#“i just want to get acclimated to the style!”

[duck-in-a-spaceship]

YOU - “But I don’t want you here. Why do you have to follow me everywhere?”

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - You sound like a whining child, petulantly tugging at the hem of his mother’s dress.

THE GREAT SKUA - “I follow you nowhere, you follow me *everywhere*.” The bird shuffles its wings, dragging its beak through layers of feathers. Still, its mouth is open, grooming itself with a frozen expression. “Always looking up at seagulls and imagining my face onto theirs, animating me from my rest on the wall of a bar.”

[Harry shows up at the Whirling In Rags. He inspects a body, destroys a bird, and tears himself apart as thoroughly as he can.]

New Disco Elysium Fic! Featuring bird symbolism, the author's thoughts on impressionist painting through corpse investigation, and the start of a truly forgettable, world-ending bender. I hope you enjoy :)

[andromedasummer]

listen i need u people to understand that when i say i find your white man unattractive specifically to me and my tastes/say i am surprised they are found conventionally attractive, it is 99% because their style of facial hair is giving me such a bad sensory reaction i cannot look at them. i am sure your man is normal under there. if i look at his patchy beard any longer i am going to have to lock myself in a room and stim or i'll bite something and tear out my fingernails and not in a good way.

[happy74827]

Chaos Theory

[Mike Schmidt x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: When Mike's crazy schedule finally aligns with one of the so-called "parental meetings" at Abby's school, he decides to see what it's all about. Little did he know he'd come to seriously regret that.

WC: 2,590

Category: Slight Fluff

I failed an exam today, so I wrote this to cheer myself up. I still feel pretty crappy, but this was really fun to write lol.

Also if you see any grammar mistakes, no you didn’t.

『••✎••』

When it came to Abby’s school, Mike was at a disadvantage. He couldn’t go to any of the parental meetings, not because he didn’t want to, but because he was constantly doing something work-related during the time those meetings were scheduled.

It didn’t mean he wasn’t keeping an eye on her grades and school attendance. It just meant he couldn't be there for the day-to-day things. Abby was a good kid, though; she never gave him trouble about the things he missed, and she did a pretty good job of keeping her grades up and attending all her classes.

Her teacher, you, was also very understanding of his schedule and position. He wasn’t sure how many teachers would have been as patient with him as you were. It was part of the reason he had grown fond of you, though it had been a gradual process that happened mostly unbeknownst to him.

At the beginning of the year, he had only been concerned about getting Abby acclimated to her new school. She was a quiet kid, stuck to her drawings, and it was even hard for him to get her to open up sometimes. Runs in the family, apparently. But, somehow, you were able to break down the wall that had been erected around her. Abby still didn't talk all that much, but she would always come back from school with a smile on her face. So, Mike was happy.

Then, like all good things, it came crashing down like a house of cards when his work schedule finally aligned with one of the “upcoming” meetings. This one was apparently a very big deal, and it was strongly implied to show up.

He hated these things despite never going to any before, but he just knew it would be filled with nosey people asking questions about his life. His sister. His “wife.”

God, he was already annoyed. The only saving grace was that it was the last meeting before the holiday break, so once it was over, he would be free for a while. Free to do what, exactly? Work, most likely, but a guy can dream.

The bell rang, signifying the end of the school day and the start of his personal nightmare. The door to the classroom was opened by one of the school's assistants, who held a clipboard in hand and waited for the “parents” to enter the room. He had arrived earlier than the scheduled time so he could speak to the assistant and find out what the meeting would entail, and already he knew it was a bad idea coming in here.

The woman was a nosy old biddy that was all too eager to learn the details of his and Abby's life.

He kept his answers short and clipped, but it did nothing to dissuade the woman. It got worse when he entered the classroom and saw the number of other parents who had shown up. He felt like an animal in a zoo; all the eyes followed his movements as he went to sit closest to the wall and away from the rest of the people.

The surrounding parents looked as though they lived in the next town over. They were clean-cut, hair styled perfectly, and clothes ironed. It was like they were trying to be a picture-perfect family.

He looked down at his own attire. His work boots were scuffed and dusty. His pants had a few grass stains from a recent job. His flannel shirt was buttoned wrong, and the sleeves were pushed up. Even his hair was a mess; he had tried to style it but didn't have much success, so he eventually gave up. The only thing going for him was that he had taken a shower before he left, so at least he didn't smell like sweat and grime.

As the meeting began, Mike had to try his best not to fall asleep. It was the typical teacher stuff. How the kids were doing. What the curriculum was for the following year. What their goals were. Blah, blah, blah.

Mike didn't care. He trusted you, and he knew his little sister was smart. She didn't need someone holding her hand and telling her what she was doing right or wrong. He knew this because he did that, and she didn't need it.

What did interest him, though, was the fact you kept looking his way. You didn't look at the others, and when you spoke, it was usually aimed toward them, but he saw the way you would look at him from the corner of your eye. He figured you were probably in shock that he actually showed up this time.

The meeting dragged on, and he was ready to leave. There were a few moments he had caught himself nodding off as he needed sleep, and this wasn't helping him. But then, like everything else in his life, the universe decided it was his time to suffer.

There was one woman who had sat at the front of the classroom. She wore her hair pulled back tight in a bun, her shirt was pressed, and her face was set in a permanent frown. He hated that lady; she reminded him of his good-for-nothing aunt who only wanted to criticize every choice he made.

The lady was also the mother of the most spoiled, brattiest child in the whole class. That damned kid had made it her life mission to torment Abby. He had come home more than once with her complaining about it, and when Mike had brought it up with you, you had told him that you had spoken with the parent.

That, of course, had done nothing. The child was an annoying pest, and he hated the way she treated Abby, but his sister had learned early on to deal with the bullying on her own. It didn't stop him from wanting to throttle the little shit, though.

The woman, the one who had started all his problems, took the opportunity to start a round of questioning. The first few were innocuous until they weren't.

"You seem to be a very patient woman." The woman had spoken to you, but her eyes were locked on him. "Is it a skill that was learned?"

The question itself was innocent enough, but the inflection and tone she used were meant to cut. He wasn't stupid. He knew she was alluding to something. It was always something, but he had to force himself not to say anything; the woman was a viper, and if he said something, she would attack without hesitation.

"I think anyone can be patient," You had responded diplomatically. "It's just a matter of the situation."

The woman didn't look happy with your answer, but she didn't pursue the line of questioning.

"Well, I couldn’t help but notice a certain someone who decided to finally drop in."

There it was. That was the opening.

Mike could tell you didn’t like the turn of conversation, and you were clearly trying to divert it elsewhere. It was no use, though. Mike could see the glint in the woman's eye as she prepared for the kill. She had a smile on her face, but her eyes were cold. "I was starting to think that Mr. Schmidt had abandoned his responsibilities. Wouldn’t be the first time someone in that family did such a thing."

He couldn’t help but have visions of his accidental mall incident from last year flash in his mind when he processed what the woman had said. He could easily hop over the desk and deck her right in the mouth. He had the muscle for it, and it was very tempting.

However, he would not.

If there was anything Mike had learned over the years, it was how to control his emotions, even if the situation was dire. The last time he had lost his cool, he ended up getting fired, but that was a long time ago… okay, not really, but the point was, he wouldn't make the same mistake again.

He wouldn't give the woman the satisfaction.

Mike leaned forward in his chair, arms crossed over his knees, and looked the woman straight in the eyes. "That's funny. I could say the same thing about your kid."

"Excuse me?!" She hissed, and she seemed offended. Good. He hoped she was offended.

"Okay, okay." You intervened, hands up as if to placate the two of them. "Let's keep this civil, okay? The last thing we want is to be kicked out of the school for brawling. That's not beneficial for any of us." You then looked back at the woman. "Let's not bring personal matters into this."

"Personal matters?" The woman was appalled at your statement, and her voice was so loud in the quiet room. He could tell many of the other parents were looking at them now, and he felt the weight of their gazes on him. It only made his anger spike. "That monkey of his tried to bully mine for three months now, and she's never done anything."

Monkey? Monkey?! Oh, he was going to kill her. It was one thing to talk shit about him; he was used to that, but Abby? No. Absolutely not. His little sister was the best damn thing to come into his life. He wouldn't have it.

But before he could say something, before he could even get out of the chair, you had done something he would never have thought you would. You got up and went to your desk, then you returned, holding a paper. You held it up for all the parents to see.

"This is a drawing my students did a few weeks ago," you started, and he was surprised at the level of calmness you were exuding. "The assignment was for them to draw the thing they loved the most."

Hearing those words, Mike had a feeling what was coming next, but he wasn't going to say anything. It would be like tempting fate. Still, he watched as you grabbed one of the papers, and then you turned it around so he could see it. Abby had done the drawing, and it was not only of him but of everyone else in her class as well. She had even drawn you standing near her with a kind smile. It was the picture she had brought home from that field trip months ago. It was a nice picture. Really nice. He liked it, and he knew Abby was proud of it.

"I made copies of every drawing so the parents could see them," You continued as you held out the picture for everyone to see. "So, tell me, would a bully do this?"

Your voice had a bite to it now, and he could finally see just how angry you were. He was surprised at how much control you were exerting. The other parents, however, were shocked at your sudden display of emotion. Even the woman, who had looked as though she was ready to take you on herself, looked like a deer caught in headlights. She didn't know what to say. No one said anything. Even he was shocked by your sudden outburst.

You were normally such a mellow person. Understanding, even. Always ready to listen, always ready to understand. You were the one who was there to help when something went wrong. You were the person who everyone turned to. You were… nice. You were a kind person. You were—you were just like Abby. That's all he saw in you now. You were just like his sister. You were just like her. You had that same determination and that same look of knowing something that others didn't, but there was also something else. You were a fighter, too. It was just something he hadn't noticed until this very moment.

You weren't the nice teacher everyone thought you were. No, you were more. You were the person he knew his sister was becoming.

"And to answer your question from before," you continued, ignoring the growing outrage from the other parent. "I'm a very patient woman because I understand that not everyone has the same opportunities. Some of us have a responsibility to provide the basic necessities for our family, which can often lead to not being able to attend these types of meetings.”

You looked directly at the woman when you spoke the last part, and you did not look happy. At all. In fact, he was pretty sure that was a little vein on the side of your head.

"Not everyone can be at their best every moment. Not everyone is at their best all the time. Not everyone has the privilege to complain about things not going their way. So, while I am a very patient woman, I will not have any of this derogatory about my students and their guardians." The calmness in your voice was gone, and your voice was rising, and you had started pacing back and forth behind your desk as you spoke. "Because if there is one thing that I cannot stand, it's someone who criticizes others just to make themselves feel better."

You went on to speak about your experience with the woman's daughter, explaining that a meeting needed to be called upon to address the issues with the child. You didn't stop there, though. No, you also spoke about how she should have addressed the situation when it was first brought up and how that, in turn, impacted the rest of your class. You had even pointed out some of the other parent's children who had done the same thing.

Suddenly, this meeting wasn't as bad as he thought it would be.

It took a while, but once you finished your little speech, everyone had finally gotten over their shock and embarrassment. The meeting, as such, continued without incident, and by the time it was all said and done, Mike was ready to go home.

As he stood from his seat and made his way to the door, however, you stopped him. You had your bag in your hand and your coat on as well.

"I just wanted to—"

"You don't need to apologize," Mike cut you off. He didn't want an apology. He knew you weren't at fault here. In fact, he was surprised you took the time even to defend him. That didn't happen often. "I was expecting something like that to happen, but I appreciate you speaking up for Abby. She's got a good teacher."

He thought you would be embarrassed or even annoyed, but instead, your face lit up, and your cheeks turned red. "Oh, uh, well, it's my job. It was what I needed to do."

"Maybe, but you did it anyway. So, I appreciate it." He looked around the room and noticed everyone else had left. Even the nosy assistant had disappeared. He didn't know what to say, so he settled with saying the first thing that came to mind. "And hey, maybe next time you can tell them this is why I don't go to these meetings."

Your laugh was light, and you had a smile on your face. He liked the sound of it. He liked seeing it, too. He also liked the way it lit up your eyes. They had a beautiful color. So bright, so shiny. It was almost hypnotic.

"I'll consider it."

Mike wasn't sure how, but somehow, he knew you were telling the truth.

[alexthetrashyracoon]

any sort of ghost headcanons?

Only a few I have at the top of my head right now

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley:

Simon hates the rain and the feeling of wet clothes sticking to his skin, but he loves petrichor, the smell after rain hit the ground.

He can cook, whatever your heart desires, he just needs a recipe and within the estimated time you’ve got an insanely good looking and tasting dish in front of you.

Simon plays football like a professional player (the European football not American style). And when he’s in the mood for it, you can find him on the nearest football pitch and play with some of the kids living around. Sometimes there are little tournaments and Simon helps the kids that participate win and of course getting better by giving tips and showing tricks.

He’s really work focused and needs a few days to acclimate to being back at home and not on the field. In those few days he follows his strict military routine. He wakes up at five in the morning, goes for a run, prepares a short but nutritious breakfast before checking his to-do list on what is on top.

Simon has a lot of stamina :)

He’s a gentleman who treats his partner with patience, love and kindness and respect and expects the same from them. He’s not scared to speak his opinion and he doesn’t mind a fight once in a while when emotions become too much for both parties, as long as he and his partner find a way to settle without hurting each other.

Simon watches ducks in parks and feeds them with seeds and glares at people who feed them bread.

He volunteers at local shelters. The animals love Simon, but especially the little critters like bunnies, hamsters and even mice and rats.

Simon doesn’t prioritize his work over his partner. He balances his work and love life as best as possible.

Simon hates paperwork. He has an office in his house that looks like someone blew it up and he didn’t bother to clean it up, Price reprimands him constantly for the mess when he comes for a spontaneous visit.

And he organizes get together’s once a month with friends, military and from his civilian life. He’s not the center of attention or the life of a party, but Simon loves to see his friends have fun.

Maybe some of them are a bit too unserious but I don’t know, they make sense in my head and I see Simon Riley as a human instead of just a soldier? I hope that’s what you wanted <3

[beatrixstonehill2]

"Super excited for the gymnastics championship in two months! I have three months to go on this pregnancy so I think I'll be pretty massive by the tournament but I've been doing all of my training with a weighted fake pregnant belly and I'm getting to the point where I can hardly find my center of gravity without a huge belly full of kids! So, I think I'll be able to handle this no problem! Wish me luck! Just making a quick post before I see my doctor, no routine today. But I should get a nice update on how my latest brood is doing! See you guys soon!"

Edit: "OK. Um, holy crap.... I can finally write to you guys. I don't really know how to make content yet anymore but I can edit this post and finally give an update, as I've been gone two weeks. Soooo I went in for my checkup and the nurse prepped me to be put under for surgery. I asked why and they told me they need to check something. I asked what and they said to relax and not worry.... I went along with it, of course.

I woke up in the ER with my arms and legs amputated just above where my knees and elbows were, perfectly symmetrical. I knew this style of amputation, it's what those TikTok Influencer girls get done. You keep your thighs so you can sit up, and your upper arms so you have 'handlebars' for guys to use. I recognized it right away. I looked around and saw my limbs were gone. I was naked, propped up in a hospital bed, no sheets over me, just my bandaged stumps. There was a cute blonde girl in the bed next to me, a giant pregnant belly, big boobs dripping milk. She looked me up and down and congratulated me on getting my limbs removed as well, excitedly telling me she was doing it for her boss to get promoted.

I told her I didn't want my limbs removed. That's when a gorgeous tanned Asian girl to my left spoke up, pregnant, propped up, her breasts were really big and fake, round, the size of soccer balls. She told me she was coming in for some lip filler but woke up an hour ago with no arms or legs. I was slightly anxious but soon the nurse came in and talked to me. I asked why they removed my limbs. She squinted at my chart and asked me, 'Oh, you didn't want your limbs removed? Are you sure?'

'Yes!' I told her. 'I never asked to become an amputee.'

'Hold on, let me double check this chart against your file.'

She left for a while, when she came back I asked, 'Well? Why did you guys remove my limbs, I'm a gymnast!' But she walked right by me to the Asian girl, telling her that her limbs were removed because she starred in several adult movies, and the doctor figured the amputations would boost her career. She blushed and accepted this reason, trying to rub her thighs together in a pathetic attempt to masturbate.

The nurse returned to my bed and told me there was a mix up with my chart and they accidentally amputated my arms and legs. She smiled, putting a hand on my belly. 'My, you're the size of a house, and I think you look even more gorgeous with your arms and legs chopped off, but that's just one woman's opinion! You should be happy, guys are gonna go nuts seeing you all helpless like this.'

