#stained glass partitions

[5starglassdesigner]

The Timeless Elegance of Stained Glass: Windows, Doors and Partitions

Stained glass has long been celebrated for its ability to transform ordinary spaces into extraordinary works of art. This traditional craft, renowned for its vibrant colors and intricate designs, continues to capture the imagination of architects and interior designers. Among the many applications of stained glass, stained glass windows, stained glass doors, and stained glass partitions stand out as particularly striking elements that enhance both the aesthetic and functional qualities of a space.

Stained glass windows are perhaps the most iconic use of this art form. Historically associated with grand cathedrals and historic buildings, these windows are crafted from colored glass pieces held together by lead came or copper foil. The designs range from intricate medieval patterns to modern abstract art, each telling its own story or contributing to a broader visual narrative. Stained glass windows not only serve as decorative elements but also influence the ambiance of a room by filtering natural light through their vibrant hues. This interplay of light and color can transform an ordinary space into a serene sanctuary or a dramatic focal point.

Stained glass doors offer a unique way to incorporate this art form into residential and commercial interiors. These doors can range from front entryways to interior doors, each piece meticulously crafted to complement its surroundings. The use of stained glass in doors adds a touch of elegance and privacy while allowing light to pass through in a controlled manner. Whether it’s a grand entrance adorned with elaborate designs or a simple internal door featuring subtle patterns, stained glass doors provide both functionality and a refined aesthetic. They offer an opportunity to personalize a space with bespoke designs that reflect the character and taste of the owner.

Stained glass partitions are another innovative application of this art form. Used to divide spaces while maintaining an open and airy feel, stained glass partitions are ideal for creating visually appealing barriers that do not obstruct light. These partitions can be employed in various settings, from offices to homes, where they add a decorative touch while subtly delineating different areas. The use of stained glass in partitions allows for the creation of unique and custom designs that can serve as focal points within a room, enhancing both the functionality and the visual appeal of the space.

In summary, stained glass windows, doors, and partitions each play a significant role in the modern interpretation of this timeless craft. Their ability to blend art with functionality makes them valuable additions to any design scheme, bringing a touch of elegance and a splash of color to a variety of settings. Whether used in historic restorations or contemporary designs, stained glass continues to enchant and inspire with its enduring beauty and versatility.

[storiesoflilies]

priest!toji seemed like the sort of man who really shouldn’t be in the profession he had chosen for himself.

“b-bless me, father, for i…”

“go on, don’t be shy now.”

he had a dark eyebrow quirked at her; she could tell even through the partition between them, which didn’t do much to hide either of them. she could see his tousled raven hair, a hazy outline of his chiseled features, and his slightly worn-out black robes.

she cleared her throat, willing herself to keep it together. “for i have sinned, father. it has been seven days since my last confession.”

toji hummed lowly, thoughtfully. “i see. and what sort of atrocious sins have you committed to come and see me in the middle of the night?”

how could she answer that?

he couldn’t know he was the sole reason for her visit.

she just… had to see him, hear his voice, savor his breath on her tongue.

the rain thundered down harder outside the church, the wind battered against the stained glass windows with renewed vigor, and the candles flickered against the walls. still, she couldn’t utter a single word to him; her voice was caught somewhere between a lie and the truth.

toji cleared his throat, and she could hear the smirk in his voice as he rumbled, “you can always be honest with me.”

she knew that he knew why she was really here.

toji fushiguro was no fool of a priest.

he knew that more than half of his parish lusted after him, only pretending to earnestly repent their ways and be brought into the light of the church just to be closer to him. he knew they clung to his every word during his sermons, thirsty for more, and it was undeniably wrong how much he loved the power of it all.

but he didn’t care enough to blow out that fire.

he knew she wanted to walk straight through it towards him, to feel the heat of him on her skin and then drown herself in his holy water.

“well,” toji began, his face drawing nearer to the partition. her breath hitched as his forest-green eyes gleamed at her, and he smiled. “perhaps we can try to approach this differently.”

he was so alluring, dangerously persuasive without trying.

“w-what do you mean?” she stuttered, tightly crossing and rubbing her legs together.

“how about we chat face to face, hmm? that might make you feel a little bit better about… opening up.”

she couldn’t help but nod and obey him.

©storiesoflilies 2024, all rights reserved. please do not plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my work on other sites! i only post on ao3 and tumblr.

[slamminslamminmcgill]

Ruins - Joel Miller/FTM!Reader (NSFW!)

you venture into the ruins of a nearby sex shop/porn theater with one thing in mind: dick without any emotional attachments. however, when you cross paths with an older guy named joel, your emotions don’t stay detached for very long.

tags/warnings: anonymous sex, cruising, gloryhole sex, oral sex, age gap, daddy kink, brat taming, domination, degradation/humiliation, breeding kink, public sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, poppers, facials, spit-roasting, squirting, spit kink, spanking, face slapping, pussy slapping, hair pulling, the briefest most bitch-tier instance of misgendering, some light homophobia/transphobia for flavor

ao3 link

word count: 6,945

anatomical terms: cunt/pussy/kitty/twat, clit/(t-)dick/cock

author’s note: THIS HAS BEEN COOKING FOR 6 MONTHS OOPSIE sowwy it took so long. anyway shoutout to my hometown's 24/7 sex store/porn theater with gloryholes for the inspiration :3

ALL YOU CAN WATCH PORN THEATER

60 CHANNELS

$10 ENTRY FEE

XXX

You wondered what that sign would’ve looked like when it was lit. When electricity could be wasted on frivolous things like a homing beacon for no-strings-attached cock. And batteries were so plentiful that you could put them in vibrating toys to shove up your ass.

Now, ‘bout 2 decades after the world went to shit, the sign was dark. Dark like the rest of this place. You would’ve been a baby when it was open. Hell, it’s probably older than you are. It’s kind of beautiful, if you think about it. You’re on your knees waiting for dick in these ancient ruins, here to worship the gods of anonymous sex, just like so many others who came before you, and probably all over the walls while they were here.

At this point, you might as well chop the number 6 off that sign, and you’d do it if the floor ever needed more broken glass to crunch under your boots. A whopping 60 channels down to 0. The only porn that’d be showing would be if some other patrons were here to make it themselves. Actually, the silence actually made it easier to find a partner. You wouldn’t be trying to make out footsteps from underneath the droning moans of various girls and twinks across dozens of screens. Since this dilapidated sex store was one of the very few cruising grounds left in the Boston QZ, you’d usually hear a couple sets of shoes shuffling around, but tonight was bone dry. For now, at least. You’d only been here for 10 minutes, sitting in a stall by yourself taking a Rorschach test with the cum stains above the gloryhole. Anything to pass the time.

Then, you heard it. That sweet symphony of slow and steady footsteps, atop an orchestra of creaking floorboards. Just one pair, it sounded like. They scoped your surrounding area, checking the stalls in the rows behind you. They got louder and louder, and soon you could hear them coming down your aisle. They stopped when they saw a closed door: yours. Barely hanging onto the hinges with a busted lock to match, but a sign of intelligent life. You saw a flashlight click on, confirming that this stall was indeed occupied, then the light swept past you along with the footsteps. The bright beam circled around you, from the door, down to the floor, and up and over to the gloryhole partitioning your stall and theirs. Bingo. Target acquired.

The flashlight flicked off…

A bag was tossed into the corner…

Another flimsy door squeaked as it shut…

Then, everything was quiet…

…

And the next thing you heard was a belt unbuckling. 

You scrambled into position and peered through the hole. Judging by what you could see—a pudgy, fuzzy belly peeking out from unzipped jeans, and large calloused hands tugging on a fat cock growing harder by the second—they seemed like your type. You stuck your fingers through the hole, beckoning the mysterious suitor to come forth and give you what you came here for. They approached the hole, and you withdrew your fingers to allow them entry. They continued to stroke themselves in preparation, just barely out of your reach, taunting you, mocking you, though you dared not interrupt them. Finally, before the last of your restraint could slip through your fingers, their gorgeous cock slipped through the hole.

“Mmm…” You involuntarily mewled in appreciation, instinctively grabbing the stranger’s dick and kissing its tip. Your tongue teased its slit, coaxing sweet precum to spill from it. You vacuumed the head into your mouth before gliding your lips down the shaft.

The stranger merely grunted, barely audible through the wall. Ah, the quiet type. The kind who keeps their feelings to themselves when they get their dick sucked. You wondered what they were thinking of. What was this for them? A quick stop after the day’s work to blow off some steam? A breach of fidelity against an unsuspecting wife at home? The fulfillment of a long-desired fantasy, or just another Tuesday night blowjob?

Even though your partner wasn’t a talker, their cock was very responsive. You could feel it twitch and leak, pulsating in your mouth, somehow getting even harder than you thought possible. It was the perfect specimen. You had to get it inside you.

You popped your lips off and wrapped your hand around the fat shaft, letting the stranger know that you weren’t going anywhere, and that they shouldn’t either. You stood up and undressed your bottom half with your free hand. Once exposed, you turned around and bent over, attempting to guide the cock into your waiting cunt. Attempting, being the key word there. It’s hard to fuck with a wall in the way.

First, your hips were too high, then too low. Then you got the altitude right, but the angle was all wrong. It started to poke your asshole, which would’ve been fine if you had any lube, but you did not. Looks like it’s front entry only tonight. You tried to put it in your cunt yourself, but your own arm was just getting in the way. Fuck. Okay. Let’s recalibrate. You braced your hands on the wall opposing you, and pushed your hips back, completely airballing the cock. If only your holes had eyes. The flimsy door jiggled as you strained against the walls. You tried again, this time feeling the hard shaft rubbing up against your ass cheek. Getting warmer. Just gotta angle it. Thank god your newfound partner was standing still and letting you do this. You put all your weight into your hands, pushing as hard as you could on the far wall, and went to thrust your hips back once more…

And then the shitty door broke off its hinges and fell backwards on top of you.

You got knocked to the ground with a loud crash and a louder yell of “SHIT!”

“Y’alright in there?” A gravelly voice asked from the other side.

With nothing hurt except your pride, you shouted, “Y-Yeah! I, uhh… I think I’m good! Fuckin’ door fell on me…” You tried pushing it off, but it was too heavy, and too dark to see where you could crawl out from under it. You kicked around on the floor for a few seconds, until the voice asked,

“Need help?”

After taking the time to consider your considerably limited options, you said, “…That would be appreciated, yes.”

And thus your knight in shining armor came to rescue you from entrapment. You heard the click of a flashlight, the rustling of some clothes, and then you saw a haze of light around your wooden prison. Two hands much bigger than yours slipped under one side of the door and pried it off you, freeing you and allowing you to meet your hero face to face. You were greeted by the sight of a concerned, rugged, sexy older man, and you already knew he was packing heat in his pants. He was everything you could’ve hoped for.

You, on the other hand, were not given positive feedback upon first glance. When the light was on your face, you gave him a timid, lighthearted and limpwristed wave, and he merely furrowed his brow in response. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, kid, how old’re ya?”

“23,” You said, sitting upright on the floor, criss-cross applesauce, your bare cunt hiding in plain sight. “I’m legal, I swear.”

“Still, that’s…” He grumbled, casting his eyes away from your distressingly youthful face. “You’re too young for this. Shit, I been coming to places like this since before you were born…”

You felt honored to be in the presence of such a historian. “Really? Wow…” So many questions you could ask. What was it like back then? Were there a lot of places like this? Did you go to them a lot? What was your best experience? While you flipped through the available dialogue responses, you reached up to palm his still-hard cock, which he’d tucked back into his boxer-briefs, his fly still unzipped. You smiled up at him seductively, and selected the statement, “That’s kinda hot…”

The stranger chuckled, enamored by your boldness and naivety. “The hell were you even try’na do just now t’ make the door fall off like that?”

“I was trying to get you into my… my, uh…” Oh, shit. How the fuck do you explain that? You were counting on the wall between you two to keep your secret safe. Semantics didn’t matter in the dark; a hole’s a hole. You twiddled your thumbs and subtly opened your legs, waiting for the stranger to see for himself.

And indeed he did see. He locked eyes with it, and knelt down to see it up close. “How’d you get that?”

You shrugged. “Was born with it...”

“No shit…” Joel pushed your legs further apart to ogle your pussy. His rough fingers spread your lips, and he made a confused face at the sight of your t-dick. You couldn’t blame him, though. He’d probably never seen anything like it. “That s’posed to be your clit?”

“Mhm…” You nodded.

“Why’s it so big? Looks like you got a tiny li'l dick.”

You puffed a breathy laugh, “Heh heh… Hormones…”, hoping that’d be a sufficient explanation.

And it was. “Huh. Cool.” He mumbled, and nonchalantly rolled his thumb over it. Your entire body jolted forward, grabbing onto his bicep to ground yourself, and he pulled back. “Woah, y’alright? Want me to stop?”

“No, no, no, you’re fine… Y-You’re okay, just…” You took a sharp inhale, a deep breath that shuddered on its way out. You batted your eyelashes at him, a gesture of playful confidence alongside the intimacy and vulnerability of eye contact. “Just keep going… Please…”

That eye contact between you two didn’t last long. Your partner shifted his focus downwards. He had to. He couldn't go in blind. You were something new, uncharted territory to explore and conquer. He traced two of his fingers up the length of your pussy until they diverged at your dick. They pinched your tiny length and jerked you, tentatively at first. Though when you twitched, and let out the sweetest little cry of,

“Aah~! Fu-u-uck…”

He was hooked, both metaphorically and literally now with his arm around your waist, tugging you into his lap. He took you into his experienced embrace and started to jerk you off like he meant it. Those big, rough man-hands, worn from decades of hard labor, more decades of handling dick than your entire existence, were fucking amazing. Your mind went dumb in seconds, your face slumped against his chest, pawing at his flannel shirt and whimpering. Honestly, you were so deep in a trance that you didn’t even realize it when you said,

“Nnnn, Daddy…”

The stranger stopped dead in his tracks. He knotted his fingers in your hair and ripped your head backward. A searing pain shot from your scalp, down your spine and snapping it into an arch. You made a sound somewhere between a wince and a whine, and the thickest, deepest, roughest voice you’d ever heard growled at you, “The fuck you just call me?”

Oh shit, oh god, oh fuck fuck fuck. You froze. Suddenly you were a prey animal, a helpless little bunny rabbit with no chance of winning against the big bad wolf. Or, probably more accurately, you were a clueless dipshit hunter who stepped in his own fucking bear trap. Then and only then did you realize the sheer stupidity of what you were doing. It’s almost if going out alone to fuck strangers is risky, or something. Huh. Who'da thunk it. You better pray he has mercy on you. 

“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” You chanted, hoping your repeated apologies would smooth things over with him. They didn’t seem to be doing anything, so you tried to explain yourself. “It’s just, I… I don’t know your name, so-“

But he wasn’t buying it. “Oh, cut the shit. That ain’t why ya said it.”

You stammered, trying to make sense of his accusation. “I… I don’t—I don’t understand…” 

“It’s Joel.”

“Huh?”

“My name. It’s Joel." He said with no pleasantry in his tone, "‘N’ now that’cha know that, how’s about you look me in the fuckin’ eye and tell me you don’t still wanna call me Daddy?”

Motherfucker. This guy could read you like a book. Like a book intended to teach reading to children, you were that easy. Your Very Hungry Caterpillar lookin’ ass had nothing to say in your own defense. There was nothing to say, except maybe “I… I do… I do wanna… call you Daddy…”

With your admission, Joel relaxed his grip, but still held onto your hair. “Good boy…” He mused. That Southern drawl of his, rich and sweet like honey, seeped into the valleys of your brain‘s wrinkles. “Daddy’s got you.”

He pressed his lips to yours, and you were gone, completely blasted into subspace, perfectly malleable for him. Joel was a good kisser. Slow, but firm. Dominant. His slightly chapped lips coaxed you open, sculpting himself into you with that scratchy beard against your skin. You draped your arms over his shoulders and let him lead. He smelled like aftershave over man-musk with a light tinge of cigarettes or maybe pot smoke. Intoxicating. His hand untangled itself from your hair, now petting instead of pulling, as the other trailed back down to your tiny cock, squeezing and rolling it between his fingers. 

“O-Oh~! D-Daddy!” you squealed. 

“I know, baby, I know. Be good. Be a good boy, and Daddy’s gonna make you feel real good, okay?”

“Mmm, okay, Daddy…”

“Attaboy.” Joel dotted kisses from your lips to your jaw and to the side of your neck. It was unprecedented, how quickly you latched onto him, but understandable. An older man taking a young boy like you into his arms, holding him tight, telling him to be good. Of course you’d be putty in his hands. Your train of thought was just sampling and remixing his praise over and over. I know, baby. I know. Daddy’s got you. Be good. Be a good boy. Good boy. Daddy’s got you. Oh, Daddy’s got you, alright. Daddy’s got you wrapped around his fucking finger. 

“Ohhh, Daddy, pleeease, I… I want…” You swallowed, attempting to choke down a moan. It didn’t work. “Ngah, I want your cock in meee…”

“Quit whinin’, whore. I’ll fuck ya when I feel like it.”

Well, that was some tonal whiplash. Just a few seconds earlier he was cooing to you, encouraging you to be a good boy for him. Now you were nothing but a whore, just three warm holes for him to blow a load into. You couldn’t cope, and you certainly weren’t above begging for it. “Nooo, nononono, please, Daddy, please fuck me, please fuck me, I-AH!”

A swift bitchslap ended the discussion on that. Evidently, your Daddy believed in the old ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’ expression.

“Told ya to quit whinin’,” Joel hissed as he grabbed you by the jaw and dug his nails into your face. “You’re the one who wanted a Daddy, right? Well, now you got one. And Daddy don’t like when his bitches talk back. Got it?” 

“S-Sorry!” You cried, “I’m sorry, Daddy! I’m sorry, I–Ohhh, fuuuck, yeees…”

In the midst of your bitching and moaning, Joel plunged two fingers into your dripping cunt, dragging and twisting them any which way he pleased. 

“Aw, pretty boy’s got a tight little kitty now, don’t he?” He sneered. Even his compliments were backhanded. “‘N’ so wet, too… How many cocks you take up here before?”

“I do–oh! Fuck!” You yelped when his fingers tapped your g-spot, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck in an attempt to hide. “I don’t… I don’t know!”

“Yes you do, slut.” He took you by the hair again and tore you out of your hiding spot. “Tell me.”

You gulped. “N-No, I really… I really don’t… I stopped counting…”

Joel was stunned by your admission of guilt. Initially, he’d felt bad about hooking up with someone so much younger. He’d felt like he was corrupting you. Like a dirty old man creeping on someone young enough to be his kid. But now, any shred of hesitation had been tossed out the window. After all, you can only get so dirty, right? It’s not like he’d be doing any more damage to you. He laughed with a cynical sense of admiration. “Oh, you’re nasty, kid… Nasty little fuckin’ cuntboy…” Joel slid his fingers out of your cunt and stuffed them into your mouth, making you slurp your arousal off them. “You want mine too, huh? You want me on your fuckin’ dick list? Your li’l whore roster?”

You nodded with his digits pressed into your tongue and drool dripping down your chin. 

He slid his wet fingers out of your mouth, smearing spit all over your face, and grabbed your jaw again. “I need ya to say it, boy. Say ‘I want my Daddy’s big cock in my little wet whore hole.’”

You pursed your lips and whined, hoping you could weasel your way out of saying something that degrading. “Daddy, pleeease…”

“Y’ain’t gettin’ it ‘til ya say it.”

Fuck. No such luck. Oh, well. If that’s what you had to do to get what you needed, so be it. “I want... I want my Daddy’s big cock in my little…” The sharp, cruel words seemed to cut your vocal cords like shards of glass. “w-wet… whore hole…”

“Good job, slut.” Joel said flatly before nudging you off his lap. “On your back.” 

You rolled onto the hardwood floor, opened your legs, held them up by your ankles, and brought your knees to your chest. Such an obedient little slut you were, assuming the position perfectly, not even caring about the dingy, disgusting floor you were lying on. Fuck it. At least it was dry. Well, for now, at least. Who’s to say that you wouldn’t be the one leaving behind a puddle of mystery liquid. Actually, that reminds you…

“Oh! I, uh, I should probably warn you… I squirt.”

“Fine by me,” Joel knelt in front of you and took hold of you by your hips. He dragged you up his thighs and then pulled your legs even wider apart. You’d certainly feel that stretch in the morning, likely along with several others. “You clean?” He asked out of the blue.

You tilted your head, mesmerized by the sudden question. “Hah…? Wha?”

“I said, are you clean? Like ya get tested and stuff?” He explained, hastily fishing his cock out of his pants.

How genuinely reassuring. He actually gave one tiddlywink of a fuck about your wellbeing. It was a nice surprise. “Oh!” You nodded confidently, “Yeah! I’m good!  And, I’m on, uh… I’m on birth control, too, so, uh… if you wanna…”

Joel snickered, “Well, shit, that’s a tempting offer.”

And you smirked back, “You gonna take me up on it?”

“Just might have to…” He leaned down to kiss your neck, that scratchy stubble tickling you again. “Ya want Daddy raw?” 

“Mhm…”

“Gotta say it, pumpkin. Say you want Daddy raw.”

“I want Daddy raw… I want Daddy raw…” You babbled, grabbing onto his flannel shirt and climbing up his chest. One of your hands landed perfectly on his pocket, in which was a small, hard object. Maybe glass? You couldn’t tell through the fabric. “Mm? What’s this?” You asked, prodding the hidden treasure. 

“What, this?” Joel huffed and reached into his pocket, retrieving a teensy tiny glass bottle, bearing the remnants of a red and yellow label eroded by time. “They’re called poppers. You ever heard of ‘em?”

You shook your head. No clue. 

“‘s basically nail polish remover,” Joel said, unscrewing the cap and bringing it to his face. “Ya huff the fumes, and it relaxes your muscles. Opens you up. Gives you a rush for like 30 seconds. Feels pretty intense.” He brought the lip of the bottle to his nostril and huffed it. 

Oh, yeah. That sounds vaguely familiar. You heard a rumor that gay men would huff chemicals for sex, supposedly to make anal easier. This must be that. You counted his breath, trying to gauge how big of a hit one’s supposed to take. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5… 

Then the other nostril. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…

He let out a rumbly exhale and held it out to you. “You wanna try?”

Under most circumstances, you think you’d know better than to huff strange chemicals offered to you by a stranger. But something about him—his paternal vibe, his subtle gestures of care, and the fact that he huffed it first—was trustworthy. You decided to go for it. “Sure!”

“Kay. I’mma give you a little to start. See how you react.” Joel touched the bottle to one of your nostrils. “Breathe it in.”

You did as you were told, and inhaled, not as long as he did. 1, 2, 3…

And then he pulled it away, screwed the top back on, and plopped it back in his pocket. 

“Tap me if ya want more.” He grabbed hold of your thighs and held them open. His bulbous tip started to poke at your cunt, already juicy and winking at him. “Ready?”

Feeling the come up of the poppers, you sighed blissfully, “Yeah…”

“Deep breath for me baby. In…”

You listened to your Daddy and took a deep breath in…

“And out.”

…and let it go.

“Hahhh–ah! Fuck! Ngh! Yes!”

And then your Daddy’s massive cock ripped your tiny twat open for him. It stung, for sure, but whatever jungle juice type concoction in that bottle must’ve helped. There was a dull ache as he continued to push in, seemingly moving your internal organs out of his way, but it was nothing compared to the floating, swirling sensations you were feeling everywhere else.

“Shhh, take it, baby…” Joel cooed. He let go of one of your legs, which you instinctively crooked behind his back. He leaned down, planting his now free hand on the floor for balance, and kissed you on your forehead. “You can take it… Just gotta get used t’me, is all…”

“It’s so… It’s so deep…”

“Yeah, baby, I know… I know it is…” Joel validated you verbally, but kept pressing in deeper. And deeper. Deeper than you thought your cunt could go. 

“F-Fuck!” You cried out in surprise and pulled him tight against you, chest to chest. It wasn’t necessary; he definitely wasn’t going anywhere, not after burying himself in your body like this. You just needed the contact, physical touch to help you cope. You were honestly mesmerized. It felt like his cockhead was in the back of your throat. You’d never felt anything like it; no dick or dick substitute before had come close. “H-How… Haha… Wha… What the fuck?! How do you do that?!”

Joel laughed against you, his belly rumbling against yours. “I don’t… I don’t know? You just feel real nice, kid. Makes me wanna get real deep in ya… S’okay. You’ll get used to me…” He reiterated.

And with time, you did. Your body gradually relaxed around him, and you felt a deep buzzing sensation within your pussy, an itching need for more. 

“You can move now…”

“Yeah?” Joel hummed, and left another sweet smooch on your cheek. “Ya sure?”

“Yeah-yeah! Fuck!”

He cut you off with a firm snap of his hips, spiking his cock deep inside you in one hard hit. 

Then another. 

“Daddy!”

And another. And soon he had a steady beat going, a beat accented by your cute little yelps,

“Aah!… Fuck!… Oh!… Mm!”

and your feeble attempts at communicating in a complete sentence. 

“Fuck!… Fuck!… Daddy!… B-Big!… Cock!…”

Joel smirked as he drilled your cunt. “Daddy’s got a big cock, huh? You like your Daddy’s big cock?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes, fuck! Yes!”

“Say it.” He commanded, “Say your Daddy has a big cock.”

“My Daddy has a big cock!” You cried out, your voice echoing through the rubble of humanity’s ancient vices. Maybe in another life, years before your time, there was another little cuntboy, an ethereal deity crowned and illuminated by a neon halo, who once whined the same thing as you, in the exact same spot as you, with the exact same cadence as you. “My Daddy has a big cock!!!”

“Mmm, damn right, I do, boy.” Joel grunted, barely audible over your audacious bitching and moaning. Even when you blew him earlier, he was quiet. Maybe he just doesn’t feel the need to make noise, or maybe he’s shy. You, on the other hand, couldn’t shut the fuck up. Any half-baked thought in your fucked-out mind slipped out with no filter in its way. 

“Daddy! Daddy! Fuck me, fuck me, Daddy! Yes! God, fuck me, yes! So deep! So fucking deep! Oh my god, you’re so fuck—fucking deep, Daddy! So fucking big! Ah~!”

“Christ, yer fuckin’ loud.” Joel huffed, “Wake the dead with a voice like that.”

“W-Want me to… mmm, be quiet?”

