#oh I wanna eat this art so bad

[lexicog]

ohhh LOL i get it im getting April Fooled (lol!). trans day orf visibility is tomorrow.

[wykwryt]

pining for my long lost love to return to me (hades ii)

[simptasia]

personally i don’t think anything should cost money. if it were up to me, we’d star trek this shit up and do away with that needless cause of so much suffering

however. bare min? we should at least make it so things that humans (and animals) literally need to live? that should be free. so that would be: food, water, medicine, housing, and the means for temperature control

those five things, at the very least, should be an undeniable right to all living beings. the fact that so many people can’t wrap their minds around that baffles me. and tells me my dream of No Money is a long way away

[blujayonthewing]

the self conscious reluctance to hype or even mention my patreon because the whole point of the platform is to give creators money and it feels impertinent to imply that what I do is worth money VERSUS the fact that you can follow creators on patreon for free and get email notifications for their public posts and at the end of the day what I want the most is just for people to actually see the art I share

[sar3nka]

Gonna take a few hours off tomorrow morning. Or else I will cut myself in the school bathroom like the stupid emo I am.

[freedomfireflies]

Teach Me*

Summary: Harry needs a little practice in the art of Eating Pussy, and who better to ask for help than his best friend?

You.

Word Count: 5.4k

“...I’m sorry, you need to what?”

“I need…” Harry repeats, “...to eat you out.”

You blink at the man standing alarmingly still in the hallway outside of your door. “Is it crack? Is that what you smoke? Do you smoke crack?”

He smirks at the familiar joke before he’s brushing past you and striding into your apartment. “All right, fine. I just thought I’d ask.”

“Ask what?” you huff as you shut the door and face him. “I still don’t understand what it is you want.”

“I want to eat you out,” he says yet again as your expression falls flat. “Look I need…the practice.”

“Practice…”

“Practice.” He nods before flopping down onto the sofa. “You remember Tina, right?”

“Tall, hot, and out of your league?” you recall as you walk over to him. “Yes, I remember.”

He fights a smile. “Yeah, well…she agreed to let me take her out and I just…I want to make sure I’m prepared.”

“...prepared.”

“Prepared.” His eyes follow you as you take a seat beside him. “Come on, you know I don’t have a lot of experience with that shit, and I want to make sure I’m…you know, at least capable of making her come. And I have no other way to get…better.”

“Oh, so, naturally I’m your second-best option,” you snort playfully as you pull your knees to your chest. “But how would eating me out help you make her come? Not all girls like the same stuff, you know. Lesson number one.”

“Because I need someone to help me make my technique a little…smoother, I guess. Tell me what feels good and what doesn’t so I know,” he explains, without a hint of embarrassment, and truthfully, you’re a little impressed.

Harry has always been…bold, you would say. Assertive, confident, borderline egotistical. He’s never had a problem making friends or getting a girlfriend, so learning that his sexual experience didn’t expand as far as you thought it did was kind of a surprise.

You do admire him for wanting to be good for her. In fact, the thought is almost sweet, although you have no idea where he got the idea to ask you.

Sure, you’re his best friend, but…that’s kind of fucking…weird. Right? You guys don’t do that. You don’t even like to hug.

You run your tongue over your bottom lip and look for the deception within his expression. He could be messing with you. It wouldn’t be the first time and you certainly wouldn’t put it past him.

But there’s something…earnest in the way he speaks. In the way his eyes hold onto yours as he awaits your response, hopeful and desperate.

“So…wait, hold on.” You clear your throat and straighten up. “You…you honestly want…to eat me out…just to see if I like it?”

“Kind of, yeah,” he agrees as one shoulder bobs up in a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve got a few ideas on what to do, I just…I need someone—I need you—to tell me if it feels good or not. So I can practice and make sure she’ll like it.”

Your teeth begin to absentmindedly knaw on the inside of your cheek. Truthfully, you have no idea how to feel about this. The request is outrageous and weird and it goes way past the duties of friendship.

But you’ve known him forever and you trust him and honestly? You feel a little bad for the guy.

Sure, the best way for him to get the practice he needs would be with her, but you know him. He doesn’t like to admit he doesn’t know something and he absolutely despises feeling unprepared. 

He’s a perfectionist.

And you are a little flattered that he feels safe enough with you to showcase his inexperience and that thought alone begins to wash your reservations away.

“So…all I’d have to do is just…sit here? And tell you yes or no?” you clarify, and he nods.

“Yeah. I won’t make you come, don’t worry. I know that’s…going a little farther than we need,” he says. “I just…wanna play with you a little.”

You smirk. “Wouldn’t not making me come defeat the purpose?”

He exhales a laugh as he leans back. “I just want to make sure I can. Besides, doesn’t it open up a bunch of emotions and shit? It attaches you to the person? I mean, do you really wanna live with the knowledge that you came because of me?”

“...no,” you admit. “Okay, that’s fair. So…if I agree…you’re not gonna drag this out, right? Just to annoy me?”

He chuckles again. “Well, I wanna make sure I’m doing it right…but no, I won’t drag it past that. I’ll stop whenever you want.”

Your fingers pull at a loose strand on your jeans. You aren’t seriously considering this, are you? “And if I say yes…how would we…I mean, what would we do?”

He thinks about this for only a moment, suggesting that he already came with a plan. Typical. “I guess we go somewhere you feel comfortable…we start slow. You tell me what you’re okay with, what you’re not okay with…and then I’ll just…get started.”

You look at him. Really look at him. He’s relaxed. Almost too relaxed considering the line he’s suggesting you both cross. A line you can never uncross.

And as you stare at those familiar features you’ve known for years…you feel your body exhale a deep breath. You’re doubtful, sure…but he’s always been rather exceptional at providing you comfort, just through a look alone.

Exactly like he is now.

His mouth quirks up in a smirk as he bumps his knuckles against your knee teasingly. “We don’t have to, Bee. I just…thought I’d ask.”

You roll your lips into your mouth as you hesitate, the familiar nickname calming you ever-so-slightly. “I didn’t…I’m not saying no, I just…I don’t know. It’s weird.”

“I know,” he agrees with a nod. “Look, just…forget I said anything. I’ll Google it, it’s fine. Let’s just watch Schitt’s Creek or something, yeah?”

With that, he turns toward the TV, grabs the remote, and begins to flip through the channels, leaving the conversation behind.

But you aren’t as quick to let the idea go. After all, he planted the seed, and now you’re starting to wonder. You’re starting to…accept.

Maybe things will be weird. And maybe you won’t be able to go back to how you used to be. But at least you’ll have helped him…? And that’s…something that friends do.

…right?

“I have never heard someone say so many wrong things…one after the other…consecutively…in a row,” David says to your right as Harry smiles and glances over to see if you’re listening.

But you’re not.

At least, not to David.

“Okay,” you murmur, quiet enough that it becomes lost beneath the next line on the show.

Harry, confused, raises a brow and begins to lower the volume. “Sorry, what?”

“Okay,” you repeat, a little more confidently than you had before. “Okay, I agree to your proposal. Just this once.”

He blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

“Seriously.” You nod. “What? Don’t look at me like that, I’m charitable. And cool, and a really good friend. So…don’t forget that the next time I ask you to buy the popcorn at the movie.”

His eyes roll but he laughs as he tosses the remote aside. “All right, that’s fair. Deal.”

You both go quiet.

Funny…for some reason, you thought agreeing would be all there was to it.

His eyes soften as he looks you over. “So…you’re in charge, okay? You just…tell me where you wanna go, what you’re comfortable with…whatever you want, yeah?”

You nod faintly before glancing toward your room. “Um…I guess we can do it on the bed. There’s probably more room, so it would be a little easier…I guess.”

He nods, too, before slowly moving for the edge of the couch. But he doesn’t stand until you do, eyeing you closely as if gauging your reaction.

You aren’t sure why you feel so…timid. You’re not exactly nervous, maybe just…apprehensive. But, it’s Harry, and he will always be the boy that got a blueberry stuck up his nose and snorted purple snot to you.

And it can’t get more embarrassing than that. 

He follows you into the bedroom. The same bedroom he’s seen a million times, although now, it’s like a completely different space.

With an awkward clear of your throat, you take a seat on the corner of the mattress, head tilting back as you look up at him expectantly. “Uh…now what?”

“You tell me,” he says softly, hands finding refuge in his pockets. “Where do you wanna be? Against the pillows? Might be more comfortable.”

You glance over your shoulder at the headboard. “Yeah, I guess that’s…a good idea.”

He smiles again, stepping back to allow you the room to crawl back. 

Once you’re in position and settled, he takes your spot on the edge of the bed. “Still good?”

You nod, arms resting atop your stomach, almost as if to hide yourself. “Yup.”

“Do you wanna pick a safeword?”

Your brows raise. “I mean…I think ‘stop’ will do just fine.”

He snorts his amusement. “Fair.”

Again, you both grow quiet, and you wish you could find your nerve. In the many years you two have known each other, not once have you ever been this shy. Or quiet. In fact, you don’t believe there’s ever been a second of silence between you, and you have no idea what to do with it.

He straightens up, taking the reins when he notices you don’t plan to. “Do you have your phone?”

Confused, you reach into your pocket and wiggle the cell phone free.

He nods. “Okay, I want you to pull up your favorite porn.”

Your lips part as you blink. “...I’m sorry, what now?”

"Well, I’m willing to bet you’re not exactly turned on right now, right?” he explains, nodding his chin at you with a teasing glint in his eye. “And I’m just thinking that might be a little harder to work with. For both of us.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. You’re about as dry as the Sahara desert, so you admit defeat and swipe up on your screen.

Now, while you and him have both exchanged some of your favorite videos before, pulling up one now…in front of him…feels like a whole new ballgame.

You quickly readjust the volume before looking for the ones you know normally do the trick, refusing to sneak a glance at the man now scooting a bit closer to you. 

But you do hear him smile. “Find it?”

Your eyes land on the familiar thumbnail you’ve seen a hundred times before as you whisper, “Yeah.”

“Good,” he hums, hands coming to rest near your outstretched legs. “Can I take your jeans off? Just your jeans.”

You peek out from around the screen of your phone, catching the curious but hopeful look on his face. “...sure.”

He nods his understanding before shifting closer so he can reach for your zipper to guide it down.

You debate watching him but choose instead to click play on the video and force your attention elsewhere. Maybe this will go smoother if you just…don’t look at him. 

Ever.

You feel the air hit your legs as his fingers curl around the fabric at your hips to pull it down. He’s deliberate, making sure he doesn’t accidentally graze something he’s not supposed to (ironically enough), but you appreciate the gesture. 

He gently tugs the material down to your ankles before effortlessly tossing it aside, and you feel yourself swallow.

This isn’t your first time, so you thought you’d know what to expect. But you don’t know what to expect from him. He seems to have a plan (thank God), and you catch the way he eyes your underwear before he glances up at you.

“Ready?” he murmurs, the cadence of his voice rather reassuring. “I’ll just play with you a bit for now, yeah?”

Again, you swallow thickly, forcing the nerves aside. “Yeah, go.”

And from that point on, you decide to proceed with a more clinical mindset. This is practice, exactly like he said. It doesn’t mean anything to either of you, and once it’s over, you doubt you’ll ever mention it again.

It’s just practice.

A cunt is a cunt, a tongue is a tongue, a hand is a hand. Doesn’t matter who they belong to. Pleasure is pleasure, and that’s all there is to it.

You return your attention to your phone as the bed dips, signaling that he’s getting himself into position. You wonder what he means when he says he wants to play with you, and you also wonder if he’ll actually be any good.

But before you can worry that you’ll have to tell him that he’s terrible…he touches you.

You feel his palm, gently smoothing up your right leg, slowly but with purpose. Your breath hitches as you blink at the images flashing across the screen in front of you. You have no idea if you’ll be able to get out of your own head long enough to feel turned on, but you don’t worry about it quite yet.

Then…you feel his thumb.

Your entire body goes still as the pad of his finger brushes down the front of your underwear, right over your clit. There’s just enough pressure to capture your attention but not so much that it feels uncomfortable.

Your chest deflates with a deep breath as you begin to move your focus from the porn to him.

He does it again, a little harder this time around. It’s teasing, almost. Exactly like he said it would be. He’s simply playing with your body and seeing how it reacts. And every time you twitch or your legs begin to tense, you hear him smile, as if making a mental note of it.

For a few minutes, this is all he does. He runs his fingers up and down the fabric in slow but teasing patterns, pressing and sometimes circling as you feel an ache begin to form.

The sounds coming from your phone are successful in urging your body to bend to such salacious intentions. You can feel your muscles unwind as your mind begins to release those doubtful premonitions.

With a flutter of your lashes, you move your phone to the side so you can get a glimpse of the boy between your legs.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Either that or he pretends not to. And for a moment, you aren’t sure what to make of the sight before you. Harry, your best friend, in a staring contest with your cunt and you want to be put off…but you’re not. 

“How’s that?” he murmurs after a moment, his other hand softly stroking the skin of your thigh as he pulls your legs further apart.

Your voice betrays you as you breathe, “Good.”

He looks up. Smiles. “Noted.”

He does it some more, thumbing over your clit before pressing into it and guiding it in a circle. You squirm each time, the faintest of whimpers getting stuck in the back of your throat. 

He seems proud, and you almost want to be annoyed, but you just don’t have the mental capacity to be in this moment.

Maybe when it’s over.

And then, he does something you hadn’t expected.

He dips down…and presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh. Not too close but not too far, and as he does, his eyes find yours.

Shit. “Okay, I’m ready,” you whisper quickly, hips subtly bucking up. “I’m…I think I’m good now.”

His brow raises as he drops his hand and you have to fight the urge to whine. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” You chew on your bottom lip. “I mean, if you are.”

“I am,” he says, glancing back down at your waist. “Yeah, I am.”

So you nod, and anxiously await his next move.

He reaches again for your body, and you want to sigh with relief as he slips his fingers under the band of your underwear to peel it down. 

The cool air is rather chilling and it’s then that you’re made aware of the mess already forming between your thighs. You knew you’d begun to enjoy yourself but you’re surprised by just how much. 

Whether that was because of him or because of the video…you don’t exactly know.

Once the lace has been flicked to the side, he readjusts onto his knees and formulates a plan.

He makes you wait. Watch. Watch as he once again takes your legs in his hands to guide them apart and settle between them.

Watch as he outstretches his palm so he can run it along your hip before moving lower.

Watch as he takes his thumb and brings it back to your clit which is now exposed to his skin.

And the contact is sinful. You’re worked up enough that the immediate connection makes your head drop back, and while you’d like to be embarrassed…you just don’t care.

He drags it down. Down. Presses, rubs, and dips into the wetness that waits for him.

He’s concentrated, and the look on his face is rather adorable. He’s learning. Studying. Observing each and every reaction you offer him as he continues to tease you.

