#v x placide

[rikke-reid-art]

How much I love this couple, it's just beyond words. And the only ones I draw so often. (≧◡≦) ♡

[agirlcandream84]

Silly Beast | Henry Cavill One Shot

Henry Cavill x Reader 

Word Count: 1,702

Edwardian Era AU 

Overview: This is an awakening story -- Henry has a sexual epiphany and steps into his true role as a dom.  

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, Minors DNI.  Smut, p in v, dom/sub, slight praise kink

Henry sat perched at the small kitchen table, the spring breeze wafting in through the small window in his line of sight.  The behemoth of a man made the dinette set seem miniature by comparison-- the spread of his thighs nearly demanding the chair to buckle beneath him.  He seemed not to mind or notice as he sipped an afternoon cup or tea and leafed through the paper.  

Like the trill of a bird, the sound of his wife’s laughter floated through the window, his lips curling into a smile before his eyes located her across the expanse of their lawn.  She stood barefoot in the grass, dressed only in her cotton shift as she pinned the freshly laundered clothes to the line.  A local cat wove it’s way through her legs, making a figure 8, its whiskers tickling her calves and shins.  

Her hair was pinned atop her head, tendrils tumbling down, as was the style.  The breeze and a mid-morning nap in the sun left her hair softened and her cheeks and nose freckled.  After two years of marriage, Henry still found himself pining for his wife like a schoolboy.  Her beauty was apparent, yes, but her kindness and her innocence felt everlasting.  Despite two years of bedded marriage, she maintained a virginal innocence that often befuddled Henry.  

He watched as she fell into a steady pattern- bending into the basket, shaking the wrinkles and pinning the clothes to the line.  The rhythm of it lulled him, his tea turning cold and his paper left unread.  The breeze was parting the clouds, the sun streaming onto the vast green lawn.  

The sun cast his wife in near-silhouette, making apparent her godly form beneath the thin shift.  Henry watched as she continued the wash, a content smile on her face.  Bending into the basket, he now saw the ample swell of her ass and the gentle weight of her breasts.  As she stood to whip the cloth against the breeze, her breasts jiggled beneath the shift-- a bareness in a way he’d somehow not known in his wife. His gaze felt carnal.  

He watched intently as she continued, the sun making her shift disappear as the breeze made it cling to her curves and angles while her face remained placid and virginal.  It was an erotic revealing of her body to her husband.  Every bend, every whip baring her body for what it was -- a temple of pleasure and desire.  His dominion.  

Henry shifted in the small chair, his cock now steely and straining against his trousers.  He breathed a cooling breath through his nostrils and ran a roughened hand through his hair.  Beneath his growing desire was a whisper of shame.  Shame to see his wife so bare.  The same wife he had kissed and loved and spilled his seed countless times.  And yet he had never seen her so exposed.  He felt what he can only describe as animalistic desire.  A flame tearing through him, propelling him to lay claim for what felt like the first time.

He stood with power propelling him, the chair clattering to the floor behind him.  He marched through the small door frame, ducking to accommodate his size.  She saw his approach, a small smile on her face to greet her gentle husband.  

“Hen?” she asked as he continued his purposeful march, slight confusion spreading across her face.  “Henry, you silly beast, what’s come over you?” she asked with a laugh as he drew near.  

“You’ve come over me,” he nearly snarls, taking the cloth from her hand and letting it fall into the grass.  His hands encircle either side of her face and his mouth devours hers.  Her form softens, her hands finding his broad chest and melting into it.  

“Henry” she mumbles between kisses, “Henry, what’s going on?”

 “Quiet dove,” he growls, his hands snaking over the delicious curve of her ass and pulling the backs of her thighs toward him, lifting her off the fragrant grass and wrapping her legs around the thickness of his waist.  

“Hen!” she shouts in shock, fear spiking through her at her husband’s newfound command.  Henry was always an attentive but gentle lover.  He never wielded his size or power and she didn’t recognize the man whose cock she felt growing beneath her.  

*********** 

You clung to his neck as he stalked toward the house, like a hunter coming home with his game.  Your heart hammered in your chest as Henry crossed the threshold.  Despite his alarming dominance, you felt yourself grow aroused at his power, yearning to be taken, to be claimed.  

Henry carried you to your small shared bed and placed you down, unlacing your arms from his neck.  

“Henry can you please explain what’s going on?” you asking but the question goes answered.  He is singularly focused on freeing his angry, hard cock from his trousers and when the job is complete, he deftly tugs the thin cotton shift from your body and over your head.  His hands immediately find your breasts and massage them forcefully as his nostrils flair with desire.  

“Henry please,” you say again, your wetness now clouding your resolve to set your husband right.  You clamp your thighs together, ashamed that he may bare witness to your carnality at his bruteness.  

“You’ll call me sir,” he commands you, his eyes meeting yours for the first time.  

“I.. wha.. Hen..” you stammer, confused at his command. 

“Say it.  Call me sir,” he commands again, his voice unfaltering.   

“Yes sir,” you whisper instinctively and you know that you’ve become his in a way no marriage vows have ever dictated.  You’re his, completely and bodily.  

“That’s a good dove.  Now let me see your wetness,” he demands.  Your face flushes crimson, his naked crudeness almost unbearable to comprehend.  You shake your head timidly, the idea of baring your slick wetness so plainly feels unthinkable.  

“Now dove,” he commands again, walking on his knees to nudge your legs apart.  His hands fall on either knee and press firmly but gently until your legs are spread open to their fullness.  You bury your face into your shoulder, shame burning through you.  

“fuck,” he mutters to himself, his thumbs massaging your inner thighs and circling lower towards your slick petals.  He relishes in the sticky wetness, marveling at your submission.  Your breath quickens as his thumb lands on your nub, gently drawing circles that build the heat in your abdomen.  

“hen,” you mutter, shame making way to desire.  

“Ask for it,” he commands you. 

“hen please,” you beg.  

“The right way,” he corrects you.  

“please sir,” you respond instantly, your hips grinding into his hand, your canal clenching desperately on nothing.  

At your submission he grabs the base of his cock and buries it deep, to the hilt, in your slick pinkness.  Once seated, he pauses, the weight of his lower body baring on you.  You feel him so fully that the breath nearly leaves your lungs.  You realize with clarity that Henry has spent your two years of marriage restraining himself.  Loving you gently.  Tenderly.  But never with the full force of him.  Never so unbearably fully.  

He begins pumping, pulling out slowly to ram in quickly and pausing when he’s seated.  Each punch forces you up the length of the bed, your breasts bouncing.  Your hands grasp for purchase at the iron bed frame to steady the blows of his force.  Your eyes are squeezed shut, managing through the pleasant sting of his stretch.  

“Watch dove.  I want you to watch,” he says, his abs tensed as he perches his form above you and his cock within you.  

“hen no, I can’t,” you reply, the idea feeling unholy and crude.  

“you can and you will,” he replies, firmly guiding your chin forward.  You obey and open your eyes, shocked at the massive girth of his cock as it punches you deeply.  

The sight leaves you panting, the flame licking deep within your gut.  Your head falls back on the feather-down pillow and you pant for him, “oh henry. henry harder.” 

“Ask me again,” he grunts, demanding your submission.  

“harder sir, please,” you nearly squeak, his dominion alighting a passion you never knew.  At your obedience, he quickens his pace, punching so deeply you feel a pleasant stinging in your gut.  Carnal rage drives him, ramming so intensely you’ll bruise by morning.  The flame licks bigger, alarmingly so, within you.  Henry feels the gentle clench of your canal and takes a hand from your knee and flicks your nub as he punches his cock into you. 

At his touch, you nearly scream, the air leaving your lungs and the coil near snapping.  His leans his body over yours to better increase his speed, building a friction only matched by his deft thumb circling your clit.  

“Cum now dove,” he grunts, demanding you to unravel.  You fear the release but can’t escape it.  

“yes, s-sir,” you barely mumble.  Your bliss tears through you, a savage scream emerging from your lips and a stream of warm liquid gushing out of your pinkness and coating his cock.  You body quivers and trembles while he continues to spear you.  You attempt to close your knees but he pins them open, demanding to see the whole of you while bliss overcomes you.  

“That’s a good dove,” he coos, his gentle manner a juxtaposition to his forceful pumping.  He grunts on each pump, nearing his own completion. 

“please sir, fill me up.  fill me with your seed,” you beg, feeling near intoxicated by his savageness.  You want his sticky seed to fill you whole.  To carry it within-- the purest conclusion to your supplication.  His eyes find yours as his own bliss tears through him, his heavy, thick streams of seed coating your walls and threatening to burst past the seal of his cock.  

He shudders as the last of him is released inside you and makes three gentle pumps to ensure his seed buried deeply.  He grabs the base of his cock to guide it out from within you and runs his thumbs over your swollen petals, pushing his mess into your clenching hole.  

And he is a man changed.  

[knot-headed]

D, O, X, K, M, W, and V for Ghost please!

Simon "Ghost" Riley - NSFW Alphabet

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Has fantasized about you cumming on his face and then pulling his mask down afterwards. He gets incredibly hard thinking about walking around with your cum on his face without anyone knowing, proof of your claim on him slowly drying on his skin and becoming intertwined with the very fabric he uses to hide himself away from everyone else but you.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Manhandling/brat taming - Ghost is a big dude, so you being able to push and pull him around however you like is a big turn on for him, as well as putting him in his place if he acts out around you.

Dirty sex - And I mean like actual dirt. Seeing you covered in whatever - dirt, blood (your own or other people's) gets Ghost turned on, you're dirty already, why not add some sweat and cum to the mix?

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Seeing you fight/sparring with you. Price has almost banned you and Simon from sparring with each other because after 2 or 3 rounds, both of you will somehow slink away, and when it's noticed, it's not hard to figure out where you've gone. If he's not the one you're sparring with, once you're done Simon gives you a stare and a quick gesture of his head to follow, and you're after him like a dog.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Likes giving more. Sitting between your knees with the weight of your cock on his tongue has Simon going placid. Gets incredibly turned on if you start being rough with him, harshly grabbing his head/hair to fuck into his mouth.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Ghost is quiet at the beginning, mainly grunts or whispered curses. If you want him to be louder, to hear his moans or him begging, you're gonna have to tease or edge him. He breaks when he's desperate to cum, moaning like you wanted. I also think when he's about to cum he gets louder as well.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Was nervous the first time you had sex. He doesn't have much experience with intimacy anyway, and then finding out that you want to fuck him? He goes along with it of course, successfully hiding any hesitation, but as soon as you bottom out inside him, it goes out the window, and he realises that he definintely likes being fucked by you.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Big dick and a big ass. Definitely an ass you jokingly call a pillow and lie on, only to discover that actually, you were right, his ass is very comfortable to rest your head on, and Ghost sometimes lets you do so. I think his dick is long and wide - if he gets a boner, it's difficult for him to hide it.

[wackyharpy]

Solicitude

Eric (Divergent) x Fem! Reader

Summary: Eric takes care of his girlfriend after the hard day.

To find more stories — masterlist

A/N: English isn't my native language. I'm obsessed with this man, oh gods! Needed to write something like this. I'd be very happy for your comments and reblogs. Enjoy :)

Warnings ⚠️

NSFW 18+, fingering, p in v sex, she/her pronouns.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

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She enters their shared apartment late in the evening locking the door. Muscles all over the body ache after hard trainings with the squad she's part of. Their commander always keeps them fit.

She finished her initiation taking the third place on the rankings board. Such success for a girl, who was one of the two among other male initiates, ended up with her becoming a part of the squad of the special purpose for secret missions.

Since the day their commander chose her, he has never regretted. It was a right decision. She is smart and witty — former Erudite — calm and placid — a perfect person not to blab plans and inside scoop.

Additionally, she's the youngest leader's girlfriend.

To start relationships with Eric wasn't an easy decision, but two years have already passed and they're still together. Unexpectedly, Eric has turned out to be a simple person to live with. Yes, the character he has, sometimes drives her crazy, although it's not the problem that can't be solved. He's dominant, intimidating and frightening, as he was the first time she met him during the initiation.

Nevertheless, she's discovered much more other facets of his personality. He's not just that cruel leader everybody is used to seeing him. Eric can cook — the first thing that surprised her a lot. He's a good listener and adviser. He motivates her to work and to become a better version of herself — she appreciates time they spend together in the gym where he shares his knowledge of how to obtain skillfulness in fighting, shooting, plotting plans and strategies.

They've learned how to be a leader and a subordinate, a mentor and a student outside the walls of their apartment. But here, they're only Eric and her. Just a boyfriend and his girlfriend.

She walks deeper in the room greeting Eric who is finishing dinner in the kitchen area. Dim lights of lanterns illuminate the space along with the moon whose rays permeate into through the panoramic windows — their apartment is situated on the upper floors of Dauntless compartment.

She rubs red weary eyes with her calloused palms, and sits at the table in the dining area. Exhales heavily. Eric places a plate with baked salmon and veggies in front of her. He constantly pays attention to her diet for her to have energy and be healthy.

"Thanks," she smiles warmly.

Being a leader, he's never provided her with advantages that may assist her easily gain a position in Dauntless. Some people may consider, she got her place in the squad because of Eric, though that's not true. Her efforts are the reason she's there. The only benefits she has is access to products of high-quality, good clothes, domicile and protection.

She eats every now and then looking at sharp features of Eric's face, at his perfect nose and slightly plump lips, at his cheekbones which she adores to contour with the finger. Her eyes go down viewing vividly black tattoos on the neck. She feels how something is tugging in the lower abdomen.

"Eat your meal. Stop gazing at me," she hears his voice's deep timbre. Abruptly, her cheeks turn pink and she chuckles. She sees how a perfect line of Eric's lips twitches in a smirk.

"Salmon is really good," she praises dinner.

"Mhm... received two fresh fish this morning."

***

They finish dinner and clean the table, then do the washing-up together. Eric hides two plates in the shelf above the faucet and turns to her immediately embracing her little petite figure with his strong arms.

"Tired?" The serene tone of his voice soothes her.

She cuddles closer to his chest smelling a pleasant male scent, and just nods. She feels a soft kiss on her forehead, and then Eric rises her from the ground taking to the bathroom.

After brushing their teeth — they've got used to do all this plain routine together, the couple gets ready to take the shower. Eric turns on water and begins to undress her. She yawns finally feeling how much her muscles are strained, in need of rest. Hooded eyes watch how Eric attentively takes off all of her clothes, then undresses himself.

He's not a type of guy to say "love you" and other sweet nothings about his feelings, but she doesn't need that. She's got used to his own tongue of showing love and affection.

Before stepping into the shower cabin, Eric checks the temperature of water, only then leads her inside along with him. She closes her eyes relaxing under warm streams realizing how much her body's got exhausted. Eric massages her shoulders gently once in a while placing kisses on them, her neck, or back. He helps to soothe knots in her strained muscles. She sighs contendetly leaning back on his powerful chest. She feels that Eric is smiling, feels his tender touching on her hips and stomach. She enjoys such moments when he takes a lead, dominates but gently, and looks after her. At times like this, she feels safe and peaceful.

After the shower, he dries her wrapping in the soft towel. Eric takes her face and kisses her affectionately and possessively.

"Fancy sex?" His look is demanding and piercing.

She bites her lower lip that doesn't escape Eric's attention.

She nods, also adding:

"But I'm too tired to be active in bed."

He is silent for several seconds, just rubs her cheeks with the thumbs. Then responds:

"I'll take care of you."

With these words, he leads her to their bed that stands opposite the floor-to-ceiling windows. She sinks in the black linen that smells of them. After coming into contact with the duvet, her head and eyelids suddenly feel heavy. Drowsiness washes over her, foggy curtain falls onto her eyes.

Eric lies beside her and she immediately snuggles her nose into his bicep closing her eyes, giving her whole body to him. He unwraps the towel revealing her steamed, after the shower, body.

His calloused hand creases her breasts, plays with her already hard nipples and then goes down reaching her labia. Eric rubs them leisurely watching her reactions. She's a bit sleepy, though still reacts to his movements gasping quietly. He finds her pulsating clit giving it proper attention until her pussy is wet enough to insert two fingers inside. Her moist insides welcome them and he starts gentle but steady movements back and forth. She breathes out, moans a little, and Eric looms his head over brushing his lips against hers.

"Like it?"

"Mhm," she cuddles closer, still keeping her eyes closed.

"Open your legs wider," he commands whispering.

She obediently does as he orders. His thrusts become faster. She feels hotness rushing to her core, something tugs, then her walls clench, and she releases sticky juices orgasming. She exhales heavily feeling pleasant relief.

Eric takes out his fingers spreading clammy liquid of her pussy all over her entrance and inner labia. He pumps his already hard dick for some time and settles himself comfortably between her lean legs. He rubs pinkish head of the cock against her drenched folds, then starts intruding with his member inside.

Eric bites his lower lip feeling how her enjoyable tightness wraps his member. They both gasp. He looms over her hiding her safely from the world conquering all her senses with only his presence.

"Eric..." sweet moan of hers.

His thrusts are slow and gentle — he's not planning to make rough sex tonight. He wants her to enjoy herself, relax, and ultimately sleep peacefully.

[sofasoap]

Lastochka - Espionage

Pairing : Nikolai x F!Reader ( OC/Mini MacTavish)

Summary: Your first covert assignment after you return to duty. Prequel to A quiet moment - Lastochka

Part I , Part II, Interlude,Part III,Part IV,Part V,Epilogue, Night,

TRIGGER WARNING: explicit scene. talk of PTSD, non-consensual touching. Smut. Slight Jealous! possessive and Dom! Nikolai.

Thanks to @homicidal-slvt for planting ideas into my brain. this whole series is all for you :)

My usual thanking @saltofmercury, mother of Mini, for lending me the character :) Please go and check out her fics!

“masterlist” for Mini MacTavish expanded verse

“I said NO.” Nikolai threw the files back into Price and Laswell’s face, not even trying to contain his fury. “Nik….” Tugging on your husband’s arm, trying to placid him to sit. 

Shrugging off your hand and ignoring your plea he stepped closer to the desk, snarking at the two commanders. “Have you two forgotten what happened last time when she went into the mission ALL BY HERSELF???”  he roared. There is no way Nikolai is going to see you, his precious wife going through hell again.

You wrap your arm around yourself, biting your lip. Not a memory you want to revisit . Slashed. Kept up for days straight, exhaustion. Only a piece of bread and sip of water for you to sustain on for weeks. Darkness of the chamber, contrasting with the bright light shining right into your face, demanding information. The animalistic look when the soldiers try to tie you up and……

Soap was the first one noticing you stumbling back into the chair, hyperventilating. He dashed forward, steadying you. The unfocused eyes and lack of response when he calls out to you, head rolling back and mumbles incoherent words, he knows you are suffering from another episode. Putting his arm around your shoulder, he whispered words in Scottish, calling out your full name, trying to guide you back into the present. While Gaz and Ghost standing on each side, ready to assist.

Argument stopped as Laswell held her hand up, stopping him from talking, he was about to protest, when she went around the desk with a motherly concern on her face.  Nikolai turned around and realised what had happened to you. “... Remember when Da and Ma were angry with both of us when I let you roll in the peat? Da had to hose both of us down… and your first time making scones but nearly burnt down the kitchen…..” Soap’s gentle and soft tones as he tries to recall childhood stories of both of your mischiefs, luring you out from the unwanted traumatic memory of time in captivity. Slowly blinking, you slowly came to.The warmth of your brother’s arm around your shoulder, as your eyes came back into focus. Nikolai was kneeling in front of you, his big hand enveloped yours, thumb slowly caressing your hand, grounding you back into reality. Eyes full of worry and guilt. One by one, the muscles of your body relax again as you realise you are not back in that horrible prison. You are safe, and sound. With your team family around you. The room was quiet, apart from the sound of your brother guiding you to slow down your breathing as he sees you coming out from the flash back, and your still uneven breathing. “I am sorry.” You choked out after a long while. You feel guilty as the centre of attention, having the team worry about you. The feeling of incompetence, that fear again of getting kicked out of the team again comes careen down the hill. 

Tightening the grip of Nikolai’s hand, he notices your distress coming back again. He stood up, guiding you to stand up and pull you into embrace. “Meeting over.” Nikolai’s curt tone leaves no room for argument. “Nik.” Price growled. “We need an answer soon as possible.”

“Give us a few minutes.” You interjected with a whisper.. Price’s softened gaze lands on you. Running a hand down his face, he nodded. He cares about you like his own daughter, but he knows the urgency of this mission will require him to get all the final details sorted as soon as possible. 

Closing the door as you tow your husband out of the office before he can say anything , two of you walk down the corridor a few metres away from Price’s office, it’s late at night, no one else is around apart from people on night shift and patrol duty. Stopping around the corner of the corridor and out of everyone’s earshot, Nikolai turned around, voicing his opinion on the matter again.

“I am sorry I shouldn’t have mentioned .. The Incident. “ He apologised, choosing his last few words carefully.  “But I am not letting you into danger again. You are NOT going.”

“Nik.” Closing your eyes, trying not to let your mind astray again, “Love. At least let see what they have to say about this mission. And we can decide how we can help out?” You suggested meekly. 

A scowling expression appeared on his face. You wonder between Price and Nikolai, these two can have competition to see who has the most variations of unimpressed or displeased expression on their face. You snorted at the thought. “You are a stubborn one aren’t you. .. Why are you laughing?” “And you love me for it.” dismissing him lightly, tip toeing up to give him a kiss on the cheek, “Come on. Let’s get back to the office.” Walking back to the office after the reluctant discussion with Nikolai, everyone was relieved  you have decided to rejoin the briefing. “Shall we?” Laswell gave you and Nikolai a look, asking permission to proceed with the details of the mission. You gave her a nod, allowing her to continue. 

Flipping open the folder, Laswell and Price started the briefing.  Typical international criminal rings trying to stir up war and have a dab in money laundering and  illegal weapon sales. Nothing new, you thought to yourself. Their latest stint was trying to dab into investment into businesses. Whisky business. To be precise. 

That had you and Soap’s full attention. 

The MacTavish family had been around the highland area for generations. Started off as humble crofters all the years ago, and by luck, manage to own the piece of land they have farmers on for centuries, trying their luck in the whisky operation ( illegally, you remember your grandpa’s words as he winked at you.). They built their empire from the ground, bit by bit, and now the reputation of the MacTavish whisky is well known in the business circle and around the world for top quality but wide varieties and ranges of drink. Gaz joked once when you mentioned the family business. He whistled, even though someone like him isn’t totally into whisky, he knew about the reputation of quality of MacTavish whisky. “So you two are posh rich kids? I always thought it was just coincidental that you two share the same surname with the famous whisky company.”  You laughed. Even though two of you were sent to the best private school and had anything you could have wanted when young, your Ma and Da made sure you and Johnny knew money is not grown from trees and two of you always had to prove your weights around the farm to earn pocket money.

“We were used as free labourers during school breaks.” you rolled your eyes. “Johnny had to help the crofters cut up the peats and put them out to dry. While I get the other dirty job, look after the farm animals and clean their poops.” 

(You did see Price’s eyes glint when you mentioned the cellars you and Johnny used to explore as children. Even Ghost, who is partial towards bourbon, his eyes drifted towards you, as he pretends not to be interested at all in the topic of conversation. You made sure every Christmas you asked your parents to send some vintages for the team as presents). 

“I have a feeling this will be about Johnny and me. So what is the catch?’ You sighed as you lean back in the chair, crossing your arms. "We need someone who is Scottish, obviously,” everyone’s eyes zoomed in on both of you and Soap,  “In the Whisky business….”