“Nah, scream for me, bitch. Ain’t nobody here but us.” Joel grabbed you by your shoulders and squeezed your whole body against him, jerking off with your very being like a living fleshlight. It worked like a charm, making you howl even louder. 

“Fuck! Ahhh, fuuuuck, ye-e-e-e-es!” 

While getting your guts rearranged on the grimy floor, you happened to crack your eye open, and you saw something. No, someone. Someone was tugging their cock as they watched you through the doorway. It turns out you were not the only ones here. Joel was facing the other way, meaning he couldn’t see them, but he stopped when he heard a cough that didn’t come from you. 

“Hm?” He looked up and saw the voyeur enjoying your show. But it didn’t bother him. He just went right back to work. “Well, goddamn. Looks like you got us a little audience, baby boy. Look at you. Star of the show.” He praised, and gave you a proud smack on the ass. “I’mma fuck you doggy. Get on all fours.”

Sure, you know he meant doggy style, but damn, if only he’d enunciated a comma. As in “I’mma fuck you, doggy.” Now wouldn’t that be something. It fits. You’re dumb, obedient, and eager to please. That fat cock slid out of you, leaving you unbearably empty, and you crawled onto your knees. It was more of a downward doggy style, with your cheeks resting against your arms, crossed and propped up on the floor. Face down, ass up. A classic. 

“Perfect,” Joel praised, punctuating his compliment with another spank, “Good boy.”

“Nnn, thank you~” You whined. Pathetically. You tend to do that a lot, especially when a big cock splits your cunt in half. Again. “Mmm, fuckfuckfuck!”

“Yeah, c’mon, now, take it. Take that dick, take that dick, pretty boy. You got it. Daddy’s got you.” Joel cooed as he bottomed out from behind. He gave you some time to adjust to him before his hips retreated, a deliberately slow drag out, then a hard pump back in,

“Ah-ha~!”

then another,

“Fu-u-uck~!”

and another,

“Daddy~!”

And soon he was fucking you a tempo. You cocked your head to the side and rested it on your forearms. Without the luxury of even a dingy motel pillow to grab while a stranger fucks you raw, you had to resort to your own body for comfort. Sniffling, drooling, dripping with depravity as this old man cored you out, you were distracted by a distinct—

Thump. 

—right above your ear. Right where the gloryhole was. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what caused it.

But you didn’t get a chance to confirm your suspicions before Joel intervened. 

“Hey.”

He grabbed your hair and yanked your head up from the floor, the cock grazing your cheek as a result. 

“Suck it. C’mon, now. Be a good boy. Suck ‘em like you sucked me.”

You needed no motivation beyond that. Being a good boy for Daddy was enough to get you to suck another strange cock through a hole in the wall. You wrapped your lips around it and slurped their half-hard, less impressive length all into your mouth at once. It wasn’t the best blowjob you’d given, after all you were more than a little preoccupied, but it made Joel proud. 

“Yeah, that’s it, good boy.” He purred, petting your hair as he continued to use your cunt, “Put that little whore mouth to work. Do a good job, now. Bet a lotta guys here gon’ want a turn on you.”

Threatening you with a good time, now, wasn’t he? You dutifully sucked the mediocre cock in front of you, choking on it not from size but from your own pleasured sobs interrupting your work. The stranger didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they seemed to be enjoying themselves, heavy breathing behind the wall, twitching and leaking precum on your tongue. Suddenly, they retreated from your mouth, and blinded you with a spray of hot jizz, painting your whole face from hairline to chin. Some dripped into your mouth, and it tasted… a little yucky, but tolerable. It felt nice on your face though, and Joel loved your new look. 

“Ooh, yeah, pretty boy. So cute, takin’ it on the chin like that. Little fuckin’ cumwhore, aint’cha, queer?” He spanked your left ass cheek, then your right, and jiggled them both before yanking you backwards, “C’mere,” and pulling out to flip you on your back. “Let Daddy look at’cha.”

His firm muscular hand grasped you by the chin and squished your cheeks, anonymous cum cascading down his fingers. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mused, jiggling your jaw back and forth. His other hand dipped into his shirt pocket and retrieved the bottle of poppers. He cracked it open, served himself, then loosely capped the bottle and held it out for you. “Help yourself, sweetheart.”

You took the bottle in your hands and huffed its fumes one nostril at a time, perhaps a little too hard on the second one. The caustic liquid shot up and singed the inside of your nostril, leaving behind a poignant sting. Though briefly disoriented upon splashback, you finagled the cap back on and clutched the bottle in your fist as Joel pushed back inside.

“Fu-u-uck, Daddy! Daddy~!” you cried, curling up into him. 

Joel didn’t answer you. He was too preoccupied with bending your body in half and squatting over you into a mating press. He had the perfect angle to dig deep. Deep. So. Fucking. Deep. The sound of his balls slapping against your sodden cunt was salacious and sickeningly loud. 

“Aw, poor baby, look at you. You’re just a hot mess, ain’t ‘cha boy?.” Joel punctuated his statement by spitting in your face. The glob of spit mixed with some cum, rolled down into your mouth, and naturally, you swallowed. “You wanna take my load inside you though, right? Want me to breed ya?”

“Yes! Yes, please, inside! Please, inside, fill me up! Please breed me! Knock me up, please!!!” 

“Relax, boy,” Joel stilled inside you, your cunt throbbing petulantly in need of friction. “I‘m not there yet. And besides,” He gave your clit a sharp slap, making you jump, yelp, and clench around him, “I ain’t cummin’ ‘til I see this kitty squirt for me, ya hear?”

A feeble whine of “Okay…” was all you could manage at the present moment. Your mind was gone, floating away with the rest of your being, or at least it would be but for the iron grip your pussy had on his cock, tethering you to reality, to him. All of your body’s strength went into your cunt, contracting, squeezing, milking him for all he was worth. Was he the perfect fit? Or were you just that good at taking him? Either way, your inner walls shifted, and you felt the ridge of his cockhead scrape your g-spot, a shock to your whole system. “Fuck! There! Right there!”

“Where, right here?” Joel asked, making sure to strike you at the same angle again. He hissed when he felt you clench and whimper in response. “Oh, yeah, that’s the spot, ain’t it? Gon’ cum for me, baby boy?”

“I–ah! Fuck! So close! Daddy! P-Please!”

Joel grabbed your hand and brought it to your own cunt. “Jerk that tiny little dick for me, pretty boy. Come on. Cum on Daddy’s cock. Lemme feel it. Lemme feel ya fuckin’ gush.”

You pinched your aching t-dick and stroked it vigorously, your fingers occasionally slipping off due to your own wetness. Luckily, it didn’t take much to send you over the edge. With a loud, embarrassing squeal, you squirted all over Joel: his cock, his belly, and his jeans that he’d foolishly left partway on. Although, he didn’t seem to mind, that is, until your orgasm pushed his cock out. 

“Nuh uh, don’t kick me out.” Joel growled, grabbing his cock and forcing it back inside you. He made sure to look you right in the eye as he said, “Don’t you fuckin’ kick me out, whore.”

You sniveled and cried, continuing to squirt as he rammed the rest of your climax out of you. A certified mess, head to toe, covered in bodily fluids: cum, sweat, spit, squirt, and now, tears. “I’m s-sor—I’m sorry-y-y, Daddy-y-y…”

“Aw, no, honey, ‘s’okay. I know you ain’t mean it.” Joel cupped your face in his hand, swiping your tears and some jizz away with his thumb. “Jus’ can’t handle a big cock like mine, huh? Too much for your little kitty to take, ain’t it?”

You nuzzled your face into his hand, “Mhm…”

“Well, I’m almost there, sweetheart, don’t you worry. Little kitty’s gon’ get her cream.”

Your face soured at the wrong pronoun being used for your “kitty”, as he’d so affectionately called it. You saw fit to gently correct him. “H-His…”

“Hm?”

“His cream… p-please…” You mumbled.

“Right, my bad, sweetie.” Joel craned himself down to kiss your forehead once more, “Your little kitty’s gon’ get all the cream he can handle.”

You giggled and wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug, pulling him somehow even deeper into your guts.  “Thank you Daddy–fuck! Fuck, oh my god, how do you do that?!”

“‘m not doin’ anything, honey. That’s all you, openin’ up for me, pretty boy.” Joel cooed, slowing his thrusts to sharply punctuate his words. “Such a good boy, openin’ up that pretty cunt for me. I only got so much dick I can give ya, y’know.” 

Easy for him to say when he’s not the one taking it. Because what he sees as only “so much dick” to give, taking it feels like so. much. dick. 

“Fuuuck, Daddy, god, Daddy, you’re stretching me out~!”

“Shh, sh, pumpkin, it’s okay… you’re okay… You’re okay, keep squeezin’ it. Keep squeezin’ it. Mmm, hold onto Daddy, now—gooood boy…”

You flexed your inner muscles, all of your body’s strength around his cock, determined to milk this motherfucker dry. Your brain had no room for rational thought. You were overtaken by one desire, one primal urge that unites and drives all life on this planet: breed, breed, breed. 

All you wanted, all you needed, to feel was him shooting a big warm batch of his babies into you. You had no bandwith left to think, especially not with him asking you,

“What’s my name, pretty boy?”

Your answer was instantaneous, a reflex at this point, “Dadd—!“

“Nope, mm mm, nuh uh. I said my name, pretty boy… You rememb—?” Joel’s question was cut off by an unintentional clenching of your cunt around his cock. “Nghhh, Shit, shit, shit, so fuckin’ tight…*inhale*  Woah-h-h…” He panted heavily, trying to regain his composure and finish his thought. “You… You remember my name, don’t ‘cha?” 

You rifled through the folders in your brain’s filing cabinet. Everything you pulled out was blank. Blank after blank after blank. Shit. What was this guy’s name again? He definitely told you. It starts with a J right? That tracks. He seems like a J-name kinda guy. 

“Uhhh…”

“It’s Joel.”

“JOEL!” You shouted in his face, the pieces all put together, and repeated his name as a sacred rite on your way to another heavenly climax. Your one hand still clenching the poppers, your other fisted his hair. “Joel, Joel, oh my god, Joel! Joel, Jesus fucking Christ, I can’t! Joel, Joel, fuck, fuck me, Joel, I can’t— I’m gonna! C-Cum again!”

“Do it.” Joel snarled, his hips stuttering inside you, “Fuckin’ do it, cum on this dick, pretty boy, I—Yeah, fuck! Gon’ fuckin bust inside you, yeah. Yeah-h-h, oh, fuckin’ take it.”

Your orgasm, its vice grip and burst of wetness, triggered Joel’s. He sunk his teeth into the spot where your neck and shoulder met, growling into your flesh as he emptied himself into you. He gave you a few hard thrusts to kick out any lingering ropes of cum, not wanting to waste a single drop. You were gonna take everything he had to give. 

And you certainly took everything out of him.

He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty flannel against your equally sweaty tank top, his arms caging you in a delightful aroma of man-musk and sex. Post-sex endorphins washed over you both, making you feel floaty and giddy inside each other’s afterglow. Joel was the first to verbalize it.

“Jesus H. Christ, kiddo, that was… Fuck, you’re incredible. Pussy make a man feel young again.”

Sufficiently fucked, without much intelligent thought left in you, you chuckled and petted his hair. “Mmm, hehehehe, thank you~… You’re… fucking amazing”

“Aw, you’re welcome, sweetie pie.” Joel gave you a peck on the lips, and adjusted his hips the tiniest bit, though it was enough to send you into an irrational panic.

“Nooo, nonono, don’t—don’t pull out!” You cried, locking your limbs around him and keeping him anchored to you.

“Alright, alright,” Joel laughed and settled back into you, “Relax, pumpkin. I’ll keep it in for a bit. You just can’t seem to let go of your Daddy, now, can ya?”

“Nope! Hehehe…” You giggled, mind fuzzy, cunt satisfied, heart content, and sighed. “Ah… Fuck.” 

“Should prolly wipe the jizz off your face too.” Joel reached into his left back pocket and pulled out a dark blue bandana to wipe you clean. “Lemme get it for ya.”

His delicate touch with the hanky was so soothing, so paternal. You purred as the rough fabric wiped your sins away, and when you were all clean, he dropped it on the floor beside you both. 

“Alright, I’m pullin’ out, now. My leg’s cramping. And we sure as shit ain’t sleepin like this.”

You rolled your eyes and pouted petulantly. “Boo…”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m the worst.” Joel scoffed, then slowly, gingerly pulled his soft cock out of you, admiring the pool of white that followed it and dribbled onto the floor. “Ooh, wow, that’s a big load. Dumped a whole damn little league team into ya.” He gave your tender cunt an attaboy-type slap, then stood up and held his hand out for you to join him.

“Thank you,” You said, stumbling as you rose to your feet. As you reached for your discarded pants, you realized you were still holding the poppers. “Oh! This is yours.”

“Eh, you keep ‘em. I can get more. ‘s no trouble.” Joel stretched his arms over his head and cracked his neck, seemingly resetting himself after such a draining activity. “Okay… How’re you getting home, kid?”

You nonchalantly waved it off, “Oh, I’m walking. It’s just a couple blocks.”

“‘Couple long blocks?”

“Uh…”

“Gonna be sneakin’ around past curfew y’know. Mind ‘f I walk ya home? Just for my own peace of mind, honestly. Hate to never see ya again.” 

“Sure! Thank you!”

“No prob. Least I could do for ya.”

Arms linked together, you both crept through the back alleys of the QZ to get to your place. Without the freedom to talk, you pointed out which turns to make, which blocks to avoid, and which FEDRA pigs (all of them) should be flipped the bird as you snuck behind them.

“Welp. This is me,” You said when you arrived at the front door to your place. “Thank you again. For like… everything, tonight. I had a great time.”

“You’re welcome, babe.” Joel patted you on the shoulder, then looked both ways down your block. “Think you live pretty close to me, actually. I’ll have to come by some time.”

“Tomorrow evening?”

“I got late shift sewer maintenance,” Joel crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side, “I can’t in good conscience come over and fuck ya after that.”

You snorted, “Fair enough. Day after?”

“Yeah… should be good. I can do that.”

“Great!” You said eagerly, standing outside your house, expectantly. Stalling for time, maybe? Joel could tell something was on your mind.

“Y’alright? Look like ya got somethin’ ya wanna say.”

“Well, yeah, uh…”

You tried to think of the most tactful way you could phrase your request. You thought you landed it with,

“Would you like to come inside?”

but you walked right into this one,

“Twice in one night? Tch, needy little whore. ‘f I were 30 years younger, maybe.”

[goodfish-bowl]

Bunker in White

Danny Phantom x Supernatural Crossover

Masterpost

DP Crossover Angst Week Day 1 - GIW Experimentation

Summary: Sam and Dean take up a job to go investigate a government base that had been attacked by vampires.

Warnings: vague descriptions of blood and gore

Notes: hmmm, I have never written anything for Supernatural before, but I've seen a good portion of it (years ago). Probably takes place earlier in the show.

Word Count: 2044

AO3 Link

Sam and Dean had gotten this particular lead from Bobby, who in turn got it passed onto him from someone else, so it wasn’t a surprise this particular job was a mess. 

Apparently, a group of vampire’s had decided a weird, underground, government bunker would be the perfect hideout, resulting in a bloodbath between the government goons and the vamps. It was a large group too, which was a point of concern among the hunter’s who turned down the job. No one really knew who’d won inside between the vampires and the government, but Dean had placed his money on the vampires. He honestly doubted that some government agency with an obsession for the color white had any idea what they were up against, much less the correct tools for the job. Dean got proved wrong when they came across the first dead vampire. 

The bunker’s fluorescent lights were harsh against the darkness outside. The entire base still seemed to have power despite not being connected to any sort of power grid or system. It had made it an absolute pain in the ass to find, but at least that meant Sam and Dean didn’t have to wander around in the dark. The harsh lighting and bleached interior revealed a slaughter inside, staining the white walls with both vampire and human blood, leaving very little to imagination. The humans, all agents in once-white suits, looked to have been mauled by the vamps, while the dead vampires had holes blasted through them and were covered in green-tinged burns. Dean kicked one, trying to make sure it was actually dead. Yep, dead vamp, the whole place unfortunately smelled like it too. 

Sam had found one of the more physically intact agents with a large bazooka-like weapon next to him at the back of the hallway. Rummaging through the agency's pocket’s Sam tossed the ID card over for Dean to read over, while Sam picked up the weapon. 

Dean flipped open the wallet, and huffed when the agent was only referred to by a letter and position. No personal information whatsoever. 

“This asshole is apparently ‘Agent B, senior heavy weapon specialist of the Ghost Investigation Ward’, which means shit to me,” Dean complained. 

“‘Ghost Investigation Ward’? Is that supposed to be some sort of knockoff hunter’s group? Because points for vampire killing, less points for dying,” Sam added. “Either way, they were messing around with something supernatural, and had weapons that could blast straight through a vampire. Think we could find something here?”

Dean shrugged, “I’m down to take their weapons at the least. New tactics are always appreciated.”

Sam took the bazooka, and Dean picked up any other weapons of interest, from weighted nets, to more guns, storing them in piles to collect and ferry to the car later. The ID got them access to a couple more rooms, including a security camera and file room, which Sam said he was going back to later. The deeper they descended into the base, the more spaced out the bodies were, and the more violently the agents had seemed to fight, like they were protecting something. 

“Do you think they actually managed to catch a ghost here?” Sam tossed out. 

Dean snorted, “Doubt it. Sure, you can blast a hole through a vamp, but you can’t blast a hole through a ghost. Just trapping one is a pain, let alone moving it to the middle of bumfuck nowhere, Illinois.” 

Hydraulic doors hissed as the brothers entered the next level, only to pause from the sudden change in pattern. This one opened up into a laboratory, partitioned off by thick glass walls, rather than the collection of offices and storage the upper floors had been.  

Dean’s eyes narrowed at the carnage inside the laboratories. 

“What the hell were they taking apart that bleed fucking green?” Dean cursed.

Dean completely ignored the bodies of who he assumed had been the scientists. There were tons of vials of various liquids, most of them being that same saturated, radioactive green. There were also jars, lots of jars, of what he assumed were the bits and pieces of whatever creature bled green. 

“Doesn’t look like whatever they were dissecting was dead while they were taking apart,” Sam commented, pointing out the restraints on the bloodied autopsy table. 

“Fuck, that’s sick. At least kill whatever you're taking apart first.” 

Dean watched as Sam went over to a stack of papers, filing through them quickly with a grimace on his face.

 “Well, they seem to believe they caught a ghost, at least. They definitely caught something before the vampires wiped them out. The reports refer to it as Subject P-1.”

“Think it’s still here?” Dean asked. 

“Maybe. This report is a few days old, and we know the vampires attacked within that same time frame, so it’s possible that ‘P-1’ is either still here, dead here, or managed to escape in the crossfire,” Sam guessed.

“I suppose we’ll find out. We only got one more level to go.”

Dean left the lab, going down the elevator to the last level. There was nothing there, except for a singular glass cell with what looked like a blast door as its entrance, all shining with some sort of green energy. There seemed to be automated weapons and cameras all pointing at the cell, and Dean considered it a bit extreme. But also down there was the biggest collection of dead vampires they had found so far. 

The weapons in the room had obviously activated for whatever reason, considering the number of vampires with holes blown through them compared to the agents, of which there only seemed to be two, who looked more like they had also been caught in the crossfire of the weapons, rather than becoming vampire food like most of the guys upstairs.  

“Dean…” Sam shoved him, and pointed to the cell. There was…something inside. 

Dean walked over, shoving bodies out of the way with his foot to stand in front of the cell. The green… whatever it was, shone along the glass and hummed with energy, reminding Dean vaguely of an electrified fence. The inside of the cell was a mess but in a different way than outside. It reminded Dean of a few of the cells he had seen monsters hold people in before. It was dirty, and covered in blood, both red and that unknown green. There was no cot, or toilet, or any other sort of accommodation. 

The only thing in the cell was a small figure, dressed in nothing but tattered scrubs, and covered in its own blood balled up in the corner, head between its legs. Dean could only make out pale, emancipated legs and feet, and a mess of matted, black hair. 

“Is it alive?” Dean asked, tapping on the glass, which surprisingly didn’t zapped him.

Sam had a grimace on his face. “I…think.”

“Hey!” Dean shouted. 

No reaction. 

Dean pounded more heavily on the glass with his fist, “Hey! Are you alive?”

No reaction. 

“Are you P-1?” Sam asked instead. 

This got a reaction. The figure picked up their head, placing empty, hollow, and frighteningly blue eyes on Sam. They seemed to be a young boy, face pale and thin, deep bags under his eyes. His eyes were glassy and distant, looking through Sam rather than at him. 

“Well, that’s unnerving,” Dean muttered, giving Sam a look before shoving his shoulder. “Tell him to do something else.”

Sam frowned, thinking for a moment before saying anything. “P-1, state your status,” Sam commanded. 

The boy, P-1, remained silent.

“I don’t think it talks, Sammy,” Dean snorted. 

Sam sputtered indignantly. “What do you want me to do then? We know he’s P-1 now, and that he’s still somehow alive.”

“Well, we know he ain’t human, and that he’s whatever these goons have been picking apart. No clue what he is, but in that state, I doubt he can do much. The lights are one but no one seems to be home, Sammy,” Dean said. 

It was a harsh suggestion but, “We could just put him down and be done with it. The vamps are all dead, there’s nothing here except braindead P-1 over there.”

Sam, apparently, very much disagreed with that idea. “He’s a kid, Dean! And he’s been tortured for who knows how long. We’re not putting him down!”

Dean groaned. “Do you want to take him with us or something?!” Dean asked incredulously. 

Sam was silent, apparently thinking over the idea like it was a legitimate suggestion. 

“No,” Dean immediately denied. “Nope, no way, Sammy. We’re not adopting whatever-the-fuck that kid is. He’s not a dog. We have no idea what he’s capable of, let alone if he’s dangerous!” 

 “Then we keep an eye on him! You said it yourself, in that state, I doubt he can barely move. We could even put him in Bobby’s panic room if he acts up, but honestly,” Sam glanced over to the boy, “I doubt he would even notice.”

Dean hated the idea. He didn’t want the kid to potentially go ballistic, and there had to be some reason he was locked up in the first place. But he couldn’t think of any other reasons to leave the kid there. If anything, they could figure out what the kid was so that they knew how to defeat anything like him in the future. 

“Fine!” Dean relented. “But you’re taking care of him.”

Sam seemed to untense and turned back to the boy. “P-1, move to the door,” he ordered, before more quietly adding, “We’re getting you out of here, kid.”

The boy stood up, swaying on his legs, before approaching the door, standing just outside of it. Dean watched as Sam fidgeted with the door, before eventually having to pull another ID from one of the nearby agents to get the door open. Sam led the kid out, who didn’t have much of a reaction at all. Dean frowned at how small the kid was, now that he could get a better estimate literally standing next to him. He couldn’t be older than 12. 

“Okay, we’re leaving. We got some cool things and you’ve adopted a weird kid. We can confirm the vampires all died here too. Anything else we need to grab before we go back?” Dean huffed. 

“I’m going to see what I can pull from the record room on the way back. Could you take him back to the car?” Sam asked. 

Dean looked at the kid again. Yep. No one home at all. He doubted the kid even knew what was going on. At least he wouldn’t complain about Dean’s music choices. 

“Fine, but you take too long and I’m leaving your ass here,” Dean stated. “Come-on, P-1.”

Dean took the elevator back up the entrance, still careful to check around if they had missed anything still-alive, only to have silence. The kid barely made any noise as he moved, Dean decided he didn’t like that after the third time he jumped at the kid standing directly behind him. 

“I’m getting you a bell,” he grumbled. 

Back at the car, Dean tossed his looted weapons into the trunk, glancing at the kid before rummaging into his and Sam’s duffles for some spare clothes. It looked really suspicious to have a bloodied kid in a medical gown walking around. It would be oversized, but Dean grabbed a flannel, jeans, and a belt. Bobby would probably have something from when he and Sam were that small. 

“Hey, kid, P-1, put these on,” Dean held the clothes out to the kid, who didn’t react. 

Dean groaned. “Oh come on! This is why Sam’s your caretaker. I don’t know how to dress a kid!” 

Dean approached. “Gotta fucking command him like a dog,” he muttered. “P-1, arms up.”

The boy raised his arms, and Dean untied the medical gown letting it fall to the ground. Dean froze, bile building in the back of his throat, fighting the urge to throw up. Images of the jars and vials passed behind his eyes. No wonder the kid was mentally gone, Dean couldn’t see anyone surviving, let alone living long enough to walk out.

God, they needed to get the kid to Bobby. 

[ressjeon]

desperate | pjm (m.)

pairing: model!jimin x pa!reader

summary: being Jimin's assistant made you immune from his flirty tactics, but somehow you find it hard to resist him when he unusually becomes desperate.

rating: 18+ | word count: 3.8k

genre/au: smut (a bit of plot if you squint)

warnings/content: crude language, masturbation, fellatio, handjob, deepthroating, face fucking?, switch dynamics, a lot of pining ig, cheeky jimin that has many lustful thoughts and he's a brat too oml

a/n: been a long while and this is unplanned as always lmao. was supposed to be posted on the 14th but the universe said no so i couldn’t post it. anyways, this is for the 2nd anniversary of this blog’s official debut in this community so why not post a fic of the person who made me start writing in the first place, as the first fic of 2023 just like he was my first fic in this blog (just in time with vibe’s release, his solo album announcement and his official partnership with Dior too! 0.0). thank you Jimin for being my light, i love you 🥰

― masterlist — navigation — wips

You’re currently on your knees, helping Jimin out with his problem.

Not that kind, goodness no. He’s been doing practice poses for his shoot as soon as he arrived like he always does in each photoshoot. You ignored his flushed look when he entered the studio, already knowing his morning routine and went straight for the pre-shoot meeting. Everything was smooth until you noticed some stain on his black pants when you were checking him for any final touches.

So here you are now, dabbing the wet wipes around the spot on his thigh while he’s leaning against the frame of the glass partition behind him. 

He’s lucky that most of the staff are not here yet so you have time to remove the stain from his pants, a cum stain that almost made you scream when he told you sheepishly that it was from some girl he fucked this morning before coming to the studio.

“are you still mad? i told you i didn't realize she’d be a creamer”

In any other situation, this would've been a strange exchange with someone you essentially work for. Jimin has no filter in the way he talks to you but you don’t really mind it as you do the same. You and he have grown closer to one another each day since you started working for him so these types of conversations became normal between you both.

