#rainy ribcage

[dailyenglishvoca]

Today’s song is Rainy Ribcage by ★ RETRO JOCIE ★ featuring the Synthesizer V voicebank Eleanor Forte

Content warning: flashing lights, disturbing/violent imagery, themes concerning domestic violence

[rawwithlove]

Missing this absolutely perfect tanning weather we had the other day!

💖✨🤪

[lovebugism]

Smut request idea: Eddie worshipping reader's tits, who is insecure about their small size (lol totally not projecting 😅)

ty for requesting :D — eddie 'heart eyes' munson sees your boobs for the first time (cw for nudity, but no real smut, 18+ mdni, 1.1k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

On a rainy, post-show night, in the back of Eddie Munson’s van, you decide to be brave.

Buzzing with alcohol, adrenaline, and adoration — a wild concoction rushing like fire through your veins — you take your shirt off for the very first time in front of him. Mostly because your sweater was getting itchy, so you’re not entirely sure how brave that makes you. But your skin burns still, empty like a blank sky, yearning for a warmer touch to fall over you like stars.

In the simplest, most human way, you need Eddie to touch you like you need to breathe air. 

So, when you tugged the fuzzy sweater up and over your head, you hadn’t thought much about doing it. You were too full of need, too unthinking. Head clouded with longing until you developed something short of tunnel vision for the boy underneath you.

It wasn’t that big a deal, right? Isn’t this what girlfriends do with boyfriends?

Eddie’s silence is not reassuring. It feels more like a knife lodged in the very center of your sternum.

You lay the sweater beside you and cross your arms slowly over yourself. Equal parts to hide what you’d just revealed to him and to shield your bleeding, stinging heart.

Eddie’s face twists, pained features swirling like a hurt puppy. “Wait— What are you doing?” he asks in an unabashed whine. His less-than-subtle pout deepens as his chocolate-button eyes flit up to yours.

You keep curling in on yourself, but from where you straddle his thighs, he’s impossible to run away from. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” you wonder in a tiny voice, distantly fearful of the answer. 

You don’t have the kind of chest people put on magazines. Maybe you should’ve just kept the shirt on.

Eddie’s ringed fingers smooth around your bare waist. He realizes he’s holding you there for the very first time without any fabric covering you. His chest starts to sparkle. His thumbs rub gently at your ribcage, just below the arms still concealing yourself.

“‘Cause I’m too busy enjoying the view, honey,” he answers with a plush pink and crooked smile. His words are slightly slurred, weighed down by fatigue and desire. “How am I supposed to think when I’m looking at you, huh?”

You make a faint, grumbly noise, features scrunching in disdain at his compliment.

He smiles wider and curls his fingers around the wrists you hold over yourself. There is little force behind his touch, no eagerness to tug your hands away. Instead he just holds you, in a distinctly quiet embrace, telling you silently that you can let your guard down whenever you’re ready.

“So you don’t think they’re weird?”

He answers with an immediate scoff. “No, I don’t think they’re weird— I think they’re beautiful! I think every part of you is beautiful.”

You grow less and less tense in his hold. Your hands start to slip. You let them. 

Bare again in front of him, the boyish glimmer in Eddie’s dark eyes returns. 

The wild cadence of rain on the rusted tin roof resembles the rapid patter of his pounding heart as he ogles at you. And, with his back propped against the driver’s seat, he has the most perfect view of you.

The pale hands along your ribcage slowly start to rise. His warm touch leaves sparkling goosebumps in its wake. He doesn’t stop until his thumbs are settled neatly beneath your breasts.

“I mean— I always knew they’d be pretty, you know?” he mumbles, getting lost in you all over again. You don’t know if he’s talking to you, or if he even knows he’s rambling. “‘Cause when you’d let me feel you up, you know, over the shirt— I always imagined what you’d look like under it…”

He trails off then, forgets how to make words when his thumb rubs over your soft nipple. The gentle stimulation makes it stiffen beneath his touch. Eddie smiles to himself, all boyishly giddy.

“…But I couldn’t’ve, in my wildest imagination, expected this.”

Your chest warms with his affection. You scoff about it, anyway. “You’re such a boy,” you laugh.

“It’s not my fault you’re so pretty…” 

Still cupping your chest, Eddie leans down to kiss you there. A chaste, open-mouthed peck to your pebbled nipple. His heart swells when he hears you moan above him — your nose buried in the strands of his wild hair, fingers playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. 

Eddie licks his rosy lips when he pulls back from you. 

“See? You’re gonna kill me one day, doll— I swear,” he teases in a joking tone, but means every bit of it. He loves you so much it makes his chest ache. You’ll give him a goddamn heart attack one day if he’s not careful. “Can’t believe you’ve been hiding from me this whole time…”

You’re not sure either, now. 

“I was just scared that… I don’t know,” you stammer, clammy hands fidgetting with his intentionally tattered Corroded Coffin t-shirt. You’d helped him cut rips into the white fabric before the show. You distract yourself with the pink lipstick smudge you’d pressed along the neck of it, rubbing hopelessly at a stain that’ll never come off. 

“I was scared that you’d think I was less pretty or something. I don’t know.”

“No,” Eddie recoils immediately, face twisting in abhorrence of the thought. He shakes his wild head at you. “No way. That’s not possible. I think you’re fucking— perfect. And I think that…”

His eyes fall to your chest again. He loses the rest of his words.

A smile blossoms on your face. You don’t think you’ve ever felt prettier than you do right now.

“You think that what?” you tease, hands rising again to twist in his deep brown curls.

Eddie’s button eyes flit back up to you. His ringed hands lift to cup your breasts in his wide palms. They fit just perfect in his hands — like he was made to hold you there. The width of his beam rivals your own. 

“That I just found Corroded Coffin’s next album cover,” he answers.

The sound of your laughter fills the van. Sunshine compared to the rolling rain outside.

“No. No way. That’s not happening,” you refuse, still smiling, as Eddie leans into you again.

You wrap your arms around his neck when he puts his mouth on you. He buries his own laughter against the plush of your breast — along with so many little kisses. 

He doesn’t mind your light-hearted rejection. The only thing Eddie likes more than showing you off is keeping you totally to himself.

[cowyolks]

THE SOUR BITE OF BETRAYAL

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Prompt: He was back, digging up your cold heart and clenching it in his bloodied fist. But scars changed people, morphed them and adapted them. He wasn’t the boy you loved, nor were you the woman he adored.

Words: 3.2 K

Warnings: Graphic Injuries, PTSD & and signs of depression, heavy angst with a light dusting of fluff.

A/n: taking a minute from our regular scheduled program to write for my fav batboy!

Ghouls haunted this city. It was no surprise that Gotham was a city full of anguished souls—spirits that died in such horrible ways that they were betrayed and angry, still haunting the alleyways of the rainy hellscape.

Civilians that lived in Gotham were trapped in iron bars, forever enclosed unless they tore out their ribcages and discarded their bones. Blood tainted the sidewalks, maybe not visible, but the haunting scent of iron never left.

You deserved to be here. In the very darkest pits of Crime Alley, where dealers cackled in the shadows, murderers showed their faces with no shame, and drug and human trafficking were at a high. The area burnt down the remaining tissues of your heart, effectively turning it to ashes as you watched the horrendous crimes.

Once upon a time, you’d stop the horrific crimes. Stop the petty thieves and cold murders with a veil over your head.

You could nearly laugh now; how naive you were. Such a child that thought she could make a difference under the iron fist of a hypocrite. You’d been no younger than twelve when the Batman sent you out in the night, dodging lead bullets and twisted knives. You'd come back to school with purple bruises and aching muscles, something you had to have expertly concealed to avoid complications.

There was a time you thought Bruce Wayne had saved you, but it was never the case. You'd have better luck trying your hand in the dirty streets of Crime Alley where he found you.

The pitter patter of rain brought no comfort to you, the chilled air escaped through the hooded windbreaker you wore, making your skin raise in retaliation. You limped down the sidewalk, your knee aching particularly today, as it usually did when it rained.

Night had already settled in, only streetlights luminating the area, if the bulbs weren't already shot and littered with bullet holes. Most of the sane Gothamites were already at home, locks triple checked and barricaded. You however, hardly cared if you lived or died.

Besides, you were hungry.

On the rare occasion that you did eat, you never had the energy to cook anything, rather settling on walking a couple blocks to a shitty takeout place, the place you frequented many times before the accident. You avoided it for a long time, as the rundown place just haunted your thoughts of him.

Now it served as a reminder that you were human. A metaphorical bandage, that ripped your flesh raw. it was pain to hold the memories of him, but now, you were happy to just feel that pang in your chest as you pulled open the lodged and uneven door.

You sat in the same worn-down booth you always did, the wooden frame showing through the moth-bitten cushions, and questionable stains displaying what was left of the thin material.

With all the robberies recently, the restaurant only served what they were famous for- soup dumplings, so it was no surprise when a little boy, maybe 10, settled a steaming ceramic bowl in front of you before he left back into the kitchen.

Only one other person was inside, likely a homeless man in search of warmth before the owners kicked him out. Your eyes narrowed at him as he wolfed down the dumplings, he didn't seem like too much of a threat.

Your gaze travelled to the window, catching on any bodies moving down the sidewalk, nothing excited you, so you settled for watching the fat raindrops fall down the glass. You carelessly shoved a dumpling in your mouth, wincing at the scalding broth that burnt the back of your throat.

The telltale scraping and groaning of the door signaled another customer had entered the space, just as your eyes travelled to the noise. A tall, hooded figure sat in the booth next to you, way too close for comfort, specifically because the room was nearly empty. You sniffed, taking the time to study the nice sneakers he was wearing, and the hint of blue that patterned the inside lining of his hood.

The stranger made no motion to acknowledge the steaming broth in front of him, instead he tilted his head to you, staring for perhaps too long, until you could make out the crystalline blue of his iris.

Immediately your hackles raised, fingers clutching too tightly to your plastic spoon, nearly breaking it.

"Are you just going to gawk, or are you going to tell me why you're here, Grayson?" Your unamused and careless tone made the man's shoulders sink, but he stood anyway, slipping into the booth across from you, his knee nearly bumping into your bad one.

"How have you been?" He stalled, pushing his hood back so you could see his pretty-boy face. He'd always been handsome, pretty blue eyes and dark hair. The prodigal son- it was enough to make you want to gag.

The dark bags under your eyes and your fatigued appearance spoke for itself, you were miserable. "Peachy." Your sarcasm leaked through, just as you took a petty bite of another dumping, once again burning your throat.

You hadn't seen Dick in almost four years, not that he hasn't tried to contact you. You just wanted out from the whole superhero business, especially after such flawed business. Grayson left a bitter taste in your mouth, reminding you far too much of Batman.

“I stopped by from Blüdhaven, I wanted to see how you were holding up.” He adverted your glare and backtracked, as he always did to avoid tension.

You kicked him in the kneecap from under the table, watching him wince more than he usually did after such a weak hit. Your eyebrow arched in question.

“Did ole Bats get to you too? Kicking you while you’re down like some weak puppy?” Venom dripped off your words as you recalled that time in your life. Dick sighed, but didn’t stir the pot of your internal anguish, not knowing how far it’d be until you erupted.

“No. That’s what I came to talk about. Bruce has been fighting this guy for a week now, he is big on the drug trade, and good. Like stupid good.”

You shrugged, everything was a trade in Gotham. Anything worth more than a dollar was exploitable one way or another. “How is this my problem?”

Dick pursed his lips, obviously growing frustrated with your careless demeanor, he fished into his hoodie pocket, pulling out a paper-clipped folder with a sigh.

You had half the mind just to ignore it, but curiosity burnt at your fingers, urging you to reach for the paperclip and pry it open. You swallowed at the contents, eyes welling slightly in anger and fear— a dangerous combination.

There were newspaper clippings, all zoomed in on a red helmeted figure, brown leather jacket, dark Kevlar armor. Your teeth clenched together, nearly cracking as you zeroed in on the symbolic scarlet of the helmet. How this criminal had taken the time to study who the Joker had been.

The Red Hood.

“Fuck you.” You spat at Dick, wanting absolutely nothing to do with the piece of garbage that reminded you of that clown. How the horrendous criminal had smiled as you beat him down, laughed at your grief of losing Jason. Arkham wasn’t good enough, he needed a bullet in his skull, death was the only answer.

You were about to leave, long ago losing your appetite for your dumplings. Dick grabbed your forearm, stopping you in your tracks.

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. He knew Batman’s name, his real one. And he knew yours too.” Grayson gravely warned, you wavered, deciding to sit back in your seat as you glanced at the papers again. This vigilante knew your name? Your personal name, not expired alias?

You sighed, “What all do you know?”

Your keys jangled as you struggled to see the keyhole, feeling around blindly until the metal slid in and you unlocked your thin and flimsy door. You still held onto the folder with a tightened grip, mind running uneasily.

This new vigilante had your warning bells going off, that much you knew.

It was dark and freezing inside your one room apartment, as you couldn’t afford to have the heat on for long periods of time. You relied on a small propane heater that sat on the minuscule countertop space you had next to your mattress.

Electric bills were tight too, resulting in you only turning on lights when necessary and giving just enough time to watch the news. You never liked not knowing what was going on, a habit imprinted in your mind since childhood.

You dropped your bag with a huff, running on autopilot to the small stove countertop that help your electric kettle. You planned on getting no sleep, with the air turning colder, it reminded you more of the weather the day of Jason’s death. Nightmares came easy as did the frost that coated your windows.

You filled the kettle, hoping the cinnamon tea would help calm your nerves and ease the ache within your bones.

Your attention shifted to the remote, turning the television on while waiting for the water to boil. You flicked the power button, the channel already adjusted to Gotham Local News.

Your eyes narrowed in on the headline, skimming the words until a certain name made your blood run cold.

Joker Escaping Arkham: Live

Your fists clenched around your mug, anger boiling in waves as you watched the feed of the clown on top of a security truck, his chilling cackle making your insides swirl in panic and disgust.

You flicked off the channel, immediately going to the loose floorboard in the small apartment, stomping to feel for the hollow echo it released. You could get rid of your alias and stop fighting crime; But, you would always be ready to take down the clown when he escapes again. You made sure as you pulled out the sniper rifle, loaded and readied it to fire straight into his deranged brain.

You’d get justice for Jason, whenever Batman agreed or not.

You slung it over your back before exiting the apartment, not particularly worried about being caught, especially in Crime Alley.

It took you little time to make it to the bridge, feet expertly scaling the rusty rungs and wires until you were basically on top, wind whipping at your face as your eyes narrowed. You crouched low, resting against the metal while you popped the cover off the glossy scope, hoping to find the clown in your sights.

He was easy to find, blue and red sirens basically highlighting him in a showcase. He was alone, signature purple waistcoat blowing as he stood on top of an armored vehicle.

The unmistakeable cackle of his laugh had you seeing red, disgust coating every pore of your body. You barely heard the familiar roar of the Batplane flying straight towards the clown. You had to hurry, before it was too late.

