#Dog food packaging bag

[zhngln440459]

8-sided seal bag zipper packaging bag pet food cat food dog food packaging bag

[autumnhobbit]

having one of those days where i’m longing to cook my own food again

[nexus-nebulae]

ordered a small fry from 5 guys and they just kinda dumped about 3 times as much as a small fry amount in the bag

[foodpackaging04]

Innovative Packaging Solutions: Bottom Stand Up Pouches and Stand Up Pouch Coffee Bags

Discover the convenience and versatility of bottom stand up pouches and stand up pouch coffee bags. These innovative packaging solutions are designed to stand upright on shelves, maximising visibility and shelf space. Perfect for coffee, snacks, or any product that needs to stay fresh, our pouches are made from high-quality materials to ensure durability and freshness. Explore our range of bottom stand up pouches and stand up pouch coffee bags to find the perfect packaging solution for your products.

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - iii

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." cunnilingus. analingus. spitting. piv. doggy. missionary. rough sex. size kink. breeding kink. biting. mean soap. manipulative soap. smut. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

The ocean calls the seal to return, and you finally heed the growing chill you’ve been ignoring, as well as the complaints of your nearly-empty stomach.

Starvation is not on your list of preferred ways to end your own life, so you check the fridge Johnny said he had stocked. What you find is disconcerting—hoping for snack foods, pre-packaged conveniences, you instead find a carton of eggs, hard cheeses, condiment bottles. Milk in a jug, green herb bundles, sticks of butter, and an unopened package of bacon.

The freezer is much the same. Bags of vegetables and meats like shrimp or scallops. Frozen loaves of bread. Not even a single carton of ice cream. When the pantry also yields nothing more ready to eat—no chips, no cup ramen, no cans of soup—you give up.

There’s a hierarchy of action you’re willing to take to preserve yourself, organized around a precept of energy expenditure—eating spends less than cooking, so you focus on the former and do not practice the latter anymore.

Even though most food has lost its taste by now.

So you lay down on the couch. Sulking, maybe, but it’s the only halfway satisfying thing left to you. You angle yourself toward the shelf of books it faces in place of a TV; it’s mostly romance novels. Bright pink or blue or violet or red spines facing outward, most of them already cracked and creased down through their titles.

Did Johnny stock those for you too—emptying the shelves of a thrift book store for a woman he knew would be alone—or are they just set dressing for his dream of a honeymoon getaway?

You start thinking about the cliffs by the cove.

They’re not very tall. Maybe three stories. You would feel the impact—and it might not even work. You would lay there at the bottom, in the packed sand, broken. But alive to feel every consequence of it.

You might still die, but it would be slow. Someone could find you, and save you. Probably Johnny. You might be permanently broken—worse off than when you began.

It’s not an option.

You could have just bought a gun if you stayed home. It would have been cheaper, and faster—

Anxious energy needles at your legs and prickles along the insides of your palms; you sit up, agitated. Your stomach bubbles as the acid inside slides around with nothing to eat into. You scowl at yourself and retrieve Johnny’s jacket from the floor.

It’s colder outside than before, when you leave the cottage for the third time that day for the walk to Vatersay village. You can see it from the front door of the cottage, only about a mile away, and as you get going, you find a walking trail cutting through the machair grass leading in its direction.

The sky darkens far earlier than you expect, on the way. You hadn’t thought you were far enough north for that. Absent of city lights, the Hebridean starscape peeks through gaps in the moonlit clouds overhead, winking to life as the sun retreats around the earth’s curve. You pause—even your ennui is no match for the cosmos—looking to see if you can find the arm of the Milky Way, but the autumn sky does not seem inclined to show it to you.

By the time you reach the village outskirts, warm rectangles of yellow light are already brightening the windows against a heavy blue night. You get directions to the pub from an older man walking his dog—Last Cull, it’s called. You find it with a carved wooden sign, adorned with the silhouette of a lounging seal, hanging by the door at the front, and walk in.

Johnny said that less than a hundred people populate the island; when you walk in, at least a third of them must be here, and their collective chatter, along with the sounds of drinking glasses clinking or hitting tables, and the warble of classic rock music, all rush at you at once when you open the door, carried on a wave of orangey lamplight and the smell of hops and a burst of thick, hot air.

It’s more life—more sound—than you were remotely prepared for, and you freeze in the threshold. You stand there long enough that, worse, several heads turn to look at you—

The outsider.

You duck your head, and look at the floor as you direct yourself at an empty stool at the bar. Your purse beats against your leg with every quick step, heavy with a tourist’s excess preparation, and following eyes lance you like pins through a butterfly’s wing.

A man in a beanie and mutton chops is wiping a glass dry behind the counter; he looks at you drolly when you sit down.

“W’can I get you?” he asks, surprising you with a distinctly un-Scottish accent.

You blink several times. “Um…”

The bartender is immediately unimpressed. “Liverpool, love. You drinking or eating?”

You flush. “I’m sorry—um—both?”

He nods. He does not offer a menu. “Right.”

He disappears with the same abruptness of manner behind a swinging door, leaking greenish fluorescent kitchen light around the edges and through the circular window set up in the middle.

Whatever waves you made upon your arrival already seem to have dissipated, ineffectual in the long-term; conversation in heavy Scots flows around you, relaxed and indistinct. The pub is warm with body heat, little groups of islanders pulled in close together around pints and tankards and easy conversation.

These people likely have known each other for years; seen each other grow up. Watched time etch lines across one another’s faces. You can’t really understand the words being exchanged between any of them, but the tenor is familiar. None of it is especially important to say to one another, you know—it’s the back and forth that’s the point. The sway and rock of practiced call and answer. Of knowing, when they say something, that a response will be given, even if the response is something that’s been said a thousand times before.

You run your fingers along the dented surface of the old bar. Shift in your stool. Pick at a sliver of skin coming up from one cuticle. A single drop of oil in the middle of an ocean.

The bartender returns to you from the kitchen, no food in hand. Instead, there’s a new expression on his face—a hammer aimed at your protruding nail. His eyes are narrowed; his brows are drawn together.

“You’re Soap’s tourist,” he says.

“Um,” you say, pinned under the intensity of his stare, “no?”

He rolls his eyes. “Johnny MacTavish. Everyone else calls him Soap.”

“Oh.” You cannot guess at all where this conversation might be going. “Yes?”

“He cooks for me some nights,” the bartender says. “He’s in the kitchen right now. He says dinner is on him, and he’ll bring it out soon.”

“He’s here?” you demand, jaw dropping.

“Some nights,” the man repeats. He picks his drying rag back up, and gets to work on another glass. Your association with Johnny—Soap—seems to have unlocked in him a geniality that would otherwise be inaccessible to you. “Lad was right chuffed when you rented out the croft. Hadn’t seen him that excited in ages. Wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month.”

He hasn’t offered you a drink and doesn’t seem inclined to. Still intimidated, you don’t ask.

“He told me I was his first guest,” you say, worrying at your cuticle.

“Mm-hm,” responds. Then he eyes you. “See why he was so worked up now.”

You stop your jaw from dropping for a second time, but only just—the weight of Johnny’s hand ghosts down your back, aided by his scent radiating from his jacket, released from the fibers it’s seeped into by your body heat.

“How—um, how do you know Johnny—Soap?” you ask, awkwardly.

“If he told you to call him Johnny, call him Johnny,” the man says. “Was his captain, once upon a time. Served together in the SAS. Name’s John Price.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Price,” you say.

He grunts. “John’s fine. He been behaving?”

“Um,” you say, entirely unsure how to answer that, when the kitchen door flings open.

“Bonnie!” Johnny exclaims, apron-clad, rosy-faced, and grinning wide.

He’s exchanged his heavy sweater for a lighter, cream-colored henley, sleeves rolled up his broad forearms. Combined with the cinch of the apron strings around his middle, it highlights and flatters the athletic build of his silhouette. The hem of his kilt flutters around his knees as he hurries over.

“Hi, Johnny,” you sigh.

He balances a steaming dish on one hand and carries some silverware wrapped in a napkin in the other. The plate tilts precariously as he directs himself at you, but the food survives as he slides it in onto the bar in front of you.

“Shoulda told me you were comin’ down, or I’d’ve had somethin’ better ready to make!” he scolds, though he’s clearly too pleased to mean it.

On top of a ceramic plate, the glaze spiderwebbed with cracks from age and constant use, three oblong triangles of fried fish rest atop checked wax paper, attended by a large stainless still cup of large wedge fries that you remember are referred to as “chips.” Beside that is a small cup of some white condiment you don’t recognize. Everything looks fresh from the fryer, as if Johnny could not wait one second to long to bring it to you.

“Oy, lad, how come I don’t get that kinda table service?” someone yells out behind you. “M’ I not pretty enough for you?”

A chorus of laughter answers the teasing. You hunch into yourself.

“Go back to your pint, Angus, ya weapon!” Johnny returns grandly. Then, to you, “Here, this is the best thing for it—”

John Price has already stepped far aside; you and he watch as Johnny retrieves a long-stemmed glass from a shelf, and then pulls a bottle of wine from a low fridge. He sets the glass beside your plate and uncorks the bottle—bicep quivering as he works the screw—and then, thumb in the punt, he pours out a stream of white wine one-handed.

“Tossers over there’ll call me mad but Sav Blanc with a fish an’ chips is pure class,” says Johnny. Then, to your horror, he sets his elbows on the counter in front of you. “Go on, have us a bite.”

You stare at him agog. His cheeks are flushed red, and you’re not sure it’s from the heat of the kitchen or—his gaze flicks to your mouth and back—something far less comforting. He stares back at you, grin unmoving—eyes bright and vibrant and too intense to hold contact with for long.

You look down at the meal again. The fish looks crunchy and thick with golden brown crust; the chips are sharp at the edges and dusted with salt and some sort of green seasoning. The smell is impossible to ignore—hot and floury and oily.

You take a chip and dip it tentatively into the white sauce. Johnny’s eyes dance with excitement as they follow the movement. When you take a bite, the bitter tang of tartar meets your tongue and mixes with the mild potato as you chew.

It is only just shy of hot enough to burn but—it’s good. It’s delicious. It’s the best thing, you realize, that you’ve tasted in you’re not sure how long.

You do your absolute utmost to prevent that from showing on your face.

“It’s good,” you say, and take another bite.

“Barry!” Johnny enthuses. “Now have a dram, go on.”

Rather than allow you to pick up the glass like a normal person, Soap lifts it in one large hand—knuckles and wrist peppered with dark hair—and brings the rim to your mouth. You have no choice but to take a sip as he tilts it toward you, or else end up dribbling white wine everywhere.

You must begrudgingly agree, as it passes across your tongue, that it pairs very well with what you’ve eaten.

You nod at him in lieu of another response; the corners of his eyes crinkle. He sets the glass down and slaps the counter with both palms, pushing himself away from it.

“Enjoy that an’ I’ll be back for ya in a mo,’” he says. With a bounce in his step, he disappears back into the kitchen.

John Price throws you another droll look. “You’re never getting rid of him now.”

When he turns away to address another patron, you scowl at his back.

Johnny comes in and out of the kitchen several times, as you pick at the food. Whatever his usual habits as the pub cook, it seems he’s in a magnanimous mood this evening, bringing orders to every table and chatting with anyone who catches his attention.

And a lot of people catch his attention. Island native or not, it seems that Johnny is everyone’s favorite boy—and it’s hard not to see why. He throws bright smiles at everyone who speaks to him, pats shoulders, trades good-natured Scottish ribbing with anyone who throws it his way. He’s familiar, it seems, with everyone he talks to—or he’s good at making it seem that way.

And the effect it has on everyone he talks to is obvious. Weathered faces, the kind that seem to rest at a permanent, severe frown, rise to beam as brightly as the sun after Johnny spends a minute or two checking in on them. Fond eyes follow him around the pub; the conversations at tables he visits keeps a lively tenor even after he leaves it.

You reach for your wineglass and drink deep.

“There we go!” Johnny exclaims, noticing.

He does not leave you neglected, of course—he keeps circling around, looking at your plate, and then at you, and filling your glass when you empty it. It strikes you as rather sweet until he starts availing himself of a mouthful every time—turning the glass so that his lips cover the marks yours have made on it.