It's one of the perks of Jimin hiring someone around his age for a personal assistant. You've been with him from the very start of his career, barely scraping anything during that time with the both of you fresh from graduation. When he initially asked you, you looked at him incredulously because his plan was quite risky. Jimin understood your hesitance but he was surprised when you finally agreed after a bit of consideration.

Your friends said that it must be the puppy eyes that he constantly gives you but no, you knew of Jimin during college. It’s common knowledge from your mutual acquaintances of how hardworking he is and you’ve witnessed it a few times before so you said yes because why not. You're both in the same boat anyways, still looking for other jobs and who knows, if this works then it will be great for your future careers. 

You remember when Jimin got his very first paycheck, running up to you with a tight hug and asking you something that you’ve been wanting for a while. You were confused but then he cracked a smile and revealed that he wanted to treat you as a gratitude for doing your best to find casting calls and gigs for him. You were happy of course, with both of your hard work finally coming to fruition.

This dynamic you have with Jimin as a very close friend and colleague has been pretty balanced as the years go by. There are times when you fought, unavoidable with your contrasting personalities but you both became comfortable with one another regardless. This makes your teamwork efficient with more understanding from both sides as your relationship gets closer.

“believe me, it’s hers, not mine i swear” he adds, repeating what he explained earlier when you don’t answer him.

Thoughts aside, you do, of course, believe him because Jimin’s one of the most responsible guys you’ve ever known. He always comes prepared for photoshoots and arrives early to do last-minute check-ups despite what his shenanigans are the night before like earlier today. He’ll never go bare with anyone to avoid risks because he already experienced some scares before from past hookups.

No answer from you still but it’s partly because you've been in shambles on the inside with what you feel for him these days. You’re not only annoyed by this whole thing but you also felt uneasy at what he said. You’ve been used to it but you somehow felt the sting when he explicitly laid out his latest hookup. 

You’ll never admit to yourself or him why because it would be unprofessional.

At the same time, you’ve also been fighting to focus only on finishing up what you’re doing, occasionally straying your eyes toward the glass windows to calm yourself down. He was practically naked in front of you, with his damn gold necklace where its round pendant dances around his belly button and pointing down to the huge bulge he was sporting. And it would’ve helped if he’s covered, at least while you’re still on the floor. But apparently, he felt the need to not zip it up and just wear it as it is, torturing you with his sculpted body. 

You shouldn’t mind it but you’re a bit suspicious because Jimin’s always been involved in his photoshoots. He always consults with you regarding his outfits even if it’s not part of your job. He often asks for your input as well, discussing his ideas with you before he gives them a go. For this shoot, he picked this specific hooded jacket among all the ones that you’ve shown him, insisting on wearing it without anything under it because this one is apparently very loose. 

Which became an immense distraction to you. 

You remember zoning out earlier in the meeting room when Jimin was picking the final photos from his pre-shoot, trying all the concepts that he’s been wanting to do. You were already a mess with his slicked-back hair and exposed body along with his tight pants. And now you couldn't stop staring at his veiny hands as they hovered around the pictures. The gold rings on both of his index fingers didn’t help either, turning your focus on them instead of listening to him explaining to you and his stylist. 

Jimin of course notices and teases you like always. Though he’s been doing it more frequently these days, adding more to the brewing tension between you. 

He ran his fingers through the pinned pictures on the pegboard and casually picked up the pictures near where you were standing by the edge of the table. He leans closer and closer so you have to fight the urge to look at him, instead focusing your attention on talking with this stylist.

“you alright, __?”

You just scoff and roll your eyes at him, brushing him off with an excuse of being sleep deprived. He’s doing this on purpose, he could’ve lied to you earlier about fucking someone because how is he still hard? Thankfully he zipped up for now so his oversized jacket covers it but you knew he had a hunch about why you’d been acting weird around him right now.

Jimin's been smiling, knowing that his current hairstyle has been your favourite. He noticed it when he had his rainbow blond one last time where you couldn't stop touching his hair, hands constantly on it whether hair spraying it or simply tugging its strands whenever you can, reasoning that it's looking messy though it's not.

You couldn't stop looking at him too, eyes staying on him more than you ever did since working for him. That's why he specifically talked to the stylist and the photographer about bringing this hairstyle back for this photoshoot since it’ll also fit with his whole look. Also, you’ve been sneaking glances at him today which has been lifting up his mood. It just adds to how hard his dick is already, affecting you this much makes him very excited for today.

“Jimin, you can't do the shoot with this” you will yourself to ask, relieved that your voice came out sterned. When you look up at him, Jimin swears that his cock just twitched at the view of you in this position, his thoughts playing a different scenario where you’re giving him the suck of his life.

“then help me..” he mindlessly responded, totally not paying attention to what you’re referring to. He's not sure really, his mind’s still hazy and all he can think of is the ache of his balls from not being able to cum earlier.

“i’m trying” you grumble, ignoring his pouting. He’s adorable when he’s like this, and he uses that on you when he wants something. Sometimes it works when he combines it with his affectionate touches but you have to be strong this time. You’re not even sure what he’s specifically talking about but then you’ve also been occupied in trying to fight off your growing lust for him. 

Jimin’s pout turns into a grin after catching your eyes flickering from looking anywhere and on his bulge again, he can sense how your hand’s so tempted to touch it with how much you’re gripping his pants. Your hand continues to fidget, eyes unfocused as you continue to wipe off that stain as hard as you can just in case. You don’t look annoyed now either, but you’re wearing a struggling expression that tells him just how conflicted you are at this moment.

You’re beyond torn because that fucking tent of his pants is dissolving your annoyance little by little with sinful thoughts already creeping up your mind the longer you stay down the floor. 

“where are you looking at?”

“the city view looks good from here”

You automatically answer, clearing your throat in the process before gathering up the pack of wet wipes and the damp cloth along with a bowl of cold water from the ground. You avoid looking at Jimin’s face because you knew he was going to try something now that he noticed your slight slip of judgment.

“yeah, the view is amazing but my view from here is better”

“up or down?” 

“both, but i’d say down. you’d say the opposite, right __?”

You almost dropped what you're holding at his remark but this is nothing new to you: Jimin shamelessly throwing his lewd innuendos at you at any chance he got. You indulge him in it, after all, it’s just harmless flirting between friends, something that you never expected when you took this job. Sometimes it's part of your banter, you doing the same thing to him which catches him off guard sometimes when he's focusing on something while working. You especially do it when discussions of his escapades come to light, which you helped in arranging because of his demanding schedules.

Yes, you’re this dedicated to your job even if it sometimes causes an ache in your heart. 

“why? didn’t you fuck someone?” you deflect, not giving him the satisfaction of knowing how much he’s affecting you.

“yeah but i didn’t get to cum, couldn’t…” he trails off as he closes his eyes and grabs his crotch to hopefully feel a little bit of comfort but it's no use. He wants to tell you why he couldn't, wants to let you know who has been stopping him from getting off with other people but you don't care anyways.

“then get rid of it, you still have time”

You state with urgency, nervously looking around if anyone saw but everyone’s been doing their own thing. Patting his thigh, you stand up from your kneeling position and push aside your want to help him in getting rid of it. He might be good at hiding his expressions but he does look like he’s been struggling for hours since he arrived on set. Jimin didn’t do anything but huff before retreating to the dressing room to take care of his problem.

Now that most of the staff are here, you check in with them for any possible last-minute changes. It took your mind off Jimin a bit but your eyes couldn’t stop glancing at the door of his dressing room. You shake your head, pushing yourself to focus on your current task. It’s still early but you want to make sure Jimin’s ready when the scheduled time for his photoshoot is on. This is an important shoot for him so you just hope that he finishes as soon as possible to not keep everyone waiting. 

After you’ve double-checked everything, you decide to fetch Jimin. Nearing his door though is making you more agitated than you already are. You’re about to knock when you hear his loud, sexy groan. fuck. 

You haven't really heard how Jimin sounds properly because each time you catch him fucking someone, either during his breaks or random times when you need something for him to confirm, his partners’ moans usually overpower his so this is quite new, and you won’t deny that you'd love to hear more of it.

“oh fuck..fuck”

Jimin being this loud causes you to panic at the possibility of anyone in the studio hearing him like this. This might not be new for some of the staff but still, you just don’t want everyone to hear how he sounds like. 

You took a deep breath before wandering your eyes around if anyone was watching but thankfully, everyone was busy.

.

He wonders if you’re listening, purposely moaning louder than he intends to as he fists his cock. You probably don’t care and if you ever catch him, you’ll just ignore his attempts and scold him for taking too long at this. It’s always been the case with you but he does find it amusing to piss you off more.

So when he hears the door opening, a smirk creeps up on his face before opening his half-lidded eyes.

“y–”

“shut up” you seethe as you approach his propping form on his vanity. He thinks it's just one of his imaginations again, indulging him with his fantasies. But when he feels you grab the chain of his wrap necklace towards you, his eyes open fully before releasing a small gasp. The smaller chain loop fastens gradually around his neck when you begin pulling its long chain gently while looking into his eyes. He maintains eye contact and you notice the hunger and mischief in them as you continue to pull his necklace.

“s-shit” he whines quietly, though the smirk still remains on his gorgeous face as his hand continues to stroke his cock even faster. His other hand reaches for the dark bottle of lube, bringing it in front of you before pumping its nozzle on his very angry tip.

He closes his eyes again, placing the bottle back on the table while his other hand spreads the lube around his dick. You’re speechless for a second with this whole show he’s putting on, pausing to watch him. It’s when his other hand comes up in an attempt to touch you to come closer that breaks your reverie, swatting his hand away.

You stare him down, brows scrunching while contemplating what to do next. This would be crossing whatever boundaries you have with Jimin both in your personal and professional relationship. You had to look away from him to think this through. You’re used to seeing him semi-naked with other people before but not like this. Him now naked from the waist down in front of you, his tight black pants pooling around his ankles.

It’s Jimin’s desperate whimpers that made your mind up. There’s no point in denying wanting the same thing he desires from you.

“i’ll help you but don't make a sound” you command and he nods, too fucked out to respond because all he wants is his release.

Your hand replaces his before you kneel on the hard floor, immediately swallowing his cock to not waste more time. One of Jimin’s hands is on your head at once, not gripping your hair but just holding onto you for support because fuck, your mouth feels so much better than his hands, hell it's even better than pussies he’s had before.

It’s you, of course, Jimin has always thought about how much better you’ll be at pleasuring him than others. He smiles after noticing your demeanour change as soon as your mouth envelops him. It must be the lube flavour that he specifically picked knowing apple’s one of your favourites. Your mouth is greedily sucking him in now, warm tongue lapping up the entirety of his cock.

"you were drooling for my cock earlier, hmm? bet you wouldn't mind sucking me off in front of everyone outside" his mocking tone shudders, his attempt of gaining control wavering with you being encouraged by what he said. You bob your head faster, opening your mouth more to take him deeper cause the view from where you are is spurring you to do more. Jimin in his fucked out glory is a sight to watch, his gold link earrings swaying as he tosses his head back, his plump lips getting swollen from him biting them to hold his moans in.

You want to see more of it. 

When Jimin’s not closing his eyes from the pleasure, they never leave yours as he stares right into them. He surprises you when he gets up from leaning on the vanity, his hand moving from the top of your head down to the back of your neck to pull you closer to him. This made him push deeper into your mouth so you loosen your jaw, the new angle allowing more of his length in your mouth. As soon as his tip reaches the back of your throat, you’re unable to stop releasing gurgling moans when it nudges further.

“can’t..believe..you’re.. choking on my cock right now..”

Jimin rasps needily as he rolls his hips slowly, deeper with each thrust. The vibrations from your moans are not helping him in holding his orgasm longer. He’s been trying hard because he wants to prolong this, relish this view of you on your knees and your mouth on him because who knows if this will ever happen again. He’s losing himself, grinding on your face while his hand starts massaging your nape in time with his thrusts.

Now you’re confused because you for sure thought that he’ll start fucking your throat roughly the moment you allowed him but he’s not. You take a deep breath through your nose as you come up, readying your throat in case he’ll change his mind later when he’s close to cumming. But the way he’s touching your nape is making you relax, distracting you from your main reason for helping him in the first place.

He’s close already, his cock's been throbbing before you started bobbing your head earlier. His pace also changes a bit faster but is still slow and you’re confused as to why he’s been holding back. His breathing turns erratic and his lower abs are flexing. You know it so before he does so dig your nails into both of his meaty thighs before one of your hands leaves and pushes away his hold on your head. 

You take him deeper until your lips reach the skin of his crotch, immediately pushing back when he grabs your head again, releasing his cock from your mouth which causes Jimin to whimper in frustration.

“that's for making me wipe other girl's cum on your pants” you glare at him, voice hoarse from taking him that deep in your throat. Standing up from kneeling was making your legs wonky, feeling numb from your previous position but your mind’s not on it with your prior annoyance resurfacing because of his attempt to pacify you.

Jimin, however, begins laughing.

Your brows rise from his reaction, totally not expecting this because you were really sure that you already got him under you.

“so you’re jealous after all,”

“i’m not, i wouldn’t help you if i were” you counter, avoiding his eyes as you pull his jacket back on him, it was slipping on one side already, showing his muscular arms and the tattoo on his ribs. Your fingers have minds of their own when you start tracing each of the letters, causing Jimin to shiver at your touches but the devilish smile remains on his handsome face.

“but you’re doing it to prove something, right?”

You don’t know how to answer him and you don’t want to tell him the truth because it’ll just feed his already massive ego. Instead, you grab his swollen dick, hot and heavy in your hands and begin stroking him roughly. The slick from the lube, his precum and your saliva made it easier for your plan. There’s no way you’ll let him, he’ll never be able to make you admit it.

The smile disappears from his lips as his whole body shakes with a cry, not expecting your punishing pace on him. You want to look at him, to watch his smug face morph back into a pliant one.

But you can’t.

Jimin couldn't cum earlier while fucking another girl because all he can think about is you and now you’re doing what exactly he’s been imagining for months, years. You’re still not looking at him, your brows scrunching in focus on jerking him off. He can’t stop himself from bucking into your hands when your thumb starts flicking his mushroom tip, nudging his frenulum with your index finger before squeezing his shaft each time you do it.

You’re honestly amazed at how Jimin manages to hold off his climax this long but it shouldn’t surprise you when he has such incredible control of his body. It’s when your other hand reaches out to pull his necklace again to pull him towards you, that he finally gives in. It never crossed your mind that modifying this necklace by combining it with his gold link could serve as an advantage for you when playing with him.

Jimin’s hand leaves the table to muffle his mouth, eyes somewhat begging you to let him cum. You smile and he lets himself go through a series of incoherent cries, still covering his mouth like you ordered him to. And despite knowing how loud he can be, you quickly move to remove his hands to finally hear the delicious moans that he’s been obediently keeping. 

He continues to rock his hips despite the overstimulation, trying to catch your eyes and when you do look up, he’s back to purposely biting his lips as he gapes at you with his dark brown eyes.

He’s grinning while still biting his lips as he shoots more of his cum into your hands, it’s spilling all over but most of it landed on your black sheer top, especially on the sleeves.

“Jimin what the fuck! you came so much..” your enamoured eyes are focusing on his slit that’s still releasing loads of his sticky cum around your fingers.

“yeah, been holding them back” for you, he wants to add but he just chuckles, breathlessly and all giddy while eyeing you. It could be high from his mind-blowing orgasm but it’s more with how he basically just covered you with his cum.

You look cute when you’re annoyed, grumbling because of the stains on your sheer puffy top. Some of them are on your black leather pants too, and this just adds to his amusement as he watches you walking around frantically, looking for something to clean you both up with before his photoshoot finally commences in about a minute or so.

Jimin’s not sorry of course, seeing his cum stains on you is stirring something carnal in him. It's his way of marking you because you're his now, well, kind of. He'll just make sure to properly mark you next time.

e/n: i initially wrote this around the time it came out and during his birthday but wasn’t planning on posting it until later cuz i do have other priority fics but i just have to since i wasn’t able to post him last year 😭

[tasteofthedivine93]

The Beauty of the Beast - Messmer x F!Reader - Elden Ring Fic - Part 14

TasteOfTheDivine // Masterlist

Ao3 Link: archiveofourown.org/works/57094387/chapters/148321888 Fic Rating: Explicit🌶️🌶️ (Chapter: Explicit🌶️🌶️) Category: F/M Fandom: Elden Ring // Elden Ring: Shadow of the Erd Tree Relationships: Messmer x F!Reader // Messmer the Impaler x F!Reader Warnings: Smut // Oral F! and M! receiving // P in V // Fingering // Somewhat first time // Words: 6319

MASTERLIST // <- Part 13 // Epilogue ->

AUTHOR NOTE:

Here's your smut ya filthy animals (affectionate) - you've been waiting long enough. I hope it's worth it!

A week has passed since Messmer's transformation. You keep catching him staring into the golden mirror every now and then. You watch as he examines his new eyes, his ivory skin. Smiling, you tease him for becoming vain and pompous. 

“I am nay vain,” he defends, “Thou maketh me sound like Godwyn.” 

Scoffing makes Messmer's brows rise. 

“Art thou not impressed by my brother?” He asked with a smirk, a little peacocked, that you reacted in such a way.

“Well, no I am.” Messmer frowns at you. Your only recollection of Godwyn was the portraits found in the books in the library and the very geometric stained-glass window. So you couldn’t compare his looks, but you’ve heard of his heroic deeds.

“He’s just so…” you wave your hand trying to think of the word. Instead you make a disgruntled noise and slam the book in your lap shut. Messmer chuckles at you, before you could finish your thought, he takes your freshly bandaged hand into his and kisses the fabric. “He’s not you.” you mutter. Messmer chuckles softly, puffing air down his nose. 

Questions raced through your mind about his transformation and how he still remained serpentine. Unfortunately even he couldn’t answer all of them. He could only explain that the curse was only the Abyssal Serpent, that he had it under control until his mother sealed it away, causing it to fester and writhe. You ask if he recalls his appearance before he was brought to the Shadowlands. He merely shrugs and explains it had been so long, he cannot recollect. 

“How art they?” he mutters, checking the bandage. Tilting your head you weakly smile. 

“They’re fine, just sore.” you mutter. The burns you sustained that evening have started to heal, but are still painful. The rest of your arms and exposed areas aren’t better either, covered in scratches, tears, blisters and burns. Messmer helped you as best as he could, using herbs and medicine to aid your pain.

You cannot recall a single thing after the sun came up that morning. Messmer carried you back inside, Ophis and Fidi coiled on your lap, and took you straight to his (now uncharred) bedchambers. He paused with you in his arms, staring around the room at how pristine it looked once again. His chest tightened as he recalled the first evening in the room. He cried himself to sleep being away from his siblings. He ignored those feelings as he laid you onto his bed and treated your wounds. 

He demanded you remain on bed rest, but only in his bed. That you did, you shared his bed with him by your side the last few nights and you’ve never felt more comfortable. Messmer remained a gentleman, not touching you, hands hesitant to even coat your arms and sides in remedies. 

You slept, more than you’ve done in years, coiled into messmer’s arms, snakes wrapped around you worried you’ll be taken from them all again. Messmer would flinch at every little whimper and noise you made in your sleep, worried he’d hurt you more. 

After the initial bedrest period, Messmer would follow you around like a lost pup. Even as you bathed, he stayed in the room but behind the partition to give you some privacy. Even though you hoped he’d catch a glimpse at your naked body. He gave you time to heal, despite your yearning for more intimacy. 

Sharing a bed stated the desires, skin brushing against skin, kisses exchanged till you both passed out. But deep down you wanted more, you think about his touch on your core, how easily he brought you to pleasure. You knew he wanted you too, feeling his semi-erection press against your thigh during your tender moments or waking to it pressing into your back. But you both were patient with each other. 

***

A few more days passed, the pair of you sat in blissful peace reading together in the sun-room. However you are yet to read a single word. All the tension and emotions have finally bubbled to the service and you feel as if you're about to explode. You could feel your clit pulsing and your mouth turn dry as Messmer did nothing but sit reading, long fingers gently caressing the pages, occasionally he would lick his thumb in aid to turn the page, but seeing the little pink muscle made your stomach knot and bloom. 

You needed him like oxygen. Tonight was the night. Your wounds have healed, your scars already fading and you’ve waited long enough. 

Quickly, you spring to your feet and rush over to him, you grab the book out of his hands without a second thought and fling it across the room where it lands with a thud. Messmer looks up at you with a shocked expression, which soon falls when he can see the fire burning in your eyes, how you were biting your lip at him. 

His snake-eyes blow out, the slits expanding out and masking his golden iris. His brows drop and a smirk grows on his lips, he lunges at you, hoisting you over his shoulder. Laughing, you squeal his name as he carries you out of the room and up the stairs. 

Messmer practically throws you onto the bed, you bounce on the soft mattress, your hair flowing behind you. He leans over you, shadowing your whole body with his. His long copper hair tickles your face as he looks down at you. You smile at him, blush tinting your cheeks as you suddenly fall shy, your heart beating fast in your chest. 

As what has become his trait, he cups your cheek and you press your cheek into his palm. You miss the warmth of the char mark but refuse to tell him so, but his natural warmth matched your warm cheeks. 

“Art thou sure?” he asks softly, you nod and whisper yes. As soon as the last syllable leaves your mouth, Messmer leans down and captures your mouth with his. His soft, carved lips slot perfectly into yours. He starts off slow, tender kisses, moving over your jaw and down your neck. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, drawing him closer to you. Arching your back you press your chest into his, feeling the protrusions against your shoulders. 

“Messmer.” you whisper, hands clawing at his back. He pulls away from you to admire his work, your skin flushed and lips already wet and puffy. A growl escapes his throat, as distracted by your beauty, you reach down and you go to palm his hard cock already tenting his tunic. Grabbing your wrist he pulls you away from his stiffened cock and kisses your palm.

“Patience, my love,” he darts out his tongue and tastes your palm, “There is nay reason to have haste.” You bite your lip at how warm his tongue is. “I wish to taketh my time with thee.” 

You felt your clit throb, warmth drip from your core. He moves his kisses down your wrist, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. You felt like prey trapped by a predator, his gaze sharp and lustful. 

Ophis and Fidi hover around you both, you thought you’d feel uncomfortable with them, but you secretly enjoy it. 

Reaching over you, you tangle your fingers into his hair and scrape against his scalp, gently costing him back to you. Lips meet lips, you tease his lower lip with your tongue requesting entry. Tongues wrap together, both of you fighting for dominance. Messmer reaches down to palm your breast, his thumb swiping over your clothed nipple, already stiff and visible through your dress. You let out a whimper at the touch, a tingle shoots down to your throbbing clit. 

Pulling away, he sits back to look at your spread out for him. He wraps his hands around your waist, slowly gliding them up your body, over your breasts and to your shoulders. He tears the neckline of your dress and pulls it down slowly, revealing more of your soft skin. 

Impatient, you pull out your arms from the sleeves, leaving the neckline just covering the swell of your tits. Messmer lets out a shaky breath and pulls down your dress, uncovering your breasts. He stares at your perked nipples, letting his thumb swipe over the sensitive bud. Before you could speak, he dives down and captures the other in his lips. He sucks hard and you feel your back arch at the touch, fire shoots down to your core, wetting your folds. 

Moans leaving your lips at a quick pace, Messmer laps at you like a man starved, tongue swirling around the bud. He looks up at you through his lashes and you whimper, his new golden ivory skin shining with sweat already. He moves to plant a kiss to your lips before moving to the other nipple. He suckles and squeezes your tit, sending you into a haze of pleasure. 

Closing your eyes, you enjoy the sensation, before long you feel his long fingers drag your dress lower, your panting stomach now on view and he stops at your hips. His kisses continue south, between the swell of your breasts, over your plump stomach, teeth dragging over your shaking skin. 

Messmer reaches down and paws at the hem of your dress, hitching it over your knee. He teases you slowly, finger dragging over your calf, over your knee and tickling your inner thigh. In natural response, you squeeze your knees together and trap his hand, you squeak as he stares at you, eyes black and filled with want. He tuts at you as he palms your knees and slowly parts your legs, keeping his eyes on yours, he inches up higher and higher till he cups your outer hips, tips of his fingers grazing against the sides of your ass still covered by your dress. 

For a moment he watches your face melt as he kneads your soft curves. Smirking he finally grabs at the hem of your dress and slowly drags the material over your thighs and reveals your puffy wet pussy.

You wish you could capture the noise that escaped his lips and play it on repeat forever. 

“Divine,” he whispers, “Thee won’t require this.” He grabs the neckline of your dress now pooled around your waist and rips the fabric in two. 

You gasp at his brutish nature, your body now fully naked.

“Messmer!” you nervously laugh and sit up, trying to cover yourself. He merely tuts and takes hold of your wrists, pulling them over your head and pushes your back to the bed. Your tits bounce as you meet the mattress. He hovers over you, eyes dark and growling. 

“Stay,” he commands at you. He kisses you once again, down your jaw, your neck, between the swell of your breasts, hands trailing down behind his kisses, down your stomach and positions himself over your sobbing cunt. 

His snake companions move slowly down towards their master, their heads resting near your hips.

Messmer kisses your public hair, smelling like you. He growls this time, deep and animalistic. Fingers dig into your thighs, pulling you open for him.

“I have desired to taste thee for too long,” his breath hot against your core, teasing your throbbing clit. 

Your chest feels like it could burst, your heart beating so fast and heavy. He lingers for a moment, staring up at you as you whimper without him even touching you. 

“Please,” you beg, sucking in your lower lip between your teeth. Daringly, you rest your leg over his shoulder, mindful of the snake body. Watching through half closed eyes, he let his tongue slither out of his mouth as if in slow motion, he hovers, teasing you for a moment before swiping a long nearly painful lick up the seam of your cunt. Tip flicking at your clit. 

The moan that erupts from you was embarrassing, already you clamp your thighs around his head at the first touch. He chuckles at your intense pleasure, pulling you apart again. He doesn’t give you time to process, instead he dives in, he covers your sopping cunt and laps at you. His tongue covers you entirely, tasting every drip of your sweet nectar. He grunts and sighs, his eyes already rolling to the back of his skull. 

He sucks your clit between his lips, letting his tongue tease the bud. You felt as if you passed out from pleasure already. His hot mouth and talented tongue already bringing you to your orgasm. He continues to devour you, his chin and lips coated in your slick. Looking down at the huge man between your legs your heart skips a beat. You watch as he slowly humps the bed in time with his licks. 

