazing down in mocking, chiding laughter. You feel doomed.

- You find answers, or more accurately, a cause to your cruelly violent cycle. She’s been present the most out of all the passersby, with different clothes and different styles of hair, always a bystander and stranger, nearby to watch the fallout behind tinted brown sunglass lenses and a burgundy-lipped grin. God, what a bitch.

- You finally see her up close, spotting and cornering her in the back booth of a dark bistro in town, a flute of something dark and bubbly tucked between her hand and her manicured nails. They match her lipstick. “Having fun? How’s the loop treating you, I’ve tried to make at least the dying random,” she coos, stirring around the decorative garnish that rims her cocktail before turning her body to face yours, “wouldn’t want it to be overly repetitive. That just becomes so redundant, but enough about my little spoils. Introduce yourself, go on, I’ve just been dying to meet you.”

- faltering, you eye her outstretched hand warily, noting the several rings on her fingers and the watch, the gloss of her nail polish in the low light of the room. You shake her hand, noting the firm grip and authenticity behind it, and sit down across from her, shifting against the worn faux leather booth seats and hating the sound.

- “sorry about the surroundings, can’t really alter this stuff unless I wanted to immediately call attention and ruin the game. No fun in that.” She noted the visible discomfort on your face, showing interest and care that seems ingenuine with how real it felt, “now go on, introduce yourself. Treat a lady.” She all but purrs, sipping at her drink and smiling with something wicked and dark in her teeth. Her pointed, sharp teeth. Just the canines.

- and so you do, blurting out your name and watching her process it, and you take her in. Deep brown waves settle down and rest in curls upon her shoulders. She’s got big, Jackie O-style glasses on again, paired with the deep red lip. There’s twinkling gold jewelry dotted around her body, across the collar, several across the ears, her rings, and the watch.

- “what a darling name,” is what pulls you forth from the stupor you found yourself in while staring, seeing her settle her chin in her palm and her elbow upon the table, “usually it takes months or even years for someone to find me, let alone single me out. Clever.” She chimes, sipping once more at something you can’t decipher, maybe champagne with a mixer. “Would you like something to eat, or drink perhaps? They’ve got great appetizers.” Before you can answer she snaps her fingers, the thwick of the sound much louder than you’d expect it, like when hearing someone whistle for a taxi.

- a waiter appears, scattering two menus and place settings quickly before the two of you and topping off her flute with something from a corked bottle, scrawled in looping cursive and definitely champagne, then adds a bit of a syrup that smells like pomegranates. The drops sink like dye does, blooming forth in swirls that resemble the Rorschach inkblots. She catches your inquiring gaze. “I love the taste on its own, but there’s just something about the little dash of syrup I’ve come to love.” She drawls, and you finally catch the locale of it, southern. Not too deep, not too slow to be truly at the southernmost part of the United States, but lulling along enough to be southern. Drips forth like the syrup does.

- “reminds me of those myths and tales of Persephone, those pomegranates that locked her to the underworld for part of the year and to Hades’ realm. Those Grecian tales, so full of woe and death.” She rolls her eyes behind the glasses, unable to see but still noted in the movement of her brows in addition to the gesture of her hand. She asks about what you plan on eating and you’re unsure, not just about the food but about the overall situation. Trapped in a hellish loop, sitting down with the one who’s caused it all, with no clear motive, and yet you can’t feel mad. It’s like sedation, sitting with her, numbing the raw and angry parts of yourself.

- you force yourself to come up with what you’ll eat, getting urged by her for an appetizer too, saying you deserve it. Who is this woman? After giving your answer she calls back over the waiter and prattles off your meal choices and her own, kindly and hands back one of the menus but keeps the other and sidles it against the wall of the table, “in case there’s dessert,” she winks.

- you stare, questions rattling about in your head and overloading you, making you just blurt out what was pressing you the most of all the queries you had. And she laughs. It’s a twinkling, delightful sound. It’s laced with something that warns you to not trust completely. “Who am I? Oh darlin’ I was wondering when you’d get around to askin’ that,” she sips her drink then sets it aside, drumming her nails against the hardwood of the table before grinning with pointed teeth that indent at her lip. She takes off the glasses, thick lashes dusting her cheeks before opening to reveal her irises. Gold, just like her rings. Then she speaks.

- “Babydoll, I’m the devil.”

- there’s the one half of you that’s been expecting that sort of answer, relishing in a way that’s akin to an “I’m right! Suck it!” internal celebration. The other half is in a myriad of what the fucks, wondering what is going on and why you’re talking to the devil and why is she hot?? Confused, bewildered, and utterly at a loss. “Why are you doing this to me?” Is what flies from your lips next, still confused as to why you’re even here and why you’re talking with devil as you discuss your looped-in-hell situation.

- “it’s actually quite interesting, y’see, you’re the offspring of someone that owes me. Big time. The resolution was made, through crossroads bargains — Y’know the black magic, Anne Rice novel typa’ shit — and I’m sorry to break the news Sugar, but you’re the price that got paid. The loop was something I’m fiddling with to perfect it, just unfortunate luck that you were the next contestant. In summary short, your heart, soul, and ass are mine.” The devil answers, in sprawling words that sound like signatures spoken aloud as if the personality of someone’s handwriting was flung into the air to be heard.

- you stammer, words failing again, and then the food gets plated before you along with a glass poured with one of your favorite drinks. “Dig in, food won’t bite. I do on the other hand,” she teases, chiding and amused, “ask any questions you’ve got and I’m happy to answer them. I’m rarely in the company of such gorgeous creatures anyhow.”

- Blinking, you’re reeling from everything, and take a fork full of whatever food is in front of you and chew before you say another stupid thing. You watch her, and she goes about her actions as if this is any other day — and you suppose it is, her being Satan and all. She’s tall, taller than yourself you suppose, with a body that’s curved in ways that must’ve written the rules of temptation and sin, especially lust you think as you glance at cleavage that’s just too alluring. All of her is, it’s unfair. Cruel. It’s fitting. She’s the devil, Satan, the big bad, queen of darkness, etcetera.

- “is it the appearance? Sometimes people expect me to have the whole monstrous look, wings and the tail and hooves,” she prompts, eying you with a curious gaze as she sticks a fork into a piece of fried calamari, “I can slip into something hornier if you’d like.” And you almost choke on what you’re chewing before you realize it was a joke, and you see her laugh. She snorts. Imperfect. “Sorry, sorry — i just love that joke so much, it’s funnier when I make the horns show up. At least sometimes it is.”

- “do you not naturally look like that?” Is how you respond, eating another forkful afterward to stop you from rambling or commenting on her appearance, and how yes, you would like to see her step into something hornier. “I do, there’s just degrees and a range in which I look, this being the original form I was made in. The extra stuff is flair from being the devil I’d assume, and the embodiment of all that is evil,” she trails off, chewing then moving on, “it’s not like I was born and immediately formed into lady of all unholiness, what, do you think my name is just The Devil?”

- “is it?” You expect her to laugh, but she just smiles and sips her drink, eying you while she does before setting the glass back down. “It’s not. My name’s Delaney, but I haven’t heard anyone call me that in a long, long time.” And you think about that last segment, wondering how far back it was since she was seen as a person or a thing rather than just the devil.

- “it’s a lovely name,” you comment, turning back to your food only to glance up and see a subtle flush on her olive-skinned features. “Thank you.”

- you note the reaction for later, but soon enough you feel the time of your meal blurring by you, the time more fleeting than wisps of snow in winter's blanketing season. It’s the end of the meal, and conversation flows while the devil escorts you home, elbow crooked in hers as she walks nearest the road and you’re nestled between her and the buildings as the sidewalk takes you home.

- “soul for your thoughts?” She chimes, sunglasses back on her head but she glances over at you from the lens's rim, smiling impishly and turning once you arrive at the steps to your house. “No, no, just wondering about something.”

“Oh? Do tell, love t’hear what’s rattling around in that skull of yours.”

“Feels like a first date.”

- she blinks, and you watch the processing moment before she grins wicked and lazy-like, eyes half-lidded as she extends a hand in proposition. “Would you like to skip to after the third?”

- you say yes, you’re not a fool, and it’s not as if she walks you inside and fucks you silly. No, within a whirlwind you see hours go by and get your consciousness inserted back until when the third date would be. And you’re in the middle of getting eaten out when this gift of consciousness is bestowed. The timing is nothing short of absolutely glorious.

- she’s got you perched on a marble top vanity in a lavish bedroom, a blend of Victorian or Rococo with the scrollwork and filigree in the wood craftsmanship you garner while trying to prevent your orgasm so you can make it last, staring at the ceiling and an ornate tulip-shaped glass light fixture and thinking of other things to not literally black out just yet.

- “There’s my little one, back to me now, okay?” She breaks up from her assault on your pussy, thumb idly rolling circles and smoothing shapes into your puffy clit, “Let go for me so mommy can make a meal out of you.” She smooths your thighs back open and coos when she blows air upon your cunt, laughing when you shudder. She laps at your cunt and peers up at you from beneath dark bangs and even darker lashes, a knife's point of winged eyeliner making the golden hazel eyes shine. You’ve got the devil on her knees eating you out. Casually. Life unwarrantedly signed away sucks but hey, there’s at least cumming on the tongue of the most powerful demon since ever?

- soon you’re crying out and tugging at her hair and coming against her mouth, gushing around her cheeks and chin. She works you through your orgasm and the over sensitivity. And another venture through orgasm. And two additional upon that, her claiming that oral is just foreplay while she sucks your skin clean as she licks up all the aftermath of you squirting from between your thighs, nipping occasionally with tender teeth.

- she hushes your whines with hands that smooth over your belly and heated skin, calming you down until she rises and her tall form cages you in where you sit perched on the vanity.

- “calm down, angel,” she starts, tucking stray hair back into place and cupping your warm cheeks in her palms, smoothing thumbs across your cheekbones with care. She shifts, reaching to grasp your chin between your fingers as her hand wraps at an angle around your neck, “now, can I play with you for a little longer?”

- Regret was not something you had a lot of, but there was not any present in your response. Especially since you had never said yes so fast in your life. The demon laughs before pressing her lips to yours, murmuring beneath her breath in airy huffs of air that grace your teeth and tongue as hers meet yours in the middle, "welcome then, my little Persephone."

— Happy Halloween —

Tags: @mrsbretthand @mollicutes @radioactivebowtie @cognitosclowns @bluebaronness @carnalcringe

[forabeatofadrum]

Do you sometimes wake up and think to yourself: "Today, I am going to do something batshit insane?"

That's me today. I'm doing another WIP Wednesday Hospital. Since it's been 8 months since the last one, here's a quick reminder of the Hospital metaphor, copy-pasted from the previous Hospital post: "the WIP Wednesday Hospital is inspired by a post by @facewithoutheart​ called a WIP Wednesday Graveyard, where Christina put her abandoned WIPs to rest and I was obsessed with the idea, but I also realised that I wasn’t ready to put my WIPs to rest since I had the intention of finishing them. So instead of a graveyard, my WIPs reside in a (long-stay) hospital ward. All my WIPs are waiting for me to discharge them (aka finish them)."

As usual, I recommend people to do this as well, since it's a fun way to look back on older WIPs. Below the cut are 10 patients waiting for a visit. You can go say visit all of them, or just skip to the ones that interest you. I bolded the fandoms/ships etc. for easier browsing.

Leave your name at the desk and be safe: @quizasvivamos @blurglesmurfklaine @coffeegleek @esperantoauthor @otherworldsivelivedin @caramelcoffeeaddict @sillyunicorn @bazzybelle @dragoneggos @raenestee @tectonicduck @nightimedreamersworld @urban-sith @thnxforknowingme @captain-aralias @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @justgleekout @cerriddwenluna @tea-brigade @ivelovedhimthroughworse @moodandmist @whogaveyoupermission @bookish-bogwitch @confused-bi-queer @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @ionlydrinkhotwater @1908jmd @special-bc-ur-part-of-it @larkral @chen-chen-chen-again-chen ​ @cutestkilla ​ @nausikaaa ​/@wellbelesbian ​ @martsonmars ​ @facewithoutheart ​ @shrekgogurt @boyinjeans @rockitmans @bitbybitwrites @blackberrysummerblog @whatevertheweather @artsyunderstudy

I have two summer challenges that I signed up for, namely the Madison and More (OMGCP) and the Klaine Back-To-School AU (Glee) and both challenges are due in August and unfortunately for me I have written nothing yet. But that will change today!

I cannot tell you which prompt I claimed for Madison and More, since it's an anonymous fest, but I think this doesn't give away a lot:

Jack's tired. He's been tired for a while, which is why this vacation is needed. He's on the beach. He's lying in the water, but at the shallow part, enjoying the sun. Damn, he needed this. He can feel himself doze off.

I think I am allowed to share the prompt that inspired me for the Klaine Back-To-School AU. Like I said, I have written zero (0) words for this, but I have been thinking about this fic so here we go.