Once in a while, he’ll venture a glance up, perhaps for approval, and you’ll nod quickly. Then, he’ll return to the task at hand as he looks for new ways to make you gasp.

He slides the tip of his finger in without warning and when you whimper, he stills and raises his brow.

You can tell he was aiming for the element of surprise, choosing not to warn you in order to receive this very response, but he’s not sure if that was a sound of approval or unease, so you rush to clarify.

“No, it’s fine,” you mumble. “It’s fine, it’s good.”

“Are you su—”

“Yes, it’s good. Go.”

Encouraged, he pushes in. He’s still wary of your enjoyment but he seems to focus more on the movement of his hand than your expressions. And that’s all right with you. You’re happy to simply sit and…judge. Which is what he’s asked you to do, and you plan to uphold your end of the deal.

He stops when he’s reached his knuckle, finger curling slightly before he’s gently pulling back. He repeats the action a time or two more and the fullness that accompanies the stretch is quite enjoyable.

Your eyes move to the ceiling as you fight the urge to watch him. You’re not that comfortable yet and perhaps watching him would ruin the fun. So, for now, you stare at the white paint above you as he begins to pump his hand a bit faster.

When he adds a second finger, you gasp, and he uses this as leverage to expand his search.

And you know exactly what he’s looking for, the crease between his brows indicative of his captivation.

But just when you’re getting ready to offer some help, he drives in and curls up until the tips of his fingers brush against that particular point of ecstasy.

You inhale a sharp breath and writhe away, faintly panting, “Shit…that.”

Intrigued, he perks up, although he doesn’t relax his pace. “That?”

He does it again and your eyes squeeze shut. “Yeah…yeah, it’s…mhm.”

A smile dances across his lips as he scoots a little closer to watch his own hand as he repeats the action.

You begin to slump down the mattress, limbs turning to jello as he guides your body up toward that familiar ledge, and you hear him hum his approval.

“Good,” he murmurs, you assume in an attempt to soothe you. “Very good, m’proud of you. Seem to be doing really well.”

You stumble over a scoff. “Yeah, well…so are you.”

The grin grows. “Still doing okay?”

“Yes,” you whisper when his thumb ghosts over your clit. “Yeah, I…fuck. I’m…is this all you’re gonna do…then? I thought…I thought you wanted…to…with…the other…”

Nothing that comes out of your mouth is coherent but he seems to understand. “Yeah, I just wasn’t sure if you were ready.”

“I am,” you correct quickly. “I’m…yeah, I’m fine. You can…you’re good. Just do it.”

He dips his head down but doesn’t quite connect as he continues to watch you carefully. “Bee?”

“...wha—shit—what?”

“Thank you.”

Your eyes roll playfully, although perhaps that’s just from the pleasure. “Yeah, yeah, I’m…I’m a fucking saint. Just…fucking do it, okay?”

So…he does.

Those lips you used to stare at move down to your clit and he brushes his mouth over your body for just a moment before you see his tongue.

He takes a moment to decide exactly what he wants to do before he’s pressing that tongue into you and dragging it up from his hand.

You’re so wound up that it doesn’t take much more for you to arch off the bed in search of that feeling. He’s hardly done anything but your head is rolling back across the pillow as your fingers dig into the blanket beneath you.

He nips at you gently, continuing to pump your arousal in and out as it coats his hand, and your mind instantly falls completely blank.

The sounds…god, the sounds. The sound of you, the sound of him, the sound of your body falling apart beneath him.

He’s good. He’s very good, and you almost wonder if he was lying about his inexperience. There’s no way he learned this from porn…at least, you can’t see how. But, he is a perfectionist. Maybe it just comes naturally to him.

“Awfully quiet up there,” you hear him say, and the vibration of the deep tone of voice sparks a chill down your spine. “That bad?”

No! you want to scream but you simply shake your head. “It’s…it’s good. You’re…this is great. This is all…you know…standard…good…stuff.”

When he smiles, your cheeks grow hot. “Guess I have a good teacher.”

“Please,” you huff, pressing your palm to your forehead. “You always—god, always know what you’re doing. I had nothing to do with it.”

He shrugs as his eyes flick across the mess in front of him. “Had more to do with it than you think.”

He dives back in, licking a stripe up before driving his fingers in further. And there’s so much happening. So much that it makes you crazy. There’s him, and there’s you, and there’s that reminder of need that continues to grow. You can’t focus in on any one thing, and honestly...you’re okay with that. 

When he sucks you into his mouth, you have to fight the urge to grab onto him, twisting the duvet around your knuckles as you reel. 

“Don’t,” he mumbles, and you work to figure out what he’s referring to. Did you do something wrong? “Don’t grab the blanket. Grab me.”

You blink down at him. “I’m…no, it’s fine. I was just—”

“Bee, I’m not asking,” he interrupts, rather resolutely. “You wanna do it, so do it. Promise, I don’t mind.”

You certainly aren’t a stranger to this more…authoritative side of him. Although now, you might even…like it? At least, in this context.

“Come on,” he repeats, pulling back only to shoot you a stern look. “She will. And it’ll show me what you like. Don’t be a pussy, just do it. You won’t hurt me.”

And you almost want to fight him, but he’s right, and you can’t argue that. 

So, the moment he returns to his focused work, you reach for those chocolate brown curls and give them a nice tug.

He makes a noise of approval that nearly kills you, lapping at your folds like he’s depraved and you’re his only remedy.

Tina is gonna love it.

He finds a certain rhythm that you respond to well and zeros in. His cheeks hollow every time he sucks on you only to quickly pop off as he presses his tongue beside his fingers. 

Your nails scratch down his scalp and he seems to like it, his other hand grasping onto your thigh so hard you imagine it’ll bruise.

And for just a moment, you actually don’t mind. You concede to the satisfaction he’s offering and you indulge in it. You find gratification in the fact that you accepted and you even decide that maybe…this was a good idea.

“Are you close?” he asks once your whimpers scale up an octave.

You nod quickly. “Yes…yeah, I’m…yeah.”

“Good,” he muses proudly before he’s suddenly removing his hand from your body and pulling away.

You nearly disappear through the mattress as you choke on a dejected whine and look down at him. “What…what happened?”

He breathes out a laugh as he settles onto his knees. “Nothing, I’m just keeping my word.”

His word.

Right.

“You…oh,” you whisper, fighting your disappointment. “Yeah. Well…that was…you did good. That was all…you know, very well done. She’ll like it, you’ll be fine.”

He seems pleased with your approval before his eyes begin to narrow in thought. He watches you haphazardly reach for a throw blanket to cover yourself, but just as you’re getting ready to toss it over your legs, he snatches onto your wrist.

You both still as he studies you. “Bee?”

“...what?”

He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “If there’s something you want to ask me…then ask me.”

You blink. “What…what do you mean?”

With his hold still on your arm, he leans closer. “Bee…we agreed, yeah? M’trying to be a good student, but I can’t be if you don’t tell me what you want.”

Your breath hitches the closer he gets. “Har, I don’t know what you’re—”

“Do you wanna come?”

Well…shit. “I…” You begin to shift nervously under his pointed stare. “I was just…”

His expression softens although there’s a hint of smugness swimming behind his smile. “Do you want me…to make you come?” he clarifies as your stomach twists into a knot.

Feigning exasperation, you huff a stray hair from your eye. “Well, what do you think? Obviously nobody likes being edged.”

He’s amused as he begins to lower back down, fingers still wrapped around your wrist. “Then what do you need to do?”

You huff again, shooting a quick glare his way as you watch him drop his gaze to your sensitive cunt. “Harry…come on.”

He clicks his tongue and cocks his head. “Nope, that’s not it.”

You open your mouth, a quippy remark locked and loaded, but right before you can use it…he puckers his lips and blows on your clit.

Your muscles recoil and your throat seems to close up as you pull against his hold. “You fucking asshole, you did that on purpose.”

“Obviously.” He tosses you a wink. “You wanna try again?”

No, I wanna kill you, you think but don’t say. “Harry…please.”

You briefly notice the way his eyelashes flutter at the sound of his name but he doesn’t comment on it. “Please what?”

“Harry—”

“Come on, Bee, you can do it.”

“I just…I…this isn’t…”

“Almost there, that’s it. Be a good girl and ask me.”

Oh, that sadistic fucker. You’d berate him for such a nickname if it didn’t turn you on so goddamn much, especially with the state you're in. You might even wanna hear it again and truth be told, the thought blows your mind.

You swallow a shaky breath. “Harry?”

“Yes?”

“...please make me come.”

A wide smile bursts across his face. “Attagirl.”

And with that…he continues.

You’re thrust back up the precipice of pleasure as he slips three fingers into your aching, dripping cunt. 

And it’s purposeful and practiced and he’s such a liar because he knows exactly what he’s doing, at least to you, and you want to smack him.

But you also want to grab onto his hair and his arm and every inch of his body and never let go because he’s so good for making you feel this way. The best friend you could ever have and why on Earth didn’t you guys try this earlier?

Each curl, each twist, each push in. You feel so full and he feels so good and it’s only his hand and then suddenly…it’s his mouth, too.

And the moment he presses his tongue against you, you lose it. You roll your hips against his face, and lift your back from the bed, and drop your mouth open as a desperate moan falls free.

And it goes, and goes, and goes. Stronger and longer than any other one you’ve ever had and this time, you think it really does kill you.

But he doesn’t stop, not even when you’ve begun to settle. He pushes against the sensitive nerves until tears spring to your eyes. He teases and he tortures and he demands a second orgasm out of you before you can even fight it.

This time, he grabs onto your hips, one hand on either side, to lift you and place you where he wants.

And he tastes you. Savors you on his tongue as if this is for his enjoyment, not yours.

And you look down at him, and you see the flush in his cheeks, and the messy way his hair falls into his eyes, and the veins in his arms as he holds you.

And you lose it. Completely and utterly and permanently.

You disappear into your own head for a moment until his ministrations relax and he slowly—very slowly—begins to let go.

As you fight to catch your breath, you watch him run his thumb across his lip. He’s going to wipe you away, you imagine, but then, to your surprise, he sucks his thumb into his mouth.

When he notices you watching, he raises a brow. “Want some?”

And you can only lay there and stare at him, dumbfounded and blissed-out

He laughs to himself when he notices the spacey expression on your face, moving to hover over your body until he’s only inches away. “Can I try something else?”

“What?” you ask breathlessly.

He smiles. “Kissing you.”

Your eyes widen. “...why?”

He shrugs. “I mean, it’s only polite after something like that, no? Like…a parting gift.”

Your eyes narrow. “How sweet. No, really, that was so romantic. Don’t stop, give me another compliment—”

He presses his lips to yours. And it’s rushed and it’s messy and it’s the perfect parting gift.

It’s him.

And you don’t mind that.

You both grin when he pulls back, chuckling to yourselves as he flops over onto the bed beside you.

He helps you toss the blanket over your legs before he’s turning onto his side, head in his hand as he studies you. “All right, Teach. What do you say?”

You pretend to think. “Well…your dirty talk could use some work.”

He smirks. “Okay.”

“And your incessant need to make me spell it out lost you a few points.”

“Sure, sure.”

“But, overall…that was really good,” you admit, and he beams. “Like…better than I expected, and I kind of think you lied about not knowing what to do.”

He shakes his head playfully as he glances off into your room. “Good to know you had so much faith in me.”

“Oh, I didn’t. Not even a little.”

He snorts. “Well, I meant what I said. I only knew what to do because of you.”

“Yeah right. I didn’t tell you any of that.”

“You did,” he argues, turning his attention back to you. “Not with words, no. But with the sounds you made. The way your breath would catch or the way you’d squirm. Or when your nose would crinkle up ’cause you were trying really hard not to like it.”

Shit…had he noticed that? “I…okay, in my defense…I like almost anything. And I wanted to make you work for it.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Yeah.”

He rolls over onto his back, grinning up at the ceiling. “All right, well…I still appreciate it.”

“Hey, don’t get all sappy on me now.”

“Fuck off,” he groans. “I mean it, Bee. I was honestly…okay, don’t fucking laugh, but…I was kind of nervous about it. About whether or not she’d like it. Whether or not you’d like it, and…I’m glad you said yes. I’m glad it was you because…you know. It’s you. And I always feel better around you.”

You work to restrain your smile as you look up at the fan spinning above you. “I feel better around you, too.”

He hums.

“Especially after that. I mean…that was good,” you add and he shakes his head again. “She’s gonna love it.”

He turns to you. ���Honestly?”

“Honestly.” You meet his eye. “Really, Har, you have nothing to worry about. She’ll show you what she likes just like I did. You know what to do, you just have to listen. And then…you can call me and tell me all about it.”

“Deal,” he agrees eagerly, sticking his pinky between you.

You take it and squeeze. “And I already know what next week's lesson is gonna be.”

Amused, he says, “Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”

You grin.

“How To Eat Ass 101.”

Next part:

~ Show Me* (Pt. 2)

~ Full Teach Me Masterlist (with all the other parts plus extras!)

~ Other Harry Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

[partycatty]

are you open to doing hcs or a fic with johnny (mk11 or mk1 variant idc lmao) and reader with dacryphilia? i just know the sex is so good he can make a mf cry. 😭😭

stares at this anon with incredibly wide eyes

mk11 & mk1 johnny cage > dacryphilia

warnings: nsfw, overstim, johnny being a dickhead, author struggles to write dominant johnny bc they know deep down he's a pathetic little bitch boy

notes: oh my god i am . i am so excited. i love this so much i've been holding onto this for .... days . ilysm i'm writing for ALL THREE. lh ymg OGLDJRKSKWJD

masterlist <3

♡

dilf >

• by FAR the most dominant of the three. he's been around. he knows how to please a woman and he'll make that abundantly obvious when you're reaching your fifth orgasm of the night and he's still pumping into you.

• while he's the most dominant, he's a soft dom! he absolutely worships his love like a goddess and will put her pleasure before his. but he's gonna have his fun while he does!

• johnny loves to please you with every inch of his body. facesitting, fingerfucking, thigh riding, cockwarming, humping his boot, eating you out, he will get you all fucked out one way or another. there's a lot of ground to cover on his huge body, and he devotes every square inch to your pleasure.

• he'll mix his praises in with degrading when he's really into it. he blabbers on and on and he gets closer, the degrading taking over when he's about to cum.

• johnny, on really good days, won't be done fucking you until your mascara drips down your cheeks. he's mastered the art of lasting during sex, so he will be hard for quite some time. and even if he goes soft, he'll just stop and eat you out until the erection returns.

• "such a pretty girl... my needy whore... oh fuck, baby, you're killin' me here..." he loves to just say things into your skin. he'll bite your shoulder or bury his face in your folds and still have something to say. a ball gag wouldn't even stop this man from yappin'.