Over your hip you feel his companion snakes slowly inch their way over your body, one gently slithers around your calf still over Messmer’s shoulder and around your thigh close to Messmer’s tight grasp. While the other over your stomach and between your breasts. You shiver as he inches towards your face but you smile at them. They feel heavy on your chest but you embrace the weight. Messmer looks up at you with fire in his new eyes and smirks as you welcome Ophis and Fidi into your intimate moment.

Your clit is swollen and puffy as he lets it go with a pop. Before moving lower and teasing your hole with the tip.

You squeak at the new sensation, your hips move without you controlling them, as you seek out his tongue. He chuckles at your eagerness and pushes further in. His strong nose pressing against your puffy clit. 

The core in your stomach feels close to snapping, you writhe and grind into his face with such fervour, his fingertips will leave bruises in your skin from holding you down. 

“Messmer please,” you’re not sure what you’re begging for. 

He pulls away from you, leaving you cold, he kisses your clit tenderly and your hips shudder. Then you feel his finger slide up between your lips, collecting some of your silky wetness and circles your clit, so featherlight it gives you a moment to relax. Looking down you catch his still blown out eyes, his new features still send flutters throughout your body. 

Without saying a word, you feel his finger drag towards your hole and press through the threshold. You suck in a breath already feeling full despite it only being one finger. He inches the digit in slowly, reaching his second knuckle he presses upwards, adding delicious pressure to your sweet spot. You see flashes of sparkles before your eyes, your back arches off the bed and you let out the sweetest moan. Messmer smiles at your pleasure, grinding into the bed and letting out a groan himself. 

You pant heavily, enough to suck out all the oxygen in the room. Your entire skin feels on fire. He pulls the finger out slowly, teasing your entrance and pushes it back in faster this time. He can feel you clamp around him so tight already. Messmer dips his head against your thigh, pressing kisses to the soft flesh and groans. You’re so tight, he’s already dizzy on the thought of you around his thick cock. 

“Thou art so wet and tight for me.” He says breathy, “I will need to stretch thee out more.” 

His words remind you of that evening in the library, your hand barely wrapping around his thick cock. You try to sit up, but Ophis’ weight on your toros keeps you down. Tilting your head you look down at him.

“Is it… still the same?” you ask timidly, unsure if his manhood has also altered in his transformation. 

He smiles so devilishly, flashing teeth and his tongue wets his lips. 

“Aye, my love.”

A whimper escapes your throat and you flop back onto the bed. Messmer runs his hands up your body, he palms your exposed breast and pinches your nipple, distracting you from your thoughts. 

Another kiss warms your thigh and he circles your hole with two fingers, slowly he sinks into your core, curling them straight away to catch that sweet spot. 

You swear under your breath, feeling the pinch of the stretch. You’re no virgin, but a quick fuck in the field with the neighbour boy years ago doesn’t compare to how you’ll be fucked by Messmer. It has been so long you’d forgotten the touch of another. Only your own slender fingers keep you company (as Messmer also knows) but could never compare to his warm slender fingers. 

Slowly he fucks you with his fingers, occasionally leaning back down to circle your clit with his tongue. He can feel you relax enough that he retreats and inserts a third.He already starts to scissor his fingers, you suck in a breath. His kitten licks continue to draw you to your orgasm, with the increased pressure inside you, you start to vibrate. 

“Me-mess-Messmer,” you stutter, “I’m close.” 

Without a word he pumps into you faster, rubbing your spot over and over, he can feel you flutter around his fingers. Tongue still lapping at your clit. Other hand is still pawing at your breast. 

You feel your whole body come undone. You orgasm hard, your walls clamping down on his slender fingers inside you, you feel yourself gush around them as he sucks in your clit. Your hips violently jerk, your thighs shake around his head. You’ve never felt such pleasure. Tears line your eyes at the intensity of your climax, toes curling and fingers fly to tangle themselves with Messmers coppery locks. Once the sensation gets too much, you grasp his hair and pull him off your painfully sensitive clit. 

With half closed eyes, he looks inebriated, mouth and chin shimmery with your slick. He looks at you with such desire. You too look intoxicated, cheeks flushed red, your chest matching, eyes closed and struggling to stay open, your mouth agape and panting heavily. 

Messmer pulls out his fingers from your core, you mewl at the emptiness they left behind, but know you won’t stay empty for long. 

He kisses your thighs once more before crawling back up the bed to shroud over you once again. He kisses you softly, you tasting yourself on his lips. He lowers himself and you can feel his erection pressing hard against your puffy cunt. You look down at it tenting his tunic, along with a small patch of wetness darkening the fabric. 

Cupping his face, you kiss him hard, you wrap your legs around his hips and force him over onto the bed. He lets out a huff from the motion, he smirks at you at your bravery and strength. You straddle his hips and grind your obscenely wet pussy onto his clothed cock, adding wetness to the fabric. 

He grunts at the sensation. 

“I wish to taste you too.” You flash him a devilish grin. 

Ophis and Fidi slowly slither around his shoulders and you kiss both of their noses. Their tongues tickle your cheeks. 

Messmer cups your chin in his hand and pulls you back for another kiss. As you let your tongue dance with his, you reach behind his neck and unclasp his tunic, pulling the velvety fabric from his body. You let it pool around his hips as you feel him become nervous. 

You shuffle back and sit patiently on his thighs. You hold his shaking hand and kiss his finger tips. 

Messmer looks away and nods, his cheeks and chest flushing deep rouge, he closes his eyes as you pull his tunic off his body, leaving him naked. 

You look down at his thick cock standing between his hips. It bobs and twitches, it remains at a slight decline under its own hefty weight. Your eyes grow wide at his shape and thickness. Slick drips from your sopping cunt into the bed between his thighs, you moan at the sensation. 

It looks exactly as you imagined from that time in the library, two cocks in one, thick and veiny, the tip slightly pointed, red and already oozing with pre-cum. You reach over and take hold of his cock with both hands, gently squeezing at the base. His hips jerk upwards and he whimpers, bringing his hand to his mouth. 

“Messmer”, you whisper, pleading with him to look at you. “It’s incredible.” 

He shudders at your praise, he cracks open his eyes, fluttering his lashes and looks at you. Such a pretty delicate little thing, perching angelically on his thick thighs, naked and blissed from your orgasm, hands grasping around his thick twitching cock. It was like he’d dreamed about. 

“I love you Messmer.” you smile at him and slowly drag your hands up his shaft. Both your hands look tiny around his thickness, both hands covering three-quarters of its length and fingers barely touching at the girth. You understand why he needed to stretch you with 3 fingers, even then it didn’t feel it would be enough. You feel your stomach ache and flip at him filling you up and stretching you wide. 

He groans at the touch, fingers coiling into the bedsheets till his knuckles turn white. He already felt so close from humping the bed when locked between your thighs. You can already feel him writhing.

You reach the sensitive red swollen tip, you gently glide your thumb around his leaking slit and coat the head in his precum. Glistening and begging to be tasted. 

Fluttering your lashes at him, you slowly lean over lick at the glistening slit. He puffs and utters incoherent words and it makes you smirk. You lap at the tip, kitten licks mimicking his own on your clit. Bravely you suckle down the entire head, your jaw slack and tongue swiping over and over tasting him. He tasted warm and musky, a flavour you cannot describe but you wanted more. Slowly you descend down his thick shaft, hands still squeezing and covering where you knew you’d never reach. 

You take him into your mouth slowly, spit coating his length and a little escapes the side of your swollen lips. You feel his hand gently on your head, he doesn’t push nor pull, just provides you with comfort. 

“Don’t hurt thyself, please” he mutters, hissing as you go as far as your jaw can let you. Tears line your eyes as the pointed tip touches the back of your throat and you gag just a little. You pull back till just the head resting on your tongue. Messmer strokes the side of your head with his thumb and you bob up and down over just the weeping head. 

He drops his head back in pleasure, hips gently rocking upwards but not enough for you to notice. You pop off him, gasping for breath, a string of spit still connecting the two of you. He looks back down and could orgasm at the sight of you alone, swollen lips, half lidded eyes, skin red and glistening. You trail down the shaft, coating thick two encased cocks with wet kisses all the way down to his thick tuft of red hair. 

Moving your other hand you spread your fingers wide and trace up his abs, nails raking over his shimmery skin. Holding him, you swipe your tongue all the way up the underside in one long lick and flick the tip beading with more pre-cum. You lap at him again, hungry for more as the bitter taste of him dances on your taste-buds. 

Messmer pulls you off him, cheeks and chest red and his breathing heavy.

“If thee continues like that…” his voice shuddered. He didn't continue, but you understood. You kiss the tip once more and crawl up his body, planting kisses over his bony hips, his taut abs, his chest. You even kiss the newly healed lesions on his chest. Face to face, he cups your ass and pulls you closer to him. He kisses you deeply, tongues entwining once more. You feel the soft scales of the snakes over your back and shoulders, pulling you closer. You let out a giggle at the sensation. 

Lips parted, you look deep into Messmers new eyes, still blown out black from lust but also shimmering gold and amber. 

“Doest thee still desire this?” he asks so softly your stomach flutters. Tears line your eyes and you nod.

“Yes, I want you.” You kiss him again, his hand cups your cheek and you nuzzle into his palm, your signature traits. 

“I think it might be besteth for you to…” he swallows thick and heavy. “To be on top for your pleasure.” 

Parting your lips you nod. “Yes.” You turn away blushing, the flush growing down to your heaving chest. Messmer tilts you to look at him.

“There is nay a rush,” he coos, pulling you close to him. “Take as much time as thee needeth.” He presses his forehead against yours. 

“I love you.” you mutter, pecking his lips once more.

“And I adore thee.” He smiles so sweetly you could drink down the nectar. 

Moving his snakes from your body, they reposition their weight off you and press against your calves resting on the bed. You inch backwards till your still wet cunt bumps his thick cock. You both moan in unison at the heat of each other. Messmer grabs your hips and waist and aids you upwards, your thighs already burning and shaking. You lean forward, resting your palms flat on his stomach, nails digging into his flesh already.

His thumb rubs against your skin, soothing you. Cautiously, you line yourself up with his red dripping tip and gently roll your hips, coating it in a thin sheen of your slick. Looking up at him, you see Messmer staring intensely at your pussy and his cock, watching you both join together. 

You sink down slowly, feeling your wet hole stretch sweetly over the pointed tip. It only took a moment, but it felt like an eternity till he was partially inside, slotted perfectly in that first curve of your hole. You could feel him twitch at the tightness of you. Panting gently, you pause, and look back up at Messmer, smiling at you.

“Thou feels so divine,” he squeezes your plump hip. 

Taking in a breath, you sink down more, starting to feel the sharp sting as you slide down his thick shafts. You feel him brush against that sweet spot inside of you and your hips shudder at the sensation. The pressure inside of you burned but felt incredible. You stop midway, letting out the breath you were holding and keep yourself still. Your thighs begin to shake under your own weight. You arch your hips to soothe the burn and gently lift yourself upwards till just the tip remains inside of you. Messmer grunts at the motion, his fingers twitch and you feel a warmth in your chest bloom. 

Glancing up at messmer through your lashes you see him blushing and biting his lip, he doesn’t ask but you nod at him, telling him you’re alright. You knit your brows together as you slowly sink down on him again, going a little further. You feel so full, his two shafts moulding your walls perfectly and rub against your most sweetest spots perfectly. 

You feel him let go of your waist and move down to where you both connect, he gently thumbs your clit, circling the bud slowly and your walls flutter around him. He grunts at the sensation of you getting tight around him, you feel him twitch.

Shaking, you ease down till you feel your thighs meet his, your clit grazing against his thick copper curls and he pulls away from your clit. A breath escapes from your mouth, chest heaving, tits rising and falling so wonderfully. 

You couldn’t believe you took him all in. Dropping your head you sit still for a moment, letting yourself get used to his girth and size. Looking at his abs, you move your hands and notice a littering of crescent moon shaped indents in his skin from where your nails dug into his skin. You whimper at the site and he cups your cheek, soothing you.

“Thou did amazing, my love.” He purrs at you. “I wish to stay inside thee for eternity.” 

“Oh, Messmer.” you feel tears threatening to fall from your lashes at his praise and romantic words. You feel smooth scales on your arm as Fidi nudges you with his snout, tongue flicking on your cheek. Ophis slithers over your thigh and onto Messmers stomach. 

Messmer lets out a puff of air from his nose and moves his thumb from your cheek and swipes your lower lip. You let your tongue slip out and taste his skin. Messmer shudders as you flutter around him, your walls tightening as you gently lap at his thumb. 

After another moment, you felt moulded to him inside you. Gently you start to grind your hips into his, feeling him inside you and giving your clit a burst of satisfaction. The pointed tip gently rubs your cervix in a mixture of pleasure and pain. Despite the burn in your thighs, you tenderly rise up on his cock, and slam back down. The obscene sound of skin on skin echoes around the room, along with your breathy moans. 

Each thrust his thick girth rubs gently against your sweet spot, making your second orgasm bubble and grow in your stomach already. The warmth soothing your aching muscles. You feel a drop of sweat glide down your back as you continue to ride him with passion. Messmer rests his head back, closing his eyes and enjoying the feeling of you. 

Messmer removes his hand from your cheek and trials his finger down your throat, over your collarbone and between your breasts, softly bouncing on each thrust. He cups one and swipes his thumb over your stiffened nipple, sending a shooting warmth straight to your clit. You dig your nails into his skin.

What felt like hours, your thighs start to shake and your muscles give out. You pant loudly, trying to catch your breath, you lean forward on your arms and stretch them out, wrapping them around Messmers neck. You could feel the soft scales on the snakes still on your thigh and now on your back and wrapping around your bicep. You hear him chuckle, his breath tickingling the shell of your ear. 

“Thee did so well.” He kisses the side of your head and slowly hooks his arms around your waist and pulls you closer and tighter to him, on instinct you wrap your legs around his hips. Before you could protest you weren’t done, he hoists you up, still on his cock and gently lays you onto the bed. Your hair fanning behind you like a halo. Messmer looks down at you with such love and devotion. 

Deep down you were grateful for him taking over. Your muscles will ache in the morning. 

Leaning down, Messmer captures another kiss and tucks a few loose sweaty strands back behind your ear. Ophis and Fidi slither around you both, coiling themselves around limbs, tongues flicking out to taste salty skin.

He smiles at you and slowly pulls his cock out of you till just the tip remains, shaft glistening in your slick. You whimper at the loss of the stretch and feeling full, taking in a breath before he thrusts back into you. You let out a hiccup at the sensation, arms pulling at his neck and legs shaking and tucking your head into his chest, breathing in his sweet musky scent. 

He repeats the move, slow but powerful thrusts rock your body. Each thrust ending with a small breathy moan from you as you feel the tip rubbing over your spot, growing your orgasm closer. He looks down and watches your tits bounce in time with his thrusts. He lets out a deep groan making your walls flutter around him.

You let your legs flop from his waist and onto the bed, opening you more for him. The new position gives Messmer more room, as he thrusts deeper inside of you and hits a spot you didn’t know you had. You gasp out sharp and Messmer stops, looking at you with worry.

“Did I hurt thee?” he asks panicked, cupping your cheek and turning you to look at him, eyes glazed over, cock drunk and bursting with pleasure.

You shake your head, mouth curved into a tipsy smile.

“No, no my love, you didn’t, you feel amazing, please don’t stop.” you breathe out. 

He nods and returns to his heavy thrusts. He catches that spot again and you throw your head back in pleasure. Messmer catches on and doesn’t change, continuously slamming into you faster and faster. You couldn’t feel your legs, they began to shake and your hands paw at his shoulders, nails leaving more crescent shapes in his skin. 

You moan louder as you feel your orgasm reaching its peak, you lock eyes with Messmer and your heart swells, warmth bursting over your body. You try to speak but you only let out squeaks and whimpers. You match his rhythm and thrusts, gently rocking your hips trying to give your much neglected clit some attention. 

“I need…” you manage to breathe out. 

You feel Messmer move his hand between your sweaty bodies and play with your throbbing clit. Your stomach blooms with warmth, your orgasm was on the brink. He moves his other hand and cups yours, fingers entwined together. 

“Messmer…” you whisper, “I’m gonna cum.” 

He nods, still pounding into you, thumb swirling your clit.

“Prithee, my love, I can feel thee.” he bites his lip as he tries to hold back his own orgasm. “So tight and made for me.” You could feel his hips falter, his body shudder as he holds back. “I want to feel thee, my love.” 

“I-I- Oh my lord. Mess-Messmer!” 

A few more deep sharp thrusts and you throw your head back, your stomach tightens and you snap. Your orgasm washes over you, pumping endorphins into your bloodstream. You clamp down and suck in Messmers thick cock into your tight cunt with such might, you feel him struggle to pull out of you. Your walls clench and flutter and you see white spots in your eyes and tears flow down the sides of your face. 

Seconds after your burst, you feel the snakes around your arms and torso constrict you and Messmer slams once more into your hot cunt and fills you with his thick seed. His orgasm intense and overpowering his brain shuts off for a moment, he can only feel you on his cock and phantom through the snakes. Nothing but you, overwhelmed by you. 

He grinds his twitching cock into you, watching some of his cum seep out around his shaft. A small fluttering “phew” escapes his lips as he lets the last few pumps of cum leak out his overstimulated tip. 

Slowly but carefully his arms give out and he flops on top of you (as much as the snake body’s give). Sweaty skin sticks together. Your legs shake from overuse and you press your forehead to his shoulder, the pair of you panting, gasping for any molecule of oxygen in the air now filled with the musky scent of sex. 

With the last of his energy, he leans upwards and hovers over you, pressing his sweating forehead against yours. You let out a gentle sob, overwhelmed with emotions and chemicals swimming in your bloodstream. 

He pecks your nose, your cheeks, mutters praise and affection. You feel Ophis and Fidi uncoil themselves from your skin and lie on the bed next to you both.

“I am greatly in love with thee.” He whispers, “Thee was incredible.” 

You open your teary eyes, his face blurry but just what you needed to see. He smiles at you sweetly, his amber eyes also glistening with tears. You let out a laugh between sobs, stroking his hair with your shaking fingers. 

“Oh Messmer,” you coo. 

It took a moment to realise he was still inside you, you could feel him slowly deflating. Messmer shudders as he pulls out of you, your swollen cunt oversensitive and a little sore from the stretch. You’re left feeling empty as you feel his cum slowly ooze out of you onto the bed. Messmer strokes his long fingers over your shaking thighs, soothing your aches. 

You feel your sobs dye out and your left in your afterglow, skin tingling and mind in a haze. You smile at Messmer as he continues to caress you. 

“One moment, my love.” he leans down and captures your lips in a tender kiss before rising from the bed. You inspect his new body, still lanky and thin but skin ivory and devoid of scars. He was the same man you fell in love with, but just slightly different. Shoulders still broad, thin waist and cute tiny bum. You giggle to yourself and Messmer turns to you, narrowing his eyes with a smirk. 

He returns from the side of the room with a damp cloth. Carefully he cleans between your legs. You hiss as the rough fabric scratches your swollen lips. He mutters his apologies but you shake your head. Once finished, he scoops you into his warm arms, cradling you and repositions you both on his, no, our bed. 

Messmer gently lays you onto the mountain of pillows, cuddling up next to you and bringing you close to him. You kiss his chest and feel Ophis and Fidi return around you, tongues flicking on your shoulder and arm. 

You both hold one another, sharing warmth and basking in your afterglow. 

“I love you.” you whisper. He cups your cheek, eyes meeting eyes. 

“I love thee.” 

One more "chapter" to go which is an epilogue of random drabbles/short stories of their future. Can't believe I wrote this. I've been amazing. Love you all.

[002yb]

Oh, but Talon!Dick and priest!Jason

Dick is overthinking about how he is corrupting Jason, that poor innocent and pure priest

Jason just thinks his slowburn with the hot bird man is burning too slow, he want to do more than hold hands and chaste kisses

Catholic guilt has got nothing on this man. Father Todd? The thirstiest of priests. The visual of this man sitting on the stone steps leading up to his church, all dressed in his priestly vestments while chain smoking and bouncing his heel in agitation because this wonderful fucking monstrous abomination won't fuck him is so ahhhhahaha.

Just a series where Jason is so ready to give his life over to sin and depravity for this night terror monster, but it'd seem while God might be forgiving, the devil Jason's ready to kneel for is not. The irony.

There's so much blasphemy below the cut.

(๑/////๑ " )

The tradition of lighting a candle to represent a prayer? Jason lights all of them. Call it an SOS. A beacon to father, son, holy spirit - Jason is begging.

Talon appearing from out of nowhere and snuffing candles (Jason's prayers to get down and dirty) and Jason just stares, jaw dropped and wide eyed because 1) this is God's will enacted in such a vicious way and 2) Talon hasn't got a damn clue

Poor guy just thinks he's helping reduce Jason's risk of death by fire, but also? He's saving his own eyes because it is bright

More thoughts and shenanigans:

The first time Talon sees Jason, Jason is praying. Sat in one of the pews, rosary in hand and with the diffused colors of stained glass slanting over his skin - a touch of moonlight; something soft in the night

It complements the first time Jason sees Talon - standing before the alter. Contemplating it. Trying to bathe in that same light that made Jason something holy, only Talon feels nothing. Too tainted. Too wretched.

Only where Talon hid when Jason looked up into the rafters or into the dark shadows of the church's architecture where Talon was, Jason doesn't. It's a profession thing, of course, but also? It's Jason. He sees someone hurting - he goes to them.

Which leads to a scuffle with Talon getting Jason pinned down against the alter, hand around his throat and drawing blood and he flinches because it's Jason - bathed in moonlit glass again, pure and good and Talon falters

Which Jason takes advantage of, because he might be a holy man but he's no schmuck, thanks. So he flips them off the alter and pins Talon to the floor, wild-eyed and with bared teeth. Not so much to intimidate, but because Jason renounces violence but still finds some thrill in a fight

So it's just them. Jason in his black priest robes sat smugly atop Talon, one of Gotham's more horrific legends. One foot pinning Talon's bicep, the other his wrist.

But Jason saw it in the way Talon reacted to his own violence - it wasn't intentional. It was a learned reaction, of which Jason has many; he can't judge.

That doesn't stop him from getting cheeky with it (with teasing Talon for spooking him). In that same vein, it doesn't stop him from getting a little freaky, either (inviting Talon for some wine).

That's exaggerated. Jason would probably take care of Talon, first. Which would genuinely spook Talon. Who would repeatedly come back and Jason would accommodate. Just a slow crawl, slowburn romance that reaches a head when an injured Talon comes to Jason bleeding and in need of help and yeah

And more:

Where during the will-they-won't-they stage where Jason is desperation incarnate, Jason hides out in the confessional booth to breathe because he wants Talon so damn bad and Talon just won't.

And Jason knowing it's not a matter of not wanting to, just that Talon...can't, or something along those lines.

Talon sitting in the opposite booth, only a thin partition to separate them. Him knowing that he's upset Jason because Jason's been huffing and puffing about being teased for too long and being frustrated and Talon is sheltered, but with Jason he's quick to understand the meaning of wanton - it's Jason.

Jason scoffing because Talon has nothing to ask forgiveness for, go away

But Talon stays because: 'not yet.'

Which, oh?

Then they talk about where Talon is with everything. And it's such a heartfelt, romantic and tender sentiment. Loving and reverent that even when Talon parts for the night (or as dawn approaches), Jason stays in the confessional. Head in his hands to hide how he blushes.

Because from Talon's perspective, there's no cleansing a soul like his. He's something damned, something ruined.

Misguided. He's someone who's been hurt. He's someone who's hurting.

'That's why you won't touch me?'

'It would be sacrilegious.' Because for Talon, Jason is sacred.

Vaguely related, but Talon refusing to let Jason be a lamb that bleeds for him. Jason and Talon having extensive arguments discussions about how God isn't that way, how Jesus paid that price, how with faith something something etc etc. Basically, Talon not understanding religion or faith. But also? Finding some sort of religion/faith in Jason??

This reply is lengthy, so parting notes on shenanigans and tomfoolery:

Talon flipping up Jason's priests robes out of curiosity one day and Jason startling and flustering so bad. Of course he's got pants on, but omg wtf

Jason preparing for communion. Wine? Check. Tiny breads/crackers? Che- no? Jason scrambling around because he knows they're somewhere. And that's when Talon shows up out of nowhere beside him, munching on the metaphorical body of Jesus fuuuuuuuuccc---

Similar to the above, but Talon fucking around with the vestibule/holy water. Only it's something that no one can get mad at because Talon like - brings birds to it for a bird bath or something and it's cute

Tbh forgot this was initially a post about thirsty Father Todd, whoops. Just to round it out though, something something Jason laying back on a pew and pulling Talon over him. Being crowded in that narrow space, but Jason shivering in delight as they fool around (it doesn't get far, of course lol). Jason getting all breathless because his collar is too tight and Talon stripping Jason down, just undoing the collar and robe and spanning his hand beneath it. Pffft Jason thinking he's going to get his tit fondled, but Talon's really just feeling Jason's heartbeat.

Also, were this a horror/mystery story:

Talon listening in on confessionals and carrying out kills according to how he knows Jason feels about them

[doing-something-unholy]

The basics of care for Catholic Priests

(this probably won't read as horny to anyone who isn't into a very specific kind of casual degradation and objectification ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

Most people are familiar with Priests as collectively church-owned working class pets, but they can make wonderful single-owner pets as well! Here you'll find some of the basics of caring for these unique creatures.

Appearance

Priests are usually known for having black coats, with high contrast white markings around their necks known as a "collar." A few different morphs do exist however! Mostly these consist of small markings in either gold, red, or a liturgical color, but one morph includes a bright red coat known as a "cardinal."

Curiously, both young and very old priests tend towards white coats. The priest pups are referred to as "seminarians," and they grow in dark coloration as they get older. Very old priests slowly get lighter with age, eventually ending up with white coats. Priests from tropical environments may also have white coats at any age!

A healthy priest's markings, especially the collar, should be in high contrast with a deep, saturated black coat. Dull, or desaturated colors can be a sign of chronic stress or illness. No need to panic however, sometimes it is as simple a fix as a vitamin supplement at meal times. You should consult a vet to find out.