Kurt is about to lose his mind. He has no idea where it has gone wrong, but it's gone wrong. "Fuck," he yells, because he's fucked. He is so totally fucked. It's his third year as a pre-school teacher and this has never happened before. He needs to reel in the swearing before the kids arrive. He also needs to fix this mess before the kids come in. They will be devastated if they find out that ten of the classroom pets have gone missing. "Fuck!" Kurt says again. How did this happen? These animals are all cared for. They live here. This classroom is reserved for them. Kids come here to see the animals, not the other way around. Suddenly, Kurt hears a voice. "Everything all right in here?" he hears, "I heard swearing."

The joke is that I don't know how this fic ends (yet), because like Kurt, I also have no idea where the animals are.

Anyway, up to the next patient. It's the small fic idea that I came up with during my vacation. Here's Simon's POV of the "cat leaves paw prints on Baz's fancy car" fic:

Buttered Scone is a typical housecat, but every now and then I take her out for a walk. Yes, she wears a collar and a leash and she doesn’t complain at all. Penny says it’s a good thing, because this way I can keep an eye on her, since London is huge, and Buttered Scone doesn’t disrupt the local biodiversity by roaming freely. So yes, I have her under control. Most of the time. Except this time, I looked at my phone and when I turned back to Buttered Scone, she was atop of a car.

This made me realise that Buttered Scone's initials are B.S. Huh.

I am still thinking about my good ole Sarah Jane Adventures Extended Universe fic aka Luke Smith's Gay Adventures at Oxford (mostly) aka me exploring the alien side of Luke as an added bonus, so uhhh:

"Have you been up every night?” “I guess.” “That’s fine,” his mum says, “Just… please be a bit more quiet next time, okay?” “Why?” “Because you woke me up. From sleep.” Luke stares at his mum. Sleep. He’s heard of that. Maria once came over and she said she was tired because she didn’t get enough sleep. His mum told Luke that he can ask her anything. “Mum, what is sleep?” His mum looks dumbfounded. “You don’t sleep?” “I don’t know. Do I?”

Look, his super alien brain is the cumulation of thousand other brains, it makes sense that it is hard to turn off.

Patient no. 5 has been here for a while. It's Matty Chris D, our boy, aka Just Some Guy, aka the Snowbaz from an outsider perspective fic. MCD still doesn't care about the guys at all, but the existence of Simon and Baz is noticable. So what happens when Simon doesn't show up?

Simon Snow does skip class. I don’t care. But then he skips again. And again. And again. Not only that, but his friend Penelope Bunce isn’t attending classes either, and that’s extremely weird. Weirdly enough, she’s not the reason something feels off. Sure, she usually is very present in class, constantly asking questions and adding her own commentary, but it’s Simon’s absence that is weirding me out. I usually do not care about his presence in class, since he doesn’t participate as much as Penelope Bunce or Tyrannus- oh, I mean, Baz Pitch, but his absence is noticeable because there is a lack of magic surrounding us. I didn’t know I had gotten so used to the Chosen One leaking magic until now.

For context, this is the 3rd year, where Simon and Penny disappear for a few months. In the scene before this, Matt's friends lament that being the Chosen One must have some perks, cause it means you can skip class in order to save the world or something.

Okay, next one! I actually read The Sun and the Star during my vacation and it completely throws everything out of the window re: my Solangelo fic, but that's the beauty of fanfiction, isn't it? My version of getting-together is more angsty.

Nico leaves the infirmary before any more deaths occur, but they do occur in the days after. It feels like a blow to the camp that even days after the big battle against Gaia, people still die, but that is how it is. Nico spends most of his time in Cabin 13. It’s empty without Hazel, but he makes it work. He told everyone that he’s staying, and Nico is committing to that. He asks Annabeth for some decoration tips. The Stolls steal his shoes and he can’t even be mad at them. He congrats Clarissa La Rue when she gets her university acceptance letter. Jason tells Nico about his new plan for honouring the gods. Camp Half-Blood is still grieving, but life goes on.

Not going to lie, I do not know if I will ever finish this, but that's also what I said about, for example, aap noot mies.

I also published a Love, Victor fix-it last year after the series finale and I said I was going to write more fix-its (the ending really sucked, guys) and I did start one and I have been adding things to it every now and then:

Benji hurries to the bar and Victor does a double take when Benji comes back with a glass of milk. “Did… you just order that?” “You should’ve seen the barperson’s face,” Benji says with a wink and he raises his glass, “Good for your bones, you know?” “Cheers,” Victor says. “So, you come here often?” Benji asks.

I am somewhat a Venji-truther, but I just didn't like the way how they ended up together. It felt rushed and they didn't discuss why their relationship failed in the first place. They just kissed on the ferris wheel, which is a nice way to bookend the series, but come on! So in my fix-it, they meet again after 3 years of not seeing each other.

No. 7 is a quick check-in with the Glee/CO crossover. I mentioned it to @bitbybitwrites, who has recently read Carry On! In a shocking twist of events, I actually managed to come up with (a draft of) the summary before finishing the fic. The fic is far from finished, but I thought it'd be fun to share the summary:

Baz thought that his obsessive and insufferable Gleek days were behind him when the show ended, but when Simon accidentally transports the two of them into the Glee universe, his knowledge might pay off. Blaine is very confused when he realises something’s wrong at Dalton Academy and that there are two new people roaming around that clearly don’t belong here. He and Kurt try to understand what is happening. Can the four of them find a solution to this situation that doesn’t involve Baz outing himself as a Klainer 12? Will Simon finally make sense who he is now that he has Kurt and Blaine to guide him? And can Kurt and Blaine ignore the fact that their unwanted guests clearly know more about Kurt and Blaine’s lives than they let on?

No. 8 is a fic I have been stuck on for a while. It's a The Legend of Zelda fic and it definitely an example of the two cakes principle, because it's about Link being sad after Link's Awakening. I also don't know if this will ever get finished, but I like this:

Link’s playing his flute in the grass of the castle. It’s a lovely song and Zelda takes her time to enjoy it. She closes her eyes and she lets the music overtake all her senses. She lets out a happy sigh. The music abruptly stops. When Zelda opens her eyes, she sees Link looking at her with wide eyes. “Don’t stop on my account,” Zelda says. She sits down next to Link. “I don’t know that song. It’s lovely.” “Thanks.” “What is it called?” “The Ballad of the Wind Fish,” Link says and he shoots Zelda a serious and almost pleading look, as if he wants Zelda to recognise it. She has to disappoint him.

Hey, remember AU, Please!, the OMGCP fest all about AUs? I wrote Center Ice for it. I love that fic. But I actually had another prompt that I claimed, but I had to let it go since I didn't have time to finish it. It's about Dex's unusual power. The mods allow writers to publish it later outside of the fest, ....

His mother had sat him down when he was six years old. She crouched in front of him. “My son, one day, you will unlock the family’s secret power. It’s been passed through from generation to generation and only one person each generation has the power. We do not know how it works exactly, since it’s not passed down from parent to child, but it is within our family, and we have reasons to believe you are the chosen one.” Now, Will loved Superman, so he was stoked to hear that he had powers. Unfortunately for him, the powers of his family are less fortunate. “You will have the ability to turn into a lobster, my son. Use it wisely.”

And lastly, a returning patient who will be semi-discharged soon. It's my fic about Asian identity in Glee. It got some renewed interest after I mentioned it on my post about Jenna's comments on the racism she experienced. As a result, I am thinking about posting it as a series of standalone ficlets. The reason I haven't started doing that is because I don't have a title or anything. Classic.

Anyway, this was inspired by, I guess, my life, but it is in on my mind again after I saw someone wear a bamboo hat on the train station. I wish I had the courage to just... do that. Kinda messed up that I am too afraid to wear Chinese clothing in public due to backslash, but that is life.

Tina stares at her hanbok. It is beautiful. It is by far one of the most beautiful pieces of clothing that she's ever owned. It's to small for her now. Her mother bought it for her when she was in Korea with Mrs. Danvers and An Unnamed Character. That was years ago. Tina was still a child and she was so happy when her mother showed it. Times were simpler back then, because Tina would soon learn that others did not share her joy. Every time she would wear it in public, people saw it as a reason to target her with racially slurs. Tina wanted to feel pretty, but they made it clear that she was ugly in their round eyes. So Tina put it back in the closet and she could only wear it once a year during Halloween, when she would dress up "as a Korean" and she'd be surrounded by all the other white girls with cheap Geisha-esque wigs, taped back eyes, flimsy fans and whatever "Oriental costume" they bought from Target. It's such a beautiful hanbok, and it got reduced to a Halloween costume, and now Tina's grown too much to wear it.

I actually cleaned out my childhood bedroom today and I found the shoes that my mother brought from China (together with the cheongsam that inspired this snippet) and yeah, they don't fit anymore, just like the cheongsam.

Okay, damn, sorry to end this visit on a bummer, so have an extra snippet from the same fic that is more upbeat:

“Mike, it’s Wes!” Tina says excitedly and she clutches her boyfriend’s arm. She is completely ignoring the fight she had with Mike, since she is so excited. “AsianDancer?” Wes asks, sounding expectant, “Or just Mike?” Mike takes a look at Wes and he does a double take when he sees that Wes is wearing a Dalton uniform. “GavelMan92?" Wes nods. "You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mike says as well.

AsianDancer 🤝 GavelMan92 🤝 XxGothGirlTayTayxX BFFS 4 ever!!!

Anyway, if you've made it this far, have a flower 🌺 as well.

[gray-morality]

We’re up to no good, ya want in?

■ Datacenter | Crystal – Balmung

■ Playtime | Approx. 6 pm to 10 pm EST

■ You must be 21+ | Mature themes RP

This is a rather specific kind of LFRP post. The goal is to find 2 or 3-ish (or more, who knows!) people to RP and plot with (alongside with my RP partner).  I (we) are open to plot or event ideas, character hooks, pre-established relationships/rivals, you name it. What we’re looking for:

Thavnair-centric - It doesn’t matter if your character is not Thavnairian or spend times outside the region; tbh our own “adventures” take us outside this nation regularly, but we always come back to Thavnair or, more specifically, we work FOR (the betterment of) Thavnair.

Morally gray - Don’t mistake this for evil; However, we’re not completely good either. Sometimes you have to bend the law, or walk carefully under it, in order to survive (or become the lesser of two evils). We try to help others, or ourselves, but life has a way to hand out lemons by the crates and making lemonade ain’t cheap.

Flight before fight - We tend to play more like civilians and a lot of our stories revolve around white collar crime. Not that our characters can’t handle being in a fight, but if it comes to that (and if the opportunity is there) I know of at least one of us that will try to run for it before engaging in combat >_>;;;; *cough* Hunting beasts and monsters, however, is something else entirely.

Lore compliance, realism and low power - This is our brand. We don’t want people who can solve everything single-handedly, who have enough IC wealth to buy off a whole residential district and pull all the favors, or can heal everything with the snap of their fingers. Where’s the fun in that? We like to eat dirt, chew it and spit it out (not for all three meals mind you, it lacks proteins).

Love for writing - And we mean that in the broadest possible way. It includes plotting, writing events and stories for our characters. They can be very centric to one or many characters - we’re all about character development - or to a group (we have Jijivisha). If you just want to sit and enjoy the chocobo ride, look elsewhere, ‘cause we ain’t even got any chocobos.

The small prints

■  Our RP style is turn-based para/multi-para and, speaking for myself, I’m not especially a fast typer AND English is not my native tongue (so I sometimes get stuck on a word or another and it gives 5 more minutes of waiting on my post xD)

■ We RP mature themes; and by that we don’t mean hosting orgies every weekend. As we roleplay characters of gray morality and part of the criminal world, harsh language and swearing (especially Fakhri), gambling (ehh Fakhri’s bread and butter lol), heavy use of alcohol (coughtFakhricough), smoking legal and not so legal substances (Guess who?), drugs (Starts with an F) and violence are all part of that package. We obviously respect people’s boundaries if a topic is sensitive for them. Also if you haven’t noticed, Fakhri is trash and Seda is the more respectable of the two.

■ No Discord RP. Multiple factors at play with this decision and, while there are very rare exceptions, just assume it’s not happening.

If you read through all of this, consider me amazed xD

This may all seem like a lot but me and my partner are actually quite laid back. We’re both adults with a career and obligations and we know what it is to get home tired, or not having the energy nor the time for the game on any given day, or week. This is why we highly value good communication and we respect each other’s time. Now, why only seek 2 or 3-ish people to RP with? We firmly believe in quality before quantity and, hopefully, having a tight-knit group is all we’ll need to weave stories and have fun. Think of it as a tabletop group of friends. As a final note, me and my partner both enjoy the PVE aspect of the game so if that’s something you enjoy as well, bonus kudos to you and let’s climb HoH already!

Also, liking rats is mandatory.

Fakhri Man’tik

■ alcohol, fogweed and gambling. Leaving the Primeval Forests behind, only to wake up one day in a dark alley, between a pile of trash and a rat. Even the cards couldn’t have foretold that he’d take that wrong turn, right into a world of crime, taking some of humanity’s vices as his own. But it seems the spirits (or a rat) took pity on him after all...