• "just one more, love, i know you can do it for me," he groans into your ear as he plows his fingers into you again. by now, they're nearly pruned from how much he's been fingerfucking you. his other hand is wrapped around your waist while you sit on his lap. when you reach the next orgasm, he gently caresses your thighs. "there we go, good girl. that wasn't so bad, now was it?"

• when you reach the point of mentally breaking, tears prick at your eyes and fall down your cheeks and you pathetically squirm in his grasp. you don't even know how many times you've came, but this man has somehow found a way to make it happen so many times all you can do is sob.

• in his younger days, that wouldn't even be close to implying a finish line for his torture. but now, with age, he knows better. he sees you cry and stops being as rough. he knows it'd just stop feeling good and start hurting or go entirely numb. johnny would still squeeze in one more orgasm though, just for good measure. just to prove that he can.

• aftercare KING. you just lay there like a little soggy sock and this handsome devil will wipe you clean and pepper kisses across your body, telling you how well you did for him.

• "sorry to make you cry, sugar, i just couldn't help it. you looked too damn pretty," he'll mumble into your neck. "every time you cum for me, i just wanna watch it again and again..."

• your coworkers keep asking if you're okay the following morning from how puffy your eyes are and how sore you claim to be from... training.

♡

younger >

let me just say first that it is so unbelievably funny that he is looking at himself on imdb in that gif

• he's so mean. SO MEAN!

• degrader to the max. bro is the definition of a cruel and unusual punishment.

• and yeah the jacket stays on during sex.

• "you like being a filthy whore for a movie star? you gonna take it like a good slut? yeah you are," he'll yap and yap while he downright uses your body. he doesn't rub your clit to make you feel good, he rubs it so you spasm around his dick more. he wants to feel how much you crave his cock, his touch. it's all about him, baby!

• more than anything, he just loves to fuck you in every position imaginable. he wants to be buried in whoever fell victim to his charms, dammit!

• mirrors. send tweet.

• no fr, this guy loves having mirrors in every place he could picture himself having sex in. he'll pull your hair and force you to look at your reflection.

• "no, no, no, baby, don't look at you. look at me. look who's fucking you nice 'n good," he wraps his hand on the front of your neck to make you watch him rail you.

• at this point, his dick is painted with your orgasmic fluids and he's still not done. you're so fucked out you can't even think straight. your body has gone entirely limb and you're just in a hazy bliss. you've finished so many times your entire body is trembling and jerking around, and your cute moans and whines have just turned into gasps but the skin on skin slapping is incessant.

• "you gonna cry?" he asks menacingly, holding your face with one hand. "yeah you are. good fuckin' dick, isn't it?"

• you lazily nod as the gasps turn into sobs. you're just so full of pleasure and pain that you don't know what emotion to feel anymore.

• "pathetic girl, can't handle this much boom?" he chuckles breathlessly, approaching his own high. "just stay like that, baby, i'm close. tell me how bad you need me."

• that doesn't even sound possible in your current state. he may be talking, but all you hear is distant sounds as tears streak down your face.

♡

new era >

• this johnny is like a mix of the former two, but with his own little quirks! i believe this man is a switch through and through with a heavy preference for submission. but, yknow, that being said, sometimes a man just needs to fuck his girl's brains out and watch the tears flow!

• he's a man that's desperate for reassurance and this carries through during sex. he's not insecure, he just loves inflating his own ego.

• "you like that? you like how i fuck you?" he asks with deep whines in between. "tell me how much you love this, baby, please — aah —"

• he'll wipe your tears but secretly pray they keep flowing. it gets him off so good to see how much he affects you.

• also, ngl, i feel like he loves to be overstimulated too. a long ass day of shooting, he comes home and literally wants to get edged and overwhelmed for hours just to release all that pent up energy. he's a crier too <3

• 🚨 🚨 IPAD BABY 🚨 🚨

• he looooves to record you guys have sex, and if he even hears the slightest sniffle from you, the phone shoots to his hand like telekinesis. he's gotta capture every time he fucks you crazy, it's his favorite little memento to hold onto.

• "you look so pretty when you cry," he purrs out, stroking your hair as you choke on his dick. "could never get tired of this sight." he'll play with your hair but also use your throat as his own personal fleshlight. angle or debil.

• if anything, he loves to ruin pretty things. he'll feel accomplished when your lipstick is a mere memory, your clothes are missing buttons and your mascara is now painted down your cheeks. his favorite part of sex is cleaning you up, and his second favorite is ruining you to begin with.

• johnny would honestly love to keep going after you start crying, but he literally can't. he cums the second you're overstimulated because the sight alone gets him there so damn fast. as soon as the waterworks pool in your eyes, he's already getting sloppy with his thrusts and his groans turn into whines.

• he'll kiss your eyelids after sex, the heat of his body providing comfort after the rounds upon rounds of ruthless orgasms. he'd probably also lick your cheek to rid of the tears because it's funny.

[bowelfly]

OH BOY YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS

my shitty old car is really truly dying and rent is eating up most of my paycheck so buying another vehicle is gonna kick my ass. if you wanna grab something from my print store or buy me a coffee i'd greatly appreciate it.

things are even dire enough that i got off my ass and made some crude commission info sheets:

these prices are estimates and actual amounts are gonna vary depending on the specifics of the commission. i charge more for things outside my usual subject range since they take more research and fussing to get right, while subjects that i'm always drawing for fun (bugs, teeth) are liable to cheaper.

i do all of my sketches digitally MSPaint style and all of my rendered drawings with real ink and watercolors, usually with some digital tweaking or compositing afterwards. traditional art pieces can be mailed to you for the cost of shipping and packaging.

feel free to DM me with both what you'd like drawn and in what style--digital sketch, b&w linework, b&w heavy crosshatching, monochrome inkwash, watercolors, etc, or best of all just link me to a previous drawing of mine in the style closest to what you want. i can take money through paypal or ko-fi, payable after i complete the art and before i send you the full resolution copy.

if there's a queue i'll try to give you an estimate of how long it'll take me to get to your commission. please be patient with me; i have a full time job and a bad case of ADHD. i reserve the right to refuse or rescind a commission for any reason including and especially if the client acts pushy or gives me weird vibes.

whoops sorry that was a long post. thanks for reading.

[nxiispire]

cw : sub!scara, gn!reader, c00chie eating hehehe

art credit: @/nokkusuart on twt !

i wanna eat scara’s pussy so bad

he’d be hesitant at first when you suggest it so you don’t push it, instead kissing him and using your hands like you usually do. But after that night he could help but keep thinking about what you had suggested, rubbing his thighs together every time he thought about your mouth licking him down there. So finally one day during a heated make out session, he finally gained the courage to ask you about it.

“umm, do you think we could maybe do the thing you suggested before?”. He was too embarrassed to just flat out ask ‘will you eat me out’, so he tried to dance around the subject.

Even though you had an idea of what exactly he wanted, you wanted to hear the words come straight from his mouth. So you acted dumb, asking him what exactly he wanted.

“uugh you know what i mean” he mumbled at you, frustrated that you wanted to embarrass him, but sensing that you wouldn’t give up he caved. “ Can you uh- lick me down.. there”.

You shivered, in his attempts to not embarrass himself, he unknowingly said something much lewder.

skip forward to when your in between his legs, kissing his inner thighs and licking oh-so near the place he needs you most. To shy to beg he thrusts his hips in the air, trying to find any sort of stimulation.

Finally you flattened your tongue and licked straight up his heat, humming as you taste his wetness. He yelps in surprise, unable to comprehend how good your mouth feels on him.

After warming him up with a few licks, you begin to fully eat him out, making sure to add extra pressure as you pass his clit. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to pull away from this intense pleasure or to lean into it, so he settled on bucking pussy into you mouth as he let out the cutest moans.

“aAah~ mmmhh shit feels s- so good!” he whined, fists gripping the sheets under him so hard that his knuckles turned white.

You groan into him as you begin to lick and suck his clit.

“AAahh,, yesyesyes! please i’m gonna” And before he can finish he lets out a high pitched moan as he gushes all over your tongue. He whimpers from overstimulation as you make sure to lap up all of his wetness. You caress his thigh as you lift your head up from between his legs, making sure to tell him how he did such a good job for you.

djejshudjwnsnwkkduf i need scara pussy fr i’m going insane

[the-cannibal]

Slashers with a s/o who has weird cravings for inedible things

Have you ever looked at tide pods, erasers, basically anything with a big DO NOT EAT CONTACT POISON CONTROL IF INGESTED sticker on them? Me too! So here’s a funny little thing for that!

Ps: please don’t actually eat any of the things in this- there are alternative things that you can actually eat that are similar to these things!

Gender neutral reader - they/them and you is used

Slashers included: Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair, Jason Vorehees, Michael Myers, Brahms Heelshire, Billy Loomis and Stu Macher

Vincent Sinclair:

“Vinny Vinny Vinny!”

“???”

“Can I eat some of that wax?” You pointed off to the scraps on the table by the art piece he was currently working on.

“?!?!?!” Cue frantic signing - ‘Y/n no- you can’t eat that, it will make you sick! Why would you even want to in the first place?’

You shrugged. “I dunno. It just looks warm and tasty!”

Vincent will now make sure to keep an eye on you anytime you are around wax.

But one day your curiosity won, and he caught you mid lick on one of his sculptures.

Yeah he was all mother hen on you for a while.

Bo Sinclair:

Bo was in his garage (surprise surprise) working on a car. You decided to tag along.

“Hey Bo, can I drink some of that?”

“Sure darlin.” Bo had said without looking up. He has just assumed you were talking about the glass of ice tea he has sitting next to him.

It wasn’t until her heard you spitting up something into the dirt that he actually looked up and saw the bottle of oil in your hand…

“Y/n what the fuck?!” He shouted at you. He was angry sure but he was mostly concerned and didn’t want you to fucking poison yourself, so he stuck two fingers down your throat and forced you to puke.

“Why would you do that?!”

“It looked like root beer!” You shouted between coughs.

“God you’re almost as bad as Lester…”

Jason Vorhees:

Oh if you think this man will even let you get anything inedible anywhere near your mouth you are wrong.

Jason has had to swat out jelly erasers out of your hand while you were working on a drawing because the fake pink strawberry inside it was just too tempting for you. You now only get to use boring white erasers… which you were banned from for a while when you thought they looked like marshmallows.

“Hey Jason, what do you think tidepods taste like?” You are no longer aloud to do laundry by yourself.

But he would help make snacks for you that have said texture of whatever thing you want. Wanna eat sand? Here’s some granola he’s made and crushed up to look and feel like it!

Michael Myers:

You’ve probably eaten a lot of stuff you shouldn’t have- dude isn’t the most observant at first.

But the second he does catch you, he’s watching you like a hawk.

He about yelled at you when he saw you munching on one of his (thankfully clean) jump suits. But he didn’t and instead took it away from you, lightly tapping you on your nose, scolding you like you were a teething puppy.

Actually that is what he saw you as when you’d do this-

He isn’t a cooker or a baker but if he finds anything edible that he thinks would satisfy your cravings then he will take it.

Brahms Heelshire

“New rule! Y/n is not aloud to eat anything without Brahms’ permission!”

“Brahms I don’t think that’s gonna work-“

“THEN STOP TRYING TO EAT THE PIANO KEYS!”

What? The Heelshire’s have a lot of old stuff! A lot of old tasty looking stuff… like the piano and Brahms’ records.

Brahms sometimes feels like a nanny for you when it comes to food. He now sits on the counter and watches you like a bird hunting it’s prey to make sure you aren’t sneaking anything in your mouth you shouldn’t. Don’t worry Brahms! They’d never do that!… would you..?

Billy and Stu:

Stu does the same thing as you.

Billy feels like he needs to keep you both on those little backpacks with those leashes that keep kids from running into traffic.

He has put you two in them before… he calls it ‘dumb snacking jail’

You make a comment about how Billy would know all about being in a jail.

That earned you more time in dumb snacking jail-

“They aren’t hurting anyone!” Stu shouted

“Stu they are trying to eat rocks…”

“It’s not hurting anyone!”

“ITS HURTING THEM-?!”

[whalesforhands]

kaizen daycare! 3

previous masterlist next

“Are ya gonna follow us home t’day?” Megumi rubs at his little eyes as his puppy-themed socks come to a stop before you, trying to stifle an incoming yawn. He sounds hopeful, dare you even say, excited.

“Daddy said you were gonna eat at our house too.” He’s suddenly holding his arms up towards you, asking to be carried as he awaits with still half-opened eyes.

“Oh? Megumi-kun, are you excited about moving in?” You’re bending down, your hands picking him up and supporting his weight, letting the child’s head loll and rest against your chest. His cheek squishes against you, a sleepy comfort overtaking him once more now that he’s in your arms.

“Mn.” You feel him press his ear against your heartbeat, smiling at the steady, slow vibration, his innocent eyes already starting to close once more as he cuddles himself against you, getting comfortable in your embrace. “I just wanna see you there…” His words trail off with his sleepy haze, going limp in your hug as he finally falls back asleep.

You feel a blush overtake you at his words, the gentle chime of a nursery lullaby flowing into your ears, accompanied by the adorable snores of your other children as you sat upon a nearby cushion with a sleeping Megumi in your arms. So cute.

Maybe it was a good idea to accept their family’s invite afterall?

——

Sometimes, you’re utterly at a loss for words at a certain trio within your class. Even as Mimiko sips on a cup of milk whilst sitting on your lap, Nanako humming, sprawled out on the floor next to you and drawing with her plethora of crayons and Megumi playing with the toy trucks by his sisters.

(“Hmm…” Mimiko leans back, staring up at you, hands fiddling with her now empty milk carton. She’s always been one to speak her mind.“(name)-sensei…”

“Mm?” You look down at her, snapping out of your dazed out trance, your fingers that were mindlessly combing through her hair stopping abruptly.

She doesn’t respond, her eyes scrutinizing you as you give her the moment to collect her words. Is something wrong? Did her milk taste bad? You had the same one, you don’t think—

“You’re so pretty.” Just as pretty as her Papa and Daddy. Maybe even more? She’d have to ask her plushies one by one later on who they think is the winner. She’s betting on you.)

“Nanako-chan, do you need me to call him? It isn’t like your Papa to be late…”

“Nope!” She pops the ‘p’ as she skips over to her cubby. “It’s realllll good that we’re the last ones left, and so earlyish! Pap— We thought we were gonna have to wait longer!!” She digs around the frog themed backpack, her tongue stuck out in concentration before she pulls out her phone.

Her very expensive, high-tech, latest in the market phone that was leagues better than yours and probably costed around an entire month of your salary. “Papa said to just text him if he’s late, and Daddy’ll come zooming the fastest around!”

That was approximately 4 minutes ago.

“(name)-sensei, (name)-sensei! I drew this for you!” A sheet of A3 paper is thrusted into your face, a burst of colour that dyed your eyes in fascinating intrigue as they slowly focus in on the drawing.