Diet

Communion wafers of course! But mostly as treats, priests love them but they have surprisingly little nutritional value. All forms of bread or crackers are acceptable (though your milage may vary with a picky eater) and any kind of grapes. Many enjoy other fruits as well. Priests are capable of eating meat, especially fish for lent, but often prefer it only for special occasions. They often will refuse large meals entirely during lent, which can be concerning for beginner owners, but this is normal behavior. Try breaking it up into snacks throughout the day if you're concerned about your priest not eating enough. Often times pets will lose track of how many snacks they've had and eat regularly.

Priests need access to fresh holy water. Contrary to popular belief, it is easily made at home, although some picky pets may prefer the kind found in churches. Priests are capable of injesting weak alcohol like wine with no problems, anything higher than around 20% may cause some illnesses over time. Wine is actually an important enrichment treat for them, in the same vein as wafers, it allows them to follow their natural behaviors.

Housing

Anything that mimics it's natural habitat works, luckily churches come in a variety of ways! Priests are safe to allow full range of you home but having a dedicated room or partitioned space specifically designed for them is very rewarding for both you and your pet. Stone and wood facades are preferred, as are stained glass coverings over windows. Have an altar space available for your pet, and allow them to maintain it themselves. Priests naturally like to maintain an altar and their church space. Provide clean cloth in both white and the appropriate liturgical color. Real altar sets can be expensive, but any kind of durable cups and plates will work. Your pet may prefer different materials, but typically wood, pewter, or brass is used. Observe the decorations in churches and add as much as you'd like! It is not recommended to use real candles without supervision, you may provide them while someone is home and switch to battery powered lights while away.

Behavior

Priests are surprisingly intelligent, being a working breed means that they take well to structure and training. Priests have a wide range in personalities, but tend to be reserved, neat, and polite, especially around strangers. They tend to be early risers, but some can be persuaded to sleep in and begin their rituals later in the day. Priests love a structured routine, and will often become upset by interruptions that don't allow for them to perform their usual rituals. Typically they will play act at least one “mass” a day, and love to see their owners participate. They will also frequently “pray”, making repeated vocalizations and playing with beads (be sure to provide some!)

They may also exhibit a few behaviors that might greatly concern new owners. “Guilty” behaviors are normal and common for priests, and may include increased “prayer” both in frequency or intensity, skipping large meals, or putting themselves in uncomfortable situations. Some priests may also self-flagellate, but this too is normal as long as it does not cause lasting harm. Excessive “guilty” behavior may indicate a stressful environment, so look out for potential causes like broken altar pieces, missing communion wafers, or even engaging in too much “sin”. Your pet will have a strong sense of morality, and will certainly let you know about it! Priests often have strict internal rules, but they will frequently accept new ones from their owner with training. You may have to correct your pet's internal rules if they have deemed something you normally do as “sinful”. Luckily they respond well to firm training and positive reinforcement.

These little guys are extremely unique pets, and make a great addition to the home for owners willing to put in the time for them! Please do further research and consider if owning a Catholic Priest is right for you.

[yeyinde]

fever in a shockwave., i | Joe "Bear" Graves x f!Reader

pt., i | swallow him whole (like a pill that makes you choke)

It's one thing to sit back and passively watch a man self-destruct on minimum wage and tips, but another thing entirely to help him on that journey. So, you call it. Or: this is what happens when resident travesty Joe Graves meets a local track star fleeing from everything. (The only problem being: no one ever taught you how to run.)

warnings: implied/references to cheating (but not really); angst, pining, yearning; eventual smut; trauma; grief and the existentialism of moving on; recovery; reader has a backstory; spoilers for the series wordcount: 15,1k

[NEXT] AO3 MIRROR | PLAYLIST

It's one thing to sit back and passively watch a man self-destruct on minimum wage and tips, but another thing entirely to help him on that journey. 

So, you call it. 

(Like you should have months ago.)

Get me a scotch. Whisky, and—his hazy gaze slides to the woman barely sitting on the broken stool, eyes drooping and grinning much too wide considering where she's at, before jerking to you again—uh, whatever, uh… she's having. 

She's having long island iced tea. You're tired of making it, anyway. 

You nod, dutifully, but hand him a glass of room-temperature water, instead. 

"This isn't what I asked for." 

His voice is pitched low. Always. A strange, rasping timbre that you pretend does nothing to you no matter how many times his eyes slide over your body, liquid blue, and asks for something—bourbon, a scotch, rye. 

You can't quite meet his gaze when you shrug. "I know."

There is something about this man who reeks of stale cigarettes, motel shampoo, and wheat malt. Something that makes you ache in all the wrong ways. A man on the verge of implosion; a deadly, gaseous bomb that will leak miasma into the aether until you're rotten from the inside out. Organs full of those awful fumes he'll exude. 

Going out with a bang, heavy and suffocating. 

His hand jerks on the table. You watch his knuckles slide over the wood, clenching into a tight fist. So tight the scarred tissue around his bones turns white. Bleached under the strain of barely keeping it together. 

There is something about an angry man that itches under your skin.  

"What the fuck?" The woman beside him breaks the stifling silence. "We paid—"

"S'alright," he says. Low, low—voice scraping against the gravel. His chin falls when you look up. Expression blank, but not vacant. Anger, and—

Maybe a little bit of guilt, sadness, regret.

"Let's get outta here, then," she coos, hand trailing over his chest. 

"Yeah," he mutters, and you wonder what caused the shadows in his eyes this time, the ones dulled, glossy, and drenched in cheap liquor. His fist clenches, eyes narrowing. "Let's go." 

Anger clings to him. His shoulders are drawn tight even when he wobbles on his feet, unsteady. His hand slams down on the counter, nails—dirty, chewed down the wick—grazing the chipped grain as he tries to stable himself. 

His chin lifts, as if he's demanding you to say something. Threatening in blotchy malt, eyes fixed on you like a cobra, a predator. Ocean blue, foggy and glazed over with the nearly hundred dollar tab he tossed on tonight —all in shots, in long island iced teas—and wonder what the blue looks like on a clear day. 

Wonder, haltingly, if you'll ever find out. 

He leans forward, eyes cresting. Corners turned down in some facsimile of goading, of jeer. His palm turns on the table, closer, now. The space between you is cut by the counter; a perfect partition. 

He waits a beat, takes three inhale, two exhales, and then—

Hands loop around his broad waist, chipped pink shaved into almond points catching on a stain in the shade of grease-yellow. 

"You comin'?" She murmurs from behind him, voice muffled. 

His eyes don't waver. "Yeah."

Yours drop. A flash of gold catching in the jaundiced light. 

There are bad ideas, and there is this. 

(A sickness.)

On the opposite side of the Virginia Beach boardwalk is a dive bar on the fringes of obsoletion. One just barely clinging to its last vestiges of life. It is considered too far away for a younger, rowdier crowd to congregate, and too dilapidated to pull anyone who wasn't searching for one thing, and one thing only: escapism. 

Numbed apathy at the bottom of cheap ale. Curated indifference in a bottle.

There is no affection in some of the older generations' tones when they speak of this place. It isn't something of their youths, or anything to feel that weepy sense of nostalgia over. 

It's just a beaten-down pub in a sea of many. 

Hardly anyone's first choice. 

(Somewhere in the crumbling pages of Freud, you're sure, it would tell you why you decided to work here of all places, too.)

You clock into work, ready for the usual slough to pass through. Another mundane night that the chef has dubbed the usual.  

The usual being: opening at five to an empty bar that stretches until eight, maybe none, when the solid sea of regulars (lifers, you've taken to calling them), will have settled in their spots. It mostly consists of twelve people—max—dispersed in the bar, some of them truckers on break or passersby, tourists, who wandered too far down the boardwalk because they didn't know any better. 

It's normal. Routine. 

You expected the same lour stagnancy that bleeds into everything else, dripping down in a steady trickle like the rainwater that leaks in from the cracks in the shingles your boss refuses to fix, pelting the bottom of the tin bucket perched beneath the hole until it's overflowing. Grey water trapped in a metal prison. 

You've come to expect the sulphurous scent whenever you take your place behind the counter.

The most offbeat thing that happened today was your horoscope this morning said to be wary of sinkholes, a problem you haven't thought of since you were younger, and one you doubt you'd face in Virginia, of all places. 

(It also said: love life? Tragic. Finances? Might improve sooner than you think. Social life? Could be better.) 

Nothing unusual, really.

And then—

A flash from the corner of your eye. Two fingers jerking up once, flagging you down. The universal sign for hey, bartender, over here. You obey the command, painting an unnecessary smile on your face, one that rarely ever goes acknowledged. You turn to the man who waved you over, and—

Well. 

He's massive. Different, but decidedly not out of place in a room that reeks of stale beer and lemon cleaner. He moulds to the shadows, sticking like glue to the crevasse in the corner. 

Something about him prickles your skin. A break in the routine. 

Your heart does this strange, off-rhythm beat when you walk up to him, taking stock of the way he barely fits on the rusted stool. His legs are too bulky, too broad, for both of them to fit together. One thigh spends nearly the entire length of the worn, flat cushion. 

They are long enough that he has to bend at the knee to keep his foot flush with the floor. 

But it doesn't matter. Not really. Except the strange lurch doesn't settle when it becomes apparent he isn't going to look away. 

He keeps his gaze—cenote blue—fixed on you the whole time. 

It's in his eyes where you find just how similar he is to some of the regulars: 

Anger. Resentment. Bitterness. 

A broken thing scraping the bottom of a bottle for something to abate the everpresent ache inside. 

When you're close enough, he dips his chin. The thick auburn beard covering his face is rough and worn; it's unkempt, like his hair—moused, greasy—and his clothes—stained and wrinkled. He has a pock on his forehead, and a small scar. The silvery skin catches in the ugly fluorescent lighting above. 

He's in a state of disarray. Chaotically unkempt, but the shadows under his eyes—tenebrism on breathing flesh—tell you, implicitly, that he does not care. A chiaroscuro in sabotage, he leaks ruin when you lean in with a tight, shaky smile. 

No greeting. Just—

"Whisky. Two shots." 

It's blunt. Unapologetic. A direct dismissal. 

You're not his friend. You deserve no pleasantries in such a place, nor will you find any with him. 

And, really—

You're used to men like him sidling up to the bar, barking out their drink of choice without so much as a hello, lovely evening for it. This is no different from anyone else who sat on that same chair, ordered the same drink, and stank of the same corrosive rot. 

Nothing different at all. 

Yet, he leaks octane out of every pore of his body. The rust in his gaze is a warning sign: this is a man on the verge of collapse, and one less stable than Betelgeuse. 

His eyes are murky blue. Stagnant water. It's a trap, though. There's a livewire buried under the velvet surface. 

Your smile wobbles. "Sure."

He's dangerous. The hisses in your head say he's everything you should run from. 

(Too bad for them, no one ever taught you how.)  

It becomes a routine. 

He shows up at the same time each week—six on the dot—takes the stool across from the entrance, and diagonal to the washrooms, the kitchen.  

He looks around the room. Then reaches for his phone.

And he looks—

Miserable. 

It's none of your business. None at all. It's not even something you should be noticing—like how his knuckles are always split apart or in some state of healing. How he turns his phone off as soon as he sits down, but always takes a moment to stare at the photo on his wallpaper—a woman, his wife, smiling at the camera. Something shudders over his expression. He turns it off, and slips it in his pocket. 

In that singular moment, something switches. 

He waves you over. Orders a drink. Stumbles out the door when it's time for closing like all the other frequent flyers looking to chase their demons away in amber. 

A man like him shouldn't be here. 

Military, Pete says; he spoke to him a few days after his first arrival but adds nothing more except a shake of his head, and a softly uttered poor fucking sod, which, coming from the man who is running himself bankrupt to feed an unquenchable addiction, it pacts a degree of potency that leaves you feeling numb. 

You heard him utter something back in a low tone to a man who tried to drag him back a few weeks after he first took his seat, and never left. 

God ain't here, is he? He wasn't there then, and he isn't here now. Leave me alone, Buddha. Just—take care of them. Take care of the team, the boys. Just do that for me, and find this son of—

There are no answers in the bunch of his shoulders, the low hang of his head. He grinds the heel of his palm into his left eye so hard, you sometimes wonder if he's trying to shatter his socket to finally alleviate the ache inside. The other hand always curled tight around a glass, half empty. Knuckles bloodied. 

And that's how he spends his evening. 

Chasing relief in whisky. 

Oftentimes, he's alone. 

Just himself and two empty stools beside him that whine when his broad thighs tap against the cushions, rusted metal grating together, and orders the same cheap booze. 

Has the same haunted look in his eyes, the same shadows. Reeks of the same rot. A wound that never heals. It's just dulled in an easy, quick swallow out of a smeared shot glass until he's too drunk to keep his eyes open.

(You suppose it's hard to be chased by ghosts when they're drenched in formaldehyde. 

Or cheap perfume—)

Sometimes, on very rare occasions, he isn't. 

You'd be remiss not to notice. Even chasing an easy out at the end of a bottle, it's obvious he's an attractive man. Big. Broad. 

Surly.

(Your type always seems to be carrying some weight. 

Maybe that's why their shoulders are always so big.)

He's unshaven—face covered in thick bristles of burnt umber that curl at the ends; some grey leaks in around his temples, his jaw. You don't think he's washed his hair in a week much less his beard, and yet—

You wonder what it would feel like on your skin—

(Bad thoughts. Bad—)

He wears several Walmart brand Henleys in rotation, all the same ones you'd get from a pack for less than twenty dollars. Maybe even less than ten. Grey, charcoal blue, midnight blue, black, white. In that order. And jeans. Ones that barely fit around his thick thighs, his wide waist. 

Black shoes—trousers never tucked in—and a—

It catches in the glow. The woman beside him glances down once, recognition bleeds in the draw of her brows, and you expect anger, reproach, scorn. You tense, waiting for it. For the proverbial comeuppance men like him are supposed to get. It's how it goes in the movies, right? 

He's supposed to be the smarmy type who oozes sycophantic charm, women hanging off them as they dabble in hedonism without any feelings of regret. Men like him are followed by a thundercloud. A looming storm in the distance promises a torrential downpour. 

You wonder if the deluge would soak you, too. 

And—

Nothing. 

Instead, her hand falls to the centre of his chest, placed right against his sternum. Eyes coy, glossy. One of her lashes clings to the bottom. 

"What are you doing after this?" 

She's curated perfection: sultry and alluring. 

You can see his glazed eyes drift down to her open blouse—the brand on the button says Michael Kors, and probably costs triple your earnings for the night—and you know, then, that he'll leave with her.

None of the women he takes home is the type you'd find in a dive bar like this, but you suppose pickings are slim in a college town that likes to gossip. They run the risk of getting caught nestled too close together in the back by Tim the Vicar, and so they come here. Where the hardened, rugged alcoholics go to escape the prying eyes of their neighbours, and coworkers. 

A sea of shady, drunk people. 

In the corner near the exit, a man slides a bag into the awaiting hands of a businessman. A woman sits by herself in a booth for six, and you know her husband, a pastor who has been trying to raise funds to open a new church, runs the town's chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous. A man who stays until closing, drinking pint after pint on the opposite side of the stool will stand up, keys in hand, and go deliver the morning news at five AM. 

The woman in Anne Klein trousers and a Michael Kors blouse who runs her nails down his cheap, stained Henley, eyes dark and full of promises for later, is someone you pass on the highway on your commute to this little cesspit outside of town. 

She's always smiling brightly on a billboard next to her husband, a man running for mayor. 

Maybe, you think, bringing your thumb up to your lips, teeth digging into the seam between your skin and nail as you watch them stumble out of the bar, they're a perfect match. Both drunk, both looking for cheap thrills drenched in sleaze, and—

Both wear gold bands around their ring finger. 

          (—to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law, in the presence of God I make this vow—)

          You're eight and treading water. Your mum brings you to the local pool, eyes covered by bulky black sunglasses that hide her expression from you. 

(No one ever taught you how to swim. You wonder if she knows this, but doubt it. She doesn't really know much about you at all.)

You cling to the wet ledge, cement digging into your skin as you struggle to stay above the waves that lap at you, pooling inside of your ears. It's warbled. Distorted. 

"...For another woman, can you believe it? God, he just—he makes me so fucking sick. Can't he see what he's doing to me? Pathetic, is what he is." 

Your grip slips, and you plunge under the surface, knees scratching the sides. You can still hear her—a garbled tangent. Leaving us. Won't even try to make it work. How am I supposed to take care of a kid all on my own? How am I supposed to—

It's a kaleidoscope in shades of blue. The water is warm at the surface, but as you sink to the bottom, eyes catching on a pair of yellow goggles, it gets cold. A sudden chill. 

No one taught you how to swim, and despite the instinct inside of you to gasp for air that isn't there, to flail, you don't. You—

Drift. 

It's a baptism in chlorine. 

It's both louder and quieter than anything you'd ever experienced before. 

Pathetic. Stupid, selfish man. Leaving me like this with you, all for some cheap floozy—

Serene. Everything is static underwater. Your burning eyes fix themselves on the hazy yellow wavering at the bottom of the endless blue, and slowly, slowly slip shut. 

You think you'd like to stay down here forever. 

But you're not quite as lucky as you wish you were. Buoyancy spits you back out. 

You surface gasping, gagging, coughing out the water that you'd swallowed on your quick ascent, something to fill your belly up and keep you grounded, an anchor. It didn't work. Your stomach churns with the briny water you gulped down.

Your hands claw at the side of the pool, knuckles shredding against the harsh stucco that covers the concrete ledge. It bites into your skin until it bleeds. 

But you're okay. You breathe, and breathe, and—

"It's madness to think I can do it alone. And what are you doing? Stop playing around! You're causing a scene—"

Chlorine on your tongue, spuming inside of your lungs; the taste is familiar. Bitter. Acrid. 

It's poison inside of you. 

(A sickness.)

He forms a habit with each visit. 

But he isn't the only one. 

He talks to you— sometimes —and you're distinctly aware of every my bartender is my therapist joke that had ever been conceived, but it's different. 

No, really. It is. 

He tells you about things. He's a SEAL— former —and even cracks a facsimile of a smile when you ask if he'd have to kill you now or later for leaking such covert information. It's a dumb joke. It's not even funny, but his lips twitch beneath his thick beard, eyes crinkle. 

He even huffs at you when you ask when he's going to shave it. 

Maybe next year, kid. 

Kid. It's what he calls you. Never your name. Nothing to make you a real, living person to him. Just a hazy object in the ethanol gossamer that clouds the blue of his eyes until he's squinting at you, and saying bring me a whisky, kid.  

Impartial. Distant. 

He never goes out of his way to start the conversion, or to invite you over, but he never really tells you to knock it off, leave him alone, either. 

Sometimes, you say something stupid, like shouldn't you be training or something instead of giving yourself cirrhosis? and you can see him shut down. Retreat. His shoulders unfurl, spine straightened, and his eyes harden. A veil of moondust white plumes between you, dislodged when the crater forms. 

A chasm resides in the echoes of camaraderie and you wish you could just eat your words or swallow your tongue. 

It never lasts too long. 

A visit later, two. Then, when you pluck up the courage to talk to him again, he eases into it with slurred words, and a little drunk grin twisting on his lips at the dumb (safe) things you say. 

It doesn't count as a smile. You tell him this during the end of surf season. I've never seen you smile. You grin when you're drunk, but. Who doesn't? 

And he says, got nothing to smile about, kid. 

You hate the way your fingers itch. 

He's broken pieces that are too shattered, too splintered to fit back together. Kintsugi isn't enough to seal the cracks, and you should leave him alone to his own ruinous devices. Let him rot—like all the others you ignore, content to refill their glass whenever they wander up.

But he's different. 

(Or maybe you're just broken, too.

A fixer. Stupid. There is nothing in this to fix.)

You keep at it without really knowing what it is. There is no end goal. No greater purpose. 

(Maybe, it's the reek of loneliness that wafts off of him. The same scent you wake up to, clinging to your pillow. The one that gnarls behind your ribs like a mouldering infestation. 

Maybe, it's because out of all the men who wander in, he's the only one who looks like he's already too far gone, and you've always liked the taste of crushing disappointment.)

It becomes something. An ebb and flow. 

He sits on the same stool every week while you paddle on, a soliloquy about the inanities of your life to an audience who is too big to drown himself at the end of the glass, but sometimes stares down at it like he wishes he could. 

It pays off in slow, small ways. 

One month in, you start a game. 

It's this silly thing you play in the safe haven of your head; a way to pass the time when the seconds (minutes, hours) tick by pokily, and the stench of cheap malt makes your head swim. 

You don't know why you tell him this little secret of yours—maybe, it's the way he holds his glass, clutched between bloodied knuckles, the scabs from last week ripped off and leaking ichor over the cracks in his skin.

Or how distant he feels, like he's further away than ever before. A chasm. It crackles in the air when he orders, words muted. A clicking grumble out of his throat, mouth barely opening. 

It's uttered through clenched teeth, but there is no anger. No bitterness. Just—

Defeat. 

So, you talk. 

(Empty words. No meaning. It's what you're best at, isn't it?

Filling space.)

The door opens, and you tell him out of the corner of your mouth that the man will order a cocktail. 

He barely looks up. Says nothing, but his eyes follow yours, locking on to the man who wanders up to the counter. His Hawaiian shirt sticks out like a sore thumb. 

He huffs, shoulders shaking. 

"A tourist," is all he says, but he waits. Watches. 

It feels a bit like satisfaction when the man grins wide, and asks for whisky sour. Says he's from out of town. 

You catch the way his brows bounce from the corner of your eye. The soft, golden light casts shadows in the valleys of his forehead. They carry the colour of victory, and you tuck the hue in your chest, in the locked box where everything else goes. 

(Three weeks later, he joins in. Adds his own commentary to each drink order. 

Social smoker, he says after a moment when you tell him he'll order something hard first—tequila, a whisky—and then mixed drinks. Vodka cranberry. Rum and coke. He doesn't usually smoke, but when the boys go outside for one, he'll join.

He orders a shot of bourbon. Bear tucks his lips behind his own glass of whisky, and you mourn the loss of seeing his smile before you have to hide your own when he comes back and asks for a tall gin and tonic. 

You catch his eye when the man leaves, trailing behind a group playing poker in the corner, and it feels a little bit like satisfaction when the chasm feels less imposing than it did before.)

Two, and you get his name. 

Joe Graves. 

It's so normal compared to the walking travesty sitting to your right, that you almost think he's lying. Almost. But then he adds, elbow knocking on the table, a glass tucked into the palm of his other hand that somehow looks two sizes too small in his massive paw: they call me… used to call me Bear.

Bear. You hate the thrill that runs through you. The ache that splits inside your chest. 

And the question that looms over the lapse. The brief silence that felt poignant and stifling between call me and the bitter amendment to used to. 

Military man, you think. 

You take to calling him Bear just to see the way his eyebrows tick on his forehead, brow wrinkling in rucks of five deep lines. Amusement simmers in geyser blue; an undercurrent of appeasement, as if he's been longing to hear that name again. 

(You tuck that away, too.)

Four, you get a flash of teeth when he grins, brief, fleeting, at your one-sided monologue about the perfect way to pour Guinness and this Instagram page some lad made about the worst pours in London. 

He tucks it behind the rim of the glass as if it's illegal, wrong. Shameful. But you catch it, anyway. You catch it because you're always looking, always watching.

"In case you haven't noticed, we're in America," is all he says when you show him some of the atrocities committed, brows knotting together in the middle. 

You huff. "They're awful. Look at them."

"Huh." His eyes narrow, squinting at the picture. His mouth curls to the side. "Kinda looks like yours."

"Oh, shut up, Bear. It does not!"

His hands raise in mock surrender. "It's just… I didn't know it was supposed to go flat so fast. You learn something new, right?" 

You spend the rest of the evening working on your pour, nails stinging when you chew them down to the wick as you concentrate on getting the perfect patio right. All the while, he scrolls through the page with a thick finger, leading smudges on your screen, and adding in his own commentary (usually just a huff, a harsh exhale out the nose, or a scoff) to each one. 

"Look," he holds your phone up, forehead creasing in jest, and then motions to the pint you slammed down in front of him a few moments ago. "They copied your technique." 

He's pretty when he smiles, you think, sundrunk and blistered, dazed from the gleam of white. The jagged ends of your nails catch on the skin of your palm when you squeeze your hands into fists by your side. Something wet, sticky, pools in your laugh line until it's a bloodied leat. 

(It takes two weeks to clear the image from your head, and another to pretend you haven't tucked it somewhere inside of your chest for safekeeping.)

You prod at him just to see it again. Empty words. No meaning. 

What's your star sign? You ask, tapping the screen of your phone as you read your horoscope. You think, distantly, about painting your nails. Maybe, once and for all, kicking your habit of chewing them down to jagged edges as close to the line of your skin as possible. 

Anne Klein, the second woman he took home, wore her nails in blue. 

No good deed goes unpunished with your moon where it's at. Love life? Abysmal. Finances? Could be worse. Social life? Sorry—what's that again? 

His brows bunch together in a series of five rings. You count them all. My what?

You know. When were you born?

Give me a goddamn break. 

Ahhh, I bet you're a Taurus.

Now that is covert information.

Yep, totally a Taurus.

(He cracks a small smile at that, crooked and shaky, like he forgot how it's supposed to be done.)

He falls asleep at the bar five months in. Another habit is born.

Exhaustion seeped into every pore when he wandered in a few hours ago with a wrinkled plaid half-sleeve and gingham coat. 

You'd pointed out that the buttons at the bottom didn't line up when he sat, and watched as he seemed to fluster a little at that. As if the stench of rot and sleep didn't cling to him like an addiction; like he didn't have stains on his collar, or oozing scabs on his knuckles, and his biggest worry right now was his button not aligning.

He looks more put together tonight than he does any others, but the two women who approached (Friday night—the poster on the door says it's singles night) were turned down. 

(A trend, lately.)

It's none of your business—you're not even a therapist, you're just the one bringing the bottle—but you soak everything up like a greedy sponge, and try to ignore the elation churning in your chest when he says, no, I'm, uh. I'm not interested. 

So, you babble. You turn your head away from him so he doesn't catch the grin on your lips, and take to wiping down the counter as you fall into your normal, one-sided tangent. 

You get about halfway through your vague retelling of the Incident at the coffee shop when a soft grumble reaches your ears. 

You turn, fingers clenching around the nozzle of the trap—local; the hinges squeak from disuse—and—

Head dropped, chin tucked into the lapels of his wrinkled shirt. They're upturned at the ends, pressing into his cheek. His arms are folded, hands tucked under his biceps. 