She had a point, but I was still outraged. 'I'm a professional gymnast who has a tournament coming up. I can't perform without my arms and legs!'

"So sorry to hear that! I do apologize for this minor mix up. But you have to admit the surgeon did a great job. You look absolutely incredible! Tell you what, I'll talk to the front desk and we'll let you stay here for free until we get you acclimated to using a wheelchair and ocular software on your laptop or phone. Don't you worry, we'll get this little mishap sorted!'

She left for a while. Eventually the Asian girl's porno agent stopped in with a group of guys and filmed her getting gang fucked in the ER recovery area. The director eventually noticed me, naked and limbless, asking if I was that cute pregnant gymnast who went to the Olympics last year. I said I was, and without warning he started filming me getting fucked by these muscular, roided up porn actors, absolutely brutalizing my holes, as the blonde next to me giggled in delight, telling me how sexy I looked getting pounded like a big helpless pregnant slab of meat. I moaned like a whore, never so turned on in my life, I came over and over. The nurse walked in after two hours and turned right back around, saying, 'I can see you're busy, I'll come back later,' to the pregnant gymnast who had her limbs removed without her permission, only to be filmed getting gang raped while in recovery, drooling with her eyes rolled back from cumming so much.

The porno agent eventually finished filming, grabbed his card, folded it into a bulky cylindrical container the width of a soda can, and shoved it into my pussy, telling me he'd love to sign me on full time. The nurse came back the next morning. The Asian girl and I were sweaty, a total mess, having pissed ourselves a few times, completely untended to. The nurse scolded us for being so messy, as she showed us how to use the ocular software, and eventually helped us learn to use a wheelchair. I control mine with my left stump and my mouth, breathing into a special control device like a little harmonica. I eventually learned to call my real agent, my friends and family, and now I'm here, discharged. And guess what? I owe the hospital $720,560 for my stay, as well as the physical therapy, software lessons, and the amputations themselves. Naturally.... I've called the porno agent and am already signed on to start filming this weekend. I've got to pay off all this debt somehow! Plus hopefully soon I'll figure out how to post new content! I guess I'll need help..... I might need to hire a nurse or something. Maybe someone willing to help upload my porno vids? Oh, and I should call the hospital and see about getting implants as big as that sexy Asian girl I spent my stay next to! What's a little bit more debt? If I'm doing porn I might as well go all out. And I'm sure none of you mind my new career change, do you? ❤️"

[pedropascallme]

I love your professor damien fics so so so much!!!!!! you are feeding the damien girlies and it is MUCH appreciated

a damien x reader shower fic (😏) would be amazing if you were interested? 🙏🙏🙏 but no rush or pressure to actually do it unless you want to lol 💜

The Shower Scene

Pairing: Damien Haas x f!Reader

Summary: "Some hours later, after flicking through channels of near-unwatchable cable TV and spending more time than you probably ever had with the cats, you figured you had the time to take a shower—a nice one, long and steamy and relaxing. Maybe you’d even light a candle."

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI) p in v sex, very mild dom/sub dynamics, fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), praise, dirty talk, cum play kinda, if I missed anything please let me know!

AN: First time writing for Damien himself and honestly this was somehow more difficult to write than prof!Damien?? I kept writing dialogue and then being like he would NOT fucking say that. Anyway I hope this is to your liking!!

“Stay.” You wrapped your arms around Damien, words coated in sleep as you tried to trap him under the blanket you had cloaked over yourself.

“I want to.” He didn’t brush you off, letting you linger next to him, arms around his waist while he sat on the foot of the bed tying his shoes.

“Then you should.” You didn’t whine, didn’t even really put much thought into the tired pleads you emitted; this is just what you always did when he went to work in the morning. You knew he couldn’t stay, you understood that he had a job to do and that he would be back later—you weren’t stupid, you just wanted to keep him in bed with you, selfishly tuck him away and keep him all to yourself.

He stood up, leaning over you and offering you a kiss on the cheek, and you hummed, turning your face quickly to capture his lips in yours.

“Stay.” Now you were whining.

“I’ll be back so soon,” he cupped your cheek in his hand before giving you one more kiss, “Won’t even know I’m gone.”