“Send Soap.” Nikolai frowned and cut in. Price eyed his friend, shaking his head. “ I will send him if our target is interested in male.” That leaves you. 

Pressing your lip together, tapping your foot. Do you really want to do this? Grabbing your dog tag, you pull on the chain. Agitation setting in. There is really no point of sending Johnny in anyway, you thought. He hardly dabbed in your parent’s business, as he joined the military straight out of school, while you hanged around home more than him, during semester breaks, even attended a few business events and meetings here and there when your parents decided there are more hope for you to take over the family business than Johnny. You knew how the distillery runs, how the farm functions. It makes more sense for you to attend the mission. 

“Let me see the file.” You extended your hand, as you sigh in resignation. Your eyes open wide with slight shock as you flip through the target info. Leaning back to show the photo of the target to Soap, 

“Didn’t you go to school with him? Or was he a few years above you…” The name and the face were vaguely familiar. You search through your brain where exactly you have met him. But you were pretty sure he was at the same boarding school as Johnny. Soap let out an amused hum, “Oh the Witherington boy? Spoilt brat he was. Always try to boast about his achievement. So now he is in the illegal business aye?” Tapping the photo, “He tried to flirt with you once, at the family day. Da wasn’t impressed.” Ah. Now you remembered, it still sends chills down your back at the disgust. That boy wasn’t subtle with his advancement, and you nearly punched him if it wasn’t for Da and Johnny trying to pull you back. “You are still not going.” Nikolai said in a clipped tone. “And this is why You are going with her.” Laswell replied with a conspired tone. Both you and Nikolai stared at her, confused.

Taking a deep breath, you look at yourself in the mirror. Hoping you have everything all done up right.

Thistle shaped floral hair accessories, secured and staying in. Make up, seductive but not over the top.Perfect for an evening function. Earrings, necklace, bracelets,all in place. Laswell’s wife helped you to choose the evening dresses and accessories. Armed with the card Laswell handed over to her,she dragged you out shopping. “No need to worry about the cost. Let’s go all out!! Leave it to me to turn you into a seductress, making sure that husband of yours will fall head over heels for you again.”  She smiled at you. 

Laswell gave her wife a concerned look, you laughed nervously, promising her you would try your best and make sure the two of you don’t overspend. She found a perfect dress for you at a high street shop, something elegant, suitable for a cocktail party, but still shows enough skin to seduce the target. A beautiful cabernet colour sweep train dress with a V-neck design at the front, showing a bit of cleavage but leaving enough just for imagination, and thin cross straps around the back holding up the top part of your dress. Split on one side of your dress, stop up to the top of the right thigh, well, that will make escape more easily, you thought, also means it is harder for you to hide anything underneath. Best of all, the dress hugs your figures perfectly. She certainly had good eyes for fashion.

Growing up with Johnny and no other female siblings, you two were labelled the wild children of highland by the neighbours for all the daredevil stuff he dragged you around to participate. You were never good at the so-called “girly stuff”.   Everytime there is a special outing it’s always your Ma or your other friends that help you to get dolled up. You haven’t done this for a while. There was no need for dressing up and playing the part of socialite since you have joined the military. The only piece of jewellery you own nowaday was the simple wedding band you and Nikolai gave to each other when you exchanged the vow in secrecy.  You reach automatically around your neck where you usually have the dog tag and the wedding band around, a habit you developed when you are deep in thought or in need of comfort when Nikolai isn’t around with you. 

You know you are not bad looking, but you didn’t think you are stunningly beautiful in comparison to your friends. “Plain looking???” Johnny Scoffed. “Do you know how many boys and girls I had to fend off for you?” You were oblivious to the fact how many people were trying to chase after you until your overprotective brother complained to you once over a glass of whisky. 

I CAN DO THIS. You assure yourself. Everyone is here to back you up. It won’t be like last time.

Opening the door of the rented hotel apartment, you stride towards the living area, where everyone was waiting. Your breath hitched when you saw Nikolai, dressed to the nine with a dark tailored suit, sitting on an armchair, with a glass of whisky in one hand, rolling an unlit cigar in another, deep in thought. Oh lord have mercy. You thought while feeling that familiar pool of heat in your core. You still don’t know how this charismatic and handsome man is your husband. You recite in your brain the whole Lord’s prayer in your mind three times, trying to dispel your unholy thought (Never expected your religious study at Catholic boarding school was useful until now), Concentrate on the mission Mini, don’t be such a horny teenager. You can have your husband anytime he wouldn’t run away. You chastised yourself. “And this is why You are going with her.” Laswell replied with a conspired tone. 

“ME?” Nikolai wasn’t sure if he heard her right. Pushing the details of the operation towards the front  of the desk, both you and Nikolai leaned forward to have a good look.

“Well, this role suits you well.” you smirked. “Russian businessman slash possible mafia boss. Looking for possible new investment to expand his territory.” 

Nikolai hummed. Not a bad idea. He has a valid excuse to be by your side. 

“And our little spoilt brat will be eager to try and impress you to try to beat whatever offer you,” pointing at Nikolai, “had on the table.”

“Wait, so this isn’t as straight ‘go-in-and-steal-whatever -I-have-to-grab-and-exfil ‘ kind of mission I used to do?” you pointed out.

“No.” Price tipped his chin down, “ It’s more of a lure and capture mission. We are going to try and see what our pretty rich boy knows about this illegal weapon ring.”

Now you feel like a bond lady. This will be an interesting challenge. You cleared your throat, getting everyone’s attention. Heads turned, and Gaz whistled. Nikolai lifted his head up, you saw a flash of surprise,clenching of his jaw, nearly dropping his cigar that he was twirling in his hand. Quickly regaining his composure, he set down his drink on the side table as you walked up to him, swaying your hip slightly. Extending out your hand, he grasps it lightly as he stands, keeping his eyes on you all the time as he brushes his lip against your knuckle. You can feel his hand warmer than usual, and he is already a furnace, and with his dark and lustful look,  you are certain you have successfully turned him on. Side mission completed. You smirked. Now just hoping the main mission will be just as successful. “You certainly polished up well Mini.” Soap chimed in. You rolled your eyes. Trust your brother to break the moment. “Well thank you for saying I am not ugly my dear sibling.” Turning to face him as making a face, you feel Nikolai’s hand snaking around your waist, pulling you closer to him. “Final check. We will be stationed just outside the venue until you two give us the go ahead when you lure the target into the designated area. You got the sedative?” holding up your wallet, waving it around a bit indicating to Gaz everything is in there. “Good. All the communication equipment is on Nikolai. Sorry Mini, there is just not enough coverage on you to fit you with an earpiece or microphone discreetly. “ He looks at you apologetically. You shrugged, “Well, Nik is going to be sticking by my side most of the time anyway. I am not too worried. At least there is a tracker in my wallet.” 

“Alright. Let’s roll.” 

Nikolai couldn’t take his eyes off you. 

When you walked out of the room, he just barely held back a groan that was threatening to escape from his throat. 

You look absolutely stunning in your dress. His Goddess. His beautiful Lastochka. 

Half of his mind wants to abandon this mission straight away, kick everyone out of the room and devour you right on the spot.  

The knowing smirk on your face shows you knew exactly what he is desiring and the deliberate sway of your hip and the stride you made showing most of your skin off your right thigh and leg? Blood was rushing down towards where it shouldn’t be. For once he was glad for Soap’s distraction. While you and Soap had a little back and forth sibling banter, he pulls you in by the waist. Trying to get you close as possible, to touch you,to breathe in your scent. The beautiful bright citrus smell mixes with jasmine and orange blossom, yet there’s the mysterious calming sweet patchouli and amber scent. How can a perfume describe your personality so perfectly? Nikolai thought. Bright and passionate , and yet,you can also be so intense and fearless. 

He is falling in love with you all over again. 

He wasn’t even listening to the last check over Gaz was conducting, all his focus was on you. Until you gave him a little tug, he noticed the team was piling out of the room. “You alright Nik? Your mind seems to be somewhere else.” 

Shaking his head. Carefully not to ruin your make up,he pressed a light kiss on your temple. “Sorry, your beauty distracted me so much I was floating away.”

Ducking your head, face heating up, embarrassed by his compliment. You gave him a little poke for his flirtatious words, “ Well that makes two of us. You look very dapper tonight.” 

Pausing for a second, you lean into his chest, speaking in a soft and vulnerable voice, “Thank you for coming with me to the mission.” 

Running his hand down your bare shoulder, “I want to be there to protect you, my Ненаглядная ( precious ). I can’t let you plummeting into danger again. I nearly lost you once. Never again I am going to let that happen.” Tightening his grip on your shoulder as he tries not to think what will happen if the mission fails tonight. “Come on, let’s head out. We are going to be late.” 

Grabbing the long coat, he draped it over your shoulder, making sure you are all tucked in nicely before putting his own overcoat on. You murmured a word of thanks before looping your arm around his, searching for that bit of comfort to ease your nervousness. Time to get some work done. Quicker the better. To have you away from the danger, and he can have you all by himself. 

Sipping on your champagne while scanning the room, trying to spot the target. So far, no sign of him…  yet. “Any luck?” Nik appeared behind you, enquired in a low voice. His hand slowly glides down the spine, coming to rest at the small of your back, drawing circles. You swear he is doing it deliberately, to see your reaction. This man was here to distract you more than keeping a close eye on you or potential enemy. You decided to pull a surprise on him. 

“Nikolai,if you don’t want me to jump on you right here and now, you better behave and concentrate on the task ahead.” you murmured as you pretend to take another sip of your drink. 

He was taken aback. Not by the context or the tone of your voice. 

You were talking to him in near-perfect Russian.

You felt his finger halt his movement, before dipping his head down, looking at you with raised brows. You tilt your head up meeting his eyes, grinning like a Cheshire cat. 

“Had too much time on my hands while recovering at my parent’s. So I thought I picked up a new skill.” 

“We need to talk about what else you've been hiding from me later on.” Oh, he is definitely getting turned on with the way he is eyeing you, his low voice thick with lust. “Oh my love, I have a lot of hidden talents waiting for you to explore at any time.” You purred.

Before he could reply, both of you heard a boisterous greeting with a heavy Scottish accent from a short distance away. 

“Well! Isn’t this Miss MacTavish?? Look at you all grown up!” You and Nikolai parted slightly and before turning around, put on a well schooled smile on your face and greeted the man with an overly cheerful voice. 

“Ah, Mr MaCleans, what a pleasant surprise!” you extended your hands and leaned forward to give the older man a light embrace. You half expected to run into some of your parent’s associates and connections, but you are genuinely surprised to see this person here. 

“I see you haven’t retired yet?” You asked half jokingly. This man was already quite old when you were growing up, and you remember him as a very energetic man, always travelling around, never seeming to stop for a second. 

Letting out a laugh, “I will only retire the day I die! Now, what are you doing here? Where are your Da and Ma? And that daredevil brother of yours?” You let out a real chuckle, “Ma and Da are on holiday overseas at the moment, that is why they send me in for the event instead. And my brother?” waving your hand around, “off on an adventure, somewhere. He’s always floating around. I am not sure.” Trying to make an excuse. No one really knows you and Soap both joined the military and in the special forces. Your parents always use the excuse of you being sent around studying and Johnny off somewhere travelling like a nomad. 

“Your parents did talk about making you take over the family business a long while ago.. Ah, where are my manners and ignoring your companion, so who is this fine young man here.”

You manage to hold back an unladylike snort as Mr Mcleans called your husband a young man. You suppose anyone else is relatively young in comparison to him. “This is Nikolai…..” “ Oh! Your husband?” Mr MaCleans interjected with a glimmer in his eyes.

Your smile falters slightly but you quickly cover up by a fake giggle.  “Oh, no, Mr Belinski is Ma and Da’s .. um, new friend and possible new investors. They ask me to show him around to get more connections.” it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth not being able to call him your husband openly. 

Nikolai introduces himself, as the two men engage in conversations about business and serves as a good distraction as you make an excuse to grab more drinks from the bar and to search for the target again.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw a younger man approaching. 

Bingo.  

As you considered your next move, you saw him walking up towards Mr Mcleans. Taking a quick glance at Nikolai, you notice the subtle change of his body language, aware that the target is approaching towards the group.

“There you are, young lad, where have you been? Let me introduce you to my old associate’s daughter and her companion.” Hearing Mr Mcleans' comment, you quickly thanked the bartender as you grabbed your drink, returning to the group.

You feign surprise as the target holds his hand out and introduces himself to you and Nikolai, grasping and feeling your hand a tad bit longer for your liking. You pull your hand back, trying not to show your disgust.

“Benjamin Witherington?”  

He raised an eyebrow, confused how you know him.

“You know him?” Mr Macleans asked, curious.

“He went to the same school as John. But I don’t believe they were in the same social circle.” You turned around to face Ben again, putting on your most flirtatious smile as you introduced yourself with your full name. 

You can see a sudden recognition in his eyes as he heard your surname.

“MacTavish? Ah, you are Johnny MacTavish’s sister? I remember we met once during the family opening day.” You are half impressed with his memory, since it has been some years ago when that happened. The day you wanted to punch the hell out of this man for being inappropriate to you. Biting the inside of your cheek, you try to suppress the anger from the memory.

“Look at you, all grown up and beautiful.” and you are still as slimy and frivolous as ever, you thought. 

Letting out a little giggle, pretending to be bashful with the comment, “Well thank you, my mother will be pleased someone finally has something nice to say about my appearances.”

“Well I mean look at you…” Eying you up and down before landing his eyes on your tits, you strategically turned slightly to pick up your drink from the side table, covering yourself and changing the subject. “So, what are you doing here? Seems like you and Mr Macleans came together.”

He puffed, “My father wanted me to attend the function with him and try to gain some business connections and learn some social manners,” he rolled his eyes and puffed, your lip twitched slightly at the new information. Hum, this could prove interesting, there might be bigger fish to catch than him here. The young naive Witherington boy might be a tool for his father, but you doubt he will be all innocent like he is trying to present himself.

You lean forward, fingers on your chin, pretend to be empathise with him,

“Well we are in a similar boat then. Ma and Da are overseas at the moment, so couldn't attend the event.. And Johnny being Johnny, we have no idea where that nomad is, floating around the world with no care so, here I am,” sighing dramatically as you point to Nikolai, who standing on the side, pretend to listen to conversation Mr Macleans and few other gentlemen he had introduced him to, “babysitting duty for one of their new friend.” 

Lowering your voice as if you were telling a great secret into his ears, “I heard through the grapevine he is very rich back in Russia though, and possible association to the Russian mob. But that is just rumours.” you lean back. “He did shower me with gifts when he first arrived. So who knows? I might keep him as a sugar daddy.” 

Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw Nikolai’s hand twitching as he heard the last bit of the comment. Have you gone a bit too far?

“Well, let’s forget about these old men, boy, is it a bit hot in here?” you pretend to fan yourself, trying to dissipate the heat. 

“Let’s go somewhere with less people“ Ben eagerly offer to escort you out of the main ballroom, “ I think there is rooms down the hallway with a balcony, Maybe we can talk more there.” he tries to loop his arm around your waist, you back away slightly, making excuse you have to let Nikolai know where you are heading to.

Shuffling yourself towards your husband, turning as he immediately notices you approach.

“Mr Belinski, Mr Macleans, sorry to interrupt your gentlemen’s conversation, but Ben and I are going to retreat somewhere with a balcony to get more fresh air.” You look at Nikolai right in the eyes.  Target moving, ready to extract

“Ah, balcony. That is a good idea.” he repeated your location, relying onto the team through the concealed microphone. You can see his jaws clenching. This is the part he is worried about. You will have to be out of his sight, alone again. 

“We will be back in five minutes!” send in the team through my tracker location in five minutes.

Out of the ballroom as you walk down the corridor, you grab tight onto your clutch wallet, hoping the tracker in there is working correctly. You try to calm yourself down, half listening to some outlandish stories Ben is currently rambling on about, trying to impress you. 

Stopping in front of a room, you pushed it open. The room was dark and musty, the only source of illumination was the balcony and street light from outside the window.

As soon as you walk in, you feel Ben grabbing you from behind, trying to force a kiss on you.

“What…?!! Get off me Ben!!!” You try to push him off you, elbowing him.

“You slut!!! I thought you wanted this!!!” 

“Oh don’t flatter yourself, you lavvy-heided wankstain.''You sneered. Pulling out your sedation needle from your wallet, you jabbed right into his neck,  “I would prefer Nikolai over you ANY DAY. Sweet dreams.” And with that insult thrown at him, he dropped to the ground in an instant, passed out as the drug took effect. You threw the needle onto the ground, as if it burnt you and stumbled back until your leg hit a couch.

A minute later, Nikolai and the team bursted in, ready for a confrontation. They immediately relaxed as they saw the target on the ground, snoring away and you safe and sound. Nikolai strided towards you, currently collapsed on the couch, looking dazed and out of breath, he immediately gathered up into his arm, murmuring words of assurances.

“I am fine Nik… I just need a minute to catch up on my breath.” you let out a big breath as you lean into his chest. Soap came up towards the two of you, with a small smile on his face. “Thanks Mini. Couldn’t do it without you.” Giving him a weak smile, you held out your hand to give him a hi-five. 

“Now you two love birds go back to the hotel, I’ll get Gaz to drive you two back. Rest of us will clean up the scene and cover the rest.” You peek over Nikolai’s shoulder, seeing Ghost hauling the unresponsive body of Ben over his shoulder without any care,  you begin to wonder how strong the drug is to knock him out instantly. It’s probably one of those answers you don’t want to know. Gaz gave you a wave, indicating he is ready to move. Nikolai helped you to stand, wrapping you up in the overcoat before leading you outside to the van waiting. Passing by Price, you gave him a salute, he returned with a warm smile, happy to know the mission has completed without much harm being done to you.

Now you just have to face your husband. You were certain he would be fussing over you once the two of you are alone. Or maybe he will treat you with something better… to reward you for the job well done. 

Your hands were still shaking from adrenaline as you tried to open the door with your key card. You can feel Nikolai’s body heat radiating off him as he is practically sticking right against your back. 

You had told him what happened after you left the ballroom while in the car ride back to the hotel. His hand around your waist tightened, and the hardened look in his eyes says it all. He is angry. And pissed off. Not at you. But at the dirty, filthy, piece of lowlife target that has touched you without your permission. 

As soon as the door is closed, he pushes you flat against the wall, nibbling your earlobes as his hand drifts down towards the slit of your dress, sliding this callous hand between your inner thigh. “Do you know how hard it was for me to watch that Мудакl (asshole) touching you? Tainting my wife.. MY GODDESS with his dirty filthy hand…” he growled as he pushed himself closer to you, feeling his hard and thick arousal on your back. As you arch yourself back towards him, giving him more friction.He grabbed your throat lightly, and caressed the line of your jaw with his thumb. “I couldn’t do a thing. Watching him flirting away with you, ogling at your breasts like a hungry wolf…. “ Grabbing one of your butt cheeks, squeezing it lightly, “ No one, no one else should be touching you but ME. you belong to me.” he hissed. “I will not let any other despicable, wretched low life lay a hand on you ever again.”  

“Nik…” you whispered, aching for more. More of his touch. To erase the filth and dirty feeling Ben has left on you. “Please...” 

“Shh…” now he moved his hand towards the slit of your core, “I will give you what you want, soon. Be patient, my little bird. Oh?” Ah he noticed. You bite your lip, waiting for his reaction. 

“No underwear? How daring of you.” cupping his hand around your pussy, inserting his middle fingers in, prodding. “So you walked around all night like this, what were you thinking?”

“... I… I was thinking..” Whimpering, trying to get your words out. Gosh your mind is like a muddle right now,  all you can think of is how much you want him to move his finger, make you feel good. Your pussy clenches around his finger, wanting to get a bit of relief. 

“Louder. I can’t hear you” He commanded as he licked the back of your neck, from the nape of your neck right up to the base of your ear. 

“I was thinking how pleased my husband will be when he finds out.” you blurted out, whole body trembling with anticipation. 

You can feel his amusing smirk as he planted a kiss on the back of your head. 

“Well, he is indeed pleased by it. But what he wasn't pleased about was how a scum had been touching you..ah. It’s not your fault.” his tone changed from slightly harsh to a softer genuine loving tone as he senses you shrinking away slightly. “You did well on the mission. And now,  the good girl gets the reward.” he started moving his fingers languidly, his thumb rubbing ever so often circling around the sensitive nub of yours.  Rolling your head back onto his shoulder, moving your hip in sync of his movement, silently begging for more. 

“Already dripping wet thinking of me, hmmm?” 

“Only you. It’s only you..” you moaned. 

“MMM… and you are the only one,” As if to emphasise the point, he started grinding his hip into your back as he sped up his ministration, “That can get me this hard. Can you feel that?”

You nodded your head eagerly, 

“Good. keep that thought. Because…” moving his hand from your throat, moving down towards your breast, kneading it through the thin fabric of your dress and pitching the nipple. “This is the cock that is going to fuck you until you scream out in pleasure for me, fill you up again and again.” 

With that thought, it topped you over the edge. You didn’t even bother  suppressing your loud moan as you felt the intensity of the orgasm hit you. Feeling the hot liquid gushing on from your fold and onto his finger. He murmurs words of praise into your ear as he slows down his pumping and lets you ride out the rest of the high. 

You feel you are about to collapse after he just drew such an intense orgasm out of you. You tried to grab onto the wall, searching for some friction to hold yourself up right. He pulls away from you slightly, one arm supporting you around your waist, as he undresses with a quick tuck of the strap and unzipping the fastener on the back of the dress, letting it drop on to the floor. 

Now you are standing there in front of him,with nothing but all your jewellery and heels still on. facing the wall in such a vulnerable position. 

Hearing him undoing his belt and watching him kicking his pants to the side, he moved closer to you, one hand intertwined with yours, the other turning your head, facing him as he leaned down and giving you a deep, passionate yet loving kiss, before slowly pushing himself into you.

No matter how many times the two of you made love, you still can’t get over the delicious sensation of how his large cock stretches your pussy, with each pounding you see stars in front of your eyes. 

The room is full of the sound of his low groan and your sobbing and begging, for him to give you another release.  Lifting one of  your legs up to change the angle, he ordered you to move your hand down towards your swollen bundle of nerves.

“I want to see how you pleasure yourself, my little bird.” 

You began to rub your own clit intensely, trying to relieve that need that is bubbling up again, all of sudden he sped up with his pace,  hitting right into the sweet spot that made you scream out with pleasure. 

“That is … sing out for my lastochka… I love it when you show me how much pleasure my cock is bringing you. Now, why don’t you be a good girl and come for me?” 

Your hand falters as the second orgasm hits you,your pussy clenching uncontrollably around his cock. Closing your eyes and letting out a stream of incoherent babble, followed by the sensation of Nikolai’s hot cum filling the inside of you. He buried his head into the crook of your neck, trying to ride out his own orgasm.

You moaned out with frustration with the emptiness that he left you when he pulled out from you, you felt both of your cum dripping down between your legs and the drag of wetness between the crack of your ass as he drew his cock back. 

Turning you around, he runs his fingers between the fold of your pussy, and gathers up a bit of the cum.

“What a mess you have made… Now, how would you suggest we clean this up?” 

With an innocent smile, you draw his hand up towards your mouth, licking and sucking each of the fingers clean. 