The only thing saving him from toppling backwards is the wall he's leaning against. 

You don't realise you had been staring until cold foam sloshes over the top of the pint. You fluster, eyes darting back to him, checking to see if he'd noticed, but his eyes are still closed, his mouth slightly parted. 

It's—

Cute.

He looks younger, softer when he sleeps. The weight of it all bleeding out under the heavy pressure of somnolence. Fatigue. 

He's typically pitched inside the shadows, leaning back into the tenebrous of the dimly lit room behind him. This is the first time he's slumped forward fully, and with an amber glow highlighting the valleys of his face, the definition of his long, broad nose, the sloping hills of his eyes, the full pink mouth hidden behind unkempt curls that lighten to ash at the ends, you're hit with the realisation of how truly fucked you are. 

He's attractive. Ruggedly handsome with his kind-shaped eyes, and his crooked grin, but distinct. There is nothing innocuous about the way he looks, and yet—

You feel assured in his presence. Calmed. He's quiet, and never speaks louder than the muted scratch of a glass bottom dragging across the tabletop. His bulk should be intimidating, but he's always sitting, hunching his shoulders in on himself as if he's clutching a grenade tight to his chest. 

It feels wrong to stare at a customer so blatantly like this, but your eyes keep skirting back to him in this moment of peace. 

But it's brief. 

A small window where he can slip into full relaxation, hiding from the phantoms that grasp at his soft tissue during the day, raking their nails over the gummy lining of his mind until he's forced to reconcile the pain with cheap whisky in a bottle. 

They find him in his dreams, too. His brow twitches. Hands jerking, fingers tensing. 

You want to reach over, soothe the valley between his brow, but it's not your place. So, you leave him. You leave him, and hope that despite the restlessness, he does get something from this. Much needed rest. Sleep. Anything. 

The night dwindles. Most of your time lately is spent chatting away at the stonewall of a man to your right, and with that avenue snoring, you pull your textbook from beneath the counter, and let your eyes trace over the words meant to define your forever. 

His soft, rough snores fill the static between you and the rest of the bar, and you let him sleep until the sparse room thins. Until the chairs are hiked over the tables you wiped down, scouring out the stickiness that catches the ends of the cloth. Until the bottles were restacked, the glasses ran through the dishwasher. 

The cook pokes his head out, and bids you goodnight. You wave him off and try to ignore the look on his face when he catches sight of Bear still slouched on the stool. He says nothing more, but he never does. Never gets involved with anything outside of the kitchen. 

(A smarter man than you.)

When the clock strikes well past closing, you finally sidle up to him, reaching out over the counter to knock your knuckles on the wall over his head. 

(And if you're a little too close, catching the ends of his hair on your palm, then that's your secret to keep.)

"Times up, Bear."

He jerks awake, blinking at you sluggishly, and quickly brings his hands to his chest before he's even fully cognizant. He pats himself down in a way that is too purposeful to be anything but intentional, practised. 

When he's settled, when whatever he was looking for is either gone or confirmed, he sniffs, clears his throat, and drags his glossy eyes up to meet yours. 

"Times what?" 

"Up," you punctuate the word by raising your brows, jerking your thumb to the clock on the wall that's always three minutes too late. "It's time to head home."

His eyes squint when he takes in the time, and then groans. His hand reaches up, carting through his messy hair (soft, a little greasy at the ends), before he rubs his index finger and thumb over his forehead, dragging the skin up and down. 

Your hand jerks, and you bring your thumb to your mouth, teeth catching on your nail. All you taste is malt. 

"Sorry," you murmur, soft, quiet; words muffled by your finger. "I should have woken you up sooner."

"No, it's—," he stops, takes a deep breath, and then runs his hand down his face until his palm covers his mouth and chin. He blinks up at you. "When did I fall asleep?"

You shrug, dropping your hand to the pocket of your apron. "A little bit after you got here."

"Jesus…" he presses his hand into his jaw, eyes glancing toward the wall. The word is laced with a tinge of surprise. Maybe, a little uncertainty. 

"You looked like you needed it." 

The moment the words leave your mouth, you wince. Stupid. You could have said something else— anything else—instead of that. It was busy. You didn't even notice. It's not your job to babysit grown men with marital issues and poor decisions. It's not—

But he cracks his neck, cutting off the words wanting to disembogue, and when he turns back to you, his eyes look clear—clear blue. 

"This is the longest I'd slept in—"

He doesn't finish, but he doesn't have to. 

The way he stares at you itches under your skin. Abrasive. Stark. It lacks the usual glaze of alcohol-suppressed thoughts, ones numbed in malt, and you aren't sure what to make of the way his pupils dilate. Sapphire-lined black. The way his eyes widen slightly, mouth parting, as if he's only just noticing you for the first time. As if you'd always been this hazy mirage that aids in suppression, and deals out crutches in pints.

A frisson passes through the canyons in his gaze. A dawning sun cast shadows over the rolling landscape.

You don't know what to make of it, so you don't. At all. 

A tight smile. "It's time for me to, um. Lock up." 

He blinks, as if coming out of a stupor. Rapid clicks, shutters. He shakes his head a little, as if dislodging the colluvium from his thoughts. 

"Right."

"Unless you wanted to sleep here for the night?" 

It gets a soft chuckle. Three lines on his cheek. Two in his brow. Three on the corner of his eye. You map them all, each dip and valley until they're cemented in your head. 

He's more open like this. Sobriety looks better on him than—

His bruised knuckles rasp over the countertop. 

"Lemme walk you to your car."

You blink, heart lurching in your chest. "You don't have to."

"Yeah," he shrugs, and you think he might even try to grin but looks more like a grimace. A wince. "But I want to." 

It's a dangerous escarpment; a treacherous climb up an alluvial fan. Your fingers dig into the loose sediment that rains down around you, pelting you with small grains of dirt and rock. Each hit pocks your skin: a little divot where flesh once sat, but now is karst; split and cracked with caverns that run deep. The splinters crumble that brassbound resolve you've held tight in your fingers until your joints ached, and palms split. Don't be the other woman, your mother warned you. Don't. 

It'll be a crater soon, or maybe a blue hole. Aquifer polluting the bottom. Everything gone. Eroded. Swallowed whole in the sinkhole that forms. 

(Beware of sinkholes. Don't be the other woman.)

You know better than anyone what they say about expectations, and yet—

"Okay."

(He takes to walking you to your car every night, hands always shoved deep in his pockets or under his arms, shoulders hunched. 

You watch him stand in the parking lot until he fades from your rearview mirror.)

Seven you get a touch. His fingers ghost along the curve of your wrist, brushing your skin. 

His eyes aren't kind when you turn to him, but they shine with something other than the cheap rye in his glass, the scattered shots of tequila that spill around him. 

It's fixed and heavy. Unwavering. 

You try to smile, to shrug it off. "It's nothing."

The lie doesn't fit between your teeth, and you think he senses this, too, but he doesn't pry. You're surprised he even went out of his way to acknowledge your lour disposition—a string of weeks that coalesced into unease, into stress. One mediocre day after the other. 

Rent was late. Bills pile up. The books tucked beneath the counter, saved for slow days (read: every day), and for the eventuality of when you can finally toss this ramshackle dive bar aside for something better. Greater. 

And what that something is? 

Well. Who knows. 

But you're supposed to, aren't you? Know, that is. Have everything figured out and ready-made to fit neatly inside the margins of forever and the rest of your life. 

The rest of your life was four walls and a roof. 

Stuck in Virginia Beach on minimum wage that barely got you through college (thank you, inheritance), and no prospects outside of real estate. 

You think about moving but have no idea where to go. What to do. 

Stagnancy. It bleeds from your marrow into your bloodstream. A poison. 

You shrug when his forehead creases, brows raising as he waits for you to spit out whatever inane thing that could possibly be wrong. 

"Life, I guess," you huff, aiming for distant, blasè humour but it misses the mark by a solid kilometre and a half. 

"Yeah," he mumbles. He always mumbles. Words sticking together like glue. "I know that feeling."

You let it drop, nodding. 

(Four walls and a roof. That's the goal, then. That's always been the goal.)

You turn to him, forcing something that might, in a distant life, have been kin to a smile. 

"I bet he'll order a pint."

He takes it. "He's married, but takes his ring off. The skin on his finger is pale." 

He stutters over the word married.  

(Four walls, you think.)

"Huh," you huff. Foam spills from the lip of the glass, drenching your fingers in malt. "My dad always kept his on."

From the corner of your eye, you see his hand tighten around the pint. His ring makes a small noise when it hits the glass. 

Eight, a laugh. A low, rasping chuckle still wet from the swallow of rye he'd taken before you said something stupid like what's a man like you doing in a place like this, anyway?

It's drenched in bitter disbelief as if he isn't quite sure how you don't know. How you can't see that he fits between the waterlogged panels of the wooden floor, stained with grime and dyed with ethanol in patches around the tap. The pock marks in the counter, rubbed raw and scrubbed down to the cheap wood beneath, now jaundiced and discoloured from age. Or how he leaks the same desolate miasma of resignation, rage, and apathy as everyone else. 

He belongs, his derisive laugh says. Why don't you see it, too? 

It startles him, and you can see it happening as he takes in the neat, blunt cut of your eyes as you gaze at him, naked and honest. 

He retreats into himself as if allowing anyone to see him plain-faced and worthy is wrong. As if he is no different to the men who wobble in their chairs, eyes rimmed red and glazed as they run from the demons in their minds, and their lives, and seek salvation at the bottom of the bottle. The ones entirely aware, and unaware, that the bottle is elk, kin, the things they flee from. A juxtaposition in a man-made disaster. 

He pretends he fits in with them. You pretend you see it, too, if only so he doesn't run away. 

(Stupid, stupid, stupid—)

You count down the days until he shows up, and hate yourself a little bit more for the happiness that gnarls inside your chest each time you see him appear in the doorway. 

(A sickness.)

Nine brings a man from the church in town, someone from his past. And everything quickly unravels after that. 

He shows up before opening, carrying a stack of papers for some big event in the summer. An opening. A new church, he says, and jogs the stack on the counter. 

(You hide a smile, tucking it into your shoulder as discomfort bleeds into the placidity of his expression when some of the pages stick.)

He looks like every priest, every vicar, you'd ever seen before. Draped in black with a stark white collar; clean-shaven, and void of shadows. 

This isn't a place he should be. A place he belongs. He stands out amongst the grit, the hazy gossamer of smuggled cigarettes lit in the dingy washroom, and leaking nicotine yellow into the faded wood of the walls. The chipped, pocked tables, were picked at and worn down to soot-stained white. 

He doesn't belong, but he stays, anyway. In spite of the massive chasm that split between him and everyone, everything else, he sticks it out. 

And sticks out. 

Bear falters when he sees him, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat when he wanders inside. His shoulders draw up to his chin, arms straight lines against his body. 

He looks like he might run. Flee. You almost expect him to. 

He doesn't. 

He says nothing when takes his usual spot, but his eyes are thunderclouds, brow drawn taut. A rubber band being stretched too far. 

(God ain't here, is he, Buddha?)

The priest doesn't notice the discomfiture that passes over Bear's expression, or the wan, agitated way he glares at the red stain (nail polish, you think) on the counter. He grins wide, happy, and tells you about the church they built. One raised from the funds of the community. 

"...And we're, of course, happy to accept new members to our congregation when it opens." 

You nod, dragging your gaze away from the calamity in blue, offering little more than a smile in return. 

"I don't," you hesitate, hands smoothing over the front of your worn apron. Going to church reminds you too much of baptism. Of water. Of sinking below the waves in a world of blue, and never surfacing again. Of—

Patronisation. 

You'd been to church three times in your life: to watch your mother remarry (twice), and to say goodbye to your father. 

(None of them were happy memories.)

"I don't go to church much."

He smiles, placidly, eyes warm and welcoming. "Never too late to start."

You guess they have an answer ready for everything. He might have been a great salesman in a different life. 

You don't want to commit, or lie—least of all to a man of faith—so, you talk. Fill space. 

"Want a drink?" 

His brows buoy in surprise. You wonder if anyone has ever offered a priest a pint before. 

"No, I, uh—"

He's cut off by a gruff bark, a low husk of laughter. "Don't think they drink much, kid." 

You blink, chin jerking toward Bear. "Oh, no?"

The priest offers an indulgent smile when you catch his eye. "Well, it's not outright forbidden but we tend to stay away from vices." 

"Is it a sin?" 

"No, it's not. Too much is a crutch, but all sins can be forgiven."

He opens his mouth like he's going to say more, but a low scoff from Bear cuts him off once again. 

The sound draws you back to him. Sober, still. He's only just arrived, and hasn't even ordered a drink yet, and the shadows are vibrant in his geyser gaze. The moussed hair, slightly greasy and bedraggled; the stains on his shirt that stretched taut over his broad shoulders, creasing between his pecs. The wrinkles in his forehead, the condescending lilt to his grin, left cheek pulled up in a facsimile of a smile.

You've never seen him like this before. His thumb swipes across the tip of his nose as he settles on the too-small stool, eyes burning. Darkening. 

"That's not true, is it, Father?" He sniffs, hands dropping as he leans forward. Even sitting he's still so—

Massive. Intimidating.

The priest looks slightly perturbed, but recognition bleeds in the cut of his brow. You wonder how many times people refute him when he preaches his sermons. 

"Ah," he says, shaking his head. There is sadness in his smile when he forces it. "It is true. All sins can be forgiven by God."

"All of them?" Bear questions, unkind, biting. His fingers spread over the counter, knuckles covered with deep indigo scabs sealed in congealed blood. 

"All have sinned, and all their futile attempts to reach God in His glory fail. Yet they are now saved and set right by His free gift of grace through the redemption available only in Jesus the Anointed."

Bear is quiet for a moment, eyes downcast. Then: "Romans: chapter three, verse twenty-two to twenty-five."

"You know your verses."

When his head lifts, there is an aching sense of clarity in gyre blue. His is brassy, hushed, when he speaks.  "All of them." 

"Then you know that forgiveness is—"

"Isaiah chapter sixty-four, verse six."

The priest falters momentarily, eyes swinging like a pendulum between Bear, and the bloodied knuckles he leaves on display. His eyes flash again, but adds: "Psalm chapter one hundred and thirty, verse three to five."

A flash of teeth beneath curled, wry burnt umber. He leans forward, forearms resting on the sticky surface. There is a storm in his gaze. Clouded blue. He spits the verse out like a curse. "Matthew chapter six, verse fourteen to fifteen."

It feels like being pitched in the middle of a movie. There is a thin vein of cognisance: you understand the characters, and the current tension, but everything else is murky. Unknown. You don't know what the meaning behind the verses bouncing between each other is, but there's a struggle. Bear is angry. The pastor is—

Sad. 

You don't understand. Never will, maybe, but you quietly duck your head, wiping down pint glasses as if you weren't watching a husk of a man spit out bible verses at a priest. 

"Hopefully, you remember this verse one day," he says, eyes only for Bear, and achingly sad. "Ephesians chapter four, verse thirty-two."

Bear says nothing more. He falls silent, glaring at the patchwork of stains smeared over the counter. Defeat, maybe. A battle lost. A stalemate. You don't know the meaning of the words—verses and chapters, and sin—but it makes Bear sullen, angry. Nearly apoplectic. His shoulders shake when he clenches his fist, squeezing hard enough to crack the scab on his middle finger until it lifts from his wound, and bleeds. 

The priest slides two flyers out—one for you, one for Bear—and flashes one last parting glance at him before he leaves. 

You tuck the flyer into your pocket. 

You don't know what he does with his, but it's gone when you come back from kitchens. 

Bear says nothing for the rest of the evening. His jaw clenches, eyes dip. 

He orders a shot of tequila but doesn't finish it. 

He's quiet when he walks you to your car. Declines your offer for a ride with a tight smile that's a touch too wobbly around the edges, like a bad secret or a sour taste in his mouth. 

You wonder why he even stayed at all. 

(You toss the flyer into your glovebox, and can't stop thinking about what might have happened to make him this way as you watch him fade from your rearview mirror.)

When you go home, you try to remember the verses they spat at each other, but only one sticks:

Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamour and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.

You hand him a box of chocolates for the holidays and watch as he blinks down at the shoddily wrapped gift.

"What's this?" 

You huff. It's not wrapped terribly. You spent nearly two hours before your shift making sure the edges looked professional and neat (a clean line, the lady on the YouTube video said, shows care, and dedication), and—

Stupid, of course. 

But you never said you weren't, and you're only just passing through your college classes, so. It's all particularly on brand, you think. Very you. Very—

Messy. Dumb. Stupid. 

"Something for a friend," you say, and then wince. A friend. How juvenile. 

You watch his throat bob, trepidation etching into your joints when he swallows, eyes creasing at the corners. His voice is gritty, sandpaper rough when he speaks: "is that what we are?"

It's not relief that floods you, but it's something. His tone is hedging. Cautious, as if he's never even uttered the word in years, and now he's faced with someone who spent thirty minutes comparing clichè Holiday designs sketched into glossy paper, and another twenty trying to decide which bow matched better.

All for a dumb box of chocolates. 

The most expensive box, of course, but still very dumb. Who gives someone who routinely tries to drown themselves in amber chocolate?

(Or anything at all for that matter.) 

You swallow thickly and shake your head with something that might be a grin. Maybe. Sort of. 

You just—

Fill space. 

"Nah, we're best friends. Thought about getting us matching necklaces, and everything to really complete the look, you know—;" the morose expression falters, eases into something that almost feels like contentment. Peace. His lips quirk, and the sight of his crooked smile makes your chest flutter. Stupid. Stupid. 

"But I didn't because I wasn't about to fight a behemoth—;" this makes his brows bounce up, mouth twitching as he fights, fights, off a smile, and you feel your heart take flight, soaring through the aether. "—For Best and then have to tell everyone I lost my first fight, ever, over some cheap sterling silver. So, I guess we'll just have to get, like, matching tattoos, or whatever…"

His brows raise again—in stupefaction, bemusement, exasperation; all of the above—and he shakes his head, huffing. 

"You talk a lot."

You fight a wince, and cover it up with a shrug. It doesn't hurt. You hear it all the time. Just grin. Bear it. 

"Someones gotta do it or we'll be sitting in awkward silence all night."

"It's a comfortable silence."

Comfortable. He thinks it's comfortable. 

Your fingers prickle. You run your index finger over the jagged line of your thumbnail, and try to resist the urge to bite it down to nothing. 

"Is that what it is?"

"It would be, but you keep talking."

"File a complaint."

His brows raise, lips curling. "Alright."

You huff, then, mocking and dry, but you wear your heart on your sleeves, and the smile that twitches on your lips gives you away. 

It's silly. Dumb. You feel like an idiot when you reach for the tip jar, a cardboard box with a slit cut at the top, patched up over the years with duct tape, and drag it closer. 

He watches you, making a small noise of question in the back of his throat when you paw around for the marker behind the counter, but you don't answer. Can't, or you'll give your grand idea away. 

You make a small noise of satisfaction when you find it. You wave it around once before bringing it to your mouth, and sink your teeth into the plastic cap, holding it steady. 

His hand jerks. "What are you—"

You pull the marker from the cap, and hold the box steady, eyes lifting to catch his gaze. Something simmers in those ocean blues, pools of glossy cerulean, and you might almost call it amusement if he was anyone else, and you weren't you, but it's soft. Curious. 

Your chin drops, smile turning wobbly around the cap still caught between your lips, and you bring the felt tip of the marker to the box. You cross out TIPS and write: file a complaint - only $5. 

You take a moment to admire your work before you turn it toward him with a grin. 

His eyes drop from yours to the box, and you see his mouth spasm in something that feels too genuine to be anything other than your first real smile. 

A flash of teeth. Lines in his cheeks. Your heart thuds, palms grow damp. 

"Got it all figured out, do you?"

"Aside from who gets Best or if we get matching tattoos, yes."

"I'm not getting a tattoo." He leans over the counter, brows creasing as he stares at you in mock severity. "But I will fight you for Best. And win." 

Another skip. Deeper into the whole. "I thought so." 

He grabs the box from your hands, and scribbles talks too much on a napkin before shoving it, and a crumbled five-dollar bill, into the slot.

"C'mon, I'll walk you to your car. Get you outta here so you can see your family."

You hide a grin behind your hand. "What family? But I guess yours is missing you, too." 

He shoves his arms inside the sleeves of his wool jacket, gaze dropping to the worn counter. 

"What family?"

It's sombre. Mood broken, yet again, by your inability to shut up.  

You don't know how to salvage the pieces. The fractured remains of what might have been a good time. 

But it's just—

Bear.  

(And you.) 

Best friends. A silly little notion he entertained when he could have told you to sod off ages ago. 

You nudge his side, and have to remind yourself to pull away from him. That this is just casual. Best friends but not really. Not even close. "Hungry? I know a place that's always open and makes the best burgers." 

He flashes a facsimile of a smile, wan and thin around the edges. "You should head home, kid. Not much for company tonight."

"Suit yourself," you murmur, slipping your hands into your pockets. You shuffle, rocking back on your heels. The silence is stifling. You wonder what part of this he finds comfortable. It lapses, and you

Fill it. 

"I think you're pretty great company, for what it's worth."

He says nothing. 

It's as close to outright rejection as you can bear. 

You press your hands into the seam of your pocket, pulling your jacket open. "Well, happy holidays, and all—"

"Best burgers in town, huh?" 

A smile creeps across your face, heart thudding in your chest. It sounds like the distant roar of the ocean, the waves crashing on the shore. 

"Yep," you pop the p and wriggle your brows. "Their secret menu item is the peanut butter bacon burger, and—"

"Peanut butter and bacon?" He says it like it's a crime. Like you've committed an act of treason, and spat in his face. 

Your grin widens. "It's disgustingly good."

"Disgusting, huh." 

"No, no—it's salty, sweet, and savoury. It's the best combination ever made. And the sweet potato fries with Chipotle mayo? Heaven sent."

"And you've lost me." 

"Did I ever even have you to begin with, or—"

The words cut a little too close to the truth, to vulnerability, and you feel heat pool under your cheeks. Embarrassment over your unintended slip-up. Your stupidity. Your inability to accept what you've been given, and stop trying to overcompensate for more, more, more—

Stop acting up; you're causing a scene!

He steps closer, hand reaching out behind you to push the old iron door open. 

There is something in his gaze you can't decipher. The shadows on his brow make you think of craters, and mountains made of lunar rock. 

"Yeah, you do," he rasps, words starchy and thick in his throat, but all you can hear is you do, you do, you do. "I need to try this disgusting burger of yours."

"Disgustingly good," you snipe back, if only because it's easier to fall into some facsimile of a rhythm where you always, always get the last word than it is to let the silence simmer. 

(To give him a chance to see the way your hand shakes around your key, or the way you have to ask him what he said—twice—because you can't hear anything over the roaring in your ears when he fits inside your car like he belongs.)

Disgustingly good burgers with friends. 

(You pat yourself on the back for only managing to get into two accidents on the way, prompting a want me to drive from him, which immediately gets turned down; but you get to the burger shack safe and sound and watch the look on his face when he bites into a peanut butter bacon burger and sweet potato fries with Chipotle mayo like it's the best meal he's ever had in months, and—

And it's enough.)

You nudge him later when you drop him off at some dingy motel by the highway, well away from the city limits but so achingly close to the bar, and say: happy holidays, Bear.

He offers something that feels like a smile. In lieu, you think. A smile in lieu. Not quite there, but almost. Almost. 

"Yeah, still think I'm pretty great company? "

"The best." 

He says nothing when he gets out of the car, leftovers tucked under his arm, but he pauses before he shuts the door, and turns to you, eyes cerulean in the pale light of the morning gloam. 

"Get home safe, kid." 

You almost say you, too. 

Instead, you bite your tongue so hard it bleeds. 

He wanders in looking like he was ripped from the pages of Surfer Magazine. Dirty blond hair perpetually curled from the sea salt, and bleached at the ends from the iodine in the water. He has the cut of a man who looks like he'd feel more comfortable in a wetsuit than the jeans and stark white t-shirt he struts in wearing.

Your first thought is: surfer idiot. 

The second is: Surfer Dude will order a shot of tequila. Blanco. 

You lean over and whisper this to Bear, who dutifully offers an indulgent quirk of his lips, before turning to catch sight of the man you'd pointed out. Targeted, he told you. You're targeting them, kid. 

When he does, you think of something funny to say but the words die on your tongue when Bear tenses, and goes completely silent. Stonewalled. 

The man wanders up with a wide grin, all teeth and bleached sand. Nonchalant. Easy. 

It's only when his eyes skirt to Bear, do you see the undercurrent of tension in his brow, resignation in the knuckles of his joints. 

They know each other. There is a history in the way they sit apart—Bear, on the lonely barstool to your right, and Surfer standing beside the one in front of you. Cut off by an angle. By you. 

You think about the man that tried before him—Buddha, the almost fight in the parking lot—and wonder how much success Surfer will have. 

"Thought I'd find you here, man." He nods, shaggy curls bouncing over his shoulders. He turns to you, flashes a smile, and orders a shot of tequila. 

You don't miss the way his eyes trail over you—your tight v-neck, the apron tied tight around your waist. The mascara and lipgloss you started putting on a week after it became clear Bear was a regular, the one you spent a considerable chunk of your paycheque on when the saleslady said it really made your eyes pop.

You wonder what he thinks, what he sees, when he drinks you in.

He. The man in your head with broad shoulders, brown hair. Bluest eyes you'd ever seen. 

The thought makes heat pools under your cheeks, vermillion scorching through your flesh. 

No. Him. Surfer. Of course. Not—

Not Bear. 

(Stupid. Stupid.)

"Keeping some pretty nice company, too, I see," he leans over, forearm resting on the countertop, and flashes another toothy grin. "Got a name or do they just call you pretty thing?"

"I don't know, Pretty Boy," you snap back, brows raising. 

"Pretty Boy, huh?" He cuts you off, gaze skirts to Bear. A smirk pulls on the corner of his mouth. "Hear that, Bear? Pretty Boy."

"Knock it off, Caulder." 

Pretty Boy—Caulder—raises his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just chatting with a nice lady who thinks I'm a Pretty Boy—"

You turn away from him, shaking your head. "Not that pretty—"

"You already said I was, so," he shrugs, eyes crinkling around the corners. "No takebacks." 

"We'll see."

"What do they call you, then?" 

"What do you think they call me?"