You exhaled, lining up your shot with the steady red laser, making sure the clown saw it before he would die. Your finger hovered over the safety, clicking it off as it returned to the trigger. Just a quick press and it would be over, all those constant traumas and deaths.

A small smirk curled around your lips, until you heard the faint creak of metal from behind you, alerting you to another presence. You whipped around, hairs raised as you caught onto the Red helmet broadcasted all over the news. He was only a foot from you, large boots next to your chin. He was the man who knew your name.

The one who said it now, in a surprised grunt.

“Sorry sweetheart, but he’s mine to kill.”

You anticipated the attack, dropping the rifle as his foot raised slightly off the ground, going for a kick. You raised your hands, protecting your face from your crouched position. Instead, the vigilante extended, kicking your sniper rifle off the ledge, watching it fall into the stopped traffic.

“No!” You growled, eyes widening onwards in despair as the Batplane projected a grapple, picking up the clown you could no longer kill.

The vigilante stalked from the perch, seemingly to forget about you entirely. He crouched, collecting his energy before he jumped from the iron rungs, falling for a moment before latching on possessively to the clown.

You bit your lip as you glared, frustration and grief once again igniting, sadness left to flood as you watched the damn psychopath slip through your fingers again. You wanted to break something, watching as the vigilante flew out of sight.

All you could do was walk back to your apartment, grief once again swallowing you whole.

He hadn’t expected to fight so distracted, his mind keeping him from fully concentrating. He had so much bottled up, emotions and anger, longing to be avenged. He was hurt, hurt that Bruce hadn’t killed the clown that haunted him for five long years. Hurt that his girlfriend, (perhaps, ex-girlfriend now that he died) now lived in the slums of Crime Alley, disowned and alone.

He barely felt his hand through the grief, but looking down, he could see the pearly wetness of bone, blood leaking perhaps too quickly. Smoke and cement caked his revived lungs, making him cough and heave as he made up for the loss of oxygen. He’d fully hoped that Batman would kill for him, only for it to all crumble down when a Batarang lodged against the barrel of the gun, effectively blowing his hand to smithereens.

He left the scene before Batman could find him, wallowing in defeat. How could a father, ever treat their son this way?

There was much to think about, but too little time. He would bleed out, and quickly if he didn’t get medical assistance.

It was about time to pay his girl a visit. When he saw you on top of the bridge, wind whipping against your face, he nearly collapsed, all the anger and mush from the Lazarus pit melting away, instead replaced with a cold ache that made his spilt soul clench.

You’d gone to kill the Joker, something that made his heart swell in gratitude, knowing that at least one person would save him.

It wasn’t a far walk to rickety apartment complex, the area eerily close to where he grew up. The scent of smoke and blood was a constant, but perhaps he was just smelling himself.

When he weakly climbed your fire escape, he heard your voice, rough and growly, just as you had always spoke when angry. He could barely hear through the cracked window, but could make out the hysteria in your voice.

“What do you mean he’s alive?” You choked out, not noticing his hunched figure bleeding outside. You were pacing, fist clenched with the skin taught against your knuckles.

“Where is he?” You growled, pursing your lips and huffing. After a beat of silence, you hung up, no longer entertaining the conversation. You glanced slightly in his direction, doing a double take as you stood straighter, catching onto the tattered remains of the armor he wore.

Your eyes swelled, just as all of his breathing caught in his throat. You had just seen a ghost— But Jason knew he was alive, simply based on the fire that erupted inside him. Not even the freezing Gotham winds could chill the fever of his beating heart, waiting and waiting to press against your own.

He wondered if you still thought of him as much as he thought of you? He wondered if you still smelt like honeysuckle? He wondered how you received that scar that slashed through your face, lip to ear? He wondered why you favored your left leg as you hesitantly made your way to the sliding glass, hand pressed against the handle.

He was hit with a blast of warm air, a shield from the wind, and a promise of something he could not yet guess.

“Jason?” Your voice seemed so small, not like the girl he used to know. Maybe you had died with him.

“Hey baby.” He whispered, hoarse and full of an emotion he couldn’t pinpoint. Was it grief? Regret? Adoration?

He stepped into the home, dripping blood onto the cracked tiles. You’d glanced down at him, immediately straightening and retreating. He watched as you pulled out a red kit from under the measly kitchen sink, settling it against the counter.

“Sit, please.” You addressed. Jason moved, sliding onto the barstool as he studied your features. Cold, broken eyes stared back for a moment, before fixating on his bloodied fingers. You didn’t look surprised to see him reanimated, which made him come to the conclusion that it was Bruce who had just spoken to you. Yet, the steady shake in your hands made him realized you weren’t quite prepared to have been this close so early.

You were a stranger, as was he.

He’d barely felt the disinfectant you placed on his wounds over his broken heart. It was just like when he was a boy, how you’d patch him up, always volunteering so he wouldn’t have to hear Alfred’s lectures.

It was the same, yet so different.

As he watched you work, he glanced closer at your features, studying the scar upon your lip closer, visualizing the sharp shape of a bat. A Batarang.

It wasn’t hard to guess how you got it, based on the rifle you had almost shot the Joker with. You’d been trying to avenge him, and Bruce would rather almost kill you than defy his code. Nausea rose up his throat.

You finished the bandages, glancing up to catch onto the frightening green of his irises.

“I don’t know what to say.” You muttered. His breathing stopped, just as he brought his good hand up, gliding it slowly to the soft skin of your neck, feeling the steady thrum of a pulse. He felt you swallow against his palm.

He knew there was no good thing to say. Nor bad. Perhaps at some point he’d be able to tell you what happened, to fix the scars that settled over you both.

For now he was okay with feeling the steady rhythm of your pulse, to know you were okay. Different, yet the same.

“What… what do we do?” You spoke again, scared and pinned like a trapped animal, backed into the corner but not afraid to strike.

“I don’t know.” He murmured truthfully. Taking a moments peace just to replay your voice in his head. Final able to remember the sound he had mourned.

“Will you hold me?” You asked brokenly, as if you had crossed a boundary.

Jason let a small smile grace his lips, extending his arms outwards to bring you closer. You fell into his chest, wet drops of tears falling from your eyes, just as his own watered. You molded together, warm and comforting. He traced your spine with his fingers, closing in his eyes and breathing in honeysuckle.

He sighed, knowing that at least one thing had stayed the same.

Perhaps the two of you could heal together, patching wounds and crumbling walls. But for now, he was content with holding you against him, a chaste kiss placed on top of your head.

[gridfangirl]

That one night in São Paulo

Max Verstappen x photographer f! oc smut

summary: they met a long time ago, but just in that rainy night things finally got real. Smut. No real plot, just vibes.

warnings: drinking, possessiveness

+18, <900 words

That one night in São Paulo, it was raining.

The silence inside that hotel room. It was always hotel rooms for him, for both of them. 

She was always busy, registering each moment of the World Championship craziness for posterity, her post as a photographer giving her okay money and an awful amount of headaches and jet lags… but that's how they met. And kept meeting. They became friend-like acquaintances. Always saying a lot in the blank spaces. Always wanting but never asking or taking.

Striding through continents like it was a tiny neighborhood. Flying and working and flirting, until they finally got out for some drinks after the race in Brazil. It was Caipirinhas this time, not the usual paddock coffee. They slurped some cups and laughed and Max blushed.

And the drinks turned to something else entirely. 

That one night in São Paulo, somehow, time stopped.

Just stopped.

The mirrored windowpane was tinted by glowing drops of water outside against flashes of the city lights: heavy rain still pouring, thunder rumbling now and then. The lampshade lights on, his eager mouth devouring her core, sucking on her clit harshly, making her whimper, rocking her hips… He loved it so much and kept fucking her soppy wet pussy with two fingers quickly, groaning when she rubbed herself on his face… So needy for him. So horny. And he promised himself to give it all to her, to give his very best so she could never forget him. 

His hard-on was painfully untouched inside his navy-blue boxers, but he couldn’t think of himself right now; he had to give it all to the task: to ruin her for all other men. To make her cum so hard, so good, and so many times, she would never want any other guy. There would be only him occupying that place in her memory, the best fuck she’s ever had. The number one.  

And the cries of her orgasms only made him harder, swallowing on his rush, grabbing her waist with nails digging into the skin. He licked fat stripes upwards over her stomach, biting on her bones, grabbing the soft flesh, laughing at the goosebumps it made appear all over his girl… his girl, only his. And between mouthing over the curving ribcage and licking his way up, Max had only two thoughts: to cum and never to let her go fucking anywhere. He wanted to drag her with him forever—just his girl and nothing else. 

Her voice sounded weak but the tiny giggle on the end made him stop his ministrations and prop himself over his elbows to look at her face:

- We took so long to do this… 

- We did.

- Come here, Max. C’mon.

  Her grabby hands pulled his unruly hair, and he kissed her hard, red wet lips devouring hers, hungry teeth and the shadow of his beard rasping, hurting. She wanted it to hurt in a way. She needed that edge at least one time. There was too much pressure, too much expectation for them not to do it like nibbly animals. 

Max pulled away, looking flushed, sweaty, breathing through his mouth. He removed his tight boxers and opened the condom package with his teeth. She couldn’t look away from him when he slid it around his hard cock and took no time to be over her again, spreading her legs wide before sliding inside her, breathing hard… Her whimpers made his cock twitch, and she moved her hips in such a needy way like she wasn’t the woman who did just cum in his mouth. 

  But it didn’t took much time for her to come again, his rough hands on her breasts, fucking fast, pubic bone rubbing on her clit. She cried and fell limp. 

-Fuck Max, oh my god…

He didn’t stop for a second.

- What, babe?

  She couldn’t answer, not with the rhythm he caught after that, placing one of her legs up his shoulder, rough thumb on her clit, rubbing, rubbing…

- Max, babe, come with me, please?

- ‘k.

  And as soon as she cried again, spine curving, eyes shut closed, he grunted and came. It was almost painful, the way his balls twitched, but it was worth the wait. To have her so completely, to come so hard and deep inside her.

And while the rain still poured heavy outside, thunder blasting closer each time, Max held her by the waist, pulling her hot body closer, closer… Her fingers found their home in his sweaty fair mane, while his eyes still had a wild pull to them, like what he was feeling wasn’t satisfaction or affection, but some primal pulse, a desire to obliterate her needs, to have her in every way, just for himself. 

- You are my girl. Mine. 

- What?

- I don’t know where this is going but…You are mine. 

- Max, what is…

  His kiss interrupted her mumbling, stealing her breath away. But she knew him enough to see the truth. Maybe he was right. Maybe he owned her now in a weird way, a strange bond she wasn’t willing to undo too soon. Maybe they shouldn’t overthink while the rain poured outside and their bodies were still covered in each other’s sweat. Maybe nothing else mattered until his next flight in a couple of hours…

[starrydixon]

Rainstorm

Era: Alexandria Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Pronouns: None-Specified Word Count: 1.9k Warnings: language, minor angst but a happy ending!!

Summary: After a week full of turmoil, the last thing you needed was a torrential rainstorm passing through Alexandria to worsen your already somber mood. When an unexpected guest appears at your door, you're surprised at just how fast your mood changes for the better.

The wind howled outside, causing the shutters that decorated the outside of the townhouse to rattle and shake. Heavy rain poured down from the dark gray and angry clouds that covered the blue sky, blocking the sunlight from shining down and making Alexandria seem gloomy and wet. Basically, it was a classic rainy day.

You were curled up on the couch in front of a fire that roared in the fireplace in your living room. A blanket was wrapped around your body like a cocoon, fuzzy socks covered your feet, a new book was perched on your lap, and a cup of steaming tea sat beside you on a coaster. Usually, you loved rainy days, before and after the end of the world. Solely because it gave you an excuse to do nothing but relax with the things that gave you the most comfort. 

This time, however, there was minimal comfort to be felt as the storm outside only brought you more unease and gloom than it usually did. No amount of fuzzy socks or steaming tea could shake the sorrow from your body.

It had been a rough week for you, emotionally and physically. After a distressing argument at the start of the week with Daryl, your best and closest friend since the very beginning of the world-ending apocalypse, you had been working yourself to near exhaustion in an attempt to distract yourself from feeling the pit that sat heavily in your stomach. Whenever you did allow yourself to feel it, it was always a different feeling haunting you: anxiety, anger, sadness, guilt, and everything else in between. 

You knew the argument had been blown out of proportion; starting from something small and then escalating to hurtful words being thrown both ways. It had gotten so heated, that Daryl left Alexandria and hadn’t returned since. You had no idea where he went, maybe going on a hunting trip or visiting the Kingdom to confide with Carol. It worried you to no end, not knowing where he was, but you hoped he was okay; despite how hurt you still felt from his harsh words.

From the moment you first met Daryl, back at the camp stationed in a Georgia quarry, you had been infatuated with him. He was a very handsome man, his broad shoulders and strong build was never lost on you. However, it was his rugged charm, loyalty to the people that he held closest, and the subtle ways he consistently cared for the people around him that made you attracted to the archer. As much as it pained you to stay in the friendzone, you cherished the connection you had with Daryl and didn’t want to ruin it by making a move or confessing your feelings to him.

Knowing that you had fought with the man that you loved and cared so deeply for, and being on the receiving end of the venom that laced his voice, stung more than the tears that pricked and pooled in the waterline of your eyes as you watched him stalk away from you, burning anger in each stride of his legs and stomp of his feet. 

You were snapped out of your thoughts of dejection when abrupt pounding on the front door of your home sounded. The harsh bangs had practically caused you to jump out of your skin, and the book that was once sitting in your lap had fallen to the floor, face down and undoubtedly creasing the pages. Your heart pounded against your ribcage as you rose to your feet; all the while staring anxiously at the source of the sudden intrusion. With the heavy downpour, you knew the only reason why someone would venture outside, away from the safety of their home, was to inform you that something was wrong. 

You feared the worst; thinking a large horde of walkers were nearing the community, the walls of Alexandria had fallen apart due to the heavy winds, or that someone had gotten severely hurt. Dread filled your body as you slowly approached the front door. You were trying to prolong whatever nightmare you were about to find yourself in. 

More impatient bangs sounded from the door, so forceful you swore you saw the slab of wood vibrate with each harsh pound of a fist. 

When you opened the front door, just a crack, you were instantly met with bitter cold winds and wet rain that seeped through the sliver of space. As a way to brace yourself from the cold, you tightened your arm around your body more securely before pulling the door open. If your body hadn’t been so tense from bracing the harsh rainstorm that dusted by, you were sure you would have lost some form of balance from the sight you were met with.

Daryl was standing a few steps down the staircase that led to the front door of your townhouse; dark clothes drenched and sticking to his body like glue while his dark strands of hair stuck to his face and neck. Through the curtain of bangs that hung over his eyes, you could see him squinting through the harsh winds and pelting rain.. 

“I fucked up!” The archer shouted over the torrential downpour, his arms outstretched and raised by his sides as if to further emphasize his statement.