Matching blonde and brunette bobs, right next to a darker ponytailed brunette and spiky black. Shiny, smiley faces that were drawn on with an attempt to scribble the characters of their names just above them.

Though, that wasn’t the main focus. You notice 3 more figures upon the paper, characterized by neon-blue crayon for eyes, another having long shadowy black for hair… And the unmistakable pink of your apron you wore for work.

(You can’t even deny that it’s you. You saw her peeking over and trying to see and copy down your name embroidered onto the top of your apron.)

“That’s a wonderful drawing, Nanako-chan! What made you want to add me in?” Megumi and Mimiko have now gathered near you, squeezing in under your arms to stare at their sibling’s art work.

“That’s cause we love (name)-sensei a wholeeeeeee lot!” She draws a circle in the air with her arms, the widest circumference she can go. “Wayyyyy more than this!”

We…? Why, you feel flattered— A knock at the door sounds, a boisterous voice disrupting your train of thought.

“Daddy’s here!”

——

“But Nanako wants to sit on (name)-sensei’s lap!” A pouty complaint as she tugs on her dad’s jacket, narrowed brown squinting up at him as she hugs her frog plushie backpack close to her.

“Nope!” The grown man makes an X cross with his arms. “Papa’s gonna have my head if you’re not in your booster seat.”

“Then you sit in the back and Nanako will drive!” She’s determined to be able to be next to you on this short drive back.

You’re already helping Megumi buckle himself into the booster seat, a sleeping Mimiko all strapped in as her soft breaths are barely heard. You notice the soft, chubby fingers that rests themselves over your hand just as you were about to pull away.

“Hmm? Megumi-kun, what’s wrong?” He says nothing as he stares at your hand, eyes downcast and as if too conflicted to let go. “I dwon’t want you to go…”

You think you’re going to die from cuteness.

“I’ll be with you real soon, okay?” You ruffle his hair, watching as he grunts lightly at the sensation before he lets you go.

It isn’t long before Gojo gets his blonde daughter to behave and obediently settle next to her siblings, hugging her plushie close as she receives a wave from you from outside.

It’s just you and their other father now.

“Gojo-san, thank you for offering me to drive me back.” You’re smiling up at him, oh so innocently. It almost makes him want to—

“Sa. To. Ru.” You feel a tap to your nose at the last syllable. “We’re gonna be neighbours, aren’t we?” He sends you a charming wink. “Plus, I don’t mind driving you back. I’d even it rather be a regular occurrence, if you left it up to me.”

(S-so forward! Isn’t he scared of what his husband will think?! Driving another adult around so casually in his car!)

“That isn’t necessary at all, Gojo—“ You see him pout, his cheeks starting to puff up. “Sa…Toru-san. You really don’t have to.”

“Hmm.” He leans in— Almost intimately close as you back off slightly, your back coming into contact with his car. Vibrant blue stare into your own, as you tilt your head in innocent confusion.

“You know, (name).” His voice trace over your name with such a deep, almost fulfilling tone that makes your heart stir. “I’m been kind of worked up lately.”

An arm that extends past, lightly brushing your hip as he gets the door for you. Except… He doesn’t seem to be opening it anytime soon, choosing to box you in between the car and his body. “You could say that I’m even a little… Excited.”

(“Oh? I suppose it is a little nerve wrecking to have a guest over when you just move in.” You nod, ignoring the warmth that was exceedingly close to your waist, your gaze still holding his own intense orbs. “Even I wouldn’t dare to invite someone over when I’ve barely got everything set up yet, so I get you, Satoru-san.”

He blinks, the tension diffusing in mere seconds before he starts breaking out into a boisterous laugh, tilting his head downwards towards the ground and a hand over his mouth.

“Ahaha! That’s right, sensei!” You’re so cute.)

——

“Hello!” A sparkling set of eyes and rocking feet, hands clenched into excited fists that pump into the air. “Welcome to our new house!” A little girl no older than 3 or 4 appears in front of you, her brown hair fluttering with her bouncy joy that radiates off of her in waves.

“My name is Tsumiki! I like drinking strawberry milk and being praised!” She ends her introduction with an eager V-sign, bright teeth out in a grin and eyes upturned into the cutest little crescents, before she flattens her arms at her sides, bowing to you. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

“My, you’re so polite.” You lean over to pat at her head, your bag long placed on top of the counter at their genkan. “I’m (nam)—“

“(name)-sensei! You live in the apartment right next to us, you work at the kindergarten my brother and sisters go to, you’re super, suuuuper sweet like kikufuku mochi and, and—!” Her eyes are sparkling more intensely, practically reflecting a constellation of her thoughts as she looks up at you. “And you’re even super, super pretty!”

(Even prettier than all the other times she’s seen you.)

You’re honestly at a loss for words right now. How much are you talked about here…?

“Mmm, but I suppose calling you sensei when you aren’t my sensei is a little strange, right, sensei?~” She’s strangely playful, big grin and eyes that gleamed with something you can only describe as a yearning want.

She taps her chin in thought, eyes averting to the side and upwards as if in deep thought. “Ah!” She claps her hands together. “Can I call you Mama?”

(W-whaaaaaat?! So upfront!)

“Please, please?” She’s already wrapped her arms around your legs, her pouty, mischievous eyes pleading up at your blushing form, her head buried into your tummy as she’s on her tiptoes.

You’re blushing hard— Your eyes swirling with bashful shyness that makes you so, so nervous. Sure, she’s adorable— So forward and so cute pleading you like this…! You did always tell yourself that you wanted kids—

“Now, now Tsumiki. You’re teasing our poor guest too much.” A tut and a ruffle of her head from behind as an all too welcomed figure appears.

“Papa!”

“Geto-san…!”

“I’m sorry. She takes after Satoru a little too much in that sense.” She turns his gaze downwards. “Tsumiki, help me set the table, please.”

“Okay!” And she patters off, socked feet against the wooden floors as she skips away. “Talk to you later, Mama!”

(Ohhh… You feel like you’re going to burn up from gratified embarrassment… You like the way it sounds but it’s so embarrassing—! Especially when she’s not your child…!)

“No, no, Geto-san. It was lovely being able to talk with her! You raised all your kids so well!” You’re gushing as you talk to him, a hand pressed over your stuttering heart, letting him lead you around, not even noticing the hand that had intertwined with your own as you lost yourself to your overactive mind.

“I sometimes wish they were my own.” You’re turning sheepish, body turned slightly to face his with the still all too cute, all too adorable smile of yours. He stops in his tracks, fingers closing in on your face to brush a strand of your hair back, the graze of his skin against yours makes you shiver in a sense of delight… It always felt strangely— Good whenever he does this.

(He can make that happen, you know?)

“Trust me, sensei—“ He feigns a tired sigh, pulling away, causing your shoulders to slump in visible disappointment, much to his adoration. “They can be up to no good if they want to be.”

Now that you’re actually in their house, it definitely feels a little high class. Their cushions that looked and felt like they were too out of this world, their curtains looking a little glamorous… Not to mention how amazingly soft the couch you were sitting upon felt…

You were so sure you passed by your own apartment next to theirs not too long ago. Now you’re not even sure if you’re even living in the same realm of possibility…

“Dinner’s about to be finished up. Do you mind waiting a bit?”

“If you don’t mind,” You tilt your head to the side as you watch him. “I could lend a hand.”

——

“Gumi, c’mere.” Tsumiki beckons her younger brother towards her, the little boy waddling over with his towel wrapped around him, dripping with water as he holds onto his sister’s hand.

(It’s normal for them to wash up a little bit before dinner, they’ll take their bath later.)

“Don’t they look like a marriage?” A proper one. Like in those late-night soap operas one of her Mother’s ‘friends’ used to leave on. The way Papa is smiling as you taste test his cooking, the way Daddy tried to eat whatever you touched, the way you all laughed in an emotion that cannot be anything else but utter joy.

“Get— Suguru-san, I think it needs a little salt.”

“Mm, is that so?” He doesn’t even hesitate to place his lips onto the spoon you had just used, tongue peeking out to lick up any leftover remnants that could be there. “It might be the lack of dashi stock. I need to go to the market soon.”

“Oh, there’s one nearby, I could show you—“

“Suguru! No fair! I wanna taste too!”

“Aren’t you meant to be helping the kids dry off, Satoru?”

“Mmm, I will if I get fed!” He opens his mouth towards you, “Pleaseeeeee? I’m getting hungry!”

You’re the one. Tsumiki knows you are. She just does. Her grip on the door frame tightens ever so slightly, a twinkle of longing, of yearn in her gaze.

“Better than Mother ever looked with any of those men…”

previous masterlist next

Notes:

It’s very important that you do not leave the nap room for very long during naptime. You went out to do some administrative work and you came back to a crying Mimiko that was biting into her plushie, trying to silence herself so as to not disturb the rest while she huddled into a corner and silently wailed for you.

“(name)-sensei…! D-don’t leave Mimiko again…!” Her tears are soaking into the front of your apron, her small hands gripping onto the fabric of upon your shoulders as she clung onto you. Desperate, scared.

The other children do not like it when you’re not around. Stay in the rooms with them.

“Aww, I thought I heard something from outside. Was it you, Megumi?” Geto Suguru soon scoops up a blank, sleepy little boy dragging a blanket in.

“Oh? What do you have in your hands for me, Gumi? It’s—“ He continues to smile. “Are those my… Contact lenses? Thank you very much…” The transparent item is plopped onto Suguru’s open palm, a silent Megumi burying his face into his father’s chest soon after.

What a peculiar child.

[thechaoticplayer]

Eating His Prey

author's note: I really wanted to write a fic about Ike, more specifically sadistic and yandere Ike because holy shit it was kinda hot what he was doing sheeeeeesh Summary: Being such a sly (apparently my keyboard wanted to make you slay so you're also very slay) and mischievous little fox you are, you decide to mess around in a wolf's territory. However, you're in for a wild reality check... Contains: degrading oh wow, dom Ike, hes literally using you, and all that spicy stuff mmm

Hunting in the wolf's territory was an adventure within itself, the new terrain and yummy prey was something that you desired very much. Besides, wouldn't be fun to mess around a bit? You are a great predator yourself, enjoying making your prey squeak and cry underneath your arms. You'd drag out their suffering for a good while. It was all fun and games for you.

You are currently traipsing through the forest full of crowded trees, scattered patches of sunlight kissing the grass floor. You finished having a good meal of a rabbit, a cute little thing you almost felt bad for devouring. Your nose quivered, sniffing the air and catching a scent.

Wolf scent. But your senses told you he was away at the moment. You grin, lips pulled back to reveal canine teeth. His little home! Maybe you could get some sort of rabbit shit and litter it all across his home. Maybe you could build a little fort out of sticks for him.

You dart in and out bushes with ease, your feet silently tapping the ground. Your prey hardly ever heard you coming, which was fortunate and unfortunate at once. Unaware little things. Thank god you were an excellent predator and not some weak ass prey!

You find yourself at the mouth of a cave, looking awfully gloomy inside. You sniff once more. Yup, his scent is much stronger here. Without a care in the world, you skip on inside.

It was very dark for a good few feet, your night vision clicking in after a few seconds. Bones lay scattered across the cave floor: skulls, ribs, femurs, arms. Some even arranged in twisted ways, like horrific art. Wolf must be some sort of sick freak. Not like you were anyone to judge. But still. Freak.

But it gradually began to get brighter, and you walk faster, you didn't want to dilly dally after all. You emerge within a bigger room, with a hole on the ceiling like a window. You notice there was no patch of leaves or soft grass for rest (what the fuck does he actually sleep on this hard ass rock? The wolf is literally a psycho) and surprisingly, no weird bone art. Just tallies on the wall, made with his claw you presumed, lining the walls. Several rows after row. What is this? his body count?

Eh. you don't care. You just wanna create a mess out of his home.

You drag some of the bones from the corridor and toss them around. Snapping some in half and creating your own work of art. You giggle as you line up some bones, a picture of a cock on his floor now. Your tail swishes back and forth with excitement. Perhaps you should go back to the riverbed, gather some mud and plaster it all over the wolf's walls. A nice touch to such a bland room.

You turn your head and freeze. Your heart rate increases.

The wolf himself is here, staring you down with golden eyes. Glowing from the darkness, expression blank as he watched you. Caught-red handed. How long was here there anyway? How did you not hear his entrance? as for the smell, his scent was all over the place, and it is very strong. Luck was simply not on your side.

"Well well well," the grey wolf chuckles darkly, sending electricity down your spine. Instinct told you to run your ass out of there, but you froze, out of fear. "What's a little fox doing here in my domain? Wrecking my home, hm?"

You say nothing, eyes glancing behind him. The only exit. A laugh, as he approaches still.

"Since we are going to get very acquainted, my name is Ike Eveland," the wolf says cheerfully and you furrow your brows because what the hell? "And now, answer me this: what gave you the idea to come here? Death wish?"

"...b-because i wanna," your shaky voice replies and you clear your throat. You straighten your body and stare back at him, never backing down. Not too some puny wolf. "I go wherever I want."

Ike tsks at you, stalking closer. "Now now, I like the confidence yes, but do you realise your situation, dear?" He smiles, sharp teeth bared. "I'm going to eat you alive."

Finally, he launches himself at you, claws glinting in the sunlight. Immediately your legs tense and push you, sprinting below him out of the room and into the corridor. Your heart roars in your ears as you run as far as you possibly can out of the cave, breathing heavily.

What a fucking insane little shit! He was definitely a bit smaller than other wolves you met, but something about the way his sinister gaze sent shivers down your spine. You hated to admit it, but the wolf was actually pretty intimidating. His eyes were such a lovely shade of gold though...

You shake your head and keep running, hopping through a small river to make him lose your scent. You turn towards another direction, toward the familiar big tree you liked to lean against when you wanted to think. It was a good distance from the wolf's territory, so you should be fine. Besides, why would Ike come all the way over here for one silly fox? Heh.

You arrive at the foot of the tree and plop down, regaining your oxygen. Damn, you've never ran so much in your life. You curl your fluffy tail around you, plucking out leaves. Your beating heart slowed a bit as relief flooded your veins. That was simply a vibe check from the gods above. You have learned to stay away from there in the near by future, because if you went there again, you wouldn't have a future.

You lean down with the balls of your hand on the grass, stretching with your ass in the air and felt every bone crack in your back. You sigh contently. It has always felt good to do that after a run.

Your ear twitched and a sound of rustling bushes interrupts your stretch. You sit back, suddenly alert. You sniff the air, but only smell your wet fur. You survey your surroundings, and seeing nothing. A squirrel? However, you stayed cautious and kept your ears open.

While you were cleaning your teeth, another sound, the noise of a twig snapping under a huge weight. It is closer to you than before.

