#steel casing pipes

[hitechpipesltd]

We offer a wide range of casing pipes for borewell, including mild steel casing pipes, high-density polyethylene casing pipes, and fiberglass casing pipes.

[central-steel12]

Pipes and Fittings - Essential Components of Plumbing Systems

Pipe and fittings are essential components of plumbing systems that are used for the transport of fluids, gases, or solid materials. Pipes are hollow tubes that provide a pathway for the flow of materials, while fittings are connections or joints that connect two or more pipes together or redirect the flow.

[regal-bones]

”A carcass. Decaying, and grey. The guts of the creature spilled across the landscape, rust eating at the metal pipes, and thickets of grass growing thick between shards of fallen debris. It sat at the centre of a great crater, the impact shifting the earth itself to a great ring of stone. Like a ripple in a pool of water set forever in unmoving rock. At the edge, a stranger looked outwards. Past the crash site, to the lush valley, the dense forests. Deep, rich lakes reflecting the sun, and stoic mountains looming in the distance. They wore a purple robe, tattered and old, and underneath the faded garb the gentle mechanics of their body ticked and whirred. Old machinery, forgotten machinery. The gentle beat of their processor in their chest was the only sound in the still land. Like a heartbeat - slow, steady, each pump pushed hot blood through the intricate web of piping that ran through their system. They shifted slightly, the sound of metal on metal could be heard, of glass vials clinking together from within their robe, and pistons compressing and extending. Even the subtlest of movements made a noise, unseen gears clicking and servos firing within their cold, steel bones, their metal fingers resting so softly in the grass. They looked outwards, and from under their weathered mask, a shaky sigh left the stranger. Such a human expression, they thought. How long had they been sitting there? They looked down to one of their legs, stretched out in front of them. Dandelions knitted themselves in between the intricacies of the sharp metallic shape, and tall grass sprouted from the motionless knee joint. A pale fungus, thin, with button-like caps, poked out of an open compartment. Within, a set of salvo missiles slept, a gentle blanket of spores dusting the warheads and lichen creeping over their ancient casings. Above them, it began to rain. The stranger looked up at the sky as the flecks of rain fell. Fat beads of water trailed down their steel mask, each lit with the brilliant blue light that leaked from the mask's visor and following the sharp geometry down to its chin, where they fell to the eager grass below. With a careful movement of their arm, the figure moved back their cloak to reveal something. Underneath the purple fabric, nestled within the robe, was another machine. The lifeless body of another robot. It was far smaller than the stranger. It had a small, spherical torso, two arms, and two boot-like legs. But, most notably, was its head - it looked just like a flower pot. Within the pot was neatly packed soil, and, softly, the rain fell on the coarse layer of dirt. The two sat, and the rain fell. The clouds churned above them, writhing, worming through the sky. Always moving, dancing, an endless parade across the vast stretch of sky. Far away, an eye opens. A wet, chesty cough, blood flecked phlegm working its way through a strained throat. The same rain falls on its hot, raw skin, and strained eyes gaze at the clouds. Over the distant canopy of trees, the sun dipped below the horizon. Night fell on the quiet carcass, and the stranger enjoyed this moment of silence. Who knows how long this peace might last?”

Watch the trailer for Last Sprout: A Seedling of Hope at this link! 🌱

You can support me on Patreon for £1 and see concept art, assets, and snippets of story for the game!

[seat-safety-switch]

You can learn a lot about how something was built by watching it break. At least that's my excuse for watching over a hundred hours of YouTube "gone wrong" videos instead of actually getting any work done this week. Take, for example, the collapse of a bridge. If you'd never seen one crumble to bits and drop into the water, you wouldn't know they're made out of steel rebar with concrete poured over top. Any bridge you try to make without that knowledge would totally suck ass. In a way, that bridge gave its life so that others could live. Thanks for your sacrifice, bridge.

Among my friends who are especially productive – "capable," if you will – they get into these little funks where they get depressed about not being able to finish their projects. What they do then is create a little tiny side project, small enough that they can start and finish it quickly, and then reassure themselves that they can actually get things done. Even if those things are a little pipe cleaner kitty. Absolutely adorable, and confirms their place as creators of the universe. Destroying things is the same deal for me.

Nothing gets the old creative juices going like turning a perfectly good automatic transmission entirely into neutrals, for instance. It gets other juices going, too, but that's a problem for the highway cleanup crew to worry about. Once I've been freed of the constraint of "this car needs to run right now," then things can get kinda weird. Maybe I want to put a manual transmission in, push an extra pedal. Perhaps I want a Lenco drag-racing transmission, and I need to come up with a disguise so I can trick the guy at the swap meet into giving it to me ("Lenco inspector," I'll bark, "hand 'em over.")

So take it from me. If you're feeling stuck on a project, or otherwise uninspired, go recklessly destroy an object of actual value and watch that sucker fall apart. Holy shit! Did you know springs are in these things? I better save each and every one of these springs just in case they come in handy later. I'll probably need to build something to organize them...

[babeyun]

easy, kitty ✩ s.jy [teaser]

✩ series m.list

✩ synopsis: after years of being referred to as a white whale by your respective detectives and being poorly sought after by single (and...not-so-single) suitors in your department, you're rescued by sim jaeyun - only for information in return.

✩ genre: fake dating au | unrequited love.

✩ pairing: detective!sjy x bookkeeper!reader

✩ word count: 1.1k | [full fic: tbd]

✩ rating: 18+. minors dni.

✩ warnings: none, just jaeyun shamelessly flirting and talk of shitty coworkers? some misogyny in the workplace?

✩ a/n: hello! i know this may seem a little confusing, but just trust the process. this is what would be the "present"...their juicy backstory will come in due time <3

monday, june 9th.

okay. 

you admit it.

you hate your job. you hate it! and that's okay, right? it's okay to absolutely despise walking into your job at eight in the morning with your steel tumbler filled to the brim with boiling hot tea. it's okay to hate the way you feel a sense of dread any time you hear footsteps nearing your little nook of an office. it's okay to dive under your desk the moment someone knocks on your door, and despite them opening it and seeing your tea still piping hot and your bag gently placed on the oak desk – they assume you're not in.

and you prefer it that way. you like hiding under your desk to eat your apple slices, and you even made friends with the cobweb spider in the corner of it. you like hiding your shoes and bag in a random cabinet drawer so they assume you're out sourcing materials. you love when your coworker, aeri uchinaga, swings by with invites to lunch so you won't have to speed to the cafeteria before any of the rookie detectives can bother you about sourcing information for them.

honestly, you weren't surprised to hear some of your fellow analysts call you the white whale of the department – you were the longest standing bookkeeper in the seventh precinct, and you knew the entire database by heart. you were rarely on board to help detectives solve their cases, often slipping just out of view and forcing them to ask around for help.

okay.

so maybe you don't actually hate your job. you hate the people in your department, except for your department director, hwang hyunjin, aeri and her boyfriend, yang jeongin. you hate the way that your coworkers relentlessly flirt with you, and they always manage to sour your mood the moment they compliment how pretty you look. luckily, once they realized you weren't interested in their little game of cat and mouse, they backed off.

until you showed up to the new year's eve party six months ago without a date, and shared a friendly hug with hyunjin, at midnight. it was enough to make the entire precinct wonder if you were single – and instead of focusing on their jobs, you could hear them whisper about you for the next two weeks. some of these people hadn't even known you were still working at the precinct, that's how uncommon it was to see you help anyone out – and how rare it was to see you at work events.

a lot assumed you thought you were too good to help them, that they weren't worth your time. they weren't entirely wrong – the rolling batches of detectives were more and more rude, and demanding in a way you didn't really like. so you made sure to seem as offstandish as possible, and no one got in your way. it was always a hard eight hours, but you always managed to leave the building without a single person speaking to you about sourcing anything for them. a skill, really. 

however, you were not as lucky this evening.

"y/n, baby." the flirtatious tone is subtle, but all-too-familiar. you groan inwardly, your back aching from being hunched over the stake of paper folders as you curse the precinct for not going digital. "what, jake?" you glance up through stands of stray hair, watching as he pouts playfully.

"no hello? how are you?" his smile doesn't dwindle as he leans his head on the doorframe, and you can feel the soft heat of his eyes on your face. sighing, you straighten your back, holding a stack of papers in your hands. you internally grimace as your lips immediately curve into a gentle smile at his own. "hello, jake. how are you?" "much better now that you're smiling." rolling your eyes, you beckon him forward with a nod of your head. he shuts the door behind him, taking a seat on the stool by your printer. your office had never been too homey, not in the last few years you'd been working here. you quickly learned to leave home at home and vice versa. "right, bro. what can i get for you?" "bro?!" he whines, dramatically clutching the left side of his chest as he kneels to the ground. "you wound me, babe. i've been struck, i'm seeing the light–" he flops on the floor, closing his eyes and sticking his tongue out. you give him a quizzical look, before nudging his ribcage with your pointed heel. he suppresses a squeal before trying to discreetly push your foot away. "jaeyun, get up and tell me what you want before i kick you out." you sigh at his theatrics, making him groan from the floor. "you know, it wouldn't kill you to be nicer. i am doing you a huge favor by being this dramatic, after all." he says pointedly, still laying on the dirty floor when you scoff. "right, as if being impassioned isn't second nature to you." "hey, when you've got it, flaunt it, baby!" he lays on his side, propping his head up with his hand as you pretend to stab your pen into your chest and drag it down. he grimaces, before looking up at you with a smile. your eyes narrow at this, and his smile only grows wider as your phone buzzes on the desk. "who's that? your boyfriend?" you can feel your eyes threatening to get stuck if you roll them any more, and you pick up your phone as jake finally stands from the floor, dusting his clothing. "jake-" "oh wait, i'm your boyfriend! what a lucky guy!" he leans over to peer at your phone screen, seeing aeri texting you about the next company dinner. you would normally attend them alone, but since you roped jake into being your fake boyfriend (with good reason!)…you didn't have much of a choice. "where are we going now? do i get to hold your hand?" his eyes scan the screen, making you snort as you push him back lightly. "as if you need an excuse to hold my hand, you literally grab it any chance you get! you'd keel over if i let you kiss me." you don't notice the soft eyes raking your face, but you don't get a chance to as he retorts, leaning against your desk as you shove your phone in your pocket.

"easy, kitty. by the end of this, you'll be begging me to kiss you." 

no matter how long you're around jake, you will always ask yourself why you chose him out of all the men in this precinct. you ask yourself how he managed to be at the right place at the right time, saving you out of yet another of your coworker's cringe-worthy attempts to sweep you off your feet. you're grateful, of course – but somehow, you realized only a few moments in that he would be your demise. no more white whaling, it seems.

BABEYUN © 2024. no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

taglist [those in red could not be tagged!]: @thesassy-mia @starfallia @ramenoil @hoonieversies @wintabite @shnnzsworld @eneiyri @jjongsha @ilovejungwonandhaechan @oopshee @capri-cuntz @petalsofink @teddybeartaetae @chocminteu @moon0fthenight @delvziion @heeseungthel0ml @marimariiiiiiii @thenastone

[peramess]

TW: Smut, Blood Sex, Swearing, Gore, Murder, Crazed Reader, DARK WRITING, Bit of Angst, Etc

Paring: Michael Myers X Female Reader.

A/N: Holy fuckkkk???? I posted???? Ohhhh my goddddd???? Anyway, i hope this it good for ya! :P

A harsh sound of sawing sounded throughout the small, dim room, the four concrete walls housed many cracks and patches of old, muddy colored blood, the ceiling was crumbling within itself, the old wood molding and in one of the corners, a wet substance dripped from a broken pipe sticking out of the ceiling, the ground was covered in new and old blood, and bits and pieces of human skin and bones. You hummed softly over the sound of your sawing, the music helping you concentrate on your task at hand.

Quite literally, you snickered to yourself as you waved the sawed off hand into blank, cloudiness eyes of the corpses face that laid bare before you on a metal table, before tossing the hand into a steel bin full of other decapitated limbs and blood.

As you threw the hand, your hand caught your gaze almost immediately.

Taking a moment to stare down at your hands, wet blood staining your skin all the way up to your shoulders to which was dryer and crackling over your skin but that didn't deter your fascination. It was art in your eyes, and you reveled in it. The smell, the dark color, the warmth of being submerged in it, even the taste. Everything about blood pulled you in, warmed your insides alit, creating this air of pleasure and destruction and power around you. Just looking at it, breathing in the coppery tang filled you with pleasure and joy.