“Liar,” you quipped, and he shot you a playful scowl. You smiled back at him. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he made a show of fixing the blanket that had exposed your feet while you were trying to coax him back into bed, “Go back to sleep.”

~~~

You woke up a few hours later, puttering around and trying to keep yourself busy; it was always the worst when he had work and you yourself had nothing to see to—no work to do, no plans to attend, just a day completely to yourself.

In theory, it sounded nice, but there were only so many ways to keep yourself occupied in a way that didn’t make you feel semi-useless. You couldn’t just resort to doom-scrolling or napping, it just made you feel guilty for doing nothing of substance.

Some hours later, after flicking through channels of near-unwatchable cable TV and spending more time than you probably ever had with the cats, you figured you had the time to take a shower—a nice one, long and steamy and relaxing. Maybe you’d even light a candle.

You gently coaxed Zelda off your lap, getting up to walk down the hall and to the bathroom, turning the water on. You stripped yourself of the pajamas you still wore from the previous night.

With the water now running at the right temperature, you let yourself acclimate to the feeling of it hitting your skin, letting the warmth soak your hair and trail down your spine until the droplets circled the drain.

When you heard Damien call your name, you jumped a little. You hadn’t heard him open the front door, too caught up in the heavy feeling of the steam that had begun to surround you and the ricocheting echo of the water hitting the bottom of the tub.

“Showering!” You called out, and you heard him shuffle down the hall to find you. He peeked behind the shower curtain.

“Oh my God, you’re naked!” He feigned shock at the sight, and you flicked at him, letting the water on your fingertips fly towards his face.

“You look like you’re about to murder me, Psycho-style.” You wrung water from your hair, watching him blink off the water drops that had landed on him.

“Baby, don’t say that —you’re a final girl if there ever was one.” He backed away from the shower curtain, leaving you to your own devices.

“You’re not coming in?” You called after him, and you heard the sound of his footsteps come to an abrupt halt.

“I’m invited?” He called back to you from down the hall.

“Come.” You confirmed, moving the shower curtain out of your way to watch him come rushing back into the bathroom. You’ve never seen anybody undress so quickly, and you made a mental note to remind him to pick up his socks from the hallway when you were both less distracted.

Not even the silken water from the shower could compete with the feeling of Damien’s skin on yours; the heat that radiated off of him got under your skin and engulfed you with comfort as he pulled you close the moment he stepped into the shower with you.

“I hate leaving you in the morning,” he ran a hand down your side, watching how the water beaded and dripped down your skin, “but I do love getting to come home to you.” You anchored yourself to him when he kissed you, hands gripping his arms as they wrapped around your body. It was almost embarrassing how needy you were for him after only a few hours apart, but you couldn’t think of anything but him now that he was back in front of you.

His tongue licked into your mouth, occasionally catching drops of water that fell over your faces when you broke away just long enough. You placed a hand gingerly on his chest, putting no pressure on it so he wouldn’t part from you, and trailing it down his body until you could wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. He groaned quietly into your mouth, and you felt yourself break out in small goosebumps, the warmth of the water combating your building excitement and pride.

Your strokes were slow; you felt him stiffen in your hand, paying attention to the tip of his cock, jerking your wrist in a circular motion. His hands found purchase on your ass, squeezing and kneading the plush skin and earning a moan from you—something about letting him touch you like this, the water bouncing off your back, steam circling your feet while you leisurely jerked him off made you feel so eager for him.

“Missed you so much today,” you breathed out, and he dipped his head down to suck marks onto your chest. His hands guided you against the wall, and the cold tiles sent a shiver down your spine, arching your back. You removed your hand from his length, placing your arms on his shoulders and weaving your fingers behind his neck.

“Mm,” he released you from his mouth momentarily, licking the deep purple spot he had made on your skin, “I missed you, too.”

“I couldn’t tell.” You goaded him, earning a quick smack to the side of your thigh as he took one of your nipples in his mouth.

“No?” He straightened himself back up, looming over you now, and you felt completely at a loss for words, too enamored of him to think of a reply. His hand came up to your mouth, and you opened, letting him dip in two of his fingers to the knuckle. He removed them slowly, letting you coat them with your spit, before he dropped his hand to your cunt and rubbed gently over your clit. You inhaled sharply, trying to keep your composure when he pushed both fingers inside of you. Damien breathed deeply, fingers rhythmically pushing in and out of you, and he savored the way you pulsed around him.

“Can you tell now?” He smiled with his top teeth, and you felt your pulse pick up when he pushed against the spongy spot inside of you with precision. You managed a quiet moan, and he continued to curl his fingers gently. “I figured.”

You gripped one of his shoulders, your other hand limply grasping his wrist. “Damien,” you whined when his thumb ghosted over your clit, “fuck me.”

“Is that what you want?” He was having entirely too much fun playing with you like this, your wet hair sticking to your skin, bottom lip trembling—you looked so beautiful, he couldn’t help the urge he felt to watch your face contort with pleasure from just the short thrusts of his fingers.

You nodded, and he stalled for a moment, scissoring his fingers inside of you just to watch you squirm, before pulling them out and licking them off. When his hand fell back at his side, he leaned forward. He had you crowded against the wall, and you kissed him fervently.

“You taste so fucking good,” he groaned, reaching to get hold of your leg and pull it over his waist. “Jump.” He grabbed your hips, letting you hook both legs around him. He nipped at your collar bone while you both adjusted to the position.  

“Comfortable?” He touched his forehead to yours, breath fanning your face.

“Yeah,” you mewled, “please.”

“Please?”

“Please, fuck me,” you squeezed your thighs around him, “need you. Don’t tease.”

“Wasn’t teasing,” he played innocent, shifting his weight to fist his cock, smacking it against your clit, “Just wanted to clarify.” He pulled his hips back, lining himself up with you before slowly pushing into your waiting cunt. You whined at the familiar pressure you felt in your stomach and tried desperately to push your own hips forward onto him, to feel him in his entirety. Fully sheathed inside of you, his head tilted back, relishing in the feeling of how tightly you squeezed his cock. His hair was soaked, and you watched water fall over his face and chest as he pulled back and began driving into you.

“Oh my God, you feel so good,” he groaned after a long stroke, pushing you further against the wall.

“There—so good, Damien, fuck, you feel so good,” you wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, planting lazy kisses against his lips, unable to pay close attention to anything other than the stretch of your pussy around him and the way the hair of his happy trail brushed against your clit with each roll of his hips. “Deeper,” you begged, needy for more, “Harder.”

“Fuck,” he maneuvered one hand under your ass, allowing the other hand the freedom to roam down your body to your clit. He ground his hips against yours. “Deep like this, baby?”

You whimpered, pulling at his wet hair, your other hand scratching sluggishly at his back. He could take a hint; pulling out until just the tip of his cock was nestled inside of you, he gave your clit a bit more attention, rubbing tight circles, before ramming himself back into you repeatedly, never breaking the synchronous tempo of his thrusts with the patterns he drew on your clit.

“Fuck, you’re doing so good—is this what you wanted? Needed it rough?” He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing hard against your skin while he satisfied the both of you.

You were certain you were screaming, but nothing more than raspy moans could find their way out of your mouth. Your head leaning against the wall, you arched your back into Damien’s thrusts.

“Please, please, please,” you couldn’t form any more words, trying to catch your breath to think of what exactly it was you were pleading for; “Wanna cum for you.”

“You wanna cum for me, baby?” He growled, voice low and clearly feeling the same buzz of adrenaline you were, “Gonna be a good girl and cum for me?”

You nodded frantically, mouth agape and eyes closed when you finally teetered and fell over the edge; you felt Damien twitch inside you, paired with a loud moan and harsh shove of his hips as he spilled into you. He gave a final few thrusts, watching the way you convulsed around him, both of you sighing in satisfaction when he pulled out. He helped you find your footing, hand falling over your lower back and letting you cling to him as your legs trembled. He turned off the water and, pulling back the shower curtain, removed a towel off its hanger, draping it over you.

“Did so good,” he kissed the top of your head while he patted you down with the soft fabric.

You looked up at him, eyes heavily lidded, the crown of your head fitting perfectly under his chin. “Felt so good.”

He tilted your chin up, giving you a soft kiss before he picked you up and carried you bridal style to your room.

“I’m all sticky…and drippy,” you muttered.

“Oh, have you not had the talk?” He laughed at his own joke, and you rolled your eyes, letting your head loll back against his arm where it was tucked under your neck. He dipped you down onto the mattress, and you were about to get back up, wipe the excess from between your legs and grab something to sleep in, when Damien’s hands wrapped around your ankles, pulling you down the bed towards him.

You giggled, playfully kicking your legs at him, careful to not actually let any of the movements connect to his body. He kneeled down, putting your legs over his shoulders.

“Damien…”

“What? You said you were sticky. I’m helping,” he licked a stripe over your core, not wanting to waste any time. “You taste so good; can you blame me?”

You didn’t bother giving him a verbal response, opting to bury your fist in his hair and bring him back towards your cunt. Even as spent and tired as you were, you would never deny the opportunity to see him between your legs, cleaning up the mess you’d made together.

“So impatient,” he chided, before giving in to your physical persuasion and burying his face against you; you jumped at the friction of his stubble on your inner thighs, but the drag of it against you only added to the bliss.

He worked his tongue into your hole, licking into you as best he could and delighting in the taste of you. He kissed over your clit before taking it between his lips, keeping it sealed in his mouth while his tongue drew shapes over it. You moaned, hips rising from the bed, and he wrapped his hands around your thighs to hold you still, closer to his face, pushing himself in further to savor the pleasure that was the taste of your cunt. His own cum leaked out of you and onto his tongue, and he licked the remnants off of your thighs, thorough in his bid to clean you off.

You looked down, making eye contact with him between your legs, and you saw him smile with his eyes. His tongue darted over your clit, mercilessly overstimulating you, not letting up for even a moment to catch his breath, and he knew you were cumming when he felt your legs tremble around his head, your fist yanking on his hair, chanting his name softly while you shivered. He moaned against your sensitive cunt, obsessed with the sounds you made for him and the tangy flavor of your wet on his tongue. He licked down your entrance, letting your slick collect on his tongue, drawing out your high for as long as he could. Selfish as it may be, he loved watching you unravel for him, and he continued to tease your entrance, letting your cum paint his lips.

He crawled up the bed, perching himself above you, and his hand rested against your lower jaw, prompting you to open your mouth. You obliged, and he spit, letting it fall to the back of your throat. You swallowed, humming at the taste—your own and his, something so perfectly curated. He kissed you, slow and gentle, and just as passionate as always.

“I must taste so fucking good,” you joked, hand draped over his neck.

He smiled down at you. “Oh, you have no idea.” He kissed you again, before rolling over on his side to sweep you into him. “I wish I could’ve just stayed home with you all day.”

“Me too,” you mumbled against his chest, feeling tired and perfectly sated.

He kissed your forehead, “I don’t have to go into work at all next week.”

“Does that mean you’ll stay in bed with me all morning?”

“I plan on it.”

You closed your eyes, letting the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed next to you act as a sort of lullaby. You think you whispered something about how he needed to pick his socks up from the floor of the hallway, but you weren’t sure, and you didn't really care; you were just happy to be home with him.

[lynzishell]

The Past 💛 Atlas

Upstairs, the club is already full and alive with music and lights and people. While the others walk out on the dance floor, making their way toward the DJ booth, I stay back, allowing myself a few minutes to acclimate. I find a spot in the back, out of the way, and watch the crowd on the dance floor as they smile and cheer and dance, some goofing off and laughing with friends, others serious and focusing only on the music as they move. It occurs to me that it’s been years since I’ve been to a club. Dawn used to drag us out all the time when we were in college together, and I got kind of burnt out on it after a while, but I’m glad I came out tonight.

I look past the dancers to the booth and recognize the DJ as our co-worker Kamryn, her signature bright pink ponytail swaying as she dances behind the decks. I had no idea she did this kind of thing, but she’s good.

It’s not long before I find myself moving my head and shoulders to the beat, the rest of my body itching to be set free and move as the bass thumps in my chest and a familiar warmth radiates through my limbs. As I expected, the tablet Lex gave us contains MDMA and something else, and whatever that something else is multiplies the sensation and I feel it hit me all at once as my entire body flushes with heat and a gentle euphoria lifts my anxiety up and away.

I look around to try to spot Ash, and as if I manifested him with my mind, I see him walk out of the crowd right toward me. His black t-shirt is soft and thin and hangs on him just right, and my mind flashes briefly to the exposed skin underneath. Catching myself, I take a breath and look up quickly to see his playful smirk. “Are you gonna come dance, or what?” He asks.

“Yeah, I was just about to.”

“Let’s go then.”

He extends his hand to me, and I take it, letting him lead me through the crowd to the middle of the dance floor where the moving lights and loud music and energy of the dancers take over. I let it envelop me and flow through me as I let go and dance and become part of it all.

[music]

I look over at Ash and am immediately mesmerized by the way he moves, weightless and fluid. I’ve seen him dance dozens of times, and he always looks good, even when we’re just fucking around in his living room trying to make each other laugh, but this is different. His footwork is quick and smooth and hypnotic, his weight shifting, pulling him side to side, crossing over and back again. It’s a style so distinctly urban that I can’t help but wonder where the fuck in Brindleton Bay he learned to dance like that. I can’t take my eyes off him.

Part of me is tempted to reach out and pull him into me, but I also don’t want to interrupt him. I watch as someone else comes up behind him and tries to dance with him, but he shrugs them off and shakes his head, clearly wanting to be left alone to do his own thing. So, I leave him be and dance beside him, keeping my hands to myself. It’s probably for the best anyway… I have an image of Lex popping up between us if we get too close, as if I’m a teenager again at a church dance being monitored to “save room for Jesus”. Little did they know what Henry and I had gotten up to earlier that day. I smile to myself at the memory. He may have broken my heart in the end, but that day… that was a good day. It feels nice to be able to enjoy a happy memory without being dragged down by all the sad ones attached to it, even if only temporarily. I silently thank Lex for whatever she gave me… and thank myself for only taking half. The night is already starting to blur around me as it is.

Soon, a song comes in that drags me gently out of my wandering thoughts and wraps around me like a warm blanket. It’s beautiful, layered and flowing like waves, the beat quick but more subtle than the others, a welcome reprieve. I look over at Asher and he smiles at me, nodding; he likes it too. Letting the beat guide me, I close my eyes and move to the music, feeling it wash over me as I lose myself again.

[1:50] The song slows and gets quiet sooner than I’d like it to, but I take advantage of getting a moment to breathe. Ash is grinning up at me, and I get the distinct feeling he’d been watching me.

“What’s that look for?” I ask.

“Having fun?” He was definitely watching me.

I laugh a little, more flattered than embarrassed, “Yeah, you?”

He shrugs casually, but, judging by the size of his pupils and the grin on his face, I’d say he’s feeling as good as I am.

“Where’s Lex?” I wonder, realizing that I haven’t seen anyone else from our group in a while.

Ash searches the crowd for a moment before pointing to the far end. I turn to see her familiar mop of ginger curls, and smile when I see her laughing and dancing with her friends.

“Enjoying her birthday, I see.”

“Yep.”

[2:20] The music dips quieter as the layers are removed bit by bit. When I turn back to Ash, my smile falters as I look him over, the image of his shirt lifting up refuses to leave my mind, and my body trembles from the effort of holding myself back from reaching out to him.

My desire (or desperation?) must show on my face because he peers at me through his long lashes, gives me a playful grin, and asks, “What?” The way he says it comes out like a dare, and I watch as his eyes dip down and then slowly follow the lines of my body back up until they meet mine again, making my heart race and turning the last ounce of my willpower to dust at my feet.

[2:40] The music is starting to rise, so I gesture for him to come closer. When he leans in, my body reacts instantly, as if each and every individual cell is reaching for him, so I take his hand and I put my mouth to his ear and say the only thing I can think of to say, “I want you to kiss me.”

Our cheeks are so close that I feel the disturbance in the air between them as he smiles. He pulls back, and holds up a finger, telling me to hold on. I watch curiously as he listens to the music, nodding his head to the beat, as if waiting for something.

[2:55] A second later, he looks back at me with an excited smile, and in one swift motion, he reaches a hand to the back of my head and pulls himself into me. The second our lips touch, I feel the energy rush through my entire body as the music drops and the crowd around us erupts in cheers and dancing.

Maybe it’s the drugs, maybe it’s the music, maybe it’s him, or maybe it’s the combination of it all, but it’s the best kiss I’ve ever had.

Prev // Next

[buckys-little-belle]

Hiiiii I really love your whole Tumblr it's really comforting I really loved the one you wrote I think it was called just feelin little with bucky and steve and it was really comforting because I don't fully regress other thank cuddling up at night with my blanky and a theeter shaped like an oreo

If your comfortable writing something like that with Eddie Munson like maybe a little that doesn't even understand what that is and one day at he notice that the reader is having a hard time and kinda swoops in and helps. Thanks for listening even if you don't write have a good day (or night :)

Chomp Chomp

Eddie Munson x Little!Reader (They/Them/No pronouns used)

Warnings - Eddie helps the reader regress, use of teethers, use of a comfort blankie, talks about being stressed, talks about de-stressing, reader goes into a state of "disassociation" basically they are very stressed and just stop replying to Eddie's questions, very very vague mentions of that though, a bit of angst, but mainly self-indulgent fluff! (Also I made the teether one of the frozen ones but I'm now realizing that's probably not the kind you meant! So I apologize!)

Notes - I wrote this in a different perspective than I usually do. I just need a break from the more "formal" writing style I usually do and I hope that you like it!

SFW - Please keep all interactions with this post, and this blog, SFW!

. ☆ . ☾ . ☆ . ☽ . ☆ . ☾ . ☆ . ☽ . ☆ .

. ☆ . ☾ . ☆ . ☽ . ☆ . ☾ . ☆ . ☽ . ☆ .

Eddie knew that you age regressed before you really understood it yourself. He'd taken note of how you sleep with whatever soft blanket you could find at night time, how you often found yourself chewing on ice before bed, and and you'd act like, what you called "snuggly", and what he called "small".

He didn't want to scare you with the big title of "age regression" all at once. So he slowly began incorporating more "classic" age regression tactics to your nightly routine without you realizing it at first.

Instead of a glass full of big ice cubes you'd bite in half, he gave you a plastic cup full of small bat shaped ice cubes. They were easier to chew on, and he liked knowing the cup wouldn't shatter if you dropped it.

Then he bought you a small soft grey blanket at the thrift store. He washed it and made sure it smelled like him before he gave it to you, giving you the impression that it was just laying around somewhere instead of bought for a specific reason.