With no warning, you high-tail it out of there, not even turning to see who it is because you could already tell by that menacing aura alone. The grey wolf is hunting you.

"Go away!" you shout, shooting through bushes and swerving around thick trees. "Go find some dumb rabbit to devour!"

"You're much more intriguing!" Ike calls, and you're startled by how you can't hear his footsteps and yours is loud as shit. "Let's play a game, huh?"

"I don't play no games!" You snap, diving into a fox hole made from another fox and scurrying through the small tunnel. He couldn't get through because he's too large! ha!

"It'll be fun!" He calls from outside the tunnel. "Let's play hide and seek, little one!" Ike sings, and you find it oddly pretty.

Dude, really?

You shoot out the other end and continue sprinting. Fuck out of here with that hide and seek nonsense!

"I'll be the seeker," Ike says from behind, startling so much you almost stumble. "I'll give you some time to hide!"

His voice fades and you glance over your shoulder. Gone. Kapoof. Finally, holy shit, his presence was getting annoying as shit. Wait. Is he actually going to play hide and seek?

You curse in your mind, running as far as your legs could carry. You pause, chest heaving as you breath rapidly through your mouth. You turn in a circle, attempting to find a good hiding spot. You spy a big tree with a hollow center, obscured by a flower bush. It is right by a river too!

You dive into the hole without delay and try to rein in your breathing. You quickly adjust the bush so it didn't look like it was rammed through. It was not long before you felt that ominous presence again, your tail poofing up instantly.

"Little fox, where are you?" Ike coos from a good distance away. You cover your mouth with both hands. "You're a sly thing, huh? Walking around my own territory like it was your place. Now, it's time to make sure you learn your place."

You press yourself against the wall so hard, the grooves start to imprint on your skin. You're starting to regret your decisions. It seems like the wolf will never let you go until he captures you. You silently pray to whatever gods were listening.

Turns out they were not. They said screw you kiddo you're on your own.

"I will find you," Ike promises, his voice a tad closer. "I can feel your heart. So fast. Am I making you nervous?"

You grind your teeth, stopping yourself from growling. This cocky bastard.

"I tend to get that reaction a lot. I didn't think I was that horrifying, being on the smaller scale," Ike says and you roll your eyes because who the fuck asked? "I give off threatening vibes, supposedly. that's what the last one said anyway."

Huh?

"The last prey I had," the wolf continues, almost as if he just read your mind. "You must've seen the lines on the walls. All animals I've killed and perhaps devour. Sometimes, I kill for the fun of it and leave the carcass for other animals. Oh, how thrilling it is, watching the blood seep onto the floor and the life draining out of their eyes!" Ike sighs and your blood goes cold because it's outside your hiding place. A big hand reaches out to touch the flower in front of you. "Their blood, such a pretty shade of red just like this poppy."

The hand snakes out like a viper and snatches your ankle and you yell, kicking at him but he drags you out of the tree. Still kicking and screaming bloody murder, you kick his face in sheer desperation. His head turned toward another direction but his hand still latched onto your ankle.

"That wasn't very polite," Ike says, his gaze on you and you still. "What's wrong? Sad because you lost?"

"No way!" You claw at his hand but he doesn't budge. Just watches your pathetic attempts. "Let go!"

He leans in close to your face and you halt your actions. His breaths on your face as the wolf holds eye contact with you. The flecked color of brown in his eyes are mesmerizing to look at, entrancing. You swallow hard. Ike's hand slides from your ankle to your knee, to your thigh, sending goosebumps across your skin. He squeezes, his nails digging in slightly and you wince.

"No. You're mine to play with now, cute little fox."

Something about the way his voice went lower, or was it the hand movement? made your heart beat faster, and not in a frightened way. The wolf's hand travels to your hip and your breath hitches, still staring into the eyes of your enemy. The hand goes all the up from your arm, feather light, skins your collarbone and finds itself a new home on your neck. Wrapping his fingers around your delicate neck, Ike begins to squeeze lightly. Still looking down at you with those pretty eyes, hovering over you with such a smirk on his lips.

Ike stops squeezing, evidently surprised. He sniffs the air, but still a hand around your throat, his nose dipping lower. His nose bumps against your thigh and he growls low in his throat, yanking your legs apart. You squeak.

Arousal. Pure arousal, glittering in the light. Ike stares for a moment, still sniffing. His gaze slides back up to you and you stop breathing.

"Little fox..." he says quietly, and excitement jolts up. "Are you... aroused, right now?"

You don't respond, a bit ashamed. Why the hell were you getting horny for the man about to kill you? Who in their right mind-?

You gasp as you feel a hot mouth against your pussy, lapping up the juices with a shocking pace. You whine, struggling to get away but both his hands are on your thighs now, keeping you spread open and down on the grass as he ravaged your pretty little hole.

You tasted so fucking good, more than he could ever imagine! His nose bumps your clit as his tongue glides in and out of your wet hole, making squelching noises. You moan loudly, digging your nails into his scalp as you push him into you. Ike growls, sending more electricity up your spine. His teeth grazes your clit as he suckles the bundle of nerves and you gasp.

"Oh fuck fuck fuck- mph!" You cover your mouth, attempting to muffle your embarrassing sounds.

The wolf stops, narrowing his eyes at you. "Who said for you to hide those pretty noises?"

You bite your lip, legs squirming as the breeze hits your pussy. "I-I, well..."

"Keep our hands. Off. If you do so again, I'll make sure you never do it again, do you understand?"

You nod quickly, getting even more aroused by his threat and you subconsciously think, 'what the FUCK' and he smirks.

Ike eats you out like a wolf starved, fucking and teasing your hole with such accuracy you start to see stars, and watching him eat you like you were the best meal he ever had turned you on even more and you felt your walls clamp around his tongue.

"Good slut," Ike whispers against your clit, sucking on it for a brief moment before sinking his teeth into your thigh, making you yelp. "Horny little thing, for a predator who was going to devour you whole..." the wolf chuckles.

Your slick slathered across his face, buried in you, legs over his shoulders was a sight to see. You moan, "a-ah! Mmm, right there, t-there!" Your toes curl, eyes rolled back as the orgasm comes over in waves, making your body shake from pleasure as you release soft whines. But Ike isn't done, he's just getting started.

A finger pushes itself into you and you gasp yet again. It explores your walls, tickling that one spot. Then another is added, and Ike slowly pumps his fingers into you, watching with fascination as your pussy eagerly swallows his digits. Pulling him in.

"What a fucking whore," he notes, flicking his eyes up at your flushed cheeks and the drool leaking down your chin. "I haven't even put my cock in you yet."

Your walls squeeze around his fingers at the sentence and he laughs darkly. He bites your other thigh, drawing blood as you wince in pain. The wolf quickly laps up your blood with a groan. His fingers pump faster, curling at the right time and you moan in a mix of pain and pleasure.

"Greedy bitch. Do you want me to let you cum?" He asks, gold glowing between your legs. New hickeys flourish all over your inner thighs along with obvious bite marks.

"Yes please," you moan, angling your hips up and he repeatedly hits that delicious spot. "Hah- f-fuck! N-ngh! Pleasepleasepleaseplease... "

Ike pulls his fingers out and you immediately protest but he shushes you. The loss of his fingers inside you was making you insane, until you get filled up by something entirely different.

"O-oh... " you moan quietly, his cock hard inside of you.

"Dumb fox." Ike takes your wrists and pins them above your head as he looks down at you. Your breath hitches. "Dumb, horny fox."

He snaps his hips and you make a guttural sound. Ike's pupils are big, drinking in every single detail from your sweat collecting on your skin, your body squirming underneath him, to your mouth popped open slightly. Oh, and those luscious lips of yours, appearing soft and unkissed...

Might as well make you his new toy now, eh?

Ike smashes his lips into yours as he fucks you fast and hard, shoving his tongue inside your mouth as you open to moan. Tongues dancing together and his muscle exploring every single space within your mouth. You tasted so delicious and felt so delicious, there was no way in hell he was letting you go now.

Satisfied with your bruised lips, the wolf goes to mark your neck. Biting, kissing, sucking. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he digs his nails into you. Tears running down your face as you hiccup, crying and saying "it's too much, it's too much'.

Ike could not give a damn. You brought this upon yourself, and now he's going to have fun with his new fucktoy.

[illmother]

ೀ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ⎯ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𝓥𝖆𝖓illa 𝗵𝗰𝘀

A/N: GOT MY PRETTY GIRL AND WAS OBSESSED IMMEDIATELY. like you don’t understand how BADLY i want her to bend me over one of her machine things and finger fuck me til’ i have to rely on said machine to keep me upright.

cw: consists of both sft and nsft hcs, tfem!Vanilla, slight bondage, corruption

— i feel like she’d be the type to cook you meals whenever you’re feeling down or stressed like; oh, you’re feeling upset, tired, unwell? eat. you’ll feel better with a full stomach

— will do anything for you, and i mean ANYTHING. even if she thinks she should be against it ‘cus it’s dangerous and whatnot, she still gives in. after all, she can protect you! she always has, and always will

— if you’re busy and working on something, she’ll cut up some fruits for you, think like those little bunny apples !!

— her actions speak louder than words! she’ll give you a back massage if you’re feeling tense and stressed, run you a bath when you’re done with work, cook you food, she’s basically your perfect housewife!

— OH! and don’t bother wasting your money on mechanics or anything like that. why call someone when you have your wonderful Vanilla up and ready to fix any issues in your home

— DEFINITELY a service top. no doubt. she’ll do whatever you want, you don’t even need to touch her for her to be cumming in her pants. but if you ever wanna top, she’ll be your loud, whiny angel <3

— speaking of cum, she cums LOADS. like enough to paint your stomach white. how does it taste? well, it’s far from bad to say the least, a little bit on the sweeter side

— she’s not a woman of many words, but god is she vocal during sex. like full on moaning, and grunting the filthiest shit right into your ear while you’re riding her, your front pressed against hers while she thrusts up into you like there’s no tomorrow

— GOD i can go on about her fingers all day. like hello?? my girl works on machines and mechanics all day for YEARS. she can reach every single nook and cranny of your sobbing cunt with her skillful fingers

— pretty sucky at aftercare, since she hasn’t had any experience with relationships after being in a deserted lab place (?) for over a decade. so you’ll have to teach her things along the way! but don’t worry, she’ll get it soon enough (for now, she just settles on cuddling up to you after a steamy night)

— that being said, being very very inexperienced in anything relationship wise leaves in room for corruption…

— ALSO her rank up art thing??? bondage?? being restricted?? hello??? are you guys seeing my vision rn…OK HEAR ME OUT-

“Do you like this, Pretty girl?” You questioned, voice breathy as you whispered into her ear. Vanilla could only groan in response, as drool dribbling messily down her chin. Having her arms restricted, while you stroked her eager, leaky cock, each pump of your hand painfully slow to her dismay. “Faster,” She choked out, you’d been teasing her for the past hour or so, and she really couldn’t take it anymore, she needed release, bad. She feels like she’ll definitely break if this goes on any longer. “Please, please, please, let me cum…just this once..” She pleaded, so sinful, so beautiful, you really couldn’t say no at this point…not when she was begging to be ruined by you. “Oh, i’ll make you cum alright.” You murmured, before your movements on her pretty cock grew faster. You’ll make her cum, and you won’t stop until she’s shooting blanks. <3

[babydollmarauders]

KIDS — JACK HUGHES

jack hughes x fem!reader

FAITHLYNN’S 500 CELLY!

🌷: “They’re not your kids, back the f*ck off.” & “That was kind of hot.” & “How is my wife more badass than me?” with Jack.

warnings: toxic mother (readers mom), profanity

as a mom, one of my biggest pet peeves is when someone else tries to parent my children. it happens most often with my own mother. she and i never had a great relationship, and i thought it may get better now that i have my own kids, but i was wrong, it’s only gotten worse.

she makes passive aggressive comments about Jack and i’s parenting choices, tries to undermine my decisions, and has even completely disregarded my words completely. but the real cherry on top is what’s happening right now.

Jack just got back from a roadie, and he was spending time with the kids when my mom showed up at our house. when i asked her what she was doing here, she said that she ‘thought i might need some help with the kids while Jack slept’. which rubbed me the wrong way because first of all, she knows he always sleeps on the plane so that he can play with Eli and Luella when he gets home; and second of all, she acts as if i don’t take care of my children all on my own the entire time he’s traveling.

“mom, what the hell?” i stage whisper, standing across from her in the kitchen. i glance out the kitchen doorway towards the living room, where Jack lays on the floor on his stomach, between our four year old and two year old, coloring with them. “you know full well that we’re perfectly fine.”

“well, i just wasn’t sure. you know, he spends so little time with them already, and he just got back from a long trip, i figured he would be tired. so i came over to take care of them so he could sleep.” she feigns innocence, raising her hands up in mock surrender.

“do you realize how bad he already feels about being away from them? he does the best that he can in order to spend as much time with them as possible, and you coming here, just assuming that he’d be giving up any time he has with them, is rude and disrespectful.” i tell her.

“well now that i’m here, i’d like to spend some time with my grandchildren.” she says.

“fine. whatever.” i storm out of the kitchen, and Jack’s head pops up when i walk back into the living room. his eyebrows raise at the sight of my irritated expression and i shake my head to tell him that i don’t wanna talk about it. his attention is pulled away when Eli calls for him, telling him to look at his drawing, and Jack praises our son’s art skills.

my mother follows me into the living room, and Luella stands to come show me her picture.

“look! mommy!” i crouch down, looking at her page of multicolored scribbles.

“it’s amazing, Lu! you did such a good job!” i tell her, my smile wide as i clap for her. she giggles and turns to show her grandmother the drawing, but my mom pays no attention to the art.

“oh, Luella.” my mother scolds. “look at your pretty dress, it’s all covered in popsicle. you have got to be more careful. and you shouldn’t have been eating a popsicle this early in the day.”

i roll my eyes. she can’t even help criticizing a two year old.

“she wanted one after lunch, and she did a good job with her food, so we gave her one, mom.” i tell her, my tone hostile.

“you need to stop giving them so much sugar.” she replies. “no wonder they have trouble listening. all that sugar and barely any adult supervision”

“they’re not your kids, back the fuck off.” i say lowly through a passive aggressive smile. “they have trouble listening sometimes because they’re children. and they have plenty of adult supervision.”

“i’m just trying to help you, y/n. lord knows you could use it.” she huffs. my eyes go wide as i look at Jack to see if he heard that, and i know he did because the muscle in his jaw ticks from clenching it. but i know he won’t say anything because he doesn’t want to offend his mother-in-law.

“Jack.” my words are sweet, but venom drips from my voice, and i square my shoulders to prepare for an argument. “can you please take Luella to get changed? and take Eli with you.”

my husband jumps up at my words, corralling our kids into Lu’s room.