You thought he was drunk, high, or at least on something. It was the only way to explain this crazed behavior. Why would he willingly be outside your house, sober, and practically being assaulted by Mother Nature herself, just to talk to you? After the last time you two had spoken, you assumed that the archer wanted nothing to do with you anymore. 

Before you could utter a single syllable, Daryl continued. “I really fucked up, and m’sorry! I shouldn’t of said those things to ya, or treated ya like that! I just-“ 

Loud thunder erupted in the angry sky as a flash of bright lighting struck the air. You both cringed at the disturbance, and Daryl was having a hard time getting out what he wanted-no-needed to say to you. With his confidence momentarily stunted, the archer brought a hand to his face and haphazardly swept away a few sopping strands of hair from his line of vision. His feet shuffled anxiously on the step he was teetering on. 

“I ain’t good with words unless I’m bein’ a dick…but I just wanted to say that—I just-I just love ya, alright!?  Been in love with ya for a real long time, and I know I don’t deserve ya, and—it just hurts sometimes and I act like an asshole because of it!” The weather was unrelenting, so Daryl was still having to strain his voice and shout over the heavy downpour.

You were sure your mouth was opened ajar, although you couldn’t feel it since your whole body was simultaneously numb and burning hot at the same time. With the amount of emotions flooding through you, it was hard to process the admission that Daryl had just professed to you. This resulted in you becoming struck with silence as you stared at the archer with wide eyes. 

Taking your silence as a sign of rejection, Daryl began to descend down the steps with a shake of his head. Embarrassment and shame of his impulsive actions were quickly overcoming him, and he couldn’t stand to look in your eyes anymore. His retreat away from you seemed to snap you out of the stunned haze you were in.

“Daryl!” Without hesitation, you left the safety that your doorway held and leapt into the rainstorm. 

Now at the bottom of the staircase, Daryl spun around when he heard your voice calling after him. The archer had just enough time to brace himself and catch you, just as you jumped into his arms. Instinctively, your arms snaked around his neck, and your lips found his in a haste kiss that ended just before it could start.

As you were beginning to pull away, with heat flushing your cheeks, Daryl’s large hand clasped over the back of your neck and pulled you back into a heated kiss. Daryl wasn’t sure when exactly the urge to kiss you became unavoidably prominent whenever he looked at you, but he knew it’s been for a while; maybe since the days spent on the Greene’s family farm. 

As you kissed until you were both blue in the face with diaphragms aching, there was no rain drenching you, or thunder and lightning cracking through the sky. It was just you and him, letting out all the feelings you’ve both been harboring for the past few years in a searing kiss. 

“I love you too.” You spoke softly, just barely above a whisper, once you had pulled away from him to allow fresh oxygen to fill your lungs. 

With your eyes still shut, you could feel Daryl’s strong chest heave against yours as he caught his breath, and his forehead rest on yours with a gentle press. The tip of his nose brushed against yours, and you had a hard time trying not to laugh at the tingly sensation the touch brought. 

“M’sorry.” Daryl murmured quietly, so quiet you almost missed it due to the rain assailing down on you. “I shouldn’t of-of acted like that, no matter how upset I was…I just-” 

Before he could finish speaking, you quieted him by tightening your arms around his neck and bringing him down to your level so you could replace your lips on his for a short, but meaningful, kiss. “I know…I’m sorry too, for everything.”

The archer’s arms only tightened around your figure more securely as his head shook slightly, almost as if he couldn’t accept or believe in your forgiveness. Reluctantly, you pulled away from him again; this time with just enough space separating you both to be able to look at his face and in his eyes. Regret and blatant sadness filled his gray-blue eyes, and it caused your heartstrings to pull painfully. Removing a hand from off his neck, you cupped one side of his face and swept a few drenched strands of dark hair from off his cheek with your thumb.

“We’re both at fault here…but we can start, whatever this is, with a new slate, y’know?” As you spoke, a smile grew across your face, brightening your features in the process. 

As Daryl let his eyes flicker over your face, admiring the light radiating off of you despite the storm around you, he could feel the rays of your smile warm his body and bring light back to his previously dulled eyes. He felt reassured by your words, convinced that you both could forgive and let this moment be the start of something new and special.

“Yeah…that sounds good.” With a nod of his head, and a smile of his own twitching at the corners of his mouth, Daryl held your face in his hands and pulled you in for another captivating kiss.

You couldn’t help but laugh against the archer’s lips, your arms now wrapped loosely around his neck as you leaned backwards with each laugh that escaped you. It was quite possible that you’d end up with a cold, due to being out in the pouring rain for so long, but that was the last thing on your mind as you continued to kiss the man you’ve been painfully smitten with for a long time. 

From now on, whenever a rainstorm passed through, you knew those feelings of gloom and weariness would be replaced with warmth and elation. You’d think back to this exact moment; kissing Daryl for the first time in the pouring rain, wearing matching smiles that were so bright it threatened to clear the dark clouds in the sky and bring the sun out once again.

-

-

A/N: I’ve always wanted to write the ‘kissing in the rain’ trope, so as soon as this idea struck me, I ran with it! Is it a little cliche? Maybe. But is it cute? Yes. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!! <3

[fruitcoops]

Nothing But Sincerity

Fic O'Ween Day 6: Rainy Day, inspired by a Day 3 art piece by @tobi-tobi-tobi that was shared on the server! Coops credit to @lumosinlove, fest cred to @noots-fic-fests <3

Sirius made a disappointed sound and clicked his tongue behind his teeth. “Practice got cancelled.”

“Oh, no,” Remus said, pulling his socks off. “Thunderstorms?”

Sirius nodded; their thickest blanket slid easily off the back of the couch. “Dangerous roads and flood warnings.”

“Man, that sucks.” The kettle gave a soft snick as Remus put his slippers on.

“I was really hoping to go today,” Sirius agreed while he kicked the far fleece edge down over his feet. Outside, lightning cracked from the gathering clouds.

“Sounds like we can’t make plans with the guys, either,” Remus called from the kitchen, where he was pouring a marinated pork loin into a baking dish.

“Oh, mais non. Can’t ask them to drive in this. How are we going to survive?”

The squeak of the oven door cut off Remus’ soft tutting. “It’s been ages since we had the house to ourselves. Evening practice is the only thing I was looking forward to today.”

Sirius hummed his agreement as the DVD tray snicked shut. He made it back to the couch just as Remus dried his hands on a kitchen towel, and left one side of the blanket conveniently flipped up while he laid down again with a long, satisfied exhale. “This is going to be really difficult,” he mused.

The Great Pumpkin Waltz rose to the very corners of the room like an exhale over thunder. Remus reached back and pulled his shirt over his head, then slid beneath the blanket and splayed himself across Sirius’ front, kissing a smile into his mouth. “Jeez, Captain, I can’t think of a single thing to do with a rainy-day recess.”

Perhaps Sirius broke first, but Remus wasn’t far behind. Laughter overwhelmed the first few lines of the movie—enough that Sirius had to rummage around for the remote and rewind to the very beginning, despite the best efforts of tiny kisses to his neck to distract him. Remus’ back was warm under the long pass of his hand. He buried his nose in the soft curls just above Remus’ ear and took a deep breath, then let it go, so their weight sank into the plush cushions below them.

“I don’t want to do anything at all.”

Remus kissed the side of his neck again. “Cheers.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Kiss me there.”

“Cause I love you.”

“Well, yes, but why there?”

Remus shrugged one shoulder and shuffled the blanket up around his neck. “Easy access. Right height. Beauty mark. Stop talking, don’t you know I’m trying to watch the movie?”

Sirius swatted him under the thick fleece, but he just laughed. “You’ve seen this a million times.”

“It’s October and rainy, baby. Charlie Brown was made for this.”

“Hmph.”

“Hmph. You sound like Dumo.” He pulled a face and Remus grinned, nuzzling into the scruffy part of his cheek. “Hedgehog. Wanna come chop some broccoli with me?”

Broccoli did sound nice. Crispy and smoky on the ends, the way Remus liked it, if they put it in now and let it roast with the pork. Sirius let his arms come up around the broad curve of Remus’ ribs and rest heavy on each measured inhale. A peek over his shoulder toward the dim kitchen; he couldn’t tell whose legs were whose beneath the blanket. “Ouais, sounds good.”

“Hmph.” Hot air puffed over his throat. “Well, now I don’t want to get up.”

“Hey, I didn’t suggest broccoli.”

“I know, I know, but now I have to.”

“Non.”

“Non?”

“Nothing you have to do tonight.” His thumb had settled near the base of Remus’ ribcage for a few quiet strokes. “You love this movie.”

Remus seemed to ponder that for a moment. His heart thudded the calm rhythm Sirius had grown accustomed to falling asleep to. “We’ll pause at the Red Baron,” he finally said. “Then broccoli, super quick.”

“Mhmm.”

Sirius fully expected the Red Baron to pass them by without a twitch of movement. But true to his word, Remus paused the movie, and sat up with monumental effort. “Up, up, up.” Each word was punctuated by a pat to Sirius’ bare chest. “Let’s go, five minutes.”

“I can’t move.”

“I won’t get up by myself.”

“Non, I can’t move,” Sirius snorted, tugging at Remus’ thighs where he straddled his lap. “Up, up, up, loup.”

“No, I’m comfortable,” came the half-laugh, half-groan as Remus braced his hands on the armrest for a sleepy-cat stretch. He blinked slowly at the television a few times, as if it would save him from his self-imposed torment. Sirius poked him in the belly, just to be helpful.

They managed to make it to the kitchen, but not after much hemming and hawing and old-man joint pops from them both. “I should not be creaky at 28,” Sirius sighed, pressing his hands above his head with a yawn before moving to the fridge.

“You want rice, Old Man McGee?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, I already turned the—” Remus gestured at the rice cooker. “—thing on.”

“Rice cooker. It’s literally in the name.”

A kiss popped against the corner of Sirius’ mouth like bubblegum. “Aren’t you supposed to be chopping broccoli?”

“Hey, hey, wait, come kiss me again.”

He didn’t have to ask twice. Remus spun on his heel with pleased interest written all over his face and backed Sirius up against the countertop, paying no mind to the fresh box of butter between them. His hands moved softly over Sirius’ hips, just above the band of his pajama pants, before settling on his waist as he pressed up for a kiss. His wedding ring was cool on Sirius’ skin. Moonlit rain pattered against the kitchen window. The storm would probably lash the house later, but Sirius didn’t think either of them would be awake long enough to notice or care.

[monbons]

WIP Wednesday

Thanks for the tag @you-remind-me-of-the-babe! I am also sitting in a cafe just writing, watching the rain, and tackling my own challenging time elements. If I can give any words of encouragement, it is that it is so hard but also so worth it once you get it right!

I am now eleven chapters deep into The Eternal Life of Baz Pitch, which was going to be 14 chapters but is now looking more like 15. Who could have guessed it would take more than one chapter to successfully execute a slow burn? (ha!)

Again, can't reveal too much of what I've been working on, but here is a snippet I wrote this week from much later in the fic that could honestly make sense in just about any SnowBaz fic.

“I know all about that kind of hurt.” Baz brings his hands to rest on top of Simon’s and squeezes. “When you love someone so much you can’t breathe. When losing them feels like having your heart ripped out of your ribcage.” “It’s death.”  “It’s not.” Baz squeezes harder. “Not having someone to love at all is so much worse.”

Happy (rainy) Wednesday, all!

Hellos and high-fives below the cut.

@thewholelemon, @roomwithanopenfire, @noblecorgi, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @youarenevertooold, @cutestkilla, @bookish-bogwitch, @emeryhall, @valeffelees, @beastmonstertitan, @raenestee, @arthurkko, @iamamythologicalcreature, @hushed-chorus, @rimeswithpurple, @aristocratic-otter, @cattocavo, @larkral

[ball0fhoney]

𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐋𝐲𝐥𝐞

𓆝 𓆜 –––––––––––———–––––––––———–┊⁀➷

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: was writing this late at night so sorry for typos here and there, I tried to fix all of them. I recommend reading it late at night so you can comfort yourself and have sweet dreams. It's purely fluff oneshot, so nothing sexual.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: cuddling with Lyle, fluff, comfort fanfic, joking around and deep late night topics

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

╰───────────────🥀

It's dark in your room and rain is falling onto your bedroom windows. You're all tucked in and ready to fall asleep while listening to soothing sounds of rain. It felt so good to lay in your warm bed while it's cold and rainy outside.

You heard someone open the door. It was Lyle and he just arrived home. He happened to be your roommate and you two go along pretty well, maybe even too well.

"Its me." He yelled from the kitchen as he made enterace and you recognised his voice. You heard him take off his jacket and hang it in the hall. Hel took off his boots too and left them laying on the floor. Then he turned off all the lights and quietly entered your room.

"Hey" Lyle greeted you taking off his cargo pants and shirt, putting on something light instead. Then he snuck in a bed with you and you felt his cold body against your warm skin.

"Agh you're cold!" You grunted and he chuckled.

"Shut up" He wrapped one of his arms around you while covering you both with a blanket.

Thunder roared outside so you pressed your head into his big chest.

"Scared?"

"A bit yea"

He positioned himself to the side and hugged you with his other hand, gently brushing your hair with his palm.

"You are a scared little baby." He teased purposely.

"No im not!" You pulled your head away from his chest faking anger.

"Yes you are."

You rolled your eyes jokingly. "Well, I got scared once as a kid, its cut into my brain to fear it."

"Fite me thunder, I'll kick your ass!" He spoke in a funny voice which made you laugh.

"Yea yea, thank god you're here, my brave soldier whos afraid of a grasshopper." You teased him back, unable to hold your laugh at the last part.

"Hey! That was one time only. It literally jumped into my eye and I did not expect it."

"Pffft, yea it could've bit off your head right?" You glanced up at him and he stared down at you seriously for a few seconds blinking. Then you both started laughing because his face looked funny from that angle in the dark.

"How about you stop poking me and go to sleep instead huh?" He rested the side of his head on his hand while looking at you.

"Well now I'm not sleepy." You crossed your arms playfully.

"Sleep." He stared into your soul.

"Okay" Your head fell down and you pretended to sleep and snore.

He chuckled. "Amazing" Then you stopped pretending and softly slapped him on his big head and his ears went back instinctively.

"You're a genius Lyle."

"I know" He shoved his other hand under the blanket to pinch your sides which made you tickle. You started laughing manically as you were extremely ticklish, kicking your legs and shoving his big hand away.

"Holy-! You're going to kill me!" He exclaimed laughing, resting his hand on your side.

"Don't. you. dare. Because maybe I will." You pointed a finger towards him as a warning sign.

"You? With your baby teeth? And baby hands?" He teased sliding his hand gently up your ribcage. You grunted pretending to be annoyed. "You'd be surprised."

It was quiet for a few minutes and you watched the drops of rain slide down the window next to you.

"Do you ever miss being a human?" You asked turning your head back to him.

He took a second to think about what to say.