It became your "Nightie blankie", you nicknamed it and Eddie was once again sure of your regression, or at least partial regression. You slept with it every night, snuggled to your chest, the soft material tickling your chin as you slept.

After a few months of just those two new things he added in a fun nightlight so he could finally turn the bathroom light off. You thought it was cute, it projected a small smattering of stars on the ceiling and it often lulled you to sleep.

Next though, the next step was a little harder to get you acclimated with. "A teething ring?" You asked, holding the small thing in your hand. "It's cold?"

"I put it in the freezer, there's gel inside that gets cold." Eddie reasoned. "This way you don't have to eat so much ice before bed, you can just chomp on this." He gave your forehead a kiss before making the bed. Hoping that if he acted chill about it you would be fine with the new addition.

"But it's for babies?" You grumbled.

Eddie stood up with a huff, his hands on his hips. "Do you like it?" He asked, eyebrows raised.

You took a quick chomp, liking the way the frozen thing felt like ice but wouldn't make you full of water or your hands wet. "I don't know."

"Just try it for tonight, if you hate it I'll give you your ice back." He said it so plainly, like he hadn't given you a kids toy to chomp on.

You ended up enjoying your teether, chomping on it was much easier than eating ice, and you liked the little charms that were attached. It was calming, and Eddie didn't think it was weird, and you trusted him on it.

A year later, with all of your new regression tools in place bedtime seemed easier. Eddie had brought up the idea of age regression a few times, but always in a passive way.

He'd put cartoons on and say things like "Doesn't this make you feel like a kid again?" and "I wish I had some toys to play with." when things got boring at the trailer.

You didn't really understand that he wasn't really feeling like a kid while watching the tv shows, or wishing for toys, he was seeing how you reacted, seeing if you were maybe an age regressor outside of just bedtime.

He didn't push it but he got you a few stuffies, and kept cartoons on often. He didn't want to force you to regress if you didn't need it, or seem to be interested, and you didn't really seem to regress all that young. You seemed to drift to an unknown age that liked teethers, blankies, and night lights, but also liked to humm Metallica songs before bed. You were different, and he enjoyed it.

One day though you seemed on edge. Stressed about something that he couldn't fix, something you couldn't seem to get over. You began worrying him when you sat on the floor and just sort of stared off into space. You weren't panicking anymore, you weren't coping.

So he thought that maybe some regression would help you work through the big emotions in a safer way. So he grabbed your blanket and placed it in your hands, you immediately began to fiddle with it, but still didn't respond when he tried to talk to you about why you were stressed.

So he then turned the lights off, grabbing the small nighlight and brining it to the living room. Now instead of staring off into space your eyes drifted along the ceiling as the stars moved around.

Last but not least he grabbed your teether, placing it in your hand. Like you did at bedtime you began to chomp on it, and Eddie smiled.

"What's going on, baby?" He asked, taking a seat next to you.

"Jus' chomp, chomping." You replied with a soft smile.

"Yeah, and why do you need to chomp chomp?" He said in an animated voice.

Slowly you began to tell him what was bothering you, and slowly he helped you solve the problem, letting you use your regression and comfort items to help keep you calm and collected instead of distant and despondent.

You didn't regress often outside of bedtime, and you didn't really seem to regress to a certain age, but Eddie understood what you needed, and he helped you in his own subtle ways.

[15-lizards]

What are your thoughts on Northern fashion? You mentioned in an early post that it would be different depending on the location, can you elaborate on that? I also feel like the style changed soon after Catelyn married Ned, since she would bring styles from the Riverlands and Winterfell is the King's Landing of the North when it comes to fashion

Let’s goooo 🏃🏻‍♀️

Starting in the Neck, they would definitely be more like the riverlanders in terms of clothing. It’s a fairly similar wet and muggy climate. Everything is mostly made of wool and hemp and linen. Thinner clothes for the muggy summers and warmer, thicker ones for when winter comes. Leather/animal skin shoes to keep the mud off. Also whenever I imagine the Crannogmen I imagine cloaks and hoods to stay dry in the swamps. So lots of those.

To the East and a bit father to the north, that costal area around White Harbor is colder than the Neck. So theres a lot more layers, and clothing it way thicker. Also the Manderlys are dripped tf out they got that White Harbor money. Wyman has fur lined EVERYTHING his damask coats could put Cerseis to shame. Wylla and Wynafred pull up to the Sept with lace and silk and jewels eating all the other bitches up. Also since they follow the Faith and are originally southern, this area probably follows more southern customs (fabrics, headpieces, etc)

And we finally make it to winterfell 🤸🏻‍♀️At this point everyone’s freezing their tits off, so fur lined everything. Indoors, I think they can wear lighter stuff bc of those hot springs. Even in the spring months, you can catch Cat wearing at least one shift, underdress, overdress, AND a jacket bc I feel like she never acclimated to the cold. Lots of leather and wool for everyday wear, but when Ned throws a feast or something they get to wear more fur and velvet (even Jon gets to wear a nice velvet surcoat, as a treat). Since the Starks are bordering on ascetic sometimes, there isn’t a ton of ornamentation, but Sansa likes to wear southern-ish styles as much as she can, so you can frequently find her wearing clothes from white harbor (aka I want to see Sansa in a kokoshnik)

And then even farther north we start to see Bolton and Umber territory. The conditions are even more brutal than at Winterfell and they don’t even have hot springs :/ like Sansa and Arya could probably get away with not having to cover their ears during warmer days, but the girls of last hearth and the dreadfort have no warm days. At this point clothing becomes a bit bulky and harder to move around in. Dresses are lined stiffly and almost drag the floor, and everyone is always bundled up to the neck. However materials and fabrics are cohesive and nice atp.

And by the time we nearly reach the wall, conditions are almost unbearable during the winter. Even during spring, all the villagers in the gift are wearing at least four layers (bc I hate hate hate how the show made the people at and around the wall just chill in a thin jacket when they were near a gargantuan frozen block of ice). Clothing is a lot less structured here, resources are getting sparse so most people stitch together a patchwork of whatever furs they can get their hands on. You will rarely see a person without a big hood or thick gloves on. And even though they aren’t wildlings, you can probably see a lot of animal head hoods, bc these people do NOT waste any part of the animal

[blackleatherjacketz]

Nocturne

Miguel O'Hara x Female Reader

Summary: Miguel wakes you in the middle of the night to fulfill your arrangement.

Warnings: 18+ Only!, Explicit, NSFW, Wake-Up Sex, Kissing, Biting, Scratching, Miguel's Fangs, Miguel's Claws, Blood Drinking, Groping, Fondling, Caressing, Teasing, Taunting, Miguel Ripping Your Panties in Half, Vaginal Sex, Doggy Style, Female Orgasm, *Bonus points if you catch the Sting reference*

Word Count: 1.6K+

Read my other MIGUEL stories!

You always feel him before anything else; before you can hear his footsteps bend the hardwood of your floorboards into a whiny creak, before he whispers your name longingly into your ear as he crawls into your bed, slipping beneath the sheets. He’s always careful not to stir you from your slumber too abruptly, crossing over that threshold of the waking world and into the hazy realm of your dreams with relative ease.

He first appears as tall stalks of grain in fields of gold beneath your fingertips, as wispy branches dangling from the tops of willow trees, surrounding your face and arms with soft, delicate touches. Those leaves gently lay themselves across your shoulders, pleating around your upper body as they pull you in closer to the aged tree trunk, slowly growing in warmth. The smell of his sweat and the heat of his breath eventually signals you to his presence beyond the sandman’s grasp, the kisses he plants onto your neck tenderly waking you as the trees begin to fade out of sight.

“Mmm, you’re late,” you mumble as your eyes flutter open, the blurry green numbers of your alarm clock showing three thirty in the morning.

“Am I?” He slides his hand beneath your shirt, tickling the skin on your torso like those dreamy willow branches before cupping your breast with his palm. “I ran into some trouble, but I can make it up to you,” he kisses his excuses into the nape of your neck, taking your nipple between his fingers and pinching to get a quick moan from your lips. “I promise.”

“Uh-huh,” is all you can manage in response, his targeted handiwork distracting you from his tardiness as he pinches even harder, forcing your breath to quicken.

“What were you dreaming about anyways, huh?” He twists your nipple toward him, grinding his hips against your backside as his bare arousal grows between your cheeks, getting your body good and ready for what he has in mind, for what he always comes here for.

“All kinds of things,” you whisper, his erection more than prominent against your underwear as you instinctively rock back into him, your own moisture collecting between your folds as his kisses only get deeper.

“Oh yeah?” He lifts his knee between your legs, shifting his weight onto your hips with a quickness that forces you onto your stomach, keeping you right where he wants you. “Anything like this?”

The weight of his massive body resting on your lower back nearly forces the air out of your lungs as both of his hands graze over the gooseflesh cascading it’s way down your spine. Like a blind man reading braille for the very first time, he palpates every bump, studies every raised hair on your skin as if committing it to memory before slowly pushing the fabric of your t-shirt up above your shoulders. He waits for you to fully acclimate to the sensation of him laying on top of you before tickling the tiny spaces between your ribs just enough to get you to shiver and tense back up.

“Arms up, baby, you know the drill.”

Too drowsy to make any quippy retorts for your usual snarky banter, you follow his command and lift your arms above your head. You let your eyelids fall shut again as he disrobes you at an agonizing pace, peeling your sleeves off your biceps and forearms as he playfully nips at your shoulders and neck along the way. He takes his time massaging the muscles in your hands as your collar passes over your head, finally pulling your shirt from your fingers before silently dropping it onto the floor.

“You’re almost all healed up from last time,” he notices as he kisses his way back up your arm, sucking on the yellowing bruise he’d left on your shoulder just last week. “It’s like I was never even here.” He sits up and leans backward, slowly dragging his claws down the length of your torso just deep enough to leave tiny trails of white, disrupted skin in their wake. “Looks like I gotta fix that.”

Your back arches instinctively as the cool air of your bedroom shocks your nervous system, stinging your freshly exposed skin as you inhale with a quick hiss. You try not to writhe beneath him as the pain trickles down through each layer of your skin, settling into a deep somatic ache in its futile attempt to soothe your now reddened flesh.

“Nice and open for me now, huh?” You hear the fabric of your underwear being split down the middle before he mercilessly rips it apart, each thread separating in sequential succession before it falls to shreds around your hips. Another hiss from you turns into a high-pitched gasp, his expanding audacity almost making you regret your unspoken arrangement with him to trade your blood for sex.

Almost.

You hear him laugh in sheer delight before you feel him glide down across your folds as he wastes no time thrusting against you. You can feel him pause to grab hold of himself at the base, barely brushing over your swollen bud as he spreads your juices up and down your length, refusing to acknowledge the wounds he just created. “Where should we start this time, eh, cariño?”

“Miguel,” you plead, lifting your hips up to meet him just in time for him to pull back with another confident chuckle. “Miggy, please, I’m so tired.”

“Oh, you’re tired? Hmmm?” He taunts, playfully slapping the head of his cock against your ass as he spreads your cheeks apart with his opposite hand. “Maybe I should bite into one of your wrists this time, huh? Take a little bit more than usual… or try this spot over here by your ribs,” he pinches the skin behind your breast to make you flinch. “That seems pretty fucking ticklish.”

You whimper at his callousness, nodding your cheek against the pillow as he glides over your clit a few more times, relishing those little bursts of joy that counter the throbbing ache in your back as he continues to toy with your emotions. “Or maybe you could just…”

“How about here?” He cuts your suggestion short by grasping onto the muscles at the base of your neck, tracing the outline of your pulse as it races down your throat into your right shoulder. “Give that other side a break?”

“Mmm hmm,” you nod again, your mumbled word stifled as he finally thrusts inside you at the most delicious angle, turning that moan into a feral groan as he delves inside your slick, velvety walls.

The two of you sigh together as he fills that void deep within you, stretching you out inch by inch until you’ve enveloped him completely, his muscular thighs flush against the backs of yours. You can feel his heart beating through his chest as it rests against your broken skin, pausing in a brief moment of stasis before he pulls out and pushes back in at twice the speed. Closing your eyes again, you choose to focus on the tantalizing, rhythmic thrusts of pleasure he feeds up into your core, clenching down around him as you ignore the stinging friction of his body as he holds up his end of the deal.

Each ounce of pain he doles out is worth every pound of ecstasy that he delivers along with it; his hand smoothing its way across your hip and beneath your pelvis to find your bud, rubbing it up and down in perfect tempo with the dizzying movement of his hips. Like a classically trained musician, he plays you like a fiddle, knowing exactly how deep to push and how long to pull against your soaking wet organ in order to get you to play the tune that he wants. Your breathy moans reach notes you’ve never even dreamed of hitting before, the sound of his skin slapping against yours providing the perfect beat for his baritone growls as he wraps his other arm around your chest. Pulling you into him, he plays the last few notes leading up to your crescendo with such unmatched fervor that he can feel you vibrate around his bow.

You surrender to the music and let it move its way through you, its rapturous notes immersing your senses with such unbridled bliss that you can barely feel his bite. Your part of the deal never felt so good, so mundane compared to what he gives you in return every time that he drains that little bit of life from your veins. That sharp twinge sinks deep into your shoulder as the song he plays continues up into your spine, exploding in a symphony of the erratic drumbeats of his hips, the mismatched chorus of your moans and his muffled breath against your skin. The reverb shakes itself through you both in waves, pulsing through your core as you flutter around him, quaking into your extremities and out of your fingertips as you desperately grasp onto the sheets.

“Fuck, you taste so sweet when you come.” He finally whispers after getting his fill, lapping up the excess blood off your neck as he finishes sputtering his release inside you.

“Yeah?” You turn your neck to face him as your body continues to shake, running your fingers through his hair as he playfully licks and sucks the skin around your new bite. “How’s that?”

“Like honey, or butterscotch,” he smiles, pressing a trail of kisses into your cheek until he reaches your mouth, giving you a small sample of whatever it is that he can taste.

“I’ll take your word for it,” you whine as he pulls out, the absence of his girth leaving you feeling empty again as he lets go of you completely before laying down next to you. You tuck your head up under his armpit and wonder if you’ll be able to feel him laying next to you in your dreams after you finally fall asleep again.

[tigerpeachs]

Business or Pleasure - Okkotsu Yuuta

-`ღ´- tags: 18+, fem reader, pet name usage, sex worker, pwp, dub-con (just to be safe), transactional sex, cum shot, choking, shoe licking, fingering, alcohol consumption, oral sex (male receiving), praise, slapping, shoving, tw: assault, scummy yuuta

-`ღ´- wc: 5.6K

-`ღ´- a/n: ya know - I totally skipped over one Yuuta project to flesh this out, but here’s to hoping the other one comes soon as well. also this is my first time trying something like this so hopefully it came out well! if you have any request or comments, my inbox is open  ∠( ᐛ 」∠)_ 

-`ღ´- synopsis: You receive an odd request as a sex worker from a mysterious client. When a large sum of money is provided for your services, you decide to play along, even when things aren’t in your favor. 

It was uncomfortable. You felt uncomfortable. There was something different about this meeting. You were used to sex work and selling yourself. It all came easier to you than the rat race others put themselves through. There were people miserable from working a 9-5, going home to their empty homes, and barely living their useless lives. You didn’t want that. You adjusted your dress and rocked your feet in your high heels, looking up at the elevator numbers change. 

Top floor, penthouse level. You knew the man must be professional from the way he requested you. First, you were sent an NDA before you were even given access to who the client was. You were still allowed to decline if you decided to forgo seeing the client. Once you sent your signature back, which had to be approved by a notary, you received a care package and an invitation to meet your new client along with some instructions. 

Hair must be styled, fresh professional makeup, waxed, shaved, oiled, and moisturized skin. You were to wear a clean-scented perfume, a fresh set of nails, and a tight black dress with red bottom heels. You accessorized with pearls, a black clutch, and a long wool coat. Everything else before this felt like practice. The attempts to look pretty, finding the most flattering dresses, saving up for pretty shoes, and soothing yourself by taking care of your body. 

As the number got closer to the top floor, you pressed your shoulders down and back, then straightened up your posture. You chewed at your bottom lip slightly before the door opened. There was an older gentleman standing before you. He wore a suit and had perfect posture. His hair was greying and his skin was loose, letting you get a read that he must be in his late 60s. 

You began to wonder if this was the person who you’d soon be working for. Not that you haven’t done it before, but you’d rather not sleep with older men again. There were too many awkward silences as they rutted a softening cock against your entrance. 

“Right this way ma’am.” He spoke, leading the way down a lit hallway. You both stopped at a door and he placed his arm out. You looked at him inquisitively before realizing you were still wrapped in your coat. You smiled and thanked him, taking off the material. You felt a chill fall on your exposed back which lacked the warmth from your black dress. He stood in the same position and looked down at your clutch purse. You closed your eyes, smiling one more time; rather more at your stupidity than his kindness, and gave him your bag as well. 

“Please enter the room and wait for the head of the house and me to return.” He departed before you could acknowledge what he said. You walked into the room with the release of a tight sigh. You immediately took in your surroundings in order to become more acclimated.  There was a large table with two chairs, one on each end. There was low lighting and no apparent area of the lightbulbs location. You grabbed a seat and raised your eyebrows as you sunk in. The level of comfort it provided made you want to slouch and drape yourself over the material. How does one make wood feel soft?

Minutes ticked by and you grew bored of the room you were kept in. That thought of slouching from earlier became more delightful as time passed. Your head drifted as you sat. What might you have for dinner tonight? When was your nail tech available again? Maybe you should finish that book on your nightstand that seems to be collecting dust bunnies from neglect. Your mind drifted to worse places. Although the wait was long, it couldn't be worse than some of your previous clients.

Worst case scenario, you were about to be brutally murdered. Though, with this line of work consisting of mostly male clients, that meant there was always the possibility of assault, rape, or worse. Neutral scenario, the client might be into some shady stuff and just wants to have some fun on the side. Best case scenario? Maybe retiring for life and never having to look at your bank account again. Yeah. That sounds pretty good. 

Your daydreaming was cut short by the rustling of the doorknob. You sat up again, back erect, shoulders back, neck straight, with your chest perked up. Your hands remained on your lap instead of the table and you sucked in a slow easy breath. Your eyes glossed over as you got ready to perform. 

“My Apologies, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for long.” You looked over to see…a young man in front of the elder gentleman from before. If you were shocked, you didn’t show it. He was handsome with an almost playful and youthful flare to him. He wore a suit as well with the tie slightly undone. A few buttons were already opened up and his hair was out of place. 

He walked over and eased a hand over his hairline, pushing it back and fixing his side part - almost as if he could feel you analyzing him. 

