#this is a writing drabble teehee

[artificise]

"Becoming a member of the High Court instructs its acolytes in many fields," Artificer spoke, the blue holographic screen projected from her wristband tearing every so often with pixelated hiccups; coaxing a small hum from the woman as she typed. The illuminated keyboard accenting the hologram let out soft beeping sounds with every type; clearly another document that she would put either into the backlog to finish later. "I'm well equipped for medical checkups, as Seeker is currently below."

"You remember the basics, yes?" the Artificer spoke, voice characteristically flat as the display disappeared, but carrying a certain warmth and gentleness with each word spoken- better to talk him through it step by step rather than rush it and possibly scare him; considering the power he retained in his body, such an incident would be nothing short of catastrophic.

As Viend took a few moments to think, elongated clawed fingers tapping against smooth hollow metal before he hummed, the woman let out a relieved exhale. "I promise you that the procedures haven't changed much since the days of the Contact Light- though, I would like to be more thorough to understand your bodily composition after your.. unfortunate, affliction. If you feel uncomfortable at any point, do not hesitate to let me know."

"【Mm.」"

"Then, we should start slow."

Opening a drawer and retrieving a stethoscope-like device, the Artificer connected the auxiliary to her helmet port before placing the flat side upon Viend's chest; pale brows etching underneath her visage at the lack of sound; further gliding across his chest; ridged and scarred in places where his armor had welded to his flesh and become one with his form, only proved a further lack of results in her search.

"Are.. you breathing, at all?"

"『...can??t. Lungs- don'?t wor??k.】"

"...Interesting.."

The subtle sounds of shifting were clear, showing that her medical device had not broken, and yet.. the repetitive deep thump of a consistent heartbeat remained ever elusive, and any sign of breathing was absent.

Within his chest cavity was.. nothing, but silence.

[madaqueue]

gn!reader - 18+, MDNI (not quite somno but like…adjacent lmao)

you just look perfect like this - your back arched, ass sitting so tauntingly high in the air, chest rising and falling slowly, steadily, the exact opposite of the beating muscle thrumming so loudly in satoru’s chest he worries it might just burst.

he knew he was late coming home - missions just seem to take longer and longer these days, and a few years ago he surely would’ve just booked a hotel and stayed the night a few hours away.

but now he can’t. not when he has you to come home to.

stubborn, silly you. he told you not to wait up; he knows how you struggle to sleep without him next to you, as though you felt his absence through your dreams. so he knows you haven’t been getting enough rest, but a part of him also knows you, which is why he can’t help the smile that slowly spreads across his face as he quietly closes the front door to your shared home.

and there you are, asleep on your stomach, your phone resting on the couch next to you where it surely fell from your loosened grasp as you slipped into the comfort of unconsciousness.

how did he get so lucky?

the question replays in his mind as he slowly slides off his shoes, softly padding across the room until he’s standing next to you. up close, he can see the way your lips part slightly, a small spot of drool pooling at the corner, the quietest little snores vibrating in your throat.

do you know how perfect you are?

sometimes he wonders - he hopes you know. and if you don’t, he’ll be sure to tell you, everyday until the end of time. until you hear it in your dreams.

and he may be the strongest, but after a week away from you having to prove it, he’s tired of using his strength; right now, he just wants to melt into your softness. he doesn’t want to fight his desires anymore.

his body rests on top of yours easily, blanketing you under his weight. you stir slightly, eyelids fluttering as you adjust to the new sensation before he whispers sweetly into your ear, “it’s okay, it’s just me, love.”

and that seems to calm you right back down, your muscles stilling as a sleepy grin settles across your lips.

so, so perfect.

when you adjust your hips, unknowingly grinding up against him, his breath catches in his throat. how easily you have this effect on him - he was already hard just from seeing you, and now he’s beginning to strain painfully against his uniform pants. he regrets not taking them off, too desperate to feel your warmth, too needy to hold you right this second, but it’s too late now, and he honestly can’t bring himself to get up from where he lays atop you.

long fingers trace along your cheeks, flushed warm in sleep. you let out the softest giggle, more of a sigh than anything, and satoru’s chest swells as his cock twitches. he can’t believe he ever went a week without you, and in this moment, he vows to never do it again (not that he thinks he could - even this brief stint apart had him practically losing his mind, his thoughts wandering to you ever free moment, fucking his fist every night to the thought of you).

when you adjust again, he can’t help let out a low groan at the slight friction, precum beginning to collect in his boxers. he needs you so fucking bad. but he just can’t bring himself to wake you - he knows how tired you must be to have fallen asleep here, after all, it’s the kind thing to do to let you rest, right?

fortunately, just as he internally battles against the needs of his increasingly aching cock, you shift beneath him.

your eyes crack open, catching a flash of white and blue in your blurry vision.

“hi toru,” you whisper, voice heavy with sleep.

“hi, my love,” he hums, pressing a kiss to your temple.

unfortunately, the action only further rubs his length along the curve of your ass, the feeling unmistakeable.

it makes you giggle. “miss me that much, hm?”

surely if your senses were less dulled by exhaustion, you’d see the way he blushes through a cheeky grin. “was it that easy to tell?”

“you’re always easy, baby,” you coo, before resting your eyes once again.

just as he acquiesces to his own defeat, you arch your back up further, slowly circling your hips against him. a smirk tugs across your lips as you steal a glance at him through lidded eyes.

oh, you are so, so perfect.

a/n: literally woke up from a nap thinking abt this ….need to be cuddled rn

[zephyrchama]

(OM! Asmodeus x MC. this is really suggestive I'm sorry but I had to. happy holidays!)

Never one to pass on an opportunity to dress up, Asmodeus was looking appropriately festive on Christmas morning. His sweater was anything but ugly. His fur-trimmed hat jingled as he merrily made his way from room to room. There was a sprig of mistletoe on his belt, tucked into the loops on the front of his pants.

"Merry Christmas!" he cheered, presenting you with a light smooch on the cheek. His breath smelled like peppermint. "Do you have any gifts for me? You know I've been especially good this year."

"I sure do! I've got presents for everyone." You returned his kiss with one of your own. The demon's heart fluttered. Human holidays were great.

"That's not your gift," you clarified. "That's for the mistletoe."

Asmodeus clapped his gloved hands together. "Wow! Though, I thought you were supposed to kiss me under the mistletoe."

[starrystevie]

18+ | explicit sex & smoking | read here on ao3

it's 1996 when steve's world gets turned upside down again.

or, well, technically it's a few minutes into '97 when everything changes. he's at a new years party that his ex timothy is hosting and everyone is still hooting and hollering as they ring it in, pressing sloppy kisses to cheeks and lips with arms hooked around necks.

steve doesn't get kissed. not because people aren't eyeing him with a smirk and mischief and open arms of their own. no, he doesn't let himself get kissed because something feels... off about the night. the energy is weird, buzzing through his skin like electricity, keeping him on edge in a way he hasn't been since he left hawkins for boston in the fist place.

it isn't long until he figures out why.

timmy is walking up to him with his hands on some guy's shoulders, pushing him backwards with a wide smile like he's trying to convince him of something. the guy is about his height, short cropped dark hair and a leather jacket, the sight of his back alone getting steve excited. timmy always did know his type to a t.