Closing your eyes, you let out a silent, breathy groan as you placed the bloody hand saw onto the metal table, the toothed blade bathed in red substance as it glinted under the rustic, metal pendent lamp. You would've admired it, taken a photo of its beauty, had you kept your eyes open, but you didn't, you couldn't help but sink into the desire of being bathed in the wet blood on your hands. Bringing them up to your face, you began to rub one hand over your neck and the other over your features.

Oh, how badly you wanted to surrounded by it. To be immersed fully, to drown in it. It's... It was absolute Heaven.

"Fuck." You whispered breathlessly as a heat pooled down into your groin, you could feel your face pull into one of pleasure as you covered yourself with the blood from your hands, and a delightful hum thrummed your entire body.

Wetness bloomed within your panties, the fabric becoming coated with your desire, as your breasts tingled and your nipples hardening against the thin fabric of your messy top. You knew your fixation with blood was abnormal, strange, disgusting, disturbing to others, but you couldn't give a fuck of what others thought and saw you. Most of your victims claimed you a monster, and you decided that yes, you were and you loved it. Besides, they deserved it, to be gutted like the fools and pigsty they were. To be given such treasure, such beauty, within themselves and only for them to waste it and not fall under the depths of its magnificence befuddled you, offended you so deeply that you had to do something about it. They do not deserve this. They do not deserve to hold that pureness within their selfish body's.

At the age of sixteen, you were finally free of the constant, looming pressure of your peers and their ignorance when you made your first kill. You were free from your shackles and lived amongst the gods as you rubbed your face and neck in absolute beauty. But of course, it was short lived, after your second attempt to reach that holy place once again, you were interrupted by the bigots who swore to protect those lower to them, thus being hauled off to Smith's Grove Surgical Hospital. The wretch that was taken from you was your last unsuccessful kill, of course, you killed the cop who found you first, and the lawyer that was put on your case, and a few nurses at the hospital.

A smile crept onto your lips as you reminisce the screams of utter terror they gifted you so freely, they're fearful gaze watching on as you tear them open just to paint yourself with their hidden beauty.

"As I bathe in the blood of the unworthy, I step closer to divinity, and my place amongst the Gods is assured."

Those words, those words were spoken by you each time you bathed yourself in their essence, and even now you speak those holy words, the smile on your lips growing as your chest rumbled from laughter.

If only they knew this pure ascendance, to know where their true beauty lay just under layers of skin and fat. But, of course, they don't. The absolute idiots. Why? Why do they not see?

"Why was I placed in a world of vermin?" Your smile fades as you are pulled from your high, your words just a mumble, "They're so fucking blind, so fucking stupid to not see." Your features twist with disgust, your palms fisting with anger as you stared at the wall before you, "To live amongst these... these hypocrites who cry and fear they're own beauty within themselves yet pledge themselves to wars, to the destruction playing on their radios and TVs, wasting themselves away for the horror they read on newsletter's I would gladly bestow onto them for free. and yet I am the monster." You huff, your body bending forward and you place your hands onto the blooded table.

I will be that in they're eyes, and I will proudly wear that badge with a smile, as long as I can make them see, to witness their magnificence being fully appreciated and cherished instead of it being wasted by their stupidity.

Breathing in and out slowly, your agitated nerves dwindling into embers then ash as you watch a trail of blood drip down of the table and onto the floor with fascination.

"Tell me, Michael," You spoke softly, your gaze stuck the the magnificence before you, "Are you like the pests that roam with blind eyes? Or are you like me? A... monster? A monster that sees their own potential, their own worthiness and holiness?" Reluctant, you broke your gaze away and rose up to turn behind you, to look upon the man standing in the opening of your doorway. You knew Michael from your unwelcomed stay at the hospital. But you only met him when you were there after a year. You were seventeen then, and he, sixteen. It was obvious from the moment you two met, you two would be inseparable.

And, of course, someone knew that before either of you did. Dr. Loomis, your shared psychiatrist. But one thing he didn't see was just how you two would become fast friends.

Ms. Ursula - or, in your words - Mrs. Cuntface. She was a widowed nurse who pushed her rage and frustrations onto patients as long as the higher ups wasn't looking, an absolute bitch. She was assigned to sit in the room you and Michael were placed in, to watch how you interacted and to chart it down for Dr. Loomis as he was busy with another rowdy patient of his. You and Michael didn't say much at all, well, only you spoke - just a little - he spoke not a word towards you nor to the nurse. He only stared, his bright blue eyes hollow of emotion staring you down from behind his black mask. You could tell it was self made, from the cracks and wrinkles, you guessed it was made from paper mache, (you don't really know though since you never made anything out of the stuff), his hair is a dirty blond and unkempt as it hangs over his shoulders, and a throng of strands hid the mask some. But one thing you noticed out of everything else, was his wrists chained to the table, just like yours.

Was he like me? Does he fall witness to the desire of ascension just as I do?

"I like your mask." You spoke with a small tilt to your head and you noticed his head slowly following your movements. "Can you tell me your name?" The only sound that was made after your question was from the nurse huffing in annoyance. You ignored her and tilted your head in the opposite direction to see what he would do, and as you predicted, he mocked your movements at a gradual pace. You smiled at that and then introduced yourself, all the while moving your head side from side with him following along.

"Will you shut up!" The nursed would yell in pure annoyance as she sent you a firm glare. You only smiled in return, "Make me, worm." You had giggled as you gazed into her eyes, her features pulling into one of rage, and the redness flowing up into her face entranced you. But it was short lived as she stomped onto her feet and rushed to your side with a raised hand, slapping you across your face. But, you only laughed as your cheek began to burn.

Laughed as she then yanked your frizzy hair back, snapping your head up to hers. Her face was so red with pumping blood that it made your heart stutter, the rage in her eyes absolute and her sneering mouth forcing crinkles around her old, ugly face.

No. That will not do. You thought, your chest seizing from disgust that rolled over your excitement, it needs to go. That beauty shouldn't be hiding behind her disgusting, wrinkled skin. No. No. No. No. I will not have it.

Her voice was muted to you even though her lips moved in a rapid pace, her yells and cusses towards you all silent against your beating heart bombing into your ears as your stomach churned with determination to rib by her offensive wrinkles and spotted skin.

And even though her hold on your hair was tight, the rage and need didn't quiet, quite the apposite, in fact. It burned you, gutted you so deeply that her skin was still there. IT. NEEDS. TO. GO.

With a powerful surge, you rose, your lips parting quickly as your teeth sunk into the meat of her nose and upper lip. Her screams was lost to you as blood filled your mouth. Yes. Yesss. You could almost cry from sheer happiness as your tongue tasted the sweet, sweet blood gushing into your mouth. And you moaned in pleasure.

She tried to pull back but it wasn't easy, your teeth had deepened into her skin so much that even she knew if she continues, her skin would be ripped from her. But she wasn't thinking clearly, panic and fear forcing her frantic hands to push you away, and with a snap, her skin was torn from her as she fell against the table, her trembling hands holding her face as she screamed and sobbed.

Your sour mood was no more as the blood pooled from the large gash behind her hands, painting her body with the art you've allowed to be set free. You laughed, the joyous sound forcing your lips apart and the skin fell from your mouth and onto your lap.

So beautiful. So, so beautiful.

She was gasping for air, drowning in her own blood. You continued to laugh, chanting those sacred words over and over as you rocked back and forth in glee, the cuffs bounding your wrists clinking against the table from your movements.

You watch as she staggered to her feet, her wet hands pulling at the tables sides to help her pull herself up as she gasps and sobs for help, her upper half falling over the table as she heaves. And you watch as Michael, now standing, his hands still bound just as yours are, reach for her head. He struggled slightly as he pulls her to him by her hair as she thrashes and turns in his hold and you rushed to your feet and pushed your knees onto the table. Now with better access, you bent down and sank your teeth into her screaming face once again, tearing into her cheek and pulling back before diving back again and again until there was nothing left. All the while, Michael, had held her in place as she thrashed and pulled away from you both but he never let go, not until she ceased all movement.

You couldn't stop laughing, the art under you too pure and too joyous for you that just the thought of holding in your happiness was far too cruel.

"You did amazing!" You told him after your fit of laughter, but the smile was just as big and bloody as before, you stared at him, your chest heaving with excitement, "You helped me set her free!" You exclaimed with a laugh. "And-! And look! We both are wearing masks now!" You laugh and laugh as he only stared, and even though he stood there emotionless, his eyes told you a different story, he was proud, happy to find someone like him. "You're like me." You gasp with a laugh, "We're partners now! You and me!"

Is he? You think now as you stare at him, the dim lighting in the room showing very little of him as the upper half of his body was coveted in shadows. He helps, yes, but he doesn't express your joy, your fondness for the art you shed, you see that now. He... He doesn't see.

Your heart quaked heavily at that, your stomach rolling in fear. If- if he doesn't see... I can't... - I can't be with him. I won't be with him. He's... Just like them.

"Tell me you see, Michael!" You yelled, your body slumping against the table behind you, your hands bracing the side of the cool, metallic table. Your chest now panting with terror as your eyes weld in angered, pain-filled tears.

He stood, unmoving, his hands limp by his sides, his legs locked to that one spot and it angered you more by his lack of response. You knew he couldn't speak - or atleast, won't - you knew he was a statue until he wanted to move, but it just angered you. He knew how important this was to you, knew how highly you thought of your artwork, of you masterpieces, and yet, he just stands there!

"You don't see..." You gritted out with hatred. How dare he! How dare he steal your heart! Your love! Your help! Just to fucking throw it out once you realize who he actually was. "You don't see. You don't see!" You yelled now, spinning around to bang your hands against the table, reaching for anything in your rage-filled state to throw and smash onto the floor and walls, "You don't see! YOU DON'T SEE! YOU DON'T SEE!" Shaking the table until you push it over in your rage, the body and handsaw crashing onto the floor with a loud thud, you screamed the words over and over.

You paused, your body wracking with shudders of determination and hatred as you looked for your handsaw, and quickly found it by the barrel of blood and organs. Racing towards it, you snatched the tool from the floor and turned to face him, but he was already there, in front of you, just an inch or two away. You sneered up at his masked face with betrayal, "You worm! Do I mean nothing to you!?" You screamed, raising your hand that held the blade to aim at his chest and jumped on him, usually, his tall, secured build wouldn't move for anyone, but for you, he allowed himself to fall back onto the floor with you on top of him, and he watched with admiration and greedy lust at your rage, your furry. He enjoyed this side of you: all passionate rage, of blinding hatred that tinted over your face, and watching you bathe yourself in the blood of your enemies and those who get in the way, he enjoyed the death you brought forwards, the destruction painting you. But, no, he doesn't see your fondness for the blood you call godsend, he doesn't see why you seek it, need it, breath it. He doesn't care for it. Never did. He only killed those who get in the way, he doesn't relish in they're demise because he truly doesn't care.

But one thing he never understood was why he cared for you. Why he would bathe himself in the red substance just to see your eyes light up with that dark excitement, to tear into his clothes and force his mask up to bruise your lips against his. Just thinking about it made his cock harden and rise, and as you screamed, your body moving against him, you directing your powerful rage at him, burned him with lust. He doesn't care why your angry, but he does know that if he doesn't try to calm you, there will be consequences.

So, he pushed his mask up halfway up his face with one slowed hand, the other gripping around the front of your throat, choking you slightly as he forced your mouth down onto his, ceasing you of words. Before you could react, he already began to move to ripping your clothes off from your back, first your thin top, then second, your leggings, then third, your soaked panties.

Fuck. You thought, your anger subsiding slightly as the cool temperature of the room nipped at your bare skin now, your body shuddering as his strong, callused hands palm your ass as he tongued your mouth. His tongue was hot and wet against yours, and you groaned as you could taste a coppery tang along with him, his taste, his spit.

Your breasts rubbed against the fabric of his jumpsuit once you threw your shredded clothes away, your nipples becoming sensitive and your pussy blossoming with heat, your core empty, needing to be filled by his cock which you felt under your inner thigh.

With your rage sated for now, you pulled back and growled at his jumpsuit, and with quick, shaky fingers you found the zipper to his suit and pulled it down, reveling his hairy chest and navel and then his cock which sprung free.

"Fuck, baby." You groaned as you looked down at him, even without blood he was a masterpiece, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't look much better without it. His chest and cock was tainted red with heat and you palmed up his chest before scraping your nails down to his navel, his body rumbling with a silent, affirming growl as he, in turn, grope at your ass and thighs, pulling you to grind your wet, hot pussy against his hot, hard cock.

Moaning, you allowed him to move your hips for you, your clit gaining glorious friction on his cock as your juices coax the skin between you. Pressing your hands again his stomach, you grinded hard against him, moving your hips with his, his hands was tight with their hold on your skin, but you loved it, loved to be marked by him, to be bruised by his desire for you.