“what the fuck is your problem?” my tone is harsh as i attempt to keep my voice down. “those are my children. if i needed your help, i would ask for it. i’m sick and tired of you coming over here and making comments about our parenting or judging my husband for how he takes care of our family. Jack loves his job. he loves hockey. and yes, he has to leave sometimes, for a week at most, but he is the best father to our children.”

“y/n-” she starts.

“no! i’m not done. if you want to continue to be a part of their lives, you’re going to stop with the passive aggressive comments. you’re going to quit undermining our authority. and for the love of god, you are going to stop criticizing my children! you already fucked up my childhood and i will not let you ruin theirs.” i’m nearly yelling at this point, my anger reaching new levels. “do i make myself clear?”

my mother huffs, eyeing me up and down before nodding.

“good. now i’d like for you to leave. i would like to spend time with my children, whom i love very much, and their amazing and selfless father.” i tell her. my mom spins around, stalking towards the front door and i don’t move until i hear the door shut. it’s then that i finally let my shoulders slump, heaving out a deep sigh.

Jack steps out of the kids room, the children trailing after him as he makes his way over to me. his hands grip my waist as he pulls me against him, a smirk gracing his lips.

“that was kind of hot. like, seriously, how is my wife more badass than me?” he leans down, pulling me in for a kiss. his lips are soft and taste like the grape popsicle he shared with Luella earlier. “you did great, baby.”

“you think so? i wasn’t too harsh?” i ask, tears stinging my eyes.

“no. you said what needed to be said. i’m so proud of you for standing up to her.” he mutters against my lips.

“thank you, babe.”

-

-

[ghouljams]

Crybaby Rating: Mature (for horror not smut) Word Count: 7440 Tags: psychological horror, gaslighting, manipulation, monsters, body horror, gore, murder, blood, OC x OC (Threat x Crybaby), bad end, dead dove do not eat, please let me know if I missed anything but please heed the tages Summary: A few weeks ago you met someone at a bar and offered them a couch to crash on. You don't know why you did that, but you can't take it back now.

 "Then what did you do?" You ask, hugging a pillow to your chest. You're sitting cross legged on the couch having what your couch surfer has dubbed "slut talk." It's your favorite part of the morning. Somehow despite the late nights your half-invited guest is always awake when you are. You hardly turn the coffee pot off when they wander into the kitchen with messy hair and a yawn.

They hum, "Grabbed a bite and left, same as always." It's a disappointing end to all their stories, you sort of wish there was something exciting to end their nights with. Instead of the usual fuck, eat, leave.

"Do you think people notice when you raid their fridge?" You lean to grab your mug off the coffee table.

"You don't notice when I raid your fridge," they shrug. You roll your eyes.

"Ok, well, you're allowed to raid the fridge, you're sort of living here." You tell them. They shake their head with a smile, lean against the arm of the couch to kick their feet up onto your lap.

"A fact I greatly appreciate and plan on repaying." You nearly choke on your coffee, and wave your hands to dismiss the thought entirely.

"Oh, no, no it's fun having you around. I just wish I had a better bed to offer you."

"I don't mind the couch, but if you wanna cuddle I'm all for it." They wiggle their brows, it's enough to tell you they're only teasing you.

"Funny," you grin, "you're funny." 

You check your phone, and unceremoniously shove their feet off you. You've gotta get going if you want to shower before work. It's fun having a couch surfer living with you, but it's definitely tightening your schedule talking to them so much.

-

You feel eyes on your back as you walk across campus to the metal studio. There’s a new missing poster tacked to the board outside the art building.

-

This is your least favorite part of your art hobby. Gathering material. You usually only do it once or twice a month, and even that feels too often. If your flat had any sort of garden or nearby trees you could manage, but no you wanted to live in the city. Really it wouldn’t be such a bad trip if the forest didn’t whisper to you, didn’t seem to sink deeper and darker when you stared into it.

You crouch at the edge of the forest picking up pine cones and helicopter seeds. You carefully place them in the appropriate bags to keep them separated while you look for the twigs you like. Thin, but not too thin, with good knotting. You hum quietly to yourself, mostly for the noise of it, and pluck a few of the freshly fallen leaves off the ground. Everything is inspected and saved, or discarded, as you move. It’s a good day for the woods.

They’re quiet. The usual woodland critters sing their song, but otherwise? No voices, no shifting shadows, no spooky shit. You can almost ignore the watched feeling, the tug to go deeper into the trees’ embrace. There’s nothing good in the woods. You’ve known that since you were a child. Wandering too far off your path has always made your stomach squirm. 

Which is fine. You’re not adventurous, you have no desire to get lost in the forest. Just like you have no desire to jump out windows or sleep with someone new every night. You wince a little at your own mental tone. You shouldn’t think of your couch surfer like that, they’re perfectly nice and you can’t judge other people’s lifestyles when your own is so sheltered.

You shiver, bunch your shoulders up close to your ears. You can feel eyes on you, but you know better than to look for them. Looking for them just makes the whispers start. 

You finish your collection quickly and start back towards civilization. 

-

"You smell good," their voice is in your ear. You nearly jump out of your chair, you hadn't heard them come in. Maybe you'd been too focused on your work, sueding twigs to wax and vice versa. You push your needlepoint glasses up to look at your guest.

"What?"

"You smell good," they repeat. You learned early on in their stay that your guest is a little off. Not just in their sexual escapades but in every way: the way you never see them eat, the way they never seem to sleep, and especially in how they don't seem to have any shame in their compliments.

"I smell like pine cones, I was out in the woods today." You flip your glasses down and go back to your wax work.

"That makes sense," they pick through the other wax figures you've made, shuffling them to the side as they search. "Where's the deer-fly?"

"What deer-fly?" You ask, because you don't want to admit you might believe in monsters to your not-roommate who --despite all signs against it-- seems pretty together mentally.

"You had a cute little deer with helicopter seed wings, I remember you working on it," they pick through your figures again.

"Oh, uh, I cast it." You lie.

"Oh," that's the other thing about your guest, "Ok," they believe you when you lie.

-

You fidget with your guest’s rings, twisting the gold around their fingers as they lay on their side next to you. You like how intricate they are. You trace your fingers over the thick band around their middle finger. The gnarled gold, like roots, is warm from their skin and dotted with red chip rubies. Their eyes rest on your hands, their cheek resting against their closed fist. You’re not really sure how you both ended up on your bed, but it’s comfortable.

“You sure you don’t wanna come out with me? You’d be good bait.” You snort, and roll your eyes.

“Clubs aren’t really my scene.” You move on to the interlocking rings on their pointer finger. You twist them off and watch the thin bands fall apart. It’s easier to talk when you don’t have to look at people, when you can keep your hands busy. “Besides, I’m horrible bait. People don’t talk to me.”

“I talk to you,” You can hear the smile in their voice. You shrug, twisting one of the bands onto another and pinching it to keep it together as you work on the rest.

“You don’t count.” They hum.

“Yeah, suppose I don’t really.” They take the ring from you as you struggle fitting the pieces together, their long fingers elegantly turning each piece with practiced motions. It’s strange watching them do it one handed, each finger working nimbly in a way you’re not used to, before the ring slides back onto their finger. “Person is a loose word. We’re not looking for people, we’re looking for meat.” They settle their hand back in yours and you tip your head to look at them. They raise their brows.

“Would love it if you could say dick like a normal person,” You tell them. They laugh and tug their hand from your grip to flick your forehead. Something warm pools in you, and you smile. “I really like having you around.”

“I like being around,” Their voice is a little softer, fingers brushing stray hairs from your face. “I should’ve gotten a roommate ages ago,” You sigh looking back at the ceiling. Their fingers stall, just a fraction of a second before they continue their sweep. “I’ve never been good with empty houses. Makes me a little-” You grimace, trying to think of a word other than paranoid, spooked, or crazy. Your crash-roommate pats your cheek and pushes themselves to sit up.

“Well, you got me around now. I’m way worse than any ghost could be.” You grin at your empty ceiling and sit up to watch them shrug their jacket on.

“Because you’re so scary,” You laugh at them.

“You know me,” They flash you a smile with all their teeth, “I always have to be the biggest threat in a room.” It’s a trick of the light that they look sharp for the briefest moment. Your fingers shake, your smile falling a little. They’re gone by the time you can get your nerves under control.

-

You carefully pen your letter, a short single sentence. You only do this when your sort-of-not-really-roommate is gone. They’d make fun of you, they already notice when your statues are missing. You fold the tea dyed paper carefully. The sides in, the bottom two thirds folded up, top folded down to slide the bottom in and close it. You run your fingers over your army of wax and pluck one of the fairies from the middle. 

One for the window, and the rest to cast.

You tug the window open in your craft room and tug your crucible free from its fire safe home.

-

You scrub at your arm with your hand, it feels like you just walked through a spiderweb. You hope not. You always worry that means the spider is on you now, a rather unpleasant thought. The flat  is dark, well, dim. There’s a blue glow from the living room, a gentle static of televised voices, as you make your way from your room to the bathroom. You think it’s maybe three in the morning? You didn’t check.

The TV is still talking when you finish your business, your couch surfer must be home. You’ll get a glass of water from the kitchen and make sure they’re not sleeping with the TV on. You’re less jumpy with someone else living in the house. The shadows don’t scare you the same way, still, there’s a growing sense of unease as you make your way down the dark hall to your living room. You don’t like being awake at this time. Three am is when horror movie bullshit happens. 

You squeeze your hands into fists, feel your nails dig into your palms. It grounds you enough to keep you walking as you actually get into the open living room. It’s empty. On the television an infomercial is walking through all the great deals you could be getting on a 15 piece cookware set. You power through the living room to the kitchen.

Light from the streetlamps slants across your floor from your street facing window. The scattered letters and your half closed laptop on the kitchen table under it, just barely illuminated. It’s enough to keep you from bumping into the chairs. You know your kitchen well enough to navigate it in the dark. You repeat your “I’m not scared, definitely not scared, monsters aren’t real and the dark is safe” mantra as you fish a glass out of the cupboard next to the sink.

The tap squeaks as you twist the cold water on and hold the glass under it. This is totally fine. You’ll turn off the TV after you get your water, and go right back to bed. You’re so proud of yourself for braving the safety of your empty flat. Real powerful stuff.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, a full body shiver goes through you. You turn from watching your glass fill up to look towards the living room. Your guest, or something with a similar shape, stands in the shifting technicolor light of your old television. The long night shadows of the room and the moving light make them hard to discern, make you think you can see long jointed limbs protruding from their back. Their hands hang by their sides, fingers long and sharp, dripping with a viscous fluid you think shines red as it falls on your floor. They stand unnaturally still, waiting for you to make a move, waiting for you to blink.

You can’t even breathe.

One of the long limbs behind them moves, directs itself towards the ceiling, the rest of them following. Your guest pulls themselves like a spider back towards the shadows as your breath starts again just in time for you to start hyperventilating. You can hear the rapid insectoid clicking over the rush of water from the sink.

Water pours over your hand and your attention is sucked back to your overflowing glass. You swear and turn the tap off quickly, setting your glass in the sink to grab a towel for your hand. The front door of your flat rattles, the lock turning. You can hear your guest humming as they open the door to come in. You turn to look at them quickly. They look the same as always, a little more disheveled than when they left you suppose, but otherwise perfectly normal. You try to calm down your heartbeat as they toe their shoes off. It was just your imagination, your paranoia working overtime at this late hour.

“Oh shit, did I wake you up?” Your guest whispers. You shake your head, swallow and go back to your cup. You pour some of the water off and decide you should start keeping a water bottle in your room. 

“No, uh, just- just had a bad dream, I guess,” You tell them, sticking close to the wall as you make your way out of the kitchen towards your room. You’re sure it’s blatantly obvious you’re avoiding something. “Did you turn on the TV before you left?”

“I thought you’d appreciate the noise,” They half follow you, going over to the couch and grabbing the remote, “It didn’t freak you out, did it?”

“Nope,” You lie. 

“Good,” They smile, “Wouldn’t wanna scare ya’.”

-

You chalk up your late night scare to being half asleep and an overactive imagination. Nothing to be worried about. You scroll through your local paranormal site and update them on your recently disappearing statues. You chew your nails as you watch the comments pop up on your post, the message board discussing whether it's human or monstrous intervention. You sigh and close your phone. Maybe your therapist was right and you are giving in to your delusions to an unhealthy degree. It seems crazy to think that some unseen monster is following you just because you're an artist, more so that the little statues you've been leaving out on your windowsill aren't just being taken by some random human.

You haven't been looking over your shoulder as often since they started disappearing but that could very well be a placebo effect. None of the folks in your class have been missing either, a few have even come back. There’s nothing to be worried about. Nothing waiting to eat you alive for… what? The sin of being creative? 

You stare at your bedroom ceiling. You should get some work done today, finish casting some statues. You push yourself up and out of bed, grabbing a sweater and your slippers to get some coffee before you shower. Maybe you should leave the house, it’s been a while since you went anywhere that wasn’t your workshop or class.

The lump on your couch hardly stirs when you wander past, their shoulders rising and falling with their breaths. You try not to stare, try not to slot your guest into last night’s nightmare. You do a pretty good job. You make yourself busy in the kitchen getting grounds in the coffee maker and rummaging through your pantry for something to eat. 

You can feel dread creeping just at the edges of your mind, stiffening your spine, eating at the end of your sanity. You thought when you finally lost your mind it would be a sudden thing, not this slow descent. You itch at your arm, at the invisible spider thread feeling, and grab a granola bar. 

“You’re so cute in the morning,” Your not-roommate says behind you. You just about jump out of your skin, turning to face them with your heart hammering in your chest. “So jumpy,” They smile over their coffee cup, bounce their shoulders to mimic your fright. 

“You’re up,” Look at you pointing out the obvious, they raise their brows, duh. You don’t know how to explain your unease around them this morning. You can’t reasonably tell them you had a weird semi-lucid nightmare hallucination and now their smile makes you think of their head spinning like the exorcist. 

“Call the media,” They joke, grabbing your mug and holding it out to you. You force yourself forward through the anxiety to take your coffee. It’s easy. Their hands are both occupied, and there’s no reason to think they’d hurt you. Still, you approach the gesture with the tremor of a bomb defusal technician rapidly running out of fingers. 

They transfer the mug to your hands without a second thought, dropping their hand to their side as soon as it’s done supporting the coffee’s weight. You feel the tightness in your chest unspool, your shoulders drop, the tension leaves you like it was never there in the first place. “Seriously what’s with you this morning, look like you saw a ghost.” Their voice is almost concerned. Not quite, it’s a play at concern, a child acting out what they think it should sound like. It twists your stomach into knots.

“Guess I’m still thinking about that dream,” You breathe.