"hey!" timmy yells over the music as he catches steve's eye. "got someone for you to meet."

once the guy turns around, the smiles on both steve and the mystery guy's faces fall before their minds catch up with them and plaster them back together. even with the short cropped hair, even with the piercing in his eyebrow, even with the stubble spreading over his defined jaw, steve would know that face, that heartbeat, anywhere.

"steve, i wanted to introduce you to someone. jamie, this is steve, you know... the guy i was telling you about?"

timmy's trying to be helpful, not even attempting to be subtle as he pushes the two closer together with a wide grin. steve's going on autopilot, reaching out a hand to grab the one outstretched towards him, but his brain is going a million miles a minute.

"nice to meet you, steve," eddie, or... jamie, says, palm pressed tightly against his own.

steve can't say anything, focusing too much on the warmth on his palm and the way his deep voice shakes through him like thunder and the way he feels like he's 19 again with a stuttering heart.

"what are-" he starts.

eddie shakes his head and tugs on steve's hand. "not here. come on."

they end up in a secluded corner, close enough that steve can smell smoke and leather polish and the sharp bite of his cologne. close enough that he can see the lines starting to appear on the corners of eddie's eyes, the stray grey hairs popping up in his beard, the questions swirling behind his eyes.

"eddie."

"jamie," is all he says back, not even bothering to look away from steve's eyes. "it's jamie now."

they both sigh like they don't know where to start because they don't. steve grapples with all the questions in his mind before settling on one. the one that tore through him late at night. the one that stayed on the tip of his tongue anytime he heard a van backfire or metallica.

"where did you go?" he knows it sounds like an accusation because it is. he doesn't let himself feel bad when eddie (jamie) flinches.

"feds," he replies easily, sneaking a cigarette out of his pocket and putting it between his lips. he tilts his head back to light it away from steve's face, blowing smoke up towards the ceiling. "once i got better, they scooped me up and brought me to boston. new name, new hairstyle, new life. at least they let me choose my name so i didn't get stuck with some thing awful."

steve snorts. "so you ended up with 'jamie' how?"

"middle name's james. it just made sense." he says it with a shrug and puffs at his cigarette again.

they look at each other for a moment. steve watches his tongue flit out of his mouth to wet his lips, watches the overhead lights glint off the metal of a surprise tongue piercing, watches his throat swallow around nothing but spit.

he can see, feel, eddie doing the same. he hams it up, pulls his lip between his teeth and makes it a show, looks back up at eddie from under his lashes. takes in a deep breath when eddie inches closer to him until their hips are bumping and steve plucks the cigarette out of his lips for a puff of his own.

he's 19 again, in love or like or lust with a boy in a leather jacket that has the world against him. he's 19 again, working a hand over himself to thoughts of his crush who up and vanished without so much as a goodbye. he's 19 again, crying after he comes, wishing he could go back in time before he met curly hair and a battle vest.

"so how do you know tim?" eddie whispers like he has to be quiet even though the part is loud and no one could hear them if they tried.

"how do you know him?" steve asks back, blowing out smoke and putting the cigarette back between eddie's barely spread lips.

his eyes flick down to look at steve's still pursed lips from when he angled the smoke over his shoulder. "we used to fuck, once upon a time when i first got to boston."

steve hums like it's the answer he expected and maybe it is. "same here. dated for about a year."

eddies eyes grow wide and his hip bumps into steve's like it's a question in and of itself and maybe it is. "didn't know you swing that way, harrington."

"well, you don't really know anything about me then, do you? didn't back then either, munson."

his eyes goes even wider, something like fear and shame and comfort and hope swimming in them. "leonard. it's leonard now."

steve hums again, says 'jamie leonard' like he's feeling it out on his tongue. tasting it between his teeth. teaching his mouth how to form the words instead of what he really wants to say like 'eddie' or 'munson' or 'i'm still somehow in love with you no matter your name'.

"jamie leonard," he says again, breath hitting eddie's lips. he shivers when he sees his lips part a bit more like he wants to swallow the sound and air that steve gives him. "we have a lot to catch up on, don't we?"

steve's apartment isn't all that big, isn't exactly small either but it has everything he could possibly need. he has a living room that looks out over the harbor and a kitchen with all new appliances and eddie munson naked in his bedroom. you know, the essentials.

their clothes are all over the floor, eddie's motorcycle helmet flung somewhere in the vague direction of the armchair in the corner but the smack it makes when it hits the wall makes steve think there's probably a hole in the drywall.

but eddie's sucking on his cock, hands wrapped around his thighs as he takes him even deeper, eyes flicking up to meet steve's, beard scratchy as it rubs against his sensitive skin. he's never been blown by someone with a tongue piercing but he doesn't think he can ever go back now.

the last thing on his mind is wondering if there's a hole in the goddamn wall.

"oh fuck, yeah there you go. feels so goddamn good," steve breathes out as he feels the back of eddie's throat on his cockhead. he tangles a hand as best he can in his short dark hair to try and coax him even deeper. eddie hums at either the praise or the tug on his hair or the way it feels as he works his tongue over steve's cock and it makes him jolt unexpectedly.

if he could go back in time and tell his 19 year old self that eddie was alive, that he was okay and breathing and learning how to suck cock like a goddamn professional, he'd do it in a heartbeat. save himself a few years of pining and fly straight out to boston to see it for himself. he's sure robin would have preferred to not have to listen to his whining everyday about brown eyes and dark curls.

eddie brings a hand to cup his balls, finger teasingly pressing into steve's taint, bobbing his head eagerly like he wants him to come in his mouth, but steve has other plans. he tugs eddie off of his cock quickly, lines of thick spit falling between them and sticking to his chin before crowding him up against the pillows.

steve kisses like he's dying and eddie is survival. he kisses him like he is drowning and eddie is the shore that he's clawing his way towards. he kisses him like 19 year old steve could only dream about.

soon enough, steve's sliding into him with a groan that he lets eddie swallow from him. the headboard knocks heavily into the wall a few times making even more possible holes, but all steve can focus on is the heat around him, the way eddie's whines bounce off the walls of his too empty bedroom and cover him like a blanket.

he likes fucking this way. he likes being able to watch as someone's face contorts into pleasure, like to see eyes rolling back and mouths dropping open and sweat beading around their hairline. likes seeing eddie fall apart.

"steve, oh my god," eddie's voice is still deeper than he's used to as he moans so he angles his hips up more to hear it again, the low timbre snaking through his veins and leaving fire in its wake. "don't stop."

"i won't," he groans into eddie's open mouth. "wanted this for so long, for fucking 11 years, not giving you up yet."

it's a bit more open than steve normally is when he first fucks someone but this isn't just someone. this isn't fucking a stranger he picked up in a bar that had almost the right shade of brown eyes and patches on his jacket that are almost the right shape. this is eddie. his eddie. or well... jamie.