When about half of your plate has been cleared, and Johnny is returning from delivering a tray of sandwiches to another table, he comes up behind you and leans in close, hands curling around your shoulders. Mouth brushing your ear.

“Dinner rush is almost done, bonnie,” he murmurs, butter-smooth and low as banked embers. “Then I’m all yours.”

A tremor runs up the nerves in your spine; you sit up straighter when he pulls away, the fine hairs on the back of your neck reaching toward him as if statically charged.

You catch John Price eyeing you again, expression blasé. You flush up to the roots of your hair and avoid looking at him again.

Eventually, the pub begins to vacate, somewhere close to ten in the evening. No city bar, this one, even on a Friday night. You finish three-quarters of the bottle of wine in between turning the fish and chips into mush and crumbs, finally pushing everything away from you as the last stragglers jingle the bell above the door.

Then it’s just John Price, pulling on a coat, Johnny doing dishes in the kitchen, and you, alone, sneakers hooked to a rung on the barstool.

John Price sticks his head through the swinging door. “We still doing Sunday, Soap? Or d’you have new plans?”

“Course doin’ Sunday!” Johnny yells. “Canny wait!”

“Alright. I’m leaving, lock up when you go.”

And with that, John Price gives you a cursory nod, and makes his exit.

Soon after, Johnny exits the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, the motions making his pectorals twitch and flex. His apron is gone, the little v of his shirt collar exposing dark, curling chest hair.

The odd pelt—you realize, from your experience this morning, that it’s a seal’s—still hangs around another plaid kilt.

Your heartbeat is hot and heavy in your ears. You stare at him, lips pressed together tightly, a tremor working its way between your shoulders.

He tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded. When you meet his gaze again, his smile is set at an expectant angle.

“Drive me home, Johnny,” you finally say, wine and humiliation pulsing through your veins.

He drives you home in silence, and rests his hand on your thigh the whole way there.

You don’t move it. You don’t react, either—even when his pinky flicks against the seam of your leggings, right where it lays against your pussy. He roves his spread fingers and heavy palm all across the length and breadth of your thigh, cresting down over your knee and back up again, squeezing and massaging the fat of your quad.

You don’t say anything. He does not prompt you to do so. The corner of his mouth, when you look to him at your side, catching his profile, is curled.

The silence continues when he pulls up to the cottage—even the wind is light and quiet, as you unlock the door to let the both of you in. The night sky is cobbled with clouds that pass over slowly, letting only slivers of moonlight reach the earth, so inside the croft is dark and murky.

You don’t move to switch any lights on. Nor does Johnny, following close behind you.

Out of sight, it seems your body forgets who—or what, even—is following you. He is only a presence at your back, a body taking up space, and in the darkness, with only your hindbrain to rely on, he could be anyone.

Anything.

You stop in the middle of the living room. He hovers behind you. Not quite touching—but close enough to feel the gravity of him, strong enough to pull you in.

You drop your purse on the couch, and make to shuck his jacket—his hands take hold of the shoulders, allowing you to slide out of it. The deep, even pulse of his breathing is right there at the shell of your ear.

“Bonnie,” he murmurs, husky.

“I’m,” you say, “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

A pause. Then—“Alright,” he purrs.

You escape.

In the mirror above the sink, you look yourself in the eye. What you see is nothing you haven’t seen before—pitiable, needy, pathetic—and it’s nothing you have any desire to confront now. If you think too hard about it—if you ask yourself what you should be asking—there will be no coming back from it.

He’s been dangling this in front of you this whole time. It’s no fault of yours for taking it. This once, you aren’t to blame for what happens next. This once.

You run the cold tap over a washcloth and dab cool water across your face and down your neck. It does little to regulate the heat flushing through you.

If you don’t go out there now, he might leave.

You throw the cloth into the sink basin and open the door.

And Johnny is there, standing right there in front of it, leaning casually against the opposite wall—

Completely naked.

You stop dead.

Gray moonlight falls across his body in a thin haze. The bulky, sculpted planes of it roll with dense muscle and dark hair, which is thick and curly across rounded pectorals and joins in a broad stream down his abdomen. Twisting into a nest at his groin, they cushion a long, wide cock, uncut, half-hard—

That jumps at your appearance.

He meets your eyes. They are silvery and sharp, even in the gloam. Drags his gaze down—leveling it with your tightening nipples. Then he reaches to his side and twists the doorknob to the bedroom.

It swings open. Empty bed in the doorframe.

His cock jumps again. A diamond-drop of moisture beads at the tip.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

You walk in, barely aware of your own footsteps. His bare feet cross the floor behind you, and then the door shuts again.

He does not say another word as he approaches you; you do not turn to face him. You stand as if restrained in place as large, warm hands skim the dip of your waist, slope easily down your hips and up again; he pinches the hem of your sweater and lifts. You raise your arms, lost in the fugue of your pounding heart; he brings it over your head, and tosses it to the side.

Rough hands smoothing over your bare skin, almost like sweeping away dust. He unhooks your bra with startling dexterity—fingers slide beneath the straps and loosen them down your shoulders. Hands dipping down your chest, edging under and replacing the cups around your breasts.

His thumbs press your nipples in, circle around them; you gasp, flinch back against him, and feel his cock, fully erect, nestle in the cleft of your ass. He huffs a laugh into your hair.

His hands return to your waist, and they slide down, pressed open against your sides, as Johnny goes to his knees behind you. He grasps the waistbands of both panties and leggings and—face centimeters away from the globe of one ass cheek—pulls both down in one smooth, soft sweep.

It feels like being skinned. Your heart beats a hammer in the arteries against your throat. You nearly lose your balance, tilting when you lift one foot out of your clothes, before one of Soap’s hands return to your waist to give you ballast. Holding you up like it’s nothing. He squeezes the meat of your hip tenderly, massages the give of it with the tips of his fingers, skin warm and rough against yours.

The moment you’d first caught sight of Johnny in the airport, he’d slotted cleanly into a certain taxon of manhood; one need only to examine his morphology briefly—the mohawk, the muscles, stubborn refusal to cover his knees even as winter fast approaches—to understand that his is the lifestyle of the fast-living. He leers. He gropes. He runs down what he sets his eyes on whether his prey likes it or not.

An organism with cheap pleasure on its mind, and nothing more. Johnny’s bull-focused intentions had stunk acrid and obvious the moment they’d fallen upon you—aimed, you thought unceremoniously, between your legs and nowhere else.

So why, as his hands drag up the backs of your thighs, is he touching you so tenderly? Teasing you open, rather than prising you apart. Touching you as if he’s in no hurry to do anything else.

It feels like an insult. It feels like mercy you didn’t ask for. Without thinking, without knowing you’re going to do it—you slap his hand away.

“Is this going to take all night, or are you going to get around to fucking me sometime soon?” you snap, galled.

An indrawn breath. His or yours, you’re not entirely sure.

Then he rises up, shoves a hand hard between your shoulder blades, and you topple forward onto the bed, flailing, landing face-first, as Johnny knees up behind you.

“So that’s how you want it, then,” he says. Nonchalant. “Aye, I can do that. Come here.”

You don’t have time to scramble away before rough hands grab your hips and yank them back, pulling you up onto your knees, and with no more preamble Johnny shoves his face into your naked pussy from behind. Immediately hot and star-bright; thumbs hook into your outer folds to spread you open moments before his tongue burns a stripe from clit to perineum, no slow build, no warm-up, before he starts eating you out like he’s starving.

You shriek from the sudden contact, hips jerking, but his hold is iron, and the more you resist the more he tightens his grasp, fingertips digging down near to bone. He licks at your folds, at the dips between them, as if he’s pulling swipes of you away on every taste bud, imprecise, mouthing your cleft as if he means to swallow it whole.

When you reach back with one hand to grab his hair—to hold him where he is or shove him away, you’re not sure—he releases one hip and shackles your wrist in his fingers, bending your arm at the elbow and pinning it to your lower back.

“You asked for it,” he growls against you, “and now you’re gettin’ it,” another dig of his tongue around your entrance, “so don’ fuckin’ complain.”

He pulls away and abruptly spits on your asshole before diving back in. With the thumb of the same hand around your wrist, he smears it around, dipping just inside at the same time his tongue breaches your cunt; you feel teeth press against your perineum for a breathless moment before he lets up, and then he prods your clitoris with little jabbing licks, forcing his way up under the hood that fails to protect it from his onslaught.

You have a free hand—you reach back to slap at him again. The theory of insanity proves true; one wrist joins the other, and Johnny uses his own weight to move you as he likes, arms curled over your hips, rocking your entire body against his mouth, lips smacking against you as he alternates between licking up the slick that abruptly starts welling around your entrance and sucking your labia between his teeth.

He grunts and snarls after every brief surfacing for air, every time his tongue touches you again, as if every new taste of you in his mouth is better than the last. His hands tighten into vices around your wrists as he buries in deeper, groaning, shoving his face against you so hard it thrusts your hips forward, which he greedily drags back, and then he flutters his tongue against your clit as if to punish you for his own forcefulness.

“Johnny—” you cry, “Johnny, slow down, slow down—!”

A climax swells within you before you have any time to prepare for it, a closeout curling in so fast that it hits you before you can brace. Johnny thumbs your ass again and suctions his lips closed around your clitoris, tearing a scream from your throat, ripping your orgasm even further out of you as you suddenly, violently convulse.

It jerks you in his grasp, as if whipping you, and then, as fast as it came at you, it recedes; you sag, dizzy and gulping air, but Johnny’s mouth opens around your pussy again as if nothing happened, tongue and lips losing none of their frantic voracity.

“Johnny,” you whimper, “Johnny, I came, you can stop—”

“Don’t give half a shite, am no’ done,” he snarls, accent thicker than you’ve heard it before.

Your breath shudders out of you as he runs the edges of his teeth up your folds, and then, briefly, the flat of his tongue circles your asshole, before dipping back down into the heat of your cunt. He catches your clit again in a quick succession of sucking kisses, loud and wet and pulling at it so hard that tugs at nerves all the way down your legs, spasming through your calves.

Your breath thins in your lungs, escaping you in high, reedy whines, and finally, he pulls his mouth away—only to replace it with his hand. He transfers your crossed wrists into one grasp, wedging all four fingers between the split of your cleft and shaking it vigorously, like a dog might with a small animal clamped in its jaws. He follows this with several rapid slaps against flesh that is already screaming with overstimulation—

And then the head of something hot and hard parts you, circling to find its target, and with as little preamble as he began Johnny shoves his fat, rock-hard cock into you, all the way to the base in one harsh thrust.

It shoves the air from your lungs in one go, leaves you no room to breathe in before he grabs your wrists again, like reins, pulls halfway out, and rams back in again, setting a brutal pace, his thighs slamming against the fat of your ass at a rapid staccato that shakes the old bedframe on its creaky legs.

He barely pulls out as he fucks you this way, thrusting short and hard, your face crushed against the bedsheets as he uses your arms to pull you back against him to meet every thrust. The fattest part of his cock catches your g-spot over and over, bright and hot as iron pulled from a fire, and you can’t even get enough breath in your lungs to do more than whimper every time his hips meet yours.

“This is wha’ she fuckin’ needed, hen, aye?” Johnny snarls. “Hissin’ an’ spittin’ like a stray cat, didnae know wha’s good fer it, jus’ needed a big cock in ‘er wet cunt, didnae she?”

A long, shaky moan is the only response you can give. Fast, fast and hard—he bucks against you wildly, violently, sending shockwaves up your body that jounce your breast and ripple across your blazing cheeks. Your mouth hangs open at a loose angle—if you try to close your teeth, you might accidentally bite into your tongue—

He releases your wrists, and your arms fall hard to the bedspread. Then he bends over your back, planting his hands in the spaces over your shoulders, making a cage with his his body. It changes the angle of his thrusts, lets him force his way in even deeper, kissing the head of your cervix. You climb your hands up the bedspread, claw at his wrists with your nails, but you might as well be a curl of wind trying to knock over a pillar of stone.

“You can bitch an’ whine all you wan’ at me, bonnie,” he says, a nasty thread in his tone, “but I know mean pussy just needs some pettin’ to make it nice again, don’ I, now?”