“No need to apologize. I assure you, it wasn’t long at all.” You were intentional with your words. Although it wasn’t long, it was still a wait. 

As he got closer his scent hit you. Warm and sweet. Something with an amber flare that danced across your senses. His natural scent still came through. It entered your nasal cavity and spread through you like a shot of whiskey. You could almost taste him even from his professional proximity. You stood as he reached his hand out to shake yours. You made sure to apply the same pressure and he gave you a charming smile.

“Yes, well then. Thank you for your patience.” You knew he was trying to get a read on you as well. His eyes quickly did a once-over. The only thing that caught his attention was the mess up of your lipsticks. A mark from your restless teeth during your arrival. Nerves getting the best of you took away from the prestige you tried to showcase for him. 

“Is there anything I can get you?” He questioned as he moved to take his seat “Perhaps a drink?” He sat down and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table as he interlaced his fingers. His pace was smooth and his voice soft. Yet his presence was still demanding. It left a sense of unease in the room. 

“No, thank you.” You spoke. He nodded at you but spoke his next words to the older gentleman standing by the door.

“Glenlivet Winchester, neat, please.” He moved after acknowledging the young man’s words, “Oh, and water, please. Just in case she’s parched during our meeting.” The older gentlemen paused.

“Yes, right away Sir.” 

He left the room and all the attention was back on you.

The man smiled again, “My apologies, I never gave you my name. Okkotsu Yuuta. Although I’m sure you read the paperwork, you know what to address me by right?” He paused and gave you a moment to prove him right. You did read the paperwork. You memorized every line to secure the opportunity in front of you.

“Yes, Sir. That is correct.” He wanted a clean woman who was obedient in every sense of the word. He wanted you to listen to him. It wasn’t uncommon for CEOs, presidents, lawyers, doctors. They all either really liked control or being under control. 

He sighed with relief, sitting back. He seemed happy. Pleased with himself to have you across from him. His hands smoothed across his thighs, fixing any wrinkles in the material of his slacks. His leg bounced slightly with excitement. You didn’t say a word, waiting for him to break the silence. 

“I’m sorry if I seem improper. I’m just so…” His eyes landed on you again and it felt different this time. His gaze darkened, the polite smile before becoming a condescending smirk. Saliva pooled in his mouth at the thought of what was about to become a reality. Yes, he did his research to find the right type of woman for this. He was happy to see your polished and pristine appearance. Not a hair out of place on your head. But more so, he admired how vigorous you seemed. Your body language, your handshake, hell even your tone was unassailable. 

Yuuta loved money. Very much. But if there was anything he loved more, it was seeing what money did to people. How powerless they became over it. How powerless would you become for it?

“...So excited,” He finished.

The older gentlemen from before came back in with various items. There were fat cigars, a straight cutter, an ashtray, a gold-encrusted liter, two glasses, and a pitcher of water. 

He moves to open the bottle of scotch but your client stops him. 

“Have you served before?” You nod your head, knowing what must be coming next. Yuuta gave the older man a look of dismissal, leading him to walk out the door.  

“C’mere,” He smiles, beckoning you towards him, “Pour me a drink, Sweetheart.” You stood up and walked over to him. He didn’t pay you any mind, opting to cut open one end of his cigar. Your hands smoothed over the bottle and then you twisted the top off. You grabbed the old-fashioned glass as you listened to the wheel of his liter spin. Once. twice. Then a flame sparked on the third attempt. 

Pulling a few puffs through, he relaxed in his seat, leaning back and letting his head fall over the top of the chair. His neck, long and elegant, strained as he pressed the smoke out of his lungs, letting it dissipate above him. He hummed in contentment before pulling his gaze back up to you. You poured him a perfect serving. Two fingers worth. You held it out to him. He gripped your wrist, making you jump slightly from his speed and strength. Your skin burned under his hold. 

He kept his eyes on you as he brought your hand to his mouth. 

You knew better than to look away. His gaze told you everything you needed to know. Keep. Your eyes. On. Him. He sipped from the glass, once, twice before releasing your hand. You shifted your weight on your heels, holding the glass closer to you as your joints ached. He sits properly on his throne and offers to take your hand. You set the glass down and place your hand in his. He spreads his legs a little bit.

“Take a seat for me,” You didn’t have to guess that this show of dominance and your submission did something to him. You could tell from the strain of his pants that he liked playing this game with you. You liked playing games too. 

You stood between his legs as the start of his little competition began. You opt to sit on one leg and drape your legs across the other, knowing it wasn’t exactly what he wanted. You crossed your legs and rested one hand on his chest, the other draped across his shoulders. He grabbed at your waist whilst holding his cigar in his mouth. The expensive smell of his cologne was washed out by thick ringlets of smoke. He removed his smoke for a second.

“Grab the glass for me, baby.” 

You did as you were told, leaning over, slightly out of his embrace. When you returned he took another sip, making you hold the glass for him. Although you knew he was somewhat fit, the seat you took changed your perception of him completely. While you saw a skinny man, his suit worked well to hide the heavy expanse of muscle underneath it. His fingers skimmed across your hip, making your body trust his touch. 

“You listen very well.” He starts to talk. “I like that about you.”

You remained silent following his cues for another sip of alcohol. His hand came up to toy with the shoulder strap of your dress. This moment felt slow, as though you both were moving through molasses. His eyes ran over you, and he took a tentative touch to your collarbone. He pulled you in a bit closer and you did your best to remain still. Sitting pretty. Like a well-trained dog. 

He dragged his nose across your neck, inhaling your scent and groaning in approval. The sound he made caused you to press your thighs together. Thoughts of eliciting that noise out of him again cluttered your mind.

Yuuta felt hungry. His hand dropped to your hip, palming it with excitement. You smelled raw and sweet. It was like a mix of vanilla and brandy. He couldn’t help but press his lips against your neck in a wet kiss, moving up slightly to nip at your jawline. You felt a wave of desire run through you, causing your hands to become unsteady. You retaliate by tightening your hold around the glass and adjusting yourself to press against his erection. 

“Mmm, you taste damn good,” He groans against your skin. You could feel his arousal, heavy against you. You arched your back, enjoying the compliment, and quickly discovered the accumulation of arousal in between your thighs. His hands felt rougher, the drink in your hand rippled as he hitched the fabric of your dress up. Your panties were already damp from his light teasing and he was soon to find that out if he kept inching his fingers up. 

“Too bad you’re just some trashy prostitute.” 

Your rushed hands slammed against his chest, and you quickly moved out of his lap in the process. The scotch fell from your hands, spilling over the rim and onto your client. His cigar ashed out from the process, falling onto his expensive slacks. You swallowed hard as he stared down at the mess you made on him. The glass remained on the floor beneath the two of you. Cracked - just like the facade between you both. 

The room is suffocating in silence and time seems frozen. 

His eyes stayed down for a minute.

Or a few.

Right as you open your mouth, he takes a stand and tsks in disapproval. The cigar drops into the ashtray and he swipes across his slacks to get rid of the ash. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t come out of the fabric well. Yuuta grabbed at your elbow to position you well. He takes one large deep breath. 

A sting spreads across your face. His large hands push roughly at your shoulders, forcing you down so fast that your knees slam against the floor. The sharp pain makes you cry as you hunch over trying to comfort yourself quickly. Yuuta smooths his hair back once more before taking a seat again. He sighs out of exhaustion before taking a look at you. You’re still bowed over, registering the fact that he struck you.

“Hey,” He says plainly.

You look up at him with disdain. No. Disgust. 

He tilts his head at the look and then gives a sweet laugh. He views your pout as comical. Sort of like when a child throws a tantrum or a dog is upset at its owner. He leans towards you and his finger slides under your chin, forcing you to hold his gaze.

“I paid a lot of money for you. I know you’ve been in this line of work for a while and you promote yourself well.” He tilts your head to look at the red mark across your cheek. He whistles at the sight, thinking maybe he was a little too heavy-handed on his brand-new toy. He still wanted you to look presentable after all. “You’re a good businesswoman, right? You come up with your end of the deal typically and men, like me, find that admirable. Girls like you work really hard don’t they?” He forced you to nod before letting go of your chin.

He sits back up, creating distance between the two of you. 

“You can always leave if you want,” He takes his eyes off of you, looking unamused with the thought. He gives you a moment as if it was the respectable thing to do. As if you could pass up a payout like this. While tears brimmed your eyes, you mentally reminded yourself of that. 

“Or,” He drags his eyes back to you and smiles politely. He knows your answer already. It was apparent in the sick look on his face. “Can you be a respectable partner? Do you want another chance to be my good girl?” He leans in a bit, resting his forearms against his thighs.

You knew what he was thinking. 

And that's what made you feel so pathetic when you said -

“Yes, Sir.” In a broken tone. 

His smile grows before he sits up. He grabbed your face with the same brute strength he used before. Although it hurt, he smoothed his hand over the mark on your cheek, gently touching the skin and leaving a burning sensation in its wake. The look in his eyes was tender, endearing, and loving.  

His touch didn’t stop. He slipped a hand under your chin again, holding you in place. The other moved to your mouth, where he pressed his thumb against the seam of your lips. You slowly opened up, allowing him to violate the new expanse of skin. He didn’t have a look of arousal on his face. It was more inquisitive. Like he was examining you with care. 

He dragged his fingers across your gums and against your teeth. He stretched your mouth out before he slid his fingers down your throat. You tensed as you suspend your gag, curious if he would prefer for you to fight the intrusion a little instead. He doesn’t switch his body language up to showcase what he wants. Instead, he runs his thumb across your lips once more, impressed that your lipstick doesn’t smudge. 

“Stand for me,” You didn’t bother verbally responding, only raising up on shaky legs in front of him. He warms up to your obedient nature, leaning back a little as he pulls you forward just a step. 

“That’s my good girl, you’re being so sweet for me.” He sucks at the finger that was just inside your mouth, sending a chill down your exposed spine. 

“Strip for me. Keep your undergarments on.” He sat back more and started to relax in the chair. He didn’t bother watching as you stripped. The dress fell smoothly off your skin as he decided to glance at his wristwatch.

He put his hand up, curling his fingers towards him in a beckoning motion. You step out of the dress, moving towards him. You notice that he grabs at his cock, possibly to adjust himself or maybe to alleviate his erection. He tightened his jaw as he concentrated on your form. You were beautiful. Warm skin and a voluptuous body. Prim and proper. Sweet and ripe for his taking. His eyes glazed over in admiration of such a woman. He could jerk himself off in a matter of seconds from watching you. The thought entertains him, but Yuuta was never greedy. He could hold out for something better. 

He grabs at your waist, pulling you towards him. His hands skimmed over the thin fabric of your underwear, skimming over your sex. His fingers dragged down your thighs and took in the expanse of your skin. He put some weight against one palm, and lightened the other, making you turn in his hold. 

Your back faced him. You wish you could see him but you elected to keep your posture facing away from him. Again his hands skimmed and examined your frame. Light touches pressed against your skin as he felt your spine. He skimmed at the dip of your back, petting over the area as images of you bent over, struggling to take him filled his mind. 

You felt his face come near, the hair from his head slightly tickling your lower back. His hands found their familiar place on your hips once more. He couldn’t control himself.

There was no verbal instruction. Instead, you felt his hands bend your forward. You made sure to fold your body over for him, sticking out your ass, waiting to feel his hands explore your frame once more. But he found what he was looking for. You're soaked. The fabric stuck to your cunt, a silhouette of it forming through beautiful threads of fabric.

His touch didn’t come. 

He cleared his throat, unable to look away from the sight in front of him. 

“Stand up straight for me,” He instructs, leaning back. You slowly raise and you peak at him over your shoulder. He’s covering the bottom part of his face, his unnerving smile gone, and his eyes flit over your frame, landing on your expensive pussy covered by a pathetic excuse for underwear. His mind is still on the place between your thighs. 

“Drop to your knees for me,” He says, rubbing his hands together, working to soothe himself. You do as you are told. You drop down and look back at him, giving slow blinks to him. He wraps a hand around the back of your head. You follow his lead as he pulls you forward. You brace yourself against his knees but continue to follow his motion. 

Your cheek meets his upper thigh, laying against his hard-on. You can feel how big the mass is through the thick fabric of his dress pants. You take a deep breath as he reaches over you, dragging his fingers from the bottom of your spine upwards. 

Once they catch over the latch of your bra, he lightly prods at the fabric. You exhale as he undoes the garment. The lacey piece falls from your skin, your breast chilled from the air in the room. Yuuta pulls the piece off the rest of the way before allowing you to lean back. 

You sat pretty for him.

He smiled at you. You smiled gently back this time. Possibly from his warmth. 

Possibly from his uneasy nature.  

He lifts his shoe towards you. You look down, noticing an amber liquid lightly spread across the leather of his dress shoes. He doesn’t bother playing into your confused nature. Instead, he places the shoe across the warmth of your chest, right over your sternum, and presses in slightly. 

“Be a good girl and clean up the mess you made.” 

Silence filled the room once more. 

You didn’t have to do this. You could get up and leave. You looked over to the table to see if any napkins were present. There weren’t. You assumed he wouldn’t be happy if you used your dress or bra to wipe his shoes clean. You looked up at him once more, uncertain. 

He frowned, tilting his head to the side.

“C'mon, lick it up.” You felt frozen in time. That's disgusting. Foul. You don’t know where his feet have been this whole time or how long he’s worn these shoes. You stare at the amber liquid once more and he gets impatient. He grinds the balls of his feet into your chest, annoyed. 

You grip at his ankle to alleviate the pressure. If you thought his hands felt heavy, the weight of his foot was unfathomable. It felt like he was crushing your ribs. You had to press into the ground just to stay upright underneath his dirty shoe. 

You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and exhale through your nose. The money. That large sum of money could easily keep you from doing work like this again for a while. Plus, you supposed you’ve licked worse…

Yuuta smiled as you pulled his shoe closer to your mouth. You ran your tongue across the rich leather, the scotch mixing with the unique earthy flavor. You made sure to suck it up, just as you did your ego. You gazed up at your client, his eyes were hazy and his mouth hung open slightly. You noticed a slight movement from his hand and dropped your eyes to see him palming himself. 

After sucking up each drop of scotch, the man leaned over. You held the liquid in your mouth as he pulled your head closer from the nape of your neck. 

“Don’t swallow yet,” He instructs and you listen. You brace your hands on your thighs, intimidated by his lustful gaze. He leans in more and pulls you in as well. His lips press against yours with hunger and urgency. You moan into the kiss, opening yourself up to him. His tongue pursues yours, and he suckles around it, taking the scotch and grime off his shoe into his mouth. You expect that to be it. Just a kiss for his game. He didn’t relent. His mouth was bruising and demanding. It was a message. You wouldn’t win against him. 

You gasp as he pulls away, seeing such a serious look on his face.

He hums in approval. His thumb slides across your spit-slicked lips for a moment before he grasps at your chin. He pulls you closer and you follow his lead. Your face is close to his again. 

“Can you be a smart girl for me?” He asks before leaning back. He doesn’t bother waiting for your response. Only one glance down at his erection and you understood what he meant. Your hands slide up the expanse of his thighs, skimming over his cock. He jumps lightly at the touch, forcing his gaze back to you. You meet his eyes, expert hands undoing his belt without a single glance away. He chuckles lightly at that and grabs at the cigar on the table. 

You ease your hands into his slacks. Gentle touches, slow moves, teasing in every sense of the word. You tug his pants down just enough for the outline of his cock to no longer be trapped beneath it. There’s a slight light coming from the cherry of his cigar, helping you see the precum that's left a wet mark on his briefs. 

Before removing his underwear you lean over him and press your lips right against his covered tip. He stalls, watching you with his interest piqued. You suck gently at his leaky tip, savoring the taste of him. You had to admit… it tasted better than most of the cum you’ve swallowed down. He pulls gently at your hair and you come up only to take his underwear off. 

His cock slapped against his button-up, his swollen head leaving a bead of cum on the expensive cotton. He watched intently as you took him in. His cock was pretty in every sense of the word. It was flushed pink at the tip, with a base a bit more tan than his milky skin tone. The veins running down his shaft were thick and continued around his pelvis. He curved upwards slightly and once you grabbed at it, it felt warm and heavy in your hands. Most importantly, it was big. 

You got into a proper position, letting your back arch as you leaned forward. One hand braced yourself in between your folded legs and the other led his tip against your lips. He didn’t bother speaking, but you could tell he was excited from the way he scooted his hips forward in his chair. You pressed open-mouth kisses to the underside of his tip, getting the sensitive area wet. 

You can hear him inhale the smoke right as you open your mouth more, letting the head of his cock slip in. Both hands rested against the ground now as you leaned forward, taking more of him inside of you. You suckled around the skin, moaning slightly as you pulled back. Soft breaths fell from his lips as you got into a rhythm. He felt heavy on your tongue. Your jaw ached from the weight and stretch of trying to accommodate him. 

You persisted in taking all of him, flattening your tongue and sucking more of him down. It hurts. A lot. Your nose finally touched the hairs against his pelvis. You purposely clenched your throat around his shaft causing him to grip at your hair. A broken moan fell from his lips that made your arousal feel heavy. The cigar was long forgotten as he used both hands to lead you up and down his dick. 

You kept the pace he set, only breaking it to hold all of him inside you again. Once more, you tightened your throat while licking at his balls. His moans were broken by a slight laugh. He dropped his hands and allowed you to play with him as you pleased. You moved back to his tip, sucking harshly before licking his full length and mouthing at his base. 

You couldn’t help but feel smug at the look on his face. He was ruined. His hair was a mess, the shirt he wore had more buttons undone. And the drunk look on his face told you everything you needed to know. You brought one of your hands up to stroke him and sucked at the under seam of his tip. He shut his eyes, restraining himself. It was too much. Feeling the pressure you forced out of him along with seeing your angelic figure pleasuring it. It made you happy to see him working so hard against you.

You tightened the grip on your stroke and sucked just a little harder causing his hips to stutter. You moved to take his whole cock in again but he moved faster. He grabs at your shoulder and forces you back. Your grip was replaced by his and you watched as he rutted his cock into his hand. More moans fell from his sweet lips as he watched you. 

Swollen lips and tear-brimmed eyes. Your chest heaved and your skin was wet from his precum and your drool. He liked seeing you ruined beneath him. He liked the mark he left on you. He liked seeing you be his mess. The thought of having you again and again and again plagued him. The images flashed before him as his cum shot out across your tits.