"fuck, i'm gonna date you so fucking hard, harrington. yeah, right there keep going, shit-"

he's babbling as steve works his hips faster, tangling their free hands together to press above their heads on a pillow, and it's everything steve could have asked for. hearing his name fall from the lips he's dreamed about for years, sharing the same air as they breath into one another.

he thought he was over it, thought he had moved on at least a little bit from a halfway stranger he knew in his teens, but with the way they're both looking straight into each other's eyes begging each other to see them, he thinks they might both be back in 1986.

"what do-" steve cuts himself off as he whimpers, close, so close to the finish line. "what do you want me to call you? is it jamie or-"

he's shaking his head on the pillow, leaning up to bite at steve's lips and pull it between his teeth. he looks serious and certain when he says, "no, that name's not for you, it's... i need-"

steve brings his hand down to work over his cock and revel in the way his eyes roll back until he can only see white. he hits something that makes his eyes fly back open and he gets to see his favorite shade of brown again.

"eddie," he whispers. leaning down quickly, steve presses a kiss to his ear before whispering his favorite name there too. "eddie, baby, come on. let me... come on, eddie."

it feels silly to be chanting a name of a ghost as intensely as he is. but he can see it crawl over eddie like it's bringing him back to life. like he isn't bones on the ground in an alternate dimension. like he isn't a plain headstone in a graveyard next to a forgotten trailer park. like he isn't playing pretend with a fake name and a fake life.

steve says eddie and it brings him home.

afterwards, they lay together in steve's probably too soft bed, tears drying on both of their cheeks as they catch up. as they tell each other secrets that their younger selves could never dare. as the piece together the lives they have and the lives they want to have and slot each other into the mix.

steve has a hand in eddie's hair, eddie has one trailing over steve's arm that's slung over his chest. he's always been a fan of cuddling after sex.

"y'know," eddie mutters, "tim's been trying to get me to meet his hot teacher friend for months now."

steve hums, presses a kiss to his temple. "and he's been trying to get me to meet his hot motorcycle tech for months, too."

there are a few holes in the walls from the headboard and eddie's helmet, but steve thinks that they can patch those up, too.

he's still jamie leonard to the outside world. he's still a guy who doesn't have much family other than a mysterious uncle in indiana and doesn't have many friends other than ex boyfriends. he still introduces himself with a handshake and says a fake name like it's real.

but when he gets home, when he crawls onto a couch that overlooks the harbor and has arms wrapped around him, he gets to be eddie munson once more. and with the ghost of a man in his arms, steve harrington feels more like himself than he ever thought he would.

[stanpinesdykewife]

How do you feel about breeding kink ? Kinda a request for Stan/reader haha

HELLO thanks for sending this in! so i've never been a big breeder (breeding kink enjoyer) but you and several others are really into it so i finally gave it a shot!!! enjoy! and check out my friend's breeding kink fic at the bottom if you're into this :) under the cut:

knock knock stan/reader (fem!reader) (unless you're me and can ignore the gender implications of "mommy") pre/during/post-canon/unspecified smut, 1954 words (bonus: fic rec at the bottom)

It starts out like the normal, mostly-vanilla sex you usually have with Stan.

You two go out, get tipsy, come home, and make it through approximately half an episode of your joint show before slipping into a sloppy makeout. It's not exactly routine, but it's expected, and it's a hit for a reason. Sex with Stan is good, full stop. Which is why you’re always surprised when something new comes along that makes it even better.

“Hngh—Fuck,” you choke out, your voice catching behind your teeth as Stan sinks into you. You're on your back, staring with bleary eyes at the sight of Stan's flushed face above you. He's sitting on his heels with your ankles on his shoulders, his hands holding firmly at your plush hips as he grinds into you. “Fuck. God, please.”

“Told you you'd have to beg for it this time, didn't I?” Stan chuckles, stroking over your soft skin with his thumbs. He sounds gentle, but he's grinding into you hard, enough that each forward roll of his hips has your whole body rocking with it. He'd been fucking you so hard earlier, so good, but he does this thing sometimes—he stops altogether to get you talking. He loves when you talk to him. “Go on, then, sweetheart. You want it, right?”

“Y-Yeah,” you say, stuttering at another press of his dick into you. You gasp when he pulls back, drawing out only halfway before grinding in again. Your voice is wobbly when you say, “Yes, yeah. I want it, please fuck me, oh, fuck—I wanna come. Wanna make you come in me.”

You know, even through the haze in your mind and the growing blush on Stan's face, that that's a normal thing for you to say. It never gets old, and it's never untrue. Asking Stan to come in you always feels really fucking good. You're having a really good night.

“I know, baby. You want me to fill you up,” Stan says, full-on smiling down at you. His eyes are warm and a little unfocused as he draws out again, then pushes in, keeping that same romantic rhythm he's had since slowing down. His voice is low, almost drowsy, when he adds, “You want it to stay there, too? Want it to take?”

“Wh—Huh?” you ask, your mind a little preoccupied to register all the words coming out of his mouth. You're a little too busy staring at him, at his dark eyes, his crooked grin, then lower, to the hair on his chest leading down to his belly. Stan huffs out a good-natured laugh at your obvious spacing out.

“You always ask me to come inside.” When your gaze finally wanders back up to his, he's already staring at you. Stan chuckles again and adjusts his grip on your body, unintentionally hiking your hips up a little. He clarifies, “It's almost like you want me to knock you up.”

Your jaw drops open at that. A new wave of heat curls in your abdomen, making your fingers twitch, and your legs suddenly tense. Stan was half-joking, you know he was, but it's too late to pitch him a laugh and play into it. His brows raise, and you can practically see the gears turn in his head when you blink at him in mild shock.

Then the light bulb clicks on, and Stan's expression brightens in the way it always does when he learns something new about your body. Despite yourself, you smile, too, a flustered giggle bouncing from your throat when you realize he's about to pounce.

“W-Wait, I didn't—” You have no clue what excuse you were going to give to clear your name of a kink you didn't even know you had, but Stan interrupts you so you don't have to find out. You squeal when he suddenly grabs you by the thighs and adjusts your body, manhandling you into a new position. “Stan—!”

“You like that, huh,” he snickers, not unkind, as he shuffles himself up onto his knees without pulling out. One of your legs almost falls off his shoulders, but Stan quickly corrects it before snatching a pillow from your left and shoving it under your hips. He leans forward slightly, asking you again, “You want me to knock you up?”

Before you can answer, Stan gives you the first proper thrust he's given you in a while. Your back arches as you moan, your hips automatically rocking up into his as he starts a steady pace. Your hands grip the sheets, and you try to stave off the mild embarrassment in your chest. You try to welcome the excitement instead, growing warm in your stomach, making you tremble.

“That's right, honey. Feels good, don't it? Gonna put a baby in you.” The humor in Stan's voice fades slowly, overtaken by his little grunts as he fucks into you. You moan at one particular angle, Stan's dick pressing perfectly up against that spot in your pussy that makes your legs shake, and Stan chases it. He leans forward, over you, making your voice pitch higher and higher. He groans, “Fuck, so wet. You're all nice and warm for me, sugar. Perfect for my spunk.”

“Ugh, don't—ah—call it that,” you huff out, voice cracking in the middle as Stan picks up speed.