--------------------

CAARD | https://fakhrimantik.carrd.co/>

TUMBLR | https://gray-morality.tumblr.com/

Seda Ballard

■ bad decisions, ambition and wanderlust.  Making a name for herself as a walking encyclopedia of Eorzean tariffs, imports, duties and taxes - and how to avoid paying them - her ink-stained fingers dancing through many account books. The path can be quite dark when one has no qualms where the money comes from. Good thing she met with someone who can hold a lantern to light the road ahead…

--------------------

CAARD | https://catscratching.carrd.co/

TUMBLR | https://catscratching.tumblr.com/

[dividedsingularity]

Cosplaying a Dalek

How I spedran my first ever cosplay to wear it at a con, aka a sentimental writeup on the making of the costume with lots of pictures! Find it under the cut.

Ever since I first laid eyes on them, I've loved the Daleks, both as a wider entity and in their design.

Look at this thing, it's perfection! A modern design from the newer, post-2005 series, but with a more classic-feeling black colour scheme.

During my comprehensive Doctor Who watch-through, sometime around January 2020, an idea for an anthropomorphic Dalek materialised in my mind, centering around the Dalek trooper helmets from Resurrection of the Daleks. Except I thought they could have looked way cooler.

I mean look at it. It's got the spirit but it lacks the style. So my design incorporated all the parts I found important about the entirety of the Dalek form. I doubt I thought about cosplaying it while I first had the idea, but the first post I ever made about it already mentions that desire. …huh, it's been so long already??

I never did much about it since that time, though, aside from talking it over with a friend for ideas and thinking about visiting some second-hand clothes shops to look for the right sort of coat. That didn't end up happening, because by sheer luck I found two leather coats to choose from at home, just sitting there unused, and one of them had exactly the right collar!

…that was definitely way over a year ago though. The next time anything moved forward cosplay-wise was early in April this year. Once my small group of friends decided all three of us would go to this year's convention, and all of us were to show up in costume, it was on. With a time limit and a real goal of creating the costume I'd dreamed of for so long, I actually got to work.

The cosplay never left my mind since that day; I was constantly planning what I'd need and how I'd go about achieving it in the back of my mind. There were some things I had ideas for, but many more that I didn't even know how to start approaching; I spent several days in the first two weeks just visiting every art and hobby shop and some more specialised ones across (and some outside) the entire city. (I found out more about public transport here in that week than for my entire life here.)

Some harder to find items that I'd known I'd need from the beginning were a bicycle chain (for the exo-spine) and clear plastic cups (for the helmet lights). Those required dedicated trips and, in the chain's case, much additional work cleaning and breaking it to the desired length.

What gave me the MOST trouble, though, were all the balls on the costume, both helmet and coat. Nearly everyone I talked to about this project had their own (mostly unsolicited) ideas for what they could be made of, but none felt right to me. Eventually I latched onto wanting to make them from buttons - so the problem became finding large enough buttons. After much effort I got them - only coconut shell buttons were anywhere near the correct size - and spent the next few days sewing them and the bike chain onto the coat. Tip: never attempt sewing leather without a thimble.

Here's what it looked like with all the attachments + a dirt cheap belt from a second hand.

Through all the work on the coat, however, I'd been dreading the part I knew least about: the helmet. It was the most crucial element, the lynchpin of the entire thing, and I knew exactly what I wanted it to look like, but nothing about how I'd achieve it. It took me the longest time to even settle on a material to make it out of.

Everything started coming together once I remembered I have access to 3D modelling software that I *knew how to use*. I speed modelled the helmet in one evening, adjusting only the cup holes for real size and eyeballing the rest of the dimensions, praying that it'd end up being right because I had neither the time nor willpower to go through modelling-printing-cutting and gluing it all a second time.

Some wip stages looked pretty funny considering the cup shapes were perfectly to scale

Once unfolded, printed out, glued together, cut out, traced on cardboard, and cut out once more, it looked like this:

a LOT of tape and wishing I had someone to help me hold things in place later, I finally ended up with a shape that looked right and thankfully turned out to be perfectly sized for my noggin. It's incredible how many strokes of luck happened here, really. and there's still several coming up!

After connecting the visor, cups, and a safety helmet base to the cardboard structure, I had a Usable Helmet. Feeling so close to my goal, I still knew there was a long way to go, as I had barely an inkling as to how I'd make or connect the helmet's optic.

I used a small tube of thick cardboard and bent wire in the end. The lens was from an old bedstand clock.

Other than that though, what remained was mostly decoration - and I was not about to even attempt painting this thing; I had to cut the helmet's template into separate pieces, lay them out tightly on a few sheets of PVC foam, cut those and then attach them to each side of the helmet one by one. It took a good while but the result was pretty phenomenal, colour quality-wise.

The helmet also got the button treatment, though these were a different kind and not ones I went looking for - I'd actually had these lying around for years, and exactly the right number, too! Incredible how good they look, especially when in motion and catching all the light. Ended up having to reattach them with a different kind of tape, but they're holding fast now.

So my helmet was done and I had little time to spare, and even less idea how to make my Dalek gun, despite having the parts for it. A classmate unexpectedly offered to let me use a 3D printer he had access to, though, and this opened up an opportunity - so the base for attaching the gun to my forearm was 3D printed, glued, got the straps (from an old gutted backpack) sewn into it and it worked pretty great.

For the gun, I used a clear plastic tube and even more bent wire, and finally for the cable leading to the gun I could do something relaxing - a measure tape that I had to cover with isolation tape. Taped again to the base of the gun, but detachable on the other side via paperclip that I can put on and take off the collar of the coat.

I had all the elements that required crafting ready and put together just a day before the con, then. I'd picked out appropriate underdress (my Dalek shirt and colour-fitting trousers, light for the hot weather) in between working on them.

Let's summarise: it's June. Sunny weather. My cosplay consists of

gun

shirt

trousers

long leather coat

black helmet

gloves

whatever shoes fit the vibe

and I wanted to put a backpack on top of all that, too. You'd have to be insane to wear all of that on a hot summer day!*

*Disclaimer: all Daleks are clinically insane or close enough, so it all checks out.

I decided not to use the gloves and spare myself that much, at least. In the end, the day was even a little cloudy, and it was only about 25°C outside (for my Fahrenheit-using friends, that translates to "way too hot to wear all that") - so the eleven hours of walking in full Dalek cosplay dehydrated me only a little in the end. I think. Yeah that water bottle was gone fast.

The day was incredibly fun, even more fun than it was exhausting, and the number of people who complimented the cosplay or even asked to take a photo with me was absolutely staggering to a newbie like me! It was all worth it in the end; as I write this, I haven't yet had my planned photoshoot to get nice detailed photos of the cosplay, but I did find a TARDIS prop at the con to pose with, so… I guess I can bend my no photos rule and show you this one.

Censoring my face with an actual Dalek picture for accuracy.

Now here I am, a proud and happy new owner of a rather nice Dalek costume. It still needs some adjustments for better comfort of wearing, mostly to make the helmet less wobbly while walking, but I have it! I got help from my friends and colleagues both in terms of solution ideas and resources given to me nearly every step of the way and completing it so quickly wouldn't have been possible without it. Thank you, guys. And thank you, if you've read this entire thing, hope it was enjoyable B ] Questions and comments most welcome if you have any.

[getosubaru]

𝑔𝓊𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝒹𝑜𝑔

ryomen sukuna x gn!reader

best friends to lovers drabble series; based on these prompts

wc: 639

tw/notes: small text only for description; no curses AU; sukuna & yuuji as twins; choso as their brother; violence (not @ reader); reader gets cheated on; everyone’s 21+; as fluffy as you can get for sukuna

prompt: punching the guy that broke your heart

He might scowl when others call him your bodyguard, but there’s an air of truth to it.

So when you burst through his door in tears, his previous guests flee with a look of terror on their faces.

Everyone knows better than to fuck around with you.

Everyone, it seems, except the piece of shit you’ve been dating for a few months.

Sukuna gets the story out of Yuuji, quick texts sent while you bawled into his ratty t-shirt.

The waste of carbon decided to cheat on you with the coworker he swore was just a friend.

You only found out because you stopped by his apartment to grab your gym bag.

Sukuna’s always been careful to keep his temper away from you, never wanting you to see him go off the deep end. You knew about the bar brawls, the street fights, the run-ins with the cops. But you’d never actually seen him strike anyone.

He locks all that away with you. Your calm, gentle presence humanizes him in a way that he had learned to crave. You bandaged his knuckles, paid his bail, and never asked for more than he could give you.

He wants to give you everything.

But never at the risk of damaging you with his own brutality.

Sukuna waits until you’ve exhausted yourself crying into his chest. Yuuji accepts your weight when his twin passes you to him, nodding at the barely contained bloodlust on his face.

“Choso’s got eyes on him,” says Yuuji. “I’ll text you when Sleeping Beauty wakes up.”

Their eldest brother flicks his finished cigarette away when Sukuna approaches, gesturing at the packed bar across the street. “Megumi and Maki are taking bets over who’s going to be the one to hook the fish.”

“What are the odds on Maki?” asks Sukuna, voice bored and at ease. The only sign of his building rage is his fists buried in the pockets of his hoodie.

“Good enough that Megumi will be paying for most of my back piece.” Choso holds out a collapsable baton, only for Sukuna to shake his head. “Tsk. You’re the one who’s going to have to explain your fucked up knuckles.”

True to form, a grinning Maki leads your ex out of the bar by the hand. He’s a dead man walking, but he hasn’t quite figured it out yet.

Sukuna is happy to catch him up to speed in the alley behind the bar.

“If I ever see your face again…” He punctuates the threat with a kick to the man’s kidneys. “If I ever have to even hear your name again…”

He’s idly aware of Megumi and Choso arguing in the background, his twin’s boyfriend more than a little put out about how expensive Choso’s tattoo artist is.

Sukuna draws your ex up by his bloodied collar and shoves him against the wall. The fucker probably won’t remember any of this, but he’s going to make his point.

“Death will be a mercy too good for you. Understand?”

His answer comes in the form of blood and booze vomited on his shoes.

Sukuna showers the night off, wrapping his hands once they’re disinfected. You’ll scold him if he just lets them heal without anything.

Yuuji’s washed your face and swapped out your tear-stained shirt for one of Sukuna’s old band shirts. The neon horror printed on the fabric is comically contrasted with the peace you radiate in his bed.

You roll over when he climbs in next to you, arms reaching out to pull him closer.

Sukuna thinks you’re still sleeping, still lost in a hazy dreamscape as you nuzzle into his chest and trace your fingers over scars you’ve long since memorized.

“Thanks, ‘Kuna,” you mumble.

He might be the one dreaming when you kiss his chapped, split lips.

“You always protect me.”

tagging a few friends ilysm: @73sorcerer @bunnaccino @satorhime @xo2dee @abberant-butler @muertasanta

a/n: i got way too attached to this little AU so i might come back to it. lmk what characters y'all wanna see next and throw me an ask if you wanna get tagged!

[lavendertales]

Locked out of heaven: Chapter 1**

pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

summary: following another one of your intimate encounters with Javier, you begin to fear that your friendship is in grave danger when your feelings resurface.

word count: 3.7k

warnings: unprotected piv, cunnilingus, very soft!Javi.

AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS & MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!

gif: @darksber​ 

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3 

Come find me later.

When, exactly?

Midnight.

As per usual, Javier’s request was nothing if not succinct and straightforward. His tone was always charming and he’s more than sweet on you, even if you know he is that way with his other lady friends. You don’t mind it as you keep reinforcing into your brain the main idea behind the arrangement you and Javier have. It’s simple, yet efficient, and most importantly, it helps you both cope with whatever it is that you need.

Well, more him than you.

Many foolish and young years ago, you had expectations and hopes regarding you and Javier. And contrary to popular belief, time did not make it easier, as proven by your current struggles and mind battles. In all of the years you’ve known each other—oh God, has it really been over twenty years??—the intensity of your feelings hasn’t truly diminished. The care you have for Javier was always something persistently intense, almost debilitating, but eventually, those hopes and dreams have worn you out to the point where you fully embraced the idea of the two of you sharing nothing more but conversations and a friendly hug.

The truth is, you’ve always loved Javier. You loved him in ways even you could not fully comprehend, but you did. You still do, even now as you make your way to his apartment near midnight through a storm. It’s a love nowhere nearly as deadly as it felt when you were teenagers, but it lingers on, its harsh claws leaving prints upon your skin. You loved him when he told you he was getting married. You loved him when he ran away from said marriage and told you he was leaving to Colombia. It felt like such an injustice at the time to be separated, but you could not hold him back even if you wanted to. And you wanted to hold him close to you, so much so that you were ready to sink your teeth into his collar and drag him to you. But you let him go.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And somehow, Javier always returned to you.