Warm cum dripped across your collarbones and breast. It mixed in with the previous mess you made from sucking his cock. The sight was absolutely vile and yet, both of you couldn’t get enough.

Your break was short-lived. 

Yuuta immediately grabs at you before laying you across the table. You try to sit up on your elbows at the very least, but he pushes you back down, shaking all the materials on the surface from his force. 

“Fucking hell,” He grunts, laying his still-hard cock across your pantie-clad cunt. 

“Look at what you do to me,” You don't have to look through. You can feel him. You can feel the heavy weight of his cock prodding at your lower lips. You can feel the sticky drip of his cum still easing out his tip. You can feel how slick he is against your pelvis.  And you wanted to feel him more. 

While you’re anticipating the thought of what that delicious stretch inside you would feel like, Yuuta collects some of the cum across your breast and rushes to press it in your mouth. You don’t hesitate to take his offer. You slide your tongue across his digits as he pumps them in and out of your mouth. His cock jumps at the feeling, tensing with the need to be inside you. 

You’re being so good for him. You take every drop he gives you and you’re looking up at him like you're thankful to be here with him. Thankful to have his cum on your lips. 

And he smiles. 

It touches his eyes for once. 

“Atta girl.” His eyes drop, taking in your naked frame once more. He ruts his cock against your slick-covered folds one last time, squeezing at your hip to control himself. “Thank you for this.” He leans back, tucking himself away.

He helps you sit up and slowly move off the table. 

“Get dressed, then please help yourself to any refreshments.” 

He then walks out without a word to you. 

You slowly get dressed and the moment you straighten yourself up completely there was a knock at the door. You didn’t bother saying come in, instead, the older gentlemen from before walked in. He doesn’t say a word to you. He holds out your coat, purse, and a special envelope. Once placed in your hands you could tell it was filled with unmarked dollar bills. 

You’re led back to the elevator and descend to your normal life.

A few weeks pass by. Life was good. There was no need to schedule new appointments due to the surplus of money Yuuta provided you. You lay across your couch wondering what you could possibly do with your day. There was a new café in town you could try. Or maybe you could hit the farmers market and take a walk into the city. Just go with the ebb and flow of life for a little while. A knock interrupts your daydreaming forcing you to sit up. 

You didn’t dare to answer the door right away since you weren’t expecting any guests. A chill ran over your body as you thought of who it might possibly be. You slowly moved towards your door and listened to hear if anyone was out there. Once the coast was clear you creaked open the door slightly. You look around, not seeing anything until you gaze downward. There stood a letter. In the same envelope.

 The same type of special envelope you recalled receiving from your last client.

[sourholland]

WELCOME TO THE STYLE MASTERLIST

series based off of taylor swift’s song style

Summary → He’s the Quarterback of the Cincinnati Bengals, a worldwide heartthrob with an ego the size of Lake Erie—but does he have the heart to match it? You’re the Bengals newest cheerleader, desperate to prove how much you deserve your spot on the team. It doesn’t take much to catch the eye of Joe Burrow, however that isn’t necessarily a good thing when you’re told that any romantic relations between cheerleaders and players is strictly prohibited.

AN → Honestly this idea came to me pretty suddenly, it wasn’t very premeditated. I’m not sure anyone will be interested in reading it, this is me kinda testing the waters. I’m just going through a crazy sad breakup so I’m kinda just trying to get back into the things I love to do, writing being one of them. Also, I kinda just want to get my mind off stuff and who doesn’t love Joe Burrow haha. As always, let me know to be added to the tag list :)

Pairing(s) → Joe Burrow x Fem!Reader

Warnings → Strong Language, Alcohol Use, Mature Themes/NSFW Themes, Angst, Injury, Forbidden Love, More to Come

PLAYLIST

PART ONE - No Headlights

PART TWO - Good Girl

PART THREE - James Dean

PART FOUR - His Wild Eyes

PART FIVE - Taking Off His Coat

PART SIX - Tell You To Leave

Teaser →

After a rigorous auditioning process with over a thousand girls trying to earn their spot on the Bengal’s Cheerleading Squad, only forty made the cut. Most returners, some new like yourself. You’d watched girls break bones, continuing to audition on them to have a shot on the squad. Many left in tears, cut and sent home with hardly any reason why.

There was a little bit of metaphorical survivor’s guilt after you’d made the team, knowing this wasn’t your dream like it was for some others. This was only a season or two commitment for you while you finished up your last year of college. Then you’d become a teacher, something you’d had a passion for over the years. Cheerleading was more so a hobby, you’d danced all of your life and had cheered in high school. This wasn’t going to be your livelihood, nor did it offer you the funds to live off of for more than a short while.

There were plenty of rules to follow, many of which had you questioning if this was truly what you wanted. The handbook they’d given you was thick, although some of the girls had told you that they’d lessened up on the requirements over the years after a lawsuit had been filed. In the end, it wasn’t so bad. Tedious, but still a very surreal experience.

From about April to the middle of July, it was practice twice a week from 7:30 at night to about 11. There was a separate facility used to work and condition through the colder months, just following the Super Bowl. Once pre-season truly began, the whole team moved practice facilities. This put you in the same place as the Bengals practiced, giving you more field time than gym time to get acclimated. It was different, especially due to the fact that players and cheerleaders were placed at an arms length most of the time.

The afternoon of the first practice at the new stadium, you’d all been given the talk. This was basically your coaches and executives way of saying that if anyone found out that anyone off the squad had anything more than a friendly, professional relationship with one of the players—they’d be either cut or sanctioned. It was bad for the image of the team, making it bad for those in charge.

It shouldn’t have been a problem.

That first night practice in August was tough, you were coming off of a sprained ankle and the heat was blistering even at 8 at night. Amanda, your head coach, sent you inside to grab some ice from the athletic trainer to bring back out to the field. There was a stigma around the coaching and treatment of NFL cheerleaders, but you’d mostly had a decent experience so far. Your coaches did care that you were healthy and equipped to cheer.

Adorned in a slightly baggy Bengals T-shirt and spandex, you walked through the empty halls of the mostly deserted facility. The players had just ended their practice about an hour earlier, you watched them all exit into the locker room. That meant that mostly everyone had called it a night, heading home. The cheerleaders stayed late because practice was meant to be after work or class, it wasn’t a full-time job.

The door to the athletic trainers office was slightly ajar, the light on. Pushing it open slightly, you stepped in with furrowed eyebrows and a curious look. On the large medical table, ice in hand, sat Joe Borrow still in his practice jersey and shorts. The office was empty besides him, trainer nowhere to be seen.

He was a good looking guy, you’d give him that. Maybe it was the fact that he was 6’4 or maybe it was the fact that he was really fucking good at his sport. He looked up at you and gave a friendly grin, laying the ice on his knee.

“Emily said she was heading home about a half hour ago, her kid was sick or something so she had to pick him up from the babysitter,” Joe told you politely. “I came in just as she was like walking out, she just told me to lock up the office when I was done.”

Someone was clearly a rambler.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I was just going to grab some ice.”

He nodded and went silent while you walked over to the ice maker, taking the plastic scooper and putting some of it into a plastic bag. He was still looking at you, making it obvious as you saw him from your peripheral. Twisting the bag, you felt slightly awkward just standing there in silence.

“I’m Joe,” he spoke again.

“Y/N,” you turned back towards him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He extended a hand towards you, smiling as you took it and shook it softly. When you broke from his grip, he remained looking at you. He was definitely one of those people who looked you right in the eyes through the entire conversation. You didn’t know if this made you particularly uncomfortable or slightly excited.

“You’re a cheerleader.”

“Was that a question?” You chuckled, “I think that’s pretty obvious.”

“No, no. I was kind of just thinking out loud.”

He was easily flustered, that much was obvious. He repositioned the bag of ice and looked back up at you with slightly pink cheeks. This made you want to crack a grin, feeling like you were talking to a boy for the first time ever or something.

“I should head back to practice,” you told him, watching him slowly nod in understanding.

“Yeah, of course,” Joe smiled. “It was nice meeting you, Y/N.”

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list :)

[wewerebornsextuplets]

idk how but you draw in the Oso-san style so good i need to know your secret please

HAHA thank you very much!! im glad you think so :D unfortunately im not very good at explaining how i work, but ill try my best to show what i mean!!

once again this is long as hell. you know the drill at this point

to be honest, half the battle i fight with drawing in the osmt style is just. Looking at it. the ososan art style actually fluctuates pretty wildly depending on what you're looking for, whether that be the mobile games (for instance, tabimatsu and hesowars look nothing alike in terms of style despite both being the same source material), official art and merch, or even the seasons of the show itself!

using ichi as my example here since i draw him the most, but its pretty easy to play spot the difference with the varying styles. even within a specific season you can do this across episodes, especially with season 1!

when i draw, i tend to be a bit sacrilege and use references across different media; usually ill use the show [especially season 2, if only because its a bit more "uniform"] as reference for the actual features and colors/poses/etc, but i like to use hesowars to reference proportions, since they seem to be most consistent there.

SOMETHING IMPORTANT TO NOTE: theres a WEALTH of fanartists that have styles that are INCREDIBLY similar to the show, so be careful to check your sources! these artists deserve credit for their hard work, which they often don't get since their work is reposted under the guise of being official art.

once you've pinned down the exact style you'd like to emulate, and the character you're looking to draw, its really just a matter of finding references, which is pretty easy! you can scrub through different episodes for good angles/shots, or if you're going for one of the game styles the AU wiki has most of the games catalogued to my knowledge. if you're looking to draw an oc, use characters you think they would look similar to in the show. if you really wanna waste your time, though, you can always scrub through crowd scenes in the show to see if any background characters might look like what you're going for; the season 3 episode Mt. Takao comes to mind, there were a lot of cute mob characters there.

using keiko as my example here, you can see that i pulled her features from multiple different characters to get her to look right in the style. with ocs, its important to reference a number of different characters, since the likelihood of a background character being a 1:1 for your little guy is unfortunately pretty low. there WILL, however, be a lot of characters that look KIND of like them. the key is to figure out what parts go where!

to this point, most prominent ososan women have very similar stock anime girl faces with very minor differences, so if youre looking to make a cute girl oc, most of the womens' faces can be used somewhat interchangeably. if you want your cute girl oc to have a more unique face, though, the movie gave us some women with more unique faces in the form of the NEETs' old classmates! theres also no harm in referencing male characters faces in this regard. #butchswag #kiruminikuya

BUT. going back to the assumption that you're drawing a canon character, today I'll be drawing oso for my example

when you're first getting a feel for the style, tracing some of your references can actually be a really great way to acclimate yourself to the characters proportions and features. think of like when you were a kid, and would trace over pictures of pokemon or cartoon characters so you could draw them better. its basically the same principle! this was especially helpful for me when it came to eyes; they vary the most wildly of any other trait that characters have in ososan, so going over the different shapes to get a feel for each of them was very important.

when you trace, though, I recommend doing so a bit more loosely, sort of like if you're doing a photo study for anatomy; block out the basic shapes and do small markers for different features (i.e small lines to denote where the eyes start and and, distance from nose to mouth, things like that), and from there draw the rest on your own.

after long enough you'll get a feel for the basic placement of where everything should go! the eyes and nose are undoubtedly the hardest when it comes to the sextuplets, since they shift around a LOT between games/seasons/etc. so don't feel bad if you have a hard time with that, since there isnt really a "right" answer with how frequently it changes. i still fuck it up all the time myself!

as for some basic tips, heres some stuff i try to keep in mind when drawing them that just helps the finished product look a bit nicer!

when drawing the hair + fringe line, its important to swoop it downwards a little bit; the flat across look Can work, but if you're not careful you risk showing the tops of their eyes, which is um. ew! ick! nast!

when a matsu is facing forward, their hair will usually tend towards one direction to keep the silhouette. in most screenshots i saw, the bowl cut points left! that said, dont be afraid to point rightwards if its better for your specific drawing!

and lastly: USE THE LIQUIFY TOOL. LIBERALLY. i am not joking when i say this has saved my ass so many times, its hard to get the placement right on the facial features and even harder to get everything to LOOK good, so if its available to you i HIGHLY suggest just squishing everything around with a liquify tool until it looks right. you can always go back and correct the blurry lines. its really a life saver

BUT YEAH! i dont know if this was very helpful but i hope you're at least able to gain something from it :-))

[lesbianpuppygirl]

Hi! Just wanted to say your yandere butch Dahl is so hot, I can't stop reading the little blurb you wrote, would you ever want to write another? (Had a crush on my old boss who was a butch lesbian at a crappy customer service job, legit got me through the first few months because i had eye candy at my work lmaooo) so I was obsessed the minute I read it! Love your work, your writing is great!!!

Thank you so much!! Your message is so sweet^^. So lucky to have a butch boss my goodness. I hope this is alright, I need to actually practice writing coherent stuff instead of just stream of consciousness lol.

Dahl is a very loving a devoted partner. She's dated around and had a couple of girlfriends in her life, but you're the first one she's felt a real connection with.

She has a tabby cat named Sweetie and a big mutt (sorta like a Newfoundland in terms of size) named Mocha. The critters are very sweet and warm up to you quickly; Mocha is a lazy cuddlebug and Sweetie's a little queen who surveys her domain from her cat tree.

In the beginning of your relationship, you're kept in her bedroom, though the chain around your ankle is long enough enough to reach the mini fridge, game consoles, books, and attached bathroom by yourself.

Dahl takes at least a week off of work when she takes you home, giving you time to acclimate to her and understand her better.

I imagine her around 15-20 years older than her darling.

Dahl understands why you're scared of her, but she can get a little impatient. She's already proven she can protect you, she's comfortable enough to provide for you, it shouldn't take you too long to accept her.

Dahl won't stop you from working, though she encourages you to pursue whatever career path of volunteering you want.

She enjoys using her strength to carry you around. Early on after she brings you home, she holds you in her lap at mealtimes and while relaxing, seeing it as a nice way to bond.

In Dahl's free time, she enjoys working out at the gym and playing fps style video games. 

Dahl loves taking care of you: packing lunches with little notes, bathing you and washing your hair, picking out clothing, and generally spoiling you rotten<3.

[ashlingiswriting]

do i know you? chapter nine

gifsource

[ chapter nine — 8.5k words ] [ masterlist ] [ prev chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight ] "i never fucking asked you to!" richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn

just outside your apartment building stands mikey, hunched against the wind and smoking. he gives you a friendly nod and you grant him a nod in response, guarded but polite.

you never know what you’ll get with this guy. he alternates between foul moods that verge on frightening and a brilliant good temper that tempts you to shine your phone in his eyes to see the confirmation of pinprick pupils. he has moderate nights, but they’re becoming rarer and rarer. 

still, his company beats the emptiness of your apartment. like a creature taken to a faraway zoo, you haven’t acclimated to your new environment in chicago, haven’t learned how to take this much loneliness; that’ll come later.

for now, you’re still standing on your separate little patches of sidewalk, familiar strangers engaged in tacit truce, when it comes flying out of nowhere.

fuck. 

mikey snarls it so savagely that you look over for threat assessment, just quick enough to catch him looking up at the pitiless hard sky, profile: once-broken nose, twisted mouth, adam’s apple. wild gleam of desperate dark eye, more startling than the snarl. sudden rage from a man is no surprise, but this one looks worse. this one looks caged. 

you can sympathize with that.

what? you say gruffly. 

his eyes shutter, his jaw pulses. nothing.

you shrug, turn away. resume the truce. 

in your peripheral, you can see him looking down and firing off a text. and you think that’s it, that’s all, but then he turns to you and says, you’re good at getting people to fuck off, yeah?

his voice is the voice of a friend, low and familiar, warm and a touch wry. his dark eyes the same. you’re looking at each other directly and it feels like a touch. 

a laugh startles out of you. you’ve been pretty direct about rejecting his attempts at conversation, belligerent, sweet, or otherwise. but here he goes again, trying, and you’re tempted.

mikey turns so he’s facing you, chucks his cigarette, and sticks his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his big gray hoodie. for some reason, that does it.

yeah, you say, i’m a world-class expert at getting people to fuck off. they should be giving me tenure, the way i could teach that shit.

then you’re the one i wanna talk to. 

you’ve got nobody else in this godforsaken city except patients and threats, and so it’s probably a side effect of loneliness, nothing to do with the man himself, but still: it feels good that somebody wants to talk to you.

you hesitate, fighting it. he exhales. 

who’s after you? you say. debt collector? ex?

my brother, actually. there’s an odd space, flicker grimace, between brother and actually. he’s not proud of this. again, you can sympathize.

why do you want your brother to fuck off?

he says nothing, rubs his shoe against a lump of hardened gum on the asphalt. ‘s complicated.

with that, your sympathy—never in abundant supply to begin with—goes down the drain. if he’s gonna play the whiny teenager, making you beg him for his deep dark secrets, fuck it. compassion isn’t your style anyway.

okay, you say flatly. you turn towards the street, keeping him in your periphery just in case. the silence grows heavy, but you ignore it. 

fuck it, he mutters. then, louder, it’s not that complicated. carmy’s the baby, and ma was always telling us to keep him out of trouble. i guess it stuck.

that’s such an innocuous way to put it, pulled from childhood. what about the rage from earlier, his trapped eyes? sense tells you to end things here. don’t be a trash bag for this man’s problems, whatever they are.

the thing is, though. it does feel good to have somebody talk to you like you’re a person. 

what’s the trouble? you say.

he sighs, settles in. you ever seen a house on fire? 

no, i’ve seen a helicopter on fire, but that’s…you look over at him, and you can tell it’s not the flames he’s talking about. no. you?

sort of. he pauses, and the silence is full enough that you know to wait for the coming story. so when i was little, i used to sneak down to the basement, right? i was supposed to be babysitting carmy and sugar, putting them to bed and all that good shit, but some nights i’d get bored. and they never got in much trouble without me.

they must’ve been pretty well-behaved kids, you say.

he laughs. he’s beautiful when he laughs, you can’t help but see it. not exactly.

i’m just saying, if my brother told me to stay anywhere, i would’ve been out the window by the time he’d gotten down the stairs. 

mikey gestures with his cigarette at exactly the wrong moment, and the wind snuffs out his cigarette, but he’s so caught up in his story, he doesn’t even notice.

nah, i knew how to play it. sugar was going through this phase where she was fixated on us taking her seriously, so she loved the responsibility. and what was carmy gonna do about it? he was like five. he smiles, remembering. so anyway, before i would go down there, i’d put on my little light up sneakers, cause the stairs to the basement were dark and scary. 