“Whaddya want me to call it?” he laughs. “My come? My kids?”

“Fuck,” you moan, like the breath's been punched out of you. Stan's hips stutter, and something in the air shifts. He groans, leans forward more, and soon your body is bent deeply at the waist with your legs hooked over his shoulders, your knees close to your chest. You don't know what this position is called. A breeding press? A mating press? The specifics are lost on you as you open your eyes, blinking up at Stan's handsome, flushed face.

He’s breathing deeply above you, his hot breath mingling with yours as he plants his hands on either side of you. Stan’s been teasing you all this time, but all of a sudden it doesn't feel so lighthearted anymore. Stan pauses when you meet his eyes. Shifts his weight on his knees.

“C-Can…” You swallow around the words. You're fucking salivating. You look at Stan shyly, through your lashes, and find the courage to ask, “Can you please put your kids in me?”

“Holy Moses,” Stan says, and then he's kissing you, all sloppy and heated and so fucking turned-on. You moan into his mouth when he starts pumping into you again, fucking his hips down into yours, and this angle is so fucking good you can't believe you've never tried it with him before, holy fuck. Stan is so deep inside you, pistoning his hips so hard he's fucking you right into the mattress with each thrust.

“Ah, ah, fuck, yes—” you gasp, breaking the kiss. Stan groans against your open mouth before pulling away, his eyes screwed shut as he presses his forehead to yours.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he grunts, shifting so his forearms are caging your head, holding up his weight. “Gonna fucking fill you up, gonna make you have my fucking kids—Fuck, I'm already close.”

“Yes, yes, please,” you whine, voice strained as you reach up to grab hold of something, anything, to keep you grounded. You feel like you're floating, so warm and dizzy at the thought of Stan filling you to the brim, and your hands somehow find their way up into Stan's hair. He groans again when you tug, and gives you a particularly rough thrust that makes you gasp. “Ah, shit—! Yes, I want it, want you to come in me, fill me up—”

“Yeah, just take my fucking load, baby, just take it,” he breathes, somehow much more intelligible than you are even as his hips start fucking into you unevenly, losing their rhythm. But Stan's thrusts get harder, his dick reaching deeper into your ready cunt, so deep you swear you can feel his precome leaking into your cervix, or maybe the thought of it is just so good that you're making shit up. But you snap back to reality at Stan mutters, his voice gruff, “Gonna come so deep in you, sweetheart—Hah, fuck, that's—Gonna make you a fuckin' mommy.”

You're coming, an intense orgasm rolling through you and forcing one loud, drawn-out moan from deep in your throat as Stan fucks into you with a few more frantic thrusts. You're gasping, cursing when you can spare the breath, and then you're whining high in your throat as Stan presses as deep as he can fucking go. His voice catches for a moment. Then he groans, long and loud, right into your face as he comes deep in you. It's so hot, literally, you can feel the heat blooming in your fucking cunt, can feel the way his thick dick twitches with its release.

“Fuck—Fuck,” Stan swears, shifting again so he can slide one hand to your hip. He hikes it up and shuffles closer on his knees, sighing once his lungs have the capacity. You're still catching your breath, still dizzy with warmth and post-orgasmic bliss as you think of that pocket of come being plugged inside you by Stan's softening dick. Stan breathes deeply in, then out. He’s still riding the tail end of his orgasm when he murmurs, “You okay?”

“Mm. Yeah,” you manage, carefully unwinding your fingers from his hair. When Stan can lift his head to look at you, his face is red with exertion. There's some drool slipping out the corner of his mouth, and you try a smile. “You?”

“Yeah,” he says, but he sounds distracted. He studies your features, reading your expression, and whatever you managed of a half-smile drops.

“What?” you ask. But then Stan nudges his hips back, just an inch, and slowly presses into you again. Your breath hitches in your throat, your hands flying to his shoulders to grip him there. “What are you—Ah, ah, fuck.”

You feel exactly what he does. Stan's come is slick in you, it always is, but the new connotations add so much to the warm, wet pool within your body. Stan grinds into you, getting your thighs and his abdomen slick with your come, then pulls out again. When he pushes back in, you both moan at how fucking easy it is. There's no resistance. His come is sticking the way, making it easier for him to fuck you.

Stan is still breathing deep, but another smile plays on his lips. He’s close enough that he only has to tilt his head slightly to kiss you, but it's chaste nonetheless. His grin is bright and affectionate. But it isn't quite innocent.

“You wanna try for another?” he chuckles, his hand smoothing over your skin to dip between your bodies, to press gently, reverently against your stomach. You jolt at the touch, but eventually your hips start rocking into him. Stan doesn't move. You're intoxicated by the thought of him keeping you like this, pinned beneath him, full of his come and plugged by his dick as he brings you to the edge with his fingers.

“Ah, shit—Fuck. Yeah,” you say, the corners of your mouth rising up to match Stan's grin. You play along easier this time. “Yeah. Please. As many times as it takes, right?”

“Gotta knock you up somehow,” Stan says, keeping eye contact with you, his voice oozing with affection. You chuckle at him. What a softie. Then his fingers press a little harder on your stomach, then dip lower, lower, to really touch you, and your mouth drops into a moan instead. “Gonna be such a good mommy.”

You're having a great night.

(inspo from Family Planning by burberryali, which dropped super recently and helped a lot while i learned to write this!!! if you like breeding and fluff and stan in general... which i know you do... this fic is for you! show it some love!!)

[faiell]

Full summary:

Draco reached into his tall grey coat and drew out a crisp folder. A privacy spell shimmered off the parchment as he flipped it open. Confidential Client: Harry J. Potter Category: Purple Urgency: Very High Notes: Living being (self). Abnormal increase in libido. Complexity low. Estimated resolution - one hour. -- Draco fails to keep things professional.

Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Lust Potion/Spell, Dubious Consent, Sex Toys, Curse Breaker Draco Malfoy, Power Imbalance, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Light Angst

Thank you: @ghostofnoir and @kamaela for cheerleading. @kanamycine for betareading (and cheerleading too).

Author's note: hi, thank you everyone who's read and sent good vibes so far. i'm very new to writing but it has been a lot of fun.

AO3 link to Purple

[capricornlevi]

(wc 759)

"you're gonna make me look good?"

jean's question is delivered with that annoying crooked smile, his jersey hugging tight across his chest as he stands with his hands clasped behind his back. he arches an eyebrow expectantly as you fiddle with the camera, trying to fix the settings that seem to have adjusted themselves without your knowledge.

as captain of the soccer team, he's the last player whose picture you need to capture for the college yearbook, and also as the captain, he brings with him an exceptionally smug but annoyingly charming aura that threatens to penetrate your stony resolve.

no, you force yourself to keep a straight face, it's bad enough that you got roped into this gig for free as a favour to your professor, you don't need to start stretching out these interactions any longer.

at that, you set the camera back on the tripod and lean closer, making sure the framing is right.

"okay, smile?" you say, halfway between an instruction and a question.

"i am smiling," he retorts instantly.

"smile ... i don't know, properly."

he winces with mock offence, screwing up whatever hope you had of getting the picture in one shot and finishing up for the day.