He managed to get you a job in the forensics department with the American embassy, which meant you got to be near him again. Your heart rejoiced with happiness, almost dismissing the impending fear threatening to erupt from you at the thought of the war on drugs and its terrifying consequences. Through every hardship since then, seven years ago, you and Javier made it work and your friendship survived the worst.

When Javier suffered the big first defeat at work, he called you. You assumed the worst through your very own nature, so you bought a bottle of his favorite whiskey and went to his place, much like tonight. Except at the time, you had no clue about the events that were about to transpire.

You hadn’t expected to see him so disheveled, tipsy and exhausted all at once. You hadn’t expected his hand to graze your thigh, moving up and up and up until you were burning up with a desire you never allowed yourself to feel.

“Javi. What are you doing?”

You nearly pulled away, violently so. Nearly. But instead, you asked him breathlessly, mind clouded by the possibilities that gesture could bring along. Scared, Javier instantly retreated his hand, curling it into a fist. His face changed in an instant and you reckoned he was filled with anger and guilt, atop everything else he was bottling up.

“Javi, it’s okay,” you reassured him, thinking he was acting on a newly found masochistic instinct. “I just wanted to know what’s going on. You’ve never—done that with me.”

“I know, I’m—I just—I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I guess I—got caught up in the shit I do when I’m down and—I know this isn’t what you do. I’m sorry.”

That was the first time you learned about his private encounters with the women of Medellin. You recall the fear you saw in his eyes, the anger and the exhaustion eating him alive, everything imprinted on his face, textbook-clear. You recall feeling sorry for how overworked he was, stretched beyond the limitations of a normal-functioning human being. And the rest of the evening was equal parts clear and confusing.

You let him slide his tongue inside your mouth in a haste as if you would get caught, or as if the moment would disappear if he stopped even to just breathe. You trembled as you felt his hot and wet mouth pressed against yours, how insanely cozy and welcoming it felt. You let his hands remove your clothes after you had given him your consent; he removed them gently and carefully though his famine was savaging him. His fingers dug deep into your flesh, dipping straight into your pool of arousal. You were both surprised by how wet you were, and you felt shame. Love, lust, and shame.

You recall his lips kissing yours while his fingers slid inside you and made you cum twice in a row before he removed his own clothes and sheathed himself inside of you, grunts and moans filling the room. The closeness had been more than anything you could’ve imagined or hoped for.

After that night, although you grew to be significantly concerned about the status of your friendship, you boldly assumed things would escalate naturally for you and Javier. But the expectation only hurt you more once you realized that, while you were someone special to him, a relationship was the last thing on his mind. He had taken no commitment to you other than keeping you safe, so you were in the wrong. Yet again.

That was three years ago.

Tonight, it’s the same routine you have followed throughout the three years. Same neediness, no strings attached, just pleasure finding your naked and heated bodies. You expect nothing but what you are given. You would not make the same mistake again, and it has benefited you greatly. You have defined it as being friends with benefits and it has been beneficial—for the most part. You both got the relief you wanted, and you could still enjoy the perks of your friendship.

In the eyes of the unexperienced, it was the ideal arrangement.

You knock on his door twice. When there’s no answer, you let yourself in. You quickly scan the place for clues and notice the empty glass on the coffee table, the barely touched bottle of whiskey and sure enough, Javier’s silhouette crashed on the couch, half asleep. A smile breaks from your lips as you lean down and caress his hair softly, the other hand laying cautiously on his arm.

“Javi. Hey. It’s me.”

You gently nudge him and he wakes up slightly disoriented. When he sees you, his face lights up, exhaling at ease.

“How late is it?” he mumbles, getting up.

“Almost midnight.”

He now remembers he called you, asking you to meet him, and he feels embarrassed. Not only he was he using you, but he was also wasting your time. He feels a burning shame at the thought of breaking his promises towards you, using you and hurting you—

But he didn’t hurt you, did he? Or—you would’ve said something to him otherwise, wouldn’t you? You’ve been friends for far too long for sincerity to not be part of your connection.

“Come on,” you help him up. “Let’s get some sleep.”

“But—“

“No but’s. Neither theoretical nor physical.”

He chuckles and lets you guide him to the bedroom, watching mesmerized as you remove your jacket and curl up in bed, waiting for him. Your face inquires him, lacking verbal additions.

“Are you just gonna watch me sleep in your bed or—?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

He supposes it’s because he’s not a cuddling person. He used to do it sometimes with Lorraine, but since her, not really. Once sex was brought to completion, Javier’s body remained locked in its pre-determined in solitude.

But he does the same as you do and curls up in his own bed, right next to you, under the covers. His breaths are slow, yet his heart races, threatening to bust open from his chest. He’s facing you, admiring your features in silence. He studies every inch of your face, eyes locking with yours in a perfectly balanced moment of peace.

“Tough day?” you ask.

“It’s always a tough day.”

You smile empathetically, arm resting under your head. You sit there in that silence, soon dozing off.

In the middle of the night, an insane amount of softness is what causes you to wake up, ironically. Darkness blocks your view, but you feel it.

Arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you in. To your surprise, Javier practically sleeps with you, holding you close to his chest as a child holds their favorite plush toy, and you stifle a gasp. It’s domestic and pure, so much so that you’re convinced you’re dreaming for minutes on end until eventually, seeing his chest rise and drop with each breath he draws, you conclude that it is, in fact, real. The tenderness is cutting through you, making you yearn in ways you haven’t in many years. You imagine Javier is holding you on purpose, not because you’re just a random body next to his.

You like to think that you are not just another number on his list when it comes to intimacy.

You let out a soft gasp when one of Javier’s hands moves down to your nether region, caressing just above your most sensitive spot through the clothes. You try to move, but it does not work. When you check on him again, you see he’s sound asleep – either that, or he’s playing one hell of a part. You slither one hand to reach his chest and nudge him gently, hoping to wake him up, but it seems the movement only spurs him further, for his palm reaches further down. Your hips jerk forward, suddenly fueled by desire. Whether he’s intending to do that or not, whether he’s having a sex dream or not, you suddenly don’t care for an explanation. You just know you need him.

“Javi? J-Javi—“

You decide to turn forcefully and the motion wakes him up at last. He’s disoriented and confused when he remarks your body almost beneath him, his hands practically down your pants. Shame fills him up again, but it’s paired with an uncanny desire as well.

“I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t mean to do that,” he says, voice husky and slightly trembling.

“It’s—fine.”

You bite your lip, whimpering when he wants to move away. “Can you keep going?”

Even in the darkness, you recognize that Javier is stunned. He moves back up, towering over you, gulping.

“You want me to?” he checks.

“Yes. Please.”

He’s fully awake now, alright. He palms your clothed core in slow, dexterous motions and your mouth remains agape. You aid him—and yourself—by moving your hips against his palm, neediness growing.

“I got you, baby.”

Baby. Something breaks inside of you whenever he refers to you as baby, but you never have the guts to tell him to stop, especially not now. Your desire and love for him go deeper than anything else you ever felt and it might be selfish and cruel of you, but Javier does not seem to mind it either. He’s the one who started all of this.

His fingers slip past the waistband of your pants and move your underwear aside, drawing circles around your bundle of nerves, waking sensations in you that send you into an immediate frenzy.

“This what you wanted?” he asks.

“Mhm—“

Words are futile and nearly impossible with Javier’s fingers pumping inside you, pace as intimate as the moment itself. His voice is smooth and caring, setting you ablaze; you even feel like you’re spilling through your clothes, even if it’s just a theory, but you get wetter by the second.

“I like the sounds you make,” he teases. “So needy and sweet—I swear no one sounds like you do, baby—“

It hurts but it’s such a sweet pain you don’t bother dwelling on it. Javier’s fingers pump faster and your breaths synchronize with them. Heat blooms in your entire body and when you feel Javier’s warm breath on your face, you know you shouldn’t pull him in for a kiss. You know it would only hurt more, making you long even further, but you can’t help it. Your body burns for him all the time, and you have no control over yourself in this moment.

“F-Fuck—can you—can—oh—“

“What do you need? Tell me.”

Whimpers take over your vocal chords as Javier edges you to the point where you’re on the verge of tears from the stimulation.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he says, feeling his cock tent his pants. “Anything you want. Anything. Yours.”

“Not—anything—“

He doesn’t know what you mean and he’s not even sure he heard you correctly. All he knows is that right now he’s throbbing and that you’re begging and pleading for him and he’s getting close to spilling himself in his pants if he doesn’t do anything soon.

“I need to feel you—please—“

Javier grins, unbeknownst to you, but first, he wants to feel your walls tighten around his fingers. He needs to feel that first. He loves feeling you cum, knowing he’s the one who can get you feeling like that, your favorite person in the whole world.

So he indulges you; how can he not? You’re all soft and sweet, wet beneath him and he’s nearly imploding with each seconds that passes by without your body entangled around his. He slips out of his clothes, guiding the tip of his nearly weeping cock to your entrance and teasing you all the while.

“No, don’t—don’t tease—“you protest.

Javier grins again. He gently slips past your soaked lips, releasing a long exhale alongside you. You moan and huff, the feeling of his fullness stretching you out beyond the highest measures of passion and desire. He’s just as you’ve always felt him over the course of the past three years, yet each time you get together like this, bodies entangled with one another, him simply throbbing and aching inside of you, it feels like the very first time.

A fool is what you are. Even in the throes of passion, you feel foolish. You have allowed Javier to have you and know you in ways you swore you’d never, knowing this could only end in pain. You know he does not have the time, energy or the resistance to dedicate himself to someone. And if nothing had happened between you and him in the twenty years you’ve been each other’s friend, sex can only make it worse.

But oh God, it’s so hard to think of anything of the sort when Javier’s moving deep inside you, pushing in, then pulling out in hazy, half asleep motions that are sweeter than any nectar known to mankind. It’s not rough or fast or dirty like he’s used to; it’s soft and unrushed, comforting, sensual through its movements. Skin slaps against skin so gently that the only sound in the room are your moans and whimpers, tuning everything else out. Javier’s ragged breaths entangle with yours in a carnal waltz, lustful and greedy. He picks up the pace in the slightest, smiling whenever you writhe beneath him, bed quaking with each additional motion.

“S-so—good—“

He’s getting impatient and increasingly incoherent, and it builds in your belly. The movements, the sounds, the neediness for one another, though not romantic in essence, but simply comfortable, it all creates an explosive cocktail that stirs you, ready for detonation.

“Javi—Javiiii—“

Boom.

Ignition.

Your walls clench around his cock, the sensation of your warmth setting him off as well. It feels so good you might as well cry, but instead you close your eyes, mouth agape and let your body feel Javier completely as he ruins you from inside out. Words are futile, and so is any other noise. Truthfully, anything which does not resort to how fucking spectacular it all feels it simply pointless.

Nails barely scratching the surface of his heated skin, hands roaming restlessly on your hips and abdomen as he rides both your orgasms out, huffs and throated moans—all conspiring to take you to the top of the highest mountain of passion. It’s a perfect moment, if such a thing exists.

If only you could stop time, imagine that this is real and that it is just the two of you…

If only.

Javier hears you chuckle, exhaling at ease and now satisfied just as much, and he mirrors the gesture – unconsciously. He’s always done that through no fault of his own, or yours. The connection he shares with you has never been short of strength and mutual respect and he’s beyond grateful and at ease knowing that much needed connection was intact even with the lustful activities you had been engaged in.

It was only casual anyway.

When he pulls out, you feel incredibly lonely. You’re still somewhere between sleep and reality, but the desire you get reaches beyond that. You cup his cheeks and pull him in for a fiery kiss, remnants of the previous moment lingering on your mind and lips alike. It’s a kiss peppered with something more than just desire. Something that lingers, aches and burns all at once, begging to be released.

You bite down on Javier’s lip, thus preventing yourself from saying all of the things that run through your head. All of the things that you’ve been thinking about for the past two decades, things you longed to hear in return once you’d release them from within.

But you don’t. You don’t say anything. You simply kiss Javier, thinking he does the same in return not just because of the post-coital bliss. You like to think he kisses you so intimately because he feels the same, because he wants the same thing as you do.

Except you know he doesn’t.

“Everything alright?”

His voice, husky and coaxing, brings you back to reality, underneath him, in his bed, still his best friend and nothing else.

And again you ache.

“Yeah,” you whisper with a smile.

“You sure?”

“Javi—“

Again you start to wonder and hope, filling your head with endless what ifs that only hurt you more. You bite your lip and say nothing else.

But Javier is persistent and he is able to tell when his favorite person in the whole world has something on their mind.

“I can tell you’ve got something on your mind,” he says.

He moves lower, shifting so that his mouth is now peppering kisses on your inner thigh. You whimper, mouth open as protest, but nothing comes out except some soft huffs.

“You can talk to me, you know?” he teases, his furnace-like mouth inching closer to your most sensitive region.

“Mhm—���

“So? What are you thinking about?”

Nothing. Empty. Zero. All you can think about is how Javier’s calloused hand is pressing against your thigh, keeping you from squirming, how his lips press down there ever so gently and careful.

“I’m thinking a-bout—you—“

“Yeah?”