"Let me see," he stands, hands curling over the ledge of the counter as he leans back, eyes playfully drinking you in. They linger on your chest, lip caught between white teeth. "Hmm…"

"Looking for a name tag?" 

"No," he smirks, pulling himself forward until his torso is hunched over the sticky table. His eyes skirt down your body before flickering up, catching your gaze once more. "Just admiring the view." 

He's attractive. Boyishly cute and—begrudgingly, you have to admit—charming with his big eyes, his sleepy grins, and the wry ashen curls slicked back by his goggles. 

White teeth catch in the golden light, framed in half hearts of sun-dusted pink, and you find yourself mimicking the grin, softening under the bright gleam aimed at you. He's someone easy to get swept away with. 

"There isn't much to admire," you murmur, brushing loose strands of hair off your shoulder. Your chin drops, unable to hold the stormy grey gaze fixed on you. Hiding. 

"Oh, there is plenty to admire," he refutes, pulling his bottom lip into the seam between his teeth. He bends down, elbow dropping to the counter, and cups his cheek in the palm of his hand. "Plenty more underneath that, ahh—cute," his ashen brows raise teasingly when he stresses the word, buoying on his sunkissed forehead: "apron."

His eyes are dark, smouldering. Flirtatious.

"Right…" 

Before you can say anything more, the clang of glass knocking against wood cuts you off. 

The noise makes you jump, gaze darting to Bear. 

He matches your stare, holds it for a second, but whatever lurks in glazed blue is hidden from you. Dulled in malt, and shrouded in shadows that leak from the crevasses. 

Bear clears his throat again, drags his gaze to the man leaning on the counter. 

"What are you doing here, Caulder?" 

You can't place his tone, but there's a crackle in his voice. Laced with iciness; the same shade of glacial blue as his eyes. 

Pretty Boy acknowledges the coldness, the simmering anger, in his tone with a crooked grin. A flash of white teeth behind tawny bristles. 

He doesn't seem like the shy type—the ones who sit close to the tap, but not too close. Enough to watch you, enjoy the view, the company you offer, and (maybe) slot themselves in your line of view in the hopes that you notice them, too. That, maybe, you approach first. 

He wandered up, tousled, bleached hair bobbing with his effortless, confident gait, goggles tucked behind his ears, and keeping his fringe from falling in his eyes. Everything about him screams an abundance of effortless self-confidence. 

If he wanted to flirt with you, then he'd do it. 

He would fully commit regardless of who was present, and maybe, he'd prefer if more people were around to see him succeed. 

This isn't meant to pick you up—that might just be a convenient bonus should you show any interest in his ploy. You know this from the way he keeps glancing at Bear from the corner of his eye; clouded slate swinging like a pendulum from you—where he levels a series of weak pickup lines, and smarmy charm—and then immediately to the man sitting diagonally to where he stands. 

He's gauging his reaction. 

They know each other. This much is obvious from the greeting alone, but there is a tenuous history here, made evident by the tension, the palpable unease in the man's shoulders, and the way he gazes at Bear—warily, unsure. Testing the waters before making the jump. 

"Besides trying to spend the night with a pretty bartender?" 

He turns to you with a wink, a cheeky little grin on his lips, and then—he hesitates. There is a moment where he ducks his chin, expression clouding over with something stagnant, subdued. It lacks the playfulness of before. Sombreness taking shape, only briefly, before he tugs it back up like a mask. Fixes it back in place with the same palpable ease from before; the same slightly condescending jocose.

"Lookin' for you, man." 

He slides his forearms across the counter, making a face when his skin catches on something sticky, but it's gone. Fleeting. He straightens up, brow knotting together in something that might be anticipation but the lines in his eyes read more like grit, and determination. 

You move away from their end of the counter, giving them a modicum of privacy but that's meaningless when you can still hear their hushed conversation on the opposite side of the bar, where you pretend to busy yourself with repolishing clean glasses while they exchange awkward stilted greetings. 

How…how have you been, man?

Why are you here Caulder?

Guess no one taught you the art of Socialisation, eh, Bear? 

You can only infer meaning from their tones, their crackled demeanour around the other. Something runs deep between them—a noxious mix of bad blood, brotherhood, grudges, and familial concern—but you're no one to either of them, and privy to even less. 

You pretend you can't hear them speak (Fish Bait is askin' for ya. You said you wouldn't leave him behind, but what is this? I mean, shit, man, you can't waste away in a damned shithole while we—), or that your guts aren't churning with concern, with worry, over the taut pull in Bear's shoulders, the wrinkles in his forehead, the gyre in his gaze. A storm looms. 

But it has nothing to do with you. 

So, you feign ignorance. You duck beneath the counter, and organise the glasses, straighten up the bottles, gather the thick layer of dust along the shelves on the tip of your finger. 

It's wiped on your cute apron when you stand, and then reach for a cloth to wipe down the grimy countertop (I failed my exam. Head trauma. Brain injury. I can't—I mean, fuck, Bear. I can't go back. I can't. But you? What are you doin', bro? Why are you moping around here, gettin' a damned beer belly when you have men counting on you? When you can go back—). 

You pour drinks (Buddha is running the team. They don't need me, you all made that clear enough—). Take tips (you told me you needed me, Bear; so, this is me telling you that we need you). You tell a stray tourist where to find the infamous seafood restaurant (I lost everything, Caulder. I can't go back—). You refill the bottles (you're not Rip, man. You need to let go of him. It's been two years. Two years. She'd want you to move on—)

"I don't know what she'd want because she's dead. She's—"

You flinch when Bear raises his voice, when it carries over to you, furious and aching, and full of rot.

"I can't bury it, Caulder. I can't—" 

Working in a sleazy pub on the opposite end of a boardwalk usually brings in men like him—the ones who lean over the tacky countertop, and try their luck with glib lines meant to be suasive. Charming. It's nothing you are not used to by now, but there is a degree of difference in his mien, an insincerity that etches deep. His intrigue is surface level. 

Years of watching misery unfold in orders for cheap shots and pint glasses have taught you many things. The most notable being, of course, how to measure someone. Pick apart their reaction, their tone. 

How to target them. 

And so, when Pretty Boy leans over the counter again after raising his hands in defeat, in surrender, to Bear, and wanders over to you, a wry grin twisting on the corner of his lips, you brace yourself for the inevitable, and—

"You and Bear, huh?" 

And it's not what you expect. 

"Me…and….?"

He jerks his chin toward the steaming behemoth in the shadows, gulping down whisky like it's water, eyes locked, firm and dark, on the two of you. You fight a shiver, fingers trembling around the hose. 

She's gone. Dead. 

All this time—

You thought he was just like your father. Just like the man who patted you awkwardly on the head on the rare occasion he was ever home, and said: I'll teach you how to swim when I get back, okay? 

And then walked away. Walked out of your life, and—

"Um. He's… a customer. A friend." You wince, shoulders jerking. Juvenile. Stupid.

"A friend," he says the word like he doesn't believe you, and you get it. 

You get it because why would he, anyway? Some strange bartender on the wrong side of town who claims to be his friend, and he's supposed to just accept it? It's laughable, considering. 

The stupid tip box in the corner—now, formally known as the complaint box, an impromptu decision that has added an extra fifteen dollars to your nightly sum—catches your eye, and you think of friendship necklaces, and fights in the alley. Of burgers in your stupid car that made noises when you put it in reverse (ones that made his brows raise, his eyes—lidded and bright from booze—slide over to you as if to ask is this safe?), and smelled strongly of that dumb Michael Kors perfume you bought—a bottle you'd spent way too much money on because he leaned into the girl next to him when she sat down, glossy in Anne Klein, and mature, and a lawyer, and better, and said you smell good.  

(He went home with her that night and you spent nearly three hundred on perfume he hadn't even noticed.)

It makes you think of the itch in your palm when he offered to check under the hood because he was good at fixing things, and softly, then even better at breaking them, as if he hadn't meant for you to hear it. 

"Yeah," you say, firm, then, because you are friends. Or, you're something. But nothing doesn't wait until the very end of your shift, or walk you to your car, or eat burgers with you on Christmas when he should be with his wife, his family, or laugh (a little, barely. Kind of) at your dumb jokes. Or—

Or anything. Any of what he does. 

It's something. A crutch, maybe. A kinship with the person serving him booze each time he comes until he stumbles outside, and then wanders off somewhere. A motel, maybe. Home, possibly. 

And whatever it is, you cling to it. Hold it so tight in your grasp, your knuckles turn white from the strain, and tuck it into the folds of your heart for safekeeping. 

"Huh," he gives you a look that's different from the one before it. Cautious, guarded, but—

Hopeful, maybe. Or—

Angry. 

His eyes are stormy grey when he leans in, lips peeled back in a thin grin. "Bear needs that, but he won't let anyone else get close to him. Not right now. And we get it. We do, but," the geniality in his expression fades, tightens into something a bit more severe. "But he can't destroy himself like this. You'd know that, though, as his friend."

It punches the air from your lungs the same way the confession before did—dead, gone—and you try to stutter something into your lungs before you black out from the gnarled roots of hypoxia clotting inside your head, but all you taste is chlorine and sulphur.

You don't understand what he's saying. There is history and meaning behind his words that you can't ascertain, can't ever know; a dearth of Bear compared to a disembogue. Everything you don't know stacks up higher than the things you do, and it's a bold, blunt dressing down of your choices, failures. Inactions. 

It's dumb. No one blames the bartender for feeding an addict, and yet—

It's different. Different because you made it that way. You call him your friend to a man who has known him longer than you have, and yet, you'll go back and pour him a drink if he asks. 

A friend. How absurd. 

"Look, I don't know what you want from me—"

He shoves his hand in his pocket, and then lifts it up. It's tucked out of sight from Bear—who hasn't looked away once since Pretty Boy wandered up to you, all blond hair, smiles, and blue eyes—and it makes your throat hurt. 

A folded hundred dollar bill sits in the seam of his closed index and ring finger, one of the zeros clenched between his first knuckle. 

His smile is tight, eyes full of ghosts and shadows that look achingly familiar in jasper. "He's a… he's a good man. Been through a lot. Doesn't need this right now, you know?" 

"What… are you trying to bribe me?" 

It's hidden from view. Strategically placed. 

"Just. You know. Maybe, cut him off or something." His hand twitches, the cash waving in front of you. 

"Yeah." You murmur, words quiet. Hushed. You don't take the bill.

His jaw clenches. "We need to straighten him up. Can't do that with him here all the time. He needs—"

His tongue pokes through the seam of his cheek when he turns, glancing at Bear. Something in his expression tightens. Worry, concern. 

"Send him home, alright?" 

You make no move to accept the proffered bill, and it's not due to any sense of pride, or anything like that. You're too numbed to move. 

He gives you another look—one that is just as pitying as it is reproachful—and then shoves the folded bill into the box (file a complaint—only $5). 

You feel the weight of it in your stomach like a whisky sour. 

(Stupid, stupid—)

She's dead, you think, swallowing hard. 

Months ago, you'd said, does your wife know you spend all evening with me? 

And he'd said—

No. She doesn't. 

(Can't bury it, can't—)

"You, and uh…," he motions vaguely toward the door, eyes sharp. Steel lines in brackish water. "You and Caulder seem close."

You think of the cash stuffed in the tip jar. A hundred dollars to send him back.

"Yeah." You murmur, glancing down at the dirty tiles under the ledge of the cupboard. The ones you always forget to mop. "Kinda, I guess. He's—;" you'd know that, though, as his friend. "Nice. Um…"

He says nothing more, just nods his head a few times too many to be natural. To be anything but perturbed, irritated. You don't know why—maybe, he doesn't want you meddling in his affairs, in his personal life. 

But—

I will fight you for Best. And win. 

You don't know what to think about any of this anymore. A man who tries to drown himself at the bottom of bottles as if the answer is in forty-proof, and still wears his wedding ring but leaves, sometimes, with women who aren't her. Who stares at the screen of his phone in something that tastes so bitterly like regret and anger and helplessness, and then turns it off. Tucks it out of sight. Waves you down.

(Who, despite the hints and the signals and the blatant way you regard him, has never, not once, taken you up on any of the subtle offers you aimed at him.)

Right. Okay. 

"You alright?" 

You shrug, pull away when he reaches out. "Yeah. Good." 

He makes a noise, soft, questioning. A grumble from his chest. He makes a move to stand up, grounding out: "he say anything to you?" 

"No," you shake your head. "Nothing."

Bear slumps back in his chair, knuckles turning white. The milky bones poking through his bruised skin makes you think of that verse the priest alluded to before he left. 

Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamour and slander be put away from you, along with all malice.

You've never seen his hands healed, his eyes clear.

(No one blames the bartender, but they could a friend.)

"Oh, um. Bear?"

"Hmm?"

"You don't… you don't have to wait for me tonight."

"Okay," he knocks his split knuckles against the wood, smiling tight. "Okay. If that's what you want."

What you want is unattainable. 

You mimic his taut smile. "Okay."

Ten, you realise that you've come to expect him nestled in the ramshackle ruins of your life. That he fits somewhere inside of these particular four walls and roof in a way that makes you ache. 

You've had attractions before. Crushes. But this edges into strange, unfamiliar territory. 

Your heart does weird things when he's around sometimes, but even curious things when he's not.

(Or, when he's leaving, and he isn't alone.)

You go to bite your nails but find broken stumps instead. The plate chewed down to nothing.

The nail on your ring finger bleeds. 

You think of his busted knuckles, and wonder if this, too, is a crutch. 

(Later, you look up how to stop chewing your nails. All of the results tell you to rub salt on them, or buy bitter nail polish, but you can't remember a time when you didn't taste the acrid burn of iodine or chlorine on your tongue already.)

Send him home, but don't—don't let him destroy himself like this.

So. You call it. 

You hand him water, and watch as something that tasted of disappointment, resignation, flashes through hazy cobalt. 

Before, you used to wonder where he went from here. A weekend spent in the clutch of another woman, in the throes of cheap beer and liquor, and then what? Home? His wife—pretty and lovely and doting—waiting for him at the door, greeting him after his extended business trip? Maybe a face peering out from between her legs, unsure of the man they're supposed to call dad who is rarely ever home, and on the off-chance that he is, reeks of malt and barley. 

It always cut too close to home. Their house becomes the same shade as your own. The faceless figure lingering on the periphery takes your shape. Your mum in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes rimmed red from the tears that haven't stopped steaming down her raw, chafed cheeks since you were seven, and realised that the man who sometimes stopped by to visit was supposed to be your father. 

You think of that little, faceless person, and then of yourself. Selfish. Detestable. Everything you said you wouldn't be, and yet—

You cut him off, watch him stumble out the door with a woman who isn't his wife. Watch him take a little piece of you with him. 

 Bear doesn't show. 

Week one, two, three. 

It doesn't matter, not really. He's just a customer who reeks of malt and bad choices, who has bags under his eyes, and wrinkles on his forehead. Who drowns himself in the corner each night as he tries to fight off the demons he keeps provoking. 

Who's hands are always scabbed, torn. Like he spends his time punching the concrete, or ivory jaws just to feel something outside of his own anger. 

He's a man on the verge of implosion. 

Betelgeuse; a red giant. 

Stay away from the man who stinks of nitroglycerin, and sparks a match too close to his dynamite-soaked skin. 

You try to take his own advice—bury it—but you can't bury anything in muskeg. 

You think of the man who had peanut stained on his beard when you finally convinced him to take a damned bite of his burger. Who told you he used to go to church every day when you asked him how he knew so much about bible verses, but he couldn't face his God right now with all this malice in his heart. 

Who confessed that he didn't actually mind pop music when his teammate— Buck —used to play it on the compound just to piss them off, and added some of the songs to the playlist he made. 

I'm not a dinosaur, he huffed when you asked if he still used Windows Media Player to listen to his songs. I use YouTube. 

He gave you a taut smile, like he'd won something in that, and you tried to pretend you didn't want to kiss him senseless while Johnny Cash played in the background of the pub. 

He hates tomatoes but doesn't mind ketchup. Likes, even, tomato soup. Used to run track in high school, and knew when he was seventeen that he was going to get married the moment he turned eighteen, have four kids and join the SEALs. He doesn't tell you how many of those came true. 

He confessed to eating a whole box of pop tarts in one sitting when he came home from a mission. Can easily demolish half a pizza to himself, and actually enjoys the Bachelor whenever the girls would get together and watch it at his house. 

He used to think about the men he lost every day, but now he doesn't. Not after Buck. He can't because then he'll never stop, and he won't be able to bring the men behind him home. Wouldn't, he amends it after a moment of silence. Wouldn't be able to bring them home. 

Doesn't regret anything he never did. He says this with shadows in his eyes, and the ghost of something bitter in his tone. An old ache. An old wound. 

He's funny—awkward, halting, as it is—and charming. Wandering this precarious line between severe, intimidating, and— dorky. Kind of. Under the glaze of alcohol, and when he smiled wide, full teeth, and his cheeks wrinkles. Or when you said something stupid, he'd tip his chin down, forehead creasing as he stared at you in mocking disapproval. 

He's distant, standoffish; gruff and surly, and stubborn, too much of the All-American Dream wrapped up in machismo and vulnerability disguised as hyper-aggression but it fades into nothing when he laughs, and his throat clicks, wet and sticky. Almost a snort but not really. 

Nuanced. Multifaceted. 

You told him he was interesting once and there was pink on his cheeks, and a wry twist to his lips when he'd brought the bottle up to his mouth, hiding the soft snort that slipped past. 

("You need to get out more if you think I'm interesting." 

"I get out plenty."

"That so? With who? I'll call up my friends in NCIS and see if they have anything on them—"

"You're overprotective, too."

"Only to the ones I care about."

"And sweet."

"I'm not sweet."

"The sweetest." 

"I'm not—")

The glimpse you've gotten is a small stream that bleeds into a river. One dammed by circumstances, and tragedy, and you want to cross it so badly that your fingers ache with the urge to pick at the logs that hide it from you. 

You want to know what he looks like when he is loose and relaxed around family and friends. When he cheers for his dumb football team, and stumbles home late at night after hazing a new recruit into drinking beer from a bong, and carrying around a blowup doll ("it's tradition," is all he said when you blinked at him. "It's sacred;"). You want to know what he sounds like when he's trying to be funny without feeling the pinch of talons, grief and anger and resentment, digging into his flesh. Or what he sounds like completely sober. 

You want to listen to Johnny Cash (gotta show you the good stuff, kid. The classics) in his truck, hold his stupid hand, and kiss him whenever you want because it's something you're allowed to do, something that isn't stuck in the confines of your yearning. You want him. Want all of him. 

Want. Want. Want. 

It's—

An infestation of rot, and idealism. You're making him into something he isn't, and thinking too much about what he's not. 

But the bar feels emptier when he isn't here. The walks to the car are lonelier when you're by yourself at nearly four in the morning with nothing but the steady swell of the ocean, and your yearning to fill the barren silence that crushes you, but you've spent too long talking to yourself, and now that you had the taste of an audience, you can't go back what it was like before. 

You should be happy. Happy for him, for Pretty Boy. This should mean that he's moved on, decided that stasis in whisky, and a dingy bar that even the health inspectors have given up on a long time ago is not what he needs in his life right now, and that he's getting better. That he's healing. 

But you think of the look on his face when he stared at you from across the counter, eyes reflected in the clear glass of water, and you know—just like you think you know him—that he isn't. That this isn't the end. That he's found somewhere else to go, something else to mend the aches inside that never abate. 

He didn't decide to move on. It wasn't his choice—it was yours, Caulders. It was the weight of the bill in something that used to be sacred, a place where Bear would pen things down in scratchy writing about your perceived failings— talks too much, shorts the shots all the damn time, can't pour a pint to save her life, has awful taste food, terrible taste in music —and you'd dump them into your rucksack at the end of the night, taking them home with you to lay out on a piece of construction paper as part of an ongoing project in yearning. 

It wasn't his choice, and you know better than anyone else what that means, but still: you hope. You cling to that little piece of stupidity (your very brand) that tries to convince you everything is fine. That you're not complicit in watching a man moulder in grief and agony, and that this is somehow alright. That this tightly webbed knot, tangled and frayed, will somehow unspool itself despite knowing first hand that it won't. 

Not until you tug the strings and unravel the weaved pain and loss on your own terms, and of your own volition. 

But what else can you do? 

No one held your hand when you lost your dad, but God, you wish they did. You wished someone was there to help you, but you also know that it wouldn't have mattered anyway. 

You can force someone to let go by hammering their fingers until the bones shatter, and the tight grip they keep on it all releases because their fingers are pulpy mush. 

You know better. 

In the weeks that he's gone, absent, you oscillate between trying to convince yourself you made the right choice, and trying to pretend that he's still just a friend.

(It's when you wander out from the back of the pub and see someone sitting in his chair—elation, hope, and then the crushing sense of disappointment when the man is too small, too scrawny to be Bear—do you realise what it all means. 

—a sickness.)

Eleven, you get a kiss. Blistering. Intense. Your head cracks against the brick when he pushes himself flush into your body, hand curved over your cheek, jaw. 

(Three days later, you get heartbreak. 

Two weeks, you shatter.)

You have other things to worry about than a man like him. Dangerous. Deadly. The kind that will suck you in like a riptide and drag you out into the open ocean without any care or concern for how you're supposed to tread the high seas. 

He's poison in plaid. A bad decision in the scar tissue, and bloodied knuckles. The bags under his eyes are warning signs for you to stay away.

The ring on his finger. The women who are not his wife. 

All of the bad, the ugly stacks up. 

But—

Even his hideous crutches can't hide his goodness beneath the layer of resentment and grime. 

It starts when he splits his knuckles on the teeth of a man who won't take no for an answer, and you see him find control, balance, and equilibrium, in violence. 

It starts there. And it ends, too. 

(But you're a glutton for pain, and you help him the only way you know how.)

[5starglassdesigner]

Transforming Spaces with Stained Glass Doors,Windows and Partitions

Stained glass has long been celebrated for its ability to transform ordinary spaces into extraordinary environments. The vibrant colors, intricate designs, and dynamic play of light through stained glass windows, doors, and partitions can add a touch of elegance and artistry to any setting. These elements not only serve functional purposes but also act as stunning focal points that enhance the aesthetic appeal of both residential and commercial spaces.

Stained Glass Windows: A Kaleidoscope of Light

Stained glass windows are perhaps the most iconic and widely recognized application of stained glass. These windows have been used for centuries in churches, cathedrals, and historic buildings to tell stories and depict scenes through colorful glass. The beauty of stained glass windows lies in their ability to interact with natural light, casting vibrant patterns and colors into a room, creating a mesmerizing effect.

In modern architecture, stained glass windows are no longer confined to religious buildings. They have found a place in contemporary homes, adding a touch of sophistication and character. Whether it’s a grand, multi-paneled window in a living room or a smaller, decorative window in a bathroom, stained glass can elevate the design of any space. Custom designs allow homeowners to incorporate personal themes, from floral patterns to abstract art, making each window a unique masterpiece.

Stained Glass Doors: Elegant Entrances

Stained glass doors provide an elegant and inviting entrance to any home or building. These doors combine functionality with artistic expression, offering privacy while allowing light to pass through. Front doors with stained glass panels can create a striking first impression, setting the tone for the rest of the interior. The use of stained glass in entryways is not only aesthetically pleasing but also adds value to the property.

Interior stained glass doors are equally captivating. They can be used to separate rooms while maintaining an open, airy feel. For example, a stained glass door between a kitchen and dining room can create a visual connection while providing a subtle boundary. These doors can be designed to match the overall decor of the home, with patterns ranging from traditional to modern, ensuring they complement any style.

Stained Glass Partitions: Artistic Dividers

Stained glass partitions offer a creative solution for dividing spaces without sacrificing light or openness. These partitions are ideal for both residential and commercial settings, providing a sense of separation while allowing light to flow through. In homes, stained glass partitions can be used to create private areas within open floor plans, such as dividing a living area from a dining space.

In offices and commercial buildings, stained glass partitions add a touch of sophistication and privacy. They can be used to section off meeting rooms, workspaces, or lobbies, creating an elegant and professional atmosphere. The versatility of stained glass allows for endless design possibilities, from geometric patterns to intricate landscapes, ensuring that each partition is a unique piece of art.

Conclusion

Stained glass windows, doors, and partitions bring a timeless beauty to any space. Their ability to play with light and color, combined with the intricate artistry involved in their creation, makes them a sought-after feature in both traditional and contemporary design. Whether used to enhance the exterior appeal of a building or to create stunning interior accents, stained glass remains a powerful tool for transforming spaces into works of art.

[oftenwantedafton]

Trapped - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Detective Reader

Chapter 1

Rating - Explicit

CW - blood and violence

Excerpt: You’re an adult now with several years of experience as a police officer behind you and the gun at your waist is a small comfort when you patrol the area. You shiver as your eyes scan the vacant lot, imagining shapes in the shadows where perhaps there are none. You are grateful it is closed, the front entrance encased in rusting steel bars and a thick padlock. You do not know if it is enough to keep new thieves out.

You pray it is enough to keep the evil inside.

Also available on AO3

The cracked mirror divides the man’s face by a jagged line, a dark scar that partitions his features. Blood spatters freckle skin and stain the creases that bracket icy blue eyes still illuminated with an inner light from the thrill of the murder he’d just committed. The crimson liquid mixes with perspiration, tracking down stubble coated cheeks, a lover’s caress tattooing a salted blood trail across pale flesh. He can smell the metals of that crimson life force, nearly taste it, even. The knife resting on the edge of the chipped porcelain sink is still dripping, rivulets painting spidery paths like blood vessels. A pair of gold framed glasses perch nearby, temporarily abandoned as they were unnecessary with the enhanced vision of the rabbit suit he’d worn.

He cups his hands under the spray of water from the faucet, letting it run cold over the long digits for a few moments before he bows down and splashes his face, rubs it over the back of his neck and lets it trickle over his upper body. He can still hear the symphony of screams, the fear and terror echoing in Parts and Service. He’d nearly forgotten how sweet that melody sounded.

He pulls an undershirt and dress shirt on, slinging a tie around his neck and sighs, almost regretful at concealing them again.

Suddenly the man leans forward, squinting and frowning at a stubborn bloodstained fingerprint on his shirt collar. It seems he’d been a bit careless cleaning up the evidence of his crime. He’ll have to use peroxide on that when he returns home. Home, he thinks, sneering. Well, not really his true home, but what he calls his dwelling. It’s a front, just like his position as a career counselor, just like the false accolades framed in the walls of his office and the name placard on his desk. Lies, all of it, but they all believe him, so gullible, so trusting. Adults or children; it makes no difference now.