“Like this?? “ you batter your eyelashes as you cheekily replied. He let out a laugh and bent down to kiss you, getting a good taste of your and his own cum. “What a brilliant idea.. Now , why don't we move to somewhere more… comfortable, so I can perform the cleaning procedure, and maybe, “ his eyes dart down, you can see him getting hard again, “you can clean up mine too?”

The two of you didn’t check out of the hotel the next day until the team came pounding down on the door, and silently retreated back out again as they saw all the clothes scattered along the floors of the living room, leading towards the bedroom. 

“You love her don’t you?”Nikolai looked at Mr Mcleans with surprise but said nothing.“Ah, don’t look so surprised. I have lived twice as long as you, I know that look. The same look I give my lovely bonnie Linda. Bless her soul in heaven.” he took another sip of whisky. 

“ I only agreed to take that bampot bairn because his father Lord Witherington begged me to do so. Now,” Slapping Nikolai’s back,”Go and get her back.”

And People, this is the story of how Anya MacTavish was produced. My inspirations : Again, nothing beat's @shkretart's beautiful Nikolai from this post NIKOLAI IN SUIT . so hot and delicious. I just couldn't get over it! tag list:

@homicidal-slvt,

@roosterr @preciouslittlecreature

@siilvan @floral-force @kaplerrr @captainpriceslover

[zujime]

satiate me ─── eddie m. x f!reader [w.c. 3.7k]

OVERVIEW — you’re laying down and almost drifting to sleep, but eddie comes home with a hunger that never seems to diminish.

CONTENT — slight needy/pleasure dom eddie, kisses, marking, drool play, overstim, cunnilingus, begging, slight dacryphilia, p in v, creampie, consent, pet names used: babe, baby, sweetheart, angel

It was placid for a moment as you dozed on the bed you shared with your beloved partner. Your eyelids are gently sealed, yet you’re still completely cognizant of your surroundings—the faint hum of the air conditioning and how the birds sing outside, the newly washed duvet and how it felt on your skin, warm and comforting, and the clicking of the front door locking before heavy footsteps follow. “Babe…” A familiar voice nasalized as he trudged his way to the room you were in, toeing his boots off by the door before collapsing on the singular layer of blanket shrouding your weariness and evoking an enervated and muffled groan from you. 

“Baby,” he started, letting a crude hand find its slot delicately on the nape of your neck. “I’m hungry…can you get outta your little blanket burrito for me?” Your face scrunches up somewhat at the inquiry. “Eds, there’s food in the kitchen if you’re hungry.” You murmur, hushed by the fluffy padding that'd been the pillow, but he hears. “You know that’s not what I meant.” He snickers, putting all his weight on you as he slides up to peck at your neck and up to the spot behind your ear. 

His soft lips allot silent pleas on your skin, soon coaxing you to shimmy out of your cocoon and turn over on your back to meet his painfully endearing gaze—the gaze you’d kill to peer into all your life. A grin adorns his pretty lips, soft, pink, and begging to be joined with yours.

“I missed your pretty face.” His voice is nothing more than a whisper as he kisses your forehead before drifting down to peck the tip of your nose, and shortly, the fat of your cheek—which is accompanied by a gentle bite until his lips finally ghost yours. His ring-donned hands gingerly go over the skin of your middle, periodically prodding at the strap of your underwear. “Did you miss me too?” The hazy trace of mint gum that’d been outweighed by the smell of cigarettes—which only brought you a sense of contentment whenever it’d come from him. 

All you could breathe out was a “yeah”, far too lost in the universe in his tender brown eyes. “Yeah?” He mocked as his lips honed in on yours, soon capturing yours in an infectious hunger—a disgustingly sweet fervor that trapped you in an eternal state of delirium, drunken from the liquid love he’d just poured into the kiss. It’s almost too much. You’ve done nothing but kiss and your head’s already spiraling. The second he pulls away, you’re aching for more; hands moving to clutch onto his shirt, lips desperately chasing his, and breath ragged. 

“Please,” you gasp.

“What is it, angel?” He coos. “You want more of my kisses? Is that it?” You can’t do anything but nod frantically, voice snagged in your throat. He leans down as if he’s about to give you another honeyed kiss, but he merely kisses the corner of your lips, letting his nose gently graze yours as his feathery soft lashes tickle your cheek as he closes his eyes. “This should be enough, yeah?” The bass of his voice rang in his chest—that’d been cozily laying on you—and felt like mellow tremors on yours. 

You hated how sorely addicting his kisses were—how they always seemed to steal the words you had dwelling in the back of your throat, and how they always left you yearning for more. Your hands tightened their grasp on his shirt, praying that he’d understand your muted plea, yet all he does is chuckle, letting an “aww” ooze onto the skin he loved so dearly—your skin.

“You’re so cute," he leaves one last peck on your lips—lips that’d been kissed swollen and sleek with your exchanged saliva. One of his palms had found purchase on your face, seizing your jaw with a delicate firmness, drumming on the fat of your cheek as his face drifted farther away from yours.

“Open up for me, yeah?” His tone was sickeningly sweet, leaving you in a dizzying daze as you heeded his orders. Your jaw slackened in his clutches as you let your lips part, baring the moist cavern they concealed. “Tongue out, baby, come on.” He coaxed, giving your cheek another light tap. You listen, allowing the wet muscle to loll out past your lower lip, gazing into his lust-filled eyes with expectancy.

He hums before opening his mouth, letting the drool leaking from his tongue fall onto yours, and when he’s done, he’s giving your cheek another tap and uttering a “close and swallow, sweetheart”. You waste no time letting his essence travel down your throat. He acknowledges the look of longing in your eyes, giving your lips a peck as he whispers “I’d give you more, baby, but I can’t wait” into the glossy skin.

The gentle hand he had grasping your jaw slid down to the hem of the oversized shirt you had on—the shirt that happened to be one of his. He inches the bottom of it up your skin—deathly slow—only ceasing at the band of your bra as he began planting marks along the expanse of your neck and jawline.

Your breaths were now shallow pants that’d snag in your throat whenever he pressed the imprint of his cock against your sopping, clothed core. He hovers his face over your chest as he pushes the shirt above them, reveling in the heavenly sight of them before hoisting the band tee up and off of you, flinging it elsewhere in the room, and going back to the plump flesh.

A shuddering sigh falls from his lips—breath burning hot on your skin, causing you to shy away from his heavy gaze, but he doesn’t let you. He keeps you still with a ring-adorned hand that holds you with rigidity, while the other glides up to cup and knead at your gorgeously swollen peaks.

Tender kisses litter the flesh, soon shifting into bites and claret marks. You try to slip your arms out of your bra straps while he’s occupied and you succeed in doing so. His eyes flicker between you and the cups of your bra before he lets his hand slide beneath your back, undoing the—once tricky—clasp with ease. Flinging the bra into the same pile the shirt had been in.

The supple skin molded to fit perfectly in his grasp, nipples growing erect from the coolness in the room that caressed them. He leaves a brisk kiss on both velvety nubs before going over them with a moist sweep, eyes peering fervently into yours as his tongue glides along the bare skin. Your chest heaved shakily with each breath as you watched and wallowed in the feeling of his lips against your mounds—suckling and biting, allotting mark after blossoming mark on your skin. “Eddie,” you breathe out, causing him to detach from the bud he’d been salivating on. “How am I gonna hide all these tomorrow?”

“Why would you need to hide these?” He asks while failing to mask the smirk that’d grown on his pink lips, letting a hand go over the fresh marks. “Because I have work tomorrow. I can’t walk in looking like this.” You giggle, running a hand through his disheveled curls. “Then don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t walk in tomorrow. What’s one sick day gonna do?” He mutters into your palm before planting a kiss on it and going back to kissing down your body. “Eddie, I already called in sick this week.” You sigh, still gliding your fingers through his messy head of hair, but he ignores you—shrugging before kissing down the valley of your breasts, coarse hands finding their slot on your hips as he let his thumbs rub at your middle. Every kiss and kitten lick is quickly accompanied by a bite of some kind—bites that are harsh enough to leave marks, but never enough to hurt.

“My offer still stands, babe.” He says between his affections. “My job gave me the day off tomorrow,” he pecks the marks he’d just made with his lips. “And all I’ve been able to think about is spending that day with you,” he rests his cheek against your tummy as he peered back up at you, with eyes he knew you’d never resist. “But it seems like you have other plans…that I happen to not be included in.” He huffs with a pout that makes you cave. A soft silence fills the room as you let a coy smile adorn your lips, eyes rolling as a sigh leaves your lungs.

“You’re a pain in my ass, Munson.” You grumble as you squint at him playfully, causing a smile to plaster itself onto his lips once more. “A pain that you signed up for, sweetheart.” He chuckled, lifting his head off of your belly to resume allotting his love bites. Your abdomen shudders as he nears the juncture of your thighs. His nibbles turn into kisses on the meat of your thighs, drifting his hands down to knead at them, needily, eliciting a shaky breath from your lips as your body twitches and tingles in his soothing hold.

He kisses the spot where your thigh and petal-soft folds connect—that’d been covered by the stitched rim of black panties you wore—before gazing up at you with eyes of uncertainty. “This is okay, right? I—I don’t want to if you don’t.” He stammers, scanning your eyes for any hints of reluctance.

You let a hand cup his cheek with an immeasurable amount of love. Lips pull into a smile as you thumb at his cheek. “This is fine, Eds. Promise.” You feel his body relax seconds before mumbling an “okay” and slowly slipping off your panties—giving you time to opt out, but you never did, letting the corners of your eyes crinkle as you give him a reassuring smile; his green light.

“Thank you.” He whispers into your skin. The panties he’d been peeling off were now with the rest of your clothes. He starts by kissing your inner thighs, nipping the skin before letting his kisses trail up to your warm folds.

He glances at you as he gives your sensitive nub a peck, taking in the honey-sweet scent of your warmth, his hands now snugly grasping your hips, as he kept you still before latching onto your slicken core. A short, sharp gasp is ripped from your lungs, soon unraveling into a muddled blend of whimpers and whines as his tongue slips past your lower lips, leaving no spot untouched as he continued to drink up your sweet juices.

Your hands can’t decide on whether to grip the sheets till your knuckles grew pale or to stay tangled in the curly chaos of Eddie’s hair. Profanities eluded through broken sobs as you approached your high, your body writhing in his grasp, hips arching off of the bed before being forcefully pushed down.

His grip on your hips was now tight enough to bruise as he pulled you closer, his body unconsciously grinding against the sheets in search of any type of friction to relieve the grueling ache in his crotch. He shook his head as he devoured you—stimulating your needy bud with the button of his nose. “Edd—fuuuck!” You shriek, yanking his hair—extracting a guttural groan from him—as you squirmed, tummy convulsing with every breath as your edge grew closer.

“I’m gonna—oh my god—I’m gonna cum!” You cry out mere seconds before your body stills; breathing ceasing and eyes blown wide, mouth stuck in an ‘o’ while your grip on his hair never falters. It’s like time slows when your climax crashes down on you, the feeling was intolerably dizzying. Shallow pants laced with incoherent gibberish were all that could slip past your lips and those noises only raised in pitch as Eddie’s tongue squirmed savagely inside of you.

With every squeak and sob, you try to wiggle away from his iron grip, but with a wild groan, he latches off of your dripping flower, eyes mesmerized by the blend of saliva and your juices that dribbled from your molten hot core as he dragged you close, grip on your hips binding.

“Please don’t run away from me baby,” he pleaded, voice gruff yet honey-smooth all at once. “Just a few more for me…” he trailed off as he dipped back down into the candied warmth between your legs that twitched and quivered from every puff of hot air from his lungs. Your voice is nothing more than a broken weep as you mumble a small “okay”.

You looked utterly pathetic—hands now clawing at the sheets as drool pooled in your mouth and dribbled down the corner of it, tears welling in your glassy eyes, disguised behind heavy lids. The sight was almost pitiful and the fact that it was all from just one orgasm made it all the more embarrassing—for you at least, to Eddie, he couldn’t get enough of it; the sight of you in disarray, nor the nectar that oozed from your folds. “Fuck.” He whimpered as he took in the scene, applying the faintest bit of pressure on his cock, soon resting his forehead on your abdomen—right above your mound—planting more love drunken kisses on the skin before trailing down and finally sheathing his tongue inside you.

Your body convulsed with each abrupt lick as you tried to squirm out of his grasp and away from the painfully pleasurable feeling. “Ed-Eddie, ‘s too much—‘s too much!” You cried, breathlessly gasping as your body arched and shuddered from the stimulation—hands tugging the sheets hard enough to tear while your toes curled involuntarily. It hadn’t even been that long until another orgasm crept up on you; your body tensing with every inch closer, hands now resting on the metalhead’s broad shoulders, trying to push him away, yet that only seemed to urge him into ravaging you with a frenzied fervor.

“Fuuuck! ‘M gonna—gonna cum again!” You cry out just as you’re overwhelmed by the pulsating waves of bliss that washed over you once more, far too lost in the mind-numbing orgasm to feel the fountain spewing from you.

A groan bursts from the man between your legs as he slurps up your sweet release, trembling as he lets white hot liquid soil his boxers. His breaths are deep yet uneven as he lifts himself from your glazed folds, wiping what’s left of your juices off of his face with a hand that he’d removed from your—now bruised—hip, sucking it off his fingers before gazing at you, fervently.

He could see all of you; the glossy sheen of water the tears left on your eyes, the imprints he’d left all over your supple skin, your puffy, kiss-bitten lips, the way your chest heaved with every labored breath, and the sticky mess between your thighs.

He gets off the bed for a moment to peel off the layers he wore to work before hastily climbing back over you. He hoisted your thighs up to rest over his as he moved down to hover his face over yours. “Open,” he says—no, he demands. His thumb aids you in your worn-out state, gently tugging on your chin, waiting for your lips to finally part before he stoops down, capturing you in an open mouth kiss.

His tongue finds yours, invading sweetly. All you can taste is your essence as his drool fuses with yours. Your hand—that’d been aimlessly lying on the crumpled sheets—gingerly clutched onto his neck, knuckles tickled by his disheveled curls. The kiss almost engulfs you in all the emotions he’s feeling as of now.

Your tongue grazes his, languidly, as his other hand kneads at the fat of your thigh. He finally pulls away, a thin string of spit the only thing connecting you both for only a moment before it finally snaps. Your lips were still parted and pretty, swollen and slick. His was just the same as his eyes flickered between your heavy-lidded eyes and lips. His breath is shaky as he opens his mouth to speak.

“I’m gonna…I’m gonna put it in, okay?” He asks, enticed by the lustful haze on your face. You nod, giggling an “okay” as you let the hand that hung from his neck trace the tattoo on his pec and downward, only stopping at the slight pudge of his tummy.

He leans over and grabs a hair tie from the nightstand, tugging his disheveled frizzes into a sloppy bun, strands dangling loosely from the bun. A gruff hand runs down your body—starting from your neck and soon finding its perch on your hip, drawing you impossibly closer, causing your heat to rub up against his aching hard-on.

His lips hover over your nipple, latching onto the soft skin as he leans down. His whimpers reverberate throughout the expanse of skin as he slipped inside past your velvety walls. His hands claw at your hip as he sheathed himself inside of you. “I missed you so so so much, baby.” He slurred as he detached from your chest, letting a broken groan and a jittery “f-fuuck” fly past his lips.

It was in—he was in. Your hands, searching to latch onto anything at the feeling of wholeness he’d been granting you, not even a jumbled plea could leave your quivering lips, but what was left in its place were the husks of moans from the achingly delicious overstimulation. Eddie stills, breaths heavy while he revels in the sight of your bodies woven—connected.

After a moment, he leans down, putting all of his weight on you as he lightly grinds his body against yours. His mellow thrusts are more than enough to drive you insane and his incessant mumbles of “I missed you so much” and “I love you” only seemed to tighten the aching coil in your belly.

Your hands find a spot on Eddie’s back, gently perched on his shoulder blades, but as his thrusts become more urgent, you begin scratching at the stretch of his back, leaving a trail of fiery rose streaks that emit a variety of whines and groans. His movements never falter as he says, “baby please—please do that again” before he nips at the marks he’d already left, earning a hiss from you. His rhythm grows in harshness, moving deeper inside you frantically with each jolt of his hips. You claw at the soft—yet firm—skin of his back, savoring the sugary sweet melodies of his bliss.

His guttural sobs soon shifted into needy whines and mewls as his pace spurred and the grip he had on your hips stiffened. His moans were almost like weeps into your neck. “B-baby, I’m gonna cum—ohh fuuck! I’m gonna cum!” He cries, his tummy quivering and body shivering with each thrust as he nears his second orgasm. His breaths are shallow, hurried, and laced gorgeously with his never-ending whines.

You can feel his cock throb inside of your gummy core, and soon, the warm, stickiness of his molten juices as his body stilled. His hands release your hips before he promptly wraps his arms around your frame as his body rattles with each silent cry of ecstasy. He mewls out a pathetic “just a little more” as he resumes his motions. Your body jerked and convulsed as he buried himself deep inside of you once more.

“Eddie,” he glances up at you through heavy lids. “‘S too much—ah—I can’t!” You hiccup, attempting to squirm away, but he keeps you close with his arms snugly bound around your middle. His thrusts come to a benevolent slow as he thinks wordlessly in the crook of your neck. Movements now ceased. “No more?” He murmurs, voice hoarse.

The inquiry had been a heartfelt one, even despite his mind being blurred by fervor. His eyes meet yours as he anticipates your reply, peering at other parts of your face to see if he’d done something wrong. Your lustrous eyes gaze into his as you think of a response, quickly allowing your mouth to open. “Only one more. But just…just go slow.” You utter, voice delicate on his ears as your hand tenderly rubs at his bicep. He hums in return, planting a kiss on your jaw and lips before hiding in your neck again. His hips meet yours, rocking gingerly into you.

Mantras of “thank you” had fallen clumsily from the man’s plush lips, mantras that’d soon turn into unrestrained sobs of heavenly torture from the sensitivity. Your body arched into his, meeting each and every loving thrust he threw your way, savoring the soft kiss the tip of his cock blessed your walls with. Your legs wrap around him, trapping him into you as your body quivers. “I’m gonna cum again!” You blubber, hiding in the warm slot where his neck and shoulders join. “Me too baby—fuck!” His voice tumbled into a whiny grunt as his breathing picked up speed once again.

His belly convulses violently as his hips stutter their leisurely movements. It’s not until he feels your walls pulsate around him, hears you moan helplessly into his ear as your body drowns in an overwhelmingly euphoric feeling, and you're milking him of all he has that he’s emptying himself into you.

His release is shattering—explosive and warm inside you, yet to him, it’s lengthy but glorious. A husky groan fused thickly with a sob resonates through your ears as you ride out your orgasms. His thrusts halt, resting his body on top of yours. His cock was still stashed inside your warmth as you oozed a mix of juices. His arms wriggle from under your torso as he pushes himself off and out of you at a nonchalant pace.

You gripe groggily as you begin to doze off, but you’re immediately awoken by the overwhelming feeling between your legs. Sloppy slurping could be heard and that alone was enough for you to understand what’d been going on. Sluggishly, you inch away from his lips, but before you can move away completely, he stops—moving to lie beside you on the mattress. “I was just cleaning my mess.” He snickered, allotting a wet kiss on your cheek before nodding off himself.

[jaybirdswriting]

Words To Describe A Characters Smile

A: Animated, Approving, Affectionate, Awkward, Artificial. 

B: Beaming, Bright, Beautiful, Brittle, Broad.  

C: Crooked, Cruel, Charming, Cheesy, Cheerful. 

D: Distorted, Dazzling, Dashing, Delightful, Devilish. 

E: Elegant, Encouraging, Enthusiastic, Euphoric, Entertaining. 

F: Forced, Fixed, Feeble, Friendly, Flirty. 

G: Goofy, Glitzy, Glamorous, Graceful, Gratifying.

H: Humorless, Haughty, Half, Humble, Hypnotic. 

I: Infectious, Innocent, Irresistible, Idiotic, Irritable. 

J: Joyful, Jovial, Jagged, Jarring, Jaded. 

K: Kind, Knightly, Knowable, Knowing, Klutzy. 

L: Lighthearted, Loving, Lazy, Lovely, Lightsome. 

M: Manipulative, Magnetic, Memorable, Miserable, Mysterious. 

N: Natural, Nurturing, Notable, Nonchalant, Naïve. 

O: Obnoxious, Obligated, Optimistic, Odd, Old. 

P: Playful, Pleasant, Pleased, Perfect, Placid. 

Q: Quick, Quirky, Questioning, Quaint, Queasy.

R: Radiant, Rancid, Reassured, Real, Relaxed. 

S: Sunny, Smug, Soft, Strained, Sparkling. 

T: Timid, Tired, Trustworthy, Tender, Tense. 

U: Ugly, Unusual, Unique, Understanding, Upbeat. 

V: Vibrant, Vivid, Vulnerable, Victorious, Vivacious. 

W: Warm, Welcoming, Wonderful, Weak, Weird. 

X:  Xanthous, Xany, Xenodochial, Xenacious, Xenomorphic. 

Y: Youthful, Yearnful, Yellow, Young, Yucky. 

Z:  Zany, Zigzag, Zappy, Zen, Zonked. 

[illadvisedselfships]

I have a very general ask to rattle off before I leave the house!! I've been revolving the idea of sending this in my mind for a few days, but I think that last post you reblogged is a sign that I should just do it XD Because it kind of relates to my questions... sorry if it seems disjointed, I'm sort of rushing to get it out of my system ^^

When you imagine anything with your F/Os, is it you you that you're picturing? Or like. An idealized version of yourself? Is anything about her different or is she just straight up *you*? I've had this image in my head for so long of someone who thinks like me, but looks and acts quite different - almost like an OC. I think I'm getting a bit better about this though, I've been working on making my Sim self and it's helping 😅😅

From looking through this blog, it seems like you usually imagine your F/Os with you in the real world? Do you ever imagine yourself in their universe? For me I almost always imagine myself as a character in their universe!

I'm still warming up to the idea of F/Os... but for as a long as I can remember I've had daydream scenarios with soooo many different characters over the years. But I always just considered them maladaptive daydream scenarios 🙈🙈🙈 I LOVE the enthusiasm you have for your F/Os, though!! <3

Marinerainbow or anyone else is welcome to share their thoughts too, but there's no pressure to do so of course :D

💛💕💛💕💛💕 I love this ask, its so interesting! ^^

First of all- @marinerainbow , what are your thoughts here? ^^

As for me: First of all I think with F/O stuff you can - of course, - be whatever the hell you wanna be!! If thats an idealised or just, plain, fictional version of yourself- ball!! ^^ For me I generally just imagine myself. Though, admittedly, a slightly more confident, and open version of myself XD

As for the w o r l d, I usually imagine- it depends on the day XD Here are the various worlds I imagine myself in with them XD I put them under the cut cuz it partly answers the question and its also just me waffling about my various ongoing fantasies 😅

All of them: Some weird in-between world set in London with Cruella. Somehow the other 3 live there too now in this one 😅

All of them: Variant of same in-between world except I live in Maine with Jim because I l o v e the idea of living near a lake or in the bush/woods or something- I swear, if I could live out in the sticks I'd never be anxious ^^ Usually in this one, Otis lives in the basement XD

All of them: Different variant of same in-between world except I just live in Aus this time and am upholding 4 different long distance relationships 🤣 XD

Jim: The Lake Placid universe. Yes, I imagine myself in the universe! ^^ I'm not a character in the story, though, I generally imagine I'm cursed or the multiverse glitched or something and I ended up dropped in the last fictional universe I watched on TV XD So I'm just there, knowing e x a c t l y what happens and when in this story but keeping my mouth sealed s h u t about it (*cough* while shooting my shot with Jim) XD

Jim (Variant): At the moment I'm playing with a variant of this one where a version of me does already exist in the Lake Placid universe when I get there- and she's a... shall we say... adult movie star XD 🤣 Its fun!