"Fuckkk." You gasp breathlessly, your head falling back and eyes closing in bliss. The pleasure was great, but it wasn't enough, you know this, as well as he does, but that doesn't mean you don't enjoy the thick, hard member rubbing against your pussy. It just wasn't enough to make you come, is all - well not without blood, of course. But that doesn't deter your lust for him, for his cock. So, without hesitation, you reached in between you both and gripped his hot cock in your hand and aimed his head at your entrance, and before you could even push your hips down, he did it for you.

His hands now grip your hips, pulling you down as he thrust upwards into your tight pussy. Gasping at the intrusion, your walls and core aching by the girth of him, your body burning with fire as your moans were pulled out of you as he forced you down and down again and again, his own hips moving up. Your nails scratched his stomach, his body quivering and shuddering as pleasure raked his body from head to toe, your pussy hot, and wet, and tight just for him. He watches your breasts bounce, you hair along with it as he uses your body for his needs, but he knew you love it, too, loved to be taken however he wanted you.

All of a sudden, he sat up, one of his hands moving to the back of your head to grip tightly at your hair, yanking your head back as he bites and mouths at your neck before pulling your gasping mouth against his in a heated kiss. Both of you ragged of breath, both chests heaving as he fucked you down onto his cock, your breasts rubbing just right against the jumpsuit, creating a strong shiver from within your body as you gasp into a rough, biting kiss that leaves you both panting and needing for more.

With a surprised gasp, you felt something wash over your body's as a loud bang sounded into the room. Opening your eyes, you saw Michael was now covered in blood and looked down to see your own body covered in the same substance. And just underneath your body's, an enormous amount of blood pooled around the both of you.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." You gasp loudly as you realised that Michael pulled the large barrel of blood on top of you both, coating you both from neck down in blood as limbs and organs splayed around you.

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes." You moan with a breathless smile, your orgasm now high on it's peak. Fucking your hips down with renewed vigor, you claw at his shoulders as you move to suck his blooded neck into your mouth, filling your taste buds with its metallic taste.

He does see... He sees me.

@vomitgoth-snuff I hope everything was to your liking!

[yuri-badiner]

Vent shafts traveler

The inhabitants of the seventeenth block complain about the air quality, so I travel through the general ventilation shafts again. My reliable tool always with me - a telescopic three-meter probe with a pair of precise sensors and a steel claw. With its help, I explore the situation in hard-to-reach places before climbing myself: temperature, humidity, structural strength, the presence of various fungi and other living creatures.

My friend Felix often neglected safety. A month ago, his head got stuck in an old rotten pipe and he stayed there for almost five hours until the guys from the second shift found him. There were no serious injuries, but during this time some insect laid eggs in his left ear. The doctors say Felix is ​​unlikely to return to work, so I borrowed his new overalls for now…

The environment built from white parts forces you to work with the exposure really carefully. Surfaces reflect a lot of light, glare and do it’s best to overexpose the frame. But there is also a positive point: large and powerful light sources are practically not needed here. In my case, I made do with two small LED light sources and shot at a short shutter speed.

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Bubble Ghost

Debut: Bubble Ghost

This is Bubble Ghost from Bubble Ghost! Would you like to see the Bubble from Bubble Ghost? It is a very important part of the game. I think it deserves our attention.

Name: Bubble

Debut: Bubble Ghost

There we go! A bubble. Bubbles are really incredible things, aren't they? They're so beautiful, so fun to watch! It is IDIOTIC to act like this miracle of science is somehow "for children". If you're ever blowing bubbles and someone tries to shame you for it, just tell them you're sorry they lost the ability to find joy in the many places it's scattered around our world. The look on their face will be awesome!

Bubble Ghost is all about the delight of playing with bubbles. You're never too old for bubbles, and you're also never too dead! This ghost haunts a Kooky Castle full of Crazy Contraptions and has fun playing with bubbles. Since he is a ghost, this is considered Haunting the castle, which is so silly. I guess it makes sense, but the concept of "haunting" is just so silly! "You might not want to use the bathroom for a while, I just haunted it!" (ghost poop)

Bubble Ghost is a very cute ghost, with his winning smile and especially his strange antenna-like thing! That is the kind of appendage I would expect from a non-human ghost. If human ghosts are so widely accepted to get so abstracted from their living forms, why not anything else? Maybe Bubble Ghost IS the ghost of an angler fish. Awesome

This ghost is intangible, but his breath is NOT, which raises many questions. Is this just a case of ghosts being able to create supernatural wind? I don't think so, because his face gets red if he blows too much. This is real breath! So what's a ghost doing breathing? What's the use? I'll tell you the use. It is to direct the bubble through the halls of the castle! This is a very unique game where you control the ghost, but the bubble is what needs to get to the goal of each screen, and of course, as a bubble, it is very fragile. I like it! I am okay at it.

The Game Boy version goes with the cutesy, barebones story of "the ghost plays with a bubble for fun", but most other versions have Lore! This little creature of a ghost is the spirit of inventor Heinrich von Schtinker, who according to one version died from testing his electric bubble pipe in the bathtub. Whatever the case he is Dead, but he sure likes blowing a bubble around! One version even says that the bubble IS Heinie's soul. So in that case... what is a ghost? Is the ghost the real bubble?

Look at THIS cover art. Wowzers. That's not the kind of ghost for me! This looks like a cheeky modern Bubble Ghost trying to do a Jojo parody! The bubble even looks more like a Steel Ball! I don't think I would purchase this game with this as my first impression, and I think this ghost would pummel me into paste for not buying it.

THIS, though? This is impeccable. You see the Bubble Ghost text. You see a bubble reflecting a ghost. Yes, this is what you expect from the title. But how? It stirs intrigue! And despite the darkness and the spooky font, the ghost's playful expression reassures you that this is a silly fun time to be had. But really, the words Bubble and Ghost are all I need to be interested! I like those things! It's that simple!

[eleccy]

I think I see Apollo's character as very much not subservient to Kristoph Gavin. Even when he was working for him. Someone pointed it out in my fic comments and I'm glad they did because it's part of Apollo's nature to me that he argues and clashes with authority even before Phoenix manipulates him. Apollo was starry-eyed at the beginning but he was still quite suspicious and sassy, which I immediately liked about him. @katrinakaiba understands.

Like for example, after the Judge talks about Kristoph being the "best attorney in town" Apollo thinks to himself "Yeah, Gavin's got skills, but does he have Chords of Steel?". Granted he didn't say that out loud, he does have respect for his mentor. But merely the fact that he thinks this shows that while he looks up to Kristoph, there's a level of snark there in his mind. And Kristoph even tolerates Apollo's snark levels at certain points, especially insofar as it's directed towards Phoenix or Payne. He does pipe up about manners when Apollo makes a comment about the Judge's hearing. This is probably just something he's trying to teach Apollo about how you should act in front of the Judge, though (which is why it's so funny when Kristoph gets lightly reprimanded by the Judge later for sarcastic remarks)

Apollo absolutely describes Kristoph as his "trusted mentor" in the Profiles section, and in the French translation adds "I owe him everything". There's a lot of loyalty there, and the fact that Apollo does feel comfortable being himself in front of Kristoph generally is, to me, a sign that their relationship was quite warm and familiar as opposed to a master who disciplines a student harshly. Kristoph actually seems fairly selective about the guidance that he does provide, encouraging Apollo to try to figure it out by himself first before turning to him for help. He does talk over Apollo a bit, but that's more due to the scenario (even though, I'm sure it happened a lot even outside of court). He seems to be a bit more focused on making sure that Apollo understands (1) how to build a case, (2) how to avoid committing a social faux pas in court, and (3) how to corner a witness, which are all actually really useful.

I really want to explore this characterization more because it says a lot about how Kristoph really was, a kind teacher whom nobody would suspect. It's difficult to believe how someone so pleasant could hide so much, so easily.

[bomberqueen17]

the saga isn't quite over yet tho

So, the kitchen. Well it still needs painting but also now I have to put everything away. We ate dinner Friday night over at dude's mom's house because all our food was there and also we didn't have chairs in the new kitchen yet.

Yeah. We gotta go find chairs.

First I want to start off with this detail.

[image description: a close-up of the white tiled wall, where it intersects with the ceiling, one of the cabinets, and the stainless steel vent hood over the stove. The tiles are staggered in a regular pattern, but there is a tiny, maybe half-inch-wide segment of tile next to the cabinet in every other row, which I know Jim had to painstakingly trim off and carefully adhere like that, so that it looks like the pattern goes behind the cabinet.] I pointed those out to Jim and said I loved them, and he smiled and said they were a pain in the ass but there's no other way to do it, and I said I would always always look at them and think about what a pain in the ass they had been to do.

Anyway. Friday evening we brought the cat over and she realized with delight she could not only get to her window but also then traverse the entire expanse of cabinet, daintily picking her way over the stove to go over the sink and stare out that window too. She's not likely to get into stuff and clearly did not enjoy crossing the stove, so I'm not super worried about her actually getting into trouble. We made do, sitting at the counter on a combo of the folding stool and dude's work chair which is adjustable to... not high enough but... well at least it's sort of comfortable.

There is a pile of very long trim pieces that is shoved into the living room and is sort of preventing use of about half the couch, so I didn't have anywhere else to sit all evening, lol. Good thing the chair was comfy, and I didn't totally mind it being too low.

But I was resolved that Saturday we were getting chairs somehow.

Saturday morning we got up and got ready, and discovered that our coffeemaker, a Mr. Coffee in excess of 15 years of age, had developed a fatal issue. Dude's mom only has a little one-cup Keurig and so we brought our machine over, and in the move it developed a crack in the pipe that brings water from the heating element to distribute it over the grounds. This is not really repairable. I had to kind of convert it from a drip to a pour-over, and stood there with the kettle carefully pouring water through the basket. RIP Mr. Coffee, you served us well and long.

Dude opened Wirecutter and looked up drip coffeemakers. He also researched stainless steel cleaners for me, and confirmed our itinerary with me.

We hit the road and got to Target before 9am. We got a bin to fit under the sink for recyclables, we got the last bits of shelf liner I still needed, we got a dish drainer (a nice, new, small one so we could retire the large decaying bamboo one we got also 15 years ago). We got hot glue sticks, randomly, because I need some. And we got the Cuisinart coffee maker that Wirecutter had said was the best drip coffeemaker for most people.

Then we went to Big Lots in case they had counter-height stools. They didn't.

Then we went to a different commercial region ten minutes away. (That's how it works, there are little clusters of shops along various roads and there's different ones in different areas. This other cluster also had a Target but an inferior one.) We went first to a plaza with a Petco, to get the special cat food Chita likes that isn't at the grocery store, and next door to that was a Harbor Freight, that sometimes has good rolling stools, but they did not have anything suitable. Next to *that* was a Raymour & Flanagan furniture store.

Well. When we entered the furniture store, we unwittingly passed through some kind of portal, as it was much larger on the inside than on the outside. We wandered, dazed and lost and slightly overheated; we sat in some chairs and they weren't quite right, those were too hard, these had nail head designs on the backs that dude didn't like, these were a dark wood that matched nothing in our house. The saleslady found us and asked to help, and we tried to show her the first ones we'd looked at, which had been sort of close to what we wanted, but we could not find them and roamed a long time, together with her, finding new rooms full of other furniture, lost and weary. Finally she just searched their website, and found that nothing answered the description we'd given her and that she was sure she'd also seen somewhere around here. She gave us her card, and we stumbled back out into the morning, feeling like we'd sojourned a thousand years in the fairy world.

We went to Homegoods, which I'd been to the week before, and they'd had some stools that I thought sounded a lot like what Dude was describing as his desired seating item. So I led him straight to them. They had a total of six stools in their display. Four of them were of one set. And Dude was like "Oh yeah! Just like that!"

So we pulled one out and sat on it, and it was comfortable enough, and the right height, and functional, so we said probably we should get these. And we went over and got some kitchen storage thingies, some lazy susans and a drawer organizer thing and whatever, but then we came back to these stools and there was an employee there and we asked her if we were supposed to just shove these in our cart or what and she was like oh hang on and got a guy from the back to come take them to the front, and he was like "your name's on 'em so just say those are yours when you check out". Bada-bing. We got two of them, apparently Nautica brand, which I've heard of but don't know anything about. Sure!

[image description: a view into the trunk of a hatchback (Subaru Forester), showing two gray-upholstered wooden stools crammed in 69-style to the left (in the progress of being crammed in, there's Dude's arm in the middle pushing the second one), and to the right is a Target bag and the box of a coffeemaker and the recycle bin and all the shit we got at Target jumbled into the corner.]