You try to struggle under him, search for some sort of purchase in the sheets beneath you, and for a moment you think he’s making space to let you; his weight retreats as you rise to all fours, but then one solid, beefy arm closes around your neck in a chokehold. He brings the both of you up, settling you over the cradle of his thighs as he sits back on his heels, clamping your back against his chest.

His free hand snakes down between your thighs, finding your clitoris again with rough, abrading calluses. A hard, grinding roll of his hips, upward and forward, pushes it up into his touch, like the crest of a wave, but gravity gives you no escape on the downwell; he pushes and pulls you as he likes, heel of his hand digging hard into the sensitive edge of your mons.

You scrabble with your hands for something to hold onto—you find the brackets of his wide thighs, wiry with dark hair, and dig your nails into hard, tensed muscle. He only laughs in your ear, speeds the rhythm of his hips, pinches your clitoris between his fingers and drags it around.

“Told ya, bonnie,” he gloats, taking the lobe briefly between his lips, “she wants it—” and he pushes his cock in deep, shaking his hips “—bad as he does.”

He reaches further inward and splits his fingers around his own girth, pressing upward—as if he intends to shove them in too, and choking for air as you are you think deliriously that they might just slip in, no resistance, aided by the wetness free-flowing now around him, dripping in long streams down the inside of your thighs.

Inescable—no matter what you do, it’s nothing to him. You thrash against him, whining through gritted teeth in frustration, but he only moves with you, anticipating every direction you might blindly throw yourself in to get away. You cry out in wordless fury, slapping whatever parts of him you can reach, but it doesn’t matter. There is no purchase for you anywhere, nothing you can use to grab back any sort of control.

He’s too big. Too strong. You finally begin to comprehend it in a way that had been impossible before. Looking at him from a few paces, Johnny is easy to take in; easy to summarize and dismiss when you can see the whole of him at once.

But now, at your back—he feels vast. Enormous. An undulating wall of a hard body flexing against you, mooring you to it, all heat and sweat and sharp, animalistic grunting as it pistons into you from behind. The hand manipulating your clit is wide enough to cover your pussy entirely; the pillar of his body doesn’t so much as shudder as you struggle, instinct overriding desire as you try to escape the lightning-streaks of pleasure he carelessly sends through you.

You are too primed from your earlier climax to possibly last, and Johnny seems to feel it—you flutter and clutch around him, the sensation almost painful, but when both your hands fly to the one between your legs he only increases the pressure.

“You gonna come again, bonnie?” he sneers into your ear. “Jus’ tiring yourself out, poor baby. Fightin’ it so hard, an’ it’s gonna happen anyway.”

It does—he starts slapping your pussy again, right above where his cock stretches you to your limit, quick and sharp, and you break with ragged scream, arms flailing out uselessly, nails finding his forearm around your throat.

“Johnny—” you cry out, “Johnny!”

“Fuck,” he groans in your ear, “steamin’ Jesus, fuck—”

Suddenly he pushes you away from him, and you flail again as you land face-first into the pillows. His cock slips out of you entirely, even as you’re still clenching around your orgasm, but you have no time to react, either to mourn it or be relieved, because Johnny grabs you by the thighs, flips you over in one motion, and drives back in again before it ends.

“Fuck, bonnie, so good, fuck, do it again—”

He throws your legs open, leaving your calves to shake in the air as he fucks you faster. You nearly fold in half under the force of his thrusts, knees hovering nearer and nearer to your ears. Each slap of his hips against yours ricochets up your body, and, with nowhere else to go, back down—you ring like a bell, shaking all the way into your marrow.

“Soap,” you whine, “Soap, it—I—I can’t—”

Suddenly he grabs your face in his hand, so tightly he squeezes your cheeks together, pushing out your lips, and he lurches forward to get in your face. Fury blazes from him.

“I told you,” he snarls, “to call me Johnny.”

It shocks you so much that freeze up, going completely blank. The dark, sharp lines of his brows arch dangerously over flashing eyes.

He shakes your face. “Say it.”

“J—” you slur, unable to shape it in your lips properly, “Johnny.”

His nostrils flare wide. Fury is replaced by triumph. “Good fucking girl.”

He slams his mouth against yours.

The first time he’s kissed you, and he gives you no chance to participate in it. He purses your lips with the pressure of his hand to meld with his, opening your jaw wide enough to thrust his tongue behind your teeth. The force of it presses your head back into the pillow. It’s an attack; it’s an onslaught. And—if the grunts and groans Johnny makes in his throat as he does what he likes with your mouth are any indication—

It’s what he’s really wanted this whole time.

Everything else, he’s enjoyed. But this—his mouth on yours, lips moving together, saliva pooling and seeping between the seams—is the prize he’s aimed for all along.

It touches something inside of you. Something tiny and ugly. A thing that you’ve wrapped up in nacreous layers of shame and guilt, lodged in your soft tissues, and tried to forget about.

It sends your arms to wrap around Johnny’s neck, fingers digging into the shifting muscles of his shoulders. You close your thighs around his waist, crossing your ankles, and roll yourself up into every meeting of his hips with yours.

He moans, higher, and drops his full weight over you. His belly meets yours; his chest crushes your breasts under his. He uses the full brunt of his weight to rut into you, crashing his hips against you, stealing the breath from your lungs—

It’s an old trick you’ve learned from small experience, inhaling when you feel the rush coming—as if climax blooms in the lungs rather than the clitoral head, and filling your alveoli gives it no place to expand. It’s useful to prolong satisfaction, to stave off the end.

Johnny does not give you opportunity try. The only thing he allows you to occupy your mouth with is his, and as hypoxia thins out your bloodstream—as you begin to struggle for air—you go rigid with your third climax beneath him.

However long it lasts, you don’t know. It freezes you in place, in time. It wrenches your head back, arching your spine, tears one long, broken cry from your throat.

“Fuck yes,” Johnny gasps, feeling you clamp down so hard around him it seems you may never release him. He moves to bury his face in your throat. “Fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck—yes—”

His tempo falters, signaling the end—

Realization—“Wait!” you find some presence of mind to cry out—“a condom! We didn’t use—”

“It’s got a’go somewhere hen, an’ I’m no’ wastin’ it on yer belly,” he snarls, “just—just—yes—fuck—”

Then his teeth come down on your neck, hard, as his hips beat against yours, and then he buries himself to the root with one final, full-body thrust. He shakes his hips flush against yours as he groans long and loud, cock pulsing inside you, wet heat flooding you in jets, so full that it spills back out to drip down between you.

He pants hard into your shoulder. Your own breath labors, vision swimming.

A cloud covers the moon outside. Johnny makes no move to pull away from you—instead his arms wedge beneath you, banding around your back, and he rolls you both to your sides. You feel him kissing the sting his teeth left on your neck, as you lay there together, sweat cooling on your naked bodies.

Eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you. You have no time to arrange your expression, no idea even what you might want to present to him; whatever he sees on your face makes him smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“There’s my bonnie,” he murmurs, and the next kiss he gives you is soft and very sweet.

Your lips rise to meet his without you thinking about it.

He strokes your back very gently. Sooner than yours, his breathing evens out. Even as he softens inside of you, he keeps his hips against yours.

“Johnny,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. Just a little while longer. Can you do that for me? Aye, you can, I know it.”

You should say something about spermicide. Plan B. But the look in his eyes is so soft, so content, that you put it away for later. You just hold his gaze as he looks at you like you’re everything that could ever make him happy.

He kisses you again. Soon, the heaving of your chest abates. Exhaustion pours through you in one drenching wave; you turn your head to yawn.

“Go to sleep, bonnie,” Johnny croons, pressing his fingers into the soft part of your lower back. “I’ll clean us up, aye? You just sleep.”

You don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Soon, you’re slipping away—you’re aware for long enough to feel it when he finally pulls away from you, when he runs a warm washcloth between your legs, and then when he slides back into bed beside you and pulls up the covers.

Then you’re gone.

Sometime after midnight, you half-wake.

The moon has moved far enough across the sky that its light floods the bedroom through its one window, casting everything in silver. Your eyes open slowly, blurred with sleep; Johnny is still beside you.

He’s sitting up against the headboard; eye-level with you is his waist, covered by the thin bedsheet. You draw your eyes up his body slowly—there, his navel, dark hair curling around it. There, his chest, full pectorals rising and falling slowly with calm, even breath.

When you reach his face, you find him looking down at you, corners of his mouth curled. You meet his eyes—

The moon reflects in them. Disks of shifting light in both pupils.

Some part of you, buried in your hindbrain, shouts with alarm. It’s far away, cottoned with sleep. Muffled enough by the soreness of three full-body orgasms to be ignored.

Johnny reaches out and drags the back of one finger along the wounded part of your neck. Touch feather-light.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Vaguely, you remember that you’ve answered this question before, but that doesn’t feel consequential. Any part of you that could protest is still lost to sleep.

As is any ability to dissemble. The truth—the thing you attempted to abandon, that has followed you regardless—slips out.

“Nobody wants me,” you whisper.

So quiet you fear he won’t hear you, and ask you to repeat it.

But Johnny tilts his head. The curl of his mouth softens to something almost kind.

It doesn’t quite get there, because a gleam of satisfaction that you cannot name colors his shining gaze.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

His broad hand covers the crown of your head, and he strokes your hair. The tide of sleep comes back in, and you know nothing more.

chapter 4 early access

[bbeelzemon]

really playing the world's most dangerous game here

[sugugasm]

୨୧ ˗ˏˋ OTAKU HOT GIRL ! | suguru & satoru x yn “i like a tall woman with a nice, big ass.” ꒰ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 ! ꒱ this is me being delusional srry, but thinkin ab gojo & geto fucking tall, curvy! reader after she begs them to watch her favorite anime with her . . like ugh rn. also forgive me if this is pure degeneracy. i was bein a horn dog n’ there’s no plot rlly :/ inspired by the one n only stallion ofc, we luv u mama

꒰ 𝑛𝑠𝑓𝑤 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡 ꒱ : blk fem reader, uses she/her pronouns, usage of pet names like cocksleeve, love, baby, babe, sweetheart, etc. positions included such as doggystyle, double pen, themes such as choking, bratty reader, dom! satoru & suguru, rough sex ??, oral fem recieve, oral male receive, dirty talk, mentions of a size kink, lots n lots of cum, mmm yum so gross — 5.3𝑲 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕

“hurry up, boys! m’ gonna’ be mad if you miss the intro. it ruins the whole experience of watching for the first time!”

“we’re comin’, woman. calm down.”

both satoru and suguru scurry around in your shared kitchen, gathering the rest of whatever horrid snack combinations they could find before jogging lightly to make their way over to you on the couch. with your feet positioned criss-crossed n’ a warm bowl of popcorn sizzling down in your lap, the only thing really missing were the two imbeciles of men you mistakenly decided to roommate with around a year or two ago.

you roll your eyes fondly as satoru and suguru finally plop down on either side of you, their arms laden with an assortment of junk food. satoru’s got a family-sized bag of cool ranch doritos tucked under one arm and a jar of peanut butter in the other hand, while suguru’s juggling a pack of oreos, a can of whipped cream, and what looks suspiciously like . . ew, a jar of pickles. what?

“are y’all for real right now?” you laugh, eyeing their haul with a mix of amusement and disgust. “ we’re about to watch anime, not enter a county fair eating contest.”

“hey, don't knock it til’ you’ve tried it,” satoru grins, ripping open the doritos and the peanut butter simultaneously. his gaze dips briefly to your chest, taking in the way your soft pink lace cami clings to your curves. “besides, we’ve gotta’ fuel up. you said this show is, and i quote, ‘a cultural reset that will redefine our understanding of feminism and body positivity in media.’ i don’t know man, that sounds intense.”

suguru snorts, unscrewing the oreo package. his eyes briefly lingering on the bare expanse of your thighs, the flimsy matching shorts riding high as you curl your legs underneath you. “pretty sure she just meant it’s got a lot of ass shakin’ and women empowerment. still, sounds pretty lovely.”

you chuck a kernel of popcorn at his head, giggling when it bounces off his nose. “excuse you, that’s a very tiny observation of ‘megan - sama : twerk hero for a new generation.’ s’ a journey of a woman’s adventure to self-love and confidence in a world that constantly tries to tear her down. she uses her sexuality as a form of power. she like, challenges the male gaze and double standards with, well . . every clap of her ass.”

satoru blinks at you, a glob of peanut butter sliding off the dorito he’s holding halfway to his mouth. “that . . was surprisingly deep, yn.”