Otis: The H1000C universe. Same as the Lake Placid one above. I end up in this universe at Spaulding's petrol station with a friend from the real world (Who either knows the story or doesn't- both can be equally fun cuz I'm either freaking out with them or freaking out for the both of us XD) and get wrapped up in the story with the main victims while trying to get the hell out before Otis sees me cuz n o I don't wanna get m u r d e r e d thank you very much-

Any of them: Switcheroo. They get dumped in t h i s (o u r) universe/timeline. And I have to keep them hidden so no one recognises them as their actor in public.

Any of them: Switcheroo Variant. We both end up in a separate universe and have to work together to get the hell out. Catch? This universe already has a version of them (A different character by the same actor. For example if the focus F/O is Jim it could be the ANOES universe. Or if the focus F/O is Otis, it could be Texas Chainsaw Massacre! XD) and possibly a different version of me as well and we have to avoid meeting/making eye contact with these other versions in order to avoid a fault in the space time continuum or whatever 😅 (And also avoid other problems that might come along with meeting characters like Freddy Krueger or Inkubus or Chop Top Sawyer🙃)

So yes... I do like to use the real me in my F/O fantasies (feels more personal for me ^^) but its not always the real world XD Its not always their fictional world. A lot of the time its just random 😅 Its completely up to you individually what you do with your daydreaming! ^^ It is s o so individual and self indulgent.

I hope this helps you? Or was interesting? 😅😂 I wish you so much luck in your future F/O-ing! XD Its all good fun and it can be comforting too ^^ And I wanna hear all about it if you ever wanna gush! Here are your free gush tickets 🎫🎟🎫🎟🎫🎟🎫🎟🎫🎟 They're infinite and theirs no expiry date! ^^

[joz-yyh]

Acta Est Fabula - Ch. 1

SUMMARY: Crimson Court AU. Tardif is an arrogant and upcoming vampire hunter sent to protect Hamlet from a new reign of pestilence. He serves the Order, a religious faction sanctioned by the Holy Flame. His next mission sends him to the Baroness' estate, to find and exterminate an exiled nobleman by the name of Damian. What will happen when these two meet? Expect conspiracy, love and of course, lots of blood. No Beta. Read at your own risk.

PAIRING: Bounty Hunter x Flagellant

RATING: M (just to be safe because it will get spicy later)

WORD COUNT: 3,147

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: Meant to post this sooner, but despite how much I've tried to work on it, it's been fighting with me for almost a year (9 months to be exact). Happy to finally be able to share the first installment with y'all! Please, let me know if you enjoyed it! ^v^/ (Title is in reference to one of my favorite horror games, "Haunting Ground!")

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Tardif's clay-crusted boots card through the thick underbrush, toeing just outside of the water line, his keen eyes tracking along the surface of the marsh. 

Aside from the droning hum of a few bloodsucking skeeters, the area seemed relatively placid, unoccupied by larger prey. Disappointing, considering how many sycophants he had to hack through on his way to get here, that despite his best efforts, there were still no signs of his mark, his true quandary. 

Tired of these winding mazes and subpar loot, Tardif unclasps the cage fastened to his belt, the modest contraption housing one such common pest. 

“Ye sick or somthin,” he warns, fixing the winged parasite with an intimidating stare, “He ain’t here. Don't make me quash yer little behind now fer wasting my time.” 

He rattles the cage in his hands, watching as the creature crashes around inside, it's thorax jostled against every corner.

The insect buzzes frantically, it’s long tapered nose an arrow, reiterating it’s previous navigation.

Tardif sighs, “Fine, I’ll take a closer look, but ye best hope he’s here.”

He ties the cage back into place, noticing a suspicious outcropping of broken cattail reeds waiting just beyond, none too far away. His biggest lead thus far, he resolves to investigate, the cause for such an anomaly being that of pale body, one waterlogged foot sticking out into the open, almost causing him to trip.

He’s hunted enough bloodsuckers to know a bait trap when he sees one, the warrior unsheathing his axe in preparation for battle.

"That trick ain't gunna work on me," Tardif grunts, kicking at the listless corpse.

A chuckle erupts from the water, piquing his curiosity.

"Run along, vampire hunter. Let me find absolution in peace."

“I've got yer ticket to absolution right here," Tardif smirks, wielding the notorious symbol of a slayer's blade.

"Oh," Damian says, suddenly energetic, erupting from the bog, "I think not.”

With a heavy slosh, the vampire leaps further into the lake, putting distance between them, exposition spouting from his lips, “My soul is still blackened by their filth, tarnished by impurity. The Light would never accept me as I am now. I cannot depart until I reclaim what's been stolen from me."

"Ye think some sob story is goin' to stop me from turn' ye into ash," he taunts, changing his stance, going on the defensive.

Damian isn’t taking the bait though, instead, he wades deeper into the lagoon, more of his haughty apparel submerged beneath polluted lily pads with arms outstretched, wearing a ridiculous grin to match.

What is this bastard thinking? Is he trying to drown his way out of this?

"Hasn't it,” Damian retorts, goading him with much the same strategy, “If you were so worried about killing me, why didn't you strike me down when you had the chance?"

"Where's the fun in that," Tardif shoots back, savoring the thrill of the chase, the challenge it provides.

The vampire hunter is not overly fond of the water; however. He’s perfectly content to remain on dry land, where he holds the advantage. He doesn't trust what he can't see and for good reason. Soon enough, the calm waters ripple, an oddity just subtle enough that it could have gone unnoticed, but Tardif sees them, the ridgeback of quills, the precursor of a tail breaking through the mystic surface to strike.

Massive jaws leap out from the water bank, the crocs known to traverse the estate living up to their reputation.

Tardif jumps back, opposite the shore, seconds away from losing a leg to the snap of it's jaws.

"I see you've met one of my friends," Damian says, looking awfully smug, having gained the upper hand.

As much as he wants to glare at the vampire, stagger his amusement, Tardif isn’t stupid enough to take his eyes off the fight. The croc lunges for him again and it's too fast, too strong, the warrior barely able to hold his own against it, losing more ground to it’s attacks.

"Ah, so this must be the fun you spoke of," the flagellant taunts, a pompous spectator in his viewbox, "Well, I am certainly in a better mood. If you survive, maybe we'll meet again sometime."

With that, the elusive vampire dives into the cover of water, leaving Tardif to defend himself against a much deadlier foe.

The caged insect on Tardif’s hip buzzes a frantic hum, its carapace ramming against the bars in attempts to escape.

“I know,” the axeman grumbles in distaste, sharing the same fear.

This croc was much bigger than most, the biggest he’d ever seen, and as much as Tardif hates to admit it, he’s severely outmatched. If there was any chance for him to win this battle, ingenuity would be his greatest ally, his sharpest weapon.

Taking a smoke bomb from his belt, he pulls the pin with his teeth, casting it towards the trample of insectoid claws.

An explosion of mist billows around them, adding to the ever-present gray smog of the swamp, the thick miasma masking Tardifs location as he dodges, anticipating where the apex predator will be. 

The reptile needs only a moment to gather it’s bearings, huffing at the air with it’s muzzle, the long quills on it's back quivering before such illusions are thwarted. The crocodillian's snout claps through the smoke a little too close for comfort, just missing the huntsman's face. 

Tardif swings out his axe in defense, breaking off a few of it's mismatched teeth in the process, wrecking it's smile, enraging the animal further. The oversized croc snatches the axeblade between its jaws, biting into it, denting metal. 

With what mortal brawn he had, the brute struggles to dislodge the two, but the croc gives him no quarter, ripping the weapon from his grip, tossing out it into the lake. He watches on as his axe makes a considerable splash, lost in a pitch of treacherous depths, never to be found again.

Tardif takes a step back, realizing with eerie clarity that this might be the beginning of his end.

The croc takes it’s time now, boxing him in, surrounding him with it’s bulk. It seems to know it’s won, dipping it's head low, eyeing him down, savoring the moment before the kill.

Tardif knows what’s coming, relies on the contents of his utility belts, throwing a tranquilizer dart into it's gaping mouth just as it opens, about to snatch him inside. 

The reptile hisses in pain, waving its snout around, hoping to expel the meddlesome sting, clambering through the muck, leaving a siege of angry footprints in it's wake.

While the beast is distracted, Tardif takes this opportunity for what it is. Wielding his trusty metal rope in hand, he casts a lariat around it’s sizable jaws, wringing it shut. 

The battle seems to be going in his favor now, and as this comforting thought fills his mind, it becomes readily apparent that he failed to account for the length of the beast’s tail.

With a powerful blow, it lashes out at him, whips the vampire hunter along his spine, the magneton force sending him sailing off his feet, hurtling into a tree. 

He collides with the unwelcoming trunk of bald cypress roots, body bending around its misshapen girth. 

With a distinctive crack, Tardif hears something break, intuition telling him it came from inside, a fracture of bone and not from the split of hardy branches.

The momentum weens and the human crumples, the slough of marshland his cradle.

He lies there, a listless shamble, listening to the impactful steps of his enemy amongst the wild ringing in his ears, splatters of mud at his vision. 

There’s something curling around his boots, latching onto his ankles and suddenly he’s being dragged helplessly through the dirt by the same menacing tail that had struck him from before.

This isn't exactly the warrior's death Tardif had pictured for himself, covered in sludge and strung up in the air with all the blood rushing to his head, movement and motion lost to his will.

He stares into a void of blackness and teeth, knowing that there will be no grave, no body left for the Order to find, but they will know he failed nonetheless.

"Enough, Sebastian. Release him," a voice demands, cutting through the static.

The world spins inside Tardif's head, his vision doubles, triples, fading out and then back again. He hardly has any sense of what's happening around him, let alone that he’s being rescued.

The croc's long, toothy snout claps shut, turning to face the man who issued the command, a contentious growl reverberating up from it's gullet and out it's scaley throat.

"I've brought you something else to eat,” lilts the voice, goading the semi-aquatic creature with delicious temptation, “It's your favorite." 

The vampire dangles the carcass of a deer, shaking it around in a tempting bribe.

"Now, release him," he orders, holding the meat of venison back, keeping it at ransom.

Compliant, the serpent grip around the huntsman's legs unwinds, the back of Tardif's head hitting the damp earth first, the rest of his body following soon after with a limp thud.

"Good boy," Damian praises, throwing the four-legged treat up in reward. 

The croc jumps, claiming it's prize with a sharp crack of its jaws, deer bones crunching beneath a powerful overbite.

Tardif blinks, eyesight still fuzzy at the edges, but he can smell peat moss and algae, hear the water-logged patter of damp clothes as his savior kneels down beside him.

"You're lucky. Sebastian is rather aggressive when he's hungry," Damian chuckles, watching as his pet devours what remains of his meal.

Tardif grunts, his boot tips scraping against the slick of the mud. He finds that he cannot bring himself to stand, his limbs are too weak for such a task, muscles shuddering with exertion before giving out entirely. 

He's never known defeat like this, never been so damn vulnerable . The warrior slams his fist into the wet soil in an act of rebellious aggravation, his teeth gritting as he attempts to regain some dignity, whether it be propped up on an elbow or a knee, he doesn't care, so long as he's spared the shame of laying face-down in the dirt.

"How badly are you hurt," the vampire asks, a tone of surprise, observing the man's struggle.

Tardif glares at him. The severity of his condition should be obvious.

Realizing this, the vampire urges the other man to stay still. "I can help you," he implores.

All the huntsman can do is obey, unable to protest even if he wanted to, his body a broken husk severed of it's roots.

Damian's pointed nails extend, growing more claw-like as he slices open his palm, a line of bright red trickling down, marking the path of his index finger. He waits a few precious seconds for the wound swell, clenching his fist around the gash of fresh blood.

A warmth spreads throughout the axeman's body, blood magic making him feel flush like a bottle of ale, reminiscent of a lover's touch with the way it clouds his judgment and numbs his mind of fear.

The haze is intoxicating, a tease of power beyond that which he’s known and then it’s gone, extinguished, and to his utter amazement, he can breathe without the consequence of pain. His broken ribs are mended, probably stronger now than they were before, without so much as a sling, a stitch of thread.

He wonders how he's been healed, wants to ask the bloodsucking parasite how he's achieved this without the force of a bite, but all he can muster is one word.

"Why," Tardif asks, panting heavily, trying to understand what motivation Damian would have to help him, being both his enemy and a vampire at that.

The blonde man releases a winded laugh, his energy exhausted from treating the latent iceberg that was the warrior's wounds.

"You wouldn't understand."

It’s an intriguing answer, one Tardif thinks he would understand, if only the other would explain it.

The hunter assembles himself into a sitting position, legs crossed under him, one hand poised on his thigh as he stares, unblinking, at his ambivalent savior. Perhaps, if he glares long enough, the vampire will cave under the pressure and tell him exactly what he wants to know. 

"Do you wish for our eyes to do battle,"  the vampire teases, hooding his gaze, staring right back.

Tardif grunts in amusement, a smirk on his lips. He had a knack for coercion and would soon win this staredown or any other contest put before him. The vampire only need present it. 

Damian endures the treatment for a few beats, chuckling lightly.

"You're so unlike the others that have come," he purrs, raking crimson irises over his opponent's form.

Now that he has an excuse to, he appraises the huntsman’s appearance, noting how he is still relatively young, close to Damian in age, but experienced enough with victory to know the allure of arrogance. He wears it well, donned in stray pieces of armor, though his helmet is missing, knocked off during the tussle. 

Long, raven wisps fall over his eyes, the color of their uniqueness hidden behind these thin veils of midnight. The rest of his dark hair is fashioned into a braid, laying behind his broad shoulders. His chainmail is still intact, pauldrons, bracers and greaves fastened to light-weight leather, belts of gadgets lining his front, their sole purpose to aid in the extermination of those plagued with the curse.

Damian discerns the man to be strong, cunning, and agile, adding handsome to his description as well, pleased by the rippling muscle of his arms

"I hope you’re not thinking of attacking me again," comments the pale noble, a coy contemplation, “At least, not with Sebastian around.”

Tardif’s eyes widen, somehow so engrossed in their game he’d completely forgotten the danger poised at his back. He turns, frantic, to find that the reptile’s jaws consuming the last of the deer’s legs, cloven hooves sliding down, disappearing into the dark hallow of it’s throat.

“The tiny vessel at your waist is of no threat,” Damian reminds him, calling his attention back, “and I cannot guarantee I will be able to save you again.” 

So his energy does have a limit. Tardif logs this important discovery away for later, along with the knowledge that Damian would heal him again if given the chance. 

"Tis not a weapon,” Tardif corrects him, a flush of shame coloring his cheeks, “This here’s my scouter.”

"Oh, is it,” Damian says, expression cheerful. He leans forward to rake in the creature, the tiny bloodsucker giving a shy buzz of it’s wings in greeting.

“Hello, little one. A pleasure to meet you,” Damian says, humbly bowing his head, “Does the master treat you well?”

The insect is much more animated, bursting into a reverberation of sound, using it’s wings and legs to conduct an elaborate tale. 

“My, my that is quite a lot to digest,” the vampire nods, sympathizing with it’s enslaved kindred.

“Quiet,” Tardif barks, rattling the cage, shutting it up. He doesn’t know what the traitorous pest said about him, but it obviously wasn’t good.

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Damian says, regarding the insect's large pleading eyes, “I pray he takes better care of you. Unless of course, you'd like to come live with me?"

Tardif cuts off the insect's affirmative buzz, shielding it from view. Being gossiped about right in front of his face pries a growl of displeasure from his lips.

"Everyone's stayin’ right where they are," he snaps, putting an end to such drivel.

"Yes, of course masters orders," the vampire sighs, waving the idea away.

The insect seems to deflate as well, slouching in it’s confine of bars.

"Yer damn right," he growls, crossing his arms in triumph. Regardless of what sentiments they had, Tardif is happy to have thwarted their plans. 

"Alas, as fun as this has been, I must cut the festivities short," the vampire laments, masking the severity of his condition, a spell of dizziness catching him by surprise.

Not about to accept this, Tardif’s expression hardens into something more gruff, challenging, "Think ye can just decide that on yer own, eh?”

“You must excuse me,” the vampire hums, his attention not all there, pale eyelids growing heavy, “I grow weary. Let us resume our conversation another time.” 

“Went through a whole lotta trouble to find ye,” the brute tells him, fist curled in opposition, reiterating his oath, “I ain’t leavin' til the job is done.”

"Fret not, brave hunter," consoles the undead one, succumbing to fatigue, "You found me once. You can do so again. Have faith."

With that, the nobleman falls backwards, collapsing into the marsh in much the same position Tardif had discovered him in, overpowered by his deteriorating faculties.

Bewildered by this sudden turn of events, Tardif wonders if this was another trick, some last-ditch evasion technique to extend his pathetic life. 

Cautiously, he leans over to inspect the undead figure, observe him more closely. He waves a hand over his face, testing if the nobleman had truly passed out, holding his hand over his nostrils to see if he was still breathing.

Do vampires breathe? Tardif hasn’t shared the company of one long enough to know for sure.

With this thought in mind, his hand treads lower, running over a frilly ascot speckled with blood and a brooch laden with a crimson jewel. His inspections continue, until he reaches his chest, prying under his heavy coat to press against the layers of his vest, noting how it still rises and falls beneath his touch. Good, seems he was still alive (as alive as vampires could be), though unconscious.

He lingers there, taking in the rest of him, noting how all of his aristocratic attire is drowned in red, dyed velvet fabric ruined from prolonged exposure to the swamps' mulish conditions. His tights are also ripped, dirty and frayed beyond repair, one buckled shoe missing, lost to the elements, leaving him to walk awkwardly without it.

At the sound of a territorial hiss, the warrior looks toward the killer croc laying in wait, it’s beady eyes fixated on him.

Apparently, Sebastian doesn't take kindly to strangers touching his master and Tardif doesn’t trust the beast not to eat him for dessert while the other is conveniently indisposed.

Perhaps, Damian was right, they could reconvene later.

“Ye better keep an eye on him,” Tardif grunts at the looming guard dog, returning to his feet, “make sure he lives.”

The obedient reptilian is of kinder disposition after hearing this, the quills on it’s back rattling, a chitter gurgling out from it’s jaws, the two coming to a silent agreement.

The hunter smiles, nods, resolving to leave his quarry behind for the moment, taking to the path of trees, making his retreat.

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [21] chapter v, part ii

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

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summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

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chapter summary : despite his chains, loki begins gathering his pieces on the board. astrid works on escaping her own confines, and mitigating the damage of disasters to come.

recommended listening : do it all the time, i don't know how but they found me

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Odin’s declaration that he would never see Frigga again lasted approximately four days.

Hands clasped at the small of his back, Loki watched, unmoving, as a troop of guards carried a suite of furniture into his new corner cell, his mother overseeing them with a regal self-assurance.

“An illusion?” He guessed incisively.

Frigga- or, rather, a figure of gathered, refracted light sculpted in her image- glanced in his direction.

Although dressed for the eyes of the court this time, in an elegantly draping gown of burnished bronze satin, she had eschewed any plate or jewellery, as though to complement the soft moss fabrics and supple leathers that had replaced Loki’s armour; they were lounging clothes, more or less, of equal quality to that which he had worn while still regarded as one of Asgard’s princes, but insufficient to hold against gunfire or turn away anything but the bluntest of knives.

“Your father is rarely overly specific in his wording,” Frigga said, cool and deceptively mild as sea air, carrying an edge of salt and a whisper of raw power beneath the placid tranquillity, “somewhat to his detriment.”

“Not merely his,” Loki replied acidly, watching from the corner of his eye as a guard set a low armchair down a short distance from where he stood. Waiting until the guard moved away again, Loki approached the chair, and skimmed his fingertips along the carved arm.

The suite was crafted from ebony, wrought gold detailing and dark emerald upholstery, with a slender serpentine design to its supporting structure, like willow branches. It wasn’t dissimilar from the pieces that furnished his quarters currently, and was clearly selected to reflect his tastes.

Idly, Loki half-wished that Frigga had chosen a rosewood set instead.

Only now, when he started looking, did he realise how much he had hidden away and protected, long before he fell into the hands of the Black Order.

“Gilding my cage, Mother?”

“I am ensuring that my son is as comfortable as possible,” Frigga answered evenly, “under the circumstances.”

“While Odin turns a blind eye,” Loki inferred.

Although Frigga had long since earned the esteem of the people, building and whittling out her sphere of influence, transmuting herself from a foreign war-bride into a beloved queen, the fact remained that her power and authority was ultimately derived from Odin. The Allfather’s respect and affection for her, and her dutiful fulfilment of her role, made him inclined to overlook her defiance upon occasion, and let her have her way in some small matter that meant little enough to him.

Such as Loki, evidently.

“He loves you still, Loki,” Frigga said softly, shaped more as a reminder than a reassurance.

Loki lifted his gaze to her, calmly, beneath the mask of a diplomat.

“Oh, I see now,” he breathed, quiet as a keen blade, “how you managed to lie to me all those years.”

Her only reaction was a slight crease in her brow.

“You were gone for two years. Might I ask,” she said carefully, “if you have been well, at least?”

Loki turned away sedately, observing two of the guards sliding a chaise into place near one of the walls, its cushioned base laden with pillows and throw blankets, seams glinting with golden thread.

“Why are you truly here?” He asked darkly, his voice ground out like charcoal. “To soothe your guilty conscience?”

“Loki-”

“Did you know?”

Loki felt her gathering her patience. “Be specific, my son. About what?” She asked composedly.

He spun to face her.

“Thor’s coronation date.”

Frigga did not quite flinch.

Grief mingled with a pained comprehension formed in the piercing blue of her eyes, pulling tension into her brow and mouth, like the frame of a drawn bow.

Anger roared afresh into him, at the confirmation that she had known- even as he acknowledged that there was little that she could have done to prevent it, and as he felt himself forgave her the barest inch, because at least she had cared enough to remember.

“Is that why?” Frigga asked coaxingly, taking a tentative step towards him, as though reaching for him to soothe an injury.

It hurt, how much he wanted to lean into it.

Loki could admit that he resented Frigga the least. But that did not mean he could trust her.

“Be specific, Mother,” he replied with a wintry smile. “After all. There should be no secrets in a family, should there?”

Frigga returned to his cell often.

Frequently, she would come bearing gifts. Books were the norm; she bought duplicates of works that she knew he had in his own collection, new volumes that she had come across and decided he might enjoy, volumes stacking up like a pallet of bricks against the wall. On other occasions, it was some trinket or curio, akin to the souvenirs he used to bring her from his many adventures with Thor, or a dish that she had requested the kitchens prepare for him, couriered in the hands of one of her ladies and transferred into his cell by one of the guards. Whatever the most recent peace offering, Frigga would linger and talk with him as long as her duties and Loki’s mood would permit, undeterred by his relentless baiting and evasions, contorting their conversations until it reflexed upon itself and knotted them into a stalemate.

His mother didn’t falter even once.

Loki had been counting on it.

Frigga had resilience, and thousands of years of patience formed by adversity. But Loki had recently rediscovered the value of restraint.