Triumphant, we set out for home, but there was another furniture store on the way home and Dude wondered if we ought to go see, just to see what they had. So we did, we went in and I beelined for the recliners.

See, the thing is, Dude's mom has a recliner in her living room. And it's the throne, where she watches TV. And Chita loves to sit on it, it's where she spent most of the time we were staying there. And I sat in it mostly because that's where the cat wanted to be, but oh wow, it was comfortable. And lo... when I stood up, my hip was in the right place, and there was no pain, unlike when I unfold myself from shrimping on the couch and have to put myself back together every time.

And yeah my general pain levels were way down the whole time we stayed there, even though the mattress is way too hard and ought to have fucked me up pretty good. And...

shit. I'm the kind of middle-aged that needs a recliner.

And they had one, at Ashley, and it was on sale for enough that the delivery fee and taxes still made it come out less than the sticker said. But they can't deliver it until late January. Which is fine because our living room is full of kitchen furniture and I have to finish putting all of it away.

So. New kitchen and also new living room furniture. But I'll worry about that later.

Now we could go home triumphantly and get started putting stuff away.

The chairs are yet another neutral, but it's a coordinating neutral, they kind of match the countertops, with a creamy-white kind of base color flecked in grays. We have made no progress thereby at choosing a color for the kitchen-- I had been prepared to accept a boldly-colored item and have to pick colors around it, but no. We remain classy, tasteful, and neutral, and I'm going to have to do something about it.

[image description: A bay window with a glossy countertop in front of it, and in front of that are a pair of counter-height stools, with cream-upholstered seats and backs, and wooden legs.]

I think I need a better lamp to go on this windowsill. There's plenty of lighting in the room, but no non-overhead light for this space, and nothing controllable from this end of the room. I'm vaguely considering a tiny chandelier if I can find such a thing, that would be fun.

I also think it would be fun to install some kind of art piece up there in that chunk of wall between the trim and the ceiling, you see that narrow band there? It's like six or eight inches by like. 48 inches. I'll measure it later. A slogan would be funny but I also just had the idea of like, a mini Bayeux tapestry only depicting some other kind of event, not sure what.

I'll put it on the list, LOL.

Anyway-- the really critical things are 1) that it turns out our gray kitchen coordinates beautifully with our gray cat, who is of course the most beautiful, and 2) our gray cat can hop up on these stools and thus is able to avail herself of Attention and Snuggles. (I had worried I'd have to get her a stepstool I'd have to then leave set up, so she could reach this window.)

[Image description: a gray and white cat is encircled within a man's arms on the kitchen counter, and has the back of her neck pressed against his face, her eyes closed in contentment.] She was rubbing her ear against his nose, which is a thing she for some reason loves to do.

So. All is well. I've been putting things in cabinets and taking them back out, and running everything I possibly can through the dishwasher, and to my astonishment haven't wrecked a thing yet I didn't intend to (I already know from being at my sister's that a certain category of plastic container will mostly melt in there but that's fine if you're just trying to get it clean to recycle it, it's not like it gets onto other things). And Dude realized the dishwasher has an app, so he paired his phone to it.

At Middle-Little sister's prompting, we've named the dishwasher Suds MacKenzie, since it lets you pick a name and that's the funniest one we could think of.

We retrieved our groceries from Dude's mom's house and cooked dinner and set off the smoke alarm so now we've really broken it in.

The stove is *really level*. For the record.

[hirocimacruiser]

JZA70

Big single turbine transforms the car into a powerful one, making it the fastest Supra for city riding.

GT-R, Silvia, 180SX and RX7

It is hidden behind,

Yes, there aren't that many, but this

JZA70 Supra is also a popular car as a tune base. In the case of the Supra, tunes that aim for big power are popular due to its character. This 1992 Supra is also the original

It is the highest speed specification that squeezes out so-called top power, changing from a twin turbo to a big turbine. A large intercooler installed in the front section efficiently removes piping from the turbine.

It is pinged. It is important to keep the intercooler piping as short as possible to minimize resistance, and this is done well in the case of this Supra.

I received big power again

For this reason, a metal reinforced clutch is installed.

It has a heavy steering feel, but once you get used to it, you can ride it around town without any difficulty. Unfortunately, I didn't have a chance to fully open the accelerator and try out the full power, but the accelerator response was good and it wasn't difficult to handle even at low speeds. Finishing of the engine room Even just looking at it, I could feel its high level of perfection. The crossed legs of the coilover

The surroundings also feel good.

The interior has a nice steering wheel.

It has been changed to Italvolante, and the center console has Blitz's twin SBC and turbo timer built in, but it doesn't feel like a big turbine is installed. The exterior also catches the eye with the air scoop on the bonnet and the air intake for Turbo A, but the rest is just a book.

The traditional form is being utilized.

PIC CAPTIONS

●The special all-stainless muffler produces a thick exhaust note. When you step on the accelerator, you can experience the intense surge of torque that only a big turbine can provide.

●The air duct for Supra's Turbo A is installed by modifying the bumper. The cooling efficiency of the large intercooler installed inside has been increased. An air scoop is also installed on the hood.

●The original twin turbo, which emphasizes response, was changed to a large single turbo with big power, and the engine room has been seriously tuned and is beautifully finished.

INFO BOX

Supra 2.5R twin turbo

1992 model with 2 years of inspection

Mileage 44,000km 1,980,000 yen

Tune data: K.27 turbine

large type intercooler

stainless Muffler

metal reinforced clutch

vehicle high pitch

turbo duct

stainless steel

muffler original compilation

SHOP INFO

liberty cars

847 Kurami, Samukawa-cho, Koza-gun, Kanagawa 253-01

0467-73-1496

It relocated from Ebina City and opened on November 1st. There are a wide variety of tuning cars, from light to hard. We only have young staff, so please feel free to come. We also sell parts and mail order.

[shintin]

Glory-Hole

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

One-shot (A cut from Gunpowder Dreams fic)

Summary: Trapped in a mafia's clutches, you embark on a daring escape from the relentless grip of Vash, the enigmatic boss. However, freedom comes at a price as you face the unforgiving consequences of your defiance. In this thrilling tale of survival, navigate a treacherous world where alliances shift, and shadows hold secrets. Can you outwit the formidable Vash and break free, or will you succumb to the merciless retribution that awaits?

(For more details, read the original story linked above.)

Word count: +6 k.

Genre: explicit smut (Mafia au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, Alternative Universe/Modern Setting, no spoilers from manga and anime, dominate Vash the Stampede, dub-con, toxicity, gunplay, manhandling, unprotected sex, biting, etc.

Notes: I just wanted to write gunplay smut.

Disclaimer: The gunplay scene is inspired by the books I've read.

Song Recommendation: Nancy Sinatra - Bang Bang

You can read my fics on AO3 and Wattpad. If you have any questions, don’t be shy and ASK. This is my DISCORD account, in case you want to contact me.

Back to the master list.

As you sat motionless, a realization gripped you: escape from this house was an unattainable feat. He was smart, but the scariest part was your inability to anticipate a single one of his thoughts. You felt like a dumb rabbit while he, as cunning as a fox, remained one step ahead.

"You're not touching me," you hissed, your voice wobbly and rife with unshed tears.

"What you gonna do if I do?" He directed his gaze toward the ceiling and the pipes. "I'm glad it's the dead of night, and this room is almost soundproof. So, you won't disturb anyone's peaceful slumber."

Driven by instinct, fear propelled you to your feet as you hurriedly made your way to the door, frantically grasping the handle and repeatedly tugging it up and down.

Open!

Please, open!

As you wrestled with the doorknob, attempting to force it open, a sturdy steel arm suddenly encircled your waist and lifted you off the ground.

"NO!" A piercing scream erupted from your lips as you kicked futilely at the space, fiercely resisting his grip.

"Oh, yes, love," he growled, swinging your body towards the wall.

You grunted from the impact, leaning your back against the wall; this time, you used it as leverage to kick against the bastard of a man. "Let me go, you fucking creepy-ass fuck—"

"Keep talking, and you'll just make it worse."

You screeched, out of breath and growing weaker, as he pinned your flailing body against the wall, rendering you powerless.

"We had a deal, didn't we?" Vash asked in a panting tone.

A tear spilt over your lid. And then another and another until you were on the verge of sobbing again. "We had, but—"

"Don't cry, love," he cooed. "It's going to get so much worse."

His breath skated over your cheek as he pressed himself further into your body, just like in the previous encounter. Towering over you, his larger frame enveloped you completely until all you could see, feel, and smell was him—his warmth, the distinctive scent that was uniquely his, and the way his black-clad body surrounded you.

"I like you scared," he whispered, sending shivers down your core. "I like you begging and pleading. Crying out for imaginary Gods to save you."

You felt the touch of leather on your face, and you flinched away. His fingers delicately traced a path from your cheekbone to your hair, gently tucking stray strands behind your ear. "I like you trembling beneath my touch, uncontrollably."

"You're sick," you snapped, doing just that. You were shaking from head to toe, and you couldn't seem to stop it.

“You think your pleas will only arise when your life is at stake, but you are mistaken," he grunted, letting out a deep, mocking laugh. "In due time, you will beg for my touch, craving it desperately."

"That'll never happen," you hissed, glaring at him with all your might. Or at least you thought you were. The dim light emanating from the ceiling lights shadowed his eyes. It felt almost like being far-sighted. Your face was so close to something, but clarity evaded you. The shadows were a part of him. He carried them around.

"It's time to punish you, and I've thought of the many ways I could do this," he said, ignoring your jab. It only infuriated you more that he found your lack of consent so inconsequential. So… worthless. "I'll be nice this time." You opened your mouth, but he cut you off with a deep growl of warning, "But only if you reciprocate, love."

Your teeth audibly snapped together, the sound punctuating the air and drawing yet another amused grunt from him. Your pride took a hit, and you wanted to knee him in the balls for it, but you couldn't lift your leg an inch as you tried.

"You freak! What are you going to do?" you spat out, the stutter of your words in sync with the beat of your heart. His searing breath brushed against your cheek as you felt the gentle glide of his lips tracing along your jawline. You swallowed but nearly choked from how dry your throat had become. Those lips descend to the column of your neck, skittering along until he paused on the spot right below your ear.

"I'm gonna play with my toy," he declared right before his teeth clamped down. Your back arched involuntarily, repulsion and pleasure marrying in your nerves, sending misfires to your brain. All coherent thoughts escaped from your mind, leaving behind only primal instincts to guide your actions.

But, somehow, as if he was electrocuted, he distanced himself. His gaze shifted downwards towards the collar of his shirt. The cross was there, concealed on his chest. His eyes changed momentarily, remorseful, maybe disgusted by what he had become. As if he was lost, struggling to find himself, but instead, his eyes found you—the one with the answers.

You wished you could show him hatred, but seeing your pleasure, he groaned, his teeth piercing as his tongue lapped at your flesh. Your mouth opened, and a silent scream suctioned away just as his mouth did the same, drawing in deep like he was drinking the essence from your body. And then, with a lingering sensation of pain, he withdrew, his teeth grazing your skin as he released his hold, leaving behind a stinging reminder.

Your hands pressed into his chest for stability or to push him away. You were not sure. Though your question was quickly answered when instinct coerced your hands to curl, gripping his shirt tight and anchoring yourself to him as if he was your lifeline. When in reality, he was the one killing you.

Severe shivers wracked your body when he licked a wet path with his tongue, descending from your neck towards the juncture where your nipples resided. He paused, and it felt as if your body teetered precariously over a sharpened blade. You held your breath, the anticipation rattling your bones. And then he was biting down again, pulling an animalistic sound from your chest. He did this, over and over, leaving behind a trail of bruises that marked his territory along your neck and across your shoulder.

You were breathless by the time he pulled away. "Good girl," he finally exhaled, his own voice airy. Somehow, that made you feel worse. You wanted him to hate it as much as you should've. "You like this, don't you?"

"I…ah," you panted, trying hard to conceal the depths of your desires because you were revealing more and more as he went further. You were fucking seconds away from reaching out and grabbing his cock through his pants and begging him to fuck you since you hadn't been touched by a human for a long time, let alone a man, and this thing in front of you had the power to make you momentarily forget everything, despite being the very reason for your need to escape reality. Then something occurred to your mind.

You couldn't explain why you did what you did next. You would ask Gods later. But at that moment, you were so overcome with a tsunami of emotions that you reached up and bit his tattooed neck. Hard, and you didn't care, just bit harder. Maybe you wanted to hurt him back, give him a taste of his own medicine, make him feel whatever you felt.