"Well, I'm not sure. I'm taller, stronger, faster in this body. I can hear better, smell better. My sense of orientation has definitely changed too. From what I remember as being a human, I lived in some kind of fog everyday. I'm not sure how to explain it. Must be from that same old routine that we are all accostumed to live in, that... you forget you're alive. It's like, I got a second chance. A reset. I do miss my human body a bit. Partially because it was the start of my existence, it was the one who brought me here so I definitely have some sort of attachment to it."

He spoke in a low tone, looking up in the ceiling and remembering memories from the past life. You could see in his eye movements that he's remembering his human self. You saw pity in his eyes, like he's feeling sorry for that person, almost angry with it too. Then he snapped out of it and turned his head to look at you and smiled.

You didn't know what to say except smile back and place your hand on his cheek, caressing it gently. Lyle was changing and you were so happy for him. He purred and his pupils dilated, absorbed in your love.

"I'm so glad I have met you, Lyle." You whispered and he placed his hand over yours that was resting on his cheek.

"I love you." He whispered back to you and went in to give you a kiss goodnight.

"Now sleep, because not even Eywa herself will be able to wake you up tomorrow." You chuckled and pressed yourself closer to him, snuggling and closing your eyes.

"I love you too Lyle."

[giggly-squiggily]

Hey 👋! Can i request lee inumaki and lers yuta, maki and panda?

Heyo! :D Admittedly, I got a little sappy at the end there lols. I've gotcha covered, anon!

CW: Swearing, mild angst

Cloud 9 (Taglist Peeps):

@thatbigbisexual29 @duckymcdoorknob @baby-tickles2022 @cupcake-spice13

“Hey, Inumaki…is something wrong?” Yuta asked one day, gaining the attention of Maki and Panda. Lately, the curse speaker had seemed…distant. He came to practice as required and worked with everyone when asked, but during free time he’d been especially quiet, keeping a healthy distance between himself and the group. Originally, Maki and Panda told him not to worry about it- “Inumaki has his rainy days. When he’s ready, he’ll come around.”

That was almost a full week ago. Yuta couldn’t hold back the questions any longer.

“.....Bonito flakes.” He offered quietly after a long pause, eyes scrunching some in a hidden smile. The lie was so obvious. Yuta hesitated before going on.

“Inumaki…you’ve been acting off since Monday. I’m worried.” Yuta offered a shaky smile, hoping he came off comforting. “If you ever need someone to talk to..”

Something darkened in Inumaki’s eyes, brief and heavy. Then he was faking a smile again, reaching out and patting Yuta’s head. “Bonito flakes.”

A clear cut but firm denial. Yuta felt himself blink back tears.

“Hey, Inumaki. Yuta’s got a point.” Maki climbed up the steps one after another, tossing her staff aside once she got to his spot. “This strange silence of yours isn’t normal. Talk.”

“Gentle, Maki.” Panda reminded as he came around, squishing his furry butt between Yuta and Inumaki. “But really- you had that mission Monday, did something go wrong?”

“....Bonito flakes.” Inumaki looked away.

“Lying isn’t a good look for you, recipe boy.” Maki elbowed him gently, sitting down. “Panda and I’ve known you forever. Even Yuta knows when you lie- isn’t that right?”

“Oh? Oh, um…yes.” Yuta yelped, shrinking some at the dirty look Inumaki gave him. “Sorry, Toge…”

“Don’t apologize, Yuta. He’s all hiss and no claws.” Panda teased, winking as his large paw stretched. “In fact- check this out.”

“Salmon roe…” Inumaki began, leaning away from the paw stretching towards his belly. He leaned so far back he completely forgot about Maki. “Sal-HEEEEEH!” He arched with a squeal as ten fingers suddenly pressed into his sides. “Ikuruhuhuhuahhaahhhaa!”

“Language, shithead.” Maki chuckled, her voice warm as she carried on prodding and poking at his torso, skittering her fingers along his ribcage. “Talk and we’ll stop, right Panda?”

“Hell yeah!” The animal cried, laughing just as much as his paws attacked Inumaki’s belly, tapping and dragging against the thin fabric of his uniform. “Yuta, get in on this!”

“H-Huh?” He blinked, not expecting the invite. He was more than content just sitting by watching the fiasco go down, figuring he wasn’t quite in the group just yet.

Still…

“Erm, where do I..” He began, hands fluttering as he tried to decide where to tickle. Inumaki was a mess of laughter already, cheeks pink and eyes squeezed shut as he cackled out “Flakes! Flahahahahkes!” His feet kicked against Panda’s belly, bouncing off harmlessly. Any attempts to push away Maki proved useless as she adjusted her grip, pulling some insane move where her legs pinned his arms back, giving her free range to tickle his torso. Despite the cries and fluster, Inumaki looked surprisingly happy.

Maybe he was enjoying himself? It did look kinda fun…

“Go for his pits, he’ll cry.” Maki ordered, pulling her leg back so there was more room to reach. Inumaki made a squeak sound, shaking his head rapidly as Yuta slowly approached, whimpering pleas of “Salmon roe”.

“Are you ready to talk?” Yuta asked. Maki and Panda paused briefly, giving him a moment to decide. After a few gasps of air, Inumaki considered. Then, with a shaky breath, he breathed out a firm “Bohohnito flahakes.”

“Stubborn ass.” Maki shook her head in mock disappointment. Panda wiped away a fake tear. “Alright- Yuta, it’s all you. Straight for the pits.”

“Right! Sorry, Inumaki.” He gave a quick smile before digging his hands into the spot. Inumaki arched with a squeal, practically flying off the ground as loud wheezy laughter boomed from his lips. Maki and Panda were quick to join in, returning to their original spots as the rice ball speaker giggled and flailed beneath him.

It took another minute of flailing, squealing, and the threat of being voice cursed, but finally, Inumaki gave in. Flapping his hands wildly, he managed to tap Yuta’s arm, signaling he was done.

“Ready to give in?” Maki asked as they came to an end, watching the pale boy curl into himself with huffs of laughter. He looked so…exhausted. Yuta felt his heart pinch in guilt- maybe they went too far?

But then Inumaki was pulling himself up and taking a deep breath. He looked at each of them carefully before pulling out his phone.

 Soft typing noises could be heard, and within minutes, the group chat notification went off. When Yuta looked, the following message said:

Monday, when we were doing our mission together- I scared you. I used my curse technique on you to prevent you from walking into an enemies trap. The look on your face when you suddenly couldn’t move…I hadn’t been able to get it out of my head since.

“Inumaki…” Yuta breathed, heart sinking in his chest. Another text popped up before he could speak:

Please don’t feel bad, Yuta. I’m not upset by how you reacted. I feel guilty for freaking you out like that. It’s not a fun feeling to suddenly lose control of your own body like that, and usually I can give the other’s a warning that I may have to use my technique on them. I didn't do it for you, and I’m sorry.

“You had to do it though. Like you said- if you didn’t freeze me where I stood, I’d be dead.” Yuta reached out, squeezing Inumaki’s hand within his own. “Sure, I was scared, but not of you. I was scared that I almost threw my life away. If anything- I should be apologizing for forcing your hand like that. So- I’m sorry. I really appreciate what you did for me.”

“Mustard leaf…” Inumaki’s eyes glistened some, and Yuta smiled as he squeezed his hand reassuringly. Maki and Panda nodded to one another, satisfied.

“Aww- isn’t that sweet.” Gojo’s voice shook them from their moment, drawing their attention to him and the bag of treats over his arm. “I’m back! And I got you all souvenirs! Come get them before I change my mind.”

“Is my souvenir the cursed blade I gave you? Cause you still haven’t given it back.” Maki stood, Panda already bouncing to his feet at the various candies in the bag. Inumaki and Yuta shared a warm look before they stood, joining the others for treats. As they went, Inumaki squeezed Yuta’s shoulder, the gesture loud without words.

Thank you.

Thanks for reading!

[itzsana-kiddingmenow]

Hoodie <3

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y'all this is a repost cause i lost my first bloggg 😭 im sorryyy

lee: Minho

ler: Channie

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊⁺˖♡︎˖₊˚♡˚₊⁺˖♡˚₊⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚˖⁺‧₊˚♡˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎

It was one of those days that seemed pretty normal to Soonie. I mean, what’s more comfortable to a cat then to just…cuddle with your owner in a pile of blankets on a rainy day? Nothing, I tell you. However, the said owner was currently being bothered by his one and only older member…and Soonie soon enough decided that finding sleep elsewhere more quiet was most probably appropriate. He walked out of the room in all fours, making his way over to another empty room.

“LEE KNOWWWWW” Chan yelled.

“wake up im bored”

“...are you actually asleep?”

Chris decided that Minho might ACTUALLY be asleep, however he was the only one at home and he was bored. So he decided that waking Lino up to do something may be the only bet he had to dispose of the boredom. 

Then he had an idea. Involving Lee Know’s exposed feet under the blanket.

“Minhoooo”  Chan teased while wiggling his fingers ever so slightly along Lino’s socked left sole. The foot wriggled as Minho tried to stifle a giggle and yanked his foot away. 

“Channie hyungggg leave me aloneeee” Minho whined.

“Nope. I’m bored so wake up”

“But I wanna sleeep”

“Fine. Then I guess I’ll just sleep with you”

Chan then lifted the blanket and snuggled in with Lee Know. But Minho was already awake and plotting his revenge because Chris woke him up. He poked Chan’s ribcage, relishing in the loud screech from the older.

‘Okahay, that’s it’ Chan giggled out as his hands darted down to scribble Lino’s sides. However, it wasn’t earning him as big of a reaction as he WOULD have liked due to the thick, warm hoodie that Minho was wearing that day. Chris frowned and thought for a few seconds as Minho tried his hardest to squirm out of the straddled grip he was under.

“Channie…hyung let me out. What are you even DOING?”

Chris then suddenly lifted the bottom of Minho’s hoodie and shoved his head into it, resulting in a shriek of surprise from the younger, followed by loud hysterics when Chan’s fingers found their way into the exposed crevices of his ribs under the hoodie.

“chAHAHAN WHAHAT ARE YOU DOHOHOING?!”

Chris then mumbled something into Minho’s bare stomach, only causing chaotic cackles to pour out of the younger, who was squirming and doing ANYTHING to get Chris out of his hoodie.

“HYUHUNG PLEHEHEASE I CAHANT TAKE ITTT!!!”

“AHHHH WHAHAT AHARE YOU DOHOHING GEHET AHAAHAA”

Chan pressed his lips against Minho’s belly button, blowing air out in a ticklish raspberry. Tears were starting to well up in Minho’s eyes and his fists pounded against Chan’s back, however these efforts did nothing to stop the older.

Minho gasped loudly when he felt teeth along his bare side. No. No. He can’t be doing this. Minho was going to DIE. 

“yaaaHAHAHAHAA CHANNNNNNN HYUHUNG NAHAHAAAA WHY?!”

“Cause you're cute, thats why” Chan mumbled, only tickling the younger more.

The cruel kisses, nibbles, and raspberries only continued.

Tears flowed down Minho’s face and neck as he begged and begged Chan to stop. He was so completely helpless. And he loved it.

Soon enough, however Chan did emerge from the depths of Lee Know’s oversized hoodie to be met with the CUTEST ball of joy in front of him; a blushing, panting, Minho with disheveled hair and the cutest heart eyes in EXISTENCE. Chris could have just kissed his whole face in that moment.

“Hahaaa whahat was that for…”

“Awww you’re blushing…i bet you LOVED that”

“WHAT?! I am so getting you back”

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊⁺˖♡︎˖₊˚♡˚₊⁺˖♡˚₊⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚˖⁺‧₊˚♡˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖♡︎

i hope you enjoyes. this concept was requested to me by an anon and it's so cuteee! im going to work on writing longer tho-

please check my intro before interacting! ✨💗

[tightjeansjavi]

Endings Create New Beginnings

Burning in a Hopeless Dream | The Prologue: Part 1

(Joel Miller x f!reader)

A/N: I’m actually amazed with myself for writing this as fast as I did. I wrote this as a reader, but this is the prologue for “Burning in a Hopeless Dream” so this is Joel x Gwen but 100% can be read as a reader as well. These two have truly been living in my head rent free all week. I’m so happy I finally have written a prologue for this story that means so much to me. I’ve hinted at Joel, Tess, and Gwen’s initial meeting, but never truly dived into it till now. I also stated this a couple posts back, but Gwen is canonically bisexual.

Happy reading ♡

~word count: 3.0k~

Summary: after losing your lover, and friends of 5 years, you find yourself running straight into Joel Miller, and his partner, Tess Servopoulos. You don’t know it then, but your life is about to drastically change forever.

Warnings: canon typical violence (briefly described but still graphic) death of reader’s lover and friends, mentions of raiders, lots of internal thoughts, angst, trauma, grief, fear, reader throws a knife at Joel’s face, Tess wants to kill the reader (for obvious reasons) Joel uses a fear tactic to get the reader to trust him, Joel is a little mean, Joel empathizes with the reader but also finds her to be useful, Tess isn’t too happy about it, dark themes, no use of y/n no descriptions of the reader (+18) minors dni!

October, 2017 : 14 years after outbreak day

~Do I speak my truth or do I filter how I feel? ~

You still remember the sound of howling wind whistling against your ears. Rain coming down in torrential downpour. Your vision blurred through the sheet of rain, and salty tears. Blood was pounding in your ears. Heart racing in the cavern of your ribcage. Fear. Fear lingered in every corner. Every crevice. Fear was constant. Fear of the unknown. Fear of tomorrow. Fear of losing the ones you loved most. Killing your parents was hard enough as it was. Their screams, their snarls, still haunt your dreams. The dead look in their cold eyes, glassed over. You still remember the sob you let out when it was all over. Surrounded in a pool of your dead parent’s blood. Crimson, flowing like a river. I’m so sorry. You remember whispering through the thick, neverending silence. Why couldn’t they just tell you that they were infected? Why did they hide it from you? You had no choice. It was you, or them. Survive. Survive. Survive.

Run like hell. Run. Run. Run.

So you did just that. You fucking ran. Far. Far. Far from what had been your home for nearly a decade. You had nothing but a worn backpack on your shoulder, and your knife. The handle was carved with your initials. You had no plan. No strategy. Nothing but the thought of survival in your mind. There was no time to mourn the loss of your parents. No time could be wasted.

You ran and never looked back.

A band of misfits is what you called yourselves. Lost souls. Grief stricken by the cordyceps. 5 friends. 5 human beings that deserved so much more than the world had given them. Five children, forced to grow up. Forced to survive. You were all family. Bonded over your own losses. 5 survivors, 2 unbeknownst lovers.

5 years of friendship. 5 years of love. All ripped away from you one cold, rainy, October morning.