He grins. You know it, you feel it, and it’s driving you wild.

“What about me?”

He licks up your slit, as slow as he can, and you melt right there in his mouth. You gasp, fingers gripping his hair to guide him further into your cunt, trying to nearly bury him down there. Javier sure knows how to run his mouth.

“Just—just you—only you—“

You don’t have full control over your own words right now but it could not matter any less. His tongue darts into you, his thumb circling your clit all the while and his moustache tickling you. The combination is perhaps unexpected, but it is lethal in the end.

“G-God, how I—love—“

You stop right at the very last moment, afraid of letting anything out. Your fingers shamelessly move Javier’s by the tight grip on his hair, his movements sloppier and fuller with each passing second. It doesn’t take that long for you to feel your impending orgasm building up inside your belly; you’re still overly sensitive from the previous treatment and when it comes to Javier’s mouth, you cannot handle much of it without feeling like you are losing vital pieces of yourself.

You suppose you’ve always lost pieces of yourself whenever you were with Javier, whether you realized it or not.

When you cum again, you don’t shy away from being vocal and Javier adores that. He adores the sounds that you make, how simply beautiful you are when he’s sheathed inside of you, when he rocks your world and makes you climb the Everest equivalent of desire.

“That’s it, baby—that’s it, fucking great—“

You smear his face with your juices and Javier drinks from you like you’re the finest wine. It takes you a while to climb down from your high and when you see the outline of his face lingering above you, you pull him in for another kiss, getting a taste of yourself on his sinful lips. It’s a blend of your own arousal staining his skin, his musky scent, alcohol and blood nearly boiling in your nervous system.

You kiss him over and over and over again until you run out of breath because you’re afraid that if you stop, you’ll remember just how painfully in love you are with him and how it all came back after years of suppressed feelings.

I love you, you dare think.

I love you so fucking much.

I wish you’d love me this fucking much, too.

next 

[bunkerbucky]

Casual Sabotage *Bucky Barnes x Reader*

Reader is hit with sex pollen. Except she doesn't crave her boyfriend, Steve Rogers. No, it's his best friend, Bucky Barnes, that she wants inside of her. Bucky, in the beginning, is a good bro and refuses. But due to the fact she sucks his dick so good he kinda, sorta, loses that restraint and just fucks her regardless of who she belongs to.

Rating: Explicit [+18]

Warnings: Sex pollen= Dub-Con, Rough Sex, Rough blow-job, rough oral-sex, vaginal sex, praise kink, breeding kink, size kink- Bucky has a big dick in this lmao, choking and biting kink, infidelity; Reader cheats on Steve. 

TW: Dub-con- Reader is under sex pollen, so she actually cannot give consent and also because Bucky is so resistant in the beginning. It turns consensual on Bucky's part, he gives in to the temptation. But, obviously, reader is still influenced so... the lines are blurred.

Yourself and Bucky had searched the Hydra base from tippy-top to bottom. There was nothing out of the ordinary, which infuriated you a little. With the amount of recon work you both had to do, the long nights of watching the agents coming and going, you felt like you both deserved a small win, at least.

A long sigh escaped from your lips as Bucky's fingers typed furiously on the computers keyboard, a USB stick in hand just in case he found something exciting. Your arms were crossed over your chest, eyes scanning around the bases' security room, roaming the shelves and cabinets that held nothing of importance. A week of nothing, you wanted to cry.

"Hmm," Bucky low hum attracted your attention, "It says there's a basement to this building, we haven't checked that out." His steel eyes look over the screen and at you, you respond with a shrug of your shoulders. "We've got two hours before the cavalry arrives to pick us up, let's explore and see if we can obtain something to keep from Rogers from complainin'"

You giggle slightly at Bucky's comment, nodding in agreement with him. Steve would have a lot to say if you went back empty-handed, especially since he sent you both rather than himself. But you couldn't lie and say the thought of seeing Steve after so long didn't excite you. You had missed your boyfriend dearly, you weren't allowed on missions together since finally making things official. Work ethics and all that jazz.

Instead, you and Bucky had started to partner up, Steve didn't trust anyone but himself, and Bucky, to keep an eye out for you. Who better to watch over his best girl than his best friend, plus Bucky was your friend before you got with Steve.

"What if we go down there and there's a great, big monster waiting for us?" Sliding into the small elevator beside Barnes.

Bucky looked down at you with a raised eyebrow, "Then I'll be throwing you out as a distraction, so I can press the elevator door button to leave."

You both ended up laughing at his response, although when the doors finally did open and reveal a darkened basement layer... there was a moment of silence, you both side-eyeing one another at the lack of sound and movement.

Bucky stepped off first and the automatic lighting triggered him to pull his gun from its holster, his reflexes sharp and fast. You step off and follow Bucky down the hall towards double doors, the room through those doors was abandoned and huge. Desks with old computers, all smashed and out of use. Stacks of files and paper scattered on desks and the floor. Despite the mess, it all looks really promising, there had to be something amongst the chaos.

You both separate to cover more ground, you only had a limited time before you had to leave. You looked through paper and files, shuffling through stacks of meaningless bullshit. Hydra certainly kept a record of everything, including all the worthless crap. You wondered if they actually printed this stuff to lead you guys on wild goose chases like this, to make sure you were distracted with searching for something important amongst all their bullshit.

You ended up in the far back of the room, a small desk area had random empty vials littered across it. Files labelled in Russian, that you couldn't translate very well.

"Hey, Buck," You called over your shoulder as you lifted an empty vial, a cork tightly shoved in the top; curious. "Think I might've found something."

The vial itself was black, not black liquid, the vial was just black. It didn't feel weighted, it didn't feel like anything was moving inside of it. So, curiosity got the best of you because you yanked the cork off the vial. Black smoke puffed out and into your face causing you to inhale and go into a coughing fit. Waving your arms in front of your face, coughing at the inhalation of whatever was inside that vial.

It smelt like... old leather, peppermint toothpaste and...something else, like a deep musk. Odd.

"Hey, are you okay?" Bucky suddenly appeared at your side, a hand placed on your back and eyeing you with concern. He then grabbed the vial from your hand, it was clear and no longer black. "What happened?"

Your coughing had subsided, you felt fine. "I think there was some kind of smoke or whatever in there, I don't know. The black stuff just burst out, I was stupid-"

"Damn, right." Bucky looked mad, which was a given. "Hydra is known for making gas poisons, Y/N. That was a rookie move, never open strange vials." He didn't sound too mad at you, a little more concerned and worried.

You nodded, frowning when feeling the back of your neck sweating. You felt... hot. A sweat was taking over your body, your mouth was getting dry and your mind was going fuzzy. Bucky hadn't noticed, his eyes cast down to the Russian files on the desk, his hand flipping through the old pages and taking the information in with wide eyes. You briefly wondered if whatever is written in that file had anything to do with that vial.

"Fuck," Bucky muttered.

"What?" Your throat was scratchy, your breathing was becoming laboured and your palms were sweaty.

You didn't feel hot, though. You didn't feel sick either.

"Well, I'm guessing whatever was in that vial was... to put it plainly, sex pollen. It makes the patient unable to think of anything but sex, all they want and all they feel is lust. It's basically either used to breed or on prisoners- the pain of not getting off thoroughly enough can lead to the patient taking extreme measures: death." He shakes his head, you don't notice the horrified look In his eyes at the thought of maybe it being used on him when under Hydra's control. "You're likely fine, though."

"I wouldn't be so sure," You managed to gasp out, your thighs squeezing together and eyes closed, you wanted to feel embarrassed but you couldn't. "My head is spinning and, fuck, I need to get this off. I feel too hot, I'm burnin' up." Clawing at the collar of your own tact suit, your hands were shaking and you couldn't bring yourself to look at Bucky.

You wanted to look at him though. You knew he was standing close to you because you could smell him, he smelt like the black smoke did. He smelt delicious, intoxicating in the best way. God, you wanted him so badly. You needed him.

"It's going to be okay, Y/N. I promise, we'll get you back to Steve and he can-"

You shook your head and finally pulled the zipper down of your jacket, shrugging the bulletproof material off your shoulders.

"Need you." You managed to mumble out, lifting your gaze to Bucky, who was frowning and shaking his head. "Please, Buck. I need you! I can feel my skin crawling and-I'm in so much pain, please." Your voice a mix between a whine and beg.

"I can't- you're not thinking properly. Steve will be here soon and he can help you, he's your boyfriend, remember?"

You pulled the black, tight sleeved henley from your body and let it drop to the floor, it covered in sweat. You're standing in a sports bra and tact pants, chest heaving as you try to intake gulps of oxygen from your panting. Even with half your clothes off you still felt sweat bead and drip down your skin.

"I can't wait that long," You sniffled but no tears forming. "Please, I want you-I've always wanted you. You read the file, I'm going to die!"

Bucky continued to shake his head. "I won't do that Steve. It says that it took a couple of hours till that point, Steve'll be here soon and I'll explain to him what happened."

You groaned painfully, shaking your own head now. Not understanding why he couldn't just help you now. You were in immense pain and the throbbing heat in your core wasn't letting up.

You didn't want Steve to help you. You didn't need Steve to help you, it wasn't just because he wasn't here. You wanted Bucky. The smell of him, the heat radiating off his body when it was close to yours. You craved for him to touch you, to fuck you. You were sure the moment he touched you that the pain would ease, the flames that were consuming you would simmer down.

And you were certain that he wanted you too.

Taking the initiative you moved closer to Bucky, the short hairs on the back of your neck were drenched in sweat, you could feel it drip down your back. You placed a hand softly on his metal arm, the cool vibranium instantly cooling you down. Bucky let out a shaky breath and looked at you, eyebrows furrowing together as he took in your features. You were sure you could see the fight in his eyes, he wanted to help you. To touch you.

It was frustrating that he wasn't giving in. That he wasn't falling to his desires.

"I won't tell Steve, I promise." You whispered and pressed a kiss to his collar, inhaling his scent and shuddering when it filled your senses. He wasn't pushing you away, but he also wasn't giving in to touching you back. "It can be our little secret. I know you'll make me feel really good, he won't be able to help me like you can."

Her other hand trailed down his chest and stopped at his belt, Bucky was too busy telling her everything he had already been saying. Telling you how you love Steve and Steve loves you. It would break Steve's heart if he found out about this talk from you if he knew what you were saying to Buck. You didn't care, not right now anyway. You had always found Bucky attractive and before getting with Steve you had entertained the thought of Bucky, but he was just getting back his life. A relationship seemed too much for him, well that's what you thought.

You didn't settle for Steve, that was never the case. You love Steve, you know that. But, right now, here with Bucky, you knew that he'd be able to help you with this- more than Steve could. Steve was a peaceful lover, an attentive one. You needed this illness fucked out of you- at least, that's what your hazy brain was telling you.

Your hand slipped under his belt, a wide grin taking over your face at Bucky's shock, words choking out as you wrapped a hand around his dick. A sense of pride coming over you as he began to get hard in your hand, a few quick jerks as started to undo his pants with your free hand. Bucky was stunned into silence and compliance, unable to stop you just from the fact he hadn't been touched like this in a while.

He came to his senses when you noticed you get to your knees, his pants undone and pulled down his muscular thighs. Bucky slapped your hands away and tries to pull his pants back up, but you were putting up quite the fight. You roughly pushed him back, he ended up falling to the ground due to his pants restricting his movements. In the moments he fell down and was trying to figure out what happened, you had pulled down his boxers and gulped dryly at his semi-hard length.

"You're so big," You mumbled before wrapping your lips around the tip, a loud groan echoed through the room from Bucky.

You could feel him growing inside of your mouth as you tried to take more of him down, slobbering up his dick and licking around the shaft. Pulling off to run your tongue around the veins and down to his balls, gently suckling them into your mouth as you jerked his length till it was fully standing erect. You smirked to yourself at all of the noises Bucky was making, a hand being placed on your hair- which normally you hated Steve's hand in your hair, but you'd allow Bucky this time.

"Fuck my throat," spit was around your mouth and down your chin, "fuck my throat with your big cock."

Bucky's eyes were wide and lust-filled, there was still a hesitancy from him. A dilemma going on in that head of his, so you wrapped your lips around his cock again and started to slowly take him down. He was bigger than Steve, so much bigger, but that only spurred you on. You wanted him to roughly fuck your throat, you wanted to feel him at the back of your throat even after this.

You felt both his hands on your head... he started to push your head further down, the tip hit the back of your throat and you still hadn't taken all of him. He started to ease past your limitations, your eyes filled with tears as he stuffed your mouth impossibly full. Your lips stretched wide around his girth, he could feel your throat constrict around him and the slight gag you couldn't help because of how far he was down your throat.

"Fuck, so good." Bucky groaned lowly, eyes completely black and bottom lip trapped between his teeth. You knew your panties were soaking, a slickness collecting on your thighs as you rubbed them together, the flimsy material of your underwear was sticking to you and making you rub yourself just to alleviate the friction. "I'll deal with your pussy in second, right now I'm going to fill this hole up."