“mmm, that's our girl,” suguru says proudly, throwing an arm around your shoulders. his fingers skimming over your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “beautiful, brilliant, and able to find meaning in the most unlikely places. like a twerking anime.”

you elbow him playfully in the ribs, warmth blooming in your chest at the casual praise even as heat prickles across your skin at the contact. “you’re jokin’ but m’ serious,” you whine, “it celebrates a body type that’s so often shamed and or fetishized, like i dunno’ . . she faces some of the worst - but she never gives up, and that self-love is what ultimately gives her the strength to change the world around her in the end . .” you keep gushing, waxing poetic about megan’s badassery and the show’s powerful message. the boys listen attentively, nodding along, but you don't miss the way their gazes keep drifting south, tracing your figure with barely-concealed appreciation.

you hated to go on your fourth tangent of the week right now, but god, representation really did matter. it was practically rare to see your body type in entertainment — let alone that exact body type standing at a whopping 5’10. this was . . like you said, a real cultural reset.

a comfortable silence then settles as they finish taking it in, the low murmur of the anime’s opening theme — otaku hot girl, now filling the room. you sneak a glance at satoru out of the corner of your eye, surprised to find him looking thoughtful rather than skeptical like any other guy your age would.

“i can dig it,” satoru says slowly, popping a peanut butter dorito into his mouth. “more representation of different body types in media, s’ important. and i mean, objectively speaking . . .” he rakes his eyes over your form, lingering on the swell of your hips and ass. “i like a tall woman with a nice, big ass. ain't nothin’ wrong with a little extra somethin' to hold onto, y’know?”

you raise a brow, something playfully bold and a little reckless brewing in your chest. “is that so? didn’t know y’liked your girls thick, gojo.”

satoru swallows, adam's apple bobbing as his gaze snaps to yours. “no, yn. i love, my girls thick,” he says, voice pitched low. “well that and, exploring your sexuality n’ confidence in general is jus’ sexy . . as hell.”

“hmmm, i see. getou?” you turn to suguru, head cocked. “any thoughts?”

suguru’s smile is slow and devastating, dark promise in his eyes. “he’s not wrong. m’ sure you know that though. body like . . yours, s’the kinda canvas i could spend hours worshipping. takes an incel to not appreciate it, honestly.”

“oh please. all that bravado, but i can’t you couldn’t handle me even if you tried.” you shimmy your shoulders, drawing attention to the truly tremendous amount of cleavage your cami isn't concealing. “you'd probably bust in your boxers if you so much as touched this ass. thank youuu.”

but even as you say that with all the confidence in the world, you can’t help but to think . . ‘what if?’ what if they could? what if you were talkin’ straight out of your ass right now just to have it be thrown in your face later on? — no, never, couldn’t be.

and later on, as the end credits of the final episode roll, you stretch languidly, you’d forgotten about the thought, feeling pleasantly buzzed from two pretty drinks the three of you had earlier and the easy camaraderie of the night. satoru and suguru have been the perfect viewing companions, cracking jokes and providing commentary that had you in stitches more often than not.

but all in all, underneath the lighthearted banter, you can feel something else tiptoeing - a tension, an electricity that’s been building all night. it’s in the way satoru’s gaze lingers on the curve of your throat as you tip your head back to laugh. it’s in the heat of suguru’s palm on your knee, his thumb rubbing absent circles that inch higher and higher with each passing minute.

“so . .” satoru drawls as the autoplay timer counts down to the next season. “that was . . actually enlightening annnd i just followed megan on instagram. so, when will she be mine?”

“mhmm, told you,” you laugh, feeling loose and languid from the warmth of the alcohol in your veins and the solid press of their bodies on either side of you. “and i dunno, join the club. she’s a fuckin’ queen. knows what she wants and goes for it, she’s inspirational, and an overall bad bitch, duh — i want her too.”

“kinda like someone else we know,” suguru muses, a sly curl to his lips as he turns to face you. his eyes are dark, heated in a way that makes your breath catch. “ain’t that right, yn?”

you swallow, pulse picking up speed as you meet his loaded gaze. “oh? and who might that be?”

“you,” satoru says bluntly, shifting to angle his body towards you as well. the movement brings him close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him, the firm press of his muscular thigh against yours. “talkin’ all that shit earlier, bout’ how we couldn’t handle you. you think that, babe?”

oh . . so maybe you were wrong.

and they had planned on it proving that to you.

there’s a challenge in his tone, a dare that sends a frisson of anticipation skittering down your spine. you lick your lips, noting with a thrill how both their gazes zero in on the movement, “maybe i did,” you say, pitching your voice low and breathy. “what’re you gonna’ do about it?”

suguru makes a rough sound in the back of his throat, fingers flexing on your knee. “oh, well since you asked . . we can give a little demo - show you exactly what we’re gonna’ do about it. ain’t that right, satoru?”

“damn straight,” satoru growls, a wicked gleam in his eye. “whaddaya’ say, sweet thing? why don’t you go ahead n’ show us what makes you a hot girl, yn?” he finishes.

heart pounding, skin prickling with goosebumps, you lift your chin in clear provocation. “tch, whatever. bring it on then, bitches. show me what you’ve got.”

of course you’d challenge them. why wouldn’t you? you quite literally had the power of god and megan on your side.

twin groans meet your bold words, suguru’s hand tightening convulsively on your leg as satoru’s eyes blaze with intent. “don’t mind if we do,” satoru rasps, voice gone low and gravelly with want. “been fuckin’ gagging for it all night, watchin’ you all curled up and cozy in this tiny ass pajama set, lookin’ good enough to eat . .”

“gonna’ fuckin’ devour you,” suguru vows, already shifting to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. “gonna’ put this bratty little mouth to good use, fuck, been dyin’ to feel these pretty lips wrapped around my dick.”

you moan, head tipping back to grant him better access even as your hands come up to fist in satoru’s hair, dragging him down for a filthy, biting kiss. he groans into your mouth, licking past the seam of your lips to tangle his tongue with yours, one large hand palming roughly at your breast through the flimsy lace of your cami.

“fuckin’ tease,” he pants when you break apart for air, fingers already working at the tiny buttons holding the top closed. “prancin’ around in this scrap of nothin’ all night, like a slut. y’knew we wouldn’t be able to stop thinkin’ about you, baby.”

“why don’t you tell me?” you breathe, emboldened by the blatant need in their faces, the desperate flex of their hands on your body. “c’mon, boys, use your words. what’ve you been thinkin’ about doin’ to me all night, huh? how’re you gonna’ shut me up, put me in my place?”

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” suguru swears feelingly, wrenching himself away from your neck to stare at you with wild, hungry eyes. “keep talkin’ like that and i’m gonna lose it, i swear.”

“then lose it,” you purr, hooking a leg over his hip and using the leverage to grind yourself against his straining erection. he hisses, hips rocking forward to press the thick line of his cock harder against your aching center. “c’mon, sugu baby, show me how bad you want it. show me exactly what this bratty little tease does to you.”

“fuck, you fuckin’ - get her naked,” suguru snarls to satoru, already fumbling with the tie of your shorts. “fuckin’ get her naked right goddamn now, i can’t - i gotta’ taste her, gotta’ get my mouth on this sweet cunt before i fucking explode . .”

satoru doesn't waste any time, practically ripping your cami open in his haste to get at your bared tits. you cry out sharply as he latches onto one straining nipple, suckling hard and grazing the sensitized bud with his teeth. “oh fuck, oh god, yes!”

your shorts and panties are yanked down your legs, the sudden rush of cool air on your heated flesh making you gasp. and then suguru is shouldering past satoru to find his way between your thighs, pushing them open wide and burying his face in your dripping cunt with a guttural moan of satisfaction, “i call first,” he mumbles into your pussy.

satoru scoffs an agitated, “not fair, but whatever,” and you can’t help but to giggle at the sheer fact that they were quite literally bickering over who was gonna’ eat your pussy first.

“shut the fuck up — ”

“aht, aht! hey, all my munches get along so . . y’all about to argue all day or what?” you mutter, and as if they were being scolded back in their early sourcerer days - they hush, and then, “holy shit!” you whimper, back arching clear off the couch as suguru goes to town, licking and suckling at your clit like a man starved. “o-oh my god, sugu, you’re s’good . .”

“mm, y’like that, sweetheart?” satoru husks, sucking and then pulling off your nipple with a lewd pop. his hand palms roughly at your other breast, plucking at the stiff peak, drawing high, breathy cries from your throat. “like the way he eats this pretty pussy, fucks you with his tongue? gonna’ make you cum so hard you scream, baby, gonna’ make you fucking flood his mouth.”

“y-yes,” you gasp, fisting your hands in both their hair as suguru goes even harder, slipping two fingers into your clenching hole and pumping them in time with the relentless suction of his lips around your throbbing clit. “yes, fuck, m’gonna cum already, gonna’ come on your face sugu, please, fuck, m’ so close . .”

“that's it,” satoru coaxes, pinching your nipple viciously, making you yelp. “give it up, yn, fucking come for us like a good girl, wanna hear you scream . .”

suguru crooks his fingers just right, rubbing mercilessly against the spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids, and you shatter with a raw sob of their names. your cunt clamps down vise-tight on his thrusting digits as you gush around them, release flooding his chin and dripping down his wrist.

he works you through the aftershocks with hitching praises and soft kitten licks, only pulling away when you start twitching from oversensitivity. he rocks back onto his heels, wiping and licking around his mouth with the back of his hand and tongue, eyes hazy and satisfied as he takes in your wrecked, limp form. “fuckin’ gorgeous,” he slurs, words edged with wonder. “shit - look at you, jesus, all fucked out and dripping just from my mouth. i told you i could spend hours between these thighs, baby, i wasnt lyin’.”

“h-hours, huh?” you manage, breath still coming in shuddery gasps. “that mean you’re done with me already, sugu?”

his eyes sharpen, a predatory curl to his lips that sends a bolt of heat straight to your core. “not even close, pretty girl. m’ jus’ gettin’ warmed up.”

“why don’t you let her catch her breath,” satoru suggests, something dark and intent in his gaze as his eyes rove over your naked, trembling body. he palms his cock through his sweats, hissing at the contact. “still gotta put that mouth to work, remember?”

your cunt clenches weakly at the implication, arousal already starting to rekindle in your veins. “gimmie’ a minute to recover and i’ll put it to work all night long,” you promise, licking your lips. “wanna’ choke on it, toru. want you to fuck my throat . . please.”

“jesus, fuck, you’re so nasty,” satoru groans, fisting a hand in your hair and dragging you up for a brief, brutal kiss. “gonna’ wreck you, baby. gonna’ fuckin’ ruin you for anyone else, mark you up inside n’ out until all you can think about is us, all you can feel is us stretching that hungry little pussy wide . .”

“oh please,” you whimper, already halfway there just from their words, their roving hands, the hot press of their bodies caging you in on either side. “god, please, i want it — fuck me stupid, i don’t care.”

“and we will,” suguru vows, fingers dipping back between your legs to circle your slick, twitching entrance. “gonna’ pump you so full of cum, baby, shit, gonna fuckin’ breed this cunt.” you keen high in your throat, the images they’re painting sending heat licking through your veins like wildfire. you want it, want them, with an intensity that’s scarce.

“so what’re you waiting for?” you rasp, disentangling yourself from their groping hands to shimmy off the couch and drop to your knees between their splayed thighs. you rest your palms high on their legs, thumbs teasing at the straining bulges tenting their sweats. “i believe i was promised a face fucking . . and y’know i hate broken promises. don’t make me beg.”

“brat,” satoru husks, eyes practically black with lust as he lifts his hips so you can tug his pants down his thighs. his cock springs free, thick and ruddy and leaking at the tip, and your mouth waters at the sight. “let’s see how cocky you are with your mouth full. won’t be able to sass when you’re chokin’ on dick.”