You never experienced love like this, till you met her. It was just a crush, at first. Stolen glances, hidden smiles. Fingers brushing, eye contact, soft breaths. Skin set aflame. You’d do anything to keep her safe. Even if it meant risking your own life, for the sake of her own. How would you feel if you knew that trying to keep her safe would be in vain. Hours before your life as you knew it would drastically change, you were out patrolling with your lover. It happened all so fast. The clicker charged, knocking you to the frost covered grass. Your ears were ringing, pain shot up your spine, wind knocked from your lungs. Your knife was out of your grasp as you screamed. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

You waited for the inevitable moment for your life to end. It never came. Your lover ripped the clicker from your fallen body, screaming as she tackled the creature to the forest floor. Her own knife buried deep in the jugular. Blood spurting across her face. It happened in a blink of an eye. She was bit. She was bit as the clock ticked. Tick tick tick. She was bit, but reassured you she wasn’t as she offered you her hand, pulling you up gently.

“Are you bit?” You frantically asked her. You hugged her so tightly. The fear of losing her was becoming all too real.

“I’m not bit baby. I promise. I’m not bit.” She lied. Kissing you softly, holding your face gently in her palms. Thumbs lightly brushing your cheekbones, eyes fluttering shut.

You believed her.

The raiders were closing in fast. 20 men. 20 violent men. 20 men with only one thing on their minds. Kill. Kill. Kill. Cordyceps weren’t the only thing to fear in this post apocalyptic world. The biggest fear of them all was man. You were outnumbered with a slim to none chance of surviving. Little weapons, and no plan. No escape, and death on the horizon. You felt like you had let them down. Your friends. You let them down. You let her down.

“Listen to me. You fucking run. You run like hell. Do you hear me? You run, and you don’t look back.” She was holding you by the shoulders, fingers trembling, hands shaking. Her time was running out and you had no fucking clue.

“What? No! NO! I’m not leaving you. I’m not fucking leaving you! I’m not leaving them!” You yelled through the howling wind, using the thick evergreens as cover. You could hear shouting in the distance, gunshots. Screams.

Her fingers tightened their hold around your shoulders. Tears blurred her vision as you quickly began to brush them away. She was studying your face in those last moments together. She wanted to remember every detail of your face. Every last detail. “We’re outnumbered! If you don’t go now, you’ll die! You protected us for this long. You did so well baby. So fucking well. Now, you go before it’s too late!”

“Come with me. Please. Please come with me. I’ll keep you safe. I promised you I'd keep you safe!” Your own tears were blurring your vision. Your fingers trembled along her cheekbones, forehead pressed against hers.

“I’ll only slow you down. I’ll only become a burden. You’ll die if I come with you. I have to give you the best fucking chance you got. I’ll distract them. I’ll keep you safe. You have to let me go. You have to survive, okay?” She wanted to tell you. It was on the tip of her tongue. I'm bit. I’m dead regardless. Bullet to the skull, or torn apart. I’m long fucking gone. She wanted to tell you. She kissed you instead. Crushing her lips against your own. Tasting the mix of your salty tears on her tongue. You held each other close as the wind howled, and the rain pelted down around you.

Her lips soon detached from your own, pushing you away. It sent daggers through your chest as her hands roughly shoved you from her. You were shattered.

“GO! GO NOW! RUN! FUCKING RUN!” She screamed as you scrambled to your feet, boots sloshing in the muddy earth.

She pushed you further, and further away. You took one last look at your first love. One last look, one last goodbye, before you turned on your heel and ran like hell.

Your heart screamed at you to turn back around as you heard her blood curdling scream pierce through the storm. Your feet only carried you faster as the wind whipped through your ears. Bullets whizzed past your head, chipping away at bark along the trees.

Run. Run. Run.

Your lungs were on fire, adrenaline pumping through your veins, blood pounding in your ears. Your muscles were strained, screaming at you to stop. The shouts became distant till they were no longer detectable. You kept running. You didn’t stop. You kept going until you stumbled upon two strangers that would change your life forever.

You didn’t think twice as you threw your knife at the man's face. The blade whizzed through the pounding rain and fierce wind. Your blade struck home. Slicing through the man's brow. The skin was thin, delicate, and easy to cut. He barely registered the knife whizzing past his face. He felt his blood trickling down his brow, and weathered cheek. It happened in a blink of an eye.

I’ll fucking kill you! You remember the woman beside him screaming through the harsh wind. Her gun cocked in your direction. You had no weapon. No plan. No escape. You waited for the moment a bullet would strike through you. You waited for the echoing gunshot. You just hoped death would be quick. You didn’t want to suffer. Please don’t let me suffer.

The bullet never came.

“Are you crazy Joel?! She just tried to fucking kill you, and you want me to spare her?! She threw a knife at your face for fuck sakes!” The woman yelled at him as he demanded her to lower her gun.

“Lower your gun, Tess. Lower your fuckin’ gun!” The man yelled.

Good. They were distracted. Now was your chance to escape. Now was your chance to run till your legs would inevitably give out.

Joel pushed his partner firmly back with his arm. His eyes were locked on hers, brows furrowed. His attention turned to you. He wasn’t sure why his smidge of humanity decided to show up now. Why didn’t he let Tess kill you? You tried to kill him. It would only be fair if she stuck a bullet between your eyes. You looked like you had been through hell. Alone, frightened, and all the more lethal. Determined to survive, no matter what it takes.

You took a few timid steps back. Your eyes were brimmed with fear. This man was going to kill you, you were absolutely certain of it. This was it. You weren’t going to be able to escape. You could try and overpower him, sure. Who were you kidding? This man could snap you like a fucking twig if he wanted.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you.” You heard him say. His arms were held up, showing you that he didn't have any weapons. Showing you that he wasn’t an immediate threat.

You scrambled back when he got too close. Slipping in the muddy grass as you fell to the forest floor. You quickly pushed yourself along your elbows, using the adrenaline you had left to try and escape.

“Hey, listen to me. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Even if I was, you wouldn’t be makin’ it out of here in one piece.” His southern drawl was deep, and his cinnamon brown eyes were warm. You expected them to hold a cold stare on your trembling form. Instead, they held pity? Sorrow? Empathy?

You let out a scream when his boot pressed down on your ankle firmly. He didn’t do it to hurt you. He did it to try and ground you.To stop you from making a fruitless attempt to scramble away. It made you feel like a cornered animal. He thought you had some serious guts to throw a knife at his face like that.

“Get away from me! Get away!” You seethed through your teeth as you tried to free your ankle from under his heavy boot.

“Stop tryin’ to fuckin’ fight me and I won’t kill you, girl. You ain’t got any weapons. Nowhere to run. You won’t make it very far.” The man crouched down to your level, lowering himself on one knee while his boot stayed heavily planted over your ankle.

“Fucking kill me then! Get it over with. You’d be doing me a huge fucking favor if you did.” You let out a choked laugh that sounded more like a strained sob.

“Are you bit? Hurt anywhere? What the hell were you runnin’ like hell from?” The man asked as his eyes locked on yours, brow raised.

“I’m not fucking bit.” You hissed. “Men. I was running from fucking men. A group of raiders. 20 strong, and heavily armed.” Your breath was shaky as your eyes stayed locked on his. Blood was still trickling down from the fresh cut along his brow. The man didn’t seem to care about the open wound. He held the least bit of concern for the blood dripping down his face.

“Raiders? Were you in a group? How many?” He was offering you his hand to take. You refused. You didn’t want his help.

“Five, including myself. They’re all dead.” You deadpanned.

“Lone survivor, huh? Gotta say, you have one hell of an aim darlin.’ You wanna live another day? Take my fuckin’ hand. I’m only gonna offer it once.” The man sternly spoke as he held his outstretched hand to you.

You wearily looked over his shoulder at the woman, who you assumed was his partner. She looked furious. You met his gaze once more. “She wants me dead.” You stated the painful obvious.

“She does.” The man said with a slight nod of confirmation.

“Why won’t you let her just kill me?” It was a fair question to ask.

“Cus’ anyone that’s got the fuckin’ balls to throw a knife at someone’s face like that, deserves to live another day. You didn’t even hesitate. Feel like it would be a waste to let someone with that kinda grit die. I suggest you take my hand. Those raiders are still probably out there, and they’ll do far worse than just kill ya. Trust me, I used to be one. So was she.” He gestured to Tess who was standing close by. “You think they’ll kill you fast? Oh, no. They’ll torture ya first. You’re a pretty thing too, so then they’ll have their way with you. They’ll be rough, unforgiving, and you’ll be on deaths fuckin’ doorstep by the time they’re finished with you. You’ll be beggin’ them to kill you, and they won’t. You’ll suffer if they get a hold of ya. Her and I? We’re not good people. We’ve done bad things, but I ain’t ever put my hands on a woman. I ain’t like them. If you still choose to die, I'll make it quick, painless. You won’t feel a damn thing. Or, you swallow your fuckin’ pride and take my hand. Your choice.” This was Joel’s final offer.

His words weighed deep in your brain. You could choose to not take his hand, run like hell, only to be captured by those monsters that called themselves men. Or, you could take his hand and live another day.

You found yourself reaching for his hand without a second thought. Your clammy palm wrapped around his rough calloused ridden one.

“Atta girl.” He gently helped you to your feet. “I’m Joel, and the woman over there that wants to kill ya? That’s Tess.”

All you could do was meekly nod. You still couldn’t understand why a total fucking stranger was sparing your life.

“You have got to be out of your goddamn mind, Texas. We are not about to fuckin’ take this girl back with us after she tried to fuckin’ kill you.” Tess was shooting daggers at you, arms crossed over her chest.

So, he was from Texas.

“We’re takin’ her with us. Don’t care what you have to say ‘bout it. Ain’t gonna leave her out here to die. Besides, she’s got guts. She might be a good asset for us.” Joel attempted to reason with his partner and spin this in his favor.

Oh, so he was totally doing this for his own benefit. Like you were some pawn..to their operation? Whatever the hell that was.

“Yeah? So when she tries to fuckin’ kill us in our sleep, you gonna still let her live?” Tess scoffed.

“She even attempts to kill one of us, I'll let you kill her. Sound like a good deal to ya? Bullet between the eyes, slit her throat, break her bones. However you wanna do it, but only if she tries to kill us.” Joel wanted to instill fear in you from his threat. He was dead serious. You could tell just from his tone alone. This was no game to play.

“Fine. You hear that, girl? You fuckin’ try anything on us, and i’ll gouge those pretty eyes out of your fuckin’ skull.” Tess sneered.

An unpleasant chill traveled down your spine at her words. You weren’t sure who to be more afraid of. Joel, or Tess.

You averted making eye contact with Tess as you grabbed your knife from the forest floor, tucking it into the holster around your thigh.

“You ever been to a QZ?” Joel asked you as his partner walked ahead of him.

“No. Never been to one.” You adjusted the strap of your backpack along your shoulder, following his lead through the dense cover of evergreens.

“Well, it's a complete shit hole. FEDRA fucks in almost every corner. Word of advice, don’t get yourself thrown into lockup. Anyway, Tess and I are smugglers. We bring in all kinds of shit. Weapons, drugs, supplies. You fuckin’ name it. Risky business, but we’ve grown quite a reputation. No one fucks with us, usually. You’ll earn your keep eventually. I imagine you’ve got a lot more to offer than just a pretty face.”

You wanted to scoff and roll your eyes at his remark. You refrained only due to the fact that you presently owed your life to this man.

“You ever get thrown in lockup?” Your eyes were locked on his back as you trailed behind him.

“Couple times. Got most of those dickheads wrapped ‘round my finger. Helps when you’re bringin’ pills in. Who taught ya how to throw a knife like that?” He glanced over his shoulder at you. He half expected you to run by now. He was pleasantly surprised to see that you hadn’t. Smart girl, he thought to himself.

“I did.” You responded with zero hesitation.

“No kiddin?’ You just picked up a knife one day and threw it? Bullshit. S’alright. You don’t gotta tell me your secrets or nothin.’ I’m pretty good at keepin.’ to myself anyway. Never caught your name though darlin.’

“Yep.” You mumbled.

“Ah. Wanna remain mysterious, huh? Like I said, I ain’t gonna pry. You’re probably a bit shell shocked anyway. We got an apartment in the QZ. It ain’t much, but by the looks of you..probably a hell of a lot better than what you’re used to.”

You were shell shocked. It was written all over your face. You had lost the one person you truly loved, lost your friends, and escaped death twice now. Joel didn’t need to know all of that. He just could see right through your defensive facade, and you fucking hated it.

“S’alright darlin.’ We all got our own skeletons in our closets, and I know a survivor when I see one.” He murmured softly.

What skeletons did Joel have in his closet? You couldn’t help but wonder.

Tag List: @chaotic-mystery @peterhollandkait @yuly @soft-cryptids @dinsdjrn @myrealmofchaos @itskenziebb @lovers-liability @korynnekorynne @ems-alexandra @kirsteng42 @casssiopeia @novemberrain-writes @goodwithcheese @loquaciousferret @sarahhxx03 @777-wonders @bonglorddaryl @mirasantidotes @luvrking @finnsbubblegum @last-girl @pedrostories @yazsos @pedgeitopascal @wildemaven @sourccream @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @amanitacowboy

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

How To Annihilate Your To-Do List

Summary: Y/N has a very long to-do list, can Dean convince her to let it get longer, and stay in bed with him instead?

Warnings/Explicit 18+: Smut. Fingering. Kissing. General morning making out. Fluff - it's pretty much all smutty fluff!

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Y/N

Word Count: 830

A/N: Just a little drabble that came into my head after seeing this post. I may also have a massive to-do list, but it's gloomy and rainy in my part of the world, and it got me thinking how lovely it would be if I could just spend the day in bed with Dean instead. Hope you enjoy the...smuff? Flut? Lol! I don't think there's a word for fluffy smut - but enjoy anyway! 💓

The beautiful divider at the bottom was created by @talesmaniac89.

The sound of your alarm made you groan and roll over to try and shut it off with a series of angry slaps to your phone, one of which eventually hit the right button and silenced the loud, percussive music that you'd specifically chosen so you couldn't sleep through it.

There was another groan behind you as Dean wrapped his thick arm around your ribcage and pulled you back against him. He ducked his head and nuzzled his face into your hair, his breath soft and hot against the back of your neck. His body was so warm and the blankets were so cozy you immediately fell back into a doze.

The slamming bass of the song came blaring on again ten minutes later, telling you that you'd only snoozed your alarm. Which was a good thing because as you picked it up and shut it off again, you growled slightly at the fact that you actually had to get up. You had so many chores to get done, so many errands to run. It was your first real day off in almost three weeks and all the little day-to-day crap that you'd been putting off, was now a mile long to-do list.

You tried to pull Dean's arm off of you carefully, hoping you didn't have to wake him. But as you tried to scoot out from under his long, strong limb, Dean wrapped it tight around you again and doubled down by throwing one of his heavy, muscled thighs over both of your legs, pinning them in place.

"No." He said, quick and grumbly, as though he was a particularly deep-voiced toddler.

But then his voice turned persuasive. "Stay." He breathed against the curve of your bare shoulder, as he rubbed his lips softly across your skin. He trailed kisses back up your neck before nosing along your jawline and nipping gently at your throat.