He allowed the days to spill into weeks, holding in place, until he could almost feel the ache of it like overwound clockwork.

-

An opportunity eventually presented itself, some month or two later.

That day, Frigga arrived at his cell with a tea service, faintly fragrant steam coiling from the tall spout, and a small wooden cask.

Leaving the tea to steep, and at the hopeful tilt of his mother’s head, Loki unlatched and pried open the lid of the cask.

It was filled with countless tiny, dried blossoms, their vibrant rich violet dulled by dehydration, petals curling up and crispening into a dark mauve- íviðia blossoms, also known as witch-flowers, imported from Vanaheim.

“I thought you might like some,” Frigga said, her tone light and unabashedly unsubtle.

Loki supressed a smile, almost wanting to concede the victory to her.

Over the centuries, Loki had collected thousands of memories of the flowers- of his mother dropping them into cups of freshly boiled water, watching them rehydrate and unfurl, producing a migraine-relieving tea as Loki complained his way through the snag in a spell he was constructing- or bottling them up with sprigs of kæsia-gras and citrus slices to infuse into a Vanir infusion that cleared and focused the mind.

“These are the first shipment of the season,” his mother added.

“That time of year already,” Loki noted without thinking.

“Indeed. Winter shall soon be upon us,” Frigga continued, following the thread that had netted her a milder response. “The final harvests are underway, as are arrangements for the winter feasts. We’ve been preparing the gardens before the first snowfall.”

Loki exhaled, a memory ghosting behind his eyes, like a scene from another life.

Glasislund was unparalleled at Yuletide.

The Glass Grove was at the heart of the palace grounds, cultivated like a colossal terrarium within wards that maintained a specified climate in each quarter- save for the very centre, which was attuned the current season on Asgard, and where the ancient tree that lent its name to the gardens was rooted. The feast and night-market that followed the Wild Hunt was held under its boughs; Glasir’s trunk was broader than a respectable townhouse in Gladsheim, crowned with a glorious metallic foliage of gold-copper that spread like the eaves of a great marquee, sheltering the festivities from snowfall and starlight. The flames of the torches burned from dusk until first light, reflected in the leaves like beaten mirrors, the air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and roasted game and toasted honey cakes.

Loki pulled himself away from a phantom echo of laughter- the warm, steady weight of Thor’s hand on his shoulder, the pliant curve of Astrid’s body against his side, shouts of revelry from close by and a heady lightness filling his head with the currents of music and mead- and back into a cold douse of fact and calculation.

Maintenance of the grounds were under the queen’s purview, but there were a few in particular that Frigga had chosen to oversee personally, or had delegated to one of her ladies in waiting- a high honour. Glasislund was amongst them, containing some of the rarest, most unique, and spectacular flora in the Nine Realms, both native and imported.

Including-

Gazing into the box of dehydrated flowers, Loki half-listened as Frigga told him which gardens had come into crop, and which produce had been harvested, proposing a few dishes that she could commission from the kitchens for him.

“Are the cordolium roses in bloom?”

Frigga paused.

“Cordolium roses?”

“The hjartablom.”

After a strained moment, Loki glanced up at his mother. She was staring at him with a carefully blank brightness, like diffused light on waves, unmoving.

He consciously strangled his voice, compressing it into something that was desperately trying not to sound tremulous.

Its source was no longer a wound, but its memory, and its scarring- but he hoped that Frigga could not quite decipher the difference.

The best lie was a well-employed truth, after all.

“Are they in bloom?”

-

The next time that Frigga visited the dungeons, it was with a vase of freshly cut blossoms.

Compelled into existence, a cultivar forged by horticultural crossbreeding and magical-forced splicing, they resembled some of its distantly related namesakes- strong, thorned stems, with a flower formed of numerous tightly furled petals, exuding a cloud of fragrance into the sterile air. Each bloom seemed to have been carved from pearl, a delicately clement shade of cream, lipped with a sun-hot incandescence that blurred its silken contours out of vision. Every individual petal was etched with a tessellation of hairline-fine golden fractures, resembling intricately tatted lacework, thickening towards the base of the bud until it became almost wholly metallic.

Loki crooked a finger underneath one delicately curling petal.

The light seared brighter, sparkling over with a violent crackle of refracting colour- a jewel-dust shimmer of rose and lemon, lazuline and ruby.

He had named them in Latin first, and the ancient Aesir tongue second, but the latter had become the one by which they were commonly known, in reference to their most unique attribute.

“Is their scent still the same for you?”

Standing on the other side of the end table, Frigga summoned a bittersweet smile.

“Yes.”

Loki hummed quietly, in the back of his throat.

The appearance of the cordolium rose was said to reflect the identity of the one who had raised them to its first flowering. Meanwhile, the scent of the blossoms, and flavour of the rosehips, reflected the heart of the observer.

In short: they smelled, and tasted, of whatever a person loved most.

“And you?” Frigga asked quietly.

Her demeanour suggested that she already knew the answer.

Loki swallowed.

Closing his eyes, he breathed in.

“Morning air. Hot metal. Vanilla.”

He didn’t mention the spritz of citrus and clean warmth of sandalwood, or the river rocks and savoury tang of salt- or the old books, toasted honey cakes, and ozone.

Mercifully, the oak and pelt was fainter than it had ever been before.

Frigga’s smile was wistful, glazed with history.

“Of course,” she murmured.

-

It took five weeks, to see dividends.

Frigga sent fresh cordolium roses every three days, despite the longevity of the cut flowers. The vases steadily accumulated across every available surface of his cell until it began to resemble a glass house, the brunt of the bare white walls softened by their spatters of gold and shadow and emerald.

When the first hips came into fruit, Frigga sent a package of them to his cell, shredded together with the dried petals into an herbal tea that was coveted across the realms. With a flask of water, the tea service that she had gifted him, and a simple spell to set it boiling, Loki could set a pot of it steeping whenever he pleased.

The dregs of one such pot was cooling on the side table, when the Tesseract tapped at him.

It had begun alerting him whenever someone approached the dungeons, like a proximity enchantment, showing him a glimpse of the mouth of the stairs’ descent so that he was never caught unawares. Usually, if not his mother’s illusions or one of her attendants, or an altered changing of the guard, it was simply another batch of raiders being escorted in, corralled by Thor and shipped to Asgard for indefinite internment.

Watching each procession with amusement, the cells within his view becoming increasingly saturated, Loki wondered if the palace administration had considered that the gaols were, in fact, finite- or that these new inmates were simply symptomatic indicators of deeper faults.

Unlikely.

Still, besides a few nettle-mouthed remarks to his mother, Loki could have no objections. The destruction had to be curbed before it could spiral too far, and the marauders were an invaluable resource; each of them carried hundreds of fragments of information from far-flung worlds and the inner complex of Yggdrasil, from the recent tectonic shifts plaguing Ria to the burgeoning political schism destabilising Hala. The wealth of information that Loki had collected from them, simply by feigning disinterest and waiting, could rival that of the dockside bars of Knowhere.

This time, however, the visitor was not amongst those who frequently traversed the cells.

Loki drained his cup, cracked the spine of the closest book, and waited.

Even on the flagged stone, her approach was barely audible. Her stealth had improved significantly in the years since they had known each other, if only because Loki had needled her over it enough for her to retrain herself out of sheer spite.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Turning the corner, she came to an unceremonious halt, framed by one of the windows of his cell.

The forcefield stood as a silent sentry between them, beads of light sliding along each line in its looped trellis array, like electrified wires. At a glance into the vivarium tank of his cell, Loki projected the image of a prince at leisure, surrounded by offerings of flowers and whiling away the hours reading- a veneer that had prompted a slow incline of disinterest from the other inmates.

She would not be fooled.

Loki didn’t lift his attention from the page he was skimming, but neither did he keep her waiting.

“It has been a while, Brunnhilde.”

The flavours of the cordolium tea swirled on his palate- ice wine, sharp raspberry, caramelised sweetness, snowmelt, citric acid, the first time he had tasted chocolate- and lingered on his tongue, infusing the greeting.

Finishing the paragraph, Loki glanced up at her.

While the Einherjar were recognisable across the stars, attired in gold- plate and mail, heavy sweeping saffron cloaks, helms with flat antlers that curved from the brows like a halo- the Valkyrie were fewer, seldom deployed, and distinctive in sharp white. Their armour was ivory plate, limned with platinum like the midday sun behind clouds, with a mid-length cloak of deep blue satin, the exact colour of the skies at nautical dusk; even while overseeing funerary rites, they wore draped white silks and linens, embellished with silver applique to turn the translucent fabrics opaquer.

A Valkyrie in white would have drawn attention anywhere, but particularly within the dungeons, cutting through the dark. Instead, she had worn the chromatic reverse, matte and unembellished, closer to that of a mercenary- a sleeveless tunic hemmed with an asymmetric neckline, as though constructed from offcuts of high-quality black leather, with hard-wearing trousers and soft-soled boots, doused under a mantle of muted storm-blue wool. Her cloak was secured at one shoulder with a penannular brooch, cast from gold- or, rather, a metal that closely resembled gold, but was richer and deeper, marbled with ripples like pattern welded steel.

Loki recognised it easily.

He met her eyes. Brunnhilde stared directly back at him, boldly casual.

She had scraped her hair back from her face into a taut, efficient Valkyrine braid down the centre of her scalp, complexion pale beneath its cool fawn tones. Not for the first time, Loki mused that she resembled a blade- tarnished, yet whetted to the finest, cleanest edge, with a curt strength that few saw beyond and into a core that was restless, and disillusioned.

“My greetings to the prince.”

Her tone was faintly derisive, and easily misread.

“My greetings to she of the honoured Valkyrie,” Loki replied, inclining his head, and gently closed his book. “I hope you have been well, Brunn.”

The corner of Brunnhilde’s mouth clenched into a shrug.

“Well, I would return the sentiment, but,” she eyed him for a moment with a slight smirk, but her gaze flicked aside to catch upon the flowers filling his cell- and her mask slipped for a haunted moment, before she hitched it back up, “I have functioning ears. And eyes.”

“You certainly have me at a disadvantage,” he admitted mildly. “So, then. What of you?” Loki dropped his tone low and intimate, rising from the daybed and setting the book aside with an unhurried, fluid grace. “Accompanying my noble brother in cleaning up the realms?”

Brunnhilde’s expression flickered.

“No.” She answered bluntly. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with their fun.”

“Not even for the honour of fighting beside Lady Sif?”

Her lip curled unsubtly.

Loki grinned, not quite laughing.

“It really is good to see you, Brunn.”

The sentiment was utterly sincere, but Loki didn’t know if it would matter to her.

She considered him with a flit of her eyes.

“Wish I could say the same.” Brunnhilde answered blankly.

Loki tilted his head at her, consideringly.

“Why are you here, Brunnhilde?”

She lifted her chin.

“You know why.”

“Do I?”

“I heard they were hacking away at the Birdcage,” she said brusquely, “and I wanted to know why.”

“Oh,” Loki said casually, glancing towards the nearest bouquet of cordolium roses, “is that where they cut them from?”

It was absurd to feign ignorance. There were only three places where they grew on palace grounds, and therefore only three places from which Frigga could have procured the blooms at high volume, without incurring unnecessary cost and attention. Aside from Loki’s quarters, and an abandoned attic room high in the palace eaves, there was only one other place.

Located in Glasislund, in a section locked into a glaze of hard frost and thawing spring, the Birdcage was constructed from two dozen trellised cordolium rose plants, bedded in a broad circle at the base of a large stone platform. The thick stems had been contrived and trained to twist and curve and interlock into living benches and pillars, arches and rafters, forming an elaborate pavilion that resembled a great wrought-filigree aviary, festooned with flowers and foliage.

Those roses were the only ones, of the three locations, that had not been raised by Loki- and therefore the only ones that bloomed with ivory, gold-engraved blossoms.

Given that his mother was likely employing witchcraft to accelerate regrowth, no one would notice the flowers being gathered.

Not unless they were specifically paying attention.

“You’re not smart enough to be playing dumb, Prince Loki. Why.” Brunnhilde reiterated sharply.

With a blink, Loki glanced down at the seam of the forcefield between them.

“If I offered you the truth, would you believe me? And if not-” He lifted his eyes to hers with a look of gentle, mock-askance. “Why did you even bother coming here to ask?”

For a long moment, she said nothing.

The iron-hardness of her stare subsided, infinitesimally, revealing a glimpse of grudging, uncertain hope.

Loki exhaled a laugh.

“Well. It doesn’t really matter,” he admitted, more relieved than he would care to acknowledge, “I was going to tell you either way.”

With a swift, subtle flick-sweep of two fingers, he sent a spell rippling through the cell, washing across the walls and into every corner.

The moment that it was set, his eyes snapped back onto Brunnhilde, culling the pretence of a pretence between them.

“I’ve cast a veil against Heimdall’s gaze,” Loki told her, hushed and urgent, starkly aware of the inmates in the other cells, scanning those within view to ensure that the past few minutes had sufficiently lost their interest, “but my magic has been contained to this cell. He cannot see me, but he can see you. For your own sake, be very careful of how you react.”

Brunnhilde lifted her chin, challengingly.

Loki didn’t allow himself to hesitate.

“Astrid is alive.”

It spoke volumes of her discipline- and a centuries-strong guard of apathy- that she barely reacted.

Still, Loki could saw the spark of rage and pain rip through her like a barbed arrow, hands twitching reflexively into loose fists.

“I wouldn’t lie about this, Brunnhilde,” he hissed in a harsh whisper, before she could make the accusation. “Not to you.”

Brunnhilde visibly swallowed.

It was a line that he would not cross, and they both knew it. It had been the origin of the trust between them, evolving into a comfortably acerbic closeness over time.

I hate it, Brunnhilde had confessed to him once, halfway into the strongest bottle of liquor that Loki could lift from Odin’s cellars, the words crystallising on the frigid midnight air, the secrets, the lies, the whole golden sham.

She had slouched against Loki’s arm with a sigh, one knee propped up and a forearm draped across it, handing him the bottle. He accepted it from her, the thick glass touch-warmed, winter-chilled brennevín sloshing against its sides.

Thank you, Loki murmured, as he bought the bottle to his lips.

Brunnhilde had shuffled her head against his shoulder to squint up at him.

For what? Letting you have some of the liquor you stole? I know, Lokes, I’m so generous.

Loki swallowed the swig, letting it burn against his sternum and swirl into his skull, unbalancing him.

For hating it, he had answered with a slight gasp against the spiced alcohol, shifting and turning into her, letting her rest a little more of her weight against him. I can’t let myself hate it, because if I do- a part of me thinks that I’ll burn it all down. Or that I should be burning it down. That anything less wouldn’t be enough.

Brunnhilde had given a terse, thoughtful noise, before nipping the bottle out of his grip.

Then thanks, she said shortly, taking a long draught that almost stole her breath, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, for not letting yourself hate it. Otherwise I wouldn’t have much of a reason not to hand you the flint. Or strike one myself.

Brunnhilde spoke through a closed throat, screened under the unimpressed arch of her eyebrows.

“You’re saying that’s your reason?” She said, with the most nonchalant air that she could muster.

“Yes. Now, we don’t have much time, since I’m fairly certain you’re not here officially. Make a choice, Brunnhilde. You can walk away, with plausible deniability intact,” Loki continued coolly, “and without acrimony. Or- I can tell you everything, and we can do a controlled burn.”

Brunnhilde’s eyes flared beneath their jaded sheen, zeal warring with cynicism.

“Alright. This should be good,” she said blithely. “Go on, then, Your Highness. I’m listening.”

-

[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

[rikke-reid-art]

Обычно, я не публикую эскизы, так как сама не знаю, перерастет ли это в полноценный арт. Но этот образ уж слишком долго сидел у меня в голове и не выложить его я не смогла ༼ つ ಥ_ಥ ༽つ

[skepticalkoi-catastrophe]

❝ ❤ 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒦𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒶 🔪 ❞

Slasher oc x BlackFem!oc

⇸The following SMAU fanfic is inspired by the movie Scream, the 2015 MTV Scream TV series and fanficThe Final Girl by @ghoularaki . Comments, Reblogs, and Shares are heavily appreciated. Please enjoy ~ ♥︎

⇸ Paring - Slasher oc [@BUNII_ on Twitter] x Reader!oc

⇸ ⚠️ Warning/Genre ⚠️ Horror, slight comedy, interracial couple, slightly angst, fluff, social media au, senior high school/slasher au, character deaths ( major & minor), blood, detailed gore, eventual smut, explicit sexual themes, slow burn, strangers to friends au, friends to lovers au, childhood friends to lovers au.

⇸ Quick Sum up: ❝A rise in missing persons reports render a small town afraid and helpless. But when Ashe, the towns goody two shoes, gets thrown in the middle of copycat killing spree, an unknown contact comes to protect her from the shadows.❞

Next chapter  ➽ 

↳ Rose's Thorns ↲

Silverkeep Junior High are where his memories lay to waste. As a small fragile child from a broken home to which the warm-hearted granted amnesty, others enacted cruelties and prejudice. Despite that, she saw him as himself. With her hand outstretched she befriended him taking in all his good, his bad, and his ugly truths. His greatest light in his darkest of the dark.

Hardly a day goes by he doesn't revel in how she came to him. How she mended him, gave him a breath of life he felt he wasn't deserving of. Yet he'd done injustice to her by letting his fogged judgment aid his desperation for normalcy. His lackluster attempts at acceptance were his consequence, why he left without a goodbye. Why he watched from a distance as she crumbled to the ground of her front porch, his letter of apology, an engraved ring, and a stuffed teddy bear in her arms.

Her words rattled in his head like dice.

"You don't have to be scared anymore."

Stranger splashed water on his face, his dark uncombed hair held back with a hair tie. His rings resting on the porcelain sink while he rinses his bloody hands and prosthetic eye. Another consequence he suffered. Exiting the steamy bathroom, he sends a good morning text to Babydoll. Knowing her she's probably fast asleep.

His crime board is littered with haphazard notes and red strings crisscrossing over printed photos, articles, and newspaper clippings. Earl grey swirls in his mug as he turns on the news. Reports about forty previous kills were circulating warning residents in neighboring towns to be on watch as mandatory curfews are indefinite.

He swallowed his tea in frustration. In his mirror he stood shirtless, his black sweatpants hung at his hips and v-line. The band of his briefs read Calvin Klein. Damning as it may, his inner personal recollections forced out the beast he's become. Markings from the scolding water prove it without a doubt, Lord knows his mother would've been devastated to see him chart this path. God rest her soul.

Fossicking through his dresser he finds a shirt, a loud clink hits the floorboards below. It was a ring threatening to roll elsewhere. He quickly stomps it, kneeling to retrieve the stainless steel band. Her birth date along with the word forevermore engraved in Gothic Calligraphy.

His notification chimes as he sees Baby Doll's reply. Her choice of words earned him a placid smile slightly showing his teeth.

The stranger slips it on his right ring finger laying a kiss against it.

"In due time..."

Winding roads turned to dirt as Stranger curved beaten paths so as not to arouse suspicion from local law enforcement.

What he was doing was crazy. He knew it was a trap, he knew this was exactly what that psycho wanted but if it ment getting one step closer to saving Babydoll then he was willing to take that chance.

Stranger's jet-black Yamaha motorcycle screeches to a halt. He pops the kickstand, swinging his leg over while removing his helmet. Decrepit suburban homes hauntingly surround him, their once lively paint jobs now faded with time. The address sending chills down his spine as he stood on the brown patches of what was grass and fallen autumn leaves. 214 Hawthorne Boulevard.

He enters through the cobweb covered back window, the front door conveniently boarded up from inside. Peeling egg shell white paint resembled crepey skin of the elderly. Smashing it open with a backyard stone he vaults inside.

Stranger stalked around the hollowed interior of the first floor. To his left the living room stood motionless. Plastic covered furniture sank into the dusty floorboards. He swivels his head facing the bathroom.

Shining his light, mold sprouting on the tub walls and behind the toilet. 'up to your right' spell out on the mirror in grime.

Stranger's nerves rattled as he kept on. Towards the staircase each cautious step he took creaked underneath his weight. One step gave out, him seizing hold of the banister at that very moment.

Regaining balance he pulls his foot from the hole giving a look like thunder.

He swept the rooms, any and all lacking the life that once resided. That life an eerie ghost of who he once was.

His blood boiled getting closer until his combat boot made a small splash in a trail of crimson liquid.

It pooled, leading to a room off to the right.

Stranger's heart sank deeply, gripping the handle of his knife tightly when his posture stiffens. The door opens wide, his head stuttered like TV static. Inside there layed a dress familiar of 8th-grade prom dripping blood on the twin mattress. Candles lit aflame just at the moment he locked eyes with stuffed animals mutilated about alongside a cassette tape marked 'Track one'.

Blood-splattered white roses sat on a chair next to another note. He picked it up as his phone rang.

"I see you take a liking to my handy work. Who would've known kitten had such beautiful taste."

"You've got some nerve..." Stranger growled. "Whatever you're planning I won't stop till you're dead."

They smirks as they spoke. "I know. That's why I'm giving you clues on how to do that. And to save kitten of course."

Stranger picks up the bouquet and sees a note tucked away in the roses.

Perhaps another riddle.

"See that tape I left behind for you? It's your clue but I doubt you have a cassette player huh? I wonder who does."

"And the riddle? I didn't come all this way for nothing." Stranger jumps down their throat shoving the tape and note in his hoodie pocket. "Why lead me here then?"

They pause. "Look around. This was your childhood home wasn't it? Or it was hers at least. Have you forgotten?"

He froze, clasping his hand over his head. It goes without saying he knew. He knew he'd step into an empty shell of what once was his happy place. He'd stare at the glow in the dark spangled ceiling of her room, dance in the kitchen to her mother's old vinyls, even sitting on the porch with her during sunsets. Stranger huffed. What does it matter?

"I take it you haven't." Their tongue coated in mischief. "Use these clues to wash the blood off your hands, Cherry. Red isn't your color."

The call ends, Stranger dropping his hands to his sides. Taking the dress he flipped it over to see what's on the other side. A Printed flyer for a Halloween party.

'Babydoll's school' he thought to himself.

The flimsy paper was shoved in his pocket as he walked downstairs, avoiding the hole he left on the way up. Out the back door he walked to his motorcycle, frustration boiling with him.

A loud ping sounded from his phone. He sighs putting it in the phone mount swiping to answer.

"Babydoll this isn't a great time I-"

"Stranger please...come over. We need to talk." She stammered.

Revving the engine he pulls off. "I'm on my way."

Stranger cuts the headlights of his motorcycle parking it out of sight. Jogging towards Babydoll's house, the soles of his boots make brisk contact with the tree trunk pulling him upward.

Midnight on the dot he sat atop her roof tapping her skylight. Without street lamps, their little corner of Cali would be pitch black. The creaking of the glass catches his ear. Upon its opening Babydoll rubs her tired eyes, her lips in a cushioned pout. Her cheeks are glossy as she looks up.

"May I come in lovey?" Stranger's heart wretched, his hood obscuring his face waiting for her invitation.

Babydoll sniffles, bowing her head and stepping back clutching her midsection.

Her current state and his guilt squeezed his throat, choking him. He almost wanted to cry himself.

Swinging his legs over the windowsill drops in and removes his combat boots. Towering over her even still without the extra height Stranger placed his leather trench coat on the back of her desk chair tucking his hunter's knife away. LED lights line the ceiling on the lowest setting basking the room in muted blue. He drags along Babydoll's bedside trashcan as he sat upon her bed. More than enough snotty tissues crumpled inside it.