“choking? you promise, daddy?” you purr, shuffling closer on your knees, hands running teasingly up and down their thighs. suguru makes a strangled noise, hands clenching into fists at his sides like it’s taking everything in him not to grab you.

“open,” satoru demands hoarsely. “open that smart fucking mouth. lemme’ feed you.” you part your lips obediently, tongue darting out to swipe at the swollen head of his dick. he jerks like he’s been electrocuted, a guttural moan punching out of his chest as you proceed to lave at his cock like an ice cream cone, all kittenish licks and teasing flicks that have him cursing up a storm above you.

“gonna’ kill me,” he grits out, hips flexing like it's taking everything he has to keep from fucking up into your mouth. “yn, jesus, quit teasing and suck it, shit — suck it baby, please . .” deciding to put him out of his misery, you open wide and sink down, relaxing your throat to take him as deep as you can. he shouts, hands flying to your hair as you set up a steady rhythm, bobbing and sucking and swirling your tongue until he’s leaking a steady stream of precum down your throat.

suguru is panting harshly on your other side, fisting his own cock with short, rough strokes as he watches you work over satoru. “look so fuckin’ pretty with a dick in your mouth,” he praises raspily, thumb collecting the bead of moisture at his tip and reaching down to smear it across your lips where they're stretched wide around satoru. “made to be a fuckin’ eater, weren’t you sweetheart? made for us, made to take what you’re given, aren’t you?”

you whimper around your mouthful, the degradation making your cunt clench up hard. you redouble your efforts, relaxing your throat and sinking down until satoru’s cock is nudging the back of your throat, your nose pressed against his pelvis.

“holy fucking shit,” he wheezes, fingers tightening in your hair to hold you there. “oh my god, oh fuck, your fucking throat, m'gonna come, gonna come right down your slutty little neck . .”

“do it,” suguru growls, hand still fisting his own cock, the wet slap of skin on skin obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet room. “feed her that load, man, fucking paint her throat, make her gag.”

satoru cums with a hoarse shout, cock pulsing on your tongue as he empties himself down your throat. you swallow it all, working your tongue along the throbbing underside to draw out every last drop until he's shaking and pushing you off with an overwhelmed grunt. and you pull off with a gasp, lips swollen and spit-slick, chin wet with drool and the remnants of his release. before you can even catch your breath, suguru is grabbing you by the hair and dragging you over to his waiting cock, the head an angry purple and weeping steadily.

“looks like s’ my turn now, hm?” he grits out, tracing the seam of your lips with his cock, smearing the slickness around like obscene lipgloss. “back open, c’mon.”

you let your jaw drop wide once again, and then he’s pushing in, stretching your lips wide around his girth as he feeds you every thick, throbbing inch. he sets a punishing pace from the start, one hand cupped under your chin to feel his cock moving in your throat as the other winds tight in your hair, holding you still for his thrusts.

“oh fuck yeah,” he rasps, eyes fever-bright as he stares down at you, taking in your glazed eyes and drool-slick chin, the vulgar bulge of your throat. “takin’ it like a champ aren’t ya’? so pretty like this, baby. y’like it, like daddy’s cock buried in your throat like this?” you moan around him, looking up at him through your lashes as you hollow your cheeks and suck viciously — vacuum technique doing absolute wonders by the looks of it. he curses, rhythm faltering as his cock throbs warningly against your tongue.

satoru is suddenly there, pressing up against your back, arms banding around your waist as clever fingers find your aching nipples and pluck at them roughly. “your face is so pretty,” he husks in your ear, stubble rasping against your neck as he mouths at your throat. “it’ll look even prettier painted . . c’mon make him cum, you’ve earned it.”

the filthy words combined with the sharp mix of pleasure pain of his fingers on your nipples has you shuddering, cunt clenching down on nothing as a bolt of heat sizzles up your spine. suguru’s is close, you can tell by the way his thrusts are going erratic, his cock pulsing faster against your tongue.

“f-fuck, oh fuck, m’gonna cum,” he warns, high and tight, hips snapping forward once, twice more before he's pulling out abruptly, fisting his cock with desperate strokes. “open your mouth, fuck, stick out your tongue baby, wanna’ see it, fuckin’ shit!”

you obey mindlessly, tipping your face up and extending your tongue, a lewd, pornographic presentation. suguru loses it at the sight, shouting brokenly as his orgasm crashes over him, cock jerking in his grip as he paints your face with ropey streams of pearlescent white.

you moan shakily, back arching as some of his release hits your waiting tongue, the salty-musk taste of him flooding your senses. you feel debauched, utterly wrecked and still desperately turned on, your cunt a throbbing mess of need between your legs.

“holy shit!” suguru pants, slumping back against the couch, chest heaving. he takes in your cum - streaked face, the way you’re panting and squirming, still perched on your knees between them. “you’re a fuckin' vision, you know that? prettiest thing i’ve ever seen, all messy and marked up, fuck.”

“mmm, but she’s not finished though, are you baby?” satoru purrs, fingers drifting down to tease through your soaked folds, making you gasp and buck your hips. “look, she’s still hungry for it, so ready for more like the insatiable little slut you are. tell us what you need, sweetheart. tell us how you want us to wreck this pussy.”

“both of you,” you manage, voice a needy rasp. you reach down to circle your swollen clit, putting on a show for them. “want both you in me, filling me up t-til’ i can’t fuckin’ take it.”

“fuck,” satoru swears emphatically, cock already twitching with renewed interest. “yeah baby, we can do that, no problem. so sorry if we make you cry.”

“we gotta’ get her on the bed,” susguru demands, pulling you up and herding you towards satoru’s room. “need you spread out for us, wanna’ wreck you properly.”

you go willingly, eagerly, practically trembling with anticipation as they usher you into the bedroom, tearing their clothes off as they go. they descend upon you like men starved as soon as your back hits the mattress, hands and mouths roving over every inch of bared skin until you're writhing and keening beneath their attentions.

suguru pushes your thighs open and buries his face between them, groaning at the taste of your arousal. he licks into you like a man dying of thirst, tongue delving deep and curling just right to make you see stars. “fuckin’ drenched,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to circle your entrance with one long finger, gathering the slickness. “absolutely soaked for it, aren't you baby? dripping for our cocks, greedy little pussy desperate to be stuffed full.”

“please,” you whimper, back arching as he pushes two fingers knuckle-deep, pumping them lazily. “oh fuck, g-getou, more, need more!”

“ive got you,” satoru rasps, rolling on a condom and slicking himself up with lube. he shifts up the bed until he’s bracketing your head with his knees, the thick jut of his cock bobbing mere inches from your face. “gonna’ give this filthy mouth something to do while sugu opens up your hungry cunt, yeah? gonna’ fuck your throat while he fingers you sloppy, get you nice and ready for us both.”

you open eagerly for him, relaxing your jaw as he feeds his cock past your lips. he groans at the wet heat of your mouth, at the way you hollow your cheeks and suck, working your tongue along the throbbing underside.

“there you go,” he praises roughly, grabbing a handful of your hair and giving a shallow thrust. “just like that baby, fuck, feel like heaven around my dick . .”

you moan around him as suguru works a third finger into your dripping cunt, scissoring and curling them just right to graze that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. the dual stimulation has you shaking, the obscene sounds of satoru’s cock gliding through the slick clutch of your throat and suguru’s fingers pumping wetly into your pussy filling the room.

“she’s good to go,” suguru declares after a few endless minutes, pulling his fingers free and wiping them clean on the sheets. he slicks himself up, shifting into position between your spread thighs. “gonna’ wreck this pussy, baby, you have no idea how bad i’ve wanted this, wanted you. i think about you while i dream . .”

how could something said be so blended with both degeneracy and sweetness.

he pushes in on one smooth glide, the breath punching from his lungs in a guttural moan as your walls clench down greedily around him. “mm, what a tight fit. shit. gripping me, yn, goddamn.”

you sob brokenly around satoru’s cock as suguru bottoms out, hips flush against yours. he gives you a moment to adjust before he starts moving, rolling his hips in deep, devastating grinds that have you seeing stars.

satoru keeps rocking into your mouth, hands fisted in your hair to hold you in place for his thrusts. you take it eagerly, gagging a little when he hits the back of your throat but relaxing to let him push deeper, until your nose is pressed against his pelvis with every pump of his hips.

“m’ gonna’ cum down your throat again,” satoru grits out after a few minutes of spit-roasting you between them. “gonna’ get you all warmed up, honey.”

you moan helplessly, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as you struggle to breathe around his considerable girth. just as spots start to dance in your vision, satoru stiffens and curses, hips jerking erratically as he spills into your mouth with a hoarse shout. “there you go baby, breathe for me — agh fuck yes. choke on daddy’s dick, thas’ good girl.” he then pulls out carefully, cradling your jaw as you cough and gasp, chest heaving.

suguru is still working into you from below, the drag of his cock against your fluttering walls almost unbearably good. you’re so fucking full of him, stretched around his thickness, but you still feel so empty, aching for more.

“please,” you rasp, looking up at satoru with wet, pleading eyes. “need your cock inside me too, need both of you fucking me, filling me, please.”

“such a needy little thing,” satoru marvels, eyes dark and hungry on your face. “gonna’ give it to you, baby, don’t worry. want me to stuff that pussy, hm? confuse you on whose is whose,” he laughs.

he slides down your body, shifting to kneel behind suguru between your lewdly spread legs. slicking up his fingers with more lube, he circles your stretched rim where suguru is steadily pumping into you, dipping just the tip of one finger in alongside his thrusting cock.

you keen high in your throat at the added stretch, the slight burn as he works you open further. suguru groans at the increased tightness, at the filthy drag of satoru’s fingers around his pistoning cock as he meticulously stretches you out. “god, look at you,” suguru pants, sounding absolutely wrecked as he stares down at where you're taking them both, hole straining wide and shiny-slick with lube and your own arousal. “pretty, little cunt all desperate for it, practically begging to be stuffed full. you want that, baby? want both of us crammed up in that pussy, wanna’ be our fuckin’ cocksleeve?”

“yes,” you sob, past the point of shame or restraint. “please, fuck, want it, want you both so deep in me, wan’ it to almost hurt . .”

“holy shit,” satoru swears feelingly, pulling his fingers free and lining his cock up alongside suguru’s. the blunt pressure against your already stuffed hole has you nearly hyperventilating, squirming down onto them eagerly. “okay, baby, deep breaths. gonna’ put both of us in, yeah?” you nod, and he pushes in hard, forcing his cockhead in alongside suguru’s with a devastating stretch. you wail brokenly, back bowing as you’re split open on their straining cocks, the burn of it so intense it borders on both pleasure and pain. but then suguru is rolling his hips and satoru is grinding into you and oh, oh it’s fucking perfect, the drag of them against your walls, the way they throb and pulse in tandem inside you.

“fuck,” suguru wheezes, sweat rolling down his temples. “o-oh fuck, fuck, fuck!.”

“m’ not gonna last,” satoru warns, voice absolutely shattered as he starts to move, drawing out only to slam back in, forcibly creating space for himself in your overstuffed channel. “yn, o-ooh, pussy’s stranglin’ me, baby — m’gonna cum.”

“do it,” you demand breathlessly, rolling your hips up to meet their thrusts, taking them impossibly deeper. “cum in me . . claim m-me.” with twin shouts they comply, snapping their hips forward one, two, three more times before they’re cumming hard, cocks pulsing in tandem as they empty themselves into you. you moan brokenly at the feel of it, of their release flooding your cunt, marking you up from the inside out.

they collapse against you as they come down, chests heaving and skin slick with sweat. you whimper as their softening cocks slip free of your abused hole, a river of come slipping out after them to soak the sheets.

“holy f-fuck,” satoru rasps after a long moment, pressing a reverent kiss to your shoulder. “that was fucking crazy . .”

“and incredible,” suguru adds, sounding just as dazed. “yn, baby, fuck. we wrecked you, jesus.”

“mmm, you did,” you agree, feeling utterly boneless and fucked-out in the best way. “absolutely ruined me for anyone else, jus’ like you promised.”