You melted into him, your brain trying to rationalize staying in bed all day with Dean instead of ticking things off of your to-do list. One last practical part of you was yelling in the distance to behave yourself and get up and do the things responsible adults were supposed to care about.

But then Dean's big hand cupped your breast and squeezed gently and every good intention flew out the window. You turned your head and then rolled onto your back so Dean was hovering above you. He smiled slow and sexy, his face still full of sleepiness, as he slid his hand down your torso, fingers drumming lightly against your skin as they moved.

Just as he was about to reach your warm, wet, heat, your phone started up again; clearly you hadn't succeeded in shutting off the stupid alarm.

Before you could do anything about the noise, Dean reached across your body and grabbed the phone off the bedside table.

"No!" He said again, his voice a deep, angry grumble now as he whipped your phone across the room so it hit the wall and went silent.

Your eyes grew wide and you gasped. "Dean! What the hell? That was my phone! What are you a caveman?"

In answer Dean grunted low and harsh, a sound that went straight to your core and had you dripping for him despite your annoyance. He grabbed on to both your wrists, wrapping his thick fingers around them easily and pressing them into the pillow on either side of your head.

He growled into your ear and shivers wracked your body. "Mmm...yeah, and this caveman has no intention of letting you out of this bed at all today."

He laved his wide tongue across your lips, licking them open before crushing his lips against yours. The kiss was deep and primal; he sucked on your tongue and bit at your lips until you were writhing under him desperate for more.

Your responsible side made one last ditch effort to get you to listen, as you panted against his neck while his lips wrapped around your earlobe and tugged.

"But...I...ah!...fffuck...Dean! - " Your sentence was interrupted as he let go of one wrist to let his wandering fingers trace down your body and then delve into your slick heat. "I...I have...stuff..." Another breathless gasp as two thick fingers slid into you. "...stuff..." You finished lamely as your one free hand grabbed hold of his wrist, holding it in place against your soaking wet pussy as he lazily dipped his fingers in and out of your body.

He watched your face as he fucked you with his fingers, watched the ripple of desire and pleasure move across your features.

"Nah, some asshole broke your phone, so your to-do list doesn't exist." He curled his fingers forward, hitting your sweet spot and making you cry out, bucking against his hand.

His voice was a growl again as he whispered into your ear. "Might as well just stay here with me, sweetheart."

You moaned out your total agreement.

@akshi8278, @lgranger67, @maggiegirl17, @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone, @foxyjwls007, @b3autyfuldisast3r, @myloversgone, @kazsrm67, @fangirlxwrites67, @kickingitwithkirk, @charred-angelwings, @hopefuldreamers-world, @siospins2, @deanwanddamons @deandreamernp, @my-sherlock221b, @jensensgotyoudean @lyarr24, @snowlovespie, @stixnstripesworld, @thoughts-and-funnies, @magssteenkamp, @norman1967, @princessmisery666, @mishkatelwarriorgoddess, @deepsketchsupernaturalcowboy, @eevvvaa, @b-i-t-c-h-i-e, @twirpbunwarrior, @mysweetlittledesire, @waynes-multiverse, @mrsjenniferwinchester, @bernasaurus, @leigh70, @sexyvixen7, @supernatural4life2022, @dainrumnaheimnaheim

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[charlescoded]

Because Ellie so kindly mentioned this au to me again, here's the first part of my lestappen hanahaki au + an extra scene. General warnings regarding hanahaki apply, so there's a little bit of blood.

one.) It’s a rainy day in 2012 when Charles pushes a finger into his chest and accuses him of being a horrible loser. His hair is tussled, cheeks flushed. Green eyes burn with hatred. Max has never seen anyone as beautiful as the angry boy in front of him. When Charles stomps off again, trembling fists clenched by his sides, Max feels all the air constrict in his lungs. It’s the first sign that something’s wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. He doesn’t know this yet, but Max Verstappen is in love with Charles Leclerc.

It's months later, Charles stands on the top step of the podium, his grin wild and carefree, so alive that it hurts to look at him, that Max feels the hold on his lungs tighten. He can’t breathe, tears burn in the corners of his eyes and he has to rush off the podium as soon as the ceremony is over. With only his father there to see, he keels over and coughs and coughs and coughs until blood stains the skin of his palm.

There’s a leaf in his hand, a droplet of red clinging to the crumpled petal. Max stares at it with wide, disbelieving eyes. His dad’s voice rings in his ears, louder than before, the worry shifting to fear as he realises what Max holds in his hand.

It’s proof.

Proof that he’s in love. 

Proof that he’s not loved back. 

—

two.) He’s the youngest person to ever join a formula one team. Maybe in a different lifetime, he would care less about records. But not this one. He knows his time is much more limited than it is for other people, he needs to be young, because he’ll never grow old. The bloodstained petals were a sign of unrequited love. It’s called Hanahaki disease and it’s incredibly rare. 

It’s also incredibly deadly.

Stems and vines with sharp, piercing thorns wrap themselves around his ribcage, flowers sprout inside every crevice of his chest. If they cut open his lungs, they’d find bouquets of every size, shape, and colour.

Hyacinths, lilies, carnations

He watches as Charles crosses the finish line as the victor of his first GP3 race and thinks of wildflowers. This isn’t the first time since their karting days that he’s seen Charles, of course it isn’t, their world is too closely knit to truly separate them, but it’s the first time they’re back on the same paddock.

They’re not equals here, but maybe they should be. 

The following day, as Max tastes champagne for the first time, the youngest person to ever win a grand prix, he thinks of Charles again. He shouldn’t, he knows this, but he can never quite help himself.

Christian is the one who finds him this time, white petals still clinging to his lips. His new team principal knows about the flowers, it’s not something he can just hide, but it’s the first time Christian is there to see it. 

“I’m fine.” Max murmurs.

He is fine. He's a race winner. His first race with Red Bull and he won it. The youngest ever.

“I never said you weren’t.” His voice is dry and so very English, but not even Christian can hide the tingle of worry. Max doesn’t like it very much. He's had to deal with the feeling of love trying to choke the life out of him since he was fourteen, yet there’s been enough people fretting over him to last a lifetime.

His mom and dad, his sister, Raymond, Jorrit and Stan.

He doesn’t need his TP to get added to that list. There’s nothing that can be done, so what’s the point in worrying? He just wants to live a relatively normal life, as normal as he can as a formula one driver, is that too much to ask for? 

Really, he’s completely fine. 

He has to be.

—

three.) It’s a shit start of the season. He’s been making too many mistakes. The team’s been disappointed with him, with his stupid mistakes and the damage they had to fix because of him. His crash with Daniel was the worst of it, and for all his smiles and goodwill, he’s not too sure Daniel is over that.

His girlfriend supports him as he navigates through his frustrated feelings about his teammate, about his team. He’s got a contract for at least another year, so he’s not worried, but her reassurances help him relax shitty weekend after shitty weekend.

All those fingers pointed his way, all those stupid questions reporters keep asking him, they all get too much sometimes. Having someone who loves him there with him, who isn’t his dad, helps him keep cool.

Max loves her, whole-heartedly, even if she isn’t the only one.

They're happy together, and for the first time in six years, he’s with someone that helps him breathe just a little bit easier. Maybe that means he can finally move on from Charles, maybe it’s a sign that he’s letting go of his childhood feelings. Maybe, just maybe, his love for her will be enough to melt those flowers like snow in the sun.

He knows it won’t be easy to let go of him, especially now that Charles is a formula one driver and so close, but if it means that he can have a future with his girlfriend, to love her with all his breath, then it will be worth it.

At Sauber, Charles shows his talent, bringing his inferior car back home in the points when he shouldn’t, when his teammate can’t. Max knows that Ferrari has their eye on him for next year, even if they’re still debating if it’s too early, if maybe he’s too young.

They'd be stupid not to. 

In truth, Max just wants to race against him again. This has nothing to do with love, racing Charles has always been exhilarating, like a fire gets lid in his veins. He knows how to bring the worst parts of Max out on track. But Max learns from that, he learns from his mistakes, and he owes it all to the passionate, borderline insane boy he met on a karting track in Italy.

For all his anger and hatred, Charles has always known him best.

That’s the part he avoids thinking about. 

It isn’t until months into the season that he actually talks to Charles. He's been pretty good with it, avoiding him in the media pen, interacting only when there’s other people around, when it’s necessary. Charles has his own friends on the paddock, there shouldn’t be any reason for Charles to even want to talk to Max, but he does.

“The Renault engine is pretty shit, is it not?”

Heat seeps through the seams of his racing suit where Charles' hand is resting on his shoulder, trying to catch his attention. Max looks at him, startled, genuinely surprised. He should cut the conversation off before it starts, but that’s the issue when it comes to Charles, he’s never been able to look away. It’s like he’s staring into the sun, it burns, yes, but the world feels so bright, so warm and vibrant. So alive.

He’s learned that, to feel alive, sometimes you have to be dying first.

And to breathe, you need to choke.

The flowers tickle in his throat as he jerks his head down in a delayed nod. “Yeah, mate, you could say that. It’s not as bad as last year, of course, but it would be nice if it could manage more than five laps.”

Charles hums in agreement. He twists his body until he’s leaning back against the bannister Max is holding onto. He’s no longer looking at Max, alleviating some of the nerves coursing through his body, instead Charles is looking up at the sky.

“You know,” Charles says lightly, a mirthless smile on his lips. “When I came to Sauber, I thought I might be able to fight you again. It was silly, the Red Bull is much faster, but I still hoped.”

Vines squeeze around his lungs. He doesn’t know how Charles always knows the wrong words to say, the right words to say, to make Max feel like lava is being poured into every crevice of his chest.

He closes his fists, his hold tight around the bannister. His fingers feel numb from the strain, so very desperate to keep from shaking, to keep his heart calm. “Next year.”

Charles looks at him again, his eyebrows furrowed together, his attention back on Max. It was the wrong thing to say. “Next year?”

“When you’re with Ferrari next year, we’ll be able to fight again.” He shouldn’t say it, and he certainly shouldn’t say it to Charles. The honesty feels like a sin, syrupy sweet and sticky like honey. An ambrosia. A temptation. 

He just wants to make Charles smile.  

He doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. He never smiles, not at Max.

Charles’ gaze is scrutinising, it sets Max’s skin alight with a desire he’s been ignoring for years. When he finds what he’s looking for, he nods firmly. “If I sign with them,” Because he needs to make that clear, to verbalise it, even if they both know Charles will be their greatest prospect for the future. “Then yes, we will fight.” 

Maybe, Max thinks feverishly, maybe he fell in love with Charles because he knew they’d be fighting for the rest of their lives. Maybe that’s what love is, to never feel lonely. 

The telltale signs of petals rising up his windpipe makes him falter in his reply. Panic rises too, and he’s barely able to croak out a strained I have to go before he’s practically running away from Charles, his hand pressed over mouth to try and subdue his coughing.

Flowers start to spill from his lips when he’s barely out of sight. Thorns scratch his throat open on the way up and it burns, his fingers getting covered in blood-soaked leaves and petals. White. Red. Blue. Daisies. Red sage. Rosemary. He presses his forehead against the cool surface of the building he’s hiding behind, trying to catch his breath before someone walks in on him.

He’s exhausted. So incredibly bone-tired that he doesn’t notice that someone is standing behind him until he’s gotten some measure of control back over his body. It feels like an eternity before he turns around, crushing the petals between his fingers.

“How long have you been standing there?” He hesitates, he dreads.

“Long enough to see the flowers.” His girlfriend answers. Her nails are dug into the palm of her hand, her gaze lingers on Max’s own fist. She knows.

She knows, he’s holding flowers meant for another, and she knows. 

“I’m sorry.” Max whispers. He doesn’t know what he’s apologising for. 

“How long, Max?” Her voice is even, that’s what scares him.

He takes a deep breath. He braces himself. “Six years.” It comes out softer than he intends, like a confession of sin.

“You've been in love with someone for six years? Six whole years?” The tone shifts, anger slowly bubbling to the surface. “All this time that we’ve been together… and you’ve just been leading me on.”

Anxious anticipation settles into his stomach. It mingles with the guilt he’s been holding in his heart for the months that they’ve been together. It was a secret he fully intended to share with her, he just didn’t know when. “No, no, of course not! I would never do that, listen to me, hear me out and I’ll—.“

“Six years, Max!” She snaps, eyes fierce and accusing. “You had all that time, all those years, and you never got rid of those stupid flowers!”

“I know, alright! Damn it, I know that… of course I know that, but that doesn’t change my feelings for you. I love you, please just give me the chance to explain—.” 

“No! We're done here, Max. I’m leaving.”

Max stands there, frozen, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He watches as she walks away from him and all he can do is dread the pain he knows will settle in his chest. He should go after her, try and explain that it isn’t his fault the flowers took root in his chest, but he knows that she’s right. She's right and he hates it.

He hates, but he hurts more.

Tears don’t fall. Not yet. Not then, not in Hungary. They don’t fall until he’s at home in Monaco, days later, when Christian calls and tells him that Daniel’s leaving. Daniel is leaving. Daniel is leaving them, him, for fucking Renault. Charles’ voice echoes in his head, mocking and righteous, the Renault engine is pretty shit, is it not? A sob rips from his throat at the ridiculousness of it all. He knows Daniel isn’t leaving because of the engine issues, he knows it isn’t because of the money, no, he’s leaving because of Max. 

He doesn’t know what hurts more: loving, but it isn’t enough. or loving, and not being enough.

It's devastating that somehow, somehow, the one person who he knows doesn’t love him hurts him the least. That somehow in all of this, Charles is the one who’s not breaking his heart. At least with him, Max knows exactly what he’s getting. The anger, the hatred, all of that feels familiar. This despair, the utter hopelessness, the numbing grief his girlfriend—his ex-girlfriend—and Daniel make him feel, it’s like taking a plunge into a frozen lake.

He doesn’t think he’ll be seeing her again, but he knows he’ll see Daniel again. They’ll still be at the same team for the following months, and then next year Daniel will be at Renault. He doesn’t know how he’ll be able to look at Daniel and not miss him already, like a breathing reminder of abandonment.

If anything, losing him, them, taught Max a valuable lesson. 

Max realises that loving and losing someone hurts far more than loving someone who doesn’t love him back. Lonely acceptance settles into his heart as he removes every trace of his ex from his life. Like ice, dreams of a future with her melt away.

The thorns remain wrapped around his heart, steady and reassuring in their presence. They’re like steel, cold and unyielding. They’re there to remind him what it’s like to love, to remind him of what he’ll never have. 

Maybe at its core that’s what Hanahaki is: to be unlovable.

Bonus scene for Austria '19

Charles looks at him with such anger, such pure unfiltered hatred, that Max has to remind himself to breathe. This is familiar. This is what he missed. This is the boy he fell in love with.

It feels right.

He knows it’s fucked up. He knows he’s fucked up. But it makes the blood in his veins sing.