“Nightmares are a bitch, huh.” Their concern drips with amusement. You knew it would be silly to bring up. They’re never concerned by the things that scare you. You don’t think your guest is scared of anything, least of all bad dreams. You brush past them to go sit on the couch, pulling your legs up to your chest as you click the TV on. 

“-recent string of deaths has been linked to a potential black market organ ring-” the television buzzes in the background, your guest falls hard on the couch next to you.

“You wanna do slut talk, or…?” You shake your head, they shrug. “Whatever, mind if we watch something else?” You offer them the remote silently, you don’t like watching the news anyway. Too much bad is happening in the world, you don’t need the added anxiety.

“-say citizens should be on the lookout for-” Your guest punches in a new channel number and the anchors are replaced by a pair of far too large men discussing statistics of some sort. The camera cuts to a caged octagon. Oh, fighting. You tune it out and try to start hyping yourself up to leave the house.

-

“Have you been taking your medication?” Your therapist asks. You pick at her couch, fingernails scratching at the felt balls that pop up on well worn knits. You don’t like that way she says it, like you’re crazy for bringing up an issue she asked about. Then again anyone would think you were crazy talking about the- the thing you saw in your house. Or didn’t see. Thought you saw.

“Every day,” You assure her, “it doesn’t feel like they’re helping anymore.”

Your therapist thinks for a minute. You like her, she’s kind, and most days helpful. She lets you talk without making you feel like you’re losing your mind, at least.

“Your sculptures, are they still disappearing?” She starts, and you desperately want to know where she’s going with it. You nod, and she nods as well. “How’s the ventilation in your craft room?”

You wince. “Not great, but I open the windows when I’m die casting.” She nods again, slower, heavier.

“Do you think you might be exposed to any toxic fumes that could be interfering with your meds? Hallucinations, memory gaps, lost items, it could be caused by that.” You hate to think she’s right, but the alternative is you being right. You suppose a carbon monoxide or noxious fume issue is more plausible than monsters being real(and out to get you). Your therapist takes your silence as agreement and pushes on. “Maybe you should try a less… fume-y hobby for a while, see if that clears up any of the symptoms.”

“And if it doesn’t?” You ask.

She sighs, leans back in her chair, “Then we might need to start entertaining the possibility that this isn’t just anxiety.”

“I’ll figure something out.” Whatever tests she’s thinking of, you’d like to avoid for the moment. It’s probably the fumes. It has to be the fumes. 

“Find a stopping point for your sculptures, and let me know next week what you want to try.” Your therapist scribbles something on their notepad. You suppose it’s good they know you well enough to know you won’t quit your art just for your health.

You’ll use up the rest of your supplies and find something easy to do.

-

You’re almost completely over the nightmare incident by the end of the week. Your guest is as friendly as ever, unbothered by any of the anxieties that plague you. You leave your offering for whatever is taking your sculptures, ask it to stay out of your house while it’s kept away. You figure that must be what it was. If it was anything at all.

You shove laundry into your washer, dropping in clothes from your hamper as you scroll on your phone. You should grab some of your guest’s washing too, that’s the nice thing to do, and they’ve been staying with you long enough. You grab your empty hamper to go snag their pile from the living room.

Come to think of it, how long have they been staying with you? You feel like it’s been a while now. You can’t really put your finger on when you offered them your couch. You think a month? Maybe? But, that doesn’t feel right. The thought rubs against your brain the wrong way. You shove their spare shirts into your basket. You’re not great with dates but you know you’re better than this. Forgetful but not enough to forget when you opened your home to a stranger. Wasn’t this supposed to be temporary? Why does it feel like they’ve moved in?

You wince, feeling the sharp stab of a stress headache forming. You try to keep your focus on the clothes you feed to the washer, stopping to check the tag on one of their flannels. You check the little symbols against your cheat sheet on the wall and stop. 

You rub your finger over the hard crust on the collar of their shirt. It makes your lip curl in disgust, it doesn’t feel like dirt. You glance down to see if you need to pre-treat the stain, scratch at one of the brown droplets. It looks like a nasty stain, already soaked into the fibers of the shirt. You frown, it looks like blood. But on their collar like this you would’ve seen a cut on their face by now. Besides this was at the bottom of their pile, and you haven’t seen them wear it in a few days. Plenty of time to notice a new bandage or scar. Which makes you think it isn’t their blood.

You dig your nail into the stain, feel it crush under your finger. There isn’t any reason to think it’s blood. No reason to think it isn’t your friend’s blood. Really this whole blood stain business is a bad faith line of thinking. Except you know blood when you see it.

With shaking hands you set the flannel on the table and go to grab the lemon juice. At least you can clean it up. You can get the blood out of your house and then it won’t be blood anymore. No more blood in your house. You swallow your fear, set the lemon juice next to the shirt. You think of the red that had dripped off your nightmare’s hands as they stood in your living room.

You leave the laundry and go to the living room. You’re going to convince yourself that this is silly. You’re being ridiculous. You settle on your knees in front of the TV, and inspect the floor. Your flat isn’t exactly the most up to date, your wood floors have seen better days. If there was blood -there wasn’t- then there should still be some between the floorboards. You run your fingers over the dips between the wood, looking for any disturbance in the lacquer. 

There’s nothing, not even a speck of dirt.

You exhale, shaky, and stand again. Good. Good, you knew there wouldn’t be anything. You clean up well. 

You go back to the kitchen to finish getting your friend’s mystery stain out of their shirt. 

-

You drum your fingers against your work table, staring down your army of silver statues. Their delicately sculpted features don’t help you make up your mind. In fact they almost coax you away from your prescribed course of action. You’re good at this. You don’t want to be bad at something new.

Either way you need supplies.

You grab your usual bag and grip the canvas tight. It’ll be fine. You can be bad at something. You just can’t keep living like this. You lock your front door tightly behind you and start down the street towards your favorite craft store.

The streets are cold. The wind at your back makes you shiver, and the watched feeling... Fumes, you tell yourself. You’d rushed to get everything cast and now you’re paying the price. You hook a right towards the tube station and make your way down the steps. People walk past you on the other side, swipe their card after you, wait around you for the train. It’s normal. It’s suffocating. You squeeze your hands around the straps of your bag, nails digging into your palms. It’s only one stop, but you rush to get off the train and back up into fresh air. You bump into someone and give a hasty “excuse me.”

Halfway down the street someone grabs your arm. You tense and they drop their grip immediately.

“Yer bag’s leakin’.” A low voice informs you. You tug your bag to check it and groan. There’s a tear on the corner that a pound is nearly tumbling out of. You feel your shoulders drop, that’s just fabulous. You suppose the canvas has taken a beating over the years, it must have caught on something when you were leaving the house. “Aw, dinnae cry bonnie, s’alrigh’.” You glance up at the man, he holds up a handful of pencils and coins, “I caught yer trail.”

You find yourself sitting on a bench sniffling while a stranger sews the hole in your bag closed. His stitches are neat, clinically precise. He doesn’t take long, just like he promised, and knots the dark thread with careful fingers when he’s finished. You wipe your eyes, cursing your bad luck and anything else you can think of. Your life feels like it’s been falling apart recently. First you lose your mind, now you’re losing your favorite tote.

“Good as new,” the man gives the mended corner a tug and starts grabbing your supplies to drop back into it. He hums, the tune is familiar but you can’t put your finger on it. “Ya done with yer tears yet, bon?” He settles your tote between the two of you, an illusion of space. You nod, even though he reaches to scrub a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. 

You give a half annoyed hum, and feel the rays of his smile. You glance at him, and realize you hadn’t actually looked at him until now. It feels rude to not even have spared him a glance. Except that he feels completely overwhelming as soon as you look at him. His eyes are so blue they burn, every piece of him slotting uncomfortably close to human. You flinch as pain strikes through your head.

His brows draw together, and he tips his head forward, leaning closer to get a better look at you. He mumbles something and reaches to press his fingers against your forehead. His skin is so warm it’s almost alien. His nails scratch bluntly at your skin before catching on something.

It’s like he’s pulling a nail from your skull, the pressure gone as soon as he rolls his fingers together to dust off the hair. You blink, your head feeling lighter than it has in days.

“Better?” He asks. You rub your forehead.

“Yeah, thanks, um-”

“Soap,” He supplies, pushing off the bench to stand.

“Soap,” You smile, it’s silly but you suppose you’ve heard worse. He offers you a hand to pull you to your feet. His fingers wrap around yours, warm, calloused, big. You try not to focus on them too much as they tug you up. He leans around you to grab your bag and hold it out to you.

“Where’re ya off ta?” Soap asks.

“Craft store, I’m-” You sigh, you shouldn’t tell a stranger your therapist is mandating a hobby change, “I’m looking for a new hobby.”

Soap tips his head to the side, thinking --you think. He rattles off a few potential options, paper crafts, fiber arts, clay sculpting, good old fashioned pencils on paper. You hardly hear a word he says, too busy feeling your heart jump into your throat. From this angle you’d almost swear he had a second set of teeth.

-

You press against your front door when you get home, fingers shaky as you click the deadbolt into place. Soap had been perfectly polite and cordial to you, and yet you felt unnerved. You were seeing things you couldn’t get out of your brain and it was making it hard to focus on pretending you’re normal. He’d even walked you home, his eyes lingering on your window. You have unfounded suspicions.

“Wow you’re home late,” Your guest calls from the kitchen. They wander into the living room and stop dead when they spot you. Their nose wrinkles when they frown. 

You run a hand over your hair, close your eyes and try to focus on the time. Your stomach rumbles. You hadn’t grabbed dinner, despite Soap’s offer. You’ll eat leftovers, or throw something together. It's no problem.

“You ok?” You jerk back against the door. Your friend hovers too close. Their eyes are wide and searching, darting over you with a strange intensity you’ve never seen before. 

“Fine, I just had a long day.” You tell them, brushing past to head for the fridge. They follow close behind, almost clingy.

“You sure? Maybe I should stay home tonight, take care of you.” They offer. You sigh and tug the fridge door open, leaning to check what you have. Your not-roommate’s hands pluck at your sweater, reach around you to grab food when your eyes settle on it too long.

“Don’t let me ruin your fun,” You let them tug you away from the fridge, and you hop up to sit on the counter. Pasta is dumped into a bowl and shoved in the microwave. 

“I can skip going out,” They stare down the microwave timer, fingers tapping the counter.

“I’m really-”

“Did you meet anyone interesting while you were out?” They cut you off. You blink. That’s a weird question. You don’t know how to respond. Their gaze is so sharp you almost don’t want to tell them the truth. You swallow.

“What?”

“Do you think you’re getting sick?” They repeat, “It’s getting colder out, you might’ve caught something you shouldn’t have.” There’s a ringing in your ears, you shake your head to dislodge it. Maybe you are coming down with something.

“Just more reasons for you to go out, I don’t wanna get you sick.” You press the back of your hand to your forehead, you should find your thermometer. Your guest hums in annoyance.

“Alright, but think about staying home this week.” You nod, you weren’t planning on heading out again except for groceries, but you can always order in. “Don’t wait up,” They tell you, reaching to flick your forehead as soon as you drop your hand.

-

“I thought you were going out tonight?” You freeze in the hallway, staring at your still home roommate. They look up from the couch, a beer dangling from their fingers.

“Decided to stay in,” They tip their head back to finish the can. You don’t watch the bob of their throat as they swallow. You do rub your eyes in the glare of the television. “Hey, you mind if I sneak in with you tonight?” They ask. The question slides over you like water.

You hum, and nod before you can actually think about what they asked. You turn back down the hall and pad to the bathroom. You hear the TV click off and figure they’re heading to your room. Which is weird. 

When you head back to bed your roommate has already made themselves comfortable. They have one of your stuffed animals on their chest, their hands flopping the bunny ears back and forth while they wait for you. You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

Having them in here makes you- but you can’t-

You climb into bed on the other side of them and click the light off.

-

You jerk awake. Something physically pulls you awake.

You stare, frozen, into the darkness. The darkness is otherwise occupied, it’s spindling limbs cracking and clicking as they reach with odd angles for your ceiling. They lodge themselves in the corners of your room, eating the shadows cast by the streetlights outside your window. You’re powerless to stop it as it drags threads from your cracked chest. The strings throb, glowing an angry red as the dark monstrous mass that’s haunted your shadow for weeks drags clawed fingers over them. The light catches on the silver of spiderwebs. Lace draped all over your room like a nest. You wish you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel the air of the room on your lungs. You wish it felt wetter, not this horrible wash of dryness.

Long delicate claws piece out your threads, nudge your lungs to the side and you feel your muscles tense. Your fingers retract, clawing at the sheets, gouging into the soft cotton. Fingers slip against your heart, drawing it from your chest in a mess of veins and tethers. Your stomach rolls, watching the shadows inspect the organ. You’ve never felt your pulse in such a sick way, never been so conscious of your blood or the ways it’s distributed through your body. The wetness of your heart drips onto your lungs.

It’s a short nightmare that seems to last forever before your heart is settled neatly back into place. Your ribs are pressed back into place, skin knit together like it never was moved to begin with. Then the claws reach for your face, palm pressing tight over your eyes and pushing you down deep into sleep.

-

It’s strange how well you sleep with your guest sharing your bed. You always wake up cuddled close, their arms around you as they snore softly. You’re used to being the first one awake. Even without them going out, you find they’re slow to wake up. It’s sort of cute. People seem much less cool and untouchable when their face is smushed in a pillow and their hair is all over the place.

You brush your teeth and wince. You must’ve slept wrong. Your neck is killing you.

Your eyes slide off the mirror, unable or unwilling to hold onto your reflection. You grab some painkillers and make your way to the kitchen to start on coffee.

-

You gasp, coming to on your couch like you’ve pulled yourself out of the sea. 

The news drones on about a festival happening this weekend. Weekend? What day is it? You can’t remember. You frown, check your phone. It’s dead, despite being plugged into its charger. You tug at the cord and it pulls up into your hand without resistance, unplugged from its little cube. Ok, so no sense checking that. You plug the cord back in and watch the little light turn on before getting up.

You can check your craft room. You have a general idea of timing on your projects, you just need to check how far you’ve gotten on- on- 

What are you working on right now?

You stop in the doorway, staring down your neat work desk. Someone cleaned up in here(was it you?) and you haven’t had time to dirty it up yet. There are no scraps of fabric, no balls of yarn, no picked apart pine cones or snapped twigs. You move towards a pile of freshly folded fleece, picking at the soft fabric. You almost remember buying this, that must’ve been at least a week ago. Last weekend, maybe. 

You pick it up to check you didn’t set it on top of any ongoing projects and spot the orange flipper of your duck buried deep in the basket. With a frown you tug it free, the cool fabric making your frown deepen.

When’s the last time you left an offering on your windowsill?

You glance out the window, it looks just past sunset. The house is quiet. Your roommate must have gone out already. You take the duck with you back to the couch and grab the remote. You’ll find something interesting to watch while you wait for your phone to charge.