Regardless of the reason, he didn't take kindly to it. His hand wrapped around your throat, exerting pressure as he forcefully pushed you back, simultaneously tearing himself away from your body. He was squeezing tightly, but you couldn't care less. You felt justified. If he killed you here and now, at least you could say you left one last mark on him.

He growled low, a sound of frustration and an unnamed emotion that eluded definition. "I'm beginning to think you like to be punished, which means I'm just going to have to do better."

Before you could react, he hoisted you up, effortlessly tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Fucker!" you snapped, your fists pounding against his back as you thrashed your exposed legs. You were not a potato.

A sharp smack to your ass was his only response. "Love, the wind can do more harm than what you're doing."

"Want to see my teeth again, asshole? I'll sure to grab your ugly face this time."

"Keep telling yourself that, but deep down, we both know this face is making you wet," he retorted, amusement coloring his words. Snarling, you resented his fucking unruffled calm. And because he was not entirely wrong. No, dumbass, he was wrong. He must be wrong.

More curses flooded out of your mouth, but they were cut short when he dragged your body down his front until your legs were wrapped around his waist, and he was cradling you to his chest. Oh, fuck this. You lifted your hands to scratch his face, maybe do a little eye-gouging, but instead, you just squealed. He swooped you backward, your stomach bottoming out as he set you on the bed, flat on your back. Your robe came undone, leaving you inadequately covered when he hovered over you, his arms positioned on either side of your head as he braced himself over you. You swallowed, tears pricking your eyes. "What a gentleman! Letting me look at your obnoxious face as you murder me," you mouthed off, forcing the words through your tightened throat.

You really needed to shut the fuck up. But you couldn't seem to stop yourself. Apparently, when you were in a life-threatening situation, all you could manage to do was make it worse. While some might perceive it as fearlessness, you could only assume it as an act of sheer stupidity.

Balancing himself with one hand, he reached behind him with the other. As you prepared to unleash more insults from your mouth, his arm emerged, revealing a tightly gripped gun.

Another audible tick of your teeth later, you were back to being choked silent with fear.

"I told you not to run away. I told you to follow the orders," he stated, his tone bled dry of emotion. "Typically, I would choose to crack open your skull and forcibly implant the words in your brain, but it seems you require a different method to learn your lesson."

"Okay, I'm sorry," you rushed out, your eyes widening as he pointed the gun at your chest. "I-I'm really, rea—"

"Shh," he hushed. "You're not sorry yet, love. But you will be."

A myriad of thoughts ran through your head on what you could possibly say to get out of this. You were sorry clearly, wasn't good enough. "You're going to shoot me?"

Your bladder threatened to explode, and knowing that you might die in a puddle of pee brought tears to your eyes. A bewildering cocktail of emotions engulfed you. Fear had gripped you tightly, its icy tendrils coiling around your heart, as you found yourself trapped in this fucked up situation. Yet, amidst the suffocating grip of fear, there was a grotesque sense of fascination. You couldn't deny the perverse allure that came with the feeling of being trapped, as if a part of you savored being confined, even as it elicited a thrilling sensation. WHAT? What the fuck was wrong with you?

"You gonna taste this gun one way or another," he responded, his tone dripping with impatience. He punctuated his response by dragging the gun down through the valley of your breasts. The weapon continued its way down your stomach, stopping at the edge of your robe's tie. "Will you take the bullet or the gun?" As he inclined his head, his neck tattoos stretched, emphasizing the presence of the pulsating veins that wound their way towards his enigmatic mind. Meanwhile, the small golden loop on his left ear playfully winked at you while he patiently awaited her response.

"Are you fucking serious?" you panicked, your hands gripping the ends of the tie tightly, the fabric moist with sweat. He must be kidding, right?

"I was going to take it easy on you, but when you act like a rabid puppy, you leave me with no choice but to tame you," he said, tracing the tip of his gun along the edges of the robe. "This is your last chance, or I'll do as I see fit."

Your lip trembled, and a single tear slid down your temple. "Please, don't do this."

He cocked a brow, and the act was damning. He appeared so damn unimpressed with your pleas, causing another tear to trace the path of the first. You had to survive, didn't you? You had to endure long enough to witness this man's demise with your own eyes, didn't you? It couldn't hurt that much, could it? Just focus on counting, fixating your gaze upon the cracks in the wall, and listening to the faint chirping of crickets emanating from the pipes.

You gulped and answered, "I-I'll…"

"You'll what? I need you to be loud and clear."

"Y-your…your gun…" you stuttered, words all dropping dead on your dry tongue.

"What about my gun?" he inquired, sliding the weapon beneath the tobe and directing it towards your bellbottoms. " Say it, love. Utilize that sharp tongue of yours that knows how to hurl curses."

With your eyes tightly shut, you released your grip on the tie, your hands trembling. "I... I'll... I'll take the gun."

"Take off your robe," he ordered, moving back a little. "Now!"

Sniffing, you finally listened. Hooking your thumbs into the robe's belt, you undid the tie. You fought the urge to cover yourself. Because you knew that the act of hiding would bring him greater delight than being almost entirely naked before him. He dug the thrill of conquering through struggle, and you were determined to deny him that win. You were only able to slide it a little before the muzzle of the gun got in the way.

He took the hint, grabbed the robe, and harshly moved it aside. More tears followed suit as you stuck your thighs together.

"Open your eyes and look at me."

You did as he said; your gaze got tied with his. Yet, as you stared into his eyes, you noticed something unexpected. No hatred, resentment, or even lust reflected in them. Instead, it was a vacant look devoid of any deeper meaning. It dawned on you that violence was his only language, his sole response to the world around him. He had not learned any other way to navigate life. Perhaps the only bright spot in his existence had been his beloved, cruelly taken away.

Maybe, but maybe in a parallel world, you thought, he could have been a different person—a better person, surrounded by love and family. In that alternate reality, you might have looked at him with a second glance, for his eyes, the deep azure pools, his lips, and his face were reminiscent of something celestial, qualities that angels themselves would possess, not those cast out from heaven.

Vash's touch shocked you back to reality, causing you to startle, as if you were about to leap out of your own skin. You had to beg your bones to stop shaking.

"Next, your hands," he commanded, jerking his gun to emphasize his directive. Reluctantly, you moved your arms away from your body and let them drop onto the sheets with a huff.

"Stunning," he murmured, his eyes tracing over the curves of your body. He leaned over you again, his mouth kissing the last bruise he left on your shoulder. "Do you know what these mean?" he whispered, pressing another gentle kiss to a different spot on your skin.

You shuddered beneath his touch, electricity sprouting from the point of contact and dancing across your skin. You didn't answer, but he didn't seem to mind. "Those marks," he stated with a sense of ownership, "signify that you belong to me."

The tip of his tongue darted out, trailing your flesh as he moved down towards your breasts.

"Don't—"

His teeth pierced the nipple of your left breast before you could finish your futile plea. You gasped, squeezing your eyes shut as he left another mark on your skin. "Now, whenever you see these, you'll remember me," he said, claiming your body for his own.

Once satisfied, he moved to the other nipple, leaving his own hickeys on your it. And all you could do was just take it.

When your body was well and abused by his teeth and tongue, he lifted and forced your thighs apart. You strained against him, but it only hurt you in the end. He was too strong. With a firm grip on your waist, his clothed forefinger traced the delicate crease of your groin, starting from the juncture of your thigh and trailing downward towards the very center of your being.

Before his finger reached your clit, he tantalizingly ran it up and down your engorged vulva, coming perilously close to your pussy. The sensations were overwhelming, and you felt deeply ashamed as you realized your body was responding to his touch. You wanted to cover your face because you knew he was feeling your body's betrayal.

"You're drenched," he rasped out, his lips still wet from his saliva. The sweet Vash with kind eyes had vanished entirely.

"That's called discharge! Your stupid ass wouldn't know that!" you snapped, hoping your lie would shoo him away.

He responded with a smile. "As much as I hate to say this to you, I'm no stranger to a woman's pussy and what it feels like when it weeps for me."

Your eyes widened. So this fucker had slept with women too? It seemed he had explored every possible avenue. Disgust curled your lip as you retorted, "Last time I checked, most girls weep because they're upset. Maybe you should take a hint."

He let out a chuckle. "Love, that's exactly what I'm doing."

With a firm grip, he spread your legs apart, baring your pussy to him, where the arousal glistened from within. He muttered a curse under his breath as his eyes hungrily devoured every detail of your being. Another tremble of your lips had you biting down on the traitorous flesh.

With one finger still positioned on your pussy, he raised the gun to your face with his other hand. You flinched back, squeezing your eyes shut and letting loose a startled yelp. "Calm down," he reassured you, his tone strained. "I just want you to suck it."

It took several seconds for his words to register. To process that he didn't pull the trigger and you were not dead. As the comprehension dawned, your eyes flew open, and you shot him a fierce glare. "Why the hell—"

He tapped the gun's tip against your mouth, effectively cutting you off. The remainder of your words dissipated into thin air as he glided the gun across your lips, almost as if he was painting them with lipstick.

"Suck," he ordered, his tone deepening with finality. Closing your eyes against more tears, you opened your mouth and obediently opened your mouth, allowing him to guide the gun between your teeth. You squeezed your lids tighter as you twirled your tongue over the cold metal, cringing from the nasty taste.

"My good girl," he said, pulling the dripping gun out, a trail of saliva following until it snapped.

Your entire body locked when the cool metal slid against your clit. You flinched against the foreign touch of an incredibly dangerous weapon. A wave of pure terror washed over you, and it took all your strength to keep from full-on sobbing.

Holding a gun to your head was far less intimidating than it being held between your legs. A gunshot to the head would bring instant death, but this? This would be slow and painful. Torturous.

He leaned in, close enough for his warm breath to caress your core. You raised yourself, yearning for a clearer view. At that moment, he met your gaze, peering up at you through his long, thick lashes, his perfect blue eyes sparkling with delight.

As you parted your lips to question what he was doing, he stuck out his tongue, saliva pooling to the tip and dripping off onto your pussy.

"Seems like you can never be too wet, can you, love?" Sitting up, he traced circles around your entrance with the gun, the metal slipping against your skin.

What if he shoots you mistakenly?

"Oh, my God, please do—" This time, your words were cut off as he pressed the gun past your folds. Just the tip, but enough to close your throat, only allowing a startled squeak to escape.  

He laughed cruelly. "Don't hold back. Moan if you want."

You'd snap at him if you weren't frozen solid. You couldn't look away. Helplessly, you just watched him push the gun inside you, your rounded eyes barely processing what you saw and felt. Everything so fucking surreal.

Slowly, he worked the gun inside you, eliciting both pleasure and pain. You clenched your jaw, shuddering from his ministrations but refusing to make a sound. You were determined not to grant him the satisfaction.

He gradually worked the weapon halfway in before retracting it to the very tip, granting you a brief moment to catch your breath. However, that respite was short-lived as he buried the entire barrel deep within you. Your hands clenched the sheets as you sucked in a sharp gasp and let your head fall back, unable to bear witness any longer, drained of the strength to endure the sight.

This was so, so fucked up. Beyond fucked up.

As the gun pulled back and penetrated you once more, a noise did slip through as a wave of pleasure rocked through you. FUCK!

"Good girl," he breathed. "Now open wider, love." His free hand nudged against your thigh. Without a thought, your thighs instinctively parted further. Another praise, but you barely heard it over the beating of your heart.

"I can feel how tight your pussy is. The way it clings to my gun when I slide it out—exquisite."

You bit your lip, but it wasn't enough to hold in the forthcoming moan. Or the one after that. You could hear the suctioning and slurping noises as he fucked you with his gun, and shame filled you in response. The embarrassment nearly overrode the fear. But neither was more potent than the pleasure your body was compelled to submit to.

When he angled the gun in a particular way, he hit the spot inside you that sent your eyes to the back of your head and an unchecked moan to slip free. He growled in response, further fueling your arousal. Your back arched as he skillfully continued to target and stimulate that pleasurable area.

Your hole grew impossibly tight, biting into the gun barrel when his gloved hand gripped your thigh in a bruising hold. Your heart jumped when he leaned closer but only clamped his teeth onto your inner thigh. You cried out from the sharp bite, but it quickly morphed into a moan, sending waves of ecstasy coursing through your body as he hit that spot again.

His mouth sucked your thigh, and his movements quickened until you felt the familiar stirrings of an impending orgasm settled low in the pit of your stomach.

"Please," you begged but didn't know what for. He relented, briefly tearing his mouth away, only to clamp down again, this time lower but still frustratingly distant from your center. Too far away. Sadly far away.

"Tell me what you learned, love," he demanded, looking up at you, his mouth wet from his biting. The sight made your heart drop deep into your belly, right to where the gun was driving into you.