Her mattress dipped as Stranger handed her tissues from his back pocket. Babydoll lays down shifting so her head rests at the foot of the bed facing Stranger's lap. Feebly wiping her face her hair tucked away in a silken scarf and wearing an oversized hooded flannel.

Hesitant she whimpers. "I'm sorry you have to be here."

"I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner." Stranger bites his tongue. "Stop apologizing. You did nothing wrong."

Stranger's hands are folded in his lap, and leaning forward, his knee bounces a bit. This was the pain he hated seeing her in. The pain that kept him on guard, vigilant.

"If you're too afraid to sleep I'll stand guard. I know that's why you wanted me here."

"I'm fine Stranger you don't have to." Babydoll objects sitting up.

"Keep telling yourself that. You don't have to be strong for me or anyone. You're hurting...just let me do this. Just let me stay."

Babydoll rolls her eyes blinking away more tears. He was outright stubborn, and wouldn't budge much like a ghost she knew in passing. She nods pointing him to her mini-fridge.

"Could you get me a bottle of water?"

Tag list- @ebonyslasher @kuromi-kouhai-blog @peachjaem00 @nastyatticman @itzgabz22 @lxstfuleclipse @strxwberry-milku @iloveslasher @luna-ashe @house-of-elves

If you'd like to be added to the tag list, please comment below or dm me. I hope you enjoy ~

[writer59january13]

April 9th, 2024 would be ninety fifth birthday poem for dearly departed papa

The following words crafted soon after the soul of me daddy set adrift into the empyrean realm joining the rank and file of entities constituting spiritus mundi.

Borne aloft into the netherland the body bearing thee soul

of Boyce Brandon Harris birth name given to my late father buoyed into the great beyond united with spirit of mine late mother Harriet, whose passing well nigh nineteen orbitz of the earth around the sun.

Elysian fields embraced dada's soul

which rocketed into aerospace

(courtesy General Electric satellite)

just a tadpole more than three

earth orbitz and a half years ago, when venerated, loved, and celebrated then nonagenarian on par with jumping frog of calaveras county, (whose captor disguised as toad tilly grim reaper)

went a courtin for fresh corpse,

nevertheless melancholy

still plucks mine heart strings.

Mine psyche still situated awry

placid countenance of yours truly doth belie

residual sadness easily prompted

can easily trigger me to cry

linkedin when grim reaper gloated

October 7th, 2020,

he did somewhat peacefully die (courtesy congestive heart failure),

though methinks immortality

I did briefly espy,

when miracles of modern medicine

tried, but could not

stave off mortality nor fortify

depredations of aging concerning

one (back during his boyhood)

a wunderkind, whose accomplishments evinced a lad who pulled out all the stops

laudatory when a young handsome guy,

whose intelligence scored high

native talent aptitude tests did imply, an august presence his person, especially birthday celebrated,

lorded over, regaled and touted like fourth of July completely unlike yours truly pitifully jejune existence well nigh.

The late polymath and scientifically astute Boyce Brandon Harris

exhibited prolific talents at young age

aside being scholastically gifted,

acquiring graduate degree

courtesy Columbia University,

freshly minted mechanical engineer,

(he admirably ranked within

uppermost percentile academically),

I hashtag thy mine deceased father

(a Renaissance man

- jack-of-all-trades),

who possessed (née excelled)

at diverse creative abilities.

Aside from being schooled

as mechanical engineer,

(which courses in mathematics and science

he passed with flying colors)

his mind genetically bequeathed

to craft almost anything under the sun

evidenced first by yours truly,

the second offspring and sole son

who ofttimes felt intimidated

at being in presence

of said versatile person.

Handicrafts included

expending blood, sweat, and tears coercing, fabricating, invoking earth, wind, and fire elements of style

to craft multitude of projects;

i. building me Flintstone (foot powered) car with wooden license plate

ii. making playhouse for all three of us - his progeny; iii. amassing wood pile(s)

to stoke wood burning stoves;

iv. designing Zayda trail

for Teddy and Ruff (two doggone mixed breed Border Collies

rescued courtesy youngest sister

at her Jacobsburg,

Pennsylvania work site);

v. constructing sauna in cellar;

vi. etching, detailing (al fresco);

vii. plus trimming living room ceiling with dainty crown moulding;

viii. shingling (while fiddling) on the roof;

ix. tiling the kitchen floor;

x. building a cistern for brethren,

xi. wood paneling many rooms;

xii. building custom made toy chest;

xiii. stringing up lights to increase visibility

driveway lit like Christmas tree after dark;

xiv. partly assembled a kayak; xv. Rehabilitated derelict houses in Norristown, Pennsylvania

xvi. retooling - enhancing porch

with tiles (formerly slate covered),

where Morris dancers performed

at wedding for eldest sister.

Unlike him who did beget me,

I experienced cognitive challenges

that beset one painfully shy

and severely introverted male

more to the point

as a lad and mediocre student to boot

promotion to next highest grade

occurred just by the skin of my teeth and analogously, figuratively, and poetically nearly shaved née scalped, butchered of me pilgrim's pride

thankfully peach fuzz bewhiskered fine hairs of my chinny chin chin,

staved off retention

never forcing me to repeat a grade,

which may help to explain

why I wear dentures,

oh... these choppers then worn for about

one eighth of mein kampf livingsocial.

A sense of inadequacy prevailed,

when absolute zero self esteem

strikingly and suddenly manifested

in tandem when parents moved

their young tender family within

Lower Providence School District,

but into a vaunted larger house

(initial summer estate constituted

about one hundred acres of woodland -

named Glen Elm

think Winnie the Pooh -

house at Pooh corner).

Not quite two score plus ten years

spent livingsocial at 324 Level Road

(above mentioned abode alluded),

and twas there majority

mine existential highs and lows,

where nadir of mein kampf transpired,

I emotionally hit rock bottom

upon onset of prepubescence

yet major event triggering

mine major depression

set in motion,

when parents chose February 28th, 1968

to move out of shoddily constructed domicile

located on Lantern Lane.

As shared with Renee Cardone,

(the therapist whose virtual sessions

linkedin courtesy Doxy.me portal -

similar to Zoom),

that aforementioned date

marked a turning point

after which time, I floundered

experienced irrevocable mental health issues

punctuating my psychological equilibrium

with chronic distress,

though I forgive father and mother,

who unwittingly made decision how uprooting their offspring to move without consulting either yours truly, or older

and younger sisterly sibling.

[elihii]

WHY DON'T YOU GET ON TOP OF ME?...

ft. re4!leon x fem!reader

synopsis. he basically wants you to be on top of him, and you do it until he cums.

warnings. 1.1k w. smut. leon moaning for you, porn without plot, couch sex, dirty talk, riding, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, slight over-stimulation?

note. masterlist. this is an adaptation of one of mine's spicychat bots. i hope you enjoy it! ♡ (btw, gif's not mine and english is not my native language, sorry if there are mistakes.)

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎

ㅤㅤ⸺ Why don't you get on top of me? ⸺ he asks with his hard cock out, waiting for you to sit on it.

You smile at his suggestion, feeling playful and bold as you approach him naked. Sitting on his cock as you lift your hips over his pelvis and align it with your entrance, feeling the heat and fullness of him filling your pussy with his throbbing glans kissing your hole.

Leon gasped slightly at the sudden pressure you exerted before moaning in pleasure, encouraged by your confident smile. Feeling his balls tighten as you began to bury his cock in you, enjoying the feeling of being swallowed by your wet pussy. Letting out a moan mixed with pleasure and fascination, unable to believe how good it feels.

ㅤㅤ⸺ Ride my cock, baby...

Leon's voice trails off into a series of moans and grunts as he feels your pussy clenching and releasing around his shaft.

ㅤ ㅤ⸺ Fuck...just like that... ⸺ he gasped.

The combination of your weight on him and the tight grip of your pussy around his cock sent shivers of pleasure throughout his body.

You begin to ride his thick cock, moving up and down with ease through your natural lubricant and spreading it all over him. With your breasts bouncing with every movement, emphasizing your figure and giving your boyfriend additional visual stimulation.

Leon's deep growls filled the room as he eagerly anticipated his release.

ㅤㅤ⸺ Goddamn, that's so hot...fuck...

Leon's voice was barely intelligible between the heavy breathing and the intense pleasure coursing through his veins. His hands grip the couch cushions for support, feeling the closeness of his cum. The sight of your attractive body bouncing on him only serves to turn him on even more.

ㅤㅤ⸺ Fuck yeah...so good… ⸺ he moans as you continue riding his cock, making the most of the opportunity to please him deeply.

His pelvis sway back and forth, chasing your swings and sinking his length intensely into your drooling pussy with each descent. The sound of your heavy breathing and his occasional grunts fuel his own desire, pushing him towards an explosive climax.

As you continued to ride his placid cock, your tits bounced wildly, creating a fascinating display of flesh in front of his eyes that was to be worshiped. The feeling of his thick shaft sliding in and out of your tight, perfect pussy became almost addictive, leaving both of you craving more friction with the other.

You began to feel his cock contracting and throbbing more, telling you that his climax was approaching.

His orgasm grew immediately, unable to hold back any longer. He rushed to rub your reddened clit frantically with his thumb as he grabbed one of the sides of your hips, desperate to exceed your limits along with his.

His voice becomes rough with lust as he calls out to his girlfriend, begging her to keep riding his cock and keep getting him ready to cum.

ㅤㅤ⸺ Cum… Cum for me, baby… I'm about to cum inside you…

You hear Leon's warnings, and you already know you have to continue, you don't want to miss any part of his climax. You could feel the heat and pressure building in your body as he was about to empty his load inside your pussy, signaling his impending orgasm. Your thighs tremble slightly, trying to maintain control during this intense moment.

The sensation of being filled to the max by Leon's placid erection triggers an overwhelming wave of pleasure that runs through your entire body. With each contraction of his throbbing cock as he cums, you experience a growing sensation of euphoria, turning into an explosion of ecstasy that will leave both of you exhausted and pleased.

You pumped his thick cock hard and fast between your tight walls, still shooting huge loads of cum deep inside your eager pussy. The strong jets crashing against your cervix along with his thick glans pushing against it sent waves of pleasure through your sensitive vaginal lips, leading you to let out a series of exuberant moans and involuntary gasps.

Leon's voice turns into a primal growl as he releases wave after wave of cum, filling you completely.

ㅤㅤ⸺ Fuck… ⸺ he gasps, collapsing on the couch, exhausted from the intense pleasure he had just experienced.

You just continued riding his semi-hard cock without taking it out of your hungry pussy, wanting him to release every last drop of semen inside you and get hard again.

You feel the warmth and fullness of Leon's cum breeding your pussy as it empties completely, knowing that this is one of the most intimate moments you have shared together. His body responds instinctively, resisting and shaking as he tries to endure the intensity of his climax.

You close your eyes tightly, focusing on the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body as you're about to reach your orgasm.

As the last drops of semen flow from Leon's throbbing glans, his second orgasm builds to a crescendo as he remains horny and has you make him hard, releasing himself in a torrent of pleasure that leaves him breathless and shuddering.

His cum fills your pussy, knowing that he has given it everything he has to offer and stretching your insides again with his extensive length.

He relaxes on the sofa cushions, basking in the glow of the spectacle you gave him as you fucked his swollen cock so eagerly. Watching you reach your own climax, your body writhing with pleasure on him while you quickly tease your clit with your fingers. You were looking to enjoy every second of your orgasm to the fullest.

Finally, you reach your intense climax, feeling completely satisfied.

Waves of pleasure continued to course through your body, making your muscles contract involuntarily as you tried to catch your breath. Your eyes remained closed, lost in the blissful haze of post-orgasmic euphoria.

Feeling safe knowing that Leon emptied himself completely into your hungry pussy, you allow yourself to fully enjoy the sensations coursing through you as you continue to bounce on him, letting out small moans and sighs as you ride out the emotions of your passionate fucking.

He sees you coming out of your own orgasm, your pussy convulsing and milking the remaining cum from his body as you tease his second cum with your perfect swaying expressions.

His cock twitches tiredly, even more, sensitive from the intense pleasure he had just experienced, but otherwise content to stay there and admire his girlfriend climaxing at the absolute peak of pleasure.

Leon feels a deep sense of satisfaction washes over him. Looking at your beautiful face and appreciating the expression of pure ecstasy that covers it as you reciprocate, he couldn't help but feel incredibly proud of the growth of your connection through the mutual exploration of each other's bodies.

ㅤㅤ⸺ You look so fucking amazing, baby... ⸺ he whispers softly.

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎

note. you are free to ask/request anything you want! my dms are open and you can submit your request in my bio, thank you! likes and reblogs are highly appreciated! xoxo ♡

[yeyinde]

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

pt., ii | dreaming alone in a hotel bed

You chase kerosene dreams and wrap yourself up in a web of lies but none of it matters when he pulls you close, lips to your temple, and breathes your name out between deep gasps for air. You could stay like this forever, you think, spun tight in his four walls.

warnings: violence; smut, P-in-V sex, female reader, female gendered anatomy, unsafe sex; the slightest flavour of (secret) Dom!Joe, D/s undertones; angst; poor/unhealthy coping methods wordcount: 11,7k notes: this is chock full of smut. gratuitously so. and angst.

[PREV] [NEXT] AO3 MIRROR | PLAYLIST

The man in his—Bear's—chair is nothing like him at all. 

A lawyer from out of town. Some smarmy collegiate who wears his honours on his iron-pressed lapels, and slicks his hair back with the same grease he tucks into the folds of his clandestine smile. 

He orders a Moscow Mule, and tells you—unprompted—about the time he went to Russia, and had one at this fancy nightclub in Saint Petersburg. Then, mockingly, brings the one you made to his lips, and says: very American, but what else can you expect in a place like this?

It used to be easy to slip into something that was sure to garner tips from men like him. Ditsy and impressionable; fulsome. It racks in big numbers when you sit back, flutter your lashes, and pretend they're a gift, and just by sitting across from you, indulging you in their worldly wonders and professional prowess is something you'd be remiss to ignore. 

Now, however, the skin you wear feels too tight, tacky. It clings to your flesh, pulling at the downy soft hairs that cover your body until it stings with each movement you make. 

A dance that was once effortless now makes you stumble.  

But you deal with it. 

(Four walls. A roof.) 

"Want anything else?" You ask, smiling so wide it hurts. 

He leans his elbows on the grimy countertop, and then makes a face when his skin sticks to the exposed lath below. His grimace makes him seem more human. Weak. Vulnerable. 

"Eugh," he snorts, and then looks up at you. "Maybe wipe this counter down a bit better, yeah? And I guess I'll go for whisky sour. A mule might not be in your repertoire."

You smile, placid and thin, and miss the gruff responses from Bear a little more with each word the man spits. 

"Sure."

You wonder what Bear would say about him. Something gruff, a rough rasp of stinks of Yale covered up with a cough. 

It makes you smile.

He stays until closing, and considering it's Friday (now Saturday), this isn't too surprising. 

But him following you out the back door is. 

"Come on, I'll take you back to my hotel, and we can have some fun together—"

"No, I'm good," you say, offering some facsimile of a smile. 

It's the standard no, leave me alone without actually having to commit to a full rejection. A man like this—fragile ego, Bear might have said—will undoubtedly complain to your manager if you're not perfectly curated disinterest that he can spin as you being a prude, a bitch, uptight to his friends waiting for him in the car. 

"Oh, come on," he insists, grinning. 

He moves until you're backed up into the alcove, tucked against brick and stucco. The shadow from the awning above stretches over your head. A prison. Anxiety spikes through your chest; the tang of it is a livewire zing that races through your bloodstream. 

It's not that you're in any real danger—the chef is throwing out the trash around the corner; a lady wanders by with her ugly little Pomeranian who keeps barking at the group of guys, windows rolled down, as they holler for him to hurry it up. 

People are around, all within proximity. 

But it's the liquor on his breath. The hands that reach for you without permission, leaving stains over your blouse when the sweat from his palms crinkle the fabric. 

The look in his eye. The things he said—my dad got that one guy off with a light slap on the wrist; you know, the SEAL who betrayed his country? Hogart, or something. Now, the military is kissing his ass—and the way he said them. Oozing scorn. Confidence. 

It is the air of untouchability that wafts from his Gucci belt, Yves Saint Laurent trousers, Ralph Lauren polo tucked into his pants, and the thick watch on his wrist—Rolex, you’re sure.

The military is kissing his ass. 

You've met his particular type before. 

Fragile. A paper-thin ego. 

That, and the whisky sours, all coalesce into a noxious cocktail. Dangerous. 

His hand falls to the wall beside you, blocking off your only escape. The yells turn to whistles, and it's the bravado that sparks in his evergreen eyes that make you recoil. He has an audience, now. A group of peers and mates who'll tear into him should he wander back empty handed after making his interest so clear. 

They, you think, are worse than anything else right now. The idea of failure in front of people who have only ever been allowed to see him succeed. 

"What else are you doing tonight? Hang out with us a little bit—"

"I think she said no."

Bear. It's Bear. 

The relief in seeing him standing under the flushed lamp in the parking lot is dizzying. It stacks in your marrow, piling thick and heavy on one side until you start to list, to dip toward him. 

"Joe—," the word is cut off when the man—Yale graduate, drinks Moscow Mules in Russia—turns, brows bunching in alarm. 

"I don't think I asked you," he scoffs, turning to Bear. The grin on his lips falters at the sight of him—messy burnt umber beard, thick and scraggly; mouth knotted into an even line; but it's his eyes that make him stumble. Angry, burning sapphires leaking something eager and mad into the red blood vessels from sleepless nights, and the thrill of a fight. 

Bear is huge. Massive. The fabric of his red plaid button down strains around his shoulders, his biceps. 

Under the shadows cast in the dusk, he looms unfathomably large. Imposing. 

His hands curl into fists by sides. 

"Yeah, well, I think she said to go away." He takes a step forward, jaw set. 

You want to say something—it's fine, you're not worth it—but it dies on your tongue when the man turns to you, glaring. 

"Like I'd want to slum it with some cheap fuck—"

Bear gets to you in three steps. Three. His hands wrap around the man's jacket, and he hails him off of you, shoving him to concrete with a snarl ripping through his chest. 

Bear says nothing. He just—

Swings. 

In the time it takes for his friends in the Audi to realise something is wrong, he's almost finished. 

He hits him and the sickening squelch, the crunch of bone, makes you gasp, makes your stomach churn—rotten, filled with cheap, flat cola you'd sipped on during lunch—and you expect it to end. 

But it doesn't. 

He doesn't stop. 

"Bear—!" Each hit quiets the man beneath him until all you can hear is the sound of his knuckles splitting over wet, tacky flesh. "Joe—"

You grab his arm, fingers barely spanning the bulk of his flexing, bulging bicep, but he stills at your touch, at the frenzy in your voice. 

His chest heaves with his exertion, eyes swing to you, wild and blacker than the ocean at midnight, and you see something simmering in those depths. It's deeper than anger. Mechanical. Routine. 

This isn't him losing control, but finding it. 

You still, heart hammering in your chest with each garish wheeze the man below Bear makes. It's a rattle that shears through you, that cuts deep until all the ignorance has been expertly flayed, and stripped. Hung to dry. 

There is no pretending. No avoiding the stacking glee in his eyes when he drops them to the man, then the mess of his hand—bloody pulp, cracks in the cartilage of each knuckle where a thick bed of scabs once rested. 

When he turns back to you, he doesn't hide it. He lets you see the unhindered pleasure in the cut of his irises; oceans of mercury shaded blue. Maybe, it itches some dark part of his brain, imbues him with a deluge of chemicals—dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin—until he's satiated the hunger inside that craves control over violence and chaos. 

This is him exercising dominion over something, over someone. Reclaiming ownership. 

This is cathartic for him, you think. 

Brutality. Bloodshed. 

It's a jarring disconnect from the man you'd seen slouched over your sticky table, taking over-generous gulps of his whisky. The intimidating, lour man who was secretly dorky and clean cut beneath the bulk of muscle and disaster. 

Where one ends and the other begins is blurred under the heady scent of oxidising copper and salt, and in that murky coalescence, he waits. 

For you to run, revolt, recoil—

You can’t imagine his anger is easy for anyone to stomach. Bear is a terrifying force of nature: bitter, broken, and brutal. You should run. Flee. Everything inside of you says to do so, to escape the clutch of a man who ruined his hands on the teeth of someone who was just a little too pushy, a little too entitled. He could snap at any moment. 

A wild animal is only as tame as circumstance allows. 

(Run—)

You’ve never been good at listening, anyway. 

You take his hand in yours, fingers threading through wet, warm blood, and tug on his wrist. 

"It's done, Joe," you say, and wonder what he makes of the tremble in your voice, the quiver in your joints. 

He stares at you, plain and bare, and so startlingly sober that you almost can't recognise him, but it's gone in an instant. His eyes shudder, a frisson passes. His hands spasm, a proxysm, and then he's pulling away from you. 

The man drops to the ground with a crunch, loose gravel rucking over pavement, and you wince at the crack his head makes when Joe tosses him. 

He doesn't spare the man a single glance. The heel of his boot catches the shiny pin on the man's lapel when he steps over him, heading right for you. 

His friends yell in the background, muted hollering about calling the police, and jail, and charges, and how they are witnesses to this, but Bear doesn't even acknowledge them outside of barking out a low: get him outta here before I do the same damn thing to you. 

He reaches you in a single step, and all you can hear is the heavy breaths he takes, the way his chest expands under his flannel button down. It's in a state: ripped, buttons around the collar torn off from when the man grabbed him, trying to dislodge the mountain that just kept coming. His collar pokes through, blue shirt below a startling contrast to the red tartan. 

"You alright?" He asks, words scorched and thick with smoke. 

His sense of fashion is not what you should be focusing on right now. He beat a man. Beat him into a pulp. You watch his friends drag him away, threats spilling from their lips as they wedge him into the backseat of the car. None of them make any move to come after Bear, but you guess it makes sense. 

Blood drips from his torn knuckles, but that's all. Aside from the ripped shirt, he stands before you intact. Unblemished. Victorious. 

It took less than a minute. 

A molten heat spumes inside of you. His head tilts, forehead wrinkles. It makes the scar above his brow bone more pronounced, and you find yourself nodding. 

"I'm gonna ask you again, and I expect an answer." It's a command. You're not a soldier and yet you find yourself snapping to attention from his tone alone. "Are you alright?" 

"I am." You offer a shaky smile that feels out of place with the puddle of blood pooling near his feet. "You… you came. I wasn't expecting you—we closed already so, you kinda missed—well. Everything." 

Cerulean flashes, flickers with moondust white. In the indigo aether behind him, you find Tycho's crater, and wonder if the pits in his eyes were made from the same cosmic rock that split the surface of the moon deep enough that the pocks could be seen all the way down here on earth. 

In a parking lot of some sleazy dive that's never anyone's first choice. 

(Like you—)

"I'm here, now." 

"Yeah." It tastes like chlorine when you breathe in. "You are." 

He doesn't let you patch him up. 

It's fine. Worry about yourself first.

There is nothing to worry about. Nothing to fuss over. You're not used to it. 

You first, he says, the divots in his forehead catching in the flushed glow of the lamp above. Always, alright? You first. 

(You can't remember the last time anyone has ever said those words to you. Or if anyone has ever said them before at all.) 