“-of local nightclubs,” The newscaster drones, their even tone hardly relaying the gravity of their report, “you may be in danger. New police reports indicate that these bars may be the hunting grounds for the trafficking ring that police now believe may be a single disturbed individual-”

You lower the remote, sitting forward to listen with growing unease as the newscaster describes murders you should have heard about by now. Murders that have been going on for weeks. Missing organs. They recount the investigation’s process. The first instinct towards organ trafficking, and the growing evidence towards one organized individual and not an organization. Eye witnesses that can’t remember who the victims left with. Precise injuries and surgical precision, their throats torn out like an animal had attacked them.

There’s something itching at your brain, something familiar. Something you can’t touch. You’re not supposed to touch. You stroke your fingers over the handmade plush in your arms, something warm and stick clinging to them as you self soothe. It dislodges your nerves, shakes them free, snakes through the fog over your brain. 

You tug the blanket off the back of the couch and drag it over your lap. You press yourself back into the corner of the couch, small and safe. It’s your paranoia.

Have you been taking your medicine?

-

You wake up to the front door closing. You must have turned the TV off at some point. You rub your eyes and go to check on your guest.

You flick on the kitchen light and see your roommate roll their shoulders back with a click. They tip their head one way then the other, stretching with an unnatural length to their movements. The shadow they cast skewers the corners of the room. When they turn to look over their shoulder at you, their eyes are almost black, all four of them blink. You press yourself back against the wall. When you blink they’ve turned towards you.

Blood drips down their chest, stains their lips and traces down their throat. Their hands hang by their sides, nails stained with grit. Their tongue darts out and along their lips, cleaning some of the red off.

“You’re-’ You don’t know what to say, feel frozen by your own fear.

“I thought we’d settled this,” They sigh, wipe their throat with their hand and inspect the blood. The level of casualty they display strikes you more than words ever could. 

“Blood, that’s blood,” You stammer out. They shrug sucking on their fingers.

“O negative if you wanna be specific,” Their voice is thick as they swallow, “Organ donor too, since you were so picky about that last time.”

Last time? What are they talking about?

Blood rushes in your ears, your heart pounding so loud you can hardly hear them over the noise. Your hands shake, tug at your shirt. Suddenly you can feel the cloth against your skin, can feel your muscles sliding against your bones, a nauseating sensation you can’t seem to get rid of. The way they talk about this, like it’s something you’ve discussed, something you could be OK with if you just had guidelines set up. You can’t imagine ever being alright with whatever is happening.

Something clicks into place in your mind. The string of murders on the news, missing organs, strange lacerations, drained of blood. Was it them? Your guest holds their chin, cracking their neck as you try not to hyperventilate.

“You’re the one from the news,” You whisper. They hum, and smile at you.

“Fun right? I’ve never been famous before,” They laugh like this is some sort of game. You feel your stomach roll.

“You’re killing people.”

You watch as their usual gentle smile falls, as their entire face seems to fall away into a blank unfeeling parody of the person who's been crashing on your couch.

"So we’re doing this again." The start, picking one of your kitchen knives out of the block on your counter, "What’s the line? I'm not killing people, I'm killing men? Although," They laugh, it’s a hollow cold thing, “I’m really not that picky with my prey.”

Your eyes dart towards the door, you take a half step back. "Don't run," they warn you, condescending as you've never heard them before, "I won't be able to help myself if you run." You don't know what else you could possibly do in this situation. You can't stay, there's no way they let you live now that you know they're a murderer. You have to run.

With a burst of energy you bolt from the kitchen for your front door. You hear a snarl behind you, a “you always do this,” as you flip the deadbolt and rip the door open. You nearly tumble down your front step, but it hardly slows you down. You know better than to look back when you can hear the crashing, feel the strike of claws through the air behind you. How do you combat a murderer? You can feel tears starting to blur your vision, and for once in your life you hope they fall just to clear your eyes. 

How many times have you run to the local police station? The monster behind you had said you’d done this before? Would they think you were crying wolf? Would they put you back in the house with this person? Would you forget again?

You’re caught around the middle and lifted. You scream and kick, push at your captor’s face and claw at their arms. You hardly seem to make a dent in them, all hard muscle and low grunts of pain.

“Calm down lass,” Soap orders, voice dropping with your panic. You dig your nails into his arms, sob and scream for him to help you. He grabs your chin and tips your head to the side. “Christ, bonnie, what happened to ya?” He grits, his fingers skating over your neck. You jerk away from the pain that his touch rolls through you.

You freeze, your breath heaving as you stare down your unwanted guest. They haunt the end of the street like a nightmare, their sticky shadows dripping in the midnight moonlight, streaking to cling to the walls and fall to the cobblestone street. Soap hums behind you. No. Humming is too human a description. He growls. The sound low and vibrating, like a dog warning of its impending bite.

You’re struck by another bout of blind panic. For whatever reason your guest has kept you alive, but Soap is a different story. You can’t be a party to this man’s murder. You renew your desperation as you push at his hold.

“We have to go,” You tell him desperately, watching your guest stalk closer, “they’ll kill us, we have to go.”

“That’s mine,” Your guest growls, the sound whispering through the shadows and making your head pound. You squeeze your eyes shut, press back into Soap’s relative safety.

“That’s too bad,” Soap growls, amusement clear where you’d expect fear, “been feeding me for weeks.”

Your eyes snap open, glancing up at your newest monster. He smiles down at you with too many teeth.

“What-”

“Somethin’ much worse than your little spider,” He tells you, holding up a finger, “boop.” He taps your forehead and everything goes black.

[coneyislandbabey]

she's a rainbow. -> w.rojas

WARNINGS: profanities, pining lol

SYNOPSIS: Warren's got it bad for Camila's childhood best friend. word count: 2,008

NOTES: Written for this request!

You dragged your paintbrush across the canvas, a trail of plum purple in its wake. You were sitting on your deck, the sky a cloudless blue, the morning filled with birdsong and a soft breeze only making itself known through the occasional soft rustle of your hair and clothes. June was a ripe peach in your hands, pink, perfect, fleeting. 

“What are you painting today, Picasso?” Warren’s clear voice rang out through the morning air. He was standing on the deck of his own house next door, forearms resting lazily on the railing as he gazed over at you. You glanced up from your work to send a smile his way. 

“Shocked to see you up this early,” you called by way of greeting. “If you wanna see what I’m painting, come over and look.” 

At your words, he disappeared back into the house, and you knew that in a minute he would be opening the sliding door and stepping out onto your own deck. You did this almost every day, ever since you followed your childhood best friend Camila across the country, moving into the house next to hers and her boyfriend’s band in Laurel Canyon. 

In the months since you arrived, you’ve gotten incredibly close with all of Camila’s housemates. Whenever you weren’t doing a shift for your part-time job at a coffee shop or at your own place working on your art, you were at their house. You and Camila spent a lot of time one-on-one, getting together for wine or lunch or anything else while the band was working, but the band loved you so much that you found yourself hanging out with them almost even more than with her, especially since Warren started inviting you to their recording sessions down at the studio. 

You had become so absorbed in your painting that you didn’t realize Warren had arrived on your deck until his hands were on the back of your chair and he was leaning over your shoulder to get a good look at the canvas. 

“Oh, it’s our street at night,” he observed, taking in the deep purples and night blues that the familiar street was rendered in. “It’s beautiful. Looks like a place I’d wanna be.”

You rolled your eyes. “It already is a place you wanna be, Warren. You live there.” 

Though you couldn’t see it, Warren grinned, swooping down to press a kiss to your cheek. “I only wanna be here so much ‘cause it’s where you are, mama.” 

You scoffed, sending a rueful smile his way as he sat in the chair next to yours. He pulled a joint out of his pocket, lit it, and offered it. You took it between your lips and inhaled before sending it back his way. For a while, the two of you sat in a comfortable silence, Warren merely observing you as you painted. He had told you once, the two of you high as kites while hanging out late one night, that he loved to watch you paint. He said watching you paint was as intricate a thing as watching a musician play their instrument, that it was captivating. You had hung onto his words even through the drug-induced haze, had thought about them for weeks on end. 

“You’ll come over for dinner tonight, right?” he asked after a while. “Camila saw me leaving to come over here and made me promise to get you to come.”

“Man, I don’t even buy groceries over here anymore ‘cause I’m always just eating at yours,” you laughed. “Course I’ll come. Can’t beat the company.”

“Good,” he said, standing. “I gotta get back to the house; shockingly, I actually have responsibilities to see to today.”

“Oh, well color me impressed,” you responded, happily accepting his parting kiss on the cheek. 

Eddie watched, amused, as Warren got up for the dozenth time in the last half hour, drifting back over to the windows and peering outside, toward your house. Dinner was set for twenty minutes from now, and you were expected to come. Though some, clearly, were expecting you more than others. 

“Man, can you chill the fuck out? You’re making me antsy,” he said, after watching Warren pace the room for a few minutes while still pretending to look casual. 

“I am chill! I’m totally chill!” Warren said, having the gall to look incensed at his best friend’s words. 

Eddie leveled him with an unimpressed look. “Do you think you’ll finally just tell her how you feel so you can stop being such a fuckin’ freak every time she comes over?” 

Warren sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall. “Don’t you think if she was into me she would’ve said something by now? I’m not going to embarrass myself or ruin our friendship. I know when I’m gonna strike out.”

“Clearly you don’t, idiot,” Eddie retorted. “First of all, she could say the same about you because you haven’t made any moves either, man. All of what you just said means nothing.” 

“She’s definitely into you, anyway,” Graham said, joining the conversation as he walked into the room. 

“What makes you think that?” Warren asked, ignoring Eddie’s comments, which were clearly too logical for him. 

“Why else do you think she hangs around here so often? I mean, don’t get me wrong, we’re all friends, but everyone knows it's different with you two. Most of the time she’s here for you,” Graham explained. 

“Yeah, and don’t forget that she comes to our recording sessions because you asked her to,” Eddie chimed in, a smirk growing on his face as Warren’s cheeks grew redder. He didn’t have the chance to answer before someone knocked on the door. 

“You wanna go get that?” Eddie asked, raising a teasing eyebrow. 

Warren made his way to the door, shaking his head as if to physically rid himself of the conversation that had just happened. He had never felt the way he did about you before, not about any woman he had ever met. When you first met, things had been flirty between you, at least more flirty than you were with any of the other guys, and he almost plucked up the courage to ask you out in the first week of knowing you. But then the two of you got high together one night, and you got him talking about his hopes for the band, and you told him about all of your ambitions when it comes to your art, and he could feel himself falling in love a little. He had real, undeniable feelings for you, and that made it all too scary. So, he’d convinced himself that there was no way you could have feelings for him too, because thinking he had no chance with you was easier, more comfortable, than pining after you. 

He put a valiant effort into feigning nonchalance when he opened the door, all of these thoughts still a monsoon in his mind. You stood on the other side of the threshold, a bottle of wine in one hand and a covered plate of chocolate chip cookies in the other. 

“I baked ‘em!” you said proudly, holding up the plate and smiling widely at him. For a minute, his mind blanked, and all he could think about was the way your eyes sparkled in the porchlight, the way your dress fell perfectly on your figure. You knocked him dead every time he set eyes on you. Snapping out of it, he unburdened you of the bottle of wine and the cookies, widening his arms so he could take you in a hug. 

“Are they cookies? Or are they cookies,” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and smacking him playfully on the shoulder. “They’re just cookies, Rojas. This is a family dinner, not a late night recording session.” 

“Family dinner?” 

“Yeah,” you shrugged as you walked through the door. “This is a family, isn’t it?” 

“Guess it is,” he responded, because you were right and because he would agree with any statement you made ever for the rest of your lives. 

“Honey, you made it!” Camila shouted, coming over to hug you as you walked in. You greeted her warmly, and then did the same for everyone else standing around the kitchen helping to make dinner (or, really, getting in the way of Camila and Graham, who were the only ones actually cooking). 

Dinner was, as usual, the highlight of Warren’s day. After listening to Billy get grouchy and boss everyone around in the studio all day, getting to come home and actually unwind was a godsend. Plus, he got to see you, warm and pliant with wine and good food and good company. You were so effortlessly funny and charismatic, easily commanding the attention of the room with your stories and jokes without ever trying to. He could listen to you talk for the rest of his life. He could stand to do a lot of things with you for the rest of his life. 

After dinner, the group of you took the cookies you made and moved to the living room, settling in to watch a movie. You snuggled with Warren under a blanket on the loveseat, Eddie, Karen, Graham, and Camila squished into the old couch. Billy had retired to his room prior to the movie, citing that he needed to get some writing done. Graham had already fallen asleep, and Karen and Eddie were providing a running commentary of how bad the movie was. 

Warren nudged your side, and when you turned to look at him, he took a joint out of his pocket and tilted his head toward the door to the deck, a silent question. You nodded and he stood, you following close behind after wrapping the blanket around your shoulders. You didn’t see the exaggerated wink Eddie shot Warren’s way as you left the room, or the way Warren mimed slitting his throat in response, sending Eddie into a fit of laughter that he desperately tried to stifle. 

Outside, you settled into your usual chair, Warren pulling one up close to you before sitting down. You turned your body towards him, leaning your head on the back of the chair and gazing at him affectionately as he lit up the joint, and, as usual, offered it to you before himself. You took a hit before handing it back to him, settling back into your position of observing him as the joint went to his own mouth. 

“What are you lookin’ at, mama?” he asked, a mixture of curiosity and amusement gracing his face. 

You hummed, shrugging your shoulders noncommittally. “You should let me paint you sometime.” 

“Paint me? Why?” he asked, brows raising. 

“Because you’re pretty,” you said bluntly, Warren’s heart stumbled over itself. “You’d make a good muse.” 

Warren laughed, trying to steady himself. “You think I’m pretty?” 

You leaned toward him a bit more, a small, private smile on your face. “Of course I do, Warren. I’m sure dozens of other people have told you as much.”

“Not like this, no,” he said, shaking his head with a smile. “And it wouldn’t mean anything coming from any but you, anyway.” Your brows raised, mouth dropping into a small, understanding ‘o’. Then you were smiling at him again, the corners of your eyes crinkling in a way that made his heart overflow. 

“Are you finally going to kiss me now?” you asked, and Warren choked, smoke emitting from his nose and mouth. 

“I- uh, yeah. Yeah, I am,” he stammered, shaking his head as vigorously as he could in his buzzed state. 

“Good,” you said, leaning over the arm of your chair. Warren crossed the rest of the distance himself, connecting his lips to yours. You led the kiss, firm and gentle, your thumb stroking reassuringly against his cheek. 

“So, about me painting you,” you said breathlessly once you pulled away. 

“Anything for you.I’d be honored to be your muse,” he grinned.

tag list: @xleiaorgana @neptunes-curse