“good,” satoru growls, something fiercely possessive in his gaze as it rakes over your limp, satisfied form. “because this pussy? this filthy, perfect pussy? it belongs to us now. you belong to us now . . .”

you glance briefly at the tv, dick drunk and pleasure high. part of you thinks you should probably pay your respects to the anime that facilitated this unexpected but very welcome turn of events, but the rest of you is preoccupied with trying not to black out as satoru and suguru keep their attention on you.

megan-sama, you think muzzily, just before suguru starts to nip at your shoulder again, bless your ratchet heart. you the real mvp.

and then coherency flees completely as your boys descend on you once more, cutting off anything resembling higher thought.

the last fleeting thing you remember is a deep, unshakable gratitude for your beautifully crafted body and the incredible dudes about to spend the foreseeable future worshipping it.

thick thighs save lives, indeed.

there’s only one you.

we love you meg.

[horseimagebarn]

horse standing on the shiny floor of a pet store which we can deduce is such from the bags of pet food stacked upon the rows of shelves that flank this magnificent beast though the bags of food seem intended for dogs and this horse though some of the tallest dog breeds may rival its size which is large for a dog and short for a horse is still a horse and cannot subsist off of dog food so the question remains what has brought this horse and its human friend whose face is not visible as they are turned out of frame only displaying their getup of a half opened backpack and what appears to be shorts worn over of pants to the dog food aisle of the pet store perhaps they have a canine friend at home or perhaps they simply enjoy wandering the aisles together enjoying one anothers company as they peruse with no intent to buy the many packaged bounties the store has to offer

[athenamikaelson]

Klaus Mikaelson X Soulmate!Reader x Elijah Mikaelson Ch. 23

Word Count- 5k

Warnings-Swearing, sexual innuendos, Elijah being a little asshole, mention of blood

“Damon if you don’t move your foot, I swear to whatever holy power is out there I will tase you,” I growl into my pillow as I feel Damon’s foot land on my upper back. 

After waiting a moment and not getting a response, I turn around on my back, grab Demon’s foot, which is now resting on my upper chest, and throw it off of me.

Damon, who is currently passed out at the end of my bed at the Salvatore’s, releases a groan but doesn’t wake up.

I rub circles into my temple as I look around my bedroom which is currently trashed with an assortment of empty alcoholic beverages and junk food. After Damon and I left the party last night, we made our way back here and while Damon found alcohol to mend his worries and broken heart, I turned to Twinkies, chocolate, and the shitty pancakes a drunken Damon made me. While Damon cooked for me he went on a love-sick 30-minute about his heartbreaks over the past century. When he was done, we tried tackling my problem but a drunk Damon wasn’t much help. Well…a sober one isn’t either but y’know.

Flashback

“Alright,” I watch from my stool at the kitchen island as Damon pours the entire package of chocolate chips into the pancake batter, “Sooooooo, what you’re telling me is that,” He points his spatula at me, “Not one, but two of the Original brothers claim to be your soulmate and that you have a piece of each of their human souls in you?”

I throw my head onto the counter and groan, “That’s what the masses have said.”

“Interesting,” I lift up my head slightly to peer at Damon who is tapping his chin with the batter-covered spatula, resulting in batter covering his lower chin, and seems that in his drunken state, he doesn’t seem to notice or care, “And Klaus was actually the one who gave you that necklace you’ve been wearing all this time, and Elijah is like head over heels for you as well as his brother,” He pauses and then talks to himself, or babbles to himself, “I mean it was pretty obvious, I mean a blind person could see how either one of them look at you. Especially Elijah, dude has that lovesick puppy dog look on his face since the moment he pulled out those two guys' hearts,” He taps his chin again, “Or was it three?”

“Demon, seriously, not helping,” I exhaust and he shrugs turning back towards the pantry. I watch as he grabs yet another bag of chocolate chips.

“Dude, seriously? That’s the third bag. I think we have enough.”

Damon looks up at me with a glare, “My kitchen my rules. My chocolate chips.”

“And my stomach ache,” I mutter to myself as I watch him pour in the chips.  

“So what do you think I should do,” Hopelessness clear in my voice.

Damon sighs, wipes his hands on the apron he’s wearing, and walks around the island to me. He stands in front of me places his hand on my shoulders and leans down to my face. 

“Fuck them both. Get them out of your system. We’re planning on killing them anyway so the problem will fix itself momentarily. In the meantime, go to Poundtown,” Damon smirks and then nods his head to himself as if he just gave me the greatest piece of advice ever. 

“You’re disgusting,” I glare at him and he smiles. 

“And you’re a prude.”

A knocking on the downstairs door shakes me out of my head and I send a kick to Damon’s stomach.

“Demon, someone’s at the door,” I hiss and Damon rolls over onto his side but doesn’t wake up.

“Damon!”

Damon whips around and glares at me, but the sunlight protruding from my window makes him close his eyes again, “Then go answer it,” He hisses.

“What if it’s someone trying to kill us,” I whisper and he runs a hand over his face.

“Pukey…If someone was here to kill us, do you really think they would knock first?”

I think about Damon’s question for a moment then realize he’s probably right. 

“Fine but if I get killed, I’m haunting you,” I say to him as I put on my slippers and head out the door.

I hear Damon mutter a sarcastic “yay” as I descend the staircase. 

I get to the door and cautiously open it and when my eyes meet dark brown ones I release I low swear.

“Good afternoon to you too, Elskan,” Elijah’s eyes trail from bedhead and my makeshift pajamas which consist of Damon’s button-up shirt from yesterday and a pair of sleep shorts that barely cover my ass. 

“Or should I say good morning,” Elijah’s eyes move back up to Damon’s shirt and I watch as his upper lip seems to morph into a snarl but after a split second returns to a forced smile. 

“What are you doing here, Elijah,” I grip the handle of the door as I wait for his answer.

“I told you yesterday that I would answer any questions that you had for me,” Elijah gestures behind me to the living room, “May I come in?”

I glance at the living room for a moment before turning back towards the suited Original, “Don’t you have your family to deal with?”

“My siblings have lived with themselves for a thousand years, I’m sure they can go one hour without getting themselves killed,” He smirks but something in his tone makes it seem like he doesn’t believe anything he just said.

I pinch my temple and move to the side, “Ya, fine. Come on in.”

Elijah’s smile doesn’t falter as we walk into the living room and he places himself in a leather chair while I sit on my favorite sofa, tugging my knees under my chin. 

“Are you dead?”

I turn around at Damon’s sarcastic voice and roll my eyes. 

Damon enters the living room with a blood bag and hand and no shirt on.

“Ew, gross. Put on a shirt,” I gag and cover my eyes.

“I would but you’re wearing it, Pukey,” Damon snarks back and I move my hand away and look down at the white button-up I’m wearing.

“This is quite literally your house. Go find another shirt,” I exhaust and Damon just shrugs his shoulders and then looks over at Elijah. 

I turn back towards the Original who is watching Damon and me with a flat expression. His usual smile is no longer present. 

“Good morning, Elijah,” Damon smirks at him, “Funny you're here. Y’know since last night you were such a present figure in Y/n and I’s girl chats.”

I whip my head around and send daggers at Demon but he doesn’t seem to notice and if he does he certainly doesn’t care. 

“Is that so,” Elijah says and I back to see him glancing at me with a raised eyebrow. 

“Nope,” I grab an empty root beer can that is placed next to me on the couch, from Damon and I’s movie night last night, and hurl it at Demon. Sadly, he dodges it.

“Oh that’s odd,” Damon looks down at me and taps his chin, “Because if I’m not mistaken there were talks of a certain suited Original and going to Poundtown with him,” Damon turns to Elijah, who lets out a cough, as I watch on in horror, “Hmm, must’ve been someone else then. My mistake. You two enjoy your little chat,” Damon says with a final wink to me as he practically skips into the kitchen.

I’m frozen in horror as I stare at Elijah who is staring back at me. Elijah's face appears a tinge redder than before and I can’t even imagine how fucking uncomfortable I look to him. 

“I can explain,” I chirp out quickly.

Elijah raises an eyebrow and seems to have collected himself as a shit-eating grin comes over his handsome features, “Please do. I insist.”

“Well…well,” I try to think but come up with nothing, “I got nothing.”

Elijah’s smirk deepens and if it didn’t make him appear even hotter than he already is, I’d probably slap him.

“Well, you’ll just have to enlighten me on the conversation later on. I’m quite interested in learning what this, “Poundtown” place is,” Elijah says as he does air quotes around Poundtown.

“I’m going to kill myself.”

Elijah’s smirk drops and he frowns, “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

I nod, “I’m never going to be able to show my face ever again,” I pause, “Well first I’d have to kill Damon. Mutual destruction. But that could take some time, so it appears I’ll have to postpone it,” I say sadly and look back to Elijah who looks incredibly confused.

“I can’t quite tell if you’re being serious or not?”

I just shrug, “Who knows? Anyways… you said you came here to answer my questions?”

Elijah leans forward to unbutton his suit jacket, “Yes, that is correct. But,” He looks back towards the way Damon went and I swear I saw him roll his eyes, “Perhaps there is somewhere we can talk, away from listening ears.”

“Don’t mind me!” I groan at Damon’s loud voice coming from the direction of the kitchen. 

“We can talk in my room,” I stand up and gesture for him to follow.

—

“I didn’t realize you had a room here,” Elijah says as he stands at the doorframe of my room. Glancing around at the trash littered on the floor along with the bottles of alcohol. 

I quickly make work of gathering the littered trash and bottles, “I moved in here over the summertime and Damon gave me this room. He let me pick out the decorations and everything,” I pick up an empty bottle of bourbon and look back to Elijah, “The alcohol isn’t mine. Damon was in here last night, drinking away his sorrows.”

Elijah lets out an almost annoyed sound, “You and the eldest Salvatore brother seem to be rather…close,” He practically spits out the word as I place the trash in my pink trashcan.

I shrug, “He’s alright company, y’know when he’s not being a cunt.”

“Language, Elskan,” Elijah chastises and I roll my eyes. 

“Umhm.”

Elijah takes a few steps in and starts inspecting my room more. I don’t have much in here other than some summer clothes, makeup, and other little knick-knacks that I picked up over the summer.  

“Did he sleep in here last night,” Elijah questions as he picks up a glass mouse I have sitting on my mantel. 

“Uh, ya. We were watching season 3 of Supernatural and his drunk ass fell asleep, why do you ask?”

Elijah sets the mouse back down and then turns to stare at me. Or really the shirt I’m wearing, “I don’t mean to intrude. But, are you and the Salvatore brother…something more,” Elijah asks the question like he’s afraid of the answer.

I stare at him for a moment and then let out a huge laugh, “Damon and I!? Never! Ew! As if! I’d rather take a hot poker to my foot than let that Neanderthal anywhere near my lips,” I laugh disgustedly and I watch as Elijah’s tense shoulders drop.

“Why? Are you jealous,” I squint my eyes at him, and his upper lip twitches?

“Jealously isn’t something I’m quite accustomed to,” Elijah walks over to me and runs a finger along the sleeve of my shirt, “But, I must admit seeing you in another man’s shirt has stirred up many unpleasant feelings, and thoughts in me.”

I bite down on my inner lip as I listen to Elijah’s deep voice.

“What kind of thoughts?”

Elijah pulls lightly on the collar of my shirt making me stumble at bit into him, “Thoughts like how much I’d like to rip this shirt off you and burn it and never let another man’s clothing touch you ever again.”

Oh Good Lord. 

I open and close my mouth, “I’ll go umm… change if that’s what you want?”

I gesture to my closest and Elijah smirks proudly, “I’d appreciate that highly, Elskan.”

I nod and quickly run to my walk-in closet throw off Damon’s shirt and grab one of my dark blue Henleys.

I exit the closet to find Elijah lounging in my armchair, strumming through “The Duke and I.”

Shit. 

Elijah, noticing my presence, lifts his head from the book and eyes my new attire.

“Good girl.”

Jesus Fucking Christ I’m going to-

“Stop doing that,” I stutter out as I point a finger at him.

Elijah tilts his head, quite adorably, “I’m not sure what you mean?”

I sit on the edge of my bed, across from the chair, and glare at him, “You know exactly what you’re doing. That whole smirking, flirting thing you’re doing.”

Elijah leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, “Once again, Elskan,” He locks eyes with me, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I glare at him until a shit-eating smirk comes back onto his face.