"properly?" he queries incredulously.

you sigh, closing your eyes so you don't roll them.

"professionally, then. formally. whatever what you want to do it."

"not open to me doing a silly one?"

"i'll give you one guess on that."

in the viewfinder you see jean's face twist back into that now-familiar smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, the light brown of his hair contrasting again the royal blue of the drape behind him.

(the hall of the gym isn't the best place to set up an impromptu photo studio, but you found an old team flag bundled up in a supply cupboard that made for a decent background)

"okay, okay, i'll be professional. showing my leadership qualities, and so on."

"great," you say flatly, focusing the camera.

"really demonstrating my abilities to represent the school."

"sounds good."

"recording this moment for future generations to come, a piece of living history--"

"do you ever stop talking?"

your interruption was intended to throw him off his tangent, hopefully to buy enough time for you to actually get the picture, but all it does is make him throw his head back with a laugh.

"i can if you want me to."

"if you wouldn't mind," you mumble, feeling a slight pang of guilt at how hard you came in when he's clearly just trying to lighten the mood.

still, you've been here since seven this morning -- soccer practice is early early, you've discovered -- and all you want in the world is to make your way home to collapse back into bed.

"ok, i'll shut up for a minute. if you can answer something for me first."

you take a steadying breath, temper starting to simmer. "what is it?"

"can you actually tell me if i look good?"

against all odds, he shocks you out of your sullen silence.

you pull away from focusing at the camera display to stare wordlessly at jean, the seriousness of the question still pinging around in your head.

he's flirting, obviously, but the question was delivered with sincerity.

"meaning?" you ask. no harm in clarifying, plus you're not entirely sure if he's looking for an ego boost or just asking whether his jersey is too wrinkled or his hair out of place.

"do i look good?"

you swallow thickly, avoiding the temptation to give him a once over. "you look fine."

"fine won't make the history books," he objects; again, with a hint of earnestness that you could find amusing in another setting.

"whatever. you look good, then."

"hair okay?"

"it's a mullet, so --"

he clutches his chest as if wounded, fully grinning now. "no cheap shots at the mullet while I'm in such a vulnerable position, im begging you."

again, your curiosity forces you to engage.

"vulnerable how?"

still smiling, eyes fixed on you, he answers.

"well, talking to a pretty girl, for one thing. secondly, pretty sure she's sworn off soccer players for good after this morning, so ... uphill battle, and all that. plus ive had a crush on her since she was selected as photographer for the championship final last year, so even more's at stake, y'know."

you pause. no words leave you, nothing even resembling a response. you're sure your mouth has actually dropped open.

brow arched again, jean tilts his head forward expectantly.

"aren't you gonna take the picture?"

[madaqueue]

then beg

pairing: suguru geto x f!reader

a/n: BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK srry guys idk what came over me when i was writing this (i need him so bad)

you aren’t sure how much longer you can hold out, your teeth biting down into your lower lip so hard you could nearly taste blood.

“c’mon now, sweetheart, just one little word and this’ll all be over,” your boyfriend purrs above you, his black hair cascading over his shoulders and tickling your bare skin.

you shake your head no, grasping onto any remaining pieces of resolve, collecting the shreds of your determination, to last just one more minute - that’s all you need, you try to reassure yourself.

truthfully, you never thought you’d be the one in this position - after all, it was you who originally made the bet with suguru.

you had put up with enough of his teasing, enough of being called ‘needy’ for just wanting to kiss him, and today you decided to stand up for yourself.

when he walked into your apartment, he just looked so perfect in his work clothes, his dress shirt rolled up above his elbows, his bangs falling across his forehead, how could you not want to fuck him on the spot?

“you’re so sweet when you’re all desperate like this,” he chuckles as you paw at his belt before he even has a chance to get his shoes off.

“suguru, i’m not that desperate,” you huff, stepping back and crossing your arms over your chest in defiance.

"oh yeah?" he tilts his head in amusement. "you couldn’t even wait ten minutes from when i got home, you needed me to fuck you so bad.”

“yeah. and you know what? i’ll prove it,” you state confidently. “ten minutes. i bet you i can go ten minutes without you fucking me.” 

“you’ve got yourself a deal, angel,” he smirks, slowly waltzing over to you. his hands meet your waist, his touch sending shockwaves through you as his palms kneed the soft flesh of your ass.

“d-deal,” you stammer, conviction beginning to waver as he leans over, placing wet kisses along your neck.

and now, it’s been nine minutes of geto cruelly teasing you, bringing you to the brink of your release before pulling back.

he rubs his cock over your slick folds, the pressure driving you insane as you rut your hips up off the bed, craving anything more he’s willing to give you.

but, of course, he was not going to lose so easily.

“you poor needy thing,” he coos, watching you writhe in agony below him. “i told you, all you have to do is say ‘please’ and i’ll fuck you.”

it was becoming too much, the constant taunting and temptation overwhelming you. your body felt like it was on fire, everywhere he touches igniting new flames.

before you can stop yourself, your lips move on their own.

“please,” you blurt out weakly.

“what was that, princess? couldn’t quite hear you,” he teases, holding a hand up to his ear.

“please, pleasepleasepleaseplease,” you babble desperately, “please fuck me, please suguru, please.”

with your eyes tightly shut you can’t see the way he grins, more than happy to give into your demands.

without a moment of hesitation he thrusts into you easily, a moan escaping your lips as you finally get what you had been craving. your warm walls envelop him as your eyes nearly roll back, your pussy beginning to clench around him.

“h-hah,” he whispers, “don’t tell me you’re gonna cum already, i knew you were desperate but fuck.”

his words sound fuzzy, far away; right now, all you can feel is him, the fullness, the stretch, the sweet burning pleasure of his cock inside you. after what felt like an eternity of being denied it, you get suddenly pushed over the edge of your orgasm.

“p-please,” you moan, the words aimlessly tumbling out of your mouth, “please, please.”

your vision goes white as your entire body shakes, racked with wave after wave of ecstasy. broken pleas continue to fill the room, and you’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore, you just know that you need more.

as you come down from your high, you finally open your eyes to meet suguru’s, a glimmer of desire in his dark irises.

you feel his thumb stroke the tears off your face that you hadn’t realized were falling before he wipes the drool that had pooled at the corner of your open mouth away. he kisses you messily, his tongue easily sliding between your parted lips, his cock still buried inside you.

“you really are needy,” he breathes in awe through a smirk, “but since you asked so nicely, i’ll keep fucking you like the desperate slut you are, how’s that sound?”

blinking up at him through glazed-over eyes, you nod. “please?”

[teastainedprose]

Homelander learning how to drive

"Why are we doing this again?" Ashley hisses, panic in her eyes as she stares out the window.

"-because Ryan wants to learn to drive and he can't exactly learn from his dad if I can't fucking drive, Ashley." Homelander snarks back, grip tightening on the steering wheel hard enough to give an ominous crack. He huffs, a silent snarl threatening to curl his lips as he tries to focus on piloting the vehicle.