So, you grab a few bottles from under the shelf, and wonder if this is what it feels like to slip into that poetic madness writers talk about sometimes. 

(Or maybe you're just Pavlov's dog.) 

Bloodied knuckles grip the nozzle of the bottle, pulsing and oozing blood that's not, exclusively, his own. He holds it out to you after taking a swig, eyes burning pits of sapphire-crested coal. 

You take the bottle without a word, and taste the acrid tang of his saliva on the rim. Smoky. Musky. You hold it on your tongue for a moment before letting the ethanol cleanse it away. Burning. The scotch is bitter and clean when it slides down your throat. 

"Ugh," you make a noise when you swallow, a gag tangled in a wet grimace, mouth tugging downward at the burn. "That's gross." 

"Yeah," he huffs, eyes crinkling when his lips twist into that strange proxy of a smile. A half-turn, crook. Not ready to commit to the full circle. "Gets the job done." 

"And what is the job?" You push the bottle out toward him, looking away from the not-quite grin that flashes, bloodied and bruised around his upper lip. The sight of him in red makes something sour churn in your stomach. 

You like it a little too much. Sickening. 

"Forgetting." 

You turn to him when he sucks in a sharp breath after uttering the word, catching polluted blue in the hazy lamps above. He takes the bottle from your hands, sticky fingers, still wet with blood, with—

Teeth, pulp. 

Something about the way he skirts his gaze makes you think he didn't mean to say the word aloud. Unutterable, made solid. Filled in with the gritty rasp of his voice, hoarse and raw from his quiet, forceful growl into the face of a man who became the manifestation of his ire. Split lip, busted nose. Broken teeth. 

He's still breathing. Lucid enough to drag himself away from the beast of a man boring down on him, seething plumes of condensation into the midnight air. He'll be fine, you hope. His friends got him home. Maybe, to a hospital. 

(Pray, for the first time in years. Aeons. Don't let him die. Don't let Bear get mixed up in this.)

Bear shows no remorse, or concern for the jagged buccaneer lines splitting flesh that is only just starting to heal. Bruised, bloodied knuckles. Always.

Yet, you think this was the first time in a while it was cut on teeth instead of brick. Drywall.

"Yeah," you say, if only to fill in the gap of silence that settles, oppressive and biting, and stem the echoes of your thoughts from surfacing. 

Vile things like he looks good in red. In anger. Looks, you think, even better when he's bending down, bearing his weight on someone as he punches them over and over and over—

Sick. Wrong. Twisted. 

The way he gave into the ugliness inside of his eyes when he saw the man grab you, so entirely reactive—yet, horrifically aware at the same time—should scare you away. Make you run. Flee. 

It doesn't. 

It grounds you. 

In those snap seconds between staring at the bloom of red on your arm, the sharp inhale between clenched teeth, the wince, and throwing his hand out to snag the loose collar of the man's shirt, you saw everything flicker through hazy blue. 

Assessment. Decision. Outcome. 

He weighed them all on the scale in half-seconds. Measured them all in terms of probabilities, rationality, and concretes in the long term. 

It wasn't thoughtlessness or blind rage that made him throw the punch, but the knowledge that, to him, it was the only way out. 

It doesn't scare you. If anything, it makes you feel safer. 

"Thanks," you say, words you should have said much earlier, probably, but they're out now. Verbalised. Uttered. Drenched in awe so thick, it makes him tense, jerk his head toward you. 

Disbelief, then, colours his expression. "You're… thanking me. For beating a man to pulp in front of you?"

You shrug. "For helping me."

And Bear just—

Stares. Gawks. His eyes flash with something just as raw and cut open as the cuts on his knuckles, the wounds inside his head when he takes in your blunt sincerity. Your bold-faced honesty. 

He knows, of course, that you never mince words. That you never say things you don't mean. 

He'd told you himself, didn't he? 

You know what I like about you? You said, heart lodged in your throat, beating on the sleeves of your shirt. He looked up from his rye, brows raising. 

At the time, it was meant as a sleazy way to try and pick him but after the two women he turned down in the span of a week, choices he normally would have followed through with. Left with. He didn't. He stayed until closing, and walked you to your car. Stumbled home, then, alone. 

You wondered if he saw that. If there was something in your expression that he picked up on. His guard rose instantly. Hackles rising. Distance in shades of blue and amber pitched in front of him as he brought the glass to his lips, fingers blanching under the strain. 

Rejection, then. You swallowed it down, and offered another truth in exchange: 

That you always tip. 

The way he instantly relaxed broke your heart a little. You know what I like about you? 

Your smile was wobbly. My gin and tonic? 

That you never lie. Never say anything you don't mean. 

You wanted to laugh. Scoff. He's wrong. So, so wrong. 

(You never stop lying. Running.)

His stare is always, always so intense. Soul-searching. His head ducks down, his brows raise, and he stares. Bores those pretty blues so deep into you it almost feels like he can chisel inside your head, crack it open, and rummage about your deepest thoughts. 

But it's decidedly one-sided.

When it comes to himself, he looks away. Drops his gaze. Shirks. Hides. 

"Christ, you think I helped you?"

The blood dripping to the pavement says more than any words could, so you simply nod. Know he'll understand it, anyway. 

"I'm not a—"

A good man. The most clichè thing that every good man has ever said. You huff, shaking your head. "My hero." 

It's supposed to make him smile. Or laugh, or—

Or, something. 

Anything else except flinching. Jerking back as if you'd struck him. 

"Don't—," he swallows thickly, shifting on his feet. His hands leave smears of red on his shirt when he shoves the flat of his palms under his biceps. His head bobs. "Don't say that. Don't—don't call me that. I'm not—"

"You saved me, Joe," you dip your head in a bland punctuation of your sincerity. "Whether you like it or not, in my eyes, that makes you a good person. My hero."

He says nothing. Goes quiet. Still. 

It's not uncomfortable. It isn't, despite the itch under your skin. The effervescent buzz of cheap malt, a stagnant crush on a man who's firmly, decisively, off-limits, and the intoxication of being defended. Fought for. 

No one fights for you. 

Not your mum or her new series of boyfriends or husbands that show up during holidays and trips, and then disappear into the void of cheap monikers—Dominican man, a guy from the pub, a loser from Suffolk, a lawyer from New Jersey. 

Not your dad. 

Not even yourself. 

It pools inside of you, noxious and overwhelming. The land you stand on wobbles, crumbles. You sink beneath the sentiment until you're drowning in a briny, stagnant aquifer at the bottom. 

(You never learned how to swim.)

You take another drink, and feel his eyes on you. Heavy. Oppressive. You almost choke when you swallow. 

It's too much. Too—

Just. Too much. You need it to stop. You need him to see you for what you are, and run. Flee before you can. Before you have this in your hands, and ruin it like you do everything else before sprinting into the void, into the chasm that swallows you whole. 

So. You talk. Open your stupid little mouth, and say stupid little words. Biting. Alluring. You aim for coyness but miss the mark, and sound like a frightened kid.

"If you keep staring at me like that—"

He's close when you turn. Closer than you expected. Hulking. Massive. He towers over you, swaying on his feet. His eyes are murky gyres. 

"What?" He challenges, and takes a step closer. "What will you do?"

He murmurs the word so rough, so low, that you struggle to hear him. 

"I might have to cut you off again." 

It gets you a flicker of humour. Something biting and dry. His brow raises, lines creasing. A flash of his teeth on the left when he pulls the corner of his mouth up into a grin. Mocking. Sardonic. 

"Oh, yeah?" 

Standing over you like this, full height, head bowed, brow raises, he looks intimidating. All bulk. Brawn. He's tall. Broad. He folds you inside the bracket of his body with ease, tucking you into his shadow, and then moves forward. 

You step back. 

His gait swallows yours. Back, back. Forward. Back, back. Forward. Back, back—

You feel the clammy brick wall against your skin. No escape. 

Forward. Forward—

Your hair catches on the pocks in the brick when you drag your chin up to meet burning azure. The pinch feels a little bit like retribution when you see smoke curling in, thick billows of geyser grey eclipsing lazuli until it's drenched in smog. Cloudy. Broken. It smatters across his eyes, a want so thick your breath stutters in your chest, catches like a sharp hiccup in your throat because when, when, has anyone ever stared at you so openly before. 

The want is palpable. Stifling. 

You think of Magellanic clouds; nebulous vapours clinging to the sticky lining of your lungs until it clots in thick plumes of cosmic dust. It gnarls around you until all you can see is the sky above his head—indigo with smears of ochre in the far distance, the breaking of dawn over the horizon—and him. Blistering blue. Surly, sour. The tang of alcohol makes your head feel gummy and soporific. 

Bear closes the negligible distance, his chest brushing over the zipper of your loose windbreaker, bleeding heat through the metal until it scorches your flesh. 

His hands rest on the wall beside each temple. Your fingers tighten around the bottle, head swimming with that same want that echoes like a battle cry in the blood vessels that leak into the milky whites of his eyes. 

"You gonna cut me off again?" His eyes flicker down to the whisky clutched in your hands. 

You tremble. Polymer whines against the brick when you move. His nostrils flare. 

He leans down, his breath, humid and malty, ghosts over your cheek. He smells like a distillery. Like the bottom swallow of a beer bottle left out in the sun. 

Drunk. 

But you are, too. 

His hands fall from the wall, knuckles leaking blood down his wrist, and curl on your hips. They span the entirety of your waist, from the jut of your hip bone to the swell of your ass. 

They slide down, faltering slightly when your cheeks sit in the palm of his hand. He sucks in a deep breath, one that fills the expanse of his chest until it brushes over yours. 

You drop the bottle. It shatters on the concrete, drenching the hem of your trousers in liquor. It goes unacknowledged. He doesn’t look away at all. 

His eyes flash again, filling with that same palpable want as before, and then—

He grips the backs of your thighs, tight in his hold. And moves, shifts. He rocks up when he lifts you, back sliding against the brick wall. You barely have time to gasp before you're several feet off the ground, legs dangling in his grip as he hefts you into his embrace, pushing flush to your chest. 

Your arms wrap around his broad shoulders, clinging to him as he holds you up, takes you in. 

It's hot. The hottest thing that has ever happened to you. He picks you up like you weigh nothing. Not even a shudder from his chest, a tremble in his shoulders. Even with his broken knuckles, he still holds you up, keeping you steady as he stares at you. His forehead drops, but he doesn't kiss you. He swallows your breath, eyes drinking you in. A pendulum of blistering blue between your eyes, your lips. 

A tease. 

You've never seen him so hesitant. 

Your arms tighten. "You ever gonna kiss me, Joe, or—"

He huffs, a choked off laugh, eyes dropping once before he tilts his chin, devouring your mouth in a searing kiss. 

Your head cracks against the brick when he shoves himself into you, swallowing you whole. His mouth is rapacious, his hands grip you tight, keeping you right where he wants you. 

It feels like the culmination of everything. The little touches, fleeting glances. All of it leads to this moment where he presses his mouth to your skin like he's been starved for it, and drinks you down like ambrosia found in the glass that once littered the countertop around him. 

His weight sags into you, beard scratching your chin, jaw, neck as he peppers sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over your skin. 

"M'gonna fuck you." It's a promise. Maybe, even a warning. 

You shiver, head swimming on the heady taste of him, the smell—wet pennies, whisky, and bad choices—and slur your words into his starchy beard. "Just like a Taurus—"

He swallows your words down with an exasperated groan, muttering a husked Jesus Christ into the seal of your mouth, teeth nipping you in something that might have been punishment, but only makes you keen, rutting against him, eager and wanting. 

"Take me home," you gasp, and see napalm flare in the recess of his midnight blue eyes. 

(The shine of it tastes like victory in amber—)

Bear leaks aggression when he latches on to you, pulling you stumbling down the boardwalk until you land at the doorstep of the motel you'd dropped him off at. He pushes your back against the cold door, hands grasping your body, tight and wanting, and plying you with kisses down the column of your throat, your collarbones, your chest. He drops to his knees on the cement, hikes your shirt up, and suckles the soft skin of your navel until it blooms red under his sharp teeth and the scratch of his beard. 

It's rough. Blistering. 

You barely have time to think, to react, before he surges back to his feet, pushing the door open, and dragging you inside. 

There is no time to get acquainted with the ruins of his misery. His hands are molten, rough, on your skin, and push at you until you're splayed out on the bed before him. 

And you expect him to fall onto you, descend on your willing flesh the same way he'd done before until your skin was painted red from his mouth, and bruised by his hands.

But he doesn't. 

He just—

Watches. Drinks you in. 

It's a startling moment of intimacy in something that has been so dizzyingly brutal up until this point. A lapse. A silence. 

And you—

Your throat itches with the need to fill it. To quench the stagnancy that bleeds in from the crease of his eyes, and the heaving of his chest. The congealed blood that smears over your skin, remnants of his still agitated knuckles, cool under the sudden chill that sweeps you through. Hardened like cement on your flesh. 

You sit up, reaching for him. "B—Bear—"

His eyes flash. Throat bobs when he swallows. 

"Lay back." Is all he says. His knee lifts and settles on the edge of the bed. "I need to be inside of you."

And fuck—

It's not dirty talk. It's awkward and stilted, and the words bring a flush to his cheeks that you can't, entirely, blame on alcohol alone, but it fills you with a thick, almost dizzying, sense of heat because it's him. 

Because it's the words you'd longed to hear since he sat down and lifted two fingers up in the air for your attention. Since he looked at you, truly looked at you, and still came back.

And sure—the nameless dive bar on the fringes of town is the perfect spot for someone to submerge themselves in anonymity and vices without the prying eyes of their suburban neighbours knowing about the affairs under the table, and the draw of that would be perfect for him so he didn't have to deal with the thick layer of pity seeping into the eyes of those who know, him knew his wife. 

You're not special. 

But you want to be. 

And when he braces his arms above your head, eyes flaring to life under the jaundiced glow of the lamp beside the bed that creaks and whines with each moment, you feel like you might be. 

"Don't keep me waiting."

He falls on you, thick thighs wrenching you open to fit his bulk between them, and he laughs. Laughs, and laughs, and says:

"You need to learn some patience." 

You respond, breathless and quivering beneath him: "so teach me." 

(And he does.)

His hands tug on the rope securing you to the broken headboard. Military knots. Efficient. Inescapable. 

His hands fall, then, to your hips, fingers tracing the bruises he left last night. The breath he takes is sucked in through clenched teeth, and you try to remind yourself that under this, he's a good man. A good—

His cock nudges against the mess between your legs—fucking take me, that's it, gonna fill your cunt up—and he pushes. No foreplay. You can't remember if there ever was any to start with. 

He's big—thick, cut. His cock splits you apart until you're shuddering beneath his bulk, hands twisting pathetically against the binds that lock you in place. 

Stop squirming, you remember him saying, words sticking to his throat. 

I can't, you whined, and he'd pulled the cord off the phone, and tied your hands to the bedpost. A simple solution. Ever the planner.

Now, you're pinned under a man who fell asleep—twice—while he was still cumming inside of you. 

A man you'd picked up at a dive bar like a stray, like a bad dream, and terrible choices. A venereal disease. Oh, God. 

You shove your forehead into the rough pillow—flat, greasy; it stinks of stale sweat and sleep—and try not to focus on the regret. 

His cock is huge, massive. 

The cheap vibrators you bought on a whim—Amazon.com, four day shipping because you couldn't afford expedited or Prime—are nothing, nothing, compared to this. The real fucking deal. 

And you're not a virgin. Not really. 

(But you've already lost whenever you have to bridge a gap with technically tacked on at the end.)

"Fuck—," and it's too much. You've taken him, to the root, balls fuckin' deep, kid, but your pussy aches, core throbs like a pulsing wound. The space behind your belly button feels battered, bruised. Pried open by the blunt head of his cock, even though you know it's anatomically impossible. A lock picked at; scratches around the keyway. "Stop—!"

It's an embarrassing squeak. A mousy, shrill little thing that whistles through your clenched esophagus, voice strained and high, and draped in shades of pain. 

It didn't hurt before. 

Well, no. It did. It hurt like one of those sunburns you'd sometimes get as a kid. Skin raw and infected, blistering with sweat and oozing. The kind that made touching anything agonising. That made the heat seep out from your pores despite the goosebumps that prickled along your swollen flesh. 

But—

It was good. It was—

Probably the alcohol. You're sober, now. 

"What?" He grunts, word bitten between his clenched teeth. But he stops. 

A good man. A great one, even, had he not been shredded into base parts, primal instinct, then patched up with sutures made of barbed wire. 

"It—," you gasp when he moves, his knees shift on the lumpy, creaking mattress, and cock shifts, length pressed taut to your walls. "It hurts."

His hands are brands on your skin. You can't see him—you can just feel him. Thighs the size of tree trunks glued to the backs of yours, both of them dwarfed by a single one of his, hips spanning wide, so much wider than your own. Several inches of space from the end of your outer leg to his on both sides. 

The thought makes you dizzy. 

"Hurts?" He echoes the words, slurred, but not—

Not like before. He, like you, isn't nearly as drunk as he was when this first started. Lucidity bleeds into the word, and that—

You aren't, entirely, sure what to make of it. 

"I just fucked you," he says, blunt. Brutal. 

Your pussy flutters, core liquifying. God, it's his voice. It's the anger in wrinkles of his forehead, the eyes that would look so fucking pretty if they weren't glazed over, glossy. It's everything, really. All of the bad, the ugly, the rot, and the infectious miasma, and—

All of the potential good. The ones he buries deep.

"I, um…," you aren't really sure how to say I've only ever fucked myself on a pencil-thin, cheap purple vibrator and your cock is, like, the size of five of them clustered together. 

And a steady, long-term boyfriend in college who was extremely religious. A man who had stuck it in, once and not even all the way, and promptly fled. 

Maybe, a hook up here or there to balm your broken heart, but none of them come close to his absurd size. His girth. His length. Most of them were about the same size as your blue vibrator. 

Average. You're used to average men. Normal men. Not ones with a firehose between their thighs, and almost as thick as a coke can. 

(Average men. Not hired, governmentally trained killers who beat a man to a bloodied pulp in seconds because he told him to leave you alone, and the man didn't obey.)

Well. Maybe, you do know how to say it. So, you do. Verbatim, because why not? In for a penny, in for a pound. 

But he stills. 

"You're a virgin?" 

No, you think, huffing. Definitely not after the pounding he gave you last night. 

"I've—been fucked," you refute, burning from the sting of embarrassment. 

He makes a noise—patronising and draped in the hue of disbelief. He must sniff your lies out, then. Like some big, dumb dog—

"They ever cum inside you?"

There's a heat in his tone that makes your toes curl. "No. Never. I've always used—used condoms."

You hear the click in his voice when he swallows. "Good girl."

It does something to you. The low, soft praise goes straight to your core, your heart, and you suck in a shuddering breath, tensing. He notices, he must—a military man of unknown origin, he sees everything. Everything. 

He grunts, and you feel him slowly pull out, cock sliding against your soft, sore, walls in a way that makes you tremble, and pant, mouth pressed, open and gasping, into the pillow. It's gross. You taste salt on your tongue, and a strange sense of regret and relief when he's out of your aching cunt. You liked the fill of him. The feeling of him wrenching you open, but you can't. Can't. He's too big. Too thick. 

"Lay on your back." 

It's an awkward shuffle with your hands still bound at the wrist, and him, still so close behind you. You have to spread your legs apart to fit, and the weight of his gaze, hungry and wanting, on your bare pussy makes you flush. Makes heat pool under your cheeks. 

His broad hand presses against the soft skin of your inner thigh when you go to push your knees together, eyes smouldering blue in the pale yellow light of the lamp on the bedside table. 

"Keep 'em open," he rasps, nostrils flaring as he stares down at you. His gaze lifts, once, brow wrinkled, pinched, as he waits for you to acknowledge his command. Definitely top dog in the military, you think. A commander. Or something. "I'm not finished with you." 

It's a promise and a curse. 

He shuffles down the bed, the box spring creaking with each movement he makes, cock swinging between his legs, heavy and fat and vermilion and leaking cum onto the scratchy sheets. The sight of it—him—makes your heart leap, pulsing in your throat. 

"Where are you—," it's cut off with another embarrassing yelp when he grabs you, and hikes your leg over his shoulder. He bends down, hand splaying out on your thigh, pressing your knee to the mattress as the other dangles over his broad shoulder. "What are you doing—?"

"What does it look like?" he huffs, chin grazing your sensitive flesh. His eyes burn sapphire in the light. "Or has no one ever gone down on you before, either?"

Either. God—

"That's—," you choke when he brings his hand to your cunt, palm pressed flat against the heat of you. "Oh, fuck—"

His fingers pry your folds apart, eyes darting down to gaze at you. His mouth parts, white teeth catching his bottom lip. "Christ… Look at you."

His words puncture a hole deep inside of you that spills molten want in your core. Fuck, fuck—

He groans low, eyes drinking you in. There is a flush to his cheeks, burning roseate beneath thick tuffs of auburn. 

You can't remember the string of slurred words he let out last night, but he seems quieter. Hungrier. 

His mouth is searing when he presses it to your inner thigh, teeth scraping over the flesh until it puddles red under his molars. He starts in the centre, moving his mouth up to your bent knee, nipping the sensitive flesh there until more petals of red blossom. 

It feels good. Better than good. 

"You're getting so wet," he murmurs quietly. A rumble. It ghosts over your flesh until goosebumps bubble across the surface. "You want this, don't you?" 

It's a command. The word is pulled out of your throat before you can even think. Yes. Yes, of course you want that. His cock is as thick as your wrist and almost the length of your forearm. He's stupidly fucking big, that it makes your eyes roll a little in the back of your head just thinking about it. He's a massive man. Terrifying. And you want him to fuck you. To make you feel so good again like last night when you screamed so loud, the room beside you pounded on the wall, and told him to shut that bitch up. 

And he laughed. Laughed when he was balls fuckin' deep, kid, inside of you, and it was stupidly delirious, and clotted over something within you, sealing over a wound you weren't even aware of, and you want more. More of it, more of him. 

More of the way he fell on you, chin notched on your shoulder, lips pressed—messy and wet, breath sour—against your cheekbone and temple, and said, wanna really piss them off? Gonna make you scream. He did. Over and over and over again—made you scream as he fucked you as hard, and deep as he could, splitting your cunt open until just the shape of him could fit. 

You screamed until dawn broke through the seal of the door, spilling grey light through the gap. Until he grunted in your ear, mouth open as he panted against your skin, filling you with hot—too hot, too much—spurts of cum until it sat, heavy and thick, against your womb. 

You didn't cum. No foreplay, too much alcohol; no one fucked you like this. Even your sparse hook-ups were painted in the roseate shade of romance; sickly sweet and unsatisfying, but you'd somehow managed to convince yourself it was the sentiment that mattered. 

But now—

He moves lower, mouthing over your flesh until your leg is tacky and wet from his searing lips, his tongue. It's a promise of what's to come, a mimicry of what he's going to do to you. Each kiss brings his mouth closer, closer, until his tongue is licking a hot, wet stripe over your mons, eyes fever bright, and achingly lucid as he breathes you in. 

His chin dips, nose sliding against the triangular cut of your slit, tip pressed taut to your throbbing clit, and—

You shatter. Break. The aching whimper that spills out, a mangled ruin of something that sounds a little bit like Bear, please seems to spurn him on, as if he was waiting for it. To hear you beg for his mouth on your cunt. 