He likes making Charles look at him like that. He likes to know that Max is the one who makes Charles that way, he likes being the one who’s getting him to feel this way. No one else can make him feel this way, just Max.

It’s also the only way he can make Charles look at him.

Max smiles back at him, because he’s an asshole, because he’s selfish, and he knows exactly how Charles is going to react. His jaw ticks, his fists clench at his side—he’s trying to hide it, but Max sees—, and his eyes narrow until they’re slits. If they were closer, if Max was standing right there, in front of Charles, he knows that Charles would bunch his fingers into his race suit and accuse him of being a dirty driver. 

It shouldn’t excite him as much as it does.

He turns away from him, then, because he knows Charles hates that too. The dismissal.

[stevenbasic]

GITJ Post 295: Painting His Apartment, p1

“You missed another spot over there, by the window,” I corrected her, looking up from the paint tray I’d just started to refill and pointing my chin over to the beige blotch peeking through the, uh, new color.

“Omigod haha I did…!” Melissa laughed, blowing a strand of long dark hair away from her face and stepping forward with her roller to squeeze a bit more paint onto the wall. Like I’d been doing all day any time I had the chance and despite my best efforts to resist, I ogled her while she wasn’t looking, this time from behind, in her tight jeans. We had, at her insistence earlier this morning, been painting the meager little studio apartment that I called home in the new, um, color that she’d picked out for me. While I was, uh, getting my finances back on track I’d been living there, at the whim and generosity of my ex-wife who owned the entire building, downstairs office suites and all. The apartment probably hadn’t had a fresh coat of paint in the fifteen years since the place was built, and Melissa was right: it needed it, a change of, urr…color. So, here we were, she and I, spending a rainy Sunday together on a project. It was a nice way to pass time, hang out and, jesus…the woman woke me this morning with a handjob in bed, plus she smelled great. It was nice to feel productive for a change and a secret, lurid delight just to watch such a tall, voluptuous woman move around. Even if she was painting my room to match her favorite lipstick. Pink. Or, as she called it, ‘mauve’.

“No no no, wait,” I directed, seeing her results with the roller, shaking my head as I tried to come to grips with how my place was going to look in a new coat of p-, excuse me -  ‘Twilight Blush’. “Here. Refill the roller first,” I instructed, “You should redo that whole little section or it’ll look uneven.” I’d spent some summers as a teen painting houses and sorta considered myself a minor-league authority on all things…painty. 

“Haha I’m still terrible at this,” she laughed, turning and crouching down across the tray from me and arresting my gaze with her glittering eyes and sharing her brilliant, dimpled smile. My heart fluttered at her warmth and beauty; even at her most disheveled and casual, Melissa was a knockout. She’d worn a faded old pair of too-short-at-the-ankle jeans which strained to contain her thighs, the crouch challenging their worn fabric mightily as her quads swelled inside them, and a softly pink, ribbed sweater that likewise clung to her every dramatic curve. It was away from the depths of its v-neck that I was currently struggling to keep my eyes as the soft jiggles and swells of her upper bosom beckoned from it. 

Refilled with paint, Melissa stood, turned and stretched her tall, curvy body to reach the highest parts of my apartment's outer wall with her roller. I watched slack jawed from behind, once again in rapt admiration of her nearly superhuman figure. Her legs were long, well-muscled and looking ready nearly to burst from her tight jeans from ankles to hips. Likewise the glorious globes of her huge behind seemed all but painted with denim, which was stretched thin over the expanse of her haunches. As she reached high, her trim waist stretched and the dramatic flare of her ribcage and upper back flexed with muscles, dark raven hair flowing behind her shoulders.

"Am I getting everything?" she asked, playfully casual, now looking back over her shoulder and catching me staring. I turned quickly away, dropping my gaze, but her smile told me for sure that I'd been caught. "Keep your eyes on the paint job, mister!" she giggled, biting her lip and wiggling her more-than-shapely rear in my direction. She was a certified gym bunny, I knew that, and proud of the size that the hours at the squat rack had built.

“uhhh…” was all I could manage. 

"Do you think it'll need another coat?" she asked, pulling the roller off the wall and wiping a touch of paint from her hands with a rag. She took a step closer and leaned against the unpainted wall aside me, making sure I could see her big breasts in her tight top. God, she was built! And, at my shrunken height I had very little choice but to look right at her chest.

"I'm not s-sure," I answered truthfully, "it all depends on how it dries. Might also look different when there’s more sun." The day was kinda gloomy, rainy outside. Tough for all the girls from the office who’d gone to that crazy women’s rally downtown - which looked like it ended up being surprisingly huge. Melissa and I had turned on the TV and watched a little of the news coverage as we ate the sandwiches she’d brought for lunch earlier. The rallies were going on all over the country, drumming up support and excitement for the New Women's Party that was going to try to get some elections of this coming Tuesday to swing their way. Well, it looked like they had both support and excitement in spades; there were literally millions of women at these things, coast-to-coast, and they seemed, uh, energized, to say the least. How Melissa felt about it was hard to judge; she’d decided not to go to the local rally in the city with her friends this morning, but at the same time I could see the enthusiasm in her eyes when we’d caught some soundbites from some of the speakers describing the changes to women’s (and men’s) rights they planned on making. To me, none of it seemed likely to happen, and the rain at today’s rally looked miserable; inside here I had all the lights on and together we were nice and warm. 

Melissa smiled at me, turning her head slightly and setting her shoulders, offering me a better glimpse down her top. "How's it look now?" she asked, with a mischievous smile, pushing her arms together just enough to bloom her full cleavage up into the neckline of her shirt.

"Th-the…the paint job..?" I stammered, laughing, “I-I hadn’t noticed.."

"Oh really?" she teased, and winked at me. "Well, I should get back to it…”

I watched, again, as she set to work with her roller. She was so tall that she could reach floor-to-ceiling in some parts of the room. Others, though, were vaulted a bit; she’d need a chair or the step ladder we’d snagged from the basement again when we got to those. I’d just started teaching her how to use the roller, as she’d never painted a room before. We’d spent the first half of the day prepping the walls and trim and cutting the edges, and yes I had her up on a ladder a bit. She was, honestly, horrible at first but improved remarkably quickly. By the end her cutting lines were as straight as mine and she barely needed the painter’s tape. Quick study, I guess, well-coordinated. 

But now we were on to rolling. Since she’d bought just one roller I was resigned mainly to just watch her and ostensibly teach her technique, which was a little haphazard at first. While she worked, we chatted and laughed. As I’d done a few times before, casually, I asked and she explained briefly about her childhood and younger years. She’d always been strangely vague on the topic, but today she was a bit more open about it than she’d been in the past.  She talked about moving about the country as a kid with her mother (dad didn’t seem to be in the picture), never staying in one place too long until they landed here, when she was in middle school. But then they started to travel and she’d missed a lot of schooling, it sounded, with the forays to other countries on which her mother would drag her. Huh. I’d never pictured Melissa as the worldly type; she’d always come across as sort of provincially naive. But that would explain, maybe, why she didn’t have a lot of experience in the home-improvement arena. Her rolling, at first, was atrocious. But again, she got better quick, and with her wingspan was able to reach most things aside from- whoooooah..!

“Omigod haha what are you doing..?!?” I yelped, as - after she’d handed me the full roller and put her hands behind my hips - she lifted me into the air. 

“Haha you do this part!” Melissa laughed, hoisting me high above her head in the farthest corner of the room, near the one part of the apartment with a vaulted ceiling, where she wouldn’t be able to reach without the ladder. She held me by the hips, had stretched her arms up to full extension, and quickly I was looking down from more than eight feet off the ground. My eyes goggled, shocked at the sudden change in altitude and in flabbergasted awe of her obvious show of strength. Jesus! She did that so easy! I couldn’t help but marvel, How strong is this girl?!?

“Yikes okay…” I agreed, still in shock but immediately setting roller-to-wall, applying ‘Twilight Blush’ to the highest parts of the apartment. With her boost I reached easily and, as my legs dangled helplessly below me, I covered the area as quickly as I could.

“You missed a spot over there…” she instructed me, stepping casually with me to the right a bit, towards the corner where yes a little beige still peeked through. She giggled, and was obviously being playful with me. And, yes, I felt like a plaything, but had immediately felt my cock surge in the old pair of cut-off sweatpants I’d been wearing, even as I painted. Lord the feeling of being picked up like a toy by this giant woman was turning me on!

“I-is th-that better?” I asked, and Melissa stepped back from the wall, to get a better look. She still held me effortlessly aloft, like I weighed nothing, holding most of the weight of me over her head with outstretched arms like I was light as a feather. The thin plastic drop cloths on the floor crinkled under her feet, and she regarded my handiwork. 

“Yes I think that’ll do,” she giggled, and gently lowered me to the ground, my roller still in hand, facing the wall to peer up at what I’d been able to do. “Ooo I dropped my phone!” she suddenly exclaimed, and turned herself to back up a step, bend over and - oof! Slam her butt into me!

“Hey!” I yelped, “Watch out!” I’d found myself, now, pinned to the wall, pressed into fresh paint by the accidental yet forceful appearance of her giant ass against my midsection. My right hand held aloft the paint-sodden roller and my left, equally awkwardly but for support, came to rest on her round left hip and started to try to push her away. Nnf!

Melissa paused, having reached her phone on the ground, and turned her head to look over her shoulder at me behind her. She seemed calmly surprised that the simple gesture of her bending over had effectively imprisoned me, trapped me between her and the wall. She felt my effort to push her away and free myself; it didn’t seem to phase her. In fact, I felt the squish of wetness on my back as she, if anything, pressed me slightly more firmly into the wall with the muscular mass of her giant, jean-clad glutes. I pushed against her, as hard as I could now for escape, but I might as well have been trying to move a mountain. Her massive ass had me pinned, from ribcage to navel, helpless. “This wall’s still wet!”  I laughed, realizing she had no intention of immediately releasing me, “I’m going to be all pink!” For sure this old t-shirt and these sweatpants were goners, interior latex eggshell all up the back of them both.

Still looking over her shoulder, still regarding me with curious interest, and still with no obvious intention of letting me go, Melissa addressed my complaints. “It’s ‘mauve’ not pink,” she calmly reminded me, “like my lipstick.” I couldn’t feel her trying to keep from giggling, like I might expect. 

“Okay okay mauve!” I laughed, still struggling as best I could against her butt, feeling the slippery squish of wet paint behind me, “you’re getting me all mauve!”

She pushed back against me again, making me grunt as air left my lungs. Something in the space between us had just changed, and I could see it in her face as she considered me, our positions, what she’d just done. She pushed again once more, pressing more breath from my body, and then began to roll her hips more languidly into me. 

“H-hey…” I stammered, trying to chuckle, “h-having a little trouble breathing here…”

Again, she seemed unconcerned, and I smelled a change in her perfume as her ass proceeded to squash me further. This was…this was interesting to her: I really couldn’t get away, could I? And, what could she do, if she really wanted? I know I was suddenly wondering it myself: could she really hurt me? Break my bones? Crush my ribs and organs? Something about the moment, the blatant difference in our respective sizes and strengths, the obvious physical power she had over me was fueling an electricity between us. Exciting her, starting to frighten me. 

When she spoke again, there was a new, husky purr to her voice. “Could Lakshmi do this to you, when she was here?” Melissa asked, reminding me of one of the few girls in the office whose rear end could come close to rivaling her own. Yes, Lakshmi had been up here in my apartment a month or so ago in that figure-fitting orange dress, and she’d nearly made me climax just by sitting on my lap in Josie’s car before the party downtown (and actually had with her hand the next day after). I wasn’t sure - had Melissa known about all that? “Lakshmi has a nice big butt. Some of the girls call her ‘BoomBoom’ now…do you?”

Obviously she had heard something. 

“Haha no,“ I laughed, nervously, grunting against the pressure of her overwhelming mass, “You’re the only ‘BoomBoom’ for m- …nnnf!...for me. Just…just please be careful with that thing, o-okay?”  

“Don’t try to tell me…” she began, the wry smile on her lips mirrored in her voice, “that you don’t freaking love it.”

“Oh…s-sure…nnf!!...I love being squashed like a bug by the world’s biggest butt.”

“What?!?” she laughed, gasping in mock outrage, and suddenly turned, releasing me from the pressure of her hindquarters but throwing me back against the wall with the strength of her mere left hand, “The nerve!!” Standing straight, now, she looked down at me with an imperious mischief in her eyes and took my face in her right hand. Remember - she was at least 6’4”, and I was barely 5’2”. The moment made my heart stop; she quickly made me feel like a child. “Don’t you know you shouldn’t talk about a lady like that?” she scolded, and turned my head to my right, pressure on my left cheek and jaw. With her right hand she pressed my face, my right cheek, into the wall behind me; I felt the wet paint slick and sticky, and was sure I now had it on my face.

“Hey!!” I laughed, my complaints pitiful, my voice cracking like a teen’s, “STo-op!!”

“MMMhm, nope,” she giggled, making sure my cheek was appropriately smeared with pink paint, paint the color of her lipstick.

I reached up with my free left hand and grabbed her wrist, tried to pull it away. She was so strong! I couldn’t fight back! “C’mon!” I laughed, squirming in her grasp and thinking I could start kicking her but knowing that that wouldn’t be a good look on me. 

“This’ll teach you to tell a girl she has a big butt,” she replied, drolly, as she released my face. Immediately I peeled it away from the wet wall as she was taking the paint roller from my right hand. “Now, put your arm out, against the wall,” she told me.

“M-my arm?”

“Yes, that one,” she said, nodding down towards my right. 

Tentatively, I raised my arm and laid it - also sticking to the paint, bare as I was from hand-to-shoulder in a short-sleeve tee - against the wall, outstretched. She still had me pinned by my chest to the wall with her powerful left hand. What was she…?

“No!!” I laughed, as I watched helplessly as she took the roller, wet with pink paint, and rolled it out the length of my arm, starting nearly at my shoulder. It left a sticky, pink trail, and then she rolled it back again, from my wrist back to shoulder. “No no no!! Stop!!” I cried, laughing again.

“And now the other,” she directed, heedless of my protests and - as I refused, started squirming my left arm away, she merely caught it with the roller, squashed it to the wall, and also painted it, wrist-to-shoulder, in ‘Twilight Blush’.

“What are you doing!!?” I pleaded. 

“I’m just marking you,” she explained, plainly, with finishing touches on my lower arm, “making you mine.”

“You’re painting me...mauve,” I whined.

“It's not mauve…” she corrected me, her eyes flashing with a dark thrill as she bent down at the waist, lowered herself so she could look directly in my face, hers fractions of a breath from mine, “…it’s pink...”  At that she took the roller and pressed it to my face, against my clean left cheek, and rolled it a gentle inch upwards.  “...and it matches my lipstick.” 

And then she kissed me. 