Ashley's attention snaps back to Homelander at the sound. She's free to do so now that he's no longer creeping the car in the slowest reverse out of the parking spot she's ever witnessed. It's a miracle he didn't hit anything. Despite the lack of other cars within this level of the parking garage, the tight spaces and pillars throughout worry Ashley.

"Yes but why me?" She whines.

That earns her a sharp look from Homelander, eyes narrowed and a warning tic in his cheek signalling that was the wrong thing to say. He doesn't speak, only glares. He also doesn't watch where he's going as the car creeps forward.

"-because I don't know how to drive!" Ashley rushes on in a panic.

Homelander blinks and promptly slams on the brakes, "What!?"

[arget-star]

based not only on popular fandom headcanons but also discussions with a dear friend about Sakura and stray cats

Sakura is used to hearing things go bump in the night.

A lifetime spent in various run-down apartment complexes desensitizes a person to any number of disturbances others would balk at. Breaking glass, raised voices well into the early morning, rats scrabbling underneath the rooftop, doors slamming hard enough to rattle everyone’s windows. That doesn’t mean he particularly enjoys it, but it’s normal all the same.

So, no, he isn’t worried when a particularly loud thud jolts him awake in the middle of the night.

Laying on his stomach, arms still wrapped around his pillow, he groggily lifts his head, blinking a few times to clear away the blurriness from sleep. Sakura strains his ears—nothing else follows the sound. There’s no rush of cool air signifying an open door; it wouldn’t be the first time some drunk idiot has tried breaking in, thinking it’s their apartment.

Maybe someone upstairs tripped. Or dropped something. Or, plain and simple, it’s none of his concern. With a huff, he plops back down onto the pillow. It’s fine. Everyone living here pretends they don’t know anything about slamming doors or shattered sake bottles, and that’s exactly how it should be. No one will mention this odd thump come morning; most will completely forget about it.

There’s another, smaller thud a few minutes later, just as Sakura teeters on the cusp of sleep. He swears he hears a faint little meow before he drifts off.

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

Yawning, Sakura rubs the back of his neck, kicking the door shut behind him. The lock’s still broken—not that he has anything worth stealing, anyway. He drops his hand and shoves both of them inside his pants pockets. Coins jingle faintly inside the right one as he steps into the morning sunlight.

His phone chimes in the left pocket. He ignores it; the messages can wait until he’s eaten his omurice. It buzzes again, and he’s resigned himself to backreading a hundred messages in the class chat when something rustles behind the stack of tied-up garbage bags.

He’s putting his fists up and sliding into a fighting stance before he can blink. Heterochromatic eyes dart first right, then left, searching for any threats.

A shadow grows on the dilapidated fence. Sakura doesn’t move, opting to watch as it grows closer. Is that…a tail? His hands remain in place, but confusion quickly replaces the excitement of a potential fight. He takes another step back—he’s fine with figurative mad dogs, not the real-life, foaming at the mouth kind.

More rustling, followed by the emergence of a white paw. Small, for a dog. Covered in fur, too. His fists lower a fraction. An emaciated black and white cat trots out from the tangle of garbage bags, ears and tail flicking in Sakura’s direction.

“Damn cat,” he mutters, relaxing completely. Strays come around often enough that they’re generally treated as unofficial pets, until they move on to richer feeding grounds. Scoffing, Sakura begins to walk away. His phone won’t stop buzzing, and now he’s annoyed he was woken up in the middle of the night by some cat.

He’s halfway to Furin before he realizes the cat’s right ear is completely black, while the left is white.

[rishiimaa]

How…HOW DO PEOPLE WRITE SMUT AND NOT CRASH OUT IN THE MIDDLE OF IT??? I’M A ANGST AND FLUFF WRITER AND EVEN I CRASH OUT WITH THE CHEESY MOMENTS?? I NEED TO TAKE A BREAK BEFORE I EVEN CONTINUE…LIKE HOW CAN YOU SIT THERE AND WRITE OUTRAGEOUS SHIT AND NOT CRASH OUT?? IS IT A TALENT I JUST SIMPLY LACK?? WHAT IS YOUR SECRET 😭

[smol-and-trashy]

Dual POV vore thing

Idk it wasn’t Twisted Wonderland related until it kinda became. Imagine whatever smug character you want tbh. The only TWST ref is the character’s name

———————————

He had her.

As her tiny form slipped down his throat, he traced her descent. Following the slight bulge from beneath his chin to the crest of his collarbone.

Reclining in the chair, its front wooden legs hovering as his feet rested on the table for balance, he hummed.

Beyond savoring her taste, the sensation of her plunging deeper into his core was undeniably delicious, delectable.

As she pooled into his gut, her immediate squirms and muffled words were met with casual indifference. He pressed the flat of his fingers to his belly, grinning as a flurry of movement occurred in retaliation.

Sure, he’ll release her eventually, but for now, he was going to have some fun with his little toy.

••••••••••••••••••

Plus a prey POV, let’s name her Yuu lol

The asshole actually swallowed her. As Yuu slid down his throat, she was in a shocked trance. Sure, he was playing around with her, raising her above his open mouth and whatnot but she didn’t think the oaf would actually swallow.

Squeezed down his tight gullet, it felt like the world’s most claustrophobic water slide. Yuu dropped into a more open space, the walls dripped with liquid, constantly moving, and the stale odor of past meals made her irritably kick at the nearest wall.

Unbridled chuckles closed in around her, hurling Yuu across the confined space. Her nails dug into the floor, trying to grasp some semblance of stability as she shook off the dizziness. Nerves grated, anxiety fried — she lashed out, hitting and scratching at the walls. Yuu’s entire body was drenched and sticky, courtesy of the oppressive mugginess of her surroundings.

With her hair clinging to her face, Yuu swore she would make this bastard pay the moment she got out of here.

[fluxrspar]

engagements.

She doesn't arrive with most of the group, watching from the sidelines as the others mix and mingle. She always felt out of place in in events such as these, and this being her second time improved things very little. (After all, it was a completely new location.) She is inside before the rains grow heavier, at least, but looking through glass windows:

“It looks like quite the storm is brewing…”

TRACKER.

Selena possesses the anchor charm.

Charms Collected:

Seashell: Camilla Starfish: Lyn Anchor: Ivy Turtle: N/A Pearl: Berkut

(Outfit + description under the cut.)

The boots are gloves are standard formal wear, but everything else is fit to swim with (not that swimming with a shawl, however water-tolerant, is ever a bright idea). Blues and greens mix with gold, and what a wonder that her charm matches the anchors she wears on her ears!

[angie-long-legs]

"Well done for safewording, baby. I'm proud of you. Now let's get you cleaned up."

- Husk to Angel

disclaimer: this is essentially a narrated flashback. abuse is implied but not explicitly described. mildly suggestive given the context. heavy subject matter.

It wasn't Husk's fault. In fact, it had been Angel's idea to try the blindfold, and as far as kinky additions to the pair's sex life went, this one was, by Angel's standards, relatively tame. He had even scoffed at Husk's suggestion that they "take things slow" as they introduced the fun new toy, citing that he used them all the time - there was no need to be so cautious. Sensory deprivation was nothing in comparison to the plethora of dangerous acts Angel regularly undertook as part of his job. It was fun.