"Not to bite you?" you guessed, your voice trembling as if you were high. He answered by biting your thigh in a punishing grip. You cried out, the pain blinding. He loosened his jaw, allowing the pain to blend with pleasure.

A primal, guttural sound slipped out as he thrust the gun deep. "Are you going to make me ask again?"

You opened your mouth, but no answer came out. Your silence allowed you to hear his warning loud and clear. He cocked the gun.

"Okay, okay, fuck," you relented with a terrified hush. "I-I learned not to run away from my cage." Those words brought tears to your eyes because uttering them aloud made you feel truly trapped by this man.

"Who owns your life, love?"

You closed your eyes, resenting the lie on the tip of your tongue, ready to spill forth just like the tears streaming down your face. "You," you whispered, the bitter taste of the words clogging your throat.

A battlefield raged in your body.

One part of you craved his touch, longing for him to make you come. Meanwhile, another part of you harbored a dark desire, wishing for him to turn the gun upon himself and fire it.

You glanced downwards at him and noted how he was staring at you. And you had the terrifying realization that he saw through your deceit and didn't believe your lies.

"You have ten more seconds to come, love. No more chances after that," he warned before nipping at your thigh again. "Rub your clit."

You hesitated. The last thing you wanted to do was allow this man the satisfaction of making you come and, even worse, helping him do it. In your mind, he didn't fucking deserve it. And though your body was strung tight with desperation for release, your mind rebelled against the idea.

"Now," he shouted, his eyes blazing with something carnal and dangerous.

Muttering a curse, you reached down and twirled your fingers over your clit, too scared of the potential consequences. If it was between orgasming and getting shot, you were going to have to choose the option that would cause the least damage.

"Good girl," he whispered. It took two more thrusts of the gun before you were propelled over the edge, your ass shooting clear off the ground as the orgasm ripped through you. You were screaming. You could feel the sound vibrating the muscles in your throat and turning it increasingly hoarse. But you couldn't hear it. Not when your entire being was consumed in fire and ice, and you could only see a blissful heaven.

The gun worked inside of you faster and deeper, drawing out the orgasm until you were literally begging for it to come to an end. He ripped the weapon out of you, and your thighs snapped shut instantly, sealing off the remnants of your shameful orgasm.

You were left a shuddering mess from the aftershocks as the waves of pleasure subsided. Meanwhile, his body towered over you. Through your half-lidded eyes, still jerking from the little shocks, you glanced up and met his gaze. His face broke into the broadest smile you had ever seen on his face, and you noticed he had dimples.

He had fucking dimples.

He was easily the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. And you wished you'd never seen it. Because something inside your heart was being torn apart, and it felt like fear, it tasted like panic, and you didn't know how to understand the image in front of you.

You didn't want to see Vash like this. You vehemently refused to perceive him as anything other than a monster. This wasn't right. Your body was full of rage, humiliation, and shame—you knew this. But it was like your brain couldn't process those emotions, so it was just choosing to feel nothing at all. Was this what trauma did? Knowing that you had been violated, yet your body opting for a state of numbness instead?

The silver cross sprung from his shirt, diverting your gaze to the scar it adorned. "Lick this clean," he said, placing his gun onto your bared breast. "I can't use this when it's dripping your cum."

Like a magic trick, he pulled his body back, and every heat you had in your veins disappeared. With one last lingering look, he stood up and turned his back to you, his hands probably adjusting his pants. Then he began to walk leisurely toward the wall, floorboards creaking beneath his weight. Not even a passing glance was spared in your direction. Probably you didn't exist for him anymore. He had taken what he wanted, reducing you to nothingness.

Men.

As he neared the worn-out brick wall, his hand delved into his pocket, retrieving a cigarette. With practiced precision, he placed it in the corner of his mouth. His fingers trembled as he reached for his lighter, or perhaps it was merely a figment of your imagination. Anyhow, he poised himself to ignite the flame, preparing to immerse himself in the disgusting cloud of smoke that would soon envelop him.

You moved without thinking, your hand wrapping around the sticky gun. You would never lick this shit. You stood on your feet, not caring about covering yourself. The second he realized what you'd done, he backed away, raising his hands in surrender—the stupid cigarette dangling between his lips.

You pointed the gun right at his fucking head, and all you wanted to do was blow it off. All you wanted to see was his brain exploding beneath the bullet. Because you were not looking into the face of the man who could easily steal your heart under different circumstances. You didn't see him at all. You only saw a faceless man who took what he wanted from you, and you let him. But now you wanted him to fucking burn for it.

Tears built in your eyes, your vision blurring. The gun was vibrating from how hard your hand trembled, but he stood close enough that you'd strike accurately. Whether the bullet hit his head, his throat, or his chest, you didn't care.

"Love," he whispered.

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing the sweet but stupid, stupid and stupid whisper out of your head. You didn't want to hear it.

"I haven't done anything to you." You voice cracked. "How can you hurt me like this?" Your eyes burned from the tears welling up. And within seconds, they spilt, running down your cheeks. It seemed like orgasm had pushed your feelings out with itself.

And he seemed to realize it too because a subtle change reflected in his eyes. "I asked you to stay away from trouble," he murmured, his voice so soft. "Why don't you listen to me?" He bared his teeth, his own ire flashing in his eyes. "Do you think I enjoy hurting you?"

"I do!" you shouted, thrusting the gun at him. You sucked in a sharp breath as a sob climbed up your throat. He nodded slowly, a glimmer of understanding replacing the anger that had once flamed in his eyes.

Deep down, you knew better. You knew he wasn't angry with you. He was angry because he was helpless. Hopeless. A goddamn lost cause. Because he would never be the same, and he knew that. But what he didn't know was what to do with it.

A sob escaped your throat, but the rage persisted. He slowly stepped towards you, like approaching a frightened animal with vicious teeth. His eyes didn't stray from yours as he advanced, and you were so close to slipping back into that paralyzing hold he had on you. Then he was right before you again, pressing his lips into the gun barrel.

"Does this make you feel powerful?" he murmured.

Another sob broke free, but you didn't lower the weapon.

"Does this make you feel free?"

You scowled but couldn't muster the courage to respond. You couldn't articulate what it made you feel—you just knew it made you feel something. You stared at the gun in your hand, at the smooth, heavy metal, and you were surprised to find that you enjoyed the way it nestled within your grip, like an extension of your body. It didn't frighten you anymore.

You could stand still in this moment forever.

"What you seem to have forgotten," he snarled, "is that I am already a dead man. I died months ago. So go ahead, pull that trigger, love. End the remaining fragments of my existence. I am nothing but a hollow vessel."

You broke and screwed your eyes shut against the flood of tears, but it was like putting a flimsy piece of paper over a bursting pipe. Agony etched across your face, consuming you completely. "I don't want to be here," you choked out, barely getting the words out before a gut-wrenching sob tore through your trembling lips.

"Let me help you—fuck love, just fucking kill me," he bit, his voice breaking. He opened his mouth, and the barrel slid in. His lips tightly closed around the gun, his eyes staring at you, begging you.

Pull the trigger.

It wasn't fair, but it was becoming harder and harder to look at Vash and blame him, too. You were beginning to revert to that weak, thoughtful part of yourself that was convinced your life wouldn't be such a goddamn shitshow if your father didn't come barreling into it.

But no! You would no longer let your emotions get in the way. You were supposed to play this game by its own rules. So if it were your turn to shoot, you would do it.

No hesitating. No understanding. Just pulling this little trigger.

Click.

To your dismay, there was only a vacant stillness, a blackhole that swallowed your hopes and replaced them with a rising tide of unease. Your chest resonated with the thunderous cadence of your own heart, the loud thud filling your ears as you refused to accept the defeat. Ignoring the gnawing doubts gnarling at your mind, you pulled the trigger again and again and again.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of the emptiness mocked your growing desperation.

A cold sweat bead on your brow as you stumbled backward, your body shaking with disbelief. Your eyes widened in horror as you stared at the gun, and when your gaze met his face, your world unraveled further into a maelstrom of darkness. His lips contorted into a wicked grin, now devoid of the innocence and sadness he pretended to have. The sight sent a tremor scurrying up your soul, your skin prickling with a nauseating blend of aversion and revulsion.

"You taste fantastic, love" Vash's voice slithered with a perverse delight as he savored the moment, his tongue caressing his lips in a vile display. His hands, tainted with malice, raked through his disheveled hair. Then with an ear-splitting crack, he twisted his neck, relishing in the discomfort he inflicted upon himself. "You hate me enough to try pulling the trigger four times?"

Your blood ran icy as his words seeped into your consciousness, a sting as bitter as poison. Suffocating the room, his laughter took on a haunting quality, a symphony of evilness. Each note of his amusement revealed the true nature of his depravity, shattering the fragile illusion of triumph you once held.

"Did you really think I'll leave you with a loaded gun?" Then as if to prove how simple-minded you were, he reached into his pocket, extracting the sixth bullet with a perverse flourish. He presented it before you, a diabolical offering that sealed your fate. The weight of that one extra little bullet pressed down upon you, an oppressive force that smothered any remnants of hope.

"Game over," he declared, his voice dripping with finality, each syllable a nail in the coffin of your aspirations. The room contracted around you, a claustrophobic arena that confined you to this sleepless nightmare. "You've got balls."

Your eyes snapped up, your mind working quickly to fit all the pieces together, and he was gaping at you, staring at you in a way that was entirely foreign to you, in a way that said he was utterly, absolutely amazed. You were not sure if he was proud.

But the fact that the gun was empty the whole time was a kick in the gut. No. It was a gun in the cunt.

"It… empty…bullet…" Stuttering, you turned to look at the bed, sheets still wet from your heinous climax, and then yourself, every inch of your body bare to his disgusting gaze.

Fingers coiling like vipers ready to strike, Vash extended his arm, reaching closer to your slumped figure. As his hand reached you, he guided it downward with deliberate precision, his touch a phantom of sweetness. You remained motionless, your body as still as a fragile porcelain doll, your spirit hollowed out by his relentless torment. You offered no resistance, Your limbs heavy with acceptance. It didn't have a meaning anyway. This was his playground, and you were nothing but a worthless pawn.

The room held its breath, like you when you thought his fingers were headed for your hole again, only to find them closing around the gun with an ironclad grip.

He leaned closer to your ear, whispering, "You're far too naïve. I would never take even the slightest risk of losing my favorite toy."

Your eyes got shot closed, your lips pressing on each other as he planted a kiss on your temple and walked out without any more words.

You opened your mouth, and you screamed. You screamed and screamed until your voice cracked beneath the pressure. Until you feared your throat would shred from the force. You wanted to crawl outside of your body so desperately. Just so you could escape this feeling. No. You wanted that gun loaded with bullets to turn it on yourself.

One last shout ripped out of your throat, this one so full of pain that brought you to your knees. You crumbled. The raw sound tapered off, fading into a hoarse, staccato cry. You sucked in a deep breath, filling your lungs with oxygen you didn't want, but you were too lost in your grief to scream like you wanted to.

I know this one-shot kinda doesn't make sense, but I'd be damned if I hadn't done it.

[blametheeditor]

Day 5 | Fawning

Gt July Prompt List

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When stranded on an uncharted underwater planet, alone and surrounded by hostile lifeforms, there are only two possible outcomes: adapt and survive, or die trying.

Spoilers: For the game Subnautica

Content Warnings: Mentions of death and violence. Mentions of drowning and suffocation. Referring to someone as 'it'. Mentions of dehumanization.

________________________

Fritz wouldn’t describe himself as stubborn. But he certainly is much too hopeful for his own good. 

Case in point, despite having needed a few days to heal from being attacked by something well over ten times his size, the teenager decided he should at the very least try to communicate with the unknown leviathan.

Now don’t get him wrong. He’s not just going to throw himself at it. Just because there are human characteristics doesn’t mean it’s sentient, or has a level of intelligence needed to understand Fritz himself is harmless. And if it is sentient, the same language wouldn’t be spoken. Which means he has to be extremely careful or end up dead. 

Fritz understands what’s at stake. Petrified at the thought of going so much as a mile radius of where he was attacked. But he can either go to the Aurora terrified of an inevitable repeat, or he can learn to at the very least can distract it so he doesn’t end up running for his life. 

That’s how he finds himself staring at his seamoth from the metal tube he had escaped through last time, a one time saving grace turned into an official safe space. One he admits had been beyond lucky to find. Considering it’s undeniably from the Aurora, the fact it landed at just the right angle, with just enough force or timing to get buried into the sand. Not to mention due to its length, it guaranteed had been used to transport toxic fluids throughout the ship, but that’s why Fritz always wears his radiation suit. 