you find yourself smiling too. you can picture it. 

and my mom would be down there in the dark, watching the tv, sitting in my dad’s old chair. she was usually drunk or sleeping, but sometimes i think she noticed i was there with her and she was okay with it. or, i don’t know. he laughs, short and sharp. she definitely never changed the channel on account of me. i saw all kinds of crazy shit on tv before i was twelve. 

mikey pauses, then looks to you. what the fuck am i even talking about? there’s no real embarrassment in it, only appealing self-deprecation.

it works on you. you do want to know where this is going. house fire.

house fire, he echoes, pointing at you. okay, so one time i’m sitting on the floor next to dad’s chair, leaning on it, and i fall asleep. i wake up to this woman screaming. at first i think it’s real, but then i realize it’s from the tv, right? there’s a house on fire. the whole neighborhood is standing there watching, and there’s this old woman screaming, but they don’t look sorry for her. and after a second i figure out what she’s saying. she’s screaming at the firefighters to go in. and i didn’t get it, like, why is no one listening to her?

it scared him, you think. it must have. someone was in there?

i don’t know, i never found out, mikey says. mom woke up, and she saw that i was freaked out, so she got super fuckin angry and, uh. made me go to bed and all that. standing there and holding a cold cigarette, he looks tired. but when i was walking to the stairs, the woman stopped screaming. so i looked back and i saw on the tv that the house was gone. the whole thing collapsed. the roof must’ve caved in.

the silence lingers, then mikey looks across at you like a question. why should it matter whether you understand? why should you care? but your heart is in your throat.

it was right for the firefighters to stay outside, because if they’d gone in, they would have died. the roof was always going to crumble. whatever was inside the house, it was already gone.

you think you understand. so you’re inside the house. 

nah, mikey says, i’m the house. 

.

.

.

in the aftermath of christmas eve—gold chain, two generations, soup—christmas itself passes quietly without hurting much. 

save for a handful of texts, completely unexpected. 

> what’s the fastest way to infect people with food poisoning?

richie, of course. you don’t even bother to play coy by letting a few minutes elapse, like you had something better to do. he wouldn’t be fooled by that. he already knows better.

> it’s that bad?

> not fatal food poisoning, just the regular kind.

> it’s that bad? x2

> i think if we all threw up a lot we’d be having more fun.

> you want me to fake an emergency? pull a fire alarm, stage a bomb threat? i’ll drive the getaway car.

> your mind jumps to terrorism way too fast. you’re just looking for an excuse, aren’t you.

> seriously. 

> you’re the third guy. it’s al qaeda, then isis, then you.

> seriously, get out of there. come get an unfrozen burrito, if you’re hungry.

no reply. not even three dots to show he’s drafting. with your left hand, you drum a nervous beat on your kitchen table, and with your right, you send another text.

> you can bring sugar and carmy with you.

and there they are, those three dots. you don’t know if you’re more worried about what will happen if he takes up your offer, or what will happen if he turns it down. you don’t talk about carmy to richie, though richie talks about carmy to you. he knows that. you like tina and you don’t mind his other coworkers, but you avoid the berzattos like the plague. richie knows that too. your reasons are your own, but if it really comes down to it—

> it’s fine. all the people i want to save wouldn’t fit in the car anyway.

relief. yeah, that’s relief, and you feel a little guilty for it, but it’s just easier this way: you in the kitchen and no one else. 

> you have jumper cables in your trunk, don’t you? just tie pete to the top of the car like a christmas tree

> like i’d bring pete.

> cold hearted, that’s what you are.

nothing. no typing, no read 7:12pm, nothing at all. after fifteen minutes, you give up and toss your phone on your bed. drink your tea, though it has gone cold. try not to think about whatever’s happening in that other kitchen. try not to think about how close by it is, or how far. 

.

.

.

the day after christmas, you’re so busy thinking about richie that you almost deliver yourself to the feds on accident.

walking to your boss’s house without an invitation is never a good idea, doubly so when your boss deals his displeasure in blood, but after so long without pay, work, and news about your carbon monoxide poisoning patients, you’re desperate. the idea is that you’ll barter your knowledge of howie and kevin’s stupid shenanigans in exchange for information. maybe you’ll even ask for severance pay.

that’s why you’re thinking of richie. you’re trying to keep calm, and he’s something to look forward to. you wonder how he’s doing ice fishing with carmy. will they get frostbite? maybe. will they catch anything? doubtful. will they end up shouting? definitely. will—

you’re just about to take a left onto the caruso’s street when you see it: about nine or ten houses down, there’s a gaggle of suburban moms gawking at the caruso house, and beyond them, cop cars. 

this is it.

your stomach drops, and you look away immediately, heartbeat going full jackhammer about to drill through your concrete chest. keep walking straight, past the scene. you only got one glance before the instinct to flee kicked in, but you’re pretty sure that the cops were carrying heavy cardboard boxes out to their cars. you’re not worried about what evidence they might find—tweety bird wouldn’t let contraband be stored in her pantry, not in a million years—but you are worried that the cops were all a matched set. the navy windbreakers? that’s fed fashion. that’s.

yeah. this is it.

when you get on the bus, some part of you is surprised the driver even allows it. the end’s not here, but it is coming. only a matter of time. 

.

.

.

as you get off one bus and get on another, taking a circuitous route in a useless effort to try and allay the feeling of being hunted, your dread coalesces into nausea, the kind you get when a headache or period cramps are left untended too long. it’s physical. you focus on the fraying cuff of your hoodie, and all you want to do is lie down.

you’ve expected the world to end for a long time, so you know exactly what to do. you’ve done research. you’ve imagined it all in excruciating detail, and you’re not bothered by the unknown, except for richie.

richie’s the one unknown. imagining the end of the world with him was so unbearable that you could never force yourself to go through with the exercise of imagining it, and you kept him at arm’s length just enough to pretend that the end of the world would somehow leave him untouched. now that shit’s real, you can’t pretend anymore. when it comes to richie, you’ll be flying blind. you could kick yourself. you could k—

your work phone rings. it’s your landlady. you ignore it, but she rings again and again and again. finally, she texts you.

> please come up to the office as soon as you can. we have discovered irregularities with your october and november payments, and unless this is fixed soon, we’ll have to explore our legal options.

your landlady was not the one who typed that message. if she’d been the one typing, it would’ve looked something like get your ass up here, give or take a few typos.  

so yeah, there’s cops after you. this is it.

.

.

.

when you call your brother from a newly purchased burner phone, he answers immediately. what’s up?

it’s julie.

okay, he says very flatly. one nice thing about your family: minimum talking, minimum fuss. he doesn’t say a thing about the years past. he just repeats, what’s up?

i’m probably going to prison for a while, you say.

how long? 

should i be insulted that you’re not surprised?

he says nothing. you don’t know what you expected, really, but you hate that you’ve become the talkative one. 

stifling your annoyance, you say, like ten years max? it’s not like i killed someone, but i’m in with some assholes. i don’t know, i haven’t talked to a lawyer yet. 

silence on the other end. 

you pinch the bridge of your nose, nausea swelling. you can picture him, your one and only sibling, even though you know the picture must be outdated: broad-shouldered like you are, annoying, tall, decked out in some kind of colorless athleisure and the eternal baseball cap, slanted eyes narrowed even more than usual in judgment and exasperation.

are you there? you finally say.

you need bail? he says abruptly.

god, you want so badly to give him a shove, knock the stiffness out of him. no. no money. not from you, not from mom, not from anyone. that’s why i’m calling. if anyone finds out about this, just keep them out of it, yeah?

yeah. 

that’s where you should shut up, unless you want feelings leaking into it, but today’s a day of helplessness and this conversation is no exception. 

you say, a little desperate, i don’t want anyone near this one.

i got it, pebbles. with his particular mix of sardonic affection and condescension, the fog around you lifts, and there he is standing in front of you. you can see him clearly: pissed off at you now and probably forever, but still family. not much. but not nothing.

suck my dick, you say, awash with relief.

he snorts. and adieu.

you hang up on each other at exactly the same time.

.

.

.

i’m not telling you that. 

you’ve worn your lawyer down to a thin veneer of professionalism through which her palpable annoyance has begun to show. and you’re not even sorry. it gives you a certain satisfaction, a sense of getting your own back—her steely, emotionless affect was getting on your nerves before. 

you put all your remaining money into her retainer check because she’s not just a lawyer, but an effective one, according to your research. so it shouldn’t matter that you don’t know what she thinks of you. shouldn’t matter, but it does. you want to know her judgment, one way or another. maybe it’s because this is the first time you’ve told the full story to anyone. 

or at least, as close as you’re ever gonna get to the full story.

i’ve already explained confidentiality to you, she says. 

i already knew that you’re not gonna snitch on me unless i’m about to commit another crime, you say. but i’m still not telling you. 

all right. let me get this straight. she spreads her hands out flat on her desk, and her wedding band clacks against the dark wood. there’s not a strand of her gray hair out of place, and her brown eyes have lost their annoyance. back to professionalism. disappointing. you’re here because you believe you witnessed federal agents bagging evidence at your employer’s house, and you believe your employer has been arrested. your employer is giovanni caruso—

hold up, you interrupt. giovanni? that’s his name?

you call him old caruso, son’s name is jack, there’s a limited number of organized crime families in the area and i happen to be acquainted with that landscape, generally speaking.

you snort. that’s so fucking funny. 

if your lawyer finds you more annoying than before, she doesn’t show it. you have been working for caruso for over a year and a half in an off the books capacity as a doctor. you received biweekly payments to be on call between the hours of eight in the evening and eight in the morning, and during that time, you treated multiple gunshot wounds and other injuries, including broken bones, stab wounds, and carbon monoxide poisoning. while your clients were cautioned not to tell you their names or explain how they received their injuries, you do feel that you know enough information to be of interest to the police. you are not willing to testify.

on account of not wanting to die, yes, you say, adopting a professional tone to exactly match hers, dangerously close to mocking. you’re being an asshole for a reason. she’s tried to persuade you to testify before, and you don’t want her to try it again.

she continues unperturbed. you have been threatened with violence on multiple occasions to that end, sometimes with a weapon. so far, understandable. 

now the lawyer spreads her hands out on the desk in a summary gesture. 

now all of this is not necessarily as dire a predicament as you thought when you said you might ‘get ten years’. if you had proof you were coerced, i could get your sentence reduced even more, but as things stand this seems like a set of offenses that would land you around two or three years, five at the worst. you do have a medical license, so they can’t get you on practicing without. you never directly participated in any of the presumably violent crimes leading to the injuries, and you never procured the drugs and medical supplies yourself. other than the payments to your bank account, there’s not much of a paper trail because you took no notes, used neither laptop nor smartphone—yeah, you didn’t tell her about the michael and richie phone, because that would require telling her about michael and richie—and cycled through burner phones instead. so again, it will be hard for them to nail you on specifics, unless they have multiple witnesses.

i sense a ‘but’ coming, you say.

but i need to understand why you got into this in the first place.

with that, you snap. it’s been a day, and she’s using the words of a counselor with the expression of a robot. why the fuck do you care?

ma’am, she says, that glimmer of irritation just barely showing, you are paying me to defend you. i would rather not enter that fight with one hand tied behind my back. 

you’re an idiot.

of course she doesn’t care about whether you’re good or bad, clever or stupid. there’s no judgment to be had. all she cares about is how defensible you are. you really are an idiot, and you’re so relieved.

with that, it flows freely.

i fucked up, you say. i was a resident at ui—university of illinois—and i was on my second to last year, everything was good. but then the carusos tried to blackmail me into getting them the medical files of one of my patients, so i freaked out and quit. it’s hard to convey to her just how much your world ended, without sounding melodramatic. in the end, you keep it brief. i burned all my bridges. but then i had no job and nothing else to do, and they knew it. shit happened, and now here we are. 

she doesn’t hesitate. caruso tried to blackmail you with what?

no. that’s all, that’s it. she only gets the one word.

i can’t do my job if you’re being obstructionist.

i’m not tell you that—i’m not telling fucking anyone that. i’d rather go walk onto state street bridge and blow my brains out. there’s no way she knows what you’re talking about, but some of it must creep into your voice, because she does stop for a moment and think before pressing you again, this time with a slightly milder tone.

is it sex, violence, or money? she says.

none of the above. some money was involved, but not more than a month of rent. 

you paid, or someone else paid?

all right, that’s it. you charge by the hour, right? you say.

in your current arrangement, yes.

well, the retainer’s all i got. so. you pat your hands on her desk in a brisk, final gesture. i’m gonna fuck off now, you have a think, and then tomorrow i’m gonna swing by and you can tell me what i need to know about turning myself in. in the meantime, i’m gonna go get a burrito. 

for a split second, you think she’s going to argue with you, and you can pinpoint the exact moment when she resigns herself to having an unreasonably stubborn client.

you do that, she says.

as far as you’re concerned, she got the whole story. it ends with prison, the way it was always going to end. it starts the way it was always going to start too: you fucked up.

.

.

.

so you’re inside the house. 

nah, mikey says. i’m the house.

he immediately goes digging in the pocket of his sweatpants to get his lighter, refusing to look at you. the shame is how you know this is real.

it hits you then: he’s the one you want to talk to. you distrusted him before because he was so transparently on the brink of falling apart, but now you can see that that’s just something you have in common. you’re the house. you’re the fucking house. and here he is, someone who knows what that feels like, and there’s nothing else between you. what are the chances? 

what about you, mikey says, relighting his cigarette. do you have any younger siblings, or is it just the one? 

the question comes unexpected, and you realize that he knows you have an older brother—that you’ve talked about your family, that you’ve been drawn in that much and that easily. 

just the one, you manage to say.

ping, goes a little notification sound, and there it is, saved by the bell. he gets out his phone, and you point at it.

what? he says.

i got good news and bad news.

he looks back down at his phone, grimaces at the text, then puts it away. okay. what’s the good news?

you can’t help yourself. who asks for the good news first?

he shrugs, smiles, wide open and easy. i do.

for a second, you’re both smiling at each other. but then comes your next words.

good news is, i haven’t spoken to my family since 2019. when you say it like that, you can almost make it sound like something to be proud of. so. i really am the one you want to talk to.

shit, mikey says, looking at you. 

it’s the first time you’ve thrown him off kilter, and you enjoy it. 

you really are the one i want to talk to. he switches his cigarette from his right hand to his left so he can shake yours. i’m mikey.

his hand is callused and cold, but his grip is firm. it doesn’t feel perfunctory. it skitters electricity up your arm that you promptly ignore.

i know, you say.

his smile is harder to ignore. you never said what your name was, though. 

you only vaguely remember rebuffing him the first time you both smoked outside together. it feels so far away now.

julie, you say. you only realize that you gave him your real name once it’s too late to take it back. his hand is warm, engulfing yours. 

good to meet you, julie. 

likewise.

he lets go first.

you wanna hit me with the bad news? he says.

you stick your hands in your coat pockets. bad news is: if you want him gone, you have to want him gone. you say you want him gone, but you’re still texting the kid. what’s he supposed to think?

so you’re saying i should block him? you can tell from mikey’s voice that he already hates the idea.

i’m saying you already know what to do.

i don’t! he’s almost laughing, like the whole thing is so desperate, it’s funny.

yes you fucking do, you say. you just haven’t ended it because you don’t actually think things are over for you. there’s a chance that you wake up a different person tomorrow, and that’s enough reason to postpone the end of the world, right? 

he’s not laughing now. he’s not angry, either. the whole weight of his attention is on you, and he’s gone so perfectly motionless, you know you’ve hit bullseye. yeah. you really are the one he wants to talk to.

so, you say, the reason you want your brother to fuck off is not because you think you’re gonna sink to the bottom of the ocean and drag him down with you. it’s because you don’t want him to watch you floundering around, gasping for air, trying to survive. cause it’s fucking embarrasing.

okay, he says slowly, so you think i’m, what. being dramatic? it’s not a rhetorical question. he’s locked in, he’s really asking. you think the house isn’t on fire here?

you lift your shoulders an inch, wound tight, focused. honest, but not only honest. trying hard to say it right so he understands.

i don’t know you, you say. i don’t know the situation. all i’m saying is, if it’s only shame, then you’ll stay floundering in the in-between forever, fuckin miserable, never in and never out. 

mikey is listening so intently, you think maybe he does hear you. maybe he does understand.

and, you know. don’t do that, you say. just let the kid in, if it’s shame. it’ll hurt, but it won’t kill you. 

what if it’s not shame? mikey says. what if the house is on fire?

you hesitate. you love him? 

he’s my brother. there’s years in his voice, decades. you can hear every second of them, and all you can do is nod. 

yeah, you say. look away. take one last drag on your cigarette, then snuff it out before it can burn you. chuck it in the makeshift ashtray, and throw away your empty cigarette box too.

wordlessly, mikey passes his to you. you’re used to menthols, not whatever the fuck these are, but you take it because he offered. the taste is his, and the slow exhale. 

 is watching you, but before you can gather up enough courage to look back—he’s close now, which makes looking at him feel like a risk—his phone goes off and you try to tell yourself that that feeling is relief. 

this fuckin guy, he mutters, then types a reply.

you smile to yourself over the rough affection in his voice. a private smile, all yours. you’ve lost track of time out here with him, and you’ve got no desire to find it again.

carmy’s not giving up, huh, you say. 

what? it takes a second for his mind to catch up. oh, that’s not carmy. that was richie.

he’s so funny. you know you just say random names sometimes like i already know who they are? 

richie’s my best friend, he explains.

and are you shaking him off too? you’re aware that this is a lot to ask, and you want the answer precisely because it’s a lot to ask.

to your surprise, mikey laughs. 

richie? no. he holds out his hand, and you pass the cigarette back to him. richie’s not a guy you can shake off. his wife’s been trying to leave him for like a year, but he keeps hanging on. he’s that kind of guy. 

you attempt to withhold the judgment from your voice when you repeat, for a year? 

he shrugs. on and off, but it takes two to tango. it’ll work out.

okay, companionship only goes so far, no matter how much you like mikey. you’re not about to stand here and let a man tell you that keeping a woman in a marriage against her will is a good fucking thing.

it takes two to tango, but it only takes one to leave, you say. and i bet she has her reasons. 

look, whatever she has, richie’s not a quitter, mikey says. fuck, i couldn’t shake the guy if i had a gun to his head.

you smoke in stony silence, thinking to yourself that this richie sounds like an absolute fucking nightmare. for a while, your thoughts and mikey’s veer off on such diverging paths that you’re almost about to make your excuses and go back upstairs, the feeling of camaraderie gone. and then.