“See! There it is,” I turn around and grab a pillow and throw it at him, “Jerk!”

Elijah catches the pillow easily, and a warm laugh escapes him.

“It appears I’ve got to work on my flirting skills. It has been quite some time since I’ve tried wooing a woman,” Elijah tells me and I try to look anywhere but him. 

“You don’t have to woo me,” I say as I play with the hem of my shirt.

“On the contrary, my love, yes I do. Not just as your soulmate,” I pick up my head at his words, “But as a man who is hugely infatuated with you.”

“You’re only feeling things for me because of our bond, or whatever it is. If there wasn’t a bond you wouldn’t have even looked in my direction that day with Rose.”

Elijah stands from his chair and comes to stand before me, he reaches his hand down and grabs my chin, so I have to look up at him.

“Let me assure you, bond or no bond, that a beauty like yours is one that not even the darkest of nights can hide away. You are the sun to me, Elskan. And maybe, yes,  the bond is what led me to you, but the woman you are is what has made me wholeheartedly obsessed with you. In my many years of living, I have rarely come across a soul like yours. One so…pure. You’re full of this light that somehow has kept shining even when everything around you has tried to snuff it out. I have seen the heart you have with others and can only hope that one day I may be given the opportunity to be let into it as well.”

I stare up at the breathtaking man before me. My mind seems to go blank as I stare into his deep brown eyes, eyes that are filled with such longing and heartbreaking devotion. 

“You truly can’t think all that of me. You’ve only known me for a few months, Elijah,” I shake my head out of his hold and he lets out a sound of disagreement. 

“Elska-...Y/n,” Elijah draws my attention to him as he comes to kneel in front of me. Now it’s my turn to look down at him as he reaches his hands up and gestures for me to take them. I release a breath as I place my hands into his. 

“For one thousand years, I have fought with my humanity. I have done horrendous things in the name of my family. For years I lived with this self-hatred, never thinking that one day I might be able to calm this storm I feel inside of my mind,” Elijah looks to be in pain as he seems to be thinking back to something, “But then,” His scorned look lightens as he locks eyes with me and his upper lip lifts into a smile, “I felt my heart lighten. I locked eyes with a beautiful y/e/c the day Rose-Marie called me about the doppelganger, and for the first time in a millennium that storm settled. All my mind could focus on was the angel in front of me. Seeing you gave me this sense of, calmness. As if everything I had ever done before that day meant nothing. I’d lived for a thousand years, but the moment you looked at me,” Elijah lifts my hands to his lips and presses a kiss to my inner wrist, “I became alive. That is what you are to me, Y/n. You are my life. My immortality.”

Elijah continues, “And you may say I don’t know anything about you, and you may be right. But here are some things I do know. I know that you love learning and reading,” Elijah smirks to himself, “Even if the literature you read is just sex,” Elijah releases a laugh at my horrified expression, “After I had seen what books you have in your collection. I spent my time buying my own copies and reading each of them.”

I shake my head, “Why, though?”

Elijah stands up and squeezes my hands, “What other reason do I need other than that you enjoy them? You were wary of me, but I still wanted to know everything I could about you. When I saw your stack of books I thought the closest thing to you, would be your books.”

I release a shaky breath as I look up at the man before me. 

“I also know you love your family and friends more than you love yourself. Theodore is incredibly lucky to have an older sister who puts herself and her feelings second when it comes to him. I also know how you’re able to find the best in people,” He makes an annoyed face, “Clearly since you spend your time with the eldest Salvatore brother. I dislike you being around him, but even I can see how you’ve changed him. Yes, he’s an irrational insolent little child,” I send him an eye roll and he smirks, “But even I can admit his change since you’ve come around. That’s the kind of person you are, you insight goodness in others. Being around you changes people. Y/n, you are an amazing human being and I intend to show you how much I appreciate fate for blessing me with you.”

I smile up at Elijah, “You really have a way with words, y’know?”

Elijah lets out a deep chuckle, “Yes, I’ve been told this a few times before,” Elijah reaches a hand down and brushes a piece of hair behind my ear.

“How do you intend to show me?”

Elijah’s upper lip twitches and he brings his fingers down and lightly pinches my cheek, “As much as I’d love to show you, I don’t think I have enough time. And I promised to answer some of your questions.”

I let out a startled cough and nod my head, trying to act chill as hell. Oh lord, this man is freaky deeky. 

“Oh ya, um, totally,” I stand up quickly and almost knock Elijah in the nose while doing so. He takes a quick step back in time and releases a chuckle. 

“Okay, let me just collect myself real quick,” I take a deep breath as I start pacing my room, “Lots of emotions going around right now.’

“Take your time, Elskan.”

Elijah sits back in my armchair and I watch him. He’s back to his composed self and I wish I was able to be as calm and nonchalant as he is. 

“So how old are you exactly?”

“Approximately, 1,200 years old.”

My mouth drops open.

“You’re old as fuck,” I blurt out.

Elijah raises an eyebrow, “You and that language,” He mutters while shaking his head, “But…yes. I am old as fuck.”

A loud snort escapes me and I quickly slap a hand to my mouth. I stare wide-eyed at Elijah, who appears to be quite entertained by my outburst. A light pink tinge covers his cheeks as he stares at me with a soft smile. 

“Moving along…what’s your birthday?”

Elijah gives me a confused look, “Why do you ask?”

I put my hands on my hips, “Didn’t you agree to answer all of my questions,” I give him a pointed look and he smirks. 

“Yes, I did. My apologies. But birthdays weren’t a big thing when I was born. So all I know was I was born sometime between November and January.”

A sense of sadness fills me, “So you really don’t know what day you were born?”

Elijah shakes his head. 

“Alright…,” I tap my chin, “Then we’ll just have to give you one,” I squint my eyes and stare at him. He watches me with an unphased look, “Hmm. I don’t think you’d be a Sagittarius so that leaves either a Scorpio or Capricorn. Scorpio sounds better for you. How about November 15th?”

Elijah places one leg over the other and nods his head, “November 15th it is.”

I nod happily and then sit down on the floor across from him, “Next question…Klaus said that he was able to tell I was his soulmate by my eyes and that the soulmate thing works because I got your human soul. Is all this true?”

Elijah nods, “Like my brother I had dreams of your eyes. They gave me a sense of comfort in my moments of weakness. I knew that when I meant the person who they belonged to I would be wholly devoted to them. And I know for certain now that I was correct,” He smiles down at me but I can’t keep looking at him because I know if I do I’ll let out a stupid giggle. “Cool. Cool. Cool.,” I fiddle with my fingers, “So what exactly comes with this thing,” I gesture between us, “Like, I don’t feel like drinking any blood so I don’t think I’ve developed your hunger. And I’m not like super strong or fast so…that sucks.”

Elijah leans forward in his seat, “From what I’ve read over the years about the bond, you will not have to worry about developing a taste for blood. Nor, will you experience my speed or strength. There isn’t much about soulmates but what some witches have suspected is that when one of of feels a strong emotion, such as pain, our counterpart will also feel it.”

At his comment, I frown. 

“Wait. Pain?” Elijah frowns deeply, “I would never want you to feel any pain because of me, Elskan.”

“While you were daggered…I got these strong pains in my chest. It would hurt so bad that sometimes I would pass out. Was that because of the bound?”

“Why did you never tell me about this?”

At Elijah’s concerned tone, I shrug. 

“It’s not like we’ve had much time to hang out since you’ve been undaggered, dude.”

Elijah sighs and nods, “It is possible that is the reason.”

“Oh my god,” I jump up slightly, “During the ritual when you guys were trying to kill your brother,” Elijah slightly flinches at the recollection, “I felt like I was having a heart attack and I had blood gushing from my chest. Alaric said it was like I was dying, and honestly it felt like I was,” I cringe, “Was that the bond with Klaus?”

Elijah has a look of horror on his face, “I didn’t know I caused you such pain,” He stands up and rubs a hand over his face, “Elskan, I understand if you never forgive me, but you must know how truly sorry I am. I never wanted this to-.”

“Woah, Elijah. Chill,” I stand up and hold my hands up, “I don’t blame you for what happened. Like at all. I’m just relieved that I have an explanation for what was happening. You have no idea how many medical bills I racked up on Damon’s credit card for all the doctor’s appointments that we went to. I thought I was like actually dying from some unknown disease.”

Elijah looks at me with an odd look, “So you don’t hate me? And also…Damon went with you to the doctor’s?”

I nod, “Ya…it was a weird summer. Many trips upstate. Many diner stops with him as well. If you think his presence is a lot when you’re out in public with him, imagine being stuck in a car with him for hours,” I shiver.

“I will make sure to talk to him and have him send me the bills for your medical expenses so I can take responsibility for it.”

I shake my head and laugh, “Don’t worry about it, Lijah. I like draining him for his money, it pisses him off. Which gives me joy.”

Elijah’s dark mood seems to lighten at my joke. 

“Do you have any other questions for me?”

“Ummm. Nope.”

Elijah raises an eyebrow in skepticism, “Really? You don’t seem so sure.”

“Well…there is one question that has been nagging at me,” I look at the wall in front of me and pretend to find the wood interesting.

“And what question would that be?”

“Um, well… I know you like to flirt or whatever, but um…soulmates is kinda a big thing if you didn’t know,” I look back to him and he nods.

“I did know.”

“Well, what exactly do you expect to happen here,” I gesture between him and I. 

A look of realization comes over Elijah’s face as he realizes my apprehension.

Elijah releases a breath and stands up. I stand silently as he walks over to me with a soft smile on his face.

“I understand your confusion here. But, I want you to know this, Elskan,” Elijah uses his hand to brush my hair off my shoulder, “I will accept whatever you want. I have waited for you a thousand years, to be in your presence is enough for me. If you want a friend, then I will be a friend. Or,” He lets out a soft breath, “If one day you decide you would like to explore something…deeper. Then I’d be incredibly happy as well. I don’t want you to feel rushed or uncomfortable. So, whatever you decide, I will agree.”

A warmth flows through my chest at his confession.

I try to push back my smile but I can’t seem to help it as I look at the nervous look on his face. 

“I’d like a friend,” I say and Elijah seems almost a bit upset.

“Then a friend I will be,” Elijah agrees.

“But…if in the future, after we get to know each other better,” Elijah's eyes widen slightly at what I’m saying, “Maybe we could revisit the idea of something…more.”

Elijah’s smile widens enough to where I can see his slight dimples, “I would like that…very much.”

“Great,” I bite my lip nervously.

“Great,” Elijah responds.

Elijah and I seem to be stuck in a staring contest until a chime from my phone interrupts us. 

“Sorry,” I mutter as I pull my phone from my pocket. I frown as I read the text from Matt Donovan. 

“What’s wrong?” I look up at Elijah after hearing his concerned voice.

“Someone called in sick for work and Matt needs me to come in and cover her shift,” I groan at the thought of going to work today. 

“You have a job?”

“Sadly. But, if I want to pay for college I’m going to need to save up money,” I sigh as I walk over to my desk and start putting some mascara on.

“I’d pay for your college. You don’t need to worry about work,” Elijah’s comment has me turning over my shoulder to look at him.

“Like a sugar daddy?”

Elijah looks incredibly confused, “A what?”

I think it over a moment before shaking my head, “Never mind. But, I would never take your money.”

Elijah shakes his head, “You’re the only one I’d want to spend it on.”

I roll my eyes trying to hide the effect his words are having on me.

“That’s usually not how one friend talks to another,” I jest. 

I turn back towards my mirror, that sits on my desk, and I put on some concealer. In the mirror I see Elijah behind me walk up towards me. 

“And how exactly do friends talk to one another,” Elijah says and I smirk as I continue blending in my makeup. I feel him stand behind me and pull slightly on a piece of my hair that is hanging down my back. I turn to glare at him and see him smiling at me like the devil.

“Now I see where Kol gets it from,” I snark and Elijah releases a sound of annoyance.

“Please never compare me to my younger brother again,” Elijah says as he wraps a piece of my hair around his finger and twirls it. 

I finish up my makeup, stand back up, and face Elijah who smiles down at me. 

“Ok…first rule of us being just friends. You’ve got to stop looking at me like that.”

Elijah tilts his head, “Like what?”