It was like Bucky snapped, the trepidation he was feeling before was long gone. It was now replaced with this new Bucky, and you loved him.

He wasn't merciful when he started to thrust in and out of your mouth, his balls were slapping against your chin harshly. The grip in your hair was harsh as he pushed and pulled your head to meet his hard thrusts, your eyes rolled into the back of your skull as he basically skull fucked you. Loud gagging sounds, your throat squeezing his cock as you fought for air, he only eased up when you looked like you were going to pass out. It was seconded worth of air before he repeated his onslaught, spit and cum was dribbling down your chin and onto your chest and sportsbra. Bucky kept his eyes on you, it made you shiver how he was looking at you.

Bucky didn't warn you when he was about to cum, instead, he held your head down, almost shoving his entire cock down your throat as loads of his cum spurted out and shot straight down your throat into your tummy. You hardly tasted his cum because of how far he was down your throat. He groaned as he came, swallowing thrusting his hips into your mouth as he milked his orgasm. He pulled you off his cock, it was still hard, thankfully.

He helped pull you to your feet then undressed you, roughly pulling the sports bra off your chest and yanking your pants down your legs. He ripped your panties to shreds and let the tattered pieces fall to the floor, his hungry gaze took in your shaking, naked form. Your thighs were glistening from your arousal and it was still leaking from your pussy, hardly any attention to it made you needy and wishing to be stuffed full.

"Turn around." The authority in his voice made you shiver.

You turned around and felt Bucky place a hand on your shoulder, bending you over the desk where you found the vial. The pieces of paper clinging to your sweaty skin and making you keen into his touch more. He kicked your feet further apart, a hand tickling the insides of your thighs and collecting your sweet juices. Expecting to feel fingers prodding around your entrance, instead, you felt a firm tongue lick from clit to fluttering hole, it dipping inside and collecting the juices wanting to leak out of you.

Your mouth fell open into a silent scream, his tongue was exploring so far into your pussy, his hands gripped your cheeks apart so he could push further inside of you. Tongue fucking you so roughly and expertly, your eyes almost went crossed out from the feeling. You didn't know you could be tongue fucked this good, but Bucky just lived to prove you wrong. The slurping sounds and moans from the man behind you, he lifted and bent your knee to rest on the table; opening you up further for his trained tongue.

"You're gonna have to let me have a taste of this everyday from now on, baby." Bucky groaned against your pussy, mouth closing around your clit as he sucked harshly, your mouths drowning out his own. "Taste so good," the tip of his tongue running figure eights on your engorged clit.

Bucky must've stayed between your legs for minutes, but it felt like hours. He pulled two back-to-back orgasms from you, only using his tongue. When he was done eating your pussy, he stood up and draped himself over your back, an arm wrapping around your neck as he breathed heavily into your ear. You could feel his cock nudge up against your pussy, sliding and coating himself in your juices.

"You ready for me?" You whined your response, trying to push yourself back against him but his arm tightened around your throat- not restricting your airflow. "Think your little pussy can take my dick, dolly?" You nodded in a rush, needing it inside of you otherwise you was going to die. "I've got you," The tip nudges against your entrance and began to push inside, the stretch was painful but welcoming. "Daddy's got you."

Your pussy fluttered around his length, the more he pushed his thick length in the more you moaned. He wasn't even half-way in when you started to babble about how he was too big for you, how he wouldn't fit inside of you. That only made Bucky want to prove you wrong, want to prove that you were made to take him. He started to thrust shallowly, rocking his length in and out of you, impaling you on him more whenever he pushed forward.

Once he was fully sheathed inside of you, he stopped and remained inside of your tight, heat for a moment. Relishing in the way you were split open around his cock, your walls were spasming around him and he was having a hard time not cumming on the spot. You felt so tight, so warm and wet around him, suddenly envious that Steve got to have you all the time. But he was planning on ruining you, to make sure the next time you fucked Steve it wouldn't feel as good.

He was going to fuck you so hard, so deep that you'd be wishing Steve was this big.

"Hang on, baby." That was the only warning you got.

Bucky started to pummel inside of you, his thrusts were hard and fast, his cock was kissing your cervix. You really could only just lay there and take it, your mouth open as moans were ripped from you, eyes rolling back as he kept impaling his girth inside of you. He was hitting spots so deep you knew you'd be feeling him for days afterwards, you'd be walking with limp and sore, it was worth it.

The way he was fucking you, it was as if he had something to prove.

The sound of skin slapping skin, his grunts and groans right beside your ear. His arm around your neck, clenching and cutting your airflow off at times, had you cumming within seconds and he still didn't let up. He didn't stop and fucked you through your third orgasm.

Your mind was starting to come down from the pollen, the pain and fever you were feeling had gone. Replaced now with pleasure and pain, a mix you didn't think you were into but now couldn't get enough of. All you could think and feel was Bucky Barnes. This was no longer the effects of the pollen anymore, this was pure you and riding on the afterglow of Bucky fucking you like you needed.

"Harder." You mumbled through heavy pants, tilting your head to look at him over your shoulder.

A smirk crossed his features, metal arm holding your hip in a bruising grip. Complying with your order and snapping his hips hard into your heat, grinding his hips against yours before pulling back out and repeating. It causes your back to arch, pressing your pussy back against his thrusts with little mewls leaving your lips.

"Kiss me." You plead breathlessly.

Bucky doesn't falter with that demand either. Draping himself over your body again and pressing his plump lips against yours, the kiss is far more gentle than his thrusts, but it still has you moaning against him. He was kissing you like you was fragile, yet fucking you like you were some kind of sex toy that he was using just to jerk off into. It was making your head spin and your pussy needy for more.

"You gonna come again?" Bucky chuckled against your ear, you nodded sharply and cried in pleasure when he bit your shoulder, cumming on the spot when his teeth dug into your flesh. "Mm'good girl." He mumbled as he licked at the tender spot, you could feel his hips stuttering their pace.

"Cum in me." You grinned and he cursed lowly, eyes squeezing shut. "Want you to fill me up, daddy. Fuckin' fuck a baby into me, fill me up."

The arm around your neck was pulled away, hand splaying across your back as he started to thrust into you in tight, fast and hard thrusts. Using your body to seek his own pleasure now, you were biting your lip at the thought of him filling you up. Not even caring if he actually did knock you up, you needed his cum inside of you.

Bucky found his end after a few careful thrusts, warm ropes of his seed filling you up and then some, he filled you up so much that it started to seep out around his cock. He groaned at the mess he made inside of you, he carefully pulled out of your abused cunt to see your hole clenching, trying to keep his creamy load inside of yourself. He had to look away because if he kept staring he'd get hard again, he didn't think you could take another round or load.

You remained bent over the desk and trying to catch your breath, his human hand was rubbing comforting circles on your back. Before you or Bucky could say something a buzzing sound captured both of your attention, it was coming from Bucky's pant pocket. He left you to retrieve his phone, eyes scanning over the device for a moment before he looked at you.

"Steve is waiting at the extraction point for us," You nodded mutely and you both got dressed in mutual silence.

He helped you to look presentable, ignoring the fingerprint bruise on your hip and the obvious bite mark on your shoulder. You were unsure how to explain any of that to Steve, you were also unsure how to explain what happened to Bucky. Obviously, you had still had those feelings for him, right? Otherwise, you would have been able to wait for Steve, it was like all sense of self-control had left you and only Bucky remained in your mind.

As you both left the base in awkward silence, treking the five miles towards the extraction zone, you wondered if you would have craved for Bucky if you was with Steve. If after all this time it was Bucky and not Steve you wanted.

All you knew was that Bucky had ruined you. You could still feel the impression of him inside of you, the way he had so deliciously stretched you open and impaled you on him. The way he had roughly fucked your throat like it was nothing but a hole to get off into. He had fucked you, in more ways than one.

(Please, let me know what you think! I’m also taking requests too! Honestly, kinda wanna write a part 2 where Reader tries to have sex with Steve but fakes her orgasm just to go to Bucky... I’m a bad person, I just think Bucky would be better than Steve tbh lol~ Lilith)

[cheer-deforest-kelley]

This is the amazing day I met DeForest Kelley on the set of Star Trek V: The Final Frontier.

My boss was friends with a woman who worked on a few of the Star Trek movies. He introduced us and told her of my love for DeForest and she invited me to the set when De was filming.

I could not take photos as it was a closed set, but it didn’t matter as everything I saw was burned into my soul.

In late December 1988, I drove through the gates of Paramount Studios and parked right by the Star Trek Production trailer (Trailer 12). My head spun as I walked inside and was surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the making of a Star Trek movie. While sitting in my friend’s office, a voice on the walkie-talkie said that Bill and De were in their dressing rooms. My head exploded.

My friend walked me to the stage that was the Enterprise bridge and I got to sit in Captain Kirk’s chair (my feet didn’t touch the ground—literally and figuratively). I saw Director’s chairs with the names William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy and DeForest Kelley embroidered on the backs. I would have loved to sit in De’s chair, but all I could do was touch the arm as we walked by.

The Stage Manager told us that Bill was on the New York street set, so we left the stage and walked to an outside set with a high stage. When we arrived, Bill was being strapped into a harness (which fit around his torso, waist and crotch and which would allow him to be lifted into the air). His legs were bare and very white (he was wearing gym shorts). He was making jokes and talking in a very high pitched voice as they tightened the straps around his nether region.

I forgot all about Bill when I heard a voice on a walkie-talkie say that De was stepping out of his trailer and would arrive in a moment. My heart started pounding and I started feeling very warm (it was 49 degrees outside— which by the way, is considered freezing for Southern California). I turned around and saw DeForest Kelley ambling towards me. He was wearing dark blue jeans, a dark green sweatshirt, a light blue jean jacket with a fleece collar, black cowboy boots and a multicolored scarf around his neck.

Tears welled up in my eyes. De said hello to a few people, hugged my friend and she then walked him over to me. She told him my name and said where I worked. De shook my hand for a very long time (eventually just holding my hand rather than shaking it) and called me a spy because I worked at different studio than Paramount. He commented on how cold it was and lifted his sweatshirt up to his chin to show us a fleece-lined shirt that a fan from Seattle made him. He was very charming and chatty; I said a few sentences but was mostly mute (just call me Gem).

After a few minutes, he said it was great to meet me, shook my hand again and went to talk to Bill (who was now wearing sweatpants with yellow stripes and a blue uniform tunic that was unlike their usual uniforms). They talked for a while, laughed a lot and then hugged goodbye. Bill (being the Director) had to leave to watch a previously filmed scene— he was driven away. Suddenly all the commotion on the set just stopped and much of the crew left, however De stayed.

He came over to talk to us again (OMG!!) and said “It’s always hurry up and wait.” I responded “That’s showbiz.” He laughed (thank God) and said “That’s right, you know it!” I found my voice this time when he asked about my job. We talked for at least 10 minutes— discussing the cold weather again, his being a little sad that production on the film was almost done (You’re sad De? Let me hug and console you.) and what we were respectively doing for New Year’s Eve. For De, it was was “Absolutely nothing except kiss my wife before midnight since we don’t stay up that late.”

A man holding a humungous binder came over and said he needed De. De said “Bye now” and left (sob!!). Of course I kept my eyes glued on him. After he conversed with the binder guy, he talked to some crew members, but when they left, he stood alone for about 5 minutes, during which he smoked two cigarettes (he had a very nice lighter). He looked around and found a random Director’s chair and plunked down in it (he first pounded the chair with his fist, to make sure it was sturdy-- it was an old looking chair).

Bill was gone for over an hour (lucky me). I was free to wander around the set, but I mostly stayed close and kept an eye on De; he talked to the crew, left once (potty break?), read a magazine and smoked-- sad to say he constantly smoked. He once looked over at me and gave me a big smile.

When Bill returned, they were ready to film the scene when Kirk falls from Yosemite’s El Capitan and McCoy berates him. There was a publicity photographer taking pictures of everything, including this scene (which happened to be printed in a magazine and is my first picture posted here).

The Assistant Director called for De, who stood up and unbuttoned his jacket. A woman appeared and De closed his eyes as she touched up his make-up and combed his hair (I wanted to comb his soft hair). Two big burly men then lifted De (by his outstretched arms and butt) onto the elevated stage; they lifted him so high and hard, he literally flew into the air before landing on the stage on one foot-- he caught his balance and then turned back to them laughing with his eyes wide. They both laughed nervously and said “Sorry De.”  He told them they were very strong.

On the stage was the bottom part of El Capitan made out of fiberglass. At the time, not knowing anything about the story, it just looked like a huge rock surrounded by dirt, boulders and trees. There were screens surrounding the stage that looked like blue sky with clouds.