He smiles humorlessly, eyes flickering to the mascot head he’d carried into the employee bathroom with him, its counterpart suit already stowed away securely. It’s deteriorating further, the fur and fabric wearing away with time, exposing metal and wires, lights and circuitry. Damaged, but still very much of use to his purpose, even after all this time.

Just like this old friend here. He caresses the blade for a moment, reliving the feeling as it had sunk into soft flesh. The possessed animatronic had started the bloodletting, and he had continued, long after the trap had mauled with razor sharp blades. He’d carved until there’d been very little left that was recognizable as a human being, let alone the middle aged security guard he’d hired earlier that week.

He’ll need to replace him, of course. There was still the problem of unwelcome intruders. But he had no doubts some other desperate soul would come along, eager for work, willing to do anything. Fate always provided.

He shuts the faucet off, wiping damp hands on his trousers, then drags a rag over the knife until it gleams in the floursescent lighting. He’ll need to sharpen it again, but that can wait for the morning.

Hooking two fingers inside the rabbit’s head he’d worn earlier, it lifts easily and William Afton begins humming as he exits the restroom.

***

You’ve heard the stories. Everyone who’s ever lived in Hurricane has. Perhaps they’re whispered late at night by a campfire, or uttered as a threat to misbehaving children, no mere ghost story or tall tale but a dark history of crimes committed by a killer who’s left no trail.

This was the terrifying legacy of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza.

Never go near the abandoned pizzeria.

Everyone knew it. Back when the business had been operational, multiple children had consecutively gone missing, and even though authorities had searched thoroughly, multiple times, no trace of those kids had ever been found. It was as if they’d vanished into thin air, leaving their parents forever worrying and wondering, imagining the very worst had happened. Perhaps it had.

Perhaps the reality was even worse still.

Despite all of this, it didn’t stop occasional break-ins. Teenagers on a dare, thrill seekers, people looking for a way to earn money. There were bound to be plenty of copper pipes and wires, valuable sources of metal for construction. Arcade and change machines still loaded with cash. The animatronics themselves, with their complex inner workings, must be worth something.

Some trespassers had made it out, but they never seemed any richer. There were only more stories. The place was haunted. The animatronics moved, not in their preprogrammed state but of their own volition, wandering the halls, investigating the rooms. Sometimes people saw a yellow rabbit, taller than the other mascots, the costumed individual moving fluidly. Its eyes were silver and it laughed, low and mirthless.

You believed them, because you’d been to that restaurant, years ago as a child, to play the arcade games, to attend a classmate’s birthday party. You’d known even then something was wrong. You could never explain it. It was just a feeling. You could hear the establishment calling you, beckoning you, imploring you to explore further, to become a part of the wonder, the mystery within its depths.

Maybe it was the yellow rabbit trying to lure you in.

You’re an adult now with several years of experience as a police officer behind you and the gun at your waist is a small comfort when you patrol the area. You shiver as your eyes scan the vacant lot, imagining shapes in the shadows where perhaps there are none. You are grateful it is closed, the front entrance encased in rusting steel bars and a thick padlock. You do not know if it is enough to keep new thieves out.

You pray it is enough to keep the evil inside.

***

As it turns out, Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza has a new employee.

You see the car one morning as the sun is just rising, a rusted sedan seated in front of the main entrance. Parking nearby, you keep the engine running, watching as a young man likely in his 20’s emerges from the depths of the building, securing the heavy lock and chains before trudging to his vehicle. You can see smudges beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted, awkwardly fumbling in the pocket of his hoodie until he locates keys for the car. It’s then that he seems to notice you, his right hand frozen while inserting the key into the lock, the other hand clasping a worn looking copy of a book entitled Dream Theory.

You step out of the car, still not shutting off the engine, and introduce yourself, one hand still resting on the open door, as if you are ready to make a quick escape, to bolt from this wretched place once and for all. The other hitches in your belt, within reach of your firearm, the holster snap already unfastened.

The man nods cautiously, telling you his name is Mike Schmidt. He’s the new security guard working the night shift, he elaborates.

You ask if he’s seen or heard anything unusual, noting the hesitation before he shakes his head. Upon inquiring who hired him, you receive a name you don’t recognize, accepting the business card he digs from the pocket of his jeans. Steve Raglan, Career Counselor.

You warn him to be careful, eyeing the creased spine of the dog eared paperback one last time before you settle back inside the car, tapping the business card against the steering wheel thoughtfully. You follow the security guard out of the parking lot and then turn onto the freeway.

Perhaps you should pay this career counselor a visit.

[shyinsunlight]

for the @microcest prompt: glory hole, and the @taylorswiftmicrofic prompt: novelty

sirius/regulus | 370 words | cw: nsfw, incest, blasphemy, degradation

Hands on his knees, he sits in the pew and mouths the words. His eyes stray up to the stained-glass window, then back down to his side—Sirius' eyes are glued to the pulpit, but a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. He inches towards Regulus and slides a hand up his thigh.

“Arrête,” Regulus whispers. Their mother's eyes cut in their direction. “Behave for ten more minutes, will you?”

“If God were so great, he'd let me have fun.”

Regulus elbows him in the ribs. Walburga's hissed “Quiet!” punctuates their fidgeting.

He's still sore and rubbed raw, but all it takes is a glance at Sirius' hair falling in his face to stir up the heat in his veins. The sermon goes on and on; Regulus presses his thighs together.

When the churchgoers finally disperse and their parents split off to discuss another charity event, Sirius grabs his brother by the elbow and drags him into the shadowed recess of the old confessional.

The novelty of sin-sweetened kisses never dims, and the hand wrapping around his throat has him biting back a moan. Sirius' other hand dips low to cup him through the fabric, and the battle's lost, unfought.

“Stupid slut,” Sirius says fondly, dragging his thumb over Regulus's spit-slick lips. “Can't sit through a service without getting hard.”

“Pot… kettle,” he groans before his air is cut off completely.

The lack of oxygen makes him free of all coherent thoughts; he bucks into his brother's touch with abandon. He's harder than he thought possible, and when Sirius releases his hold on him and pushes him to his knees, his mouth opens instinctively.

Sirius slaps him on the cheek, laughing. “Stay.”

The smell of rotten wood coats the back of his throat. The shadows shift, the door creaks, and Sirius is gone. He reappears on the other side and tampers with the lower part of the wooden partition until it pops out.

“Closer, Reggie. You know what to say, don't you?”

Regulus bites into his lip and nods. He crawls closer until he's flush against the hole; the scent of his brother's salty skin makes him swallow hard.

“Forgive me, brother, for I have sinned.”

[wolfpants]

unleashed fic claim: waiting for the moon to rise (drarry)

Thank you so much to the @unleashed-fest mods for putting on such a stellar fest! Shout out to my lovely team of betas and cheerleaders, I am forever grateful to you for all your kind words and encouragement! @getawayfox @thehoneybeet @citrusses @tackytigerfic 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Waiting for the Moon to Rise | 8.9k words | Rated E Drarry (endgame), with minor (but porny) Bill/Draco/Harry

When Harry and Draco move into Grimmauld Place straight out of Hogwarts, the last person they expect to find taking up residence is Bill ‘divorced, dishevelled, and dangerous’ Weasley. But what if their new, furry little problem is the help they need to finally bring them closer? Stranger things have happened, Draco supposes.

“Today,” he whispers to Harry across the pillows, who croaks his agreement, rubbing at his crusty eyes. “We'll tell him today.”

He creeps out of the room like that, unsure how he got there in the first place. Perhaps it’s just an old habit from Hogwarts; he can’t count the number of times they accidentally fell asleep in each other’s beds this past school year.

The hallway is cold and dim, seven a.m. sunshine peeping in from the stained glass windows in the hallway downstairs. 

A shadow appears, obscuring the view.

Draco’s nose is suddenly full of earth and sweat and Firewhisky, and—

Today, he thinks helplessly, staring up at Bill, who has just appeared from the other side of the hallway—the bathroom, presumably—bare-chested and loose haired and very, very pale. Exhausted-looking. Sickly. The post-moon shakes, Draco thinks wildly, trying to cast his mind back to the textbook passages Snape made them all study so closely.

Today. Now. I could tell him now. Tell him he has to—

—the floorboards creak as Bill comes closer. He bends his head, his nose twitching, a loose strand of bright-red hair brushing Draco’s face as he—

Inhales.

Draco’s heart hammers against his chest. His hand finds the wall, clinging to it—as much as one can cling to a wall, anyway. 

His skin prickles, heat rushing to the surface. He licks his lips, opens his mouth to say something, to say anything, perhaps to stop himself from liquifying and sliding right down the brocade wallpaper, but—

“You smell nice,” Bill mutters, bewilderingly. His nose twitches again. A short, soft sort of growling sound comes crawling up from the back of his throat, vibrating somewhere behind his teeth. Draco shivers. “Both of you,” Bill adds quietly, and then he turns back down the stairs and disappears through the partition doors.

read waiting for the moon to rise on ao3

[corn-fanfiction]

love confession during an actual confession for damien karras maybe? could be sad, if you want.

And it will be sad, anon. It will be.

Confessions (Damien Karras + GN!Reader)

Rated: T

Tags: religious themes, hurt no comfort, confessions of love, CATHOLIC GUILT!!!!

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Picture it: August, 1971. Georgetown, Washington D.C.

The leaves are changing. The times are changing.

You are changed, and you don’t think it’s for the better.

A heaviness fills the hole in your chest as you pull open the heavy doors to the church, allowing the first fallen leaves of the season to tumble inside. It's late afternoon; the church is mostly empty, save for a few people praying either at pews or at candle stands. Distantly, you can hear singing in Latin as the choir practices a room over. Midday sun sends multicolored beams through the stained glass windows to catch dust in the light. The pity and hollowness of this room reflects the voided aspect of your life that is soon to come. You find some strange comfort in that.

You know he's minding the confessional. You have most of his schedule memorized, and you're not proud. You give the sign of the cross upon entering the nave, then turn to step quietly into the booth, despite the fact that the ancient wood creaks and announces your presence and purpose to the entire world.

Damien clears his throat through the partition.

"Go ahead," he instructs in that low, calming voice of his. God, you don't even want to speak. You don't want to hurt him. Perhaps it's vanity that convinces you that you'd have that effect on him at all.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been...three weeks since my last confession."

Upon hearing your voice, he grows deadly quiet. And even when you're finished speaking, there is an unbearable moment of silence.

"Why the long wait?"

You fidget with your hands in your lap.

"I've been...afraid to confess my sins...here."

"This is the safest place to confess and receive forgiveness. There is no judgment here."

"No, Father. There is. Because it's here. Because it's you."

You can almost feel him stiffen. His breath is either hitched or silent.

"I will not judge you. It's not my place."

You chuckle humorlessly. "I'm pretty sure the big man upstairs already knows. Of course, I can't imagine why He'd put me in this position."

He sighs. "It's not His work-"

"I know, I know, it's the evil in the world. But still. You can't...feel what I feel, so pure, and for whom I feel it for...so kind, and not think it divine. Even if I know it's not."

"...You still have not confessed your sin."

His voice has grown thick. With what, you can't be sure. You almost don't want to know. Knowing might keep you from your purpose here.

"I love. I yearn for someone I can't have. But God has put him in my path, made him kind and close to me. Put it in my mind that he could even possibly reciprocate my feelings. But I know he can't. Why would an Evil do that to me? It doesn't make sense. Just to hurt me? I don't inflict pain."

"No, of course not," he attempts to comfort, but neither of you can stop the tears that begin to pool at your eyes. "Sins can be small. Sins can be harmless to others. By coming here, you show that your heart longs to repent."

"God won't hear me when I ask him to stop this. Maybe coming into His house, speaking to His servant..." Guilt eats at your gut. "But I know it's wrong, because I knew you'd be here. I know I wanted it to be you to hear this from me...and that, I think, is inflicting pain. Two birds with one stone, I guess," you laugh, referring to gallows humor to mask your pain.

"You consciously came to inflict pain?"

"No. I came to speak the truth, knowing it would cause pain. Which is worse? To lie, or to deliver a painful truth."

"Well, lying is a sin..."

"Then I won't lie. I'm sorry for what I'm about to say to you. I love you, Damien. I'm so, so sorry that I do. I know it's not fair to you to be the object of my desire, or to hear this. But you have to hear it as much as I have to say it. This is what I beg forgiveness for. Perhaps more than the feeling itself. I can deal with the emptiness. I can't handle hurting you."

"But you must."

"I must."

Silence. Something has dropped out of you and plummeted into hell itself.

"Well, you were right- per usual. It is painful."

Having already been dealing with the complex feelings of this reality, you're almost relieved that he's validated your fears.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault. I'm sorry if I...did anything to spur this on."

He thinks this is his fault?

"It's your existence, and that in and of itself is not bad. You help, you heal. But I think I'm one that can't be saved."

"Why not?"

My god, you think. He's crying. He's crying over you.

You'd rather burn in hell to have just spared him this.

"Because I can't stop this." You sniff, wipe the tears from your eyes, content with their perpetual presence. "I'm so sorry. You'll never see me again."

Your hand reaches for the handle but you hear him move.

"Wait-" there's panic in his voice. "You can't leave."

You heart stops. "I have to."

"No. It's not fair. There are ways, things we can do to...curb these emotions. We have to be stronger than this."

We we we we we we we we-

"No. I can't. And I don't think you can, either."

You hadn't planned on coming in here and calling him weak. But if you're on a roll of telling difficult truths...

"Please," he begs.

You can't stay here. You stand.

"I'm sorry. Please know that I've never been sorrier for anything in my life."

Before he can respond, you've left the booth, fleeing from the church and leaving him, alone to cradle his head in his hands, feeling like a damn coward for keeping his own truths inside.

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I'd apologize anon, but...I think we both knew this is how it would go. Thanks for the req!!! 🩷🩷🩷

[piratekane]

The church is flickering candles, glittering stained glass windows, and dark mahogany pews. Beatrice enters quietly, staying to the shadowed corners. There’s a familiar peace here that takes a moment to adjust to. Her life is full of noise now - the good, glorious noise of Ava’s laugh and Ava’s singing and the rush of the people in the bar as they spin around Ava, always their center.

These days, Ava is Beatrice’s center.

But the church is quiet, the ghost of the organ lingering slightly. She can imagine its notes as it plays the day’s hymn. The midday sun is high in the air and Father Paul has probably retired to his quarters. That’s okay. She wants an audience directly with God.

She genuflects at the end of the pew and slides across its smooth wood, worn down by the people who attend daily mass. Beatrice can see them streaming from the church’s grand doors where she sits at the bar and there are moments where she wishes to be with them. But her faith is quieter now, more for just herself. She prays each night, Ava silent as Beatrice makes her way through her prayers. And there are mornings when she slips into a pew for a few minutes, head bowed as she goes through her invocations. 

She slips onto her knees, the kneeler soft and cushioned. Her elbows rest on the pew, her hands pressed together and her forehead touching her fingers, her thumbs just under her lips. She exhales in a slow stream of air and lets her mind settle, pulling it away from the kaleidoscope of Ava turning over in her head. She focuses on a dim white light glowing brighter and brighter as it fades into a honeyed golden hue that feels like it warms her cheeks.

She tries to blink it away but the image - a halo - stays there. A reminder that Ava is slowly weaving her way into Beatrice’s faith like a line stitched into her skin. She doesn’t fight it for long and lets it wash over her instead. She breathes it in and lets it settle in her chest and wonders if this is what Ava feels when it comes to life inside of her.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven,” she starts, voice quiet and just for her. She blinks await the rest of the words, confession on her lips. “Our Father.”

Forgive me, for I have sinned. I don’t know how much more I can confess. 

Beatrice lets her eyes close, sinking forward further into her steepled hands. I know my mission. I know what is expected of me. But I didn’t expect her. An image of Ava comes into her mind, that halo emanating behind her. I didn’t expect-

“Beatrice,” a warm voice says. She blinks her eyes open as the light fades away and looks up at Father Paul. He has a kind smile. “What brings you here?”

She wets her lips. His eyes make her feel like she can speak free of judgement. “Confession, Father.”

He steps back and gestures at the confessional. “I’d be more than happy to hear your confession.”

Beatrice follows him to the booth, sliding into its shadows as she hears him do the same. She kneels again, eyes adjusting to the lack of light. He clears his throat softly before he speaks.

“What can I do for you, child?”

She inhales slowly. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been ten days since my last confession.” She worries her fingernail against her thumb, picking at her skin before she speaks again. “I fear I am going against God.”

He’s quiet, letting the words settle over them. “And why do you feel this way?”

Why? she asks herself. “I have been tasked with something. Something important, bigger than me.” The next words sit on the tip of her tongue. She hasn’t spoken them out loud before. But it's been weighing heavy on her conscious these last few days. “But each day that passes, I find myself wanting to ignore this duty I’ve been given.”

“Duty is a word that means many things.” He shifts behind the partition, his voice closer. “What is really troubling you, child?”

Her heart skips in her chest. “I fear my obligations have shifted. That they belong to someone else now.” 

He hums thoughtfully, almost as if he expected her answer. “And your obligations were to God?”

“Yes.” 

Yes, because she took her vows. Yes, because she swore to Mother Superion. But… yes. Ava is the Halo-bearer. She was gifted God’s strongest weapon.

“God is made up of many things, Beatrice. His people are one of them. Is this person your allegiance now lies with one of His people?”

She hesitates. “Her faith is… wavering.” Because Ava has faith in people, not God’s spirit. Because Ava’s faith in people makes her feel holy.

He hums again. “I have always believed that love is at the core of faith. It is our love for God that makes us faithful to Him. It is our love for people that inspires our faith in them. Without this faith, this belief in their goodness, we would be adrift in the darkness of this world. Faith is light, guiding us along our path. Is your path clear?”

No. No, because the way has never been less clear.

Yes. Yes, because Ava is a match burning in the darkness, leading her to the light.

“You were unprepared for this shift in faith,” he guesses, taking in her hesitant silence. “You didn’t count on God’s ability to grant others his Light.”

“I didn’t count on being happy,” she admits.

“And you are happy.”

Yes, because she wakes up each day with a warmth that settles deeply in her chest. Yes, because Ava smiles at her over a soda and lime and Beatrice finds that her belief only deepens. Yes, because Ava always reaches for her hand at night, lacing their fingers together in the dark, and Beatrice has never felt closer to God.

But she doesn’t tell him that. She keeps that in her mind. She hasn’t told Ava yet. God knows, for He knows all that lies in her heart, but Ava deserves to hear how happy she is before Father Paul or Hans or Fergus and Leesa and Enza. Her silence is enough for Father Paul to know the answer, though. And he hums again. She hears Amazing Grace in the tune.

When he does speak, his voice is as quiet as the thoughts in her head are loud. “Your penance is to be happy, Beatrice.”

She opens her eyes. “But Father-”

“You seem to be punishing yourself enough for this,” he interrupts. “And God does not like to see his people suffer. He is an understanding God. His love for His Son and His people have always fueled his faith. Why should your love, your allegiance, your happiness, contribute any less to his faith than another?” He shifts behind the screen, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Beatrice, be happy.”

She wants to be. She wants it more than she’s wanted anything in her life. More than her parents’ love. More than acceptance. More than understanding. She wants happiness.

She wants it with Ava.

By the time she leaves the confessional, the church is empty again, Father Paul disappearing as quietly as he arrived. She adjusts to the light streaming in through the stained glass windows after a moment and then takes a deep breath as she lingers at the end of a pew.

Her penance is to be happy; to go back into the world and stop punishing herself for feeling like she is. It’s an unusual penance -  far from the Our Fathers and the Hail Marys Father Vincent was so fond of. But it feels like the hardest atonement she’s ever been given.

She drifts through the church as the thought churns in her mind: be happy, be happy, be happy. The midday sunlight is blinding when she steps out onto the street. She blinks, feeling disoriented for a moment before someone calls her name.

Ava, standing on the sidewalk with their grocery bag on her shoulder and a smile on her face, the one she has when Beatrice does something unexpected. She smiles, the golden light of the sun against her bare shoulders, and waves happily. Ava is always so free with her happiness, charmed by strangers and the small flowers she buys from the florist on her way home. Ava strives to be happy; strives to make Beatrice happy as well.

Be happy, she thinks. Ava calls her name again and stands on her side of the street, bouncing on her toes as she waits for Beatrice to come closer. She takes the first step off the steps leading to the church’s heavy doors and Ava’s smile grows impossibly wider on her face, warming Beatrice as if the Halo was buried in her own skin.

Be happy, she thinks. 

She crosses the street towards Ava.

[deviant-doughnut]

Augusnippets Day Twelve

Chosen Prompt: Trapped

CW: broken bones, wounds.

In the service elevator, everything changes. Above ground, the hospital was sleek and clinical, white walls and sharp, colourful posters. Stilted chatter, open windows to disperse the anxiety ghosting through the air. The medical examiner’s offices aren’t much different. Higher windows, rooms lit by more determined florescent lighting, posters in black and white as if out of some misplaced respect for the dead. Jeremy swallows, wishes he hadn’t agreed to figure this part out alone.

The body is ready for him when he gets there. They help him wheel it towards the back of the building, the regular elevator reserved for the living. The ME tells him that, uses those exact words, and laughs. Jeremy can’t bring himself to fake it, so the ME clears her throat and looks away from him, and guilt whispers in alongside his anxiety. He doesn’t know how to explain either of them to this stranger — so casual in the presence of dead men, so adept at managing the corners with their gurneys — so he says nothing. The rest of the journey passes in silence. She deigns not to ride with him, pushes the gurney to the far wall of the elevator and shows him which button to press.

“That’ll get you back to the parking lot, hon,” she tells him, and then she’s gone.

Jeremy presses the button, watches her recede down the hallway as the doors draw together. They rattle as they slide closed.

And then he’s alone with a dead man, crammed into a decades old elevator.

Deep breath. He presses the button. Parking lot. He’s moments away from the fresh air, sprawling space, from manoeuvring the body onto the floor of the van and driving away from this experience. At least then he can put distance between himself and the body, a partition between them for the journey back to the house. He checks his watch. Not long now — a matter of seconds.

He’s taking deep breaths when the ground shudders. Adrenaline leaps into his blood, lurching into his chest. The buttons shows him rising between floors, less than one floor to his destination. After it shudders, the elevator trembles once more, the metal box around him groaning as it slows, then screeches to a premature halt. He hasn’t reached the ground floor yet, but the door pry themselves open six inches and then slam themselves together. They do this again, like a terrified heartbeat — metal jackhammering against metal. The air turns thick, suddenly heavy, andJeremy’s breaths turn ragged. Elevators don’t scare him when they work right, but it feels almost as though the ground is tilting — impossible, impossible — and all he can see is a smudged approximation of himself in the badly stained glass. The dead man stays dead and prone behind him, but the brakes click out of place on the gurney, and the metal rolls forward. The gurney draws towards him and he halts it with a trembling hand. The body emits its inhuman groans, broken sounds of a body undoing itself — days after the death of its inhabitant. Jeremy swallows.

With his free hand he slaps the emergency intercom. Static greets him on the other end, quiet at first and then loud and obtrusive. There’s a voice buried in there, straining through the noise. The words are shapeless and crackling badly. He tells them he’s stuck, forgets all other information that could help him.

“Help me,” he tells them, whispers it. His lungs ache. Something crawls into his throat and takes the air from him. Sharp scratch when he swallows, a sandpaper scratch. He opens his mouth to gasp, and then it’s all he can do. He gasps, and gasps, inhales until his chest pulls tight and his head turns fuzzy. He forgets how to exhale, the walls drawing closer, doors still slamming relentlessly shut — over, and over, and over. He presses the intercom repeatedly, monotonous buzzing with every fevered repetition.

He imagines the dead man sitting up. He doesn’t, of course, but the thought sinks deep, scrapes through his veins until it’s all he can see.

The elevator groans as it hauls itself up. A momentary spark of hope until it pulls right past the ground floor and continues. The walls are stale and grey and Jeremy is pale beneath the smears on the glass. Fingerprints, he thinks, like someone has been pressing desperately at the glass, crying for help, gasping for breath. The elevator shudders between floors three and four. It drops then, so suddenly that Jeremy’s stomach lurches and his knees give out. He hurtles to the ground, gurney rolling towards the doors. His head collides hard with the metal edging, the corner tearing clean through his skin.

The pain sears. The wound throbs instantly. Jeremy presses his palm to it shakily, but the blood pools into his eye and stings, blinds him. He squeezes both eyes shut as the elevator catches itself, suspended just as quickly as it had started to fall.

He cries for help. No intercom, no ability to glance upwards. He doesn’t want to see himself in that mirror. He wonders if there’s a camera in here, if anyone even knows he’s trapped here. He feels the elevator jolt back to life, feels the way his stomach roils as it drags upwards once more. Up and up, until at last it draws to a halt, and Jeremy opens his eyes.

The elevator sits at the very top floor, voices on the other side of the doors as they continue to slam together.

“Help me!” Jeremy calls. “I-I’m stuck in here. P-please. Someone. Call m-maintenance.”

He lurches forward, grips one of the doors with his right hand when they pry open. He holds it there, for a moment. Then the door stutters against his hold. They overcome his strength. They slam together with his hand still between them, and Jeremy screams at the sudden crack of his bones. The pain only sets in afterwards, urgent and blinding, radiating upwards into his wrist, his shoulder, the hinge of jaw as he clenches it, howls through his gritted teeth. He cradles his hand against his chest, tries not to peer down at it, broken skin and unnatural angles.

The intercom’s static floods into the elevator, drowning out the shocked cries of the people on the landing. Jeremy forces himself to his feet, head spinning with the altitude of suddenly standing. He peers at the list of floors by the doors, the light flickering against the top floor’s designation.

When the lightbulb goes out, something snaps overhead. The sound is muffled, not inside the elevator, but not independent of it either. Jeremy’s breath trembles. His head hurts and the bleeding won’t stop, and his shirt clings to the sweat on his back.

When the light flickers out, and the second snap sounds, Jeremy turns frozen in horror.

The elevator plunges into darkness.

It falls, hurtles suddenly downwards. It doesn’t jerk or shudder any longer. He’s not forced to stare into the glass. It’s a smooth and sightless journey, bracing and breathless all the while. Violent free fall, fast and inescapable. Jeremy can only let it happen.

-

Thanks to @augusnippets for this event!