Why he wants to get to the ship sooner rather than later. Because who knows how the damaged reactor, engines, and everything in between could be effecting the ecosystem around it. 

Focus.

Fritz tears his gaze away from Lefty, silently promising to try and deconstruct the seamoth to rebuild completely new. As long as he finds a way to guarantee a safe timeframe to swim out into the open. But to do that he needs to summon the leviathan. 

The one that caused such damage. The one that nearly killed him in the process. That one. 

After checking every crack available to try and catch sight of disturbed sand or a fleeing figure, he carefully makes his way toward the pipe’s large opening. Sets a hand on his rapidly beating heart at the vast ocean before him. Murky, and dark, nothing but death waiting for whoever challenges it. 

Fritz hesitates for a moment. Stares down at his shaking hands. 

Last chance to turn back.

He steels himself, cupping his hands around his mouth as he gives the loudest scream he possibly can. Dives deeper into the pipe within half a second. Curls up tightly as he waits, hoping that was all that was needed. 

There’s nothing. And then the roar that’s been haunting his nightmares sends a chill racing up his back. 

The leviathan technically isn’t fast as it swims up from the depths right in front of Fritz. It doesn’t have to be, though, not with size on its side. It can clear a hundred feet in seconds without even trying. 

Now that Fritz is fairly safe from getting attacked, even as his entire body trembles from fear at having such a dangerous creature so close, he’s able to keep a level head this time. Flinch when it grabs the seamoth to slam it against the ground. Feel adrenalin surge through his body whenever it suddenly changes direction. But he doesn’t swim back to safety. 

Because it hasn’t seen him, the almost constant roaring seeming to be out of frustration more than anything. 

With shaking hands Fritz reaches into his pack to grab a few fish he collected to see if one is possibly a favorite for the leviathan. Which, depending on how he looks at it, might show his assumption the creature is incredibly instinct or food driven. Even though he isn’t! Looking for resources is pivotal for survival, something he himself has been doing. 

Again, this is the best he can do given the circumstances. If it is intelligent and sentient, hopefully it’ll understand where he was coming from. 

Fritz carefully moves closer to the tube’s opening. Looks through the cracks in the middle to see the metal crushing mandibles facing away. Takes the opportunity to grab a bladderfish, tossing it out and down, watching the cooked fish closely as it floats gently away. Over the edge of the trench at the same time another roar sends sand scattering. 

Fritz almost screams when the leviathan cuts itself off before diving after the bladderfish, a powerful current sending him several feet back. When he finally manages to orient himself, he’s only able to see a red and blue tail disappearing from sight before a shadow falls over the seamoth once more. 

...does that mean it ate the bladderfish? 

In his defense, he’s never done anything like this before. He didn’t think about figuring out a way to make sure he knew it a fish was eaten, just how to do it safely. 

One look at the leviathan, and it almost seems disgusted. And, now that he thinks about it, Fritz can’t say for sure why. Either it was expecting him to be the thing it chased after, it doesn’t like bladderfish, or it doesn’t eat cooked fish. 

Well, it doesn’t hurt to try the rest, does it? If they all earn the same reaction, then he can safely say cooked food isn’t appetizing to the creature. He also wasn’t spotted or deliberately searched for, meaning this method is a safe one. 

A cooked boomerang is carefully thrown into the trench when the leviathan wasn’t looking. The teenager gets thrown further down the pipe and receives yet another disgusted expression. But it doesn’t deter him from tossing a holefish and garryfish after taking a short break in order to replenish his air. 

None of the fish were accepted. If anything, the creature seemed to get angrier and angrier with each one. So much so it changed the area it was circling and began to loop around almost directly over the tube Fritz hid inside. 

He almost calls it quits at that. Considering the sentiment regarding all four offerings, he doesn’t think a peeper will earn him any other reaction except for upsetting it enough to actively hunt down whatever is tricking it with inedible or unwanted food. 

Fritz looks down at the cooked fish in hand. One of five he packed to make sure he didn’t go hungry during this endeavor. Takes a moment to check where the leviathan before sending it down into the trench. 

The creature roars as it chases the fish. 

And then...nothing. No taking its anger on the seamoth that’s no more than metal salvage at this point. No powerful currents following its wake as it swims back up. 

Fritz holds his breath as he waits. Doesn’t move a muscle as the colossal creature finally rises back up from the depths. It’s not disgusted this time, it’s not happy. It might’ve accepted the offer, but it wasn’t fawning over it. If anything the leviathan almost seems confused. 

Then it swims away. Doesn’t so much as look back or give another roar, not even give one final circle. It just, leaves. 

It worked.

A smile slowly spreads across Fritz’s face at the realization he did it. He managed to find something that will let him safely get by. Jumps when his HUD flashes warning he’s about to run out of air. Quickly darts down the pipe to barely make it to the surface. 

But the feelings of absolute joy never leave him. Because he did it. He’ll be able to safely get to the Aurora after disassembling and reconstructing his seamoth. He can even try to navigate over the entire trench ridge. 

And if a hostile leviathan can be deterred by a fish, can most hostile creatures be?

[nyxocity]

Baby Let Me Bang Your Tail Pipe - Dean/Impala/Dom Toretto (explicit)

After the most inexplicable three hours of his life, Dean stands in Dominic Toretto’s garage, which is empty except for the Impala, because Dom’s car is in about fifty billion pieces at the bottom of the river in downtown.

“She was eighty percent badass, twenty percent sweetheart,” Dom had said, somber when Dean had extended his condolences.

Dean had only met Dom three hours and twenty eight explosions ago, but he likes him a lot already.

“Listen,” Dean says, appreciative, “if you hadn’t driven through those three buildings and killed ninety-seven people, me and Sam would be dead right now. I feel like I at least owe you a beer.”

Dean pulls a brown bottle of Margiekugel beer out of the cooler in the backseat of the Impala and hands it to Dom. The second it touches Dom’s hand, it turns into a bottle of Corona.

Dom is beginning to walk around the Impala, looking at the car with undisguised appreciation in his eyes. “Nineteen-sixty-seven Chevy Impala, one of only seven thousand produced, 327 V-8 Turbo-Fire 275 horsepower, dual exhaust pipes, slammed down on a built Hotchkiss performance suspension.”

Dean stares at him in surprise. “Dude. I haven’t even popped her hood yet.”

Dom shakes his head. “Some things you just know. Not built to race, but she purred like a lion earlier,” Dom goes on, his voice low and husky. His dark eyes rake over the Impala’s polished lines and curves, admiration and dark dirty lust Dean recognizes all to well shining in them. “She’s beautiful.”

“She is.” Dean slides a hand along the shiny hood with a proud smile. “Listen. I owe you for what you did today, but I don’t let just anyone put their hands on my girl.”

“You know what happened today?”

“I know you drove through three buildings made out of glass and steel, crashed into a semi, flew through a windshield and landed on the hood of another car before grabbing a rope hanging from a nearby crane and swinging over the edge of a bridge, dropping two miles straight down into a river just before everything exploded for absolutely no reason—including the bridge.”

Dom seems unimpressed by Dean’s recount of everything that had happened on the bridge, and Dean thinks that must be a regular Tuesday for this guy.

“And I saved your lives,” Dom says.

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “I still don’t get how landing on the hood of a car flying at a hundred and thirty miles an hour cushions your impact.”

“Skill.” Dom smirks.

Dean thinks for a moment. “I still don’t get how you’re alive. I’ve died seven times doing way less than that.” He frowns. “A hundred and seven times if you count that one Tuesday.”

Dom takes a drink from his Corona and walks towards him, his eyes squinted nearly shut as he focuses on Dean. “You don’t understand. What I did—what we went through today—that makes us family now.”

“Family, huh?” Dean eyes Dom up and down. “That might make this vibe a little weird.”

Dom huffs out a short, rough laugh. “I don’t think so. I’ve seen how you look at your brother.”

Dean licks his lips, eyefucking Dom harder. “Well in that case, maybe we can—”

“Just the car, Dean.” Sam’s voice is muffled, coming from outside the garage door.

“How can he hear me?” Dean whispers.

Dom nods in the direction of the Impala. “What do you think?”

And well, the guy had defied every law of physics known to man, beast and amoebas and blown up his car and everything else in a fifty mile radius—somehow—to save their lives. Dean supposes the least he can do is share his baby to make up for the loss of Dom’s. He’d like to have Sam join and all four of them could have a good time, but Sam seems to want to sit this one out.

“Do you want to see her, first?” Dean asks.

They look under her hood, Dom touching her parts reverently with gentle fingers, and Dean watches on with approval as Dom compliments her engine. They do a tour of her gorgeously lined, sleek body, and finally Dom rounds the Impala and kneels down by the back bumper.

“Look at the chrome on these tail pipes.” He gives a low whistle of appreciation.

“I take good care of her. I’m a gentleman,” Dean proclaims, walking around to stand next to him. The tailpipes gleam like a diamond in the garage light, spotless and shined to perfection. The left one is his favorite, and he finds his eyes drawn to it like a magnet, cock stiffening at the thought. The darkness at its center calls to him, begs him to take her like he has so many times before—and he will. But not today.

“Be sweet to her. Treat her like a lady,” Dean tells Dom, palm sliding along the edge of her trunk.

“Of course,” Dom agrees, like there was never any question.

“What do you think, old girl?” Dom asks, his fingertips teasing at the center of her hole. “Think you can take me?”

Dean wants to watch, he really does, but he’s got his own hard cock to think about, and they could each take a tail pipe but that could lead to taking each other and Sam specifically anti-approved that. That means he’s going to use the hood and rub off between her headlights. He pulls two bottles of lube out of the glove compartment and hands one to Dom, keeping the other for himself.

He lets his fingers glide along her curves as he walks back to the hood, his raging hard on seeming to pull him along.

He takes a little time, feeling up her headlights, running his hands along the lines of her hood, fingers teasing in the ridges of the grill. He teases until he can hardly stand it, blood pounding, cock painfully hard, and stands up, undoing his jeans and pushing them down around his hips.

His slicks the shaft generously with lube, shoving the bottle in his back jeans pocket and then lowers his hips, shivers racing up his spine fast as the car Dom had blown to smithereens earlier. He lets his dicks slide across the smooth, shiny, waxed surface of her hood and shudders with delight.

Dean pumps his hips like the pistons lying still beneath her hood, feeling the drag and pull of her sleek, cool metal. He can hear Dom grunting, groaning, see his hands caressing the Impala’s trunk, grabbing hold of it as the car rocks harder and harder, hood rubbing against Dean’s dick with sweet friction.

“Oh, what a… good… girl…” Dom grunts, punctuating the pauses between words with thrusts of his hips, and Dean almost comes right there, hearing Dom praising his girl for being such a good fuck.

His girl. And she is good. She’s so good, and Dean doesn’t even have to move anymore, Dom’s twists and thrusts rocking the car back and forth against Dean’s shaft, faster and harder and he can feel the reverberation all through him, feel the tightening in his balls and stomach, orgasm rising up fast and hard inside him.

It hits him like a freight train, like a bullet to the brain blowing out the back of his skull, hips grinding the slick of his come against the hood, so wet and slippery and god it feels like heaven. But he knows nothing feels as good as her tail pipe, that perfect, dark hole filled with lube, dripping wet and taking him deep—the way she’s taking Dom right now—and he can hear the other man coming, feel the graceless rocking of the car as he loses all rhythm, grunting and spurting inside her.

Dean’s eyes roll back in his head and he comes with a violent burst, whiting out with pleasure. He leans against the hood, panting heavily, aftershocks running through his nerves, slick from belly to chest with come, and he leans down, presses his lips to her metal.

“So gorgeous. You never let me down, baby.”

At the back of the car, Dom has gotten to his feet, leaning heavily against the trunk. Through the windshield and rear windows separating them, they share a smile.

“Are you guys done fucking the car yet?” Sam’s voice is less muffled this time from outside the door.

“Just need to clean up,” Dean answers.

When they’re done cleaning her, Dom hands him back the cleaning cloth and gives him a wide smile.

“You know,” he says, “I have an Impala, too. Sexy red and white number, gorgeous chrome.”

Dean can feel his dick trying to get hard again. “Introduce me?”

Dom nods.

“And Sam, too?”

“Of course.” Dom grins. “We’re all family now.”

And they all got into the Impala and sped off down the street, hitting a ramp and flying over two tractor trailers, a space station and sling-shotting around the sun before crashing down and screeching off into the sunset.

[helloliriels]

My Bloody Valentine

by helloliriels

Sherlock dusted his knuckles ... pulled back and struck with all of the force he could muster. Knocking the man on the receiving end into the wall.