They connected wires to Bill’s body harness. He was lifted just off the ground and then quickly hung upside down where he swung around loosely. De came over and bent down with his face very close to the upside down Bill and they spoke quietly between themselves; De then stepped back and Bill called “Action!” Kirk said “Hi Bones, mind if we drop in for dinner?” and laughed like he was a little drunk. De took a step forward, bent down and McCoy started yelling at the slightly twirling Kirk. Kirk patted McCoy’s ears and squeezed his cheeks, laughing and making little noises. They quickly filmed the scene twice. The first time went fine, but the second time, they both began laughing and De said to the upside down Bill, “Kiss me.” They quickly kissed on the lips (I know, I know!!) and the entire crew cracked up. Bill called “Cut!” and someone else yelled “Lunch—45 minutes.” De said goodbye to the crew, got into a car, lit a cigarette and was driven away.

I had to get back to work. I walked (floated actually) to my car and drove out of the studio gate, ecstatic that one of my wildest dreams had come true.

A month later, my friend gave me my very own Final Frontier cast & crew jacket (similar to the one McCoy wore in the campfire scene), a photo of the cast & crew (Leonard’s and De’s smiles are absolutely adorable), some Star Trek notecards and a cast publicity photo.

Sorry this is so long. It’s taken from a note I typed up when I got back the the office that day. I didn’t want to forget a thing.

[flourgirl]

Sick of Losing Soulmates

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: Months after you and Peter have broken up, you run into each other at Harry’s Christmas party.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Both fluffy and angsty. Mentions of alcohol and sex. A mild amount of curse words.

A/N: I’m ALIVE! I hope you all are having a wonderful holiday season, and Merry Christmas to everybody that celebrates it! I am so happy to be able to share my work with all of you! Enjoy <3

“And maybe we got lost in translation Maybe I asked for too much But maybe this thing was a masterpiece Till you tore it all up” -All Too Well, Taylor Swift

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Harry had promised you that his roommate would be spending the holidays with May back in Queens. But here he was, wearing the sweater that you had given him last year with his arm snaked around another girl’s waist.

“Hey!” Betty grinned, throwing her arms around you. She had a half-empty glass of mulled wine that you could tell was doing a good job of getting her tipsy. “I’ve missed you so much, Y/N. We never see each other anymore.”

She pouted, a pair of reindeer antlers where her signature black headband usually sat. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” you assured her, still staring at Peter effortlessly carrying the conversation with a bunch of people you didn’t recognize. “Uh, who’s the girl with Peter?”

“Gwen Stacy,” she muttered, obviously not a very big fan. You figured it was because there was only room for one preppy blonde girl, and Betty didn’t feel like sharing that position with anybody else. “Don’t worry though! It’s nothing serious. Peter actually hasn’t really dated anybody ever since the two of you…”

Her voice trailed off as you locked eyes with her, silently communicating for her to drop the subject. It was a relief to know that he hadn’t moved on, but the fact that he was wrapped up in a fling with somebody else still made your heart hurt.

“Come on, Y/N. I’m sure MJ and Ned would love to see you! They’re over in the kitchen.” She reached for your hand, dragging you along through Harry’s expertly decorated apartment. 

You dropped the box of cookies that you had baked on the counter before tapping MJ on the shoulder. She was turned away from you, lecturing Ned on why his secondhand Beyblades were not acceptable Christmas presents.

“Who the hell is touching me?” she snapped, turning around with a look on her face that told you she was ready to throw hands. “Holy fuck. Y/N! How long have you been here?”

MJ’s frown faded into a smile as she pulled you into a side-hug, her other hand busy nursing a glass of Harry’s infamously terrible eggnog. “Only a few minutes,” you laughed, your face smushed into her torso. 

“Hi,” Ned piped up, offering a small wave. You could tell he didn’t really know where he stood ever since his best friend basically ripped your heart out and threw it on the floor. Well, it wasn’t actually that dramatic, but he had a flair for exaggerating stories. “Remember me?”

“Of course, stupid,” you grinned, offering a fist bump that he happily accepted. “How could I forget those iconic fits of yours?”

“True,” he said, popping his collar and doing a little twirl that made Betty and MJ roll their eyes. “You look pretty fly too, though.”

“Thanks,” you replied, holding the edge of your dress as you curtsied, something you and Ned had made a habit of doing as the so-called best dressed members of the group.

“You two are just as ridiculous as ever,” Betty mused, happy to see you still fit in just as perfectly as when you were Peter’s girlfriend, even if you weren’t around as much.

The reunion was interrupted by the loud chatter of a certain couple, and your heart sank as you watched a very drunk Peter and Gwen stumble towards the kitchen, a giggling mess. They situated themselves under the archway that separated the two rooms, a piece of mistletoe conveniently hanging above them. 

You could tell that MJ was ready to put a stop to her friend’s embarrassing behavior, and the looks on Ned and Betty’s faces told you that they had no intentions of holding her back. 

“They’re so gross,” MJ complained, setting down her untouched cup before excusing herself to drag Peter out of his drunken makeout session. “I can’t believe he’d do that when you’re right here!”

“Wait, MJ,” you blurted, grabbing onto her wrist to stop her. She turned to face you, her eyebrows furrowed. “It’s okay. I don’t care about it. I’m just going to head to the bathroom, alright? I’ll be right back.”

You did your best to stop yourself from tearing up, although you realized you had made the utter mistake of forgetting that the very arch that Peter and Gwen were sucking each other’s faces under was the only way out of the kitchen.

Not even a few moments of you awkwardly standing next to them, occasionally clearing your throat, made them notice you. Eventually, the discomfort grew too heavy, and you tapped Peter on the shoulder. He finally pulled away from Gwen, her lipstick smudged across his mouth and a dazed look on his face.

Gwen whimpered at the loss of his kiss, obviously annoyed at the random girl that had just interrupted them. As soon as Peter recognized that it was you, he stepped away from her, wiping his mouth and fixing the hair she had been running her hands through, just like you used to.

“Y/N. I didn’t know that you’d be here,” he reasoned, a blush spreading across his face as a sense of regret settled into his stomach. 

“Obviously,” you sighed. This wasn’t the Peter you knew—the sweet, shy one that you had fallen in love with. “You guys are blocking the hallway, by the way.”

“Shit, sorry,” he stammered, stepping aside to allow you to pass in between them. He followed you, leaving Gwen irritated and confused as to who you were. “Y/N. Can we talk later?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Nice sweater, though,” you quipped, not even turning back to meet his gaze before climbing the stairs towards the guest bathroom. Everything felt all too familiar, memories of you and Peter stumbling up the same steps after a date flooding your brain.

The first time Peter had kissed you was after MJ’s birthday party. Neither of you had been drinking, since you hated alcohol and Peter refused to touch any before he turned 21. This meant that you got to spend the whole night laughing at everybody else’s drunken mischief. 

In the middle of his performance of some Nicki Minaj song, Ned managed to spill a whole can of beer on you and Peter, which resulted in many cheers as the two of you ran to his room to grab a change of clothes. Shirts came off, confessions were made, and the party went on without you guys.

You took a deep breath, shutting the bathroom door behind you and sitting on the edge of the bathtub. If you had known Peter would end up being here, you would have never accepted Harry’s invitation. There were so many old wounds being opened up that you had spent months trying to heal, and you weren’t sure some stupid Christmas party was worth it. 

But you didn’t want to leave. It wasn’t fair how much the break up had stolen from you. All of your friends were here and you were tired of shying away from going out with them anymore because you were too scared to see Peter. Too scared that you would never be able to stop being in love with him.

By the time you rejoined the rest of your friends, Harry was announcing that it was time to start the game of White Elephant. You bit the edges of your fingernails as the party guests filed into Harry’s living room, hoping that Peter wouldn’t somehow pick your present.

“What’d you bring?” you asked Betty, squishing in next to her on the couch. 

“Gift card to In-N-Out,” she giggled, satisfied that her present could only be used on the other side of the country. “But Harry’s rich friends might not have any trouble flying their private jets to California, so maybe I’m not as clever as I thought.”

“Heard that,” Harry said, leaning behind you on the edge of the couch. He placed a quick kiss on your cheek, something the two of you had always done as friends but stopped once you started dating Peter. “Hey, Y/N. Glad you could make it.”

“Hey, you,” you replied, smiling back at him, your leg bouncing impatiently. “We doing this thing or what?”

“Yeah, yeah, give me a minute,” he laughed, running out of the room. Moments later, he came back wearing a fake beard and a Santa hat, complete with a miniature sack of toys. 

“Alright, boys and girls. Let’s get this game started! Hopefully you all know the rules, but I’ll repeat them anyway. I draw a name out of the sack, you pick a random present and open it up for everybody to see. The next person that goes can either steal your gift or pick a new one. If your gift gets stolen, you get to do the same. No stealing twice!”

The first couple of people you didn’t really know, and they had all pulled presents that were relatively uninteresting. A scented candle, toilet paper, a pair of socks. Nothing you really considered worth stealing, although Ned ended up taking a framed, autographed photo of Harry from MJ, which resulted in her stealing Gwen’s mini waffle iron.

By the time it was your turn, there weren’t many gifts left. Going with your gut, you grabbed the bag covered in glittering polar bears. Reaching past all of the tissue paper stuffed inside, you pulled out a red sweatshirt that you unfolded to see had a large graphic of Spider-Man printed on it. 

“Oh,” you said, a little confused. The only people you knew that wore stuff with the Avengers on it were little kids, but you figured that was part of the joke. “I mean, I prefer Captain America, but thanks, whoever this is from!”

Peter’s face blushed to a shade of red, amazed that out of all the presents, you picked his. The only issue was that you didn’t know that he was actually the guy on the front of it. Nobody except Ned knew, although he was sure that MJ and Harry had caught on to his secret identity by now.

“Okay, two people left. Jake, you’re up next, buddy,” Harry called out, happily bouncing around the room, his Santa hat now replaced with a baseball cap that had “I Love Ned!” embroidered on it. You watched nervously as he walked around the room, eyeing up all of the presents before settling on the tiny, golden box that you had placed under the tree when you first arrived.

“Let’s see what we’re working with,” he smirked. Your thoughts raced, immediately feeling a sense of regret over the gift you had picked. “Oh, shit. Sweet! I’ve got a date with Y/N!”

“Sup, baby,” Jake continued, his words slightly slurred. He pointed at you and winked, and you offered him a polite smile in return. “We’re gonna have a good time. Just name the time and place and I got you.”

“Awesome, congrats, man,” Harry said, obviously ready for the game to be over. It had been going for way longer than any of you had expected, mostly due to the fact that two girls wouldn’t stop arguing over a piece of rose quartz. “Okay, we’re nearly finished, guys. Peter, you’re up. Pick any of the gifts that haven’t been stolen yet, or the last one under the tree.”

You locked eyes with him, a familiar scowl on his face that told you he was thinking really hard about which gift to pick. His spidey-senses felt your heartbeat pick up as he walked around the room before stopping in front of Jake, who was busy gloating to his friend about how “hot” you were. Your face heated up as you watched Peter take the little note that you had written out of Jake’s hands, smugly gesturing for him to pick up the present under the tree.

He waved sheepishly at you, and you felt both relieved and angry at his decision. Did you want to go on that date with Jake? No. Were you still mad that, technically, you now had to go out with your ex-boyfriend? Yes.

The game ended and the party-goers dispersed throughout the apartment. You lingered in your spot on the couch, your arms crossed and heart full of mixed emotions. Peter, whose gaze never strayed from you, walked over to where you were sitting.

“We don’t actually have to go out,” he whispered, hoping that you’d actually look at him this time. “I just didn’t think you wanted to go out with that guy. He seemed like kind of an asshole.”

“Yeah, well, it would have been nice if you let me decide that. You’re not my boyfriend, anymore Peter. We aren’t even friends. You don’t get a say in who I go out on dates with,” you grumbled, your eyes focusing on everything in the room except for him.

Before you could say anything else, Peter had already grabbed you by the hand, dragging you away from the rest of the party. Strangely enough, you went along with it, a little curious to hear him out.

You started to remember your first date, and it was almost like you could hear his excited laughter after you finally managed to knock a pin down. It became a tradition that whenever you had something to celebrate, Peter would pick you up and twirl you around until you had to beg him to stop.

Your thoughts were interrupted by Peter slamming the door behind him and cornering you against it, his heartbeat racing. He had pulled you into the laundry room. “I can’t stand seeing you with anybody else,” he panted, eyes flickering down towards your mouth.

His hand pushed a piece of your hair behind your ear, and your breath hitched as you felt his rough fingertips against your skin. But before he could lean in to kiss you, you were ducking underneath his arm and backing away.

“Peter, we really shouldn’t,” you whispered, watching the disappointment wash over his face. No matter how much you wanted to kiss him, you just couldn't forget how he had broken your heart months ago. “It’s over, okay?”

“Y/N, please. I—”

“You what? You love me? Because last time we were together, I told you how much I loved you and you said that we should break up. Remember?” you cried, embarrassed at how you couldn’t control your emotions anymore. “You’re just… you’re too late.”

You fumbled with the door, slipping through the opening before rushing towards the balcony. As soon as the cold air hit you, a wave of relief washed over your body, and you laid your head against the metal railing. Your breathing slowed and time seemed to stand still as you watched the snowflakes flutter through the wind.