Sparks flew, lights exploded behind my goggling eyes as her larger mouth took mine, the power of her ardor forcing my head back so now my hair - my hair! - was stuck into the wet paint behind me. I groaned, immediately, and my toes curled as her tongue took over, her lips eclipsing mine. I allowed my eyes to flutter closed and let her have her way with me. I submitted to her kiss and let her take me any way she wanted, wet paint be damned.

If I was consumed by the kiss, I could tell she was equally swept away, passion building. She groaned into it, rattling my skull. “I want to kiss you so hard that you’ll never get the taste of me out of your mouth,” she said, in a breathless advance, breaking the kiss for a gaze into my eyes. 

“yes, d-do it…” I stammered, barely knowing what I was saying, my arms still stiffly outstretched against the wall, crucified, “do it…”

She groaned again and her passion exploded now tenfold into her kiss. Again her tongue was in me, shed dropped the roller, and now her big hands were on my shoulders, keeping me pinned with more force than she needed. She crushed my soft body from the outside and seemed, with her tongue outmuscling my jaw and pushing towards my throat, to want to stretch it from the inside. She heard me whimper under her force, and the noises she began to make - growls, grunts - began to worry me. She was, I admit, so much stronger than me. Her body could break mine, but she didn’t need its brute strength to dominate me. All she needed was her kiss, and she was set on proving it. Lip-locked, she inhaled my breath, stealing it steadily from my lungs until I felt my chest threaten to cave inwards. She then held my air for a few heartbeats and then slowly metered it back, refilling my lungs at the pace she controlled, allowing me air once more, air that she had warmed inside herself, permitted me to have. She drew my breath out again, held it, and then again allowed it back. I was breathing her air, and she was showing me what she could take from me, what she could give. I began to whine, which only inflamed her further. 

Soon, though, her mouth broke from mine and her lips began to cover my face - the parts, at least, unsullied by ‘Twilight Mist’. “Could the other girls do this with you, when they were here?” she growled, “Could Marisela take your breath away like I can?” 

I realized, of course, that she knew about Marisela, the drunken night in the waiting room. I hadn’t realized, though, what I was hearing in her voice now: she was, she was showing a little jealousy. I looked in her eyes, and shook my head ‘no’. 

Still leaned down into me, she crouched at the knees a bit, so we could continue our kissing. “Good boy,” she purred, before she drove her tongue into my mouth again. Now, in this position, her huge, soft chest was squashed into my upper torso, her hands on her knees. We kissed like that for a long moment, the luxurious weight of her breasts making my own knees quiver and pinning me to the wet wall.. She again broke our kiss and looked into me with eyes that would melt glass.

I found that I now had my hands on either side of her marvelous tits, sinking into the firm mass of boob held tautly by her ribbed pink sweater and what felt like a sturdy bra underneath. Her breasts were much wider across than my chest, even more so with them pressed hard into me. They actually had me sort of pinned between them, with her glorious bosom almost touching the wall on either side of me. “God, you’re so big…” I found myself marveling aloud, my gaze now dropped down to the cleavage which blossomed up towards her throat and towards my chin. 

She chuckled, giggling. “They do seem even bigger now that we’re pressed together like this, don’t they?” she mused, looking down now herself, proudly, into her own bosom. She then did one of the sexiest things I have ever experienced. She looked me in the eye, arched her back and took a big breath. At the same time, pressing her tits into me, Melissa began to stand up straight. I felt my feet leave the ground and I realized: she was pushing me up into the wall with her tits! Such was the upward pressure against my body, I was so surrounded by her chest, that she didn’t even need her hands! The wall, slowly and wetly, slid down behind me and soon she was standing fully erect, staring me in the eye with a bemused smile, my feet nearly a foot-and-a-half off the ground. My mouth gaped in amazement and my jaw quivered, and she held us there, letting me take in the moment. I was so much smaller than her, so much weaker. I was light, easy to carry and hold, and I was being held aloft by her tits.

Plus, I was hard as a rock.

She’d already felt it, pinned against my stomach, her hand having snuck its way in to grab hold, possessively. She was still looking me in the eye.  “Looks like they’ve got you trapped,” she purred, “My boobs.”

“y-y-yeah…” was all I could manage. I was at her mercy.

She cocked her head, regarded me, pondered for a moment. “Could Shanette do this with you, when she was here?” she asked, thoughtfully.

“Uhhh….” I muttered, recalling the titfuck Shanette had given me, here in my apartment, on my couch, my outsized erection slid up into her white tank top while she sat on her knees over my lap. It had been glorious, soft and enveloping…but it hadn’t been this. Melissa had my entire upper body engulfed in her chest, held up like a doll. “N-n-nuh…” I grunted, watching the swells of her breasts squash me, ballooning up past her collarbone.

“Or Randi…could Randi have taken you all in, like I did, even your balls and sac in my mouth. Could she do that when she was here?“ she further pressed, “Or when you were in her car?”

Randi…Randi’s mouth was…jesus, huge. No one had ever been able to do with me what she had…until Melissa came along. Melissa was able to take me all in and then some. She had nothing - nothing - to worry about, with these girls, with my feelings towards them or what they could do. But still she sounded…jealous.

I tried to tell her as much. “M-Melissa?” I began, looking into her eyes again now, my gaze open and honest, “Y-you…your friends, the others-  nngh!”

She squashed me, firmly, into the wall.

I’d grunted, but I continued. “They…they don’t mean anything to me, not the way you do,” I said, “you’re…you’re so much more than they are. So much more than any woman I’ve ever known…” How I put that sentence together, in the state I was in and in the position I’d found myself, I’ll never know. But I could tell she heard me, and I added: “You don’t have to…to worry about me, or…us.”

She smiled at me, a strange smile. There were things going through her head I know she thought I wouldn’t understand. “Sweetie,” she began, “the last couple of days…well, weeks…months…my emotions have been, well a little stronger than usual. Happy, sad, angry - haha crazy - they all come and go, so quickly. They’ve been…really intense, since I’ve met you. Sometimes I worry…”

I felt her heart beating, through our plastered chests, and understood what she was saying. These feelings, with her and her strength and me and my…smallness, could be dangerous. She was doing her best to control herself, many times…even now.

“As I get bigger,” she continued, speaking earnestly but plainly, “it’s not just my body that’s getting stronger, it’s my emotions too.” Her breath was coming shallow, hissing through her nose. “I worry, sometimes, that it might….keep getting worse. I want to be with you, so bad, but…but…can you handle that?”

I looked into her eyes, my mind racing. What was she telling me? What was she saying?“Wh-what do you mean,” I finally asked, “when you say ‘bigger’?”

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Thank you to Joshua67 and his AI assistant/harsh taskmistress for the pic

More GITJ stuff at my Patreon

[limerental]

ficletvember 2023 - day 23

isengrim/dijkstra pwp ft. bottom dijkstra

On a rainy winter day, Isengrim and Dijkstra indulge together in bed.

Winters in Novigrad were a dreary slog, the streets slick with chilled rain and the sky dismal grey. Most days, the sun barely eked through the cover of clouds.

Fortunately, the top floor of the townhouse shared by a former spymaster and wanted fugitive boasted a cozy hearth and truly enormous canopied bed swathed in furs and quilts and pillows. Through the winter, only the most pressing of affairs could coax Sigismund Dijkstra out of bed. Or even into clothing. 

“Makes you miss Zerrikania,” he said, sprawled on his side to watch the rain track down the windows. On clear summer days, one could see across rooftops to the blue shimmer of the sea. Presently, the afternoon sank into fog. “Perhaps we should winter there from now on.”

“If we wintered in Zerrikania,” said Isengrim Faoiltiarna as he returned to bed, “you would complain of the heat and sun. And the sand. And the little creatures that crawled into your bed.” 

Dijkstra grumbled and rolled to him, nearly displacing a silver tray of assorted meats and cheeses which Isengrim managed to steady even as the large man tugged him close and drew him in for a lingering kiss.

“You’re one of the creatures that crawled into my bed,” he mumbled against Isengrim’s throat. “Not complaining there.”

He hissed a curse when the elf pressed cold toes against his shins.

“Was that a complaint I heard?”

"A minor one. If you’d quit slipping out of bed, maybe you’d warm up.”

“Someone has to feed the fire,” said Isengrim. “Otherwise, someone else will moan about a chill.”

“Fire’s high enough.”

The elf’s reflexes once more spared the food tray, safely settled on the bedside table as Dijkstra palmed his narrow hips and rolled them. Beneath the fur-lined coverlet and the press of Dijkstra’s body as his mouth trailed down his throat, Isengrim soon began to warm.

The warmth came at the cost of breathing as the man’s full weight settled. 

It was a pity that Isengrim could not forgo breath for the feeling of being wholly surrounded by him, pinned and held still in a way that would have heightened a flurry of anxiety in any other circumstance. 

He tugged at Dijkstra’s ear.

“If you smother me to death, you’ll have to fetch your own wine,” Isengrim whispered against it, kissing the abused lobe in apology.

Dijkstra mumbled and rolled them once more, the cocoon of the covers falling away as Isengrim sat across his thighs. In the firelight, the shadow of tattoos across his slender torso seemed to stretch and contort as he breathed, and the scar that disfigured his face swallowed every feature but the gleam of his eyes and the twitch of a crooked smirk.

“What’s that look for?” asked Dijkstra, both thumbs trailing back and forth along the muscled dip of Isengrim’s stomach. Hips swallowed by large hands, his fingers nearly brushed. He knew exactly what the elf liked. To be smothered and dwarfed to smallness, to be insignificant for a little while, held and consumed and overpowered. 

An easy feat for a man so large, though any other man would find a dagger in his gut for trying.

Isengrim knew also what the human beneath him liked.

He trailed a hand up Dijkstra’s ticklish flank to cup his ample chest and squeeze. 

“I like looking at you,” said Isengrim, and the man’s gaze darkened.

Not ordinarily one for insecurity or for vanity, there was something different in the sound of praise from the elf’s lips. It was not simple flattery or admiration of his body but a deeper sentiment that evaded words. Something like the ways I feel when I look at you still surprise me. How unlikely all of this is. Sharing a life with someone like you. Of all possible lives.

In return, Dijkstra’s hands smoothed up Isengrim’s ribcage, looking his fill with just as much pleasure. 

Their bodies were a perfect contrast. Isengrim gristle and hard lines, scarred and marked with ink, and Dijkstra soft and fat, belly and chest heavy with silvering hair.

Isengrim trailed his long fingers up through that hair from sternum to throat and hummed in contemplation.

“What’re you planning, Wolf?” Dijkstra asked, voice low with desire. Their hips rocked subtly together, equally aroused.

“I was thinking I’d like to fuck you,” said Isengrim. 

“How d’you want me?” 

The human’s pale eyes were washed brighter by the firelight. Isengrim wanted him to the exclusion of all else.

“Like this,” he said as he coaxed the man’s legs to spread and settled between them. “Lift that thigh. Shift up. There. How’s this?”

“Not bad,” Dijkstra hummed. “Now you can do all the work.”

Isengrim pinched the meat of his thigh and avoided a kick by ducking away for the jar of oil on the side table. He quieted Dijkstra’s griping with the searching press of slender fingers. 

They did not often switch their roles like this. Isengrim had little preference between the receptive or penetrative sexual positions, but Dijkstra had never allowed himself to be in such a vulnerable position before Isengrim asked it of him the first time.

Most of his past bedpartners had not entertained the thought, far too interested in his physical endowment. Not even Philippa had suggested it, who was both uninterested in his sizeable manhood and renowned for her skill with a wooden cock and leather harness.

Mindful of this act’s infrequency, Isengrim kept his preparations slow and measured. Of course, the pace was not to Dijkstra’s liking.

“You think I’ll break or something?” he grunted, though a flush creeping up from his chest betrayed his body’s response to the crook of the elf’s fingers.

“As you know, you dh’oine are quite fragile,” said Isengrim. Truthfully, the human’s muscles had already gone suitably lax enough to proceed, but he liked this feeling, to see the little signs of Dijkstra’s interest, to fully possess this powerful man in ways he would never allow any other.

A similar feeling could be achieved with Isengrim’s legs stretched across the human’s lap, muscles quivering as he bore down on the girth of Dijkstra’s cock to ride him with an unerring rhythm.

Maybe later tonight.

For now, Isengrim withdrew his fingers and hitched a heavy thigh in the crook of his arm, shuffling close enough to tease with the firm nudge of his erection. 

“Might be overestimating my flexibility,” huffed Dijkstra as he drew his leg further up to accommodate the elf. “Definitely overestimating my patience.”

“The fire’s looking awfully low,” Isengrim drawled, feigning as though to slip from bed.

“Don’t you dare.” 

The curl of Dijkstra’s leg around his body drew him closer, as though he could not easily wriggle free if he truly wanted to. A heel nudged insistently at the small of the elf’s back, and relenting, Isengrim adjusted the grip of his hand behind Dijkstra’s knee and shifted his hips to sink deep into the warmth of the man’s body.

Dijkstra clenched instinctively for half a moment and then breathed out a shuddering exhale. The laxness returned. Isengrim nudged their hips flush together. He was nowhere near so well-endowed as the human and bottomed out easily. His slick fingers felt where they joined, teasing there as he held still.

“You tired already, Grim?”

“Yes, Sigi, you exhaust me.”

Isengrim tipped his cheek against Dijkstra's raised knee and held a kiss there. He shifted, drew back, and began to drive down with steady thrusts, not sparing any measure of his strength. 

Urged on by fervent curses and taunts, their bodies rocked together. Sweat slicked Isengrim's grasp, settling to brace his shoulder under the raised knee. Dijkstra grunted at the change in angle, and Isengrim rested a sharp grin against his calf.

“Good?” he asked, smug, and the human swore more colorfully.

“Better if you kept at it, you lazy fuckin–”

Isengrim quieted him with an athletic show of muscle honed by years of desperate combat, now devoted wholly to this, the blunt-edged softness of this unlikely retirement. 

The position prevented them from leaning together to kiss deeply the way they wished to. The rain lashed the windows, and the fire burnt high.

When Isengrim's release crested over him in a sudden wave, he searched with a clumsy fumble for Dijkstra's cock pressed between their bellies. He knew exactly the pressure and speed needed in the curl of his fingers to swiftly draw out his climax in a messy spill between them.

Both groaned as Dijkstra's stiff leg dropped off Isengrim's equally stiff shoulder. The elf sat back on his heels a moment, both hands petting up and down the human's soft thighs.

“C'mere,” grunted Dijkstra, gesturing, and despite the mess and sweat of their bodies, Isengrim lay down atop him. Resting their foreheads together, they breathed into a slow kiss.

After a long moment with no sound but their steadying breath and the patter of the rain, Isengrim said, “you stink, Sigi.”

A laugh rumbled up through Dijkstra's chest. 

“I'll draw a bath if you get the wine from the cellar.”

“You go,” said Isengrim, rolling to pull the cover of a quilt around him, blinking coyly from beneath it. “Fetch me when the water's warm.”

Dijkstra's grumbles and groans as he tugged on a silk robe to rise from bed were all for show.

He could never deny Isengrim a thing.