That was until a misplaced hand brushed unexpectedly against Angel's throat on it's journey to cup his cheek, the razor edge of Husk's clawed thumb jutting against his windpipe for no more than a split second.

That was all it took.

There was no predicting exactly what ugliness would leech its tendrils into the present when such moments occurred, the ones where Angel lost touch with the here and now. Neither could the spider discern exactly what brought these episodes on: some days, he could act out fantasies that were violent and obscene without so much as stopping for breath; other times, a subtle, featherlight caress would reduce him to a quivering wreck, gasping for air as he wept into his wounds. His mind picked out patterns, drawing conclusions where there were none, and insisting all roads lead to the same sticky end. What began as an act of passion would be hijacked by stagnant still-frames of something repulsive, something rancid, like love gone to spoil. The soft and smooth turned rotten and nauseating, a stain on crisp, white bedsheets, and all that festered below the surface crept out from the cracks and made Angel's skin crawl.

This time, the ugliness had taken the guise of gold-tipped fingers encircling his throat and squeezing.

The second those claws grazed the spider's neck, his body went cold. It was as though a switch had flicked, all pleasure snuffed out in an instant as he was propelled mercilessly into the past. The objective truth slipped sideways, no more than a dim light on the horizon as horror reincarnate held the foreground. The gentle hand cradling Angel's face glitched and mutated, fusing with the one that was choking him; the one that was only a memory, and yet held fast and stubborn as the grip itself. Soon followed the sweet, metallic taste of blood and venom infiltrating his mouth and nose, alongside that musty, oh-so-familiar scent of sweat and smoke. Husk's soft mutters and moans grew distant, merging with a voice that wasn't his, with sounds that didn't come from him.

These episodes were common for Angel. He had become so familiar with them that even the shame he felt at their unwanted presence had slowly begun to thaw. But there was one key difference between the way he usually experienced flashbacks and the way he was experiencing this one: his sight.

This time, he was blind.

In the dark, the images that were usually superimposed over reality became vivid and lucid. Angel was helplessly subjected to a cruel revival of a scene so desperately humiliating that it only existed when it could commandeer the present, fading into the realm of the unthinkable rather than ever truly being over. There was nothing to ground the spider, no outline of his lover to cling to, no visual cues to indicate when or where he was - who he was with. Beneath that thin layer of silk that shielded Angel from the truth was a void that played host to a nightmare. His patient, gentle lover was recast by the towering form of a monster, one who salivated sticky pink poison that stained the sharp teeth of its sick, lascivious grin.

Lust couldn't survive this coma. Paralysis couldn't numb this pain.

Hoarse and breathless, all the spider could do was whisper.

"Fold."

Light flooded the scene as Angel was freed from the blindfold, and untethered panic shot through the spider like a shock of lightning. With a ragged gasp, he started upright - it was too bright to see, but his hands flew out to grab at the soft fur of his partner. He was with Husk. He was with Husk. His skin was crawling. He was with someone who loved him. It was unbearable. He was okay. He wanted this.

He wanted this.

The buzz of the adrenaline began to dull as Angel's vision came into focus, the sight of his partner tuning out the horrible images that had been heightened beneath the blindfold. Suddenly aware in some far-off fragment of consciousness that Husk was instructing Angel to slow his breathing, the arachnid followed along dumbly with the rise and fall of the man's chest, attempting to match the movements with his own. He was still clinging roughly to Husk's fur, but his hold was stiff, similtaneously keeping him at arms length as he used the touch to guide him into the present.

It was only when the intangible hand around Angel's throat relaxed it's vice-like hold that he finally let go of his lover.

Fuzzy-headed, Angel shivered as the weight of his partner next to him lifted from the bed. Had he been sharper, he might have registered that Husk was leaving to get towels and other clean-up paraphernalia, but in his current state, all he could tell was that one moment he was in the presence of another, and the next, he was alone. Sweat clung to his fur, his breath was coming in shallow pants, and although his heart had slowed its pounding, it still ached.

How long was this going to keep happening? How long would he keep chasing pleasure built on trust and honesty, only to have it shattered by brutal intrusions over and over again? Would he always be looking over his shoulder, one eye open when he slept, half a mind in the past no matter how far forward he pushed?

Would the red string of fate always eat its own tail?

Had it always been the colour of blood?

Angel pulled his legs to his chest, hugging himself like a frightened child. It wasn't fair. It was so bitterly, intolerably unfair. He wanted to scream, or sob, or trash his room and tear out his hair and yell until his voice gave out.

Instead, he sat perfectly still, all but for his persistent trembling. Husk would be back soon. They would talk this through, they always did. He wouldn't be okay - but he wouldn't be alone, either. It wasn't enough, of course it wasn't. But it had to be. It was all he had.

For now, it had to be enough.

[inkwell-and-dagger]

Fight to the Death

A young adult Foster drabble, five years prior to the events of How To Kill An Immortal

TW: violence and a lot of blood, and that's pretty much it :3

—————————

Foster never exactly bothered to wash the blood of their hands at this point. They knew it'd be a permanent part of their very identity; whether that be physically or mentally, they didn't know yet. Hours spent scrubbing their hands clean, down to underneath their sharp fingernails, never satisfied them, so why bother anymore? They didn't want to spend more on their water bills than absolutely necessary.

They didn't know why they were complaining, though; after all, they kind of asked for this. It was partially their fault they got into this sketchy business, shedding blood for nothing more than money. And it wasn't like they could back out of it now, having been here since they were eighteen; they were twenty-one now, and despite how young they were, they already felt like they'd wasted their life doing this fuck-all excuse of a profession. They didn't doubt that they looked like they fit the part, too.

It was an average night for Foster; if the concept of an average night consisted of beating the crap out of some willing stranger in a crowded warehouse. Frigid midnight air nipped their blood-splattered skin, limbs stiff and sore, but pure adrenaline drove them onwards.

They had forgotten when their nose had begun to bleed, a metallic taste coating their tongue, but the pain had subsided to a small ache by now. Punch after kick after slice after scratch; they felt like a wild animal.

Their ears were ringing, and maybe that was from how loud the place was, or from being hit on the head one too many times. It didn't deter them.

Their movements faltered when their opponent fell limply to the ground, their own hands drenched in blood from the past few hours spent fighting back-to-back. With heaving breaths, they attempted to drown out the cacophony of cheering, leaving the vicinity with long strides before anyone could congratulate them up close.

They especially hated this part. Being congratulated, praised, for what? Potentially killing some random person for money? For fucking money? It was ridiculous to think that everyone thought that tj u wanted the praise.

They found their way outside the building, not bothering to clean their hands. One way or another, the blood will always remain.

The quiet of the night was welcome for once. The air inside made them feel lightheaded, but out here it was cold. Sure, it bit at their cuts and bruised flesh, but it was calming, in a strange way.

They hadn't noticed that they'd gotten company until the sharp sound of someone clearing their throat ripped them out of their train of thought. "Earth to Mr Canavan?"

"Mx Canavan, please."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Sure you are."