“Peter’s an idiot,” you heard a voice call out from behind you. You turned to see Harry holding an extra coat in his arms, and you started to wonder just how long you had been standing out there. He draped it over your shoulders before leaning next to you against the balcony’s edge.

“Huh?” you asked, wondering if he knew what had just happened. You looked at him, the multicolored Christmas lights reflecting off his shiny hair. “What do you mean?”

“He’s stupid for ever letting you go,” he remarked. He had a look in his eyes that made you unsure of what he actually meant. “I mean, look at you. You’re so beautiful, and smart, and funny. And if he was dumb enough to throw all of that away, then yeah, Peter’s an idiot.”

“Oh, thanks, I guess,” you shrugged, your voice faint under the music that was still playing inside. You looked at him, his cheeks a rosy hue, which you couldn’t tell was from the cold or whatever he was trying to tell you.

“You know, I used to have the biggest crush on you,” Harry admitted, laughing a little bit at how nervous he was. Everybody knew that he was a player, so being flustered over a girl was uncharted territory for him. “I never told you this, but you were my first kiss.”

“Wait, really?” you asked, a little shocked at his confession. “But I thought you kissed Sarah Emerson on the playground in the fifth grade?”

“Nope. I was just a liar,” he grinned, running a hand through his hair. “It was right before our eighth grade formal, when you asked me to teach you how to kiss because you were scared that Jeremy Pellegrino was going to try and french you.

“Oh! I forgot all about that,” you laughed, suddenly remembering just how long you and Harry had been friends. “Hold on a second... You gave me kissing lessons without knowing how to kiss!?”

“Guilty,” Harry chuckled as you punched him on the arm. “Ow! Damn, Y/N. When did you get so strong?”

“I have a lot of rage,” you mumbled before the two of you burst out into laughter, which slowly faded into a comfortable silence. 

“You don’t feel that way anymore, right?” you wondered out loud. Harry looked at you, smiling softly.

“No, not anymore,” he affirmed, and you let out a sigh of relief. You knew what it felt like to love someone and not be loved back. “I think what really helped me get over it was seeing how happy you and Parker were when you were dating.” 

“He misses you a lot,” Harry continued, his tone more serious than before. “He keeps this scarf that you left behind under his pillow because it still smells like you. I found out because he was having a pretty bad dream one night and I had to try really hard to calm him back down. And we both thought Gwen would help him move on and get his mind off of you, but I think she only made him realize just how much he still loves you—”

“Harry,” you interrupted, cutting his rambles short. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because you and Peter should be together.”

“You think so?” you asked him, pulling the jacket tighter to keep you warm.

“Yeah. We all do.” It took only seconds for Harry to realize his fumble, accidentally admitting that the whole thing had been planned by him and your friends.

“We?” Your frowned, all of the coincidences from tonight suddenly making much more sense. “Wait, did you know that Peter was going to be here tonight all along?”

“Uh… yeah, about that. MJ, Ned, and I have kind of been pulling a Parent Trap on you guys.”

“HARRY!” You glared inside to see them not-so-secretly watching the entire exchange from behind the Christmas tree. Ned did some awkward finger guns, which MJ immediately swatted down. “I am so going to get you guys!”

You marched inside to where your friends were attempting to hide, the rest of the party guests too drunk and oblivious to notice what was happening. 

“The eagle has left the nest. I repeat, The eagle has left the nest!” Ned yelled, ducking behind MJ, who was already shielding herself with a throw pillow.

“What’s going on?” Betty whined, half-asleep on the couch. “Is this that stupid plan about Peter and Y/N?”

“It’s not stupid!” Harry grumbled, his voice cracking a little bit. You could hear MJ snorting about it from her hiding spot. “Whatever, Michelle.”

“Shut up!” she shouted back.

“No, you!” he said, crossing his arms and standing his ground.

“Make me,” MJ said, narrowing her eyes and shooting daggers at him.

“Uh, guys. This isn’t about you two,” Ned interrupted, snapping them out of their mini argument. There was a weird tension between them that you just knew you would have to address some time in the future.

“Right,” MJ continued, sticking a middle finger up at Harry before turning to you. “Y/N. You should go talk to Peter.”

You nodded, exchanging hopeful looks with each of your friends before walking away. They might be dramatic goofballs, but you loved them so much that you didn’t really care.

Wandering around the party, you spotted Peter trapped in a conversation with Brad Davis, who was explaining his conspiracy theories about the Denver Airport and its demonic horse statue.

“So, all I’m saying is that they’re totally planning the end of the world over there. I mean, the Freemasons built an entire bunker for when they activate the nukes!” he rambled, Peter politely nodding along to his nonsense.

“Hey,” you said, tapping Brad on the shoulder and batting your eyelashes at him. “Can I borrow Peter?”

“Uh, yeah, totally, Y/N,” he stuttered, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards into a smirk. You could smell the peppermint Schnapps on his breath.

“Great. Thanks, Brad!” you smiled, grabbing Peter’s hand and pulling him towards the staircase. By the time you made it to his bedroom, he had already asked what was going on about ten times.

“Why’d you dump me?” you asked, the two of you sitting together on the edge of his bed, your knee brushing against his. He could tell you were wasting no time in getting to the point. “Be honest.”

He stared at the floor, unsure of how to answer your question. You reached for his hand, running your thumb across his knuckles until he looked up to see you smiling at him. His eyes were starting to water. “Just tell me, Peter. It’s okay.”

“I was scared,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I was scared of how much I love you. I mean, Liz was just a crush, and Gwen was a hookup. I’ve only ever loved you, Y/N. Before we met, I had to watch May’s heart break day after day when we lost Uncle Ben, and when I realized how much I loved you... I just wasn’t sure if I could handle ever losing you like that. And so I felt like I needed to protect you from all of the people who would want to hurt you.”

“Hey, Peter. Calm down. I’m right here,” you whispered, wiping a tear from his face. You watched as his breathing slowed, eventually evening out. “Why would anybody want to hurt me?”

“Because…” he started, hesitating a little bit. “Because I’m Spider-Man.”

Your eyes grew big as you mulled over what he had just said. “Are you being serious right now?”

He nodded, feeling a weight lift from his chest. Your eyes followed him as he walked over to his closet, digging around through piles of clothes before he found what he was looking for.

“Holy shit,” you breathed out. Peter was holding up Spider-Man’s suit. His suit. The sweatshirt from earlier made a lot more sense now.

“I would never lie to you,” he said, folding it up and sitting back down. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I thought I was doing the right thing—that you’d be safe—but I was so stupid. I, uh, I think about you all the time. I worry whether you’ve gotten home alright and how your little brother’s doing and if your mom got the promotion that she wanted and—”

You cut him off with a kiss, something you had been dying to do ever since you shut his bedroom door. “I forgive you,” you sighed, gently playing with his hair.

Peter stared back at you, a grin slowly spreading across his face. “Does this mean that we’re back together?”

“Yep,” you confirmed, before leaning into another kiss. And another. And another.

“Wait,” Peter said, breaking away from you. “I have a present for you. It’s actually from when we first started dating, but I was waiting until Christmas to give it to you.”

He moved to his desk, digging through one of the drawers before pulling out a flash drive. “Here it is,” he smiled, dropping it into your hand. It had your name scribbled on it next to a cat sticker. “It’s a playlist. Of all the songs that make me think of you. I think it’s got around a hundred on there?”

“Wow,” you beamed, marveling at the little piece of plastic in your hand. “You’re making me look bad. I didn’t get you anything.”

“Not true. You owe me a date, remember?” he reminded you, wiggling his eyebrows and pulling you into his lap.

“You’re right. Let me think,” you hummed, running through all the ideas of what the two of you could do. “Oh! I got it. The Central Park Squirrel Census for this year just got released. What if we analyzed the data? You could do the wrangling and I could do the visualizations!”

“I love you so much,” he laughed, pressing a kiss onto the tip of your nose. You giggled as Peter buried his face into your shoulder, his grip around your waist tightening. “But you are such a nerd.”

“I’m your nerd, Parker,” you agreed, leaning further into his embrace. “Always have been and always will be.”

—————-

Taglist: @hommyy-tommy @itsgonnabeohtay @alltimekyn @allycat449-blog @greatpizzascissorstaco @dummiesshort @parkerpeterparker2004 @letssee2468 @parkerlovebot @alytavzla @yourbiggestspiderfan @silentium-tais-toi @jailcalledlife @orangesodafoam @obsssedwithjustaboutanything @hufflepuffprincess24 @hollanddolanfangirl @in-a-lot-of-fandoms-tbh @spideydreamers @taciturnspidey @harrisonsoceaneyes

P.S.: Please shoot me an ask or a reply if you’d like to be added to (or removed from) the taglist!

[afairytalestray]

Tuggoffelees for the ship ask

aaaah THEY!

How do much do I ship it?: Never heard of it/ Notp / Dislike / used to ship / maybe / ship it / aww / otp / IS IT CANON YET?

11/10

What non sexual activities do they like to do together?

Dancing, definitely. They have the dances they do individually and with a group in public, but when it’s just them it’s a lot slower and more romantic! They also like to read together in a human AU, and when I say read together, I mean Misto will be reading something and Tugger will flop in his lap and read alongside him and huff if he tries to turn the page before he’s finished. They then engage in a spirited debate over their opinions of the book.

Who does chores around the house?

They both do, but on the surface it looks like only Tugger because Misto “cheats” by using his magic to get his done faster. Misto does not consider this cheating.

Who’s the better cook?

Tugger by a mile. It’s a comforting thing for him, and he really enjoys experimenting with new flavours which are somehow always delicious. He cooks for his dad and brother when they’re stressed, and all the time for Misto. It’s one of the main ways he shows his affection. He always puts a lot of effort into what he makes for Misto, who could literally burn water. It started as a (successful) way to impress him, and now it’s just something he really enjoys doing for him.

Misto was something of a spoiled little kitten, who grew up under the care of his rich uncle Bustopher, and as a result never really learned how to make edible food for himself. After witnessing Misto in the kitchen one single time Tugger takes over for the sake of both of their survival.

Who’s the funniest drunk?

Probably Tugger. Drunk Misto is really giggly and affectionate, but drunk Tugger is like regular Tugger turned up to max. He’s louder, flirtier, will hype anyone to do anything. He literally is that meme where he’ll ask Misto if he’s single and cry when he says no. 

Do they have kids?

Nope! It’s something neither of them have ever felt much of a desire/need to do. They’re really happy with just each other, and feel like their situation is perfect the way it is. They both like kids/kittens, and enjoy spending time with their nieces and nephews, but they both love giving them back to their parents at the end of the day!

(I know this is a super popular hc, and I respect and appreciate everyone and their ocs, but I just don’t vibe with it~)

Do they have any traditions?

Date night is sacred, and cannot be altered for any man or beast. They both love bonfire night as well. Although it’s a bit loud, they love watching the colourful fireworks! They always bring a picnic and cuddle up outside under a blanket together and it is soft and adorable.

What do they fight about?

They don’t tend to fight really, they both have a bit of a bad history with that, and so will escape the situation if it seems to be leading that way. Their arguments usually form around Misto overworking himself to the point of illness or injury, and Tugger closing himself off and not communicating when something is wrong.

What would they do if they found their paring tag on tumblr? (If they have one)

They both think it’s amazing and hilarious! They start a contest of sorts in which they print out some fan art and hang it somewhere and see how long it takes the other to notice. This has led to many awkward moments with visitors.

Who cried at the end of Marley and me?

Tugger bawled like a baby and had to be cuddled for hours by a slightly disturbed Misto, who agreed that yes, Tugger, it was very sad, but you know it’s not real, right? It’s been several hours, Tugger, it’s important to me that you know that.

Who always wins at Mario kart?

9/10 times Tugger, with the exception of Coconut Mall, which Misto has never lost at. It keeps Tugger up at night.

One thing I like about this ship?

They👏just👏love👏each👏other👏so👏much👏 For real they’re just so well matched and so good for each other. Misto is a really good grounding point for Tugger, and Tugger makes sure Misto gets the attention he deserves!

One thing I don’t like about the ship?

God, is there anything I don’t love about this ship?? I really don’t think there is! Himbo rockstar x sassy magician forever <3

The song I would say fits them?

I have a whole playlist lol but I’ll go with Hungry Eyes by Eric Carmen for all my failed dreams of a Dirty Dancing AU

Another headcanon about the paring?

Tugger keeps everything Misto has ever given him ever. I can’t throw out this dead flower, Munk, did you even hear me say that Misto gave it to me?? He keeps momentos of their dates and significant moments as well as gifts in a special secret box. Misto will often pick up little trinkets if he thinks Tugger will like them. He doesn’t quite realise how much Tugger actually treasures them until one day he finds a sparkly little plastic pendant from a human kid’s necklace, and Tugger immediately attaches it to his collar and never takes it off. When it breaks he’s genuinely devastated and Misto has to reassure him that he’s not mad at him for it breaking. Misto is really touched when he learns how much Tugger values his gifts and I’m going to stop waffling now!