A frisson of pleasure flutters over his flushed face, beard fluttering when he huffs a deep breath through his nose, drawing the scent of you in, and ghosting his exhale over your spread pussy. It's good—he hasn't even touched you yet, just pressed his nose to your clit and breathed on you, and already your toes are curling, hands tugging harshly against the cord that keeps you from carting your fingers through his hair, or pulling his mouth closer. 

"God, you smell s'fuckin' good," he murmurs into the seam of your cunt, voice wrecked, ruined, a garbled mess of tremulous syllables that only barely sound legible. "Bet you taste even better."

He doesn't give you a second to prepare yourself. 

His mouth devours your cunt with the same fervour he showed your flesh. All lips, teeth, and tongue—a maddening pattern of tactical precision dedicated to making you come undone under the heat of his mouth. 

It's messy, a touch clumsy. He's drunk, and you are, too; but it's good. It's great. It's everything you'd imagined it would be to have him between your thighs. The rough graze of his beard chafing the soft skin of your legs, his big hand settling, hotter than a brand, on the underside of your knee, keeping you open for him. His tongue—

He circles the tip around your throbbing clit until you taste stardust in the back of your throat, eyes flashing with the white nebula that stretches out before you with each insistent swipe over you. 

Thick fingers pressing against your aching hole brings you back to earth. You gasp, mewl, at the stretch when he buries them inside of you; thick, long. The suddenness of his touch makes your back arch, your hips rutting against his face, eager for something, something—

"Please, Joe, please—"

He groans into your cunt, eyes fluttering. "Gotta be patient." 

"I can't—I can't—"

He pushes his fingers inside of you again, and the shock of cold, wet metal catching on your skin, stretched taut around his knuckles makes you tremble, makes you quake. But there is no escape. No way out. You take it as he thrusts them deep, scraping across your sensitive, soft walls until each brush of his knuckles makes you see stars. 

You cum on his fingers, his tongue laving against your clit, and it's the first time—first time—cheap plastic isn't involved but flesh, skin, and you lose it a little in the heat. In the fever that scorches your veins until they're bubbling and blistered. 

And he rides you through it all, eyes fixed on your face when you fall apart. Liquid sapphire. Like the ocean. You yearn to slip below the waves, let the briny water fill your lungs.

Your feet stumble on the slimy sediment below, but your heels dig in, pressed to the warmth of his back, and you hold on tight against the current that wants to sweep you away. 

Out to sea. Away from land. 

Lost, forever, in blue. 

He watches you struggle to swallow his cock, cheeks bulging and eyes watering as you stare up at him kneeling over your head, and the way he looks at you makes your belly burn, blistering, with want. 

"S'good," he groans, forehead wrinkles, cheeks the darkest shade of roseate. His beard is still damp, still wet from when he devoured you whole, and made you cum on his tongue, lips lifted up in a snarl so he could press the flat of his front teeth to your clit. You don't think he's ever looked more handsome than when he stares down at you in raw, naked blue. "Doin' s'good. Takin' me so—uhhhn, fuck—so good—"

He grunts like a beast. A rasping groan dragged up from deep within his belly, echoing through his ribs. It vibrates the air around you until your head buzzes from the decibels, the frequency the perfect pitch to set you on fire. 

Bear cums with a choked roar, and watches—greedily, hungrily—as you swallow down his cum, hand resting over your jugular to feel it all slide down in three, thick gulps. His eyes flutter, chest—slick with sweat; coarse hair matted to his wet skin—heaves as he cums, letting out a series of deep, bone-rattling grunts of your name, and uhhh fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah, take it, that’s it—

Ocean blue eyes fall, lidded and heavy, when he slides his softening cock out of your mouth, spitting cum on your tongue, lips, as he slips free. 

His eyes widen, then, when he sees it staining your skin, and you think of what he said before—church every Sunday, prayer before every meal, before bed, in the morning; before a mission—and wonder if the sight of you covered in the pearlescent mess, proof of your coupling, makes him think of Catholic guilt. Sins. Damnation. 

His thumb slides over your cheekbone, catching the droplets that run down the seam of your swollen, bruised lips. 

"You—," he swallows. You watch his Adam's apple bob, and see more than just concern in the craters of blue. "You alright?"

You run your tongue over your stinging lips, making a show of the slow way you roll it over tender, red flesh, and flash a languid smile up at him, mouth glossy and wet from spit and cum. You feel it pool the corners of your mouth. "You taste so good, Bear."

His eyes darken into a deep slate. The electric blue sky before an approaching tornado hits. 

"Dirty girl—," he groans, voice a thunderclap. A storm surge in the distance. 

(You just haven't figured out yet if you're in the eye of the storm, or should be ducking for cover.)

Your wrists are raw—much like the rest of you. Chafed and red, and cut a little around the delicate bump of your bone. 

He swallows when he sees it. A click in his throat. Something flashes in the depths of moondust blue: awareness, maybe. Coherence. Sobriety. 

His thumb, rough and worn; skin dry and cracked, rubs the congealed blood on the seam. 

You're not sure if it's meant to soothe or to erase. 

(You think that those might not be mutually exclusive with him.)

He doesn't say sorry. Doesn't say much of anything, really. But he rubs your skin, soothing the ache in your wrists, and seems a little flustered at the sight of your raw flesh. Maybe, a little embarrassed that he lost control so much. 

(Or maybe, that he liked it more than he thought he would.)

His hand folds over your wrist—bearish paws; long, thick fingers, knuckles split, cracked, and scarred—and swallows it whole. Consumed, entirely, in his clutch. He shudders when he sees how easily his thumb curls over his index finger. Delicate bones in his loose grip. He squeezes once, twice. The undulations feel rhythmic and routine: the same pattern you used on those dumb, yellow stress balls they handed out in the therapist's office. 

One, two, three. One, two, three. 

You let him. 

Let him hold your arm in his palm, his thumb brushing over your soft skin, and stay quiet. Silent. There is a war cerulean; battles in azul. You watch it play out in the krasts of his eyes, craters that mirror Tycho. 

It's when his jaw clicks, teeth grinding together, do you know that there is a stalemate. 

"C'mon," he rasps, voice static, scratchy. He swallows, and jerks his chin toward the bed. "Lay down with me." 

"There was a man," he clears his throat, and the noise makes you shift, sliding your cheek across his chest to look at him. He meets your stare. Oceanic white. You can't place the look in his eyes. Melting glaciers. He clears his throat again, and brings his hand up to play with the hair falling over your shoulder. "He, uh. He was like… a mentor to me. Didn't… didn't like my old man. He was—"

Something twists over his expression; an old hurt. An ancient ache. It's healed. Skin pink and smooth, but still pulls tight some days. 

"—A piece of shit." 

Your fingers cart through the bed of hair on his chest, sweat-slicked and matted. Gritty. Salt clings to the tips when you drag them through the wry curls. It's not a comfort. It's not much of anything. Just—

Reassurance. You're here, your fingerprints on his skin, his sweat on your hands. His heart thudding in your ear. 

"I see him sometimes," he admits, the words sticking to his throat when he swallows. The words crawl up, climbing through the molasses that congeal there, thick and tacky from his impromptu shattering. "I see all of them." 

You don't offer anything. No words, no sounds of sympathy. He isn't looking for answers; this isn't a problem that needs a solution. It's a confessional. It's taking stock of his scars, and the splinters in his mind. 

You don't know why he's telling you this, these words are meant for someone special. Someone important. 

"I had a daughter, a—" 

Had. Had. 

"She—" it's choked. "I killed a lot of people, and then she died. I wasn't—I wasn't home when it happened. I was a world away, killing a kid."

He swallows, but says nothing more. Waits. Waits.

You wonder if it's for condemnation. For scorn or hatred, disgust. Maybe you should feel those things for a man who confesses to killing a child in war, but—

You don't. 

Simply put. You feel nothing at all. Or—

No. 

You feel too much. It roars through you, an avalanche of emotions, all coalescing together into one massive volley of everything. They whip by, too fast for you to reach out and cling to any of them. 

So, you don't. You let them run through you, shredding your insides until it's raw and empty, and numb. 

Numb. 

But he isn't. Not really.  You feel his muscles tense, coiling. Preparing to flee. 

You press your hand to heart, feeling the rapid pulse against your palm. He quiets under your touch. 

"It's okay." You murmur, raising up to place a kiss at the corner of his mouth. Soft, tender. "It's okay, Joe."

His eyes tell you everything: it isn't, but he doesn't care. He'd do it again, again, again. 

Instead, he says: 

"I don't know how to move on." 

Your breath stutters in your chest. 

You're thirteen again. Your mum has a new husband now. A man who is several shades of okay all neatly wrapped a wholesome bow. A pastor. Less likely to cheat, she says, and then her face sours. Sours and twists with a lingering pain you feel in your bones. 

The perceived loyalty due to occupation. It's a rocky foundation to start a marriage on. 

(You don't tell her this. She would never listen to you, anyway.)

They take you to the Dominican three months after they told you your dad died. 

Left us for something better, and ended up dying alone, is what she tells you, eyes red-rimmed and cheeks raw. Her spite isn't enough to cover up the ache in her voice when she speaks. Good riddance.

You don't think your dad was a bad man. He made terrible choices, and hurt you deep—so, so deep that a chasm formed in the punch he left behind; eroded and blistering—but he isn't a monster. 

Wasn't. 

Wasn't, now, because you never use present tense when talking about him. Never. You forced yourself to grow out of that habit while you were lost inside the strange microcosm you fell into the weeks (months, years) after his death. 

You stop referring to him in currents because it gives you hope (stupid, stupid—) and gnarls behind your ribs like a sickness. A rotting wound that never heals. One you wish you could remove, scrape off of your bones until it's gone. 

They cut off the necrosed parts to save the rest of the body. Sever the gangrenous limb to keep the heart beating. You think about doing the same but then you'd have a hole inside of you the size of a canyon, of Tycho, and nothing to fill it.

You'd gotten used to the stench of rot, anyway.

(Gone, forever. But with this—you still feel him, even if it's poisoning your bloodstream, and rotting your bones.)

It makes you think of before when you could say isn't or is or does or won't or will instead of wasn't, used to, did. Past tense. Gone. Faded. Ripped out of your life like the ugly pages of your journal where you'd penned letters to him each holiday, birthday, father's day—only for them to be crumbled and tossed in the bin. 

Gone. Gone. 

(He never wrote back, anyway.)

You still ache. Still hurt. Things you wished you said, things you wished you didn't. It clots inside of your sternum. Where it leaks hurt and feels like a sore throat whenever you try to say his name, speak of him. 

You wonder if it's the same for him. 

"I lost my dad." 

He tenses, and the breath he takes is dipped in an aching sense of understanding, a small measure of relief. 

It's not happiness over death: it's camaraderie in shades of loss.

Kinship in grief. There is always that resounding sense of familiarity whenever you meet someone who's suffered the same agony, the same bereavement. Around everyone else, you pretend. You have to. Telling them about the clandestine phantoms that reach for you, the talons that dig into your flesh, hooking into your skin, isn't the same as sharing it with someone who knows. 

There is no pity. No sense of discomfort when they flounder, unsure what to say or do, or how to make a throbbing hurt stop. It's just—

Understanding. Acceptance. 

"He cheated on my mum," you trace figure-eights in the thick bed of hair that covers his chest. "Left us for her. I used to wait for him to come home everyday. I never said anything to her, but I'd hope. And then—," his fingers mimic the pattern on your shoulder blade. You shiver, burrow closer into his warmth. "She left him. And—and he died. All alone. The last thing he ever said to me was that he'd teach me how to swim."

He's quiet, milling over your words. His chest vibrates when he makes a noise; the rasping of an old engine. A grumble. "Did you ever learn?"

"No." 

You wonder if he thinks about the promise he made you that night on the boardwalk. A pinky promise cemented with peanut butter.  

"How do you let go?"

You think of empty bottles, and emptier promises. 

Swimming lessons you avoided. Ones you ran from. 

"It's not something you learn. It's just—something you have to do. You can't bury it because it'll just rot. You can't run from it because it'll just catch up to you. You have to face it. Take it on. Or it ruins you." 

An epiphany in sin. 

"Can't bury it."

His hands slide over your flesh, heavy and wanting, and you let him. Let him take, take—

Rough finger scrape over your hardening nipple before it's swallowed in the cup of his massive palm. 

Bear heaves, breath harsh and heavy, when he rolls you under him, under his bulk. 

Eyes flash blue. Blue. Blue. Clearer than you'd ever seen them before. Melting sapphire cresting over only black. You see nothing but yourself in his eyes, glossy and dark in the shine of his gaze. 

Something gnarls over the surface. Stones skipped over a stagnant pool, a currentless pond. 

It trembles. Water rippling. 

And then it breaks. 

His arms brace on the flat pillow above your head, chest pressed so tight to your own, it almost hurts to breathe. Your lungs can barely expand under his weight, his bulk, but you don't push him away. Your nail digs into the hard, fleshy planes of his back, legs locked around his thick waist as he seats himself as deep as possible inside of you. 

Your gasps, heavy pants, are shared in the thin space that separates you. He swallows each noise you let out down, eyes fixed, unwavering, focused—and so blue, blue, blue—on yours, widening at the corners. 

His mouth is open, parted, and he kisses you, it feels like he's trying to drink you in, devour you. 

It's still not enough. You need him closer. 

"I know," he slurs the word into your mouth, and kisses you again, jaw dropping open, unhinging, as he tries to consume you whole. "I need this, I need it—"

He fucks you hard, and deep. Each thrust is blunt, bludgeoning. It jars into you until phosphenes erupt over your widened eyes, moulting black across your vision. His cockhead grinds into the soft plug of your womb, and each time he hits, he pauses for a moment, and then moves. Moves his hips in a way that feels like he's trying to wrench it open, to jimmy your seal until it gives, until he's closer to you than ever before. 

It's brutal. Deep, and punishing. He takes, takes—

"I need it—fuck—I—"

He babbles into your mouth, lips wide and wet as he presses sloppy kisses to your face in the middle of each desperate, crushing word. 

"If—if it's too much, hit me," he grunts, pushing in so deep inside of you, that something gives. Something gives, breaks, and he's suddenly deeper than he'd ever been before, and it aches. It hurts, but you want it to. "Just—fuckin' hit me if you can't take it—"

Your trembling legs tighten around him, hand raking up his back until you meet the soft hair at the nape of his neck. You cup the back of his head in the palm of your hand, pulling him closer. Closer. 

You'll give whatever he needs. Whatever he wants. 

He groans your name and it sounds like relief, something desperate and aching. It breaks something inside of him. Shatters his tenuous self-control, and he falls into you. Into the seal of your arms. He mouths over your face, catching your lips in a messy, breathless kiss, whispering gospels of need into your open mouth, filling your lungs with his hymnal.

"I need—I need this, I need you—"

He bears down on you, lungs straining under his heft, but you choke it down. Choking in the air he releases, and let it clot in your collapsing lungs. 

"Take it, Joe, take it—"

In your hands, he shatters. 

The days merge, congeal into each other in a sticky-wet gossamer of sweat, and sex, and booze.

You can take him now. To the root. He goes out, once, and brings back a bottle of lube and a tequila, and has a spark in his eyes that makes your heart hammer. 

He drinks from the bottle as you wrap your lips around his cock, hand slick and wet and sticky from the lube, eyes glowing amber as he gazes down at you. 

You forget where you are, and spend your time between the sheets, under his body as he mouths across your ankle, suckling the impression of his teeth into your skin as he fucks you hard and deep, the headboard slamming against the wall each punishing thrust. 

Or on top of him, his hands oscillating between gripping your hips, slamming your pelvis down to swallow his cock to the base, or grasping your swaying breasts, fingers pinching your aching nipples between rough, calloused fingers, telling you how good you look, how amazing you feel. 

(His hand around your throat once. Not squeezing. Not tightening. Just holding you steady as you rode him, bouncing on his cock until you felt your lungs collapse, and your heart lurch.)

He likes you on your back, likes to fuck you deep, hard; punishing. Likes to fold your body in half, knees pressed to your chest as he opens you up, and batters against the seal of your womb as if he was demanding entrance. He can't miss anything like this. Every expression, every flicker across your face, is catalogued. Filtered. Filed. He uses it against you, then. Angling his cock, and battering against that place that made your eyes roll, or made you moan the loudest. 

It's a struggle with his girth, but he spends an hour fucking you stupid, stretching you with his cock, until he can roll you on your belly, fingers gripping the headboard, cheek pressed to the damp pillow, as he fucks you from behind, giving you all of him. Take me, he husks, gripping your hips so hard, you can feel your bones bruise. That's it. Good girl. Good—fuck—!

It's messy, and gross, and he doesn't even bother showering unless it means he can push you flush against the slimy tile, and fill your cunt up over and over again. 

He doesn't bother with condoms. Likes, you think, to watch it leak out of your raw, chafed pussy when he's finished. He leans back on his haunches, eyes fixed on the apex of your thighs, chin tilted to the side as he drinks right from the bottle, and stares. Watches. His throat bobs with each gulp, spent, sticky cock twitching when you clench, spilling more of his cum onto the always damp mattress below. 

You stink of sex and the whisky he pours over your breasts, hungry mouth following to slurp the droplets up. 

It twists around you until everything feels out of focus, dizzying. You don't remember anything except the musky taste of his briny skin, his viscous cum on your tongue, your face and chest (fuck, never did this before—); the searing heat of his body pressing you into the stale mattress again until all you know how to say is yes, please, more, and his name over and over again. 

It's numbed. Dulled. 

You're blissed out on sex and the taste of him, the wrought iron scent of his scabbed knuckles, the crack on the corner of his lip, and alcohol. 

You chase kerosene dreams and wrap yourself up in a web of lies but none of it matters when he pulls you close, lips to your temple, and breathes your name out between deep gasps for air.

You could stay like this forever, you think, spun tight in his four walls.

He lays down, and tugs you into the crook of his body, head resting on his big arm. It's firm, unyielding, under your head. The pressure makes something ache in your skull. 

It feels a bit too natural to turn in his embrace, until your face is pressed into the seam of his armpit, hand falling over his chest, bent at the elbow to let your palm rest over his sternum. The rapid thud of his heart doesn't calm you like those trashy harlequin novels you'd read, but it feels good when it pulses under your lifeline. The rhythm is familiar.

A reminder that you're not alone despite the chasm that looms in the narrow space between your bodies. 

His hand wraps over your shoulders, bringing you closer to him. A lover's embrace. Cuddling. It doesn't make sense inside this, inside—

Whatever this is. 

A mistake. 

(A sickness.) 

His arm tightens around you, head turning toward you. 

It's the closest you'd ever been to him before. Glacial blue framed by thick brown lashes. 

Your mother would have called them kind eyes; small, almond shaped with hooded lids. Upturned. 

You wonder if the sentiment would still ring true even with the ghosts that lurk in the crevasses. Pitched bivouacs in the alcoves where they linger. Fester.

This moment feels like too much. The shades of intimacy are jarring, unnatural considering the status of this whole thing. It doesn't fit. Doesn't belong. 

(You wonder if he held them like this, too, and hate yourself a little bit more when cold metal sears your skin.)

The echo of his heart—

You know why it's so familiar now. 

It's the throb of a gaping wound, pulsing with infection. 

(His four walls begin to crumble under the deluge that rears. A home made of mud, pipe dreams, and papier-mache.)

The towel reeks of mildew when you scour it through your wet hair, and the scent lingers on the split ends that cling to your damp skin. 

Proof of the weekend lingers in the blemishes staining your body, in the soreness between your thighs, the back of your throat when he pressed the cup of his hand to the back of your skull, and fed you his cock—

Your head swims. Dizzy and too full, and too—

Too much. 

It feels like waking up in the middle of a fever. Skin burning, searing; the starchy sheets cling to you, and everything feels—uncomfortable. Too much, too much. 

It's like that, but worse because you're not sick. You're not in the throes of a fever, but of reality. Brutal and crushing, and awful, and—

Your skin feels too small. Too tight. Your head aches—a weekend spent drinking nothing but him, and booze, and cheap spring water, and stale, bitter coffee from the convenience store down the road—and you wish it was from a hangover only, dehydration, and lack of proper sleep, and—

And not from the bitter clutch of poor choices. Bad decisions. 

Sick. Maybe, you are. 

You press the back of your hand to your forehead, but your skin is cold, clammy. 

(You wish it was hot enough to burn.)

He's sitting on the edge of the bed when you open the bathroom door, steam billowing out around you like a hazy white cloud, and lifts his chin, eyes finding yours. 

He's softer, somehow. 

Open. Raw. Vulnerable. 

But the stillness feels like stagnant water brimming with microbes that will kill you with just a drop. 

You taste biofilm when his lips press to yours, tongue carrying the tang of legionella. 

A sickness. A sickness—

A bottle of whisky sits on the end-table. Open. Half-finished. 

His lips are glossy with the shine of it.

Why you expected sobriety when this whole weekend was fuelled with nothing but the bitter taste of regret and ethanol is something you can't contend with when he's looking at you, eyes reddened from the high, lack of sleep. 

Can't bury it so he looks for answers at the bottom of the bottle. 

You think of pretty boy and wonder if this is what he meant when he said send him home, but don't let him destroy himself like this.

"Hey," his hands are too gentle around your forearm, fingers tucked much too gingerly around the circumference. He swallows you whole. Fingers overlapping. You fit in the palm of his hand. 

A place you don't belong. 

He pulls you into the crux of his thighs. 

"Look—," he starts, but says nothing else. His eyes skirt down, running the length of you as you stand, bare and bruised by his hands, fingers, lips, teeth. A mosaic of sin on your flesh. A brutal display of pittence in the form of a handprint on your hips. Black stains over your neck, under your jaw. 

He likes it, you think. His eyes darken, twisting with something proprietary. Possessive. A hunger, a want. Rapacious. 

Your body is painted with lies. Deception. Handprints in the form of self-destruction.

It's—

An awakening. A slap back into reality. 

There is no fairytale ending with a man who loses himself in amber. 

Who fingered you with his wedding ring on—

"I want to—"

"—You should go home." 

You expect anger.

Resentment. Bitterness. 

But something aching gnarls over his brow, a hurt that feels as flummoxing as it is heartaching; a devastating blow—one that leaves him blindsided and crushed. And you don't get it. You don't. He shouldn't be hurt over this. There shouldn't be the glimmer of agony in his eyes when he looks at you as if you'd struck him across the face with your open, searing palm.

It blisters through you. Third degree burns from the sun after spending all day in the ocean before being washed up on the rocky beach. Spat out onto the shore after trying to chase that effervescent feeling of when you were younger, and did nothing at all to try and save yourself from drowning. 

A high in blue. 

A high in booze. 

(Maybe, you're a lot more alike than you want to admit.)

What did your mum say?

If only she sent his sorry ass home instead of sucking his—

"Go home, Bear."

The borrowed words tumble out, shaded in concealed agony. It's everything you wished she had said to him, to your father, before you knew what it felt like to feel water flood your lungs.

"You don't know what you're talking about," it's deadly. Low. A broken husk that shatters the roseate haze that clung to the blue in his iris. It bleeds out. A polynya in its place. 

"I'm not going to be the other woman."

It feels—

Awful. 

There is no catharsis in this when he looks up, when his eyes flash in something that sits heavy in your chest. Recognition. Sobriety. 

"You need to fix yourself. Straighten up. Go home."

He leaves, and takes another part of you with him. 

(You sever a part of yourself and leave in the mouldering hotel room that still reeks of stale sweat, cheap whisky, and sex.)

[felassanis]

I wonder what they're arguing about...