hey, mikey says. there’s an odd note to his voice, nearly gentle. how did you shake your family, can i ask? what did you do? 

you look over at him and hold that look for a long moment, fighting the urge to swallow.

there’s a lot you can give to mikey, and you’ll find out just how much in the coming year. but that. you’ll never give him that.

instead, you give him what you think he needs, what you’ve turned over and over in your mind during so many sleepless nights: the conclusion you finally came to, long ago.

you gotta make absolutely sure the house is on fire, you say. because if you’re not, if you leave your brother and live on, then you’ve done something unforgivable and you’re not even dead enough to escape.

.

.

.

there’s only one more thing you need to do before you turn yourself in, and despite the overwhelming urge to duck it—be a coward, find a way—you force yourself to walk all the way to richie’s apartment building. the exercise is supposed to wear you out, take some of the fight out of you, but it fails. now you’re just waiting for him with sore legs and recurring nausea.

you don’t have to wait long. one second, you’re grimly watching the smoke from your cigarette drifting upwards, and then there’s a flicker of motion down the street. you look, and there he is. richie’s coming towards you in long strides, his hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, a man on a mission. he’s clearly spotted you.

hey, he calls, when he’s still stupidly far away. what’s going on?

it’s okay, you want to say, but the words won’t come. as much as you’ve kept hidden from richie, you don’t like lying to him much. so you just put out your cigarette in case you need to leave quickly, and you wait.

when richie finally reaches you, he’s evidently curious, but you speak first.

how was ice fishing? 

not too bad, weirdly enough. he settles in and lights himself a cigarette before continuing. maybe he’s under the illusion that this is one of your normal companionable nights, just happening in a different location. turns out carmy still sleeps better in a moving car, so i actually drove the long way home and i think it did him some good.

feels like it did richie some good too. he tried to take care of somebody and for once, it worked. you’re glad. he needed it, after that hell of a christmas.

you can sense his weary contentment, and you know you’re about to ruin it.

that’s good, you say quietly, and at the same time, richie says, what?

looking up into his face, your heart sinks right along with your hopes. his blue eyes are sharp enough. 

goddammit, but he’s caught on. he knows something isn’t right, and you’re not asshole enough to try and claw back an ease that’s gone for good.

i gotta go away for a while, you manage to say.

how long is a while? he says, uneasy.

you can’t do this.

hey, he says, a little softer, and you have to look away. you shouldn’t have even come. you shouldn’t have even fucking come. five minutes with him, and you’re already fighting to keep your face under control. 

can we go upstairs? it’s fucking cold. you feel exposed, visible to anyone who might drive by, and you can’t shake the rising urge to hide.

yeah, richie says. yeah, we can go upstairs. it’s not that cold out compared to your countless nights spent outside together, and he knows it, but he just opens the door for you.

.

.

.

the elevator ride is long and painful. you can practically smell the worry coming off him in waves, festering, so you don’t make him wait. as soon as his apartment door is shut and locked behind you, you say, how long i’m away kinda depends on the prosecutor. 

you, uh. he runs a hand over his mouth, thinking. fuck. what are the charges? 

we’ll see. i, uh, i have this feeling there’s feds involved. tomorrow i’m going to turn myself in. 

fuck, he says again, hard. he runs his hand from his forehead back over his skull, then just stands there for a second, head half bowed and hand gripping the back of his neck. you want to comfort him, but shouldn’t. you want to run, but can’t. 

instead, you take this opportunity to get in one last long stare. richie is the same as ever. his hair is dark and close-cut, his beard too. his eyebrows are scant, and there’s a ridge on his forehead as if to make up for it. his nose is straight and straightforward. there are bags under his eyes, because of course there are, but his eyes themselves are as blue as summer, so blue they’re barely believable. that’s him, that’s his face.

then there’s the eternal black leather jacket, oversized and complete with unnecessary shoulder straps for all the bags he’ll never carry. he smells faintly of smoke. he’s allowing you to stare at him, an indulgence that you can’t question without being a dick. he makes you want to not be a dick. all this is here, all this is real. 

richie says, what can i do?

he looks at you, and though his voice is subdued, you can tell he’s dead serious. thank god. you thought you’d have to beg for it, but here he is, offering. you really want to know?

he nods once, tight. anything. 

that one hurts, because he knows just how much a person can ask of him, and he’s standing there offering it anyway. 

i want you to stay out of it. 

dead silence. a muscle tics in his jaw. why?

i don’t want to make things messy. i don’t want to cause trouble, and there’s—you try to eke out a laugh, downplay it. but your laugh is raw and you can tell in his eyes that you’ve only made things worse.  there’s some fuckin trouble in this.

okay. he digs out his phone, swipes a couple times, and then points at the round blue logo of the jpay app. you see this? his voice is tight. i don’t know what makes you think you’re so special, but this isn’t the first time i’ve had a friend catch a charge and it probably won’t be the last. so you don’t need to look so freaked out, you’re not gonna infect me. i’m fine. i can help. 

fucking richie. the one night you need him to be unreasonable, and here he is making arguments, using logic and shit. exasperated, you try to argue your way out of this.

you were dealing coke just a few months ago.

richie scoffs. so what?

fak found out about that, didn’t he? you give him a look. fak, richie. fak. fucking—

he raises both hands, palms spread in irritation, voice rising. would you stop saying fak? 

irresistible. fak. 

i don’t—

come on.

okay. he gestures widely, in an exaggerated motion used to indicate he’s the sole light of reason in a dark world of total bullshit. maybe i've been exaggerating a little. maybe fak’s not the worst guy in the world. i mean, he can be a lot. clingy, sure. but a snitch? nah. he told carmy, but carmy’s not a cop, so that's different. it’s fine. we’re fine.

i'm just saying. if fak knows and carmy knows, other people probably know too.

it’s not even relevant, richie says. so i moved a little weight, who cares?

look, i’m not trying to be a dick, but i don’t think the cops were were hunting that hard for you. if they start digging into me, that’s gonna change. cause i’m not a snitch either, and i know they’re gonna want me to flip, so they’ll leverage whatever against me, and… yeah, you can tell he’s not finding this convincing. a bad feeling is growing in the pit of your stomach. just get it over with. 

there’s one surefire way to make him flinch, and you push that launch button, voice casual.

you helped michael get painkillers too, right? you say. 

takes a second, but he finally admits, yeah. i knew a guy.

michael was not keeping it neat and tidy, you know what i mean? it takes so much effort to seem this careless. but it works. he looks a bit more like he should—guarded, almost suspicious. 

what are you saying?

i’m saying i knew he was using within a month of meeting him. and. you can tell you’ve hurt him a little, but still, your arguments aren’t working, your wild swings aren’t working, he’s not listening to you, nd desperation wells up in you. is there nothing you can do? just, can you please stay out of this. you didn’t mean to say please, but it burst out of you. i don’t know what’s gonna go down, and i just want everyone clear of this. i know they’re coming for me, i know i’ll lose, and i don’t—i don’t want you anywhere near it all. 

richie is silent for a moment, thinking hard.

you rub your thumb over your wristbone. can we just…

what’s your plan? he says. that’s what i wanna know. like, you’re not fighting here, and i don’t get it. what happens after you turn yourself in? you’re not gonna get a deal if you don’t talk, so what? you’re just gonna sit there and take the twenty-five to life? 

twenty-five to life? you echo. richie, what the fuck do you think i did?

after one long moment of the both of you staring at each other, he hums a little james bond. 

your face lifts into a wide, incredulous smile. you think i’m. he does. he absolutely does, look at him. you could kiss him. you could shake him. you start to laugh.

his face twists like he just got pinched hard. no, i—what do i know, man, i don't know that much about the law or whatever, i just—

twenty-five to life!

—don't get fucking offended, okay?

i'm not offended.

i'm just a well-read guy with a very active imagination, and maybe i got a little carried away, but—

his shoulders are up by his ears, he’s so defensive.

richie, you say firmly. i'm not mad.

what? there he is. finally listening. eyes looking directly at you, electric blue, raw current.

you hold that silence a little longer than you need to, just to feel it. then, deliberately giving each word its own due weight, you say, you thought i’d killed somebody, and you were gonna help me?

richie shrugs helplessly.

i thought you had your reasons, he says. i always think you have your reasons.

that shakes you to the core. 

goodwill, you already knew you had his goodwill. but faith? jesus. you’re the last person on earth that anyone should believe in, but richie doesn’t know how wrong he is and you can’t tell him, so you just to stand there under the weight of his belief and try not to crumble. at this point, prison would be a fucking mercy.

you have to get out of here.

it'll be five years at worst, you say. your voice sounds strange even to your own ears, but you keep going. the feds will be shaking me like a fruit tree hoping some juicy information tumbles down, but everything i did was pretty boring. you think of the factory, the bodies laid out like so many logs. nonviolent, anyway.

doesn’t seem very james bond to me, he says you fuckin drama queen.

bottom line, you say, the thing is enough of a mess already, so just let me do my time and we can hang out after. i don't want you anywhere near this. you start heading for the door. i gotta go anyways, i have—

you serious? he cuts in, suppressed and flat. warning bells are going off in your head, but you walk on.

dead fucking serious, you say, unlocking the front door. i don’t even want anyone to know that we’ve met. 

dead silence, and then, richie says, well maybe you don’t get a fucking choice.

you turn and meet his eyes. there it is again, that stomach-churning nausea that you thought you’d managed to quell. the plummeting feeling of having no control. it stops you in your tracks. 

what? you say.

i mean, i’m not going anywhere, so fucking deal with it? the life has come back to his voice, and with it, all the anger. his blue eyes are sparking with it, he’s gesturing, he’s gathering momentum, and you try to stop him but you already know it’s useless.

richie—

look, i don't run when things get bad, i’m not that guy. i’m here. he smacks one hand into another. like i’m in it. that's the whole fucking point.

the point of what?

you know what i’m trying to say.

the point of what, richie? 

his face twists. oh, don't do that. don't do that thing where you act like you know everything that goes on in my head.

but i fucking do, though. 

yeah, well i fucking hate it.

if you hate it so much then why did you give it to me then? 

his voice goes higher. i'm not just gonna drop you!

i am literally begging you to drop me. somehow, you’ve crossed the room, you’re up in his face and he’s not backing down and the words are flying so thick and fast as you talk over each other that you can barely make out yours, much less his. i want you to drop me, i specifically—i did so much shit so that you could drop me, i was so fucking careful—

i never asked you to!

i got rid of my phones and i stuck to my rules and—

i never fucking asked you to!

if you get involved, it's gonna be fucking awful and it won't help, it won't even help, if that's what you think—

i can help! i'm not, fucking useless, like. you guys always—

that one, you hear. you guys?

why don't you ever fucking talk to me? he says, like the words are getting torn out of him. 

who the fuck do you think you’re talking to right now? for a second, you just look at each other. breathing hard. when you finally speak, your voice is quieter. richie, you are the only person i ever fucking talk to. but it doesn’t matter. there’s nothing anyone can do.

i don't believe you.

you don’t know how to get around that. after a beat, you say, okay, what is it, richie. cruel. what is it you're gonna do that's gonna help. you asked me to explain my plan, now it’s your turn. you tell me how you’re gonna help me with this. 

fucking…he looks up for a second, and then back at you. i know what you’re doing. 

you don’t even know what the fuck you’re doing at this point, but the way he’s looking at you is frightening. you could almost believe that he knows. and honestly, you don’t want to find out.

what am i doing, you say.

.

.

.

he turns and walks away, towards the bed. after a second’s hesitation, you follow. he sits down on the bed so he can crank open the window, light up, and smoke out of it. you stay standing. you really don’t know why you haven’t left yet. you were supposed to ages ago.

sit down, he says.

fuck you. 

fucking sit down.

no. 

jesus. he exhales, slow. you can see him settling a little. do you know why carmy was opening the tomato cans?

what is this, storytime?

patiently, he repeats, do you know why carmy was opening the tomato cans.

to make spaghetti.

he points at you. exactly. but the reason he was making spaghetti is cause he’d just gotten mikey’s note. deep breath. this isn’t a story he’s happy to tell you. see, mikey had left him this note on the back of a the spaghetti recipe, but i—i didn’t give it to carmy until there was this day. syd and marcus were gone. shit had gotten bad.

i remember, you murmur.

i was in the front, and i heard people yelling fire, so i came running into the kitchen and carmy was watching it all burn. just standing there. not moving. his eyes were open, but it was like he was asleep. 

and that’s why you gave him the note?

yeah. i know i should’ve done it before. but. 

he looks up at you, and you can see him appealing to you for some kind of mercy. maybe comfort. this is the thing he’s ashamed of. you understand that, you understand him, you understand shame better than anyone else, and there’s a sick comfort in it, knowing he’s that much more like you. at least he was able to change course in the end. you never did.

you don’t tell him that, though, because you’ve realized something else.

this is the thing he’s ashamed of, which makes it usable.

so i’m carmy, in your off-base and condescending metaphor, you say, callous. you're gonna come and save me? you're gonna put the fire out.

his eyes darken. no, you're not carmy.

no?

you're mikey.

fuck you. 

so fucking selfish, he says bitterly. it’s as close to hate as you’ve ever heard from him. but you’ve gone so far, you’re not stopping now.

richie, what the fuck do you want from me?

you know what i want! his voice goes quiet when he adds, did really you think there’s anything that could keep me away from you for five fucking years?

you know what he means.

can’t put words to it, can’t accept it, can’t fucking bear it—won’t—but you do know, you know exactly what he’s trying to say to you, what he’s trying to give.

you don’t deserve it, but it’s not for you anyways, it's for michael. it's all for michael, and it would be beautiful if it wasn't such a fucking waste to love a man when he's dead. richie’s gonna throw everything he has onto the fire in the hope that it will quench the flames. that just makes it his pyre, but he’ll never see it. 

okay, you say. my turn at storytime. 

you sit down next to him on the bed, accept his cigarette. take a drag, then lean on the wide wooden sill as you breathe smoke out into the cold. lull him into it. relax his guard. 

you thought you inherited me, right? you say. conversational. no heat. you were gonna take care of me for him, that was the plan. i’m mikey.

that’s not what i meant.

you have it backwards, is the thing. you can feel yourself sinking into it, talking like you have time, matter of fact, cruelty showing at the edges. like you’re an entirely different person, which is, of course, your goal. michael didn’t give a shit about me. i was just there. i was just a woman who happened to be conveniently close by, and lonely, and he fucked me. and that was fine, that was convenient for me too, but he got worse and it got out of hand. he got hard to be around. i found out he’d started stealing from me, so i broke up with him. he found a way to get back into my apartment anyways, and he guessed the code to my safe and stole pretty much everything. so i told him tina shouldn’t call me for help next time he overdosed. i told him he could finally die, for all i cared. and he did.

you’re looking at the sheets. you’re still able to talk, somehow. you feel numb, detached, like you’re watching yourself say it. 

the only reason you know me is because i felt guilty. i was gonna take care of you for him, that was the plan, but now this is getting out of hand and i’m fucking done with it. so here goes. it wasn’t just money he stole out of my safe. go take a look in the police report. i’d bet my life that there was a sig p365 in his hand when they found him. that was mine. i’m the reason he’s dead. you want to be loyal to someone? be loyal to him.

you crush the cigarette against the fake wood of the headboard. ash falls on his pillow.

playtime’s over. stay the fuck away from me.

this time when you leave, he doesn’t stop you.

.

.

.

on the train, hollowed out and swaying, you are approached by an elderly woman. her eyes are rheumy, concerned.

are you okay? she says. 

hm? 

you’re shaking.

you look down at your hands in your lap. she’s right. 

there’s nothing else to say. 

.

.

.

[ next chapter ] [ masterlist ]

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a huge thank you to all readers.

taglist: @garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1, @eternallyvenus, @cerial-junkie, @jackierose902109, @shinebright2000, @scorpiolystoned, @fancyvoidtragedy, @justficsandstuff, @fromirkwood — if anyone else wants to be tagged, let me know.

[bullet-prooflove]

Red Rag - Nick Torres x Reader

Tagging: @brownskinbaby22 @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond @divergent146 @delightfulbelieverwerewolf @@kotlclover2021 @@kgkslgohogkdlslgk @lapricot @stxrryswvrld @whateversomethingbruh

It’s well known that Nick Torres and Dale Sawyer don’t get on.

Sawyer’s arrogant, ambitious and a complete dick.

Despite his reputation as a lone wolf Nick is actually a pack animal. He’s fiercely protective of his team, of his place in the hierarchy. It’s taken him a long time to acclimate but now that he’s settled, he’ll do anything to defend his position. He knows that Sawyer is gunning for it, he has been since he made the move onto this floor.

Despite his shortfalls Sawyer is actually a good agent. He’s observant, detail orientated. That’s how he realises that things have changed between you and Nick. There’s always been a little something there, the two of you have known each other a long time. It’s not unusual to see you together.

It’s the body language, he realises. Nick lingers in your proximity these days, he smiles more, there’s a look in his eyes when he meets your gaze that Sawyer would never have associated with Nick Torres.

Sawyer catches a lucky break when the day shift ask him to go undercover as a cage fighter. The plan is for him and Torres to fight one another in hopes of meeting the brains behind the outfit. Torres has the undercover experience, so he’s been designated the winner.

It rankles Sawyer just a little. He’s younger, fitter than the other man. He just hasn’t had the opportunity to prove himself yet. He considers Torres a loose cannon, unworthy of the position he’s acquired. He’s had problems with alcohol in the past, he’s sober now apparently, has been over a year but it’s not the mark of a good agent. He’s the weak link in the team, the one Sawyer has to unbalance if he wants a spot on the day shift and he knows just the way to do it.

The case is an important one, there’s national security at stake so Director Vance is there to oversee their initial training session. They’re supposed to be choreographing the fight, figuring out each other’s fighting styles. Torres keeps it controlled to Sawyer’s surprise, the stories he’s heard about Torres is that he’s a brawler. Sawyer knows he needs to hit the nuclear button if he wants to show the Director that he’s got what it takes to succeed.

Torres’s fighting style is aggressive, Sawyer telegraphs his moves carefully. When Nick swings in for a body blow, he captures his arm, whipping him around so his back is pressed against Sawyer’s chest, Sawyer’s arm locks around the other agent’s throat. The two of them grapple for a minute before Sawyer hisses.

“I fucked her too you know?”

It’s like waving a red rag in front of a bull.

Torres snaps, his left elbow jabbing right into his solar plexus. It winds Sawyer for a second but that second is all Torres needs to turn the tables. He’s on him in an instant, that raw anger contorting his features as he lashes out, punching Sawyer in the face again and again. He’s lucky he’s wearing the headguard, because every single one of those punches would have done some serious damage.

Its McGee that pulls Torres off him, the Director getting in between the two of them forcing them apart. Sawyer complies immediately, backing off, his eyes on Torres as he wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He can see the fire in the other man, the tension in his jaw and he knows without a doubt if MeGee didn’t have hands on him, Torres would come at him again.

“Save it for the ring.” Director Vance snaps, jabbing his finger at Torres. “You’re going to need it.”

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