Their company responded with an amused chuckle, walking over to lean against the wall beside them. The man was larger than them, in both size and muscle, but his expression was almost compassionate. Milky white hair styled into an outgrown mullet, framing pale skin and paler eyes. A strong Texan accent pulled at his words. "What's got you so down, huh?"

A frown tugged at Foster's lips. "Bunch o' shit. Don't really know why you're so interested, though."

"Just thought I'd check in," He chuckled, "See how those fists of yours are handling so much action?"

"You're so funny."

"I like to think that I am."

A long stretch of silence followed, in which Foster took a small peak at the man. They'd seen him around in the fights every now and again. He looked like an interesting guy.

"..If you don't mind me being interested in your, uh.."

"My huh—?" He met their gaze, raising a platinum eyebrow. "My— Ah, I see. I don't mind."

Their own eyebrows raised in surprise. "...Albinism, innit?"

"Exactly that, young man.. wom—.. person? Is there a..?"

"Just use man for now, I don't care."

"If you say so," The man smiled, and continued. "Yeah, I've got albinism."

"You look cool."

"Thanks, kiddo."

"Don't call me that." They murmured, a certain light fading from their eyes.

"...Alright."

Another beat of silence.

"..What even is your name? I don't know you other than your surname."

"Uh.. I'm Foster, I guess."

"Interesting name."

Foster raised an eyebrow, but wasn't too bothered. They weren't going to bother analyzing whether that was sarcastic or not. "Thanks."

"Where're you from? I like your accent."

"Uhm, Durham. Not far from 'ere."

"Ah, I see. I've always liked you Brits' accents."

"...Alrighty then, mate."

The man sighed, wrapping a loose arm around Foster. "Come on. Don't want you getting too cold out here."

Foster gave him a look. "Why do you care so much?"

"I know a troubled person when I see one, young man."

They sighed, but didn't respond, instead just begrudgingly following him inside.

"Go clean yourself up, or whatever you need to do. I assume you're done for the night."

"Yeah, yeah, on it, boss." They drawled sarcastically, shoving their bloodied hands into the pockets of their jeans. The man responded with an amused scoff.

"What's your name, then? You know mine, it's only fair."

"I'm Ezra. Ezra Hendrix."

—————————

HTKAI Taglist: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @ash-1s-wr1t1ng @whumpy-wyrms @creppersfunpalooza @toyybox

[roetrolls]

Reminder (No Relation)

(Previous)

The voices behind the door are muffled, but you can make them out well enough as you approach.

"You can't just keep it," you hear Cylion pleading, a hint of exasperation in his tone.

You hesitate in reaching for the doorknob. Are they busy?

"We need to dispose of it."

"You will do no such thing," comes your father's gruff reply.

"I found the needle." Somnia too? You can't remember the last time he was in Father's quarters. He usually took his visits elsewhere, put off by the room's damaged state.

"In a minute," Cylion sighs. "Father--"

A short growl rattles the door in its frame. You jump back slightly, tail flaring in surprise.

"For fuck's sake," Somnia mutters.

Even from the hallway, you can sense the tension in the room. Ever the optimist, however, you convince yourself rather suddenly that your presence might diffuse it.

Silence descends on the men in an instant, all heads turning as you push past the heavy wooden door and into their midst.

“Oh, shit.”

Before you can unpack Somnia’s strange reaction, Cylion is practically tripping over himself to get to you, a tight smile tugging at his lips.

“Nymira,” he greets you, moving with a sense of urgency even you take notice of. He sets his hands on your shoulders and chuckles nervously, shooting a glance at Somnia and jerking his head your way.

You lean to the side, trying to peer around him, and he follows suit. When you swing back the other way, so does he. 

“Somnia,” he grits, muscles tensed.

“Hello, Father!” you call over Cylion’s shoulder, drawing the man’s attention to you.

“Good evening, little sprout.” “Mira, hey! How long have you been up?” Somnia’s voice, just as tight as Cylion’s, overlaps with your father, but you pay his greeting little mind.

“What is everyone doing down here?” you ask, ducking out of Cylion’s grasp to run to Favion’s side.

“Nymira, wait!”

Your father sets down the object he has been holding and opens his arms to you. Eyes drawn to the movement, you see, of all things, a ring.

A ring that you made…

…and gave to Marrie.

There is a finger

still attached.

Marrie’s. Finger. And her hand. Her

arm.

The scream that tears itself from your throat does not feel like yours.

One of your brothers tries to take you by the arm, but you jerk away as if burned. They are saying your name, one or both of them, trying desperately to get your attention.

Inky tears roll down your cheeks, blinding and relentless, and you stare at your father in abject horror.

“What did you do?” You choke, yanking your arm away as another hand tries yet again to grasp it. “Why did you hurt her!?”

Favion reaches out, angling to wipe your tears. “No one was hurt, Sprout.”

You swat his hand away and swipe Marrie’s arm, tucking it to your chest like a wounded beast. “You’re lying!” you howl, stumbling back.

“It’s only a doll.”

“SHE’S MY FRIEND!”

“Mira–”

You whirl around and shove Somnia aside, flying out of the room as fast as your legs can carry you. Cylion shouts as you flee, but his words do not reach your ears. You do not slow down, do not stop until you are back in your bedroom, throat raw and lungs burning.

Little Friend stands at your desk, concern painting his tiny face, but you do not have the wherewithal to greet him. With Marrie’s arm still clutched to your chest, you lock the door and sink to the ground, crying all the while.

A strangled sob bubbles out of you, almost violent in the way it forces itself into being. In the back of your mind, a nagging voice finds a foothold.

You are going to forget.

Half crawling and half stumbling, you tear through the room like a hurricane, sweeping objects from the shelves in search of something. Little Friend paces across the desk in sync with you, keeping the distance between you as small as he can without jumping from his perch.

You have no pens. You can’t let yourself forget.

The door rattles in its frame.

“Nymira!” Cylion pants, voice muffled by the wood. “Nymira, please let me in.”

You shove a hand beneath your mattress, closing your fingers around the journal she gave you. The one to go with your pens.

“Please, Nymira, I’m worried about you!”

“Go away!” You shriek, slamming the journal onto your desk. Little Friend titters around your hands, anxious in his movements.

“I know you’re upset. Just talk to me.”

“You were going to hide it!”

You dig through your desk drawer, heart pounding in your ears. They will let you forget.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this, that’s all!”

You take a needle from the sewing kit.

“Nymira!”

With a shaking hand, you press the cold metal into your finger, watching through a fresh wave of tears as a dot of black blood blooms at the tip. You press your bloodied finger to the journal’s blank pages and begin to write, sliding it across the parchment in the cleanest strokes you can manage.

M-A-R-R-I-E.

You are trembling with exhaustion by the time you finish, head spinning as the adrenaline fades.

It is becoming difficult to keep your eyes open, this panicked frenzy having drained you more than you would have thought possible. The matter of hiding your journal is settled, at least, when Little Friend shoves the thing off your desk, shunting it into the same crack that supposedly swallowed your pens not long ago.

It is all you can do to hope that is enough as you collapse into bed, clutching the arm so tightly your knuckles turn white.