The man stumbled further in shock, catching himself, and brushing a streak of blood from his cheek ... then he looked up at Sherlock. Eyes wide with fear.

Sherlock stepped an inch forward, first raised again ...

The man cowered and rose his hands to defend himself from yet another strike!

It was not coming.

.

Sherlock stood.

. Seething.

.

His breath ragged as he glared. Holding himself back.

"You will excuse me ... if I don't take your case," he breathed through flaring nostrils.

The man nodded, agreeing, anything ... to avoid this unexpected wrath. "Apologies Mr. Holmes ... I didn't mean-"

Sherlock glared.

.

The man swallowed.

At least he knew enough to not speak another word ...

Instead, he turned around and flew from the room ... his steps making a frantic departure from 221b.

.

Sherlock turned to the mantle and felt his shoulders hunch. It was getting harder and harder to deal with the innuendo and accusations. No matter what John wrote ... or he himself did ... people were somehow still thinking he and John were together.

He only wished it were true.

He would go to his grave defending his 'not gay' doctor, if that was what it took. But he was afraid ... so afraid ... following the whole Wilde case ... that John would leave him soon.

Or worse ... marry for real.

.

Then he truly would be alone.

It was a cursed existence ... Living where you could not love. Loving where you could not give.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe. Lighting it and taking a puff.

.

He wasn't sure how long he'd stood there ... staring at the flickering light of a dying fire ... before he heard John's footsteps in the stairwell below ...

.

His head did not lift as John entered the room.

He had resigned himself to his only option.

He should leave. Before John did.

.

"Hey?" John called, quietly, as he came over.

Sherlock could hear him removing his overcoat and shoes. Knocking them beside his chair instead of bothering with the coat rack.

John was becoming so comfortable in their joined space ... it usually caused a swell of pride in Sherlock’s heart. That John felt safe and at home around him. Today ... it felt like someone was squeezing his heart ... restricting his lungs from the vital air they needed ...

He followed John with his eyes, keeping himself turned away, so that he could observe from the safety of the mirror. While he was hyperventilating.

.

"You okay?" John was asking. Voice gentle.

Sherlock set the pipe down and attempted to turn away further ... but John caught his arm. Stopping him.

.

He felt the warmth of John's hand travelling down his arm ... raising the goose flesh as he felt every nerve singing with desire to grip John's hands on his own and never let him go ...

Instead ... John was taking his hand?

Soft fingers caressing his as John brushed his palm and splayed his fingers. Feeling each digit of Sherlock's hand against his own?

.

Sherlock turned abruptly, confusion crossing his face as the shorter man looked up at him.

John's eyebrows were knit with worry? ... fear?

"What happened?" He asked.

(continued beneath cut)

His words were not sinking in.

Sherlock was taking in every facet of the man he had come to know and love so dearly. The deep blue eyes. Hard as steel when they needed to be. Sharp as daggers when defending those he loved. Soft and enveloping ... when they had a quiet moment alone ...

All thoughts Sherlock had wanted to express in a million ways ... a thousand different times ...

And yet, never could bring himself to ...

.

How was he to make it without his doctor?

He would not live long. He felt quite certain.

.

"Sherlock?" John asked, true concern seeping into his voice and Sherlock's lack of response ...?

"Sherlock - you're bleeding!"

.

Sherlock blinked.

He looked down at the knicks and cuts on his hand from striking Mr. Harrington - he must have caught on the man's jacket or cuff in defense? He couldn't remember really ...

And shrugged.

"It's nothing, John. Please don't let it bother you."

Then he sighed.

There was so much he was trying to not let bother John ... and here he had added another ...

.

"Sherlock?"

John reached up and brushed Sherlock's brow, trying to stroke away his worried frown ... even so ... he felt himself whimper as he pulled away.

John's hands. Gentle. Adoring. Healing hands.

He wanted to kiss them.

He wanted to confess. To tell him everything.

He wanted to ...

.

How do you explain to the man you've lived with for seven years ...? Seven happy, magnificently wonderful years ...? That you love him ... as more than friends ...

That you want to go on loving him?

That you want him by your side forever.

Even at night.

... without condemning him to a worse fate?

.

"Did i do something wrong?" John was asking.

.

Sherlock whipped around. Startled by the question.

.

. Wrong? No. John.

. You've done nothing wrong.

. It was me. It was all on me.

.

. You never even suspected ...

. And that made it worse. Really.

. Me wanting things that cannot be.

.

"They said something again, didn't they?"

John broke into his thoughts again, stating the obvious.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, reluctantly.

He wouldn't look at John.

John.

Who was going for the medical bag and then tending to his broken skin and bleeding knuckles ...

.

"I hope you got him in the teeth?" John chuckled, looking at the shape of Sherlock's injury.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to grin.

"Cheekbones actually," he corrected.

John smirked in response. "Always knew cheekbones could be dangerous," he huffed, tugging on the bandage and taping it up. "Some more than others ..." he added, looking up.

His voice trailed off as his eyes caught on Sherlock's own sharp features and then lingered on his lips.

John licked his own. Seemingly distracted ...

He caught Sherlock's eyes again. Flitting. But Sherlock would not let him look away.

They locked in a exchange of glances.

The kind only they shared.

John had meant something more in that.

He felt certain ...

.

John cleared his throat and broke eye contact first. Blushing?

.

"John - I," Sherlock started, realising now was a good a time as ever to tell the love of your life that you'll never see them again ... that they'll be safer without you. They'll be ...

"Sherlock - wait - no!" John put a finger to Sherlock's lips and stood wrestling a demon of his own before speaking. "I have something to say first."

Sherlock waited.

The inevitable delayed. Or perhaps hastened.

Not knowing what John's next words would be.

.

"It's Valentine's day," John muttered, not looking up.

Whatever words he was prepared for John to say ... he had not expected that ... ?

"What does-?" he tried to ask, but again - John's finger was on his lips. And there they stayed ...

Sherlock held his breath.

Hoping they would never move, really ...

"It's Valentine's day ... and you're here defending my honour ...," John sighed, heavily, "... when you shouldn't have to be!"

.

He was angry.

Sherlock could tell by his shallow breathing and the fist that balled by his side. Always ready. Always willing to take the fall for him ...

.

Sherlock swallowed.

Fear trickling into the ventricles of his beating, berating heart ...

"I've brought this on you, Sherlock!" John apologized, "and I'm so ... so sorry! It doesn't seem to matter what I do ... ! I can't keep it hidden, you see? If I was really a man of honour, I ... " he rubbed at his neck, "I would never have put you in such a position in the first place! I would have owned up to my feelings sooner and never risked the fate it seems I've laid at your feet!"

"John? Do you mean ... what I think you mean?" Sherlock was eyeing him warily ... too afraid to let his own deductions race ahead of John's actual train of thought ...

What if he was simply ... putting words into John's mouth that he wasn't actually saying?!!

John looked pained as he met his eyes ... and nodded.

.

Sherlock blinked.

.

"You mean ... that you-?" Sherlock allowed John to finish ... needed ... him to finish! More like!

"I'm in love with you, Sherlock Holmes - as you bloody well knOW!" John rumbled. That fist again!

Sherlock blinked. Couldn't stop really ...

His brain had short circuited.

.

Yes.

.

Quite gone.

All thought.

Useless really.

This brain-thinky-thing.

.

John.

. ... John? ... His John??!!!!

Was ... in Love ... ? ......with him?!

.

Sherlock's mouth fell open. He closed it. Blinking back to life as his brain finally caught up with what John was confirming.

"SO I am in fact your ... ?" he managed, at last ...

"The bloody love of my life! You don't have to mock me!" John spun to leave, and it was Sherlock's turn to grab his arm and pull him back.

This time ...

. ... he allowed himself to slip his fingers through John's ...

To caress those knuckles that had been so worth defending. Worth it a thousand times over ...! Even if John had never ever returned a fraction of the affection he felt for him!!!

"And if I tell you ... I'd bruise these knuckles every night ... if you would stay with me ... and be my everything?" Sherlock asked in response. Genuinely awed by the ability to form words ... the chance to speak such unspoken desires ... he kissed John's hand.

John's pained eyes lost their fear and widened, immediately. Dilating with what Sherlock mirrored in his own being!

"Then you would have to take me away from here, with you!" John responded, readily, "for I am of a mind to do unspeakable things ..."

Sherlock took John's face in his hands in a frantic rush of euphoria and kissed him - pressing John as close as he dared, without restricting the man's breathing!

When they surfaced for air ... John smiled.

.

"I think-" Sherlock answered then, softly - his lips not far from John's as he dared offer,

. "-we had better catch a train tonight ... ? For we have a countryside case to attend to ... and some exploring to do first ... it seems?"

His words were stolen by John's mouth pressed against his. Possessively this time. Just the way he imagined it ... in his dreams.

@spooksicl-e @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @cupidford @barachiki @khorazir I blame you all for this!!! 💘Happy Valentines!

tagging @fluffbyday-smutbynight @raina-at @meetinginsamarra @chinike @rhasima @ohlooktheresabee @topsyturvy-turtely does this count as fluff?

[bullet-prooflove]

Hi~~ Could I have prompt 17 "Rebel girl you are the queen of my world" for New Year's Eve with this man, please?

P.S: thanks for feeding me with all these reblogs with Scola these past few days. It made my days :)

Honestly I am living for these two right now after writing this. Thank you for prompting for this one, it was such a fun one to explore.

You have a reputation, for being a little wild, a little reckless. You think Stuart doesn’t know about it, but he does. You’re a complete pain in the ass to anyone who has the pleasure of supervising you but you’re an expert with explosives and you have nerves of steel. You’ve never faltered in the face of adversity; Stuart's seen it himself. When the chips are down, he’d bet on you every single time.

Which is why he’s standing alongside of you right now while you’re wrist deep in a bomb ignoring the screaming of your boss over your earpiece.

“You should leave Stuart.” You say, your voice terse. “This might get messy.”

“You stay, I stay.” He reminds you and it takes you back to the first time you met.

Him sitting cross legged in the reception area of 26 Fed with a pipe bomb strapped to his chest, the scent of your perfume flooding his senses as you leaned in close. Amber and jasmine, he remembers thinking at the time, something expensive and high end from the subtleness of the notes.

“You should go.” He’d told you as the timer ticked down, your fingers trailing over the wires.

“No.” You’d drawled out the word, your eyes flickering up to meet his. “You stay, I stay. That’s the deal, right?”

There’s a calm in you that surprises him. You’re the shelter in the middle of the storm. The safe space in the midst of all the chaos. He draws strength from that because if you can be solid in that moment so can he.

“We got this.” You'd told him with that beautiful smile of yours. “I promise.”

You reach into your ear and remove the earpiece; Stuart follows suit because the language that’s coming out of your supervisor’s mouth is beyond colourful.

There’s three hundred people in the building above you. They’re trying to evacuate them but there isn’t enough time. That’s the reason you’re still here, if it was just property damage you wouldn’t give a fuck but it’s the people you care about, the lives that’ll be burned up if you don’t do this.

“I need the multi-tool in my top right pocket, but I can’t take my hands out of the casing.” You tell him, your brow furrowing in concentration.

He seeks out the tool, removing it from the vest before taking a deep breath and plunging his hand into the depths of the device. He presses it into your palm, and you take it carefully, grasping it tightly in your fingers before you clamp the wire and snip.

The two of you go still. Stuart’s eyes meet yours and he sees your lips twitch up into a smile. He can’t help but smile back because his girl, she’s a little crazy and that make him a little crazy. You withdraw your hand from the casing and put your earpiece back into your ear.

“The device is disarmed.” You say as you tuck the multitool back into your pocket, tapping your fingertips on it twice for good luck.

There’s silence on the opposite end before your supervisor utters.

“Christ Sasha, you cut it close.”

“Do I get to keep my badge?” You ask him, referring to his earlier threat and Stuart shakes his head because his girl does not pull her punches. “Or do I have to find an alternative means of employment? Stuart always says I’d make a pretty good barista.”

“Just get your ass out here, bomb disposal will be on scene in ten.”

“Copy that.” You say before pulling out your earpiece again.

“You’re such a rebel.” Stuart says fondly as his hands cup your face. His thumbs ghost over your cheeks as he leans in close, his athletic form presses against yours and he can see the excitement in your eyes as his nose trails along the length of yours.

It’s the adrenaline that’s driving him. All he wants to do right now is get you in the back of the SUV and fuck you until your saying his name. You want it too; he can tell by the noise you make when his lips brush over yours.

“Later.” He promises as he tips your chin up to meet his gaze. “Go outside and play nice first, I’ll ruin you when we get home.”

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