I point at his face, “Like that! That handsome smirk you’ve always got on your face.”

“Handsome?”

I let out a frustrated noise, walk over to my sweater, and begin to put it on. 

“You’re impossible.”

Elijah comes up behind me and takes my sweater from my hand and helps me put it on.

“Thanks…”

Elijah smiles at me, “What else are friends for?”

I let out a laugh, “Whatever. But…a friend would also give me a ride to work?”

Elijah smiles at me, “I’d be delighted to.”

[omedapixel]

MORE DEBUG OBJECTS

By poular demand, here are the rest of the prop and miscellaneous objects enabled for decorating! I don't have any pics right now, but the full list of objects is below the cut, and each package is merged by expansion pack.

As with my other debug objects, these can all be found under DEBUG > MISC. The catalog names are often something weird, because I haven't edited or added any strings.

These objects are technically not CC, it just allows you to access and decorate with objects that are already in game. Therefore you can uninstall these overrides, share worlds and lots using them, and they'll still remain wherever you've placed them.

Also, if you have a default replacement for any of these props, for example a plate default, then the object will also be updated to reflect that.

I highly reccomment using this in conjunction with my S3DT mod, since some of the objects are half sunk into the ground by default.

DOWNLOAD HERE

Object List Below

BASE GAME:

Guitar Case

Amplifier

Bottle Spigot (unused asset)

Child Ladle

Child Mixing Bowl

Cutting Board (slots do no work, unfortunately)

Fire Extinguisher

Fire Poker

Fire Lighter

Hammer

Bartending Bottle Prop

Ice Cream Cone

Microwave Meal

Paper Plate

Screwdiver

Sponge

Toilet Brush

Wedding Ring

Wrench

WORLD ADVENTURES:

Canteen

Chopsticks

Dig Site Brush

Flour Bag

Fortune Cookie

Map (looks like plain parchment)

Nectar Glass

Nectar Tray

Pamphlet

Pickaxe

Pungi (snake charming instrument)

AMBITIONS:

Chisel

Fire Axe

Blowtorch

Chainsaw

Detonator

Gnubb Bunny

Gnubb King

Junk Pipe Piece

Magnifying Glass

Notepad

Shovel

Tape Measure

Tattoo Gun

Triangle Ruler

Walkie Talkie

LATE NIGHT:

Drink Shaker

Drumstick

Party Glass

Round Party Glass

Bartending Bottle Prop

Juice Can

GENERATIONS:

Envelope

Love Letter Envelope

Cheap RAM Disk

Expensive RAM Disk

Beaker

Rolled Diploma

Flashlight

Game Controller

Greeting Card

Round Flask

Sparkling Juice (champagne)

PETS:

Hoofpick

Adult Pitchfork

Child Pitchfork

Plastic Pet Food Bowl

Cat Hunting Chip Bag

Cat Hunting Feather

Cat Hunting Leaf

Dog Treat

Foal Bottle

Horse Brush

Litter Scoop

Pet Brush

Stick (for playing fetch)

Freezer Bunny Ice Cream

Kitty Litter Pile

Rainbow Ice Cream

(forgot to do the chocolate ice cream, sorry!)

SHOWTIME:

CD Case

Record

Golf Ball

Juggling Pin

Microphone (grey)

Snack Bowl

Headphones

Golf Club Average

Golf Club Expert

Golf Club Old

Firefly Jar

FireflyJar Lid

Juggling Knife

Magician Sword

SUPERNATURAL:

Fly Swatter

White Glove

Bonehilda Key

Alchemy Bowl

Alchemy Package

Beehive Smoker

SEASONS:

Horseshoe

Child Rake

Adult Rake

Barista Bar Cup

Egg Hunt Basket

Trick or Treat Basket

Carving Knife

Fruit Punch

Hot Beverage Cup

Stack of Hot Dogs

Love Letter

Pie (from eating contest)

Snow Cone Syrup

Soccer Ball

Tissue

Spooky Day Candy

UNIVERSITY:

Clipboard

Red Juice Cup

Art Scanner

Bonfire Logs

Candy Bar

Cold One

College Letter

Energy Drink

Manilla Envelope

Macot Plushy

Ping Pong Ball

Ping Pong Paddle

Mistletoe (unused asset)

Protest Banners (3 versions)

Protest Flyer

Smartphone

Soda Can

Paint Sray Can

Suitcase

Whiteboard Eraser

Whiteboard Marker

ISLAND PARADISE:

Broom

Coconut Drink

Cold Beverage

Grim Reaper Trident

Pineapple Drink

Rescue Tube

Glass Bottle Pool Bar

Pool Bar Juice Can

INTO THE FUTURE:

Microphone (black)

OIl Puddle

Stardust

Paper Bag

[anifever]

omggg I love ur Lottie!reader hc’s! Could you do one where the reader acts like Tiana? A super independent, great cook and no-nonsense gal with good humor is someone I think the whole gang would rlly love

Gang w/ a Tiana!Reader ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The Outsiders x Fem!Reader

୨୧ : Curtis gang with a reader who’s like Tiana from ‘Princess and the Frog’

A/N : Why does my theme mess up when I do requests kms. Once again, sorry if these are a bit short <\3 I have so many other requests I’m working on so bare with me

˖⁺‧₊˚ 🐸 ˚₊‧⁺˖

Darry

୨ IMO, he’d be the best choice for someone with that personality to be paired with

୨ The gang is terrified of pissing either of you off

୨ My ongoing hc/scenario of him = throwing flour at each other whilst cooking together continues to hold up

୨ He thinks you’re the perfect mix of sweet with a bit of sour

୨ If you have a little restaurant, etc; he’s always gloating about it

୨ He’s honestly a little shy about it like one of his coworkers asks abt you during a lunch break and he’s just like “Well….🤭🤭🤭”

୨ You guys both share your parents recipes with each other

୨ He’s the one who’s always cooking for his brothers/the guys, so it’s helpful when he gets a bigger range of things to make

୨ Also helpful that you offer to cook with him or just do it yourself sometimes

୨ He gets pretty worried when he notices you overworking yourself (ironic.)

୨ You both try to help each other through it and take some burdens off one another’s shoulders

୨ You’re both super independent; power couple

Two-Bit

୨ You love to cook, he loves to eat

୨ You’re his saving grace

୨ You also match his sense of humor which makes you the full package in his eyes

୨ He can’t compliment you without you brushing him off and he hates it LMAO

୨ He just wants to butter you up but you’re so humble

୨ Then again, he gets all shy when you start sweet-talking him back

୨ You spoil him with food constantly

୨ “Baby, you’re an amazing cook ‘n all, but I’m gainin’ a bit of a belly-” then you just shut him up by stuffing his mouth with more food

୨ You don’t gaf about his weight you just like coddling your funny lil’ handsome guy

୨ Like I said, he cannot stop complimenting you, like it’s impossible for him

୨ He thinks you’re perfect and feels the need to constantly rub it in other people’s faces that they don’t have someone like you

୨ Like he bagged a woman who can cook, is funny, nice, gorgeous, and stays humble about all of it????

୨ It will forever be his greatest achievement

Steve

୨ You keep him in check

୨ He can be such a smartass sometimes but he learned not to mess around with you fast

୨ Just sits and watches you cook sometimes because he’s so mesmerized by it

୨ He debates on stealing ads for your restaurant he sees around town since he’s so proud of you but then he decides it’s probably bad to lower your promo

୨ He says “There’s my favorite chef 😋” with the dumbest grin on his face whenever he sees you after a while of being apart

୨ If anyone dares to say something bad about you or your food, etc- his ass is NOT having it

୨ His smart-ness comes in handy in cases like that

୨ Like I said, you can handle your own and he’s lowkey giggling and kicking his feet on the inside whenever he gets to witness it

୨ He’s like yes!!!! That’s my girl!!! 😣😣

୨ Borderline moans when he tastes something new of yours and you can’t tell if he’s playing it up or being serious

Dallas

୨ You walk him like a dog I’m crying

୨ You’re really kind most of the time, but he loves that you’re also able to handle yourself

୨ Like going to Buck’s together and some guy is being weird, he thinks he’ll have to step in but you handle it just fine on your own

୨ He wanted you to have his children after that.

୨ Anyways, you’re also really caring over him

୨ Not to mention super loyal which he’s not used to

୨ You always clean him up after fights (not without scolding him tho)

୨ Once again, if you own a place yourself or at least work somewhere, he’s always showing up out of the blue

୨ He reluctantly agrees to be on his best behavior when he visits

୨ That being said, when he hangs out with Pony and Johnny, he’s always bringing them there for food

୨ He tries to flirt with you whilst you’re on-job and you do not have any of it

Soda

୨ He’s always ready to be a taste-tester whenever you try a new recipe

୨ He’s just so supportive I’m sobbing I love him

୨ You pack him lil’ sweets for him to snack on during his shifts at the DX

୨ He watches you passionately talk about cooking/your job with hearts in his eyes

୨ Whenever girls come into the the DX to flirt with him, he takes the chance to promote your business/the place you work LMAOO

୨ He worries a bunch when you start working more than normal

୨ He tries to get you to take breaks but then you’re like “?? You do the same thing with your job” and he’s just like “Ah.. well, you got me there.”

୨ Realistically though, he gets where you’re coming from about “the only way to get what you want is through hard work” and relates to it

୨ That still doesn’t stop him from pouting when you seem more tired than usual when you take longer shifts, etc

୨ You start helping him and his brothers out financially once you start making more money

୨ He cries.

Johnny

୨ You try to help him with his confidence since you’ve got a lot of it yourself

୨ You make him feel secure

୨ You’re also a pretty big inspiration for him

୨ He doesn’t eat great considering his living conditions other than when he goes over to the Curtis’, so he’s basically getting full course meals when he’s with you

୨ You encourage him to get multiple helpings/take a few bites before the food’s done but then scold the other guys when they try to LMAO

୨ “Oh, so Johnny can eat it early but not us??”

୨ “What- was I supposed to let him STARVE?!?! 🙄”

୨ You care about him so much and always make sure he’s away from his parents as much as possible

୨ You’re aware he can also handle himself the same way you can, but you’re still protective over him nonetheless

୨ You have confronted his mom before and desperately tried to keep your usual down-to-earth and kind demeanor, but it didn’t work. At all.

୨ You and Two-Bit are one in the same when it comes to that woman

Pony

୨ He is SCARFING your food down

୨ I’m dead it’ll be gone so fast, he can’t help it

୨ Loves that you’re so headstrong since he’s the same way

୨ Anyways, imagine he brings home a small box filled with something you made him from school & Steve’s like “Where’d you get that from?? 🤨” and he gets all smug about it

୨ He refuses to let him have even the smallest bite

୨ You get along really easy with everyone and he loves that about you

୨ You’re always sticking up for him if he’s getting made fun of at school, on the street, etc

୨ It makes his lil’ heart hammer in his chest

୨ He visits you during your waitressing shifts

୨ Like he studies and does homework up at the counter while you work and he takes glances up at you every now and then AHHHHH

୨ He also probably does yours for you depending on how busy you are

୨ You repay him with food on the house though 😊

୨ Darry’s always asking him where he’s been and he’s like “… the diner in town…🧍” and he’s still suspicious but he’s just glad he’s not getting into trouble

[destinedfordiapers]

No One Mourns The Wicked

This story is set in the Your Change of Plans universe. So read that first. Or don’t. Either way.

I’ll be honest. When Claire’s parents first told me they were sending her to the Little’s Program™️, I tried my best to stop them.

In my defense, Claire was beautiful and who wants to date a girl in diapers?

I mean, sure, she was stuck-up, shallow, and superficial. And yeah, she thought she was the Queen Bee wearing designer clothes and ruthlessly controlling our friend group.

She was a mean girl. Think Regina George. That kind of girl.

But now that I see her, stripped from her fancy, expensive clothes and attitude wearing that adorable diaper—I can’t help but agree it’s for the best.

“Awww, Clairebear! Don’t be shy!!! It’s just me!”

As you can see, Claire hid her face in her stuffies, too embarrassed to respond.

“Claire, honey,” her mom says, “Ryan came all this way to see you. We don’t ignore our guests, do we?”

A few weeks ago, Claire would’ve bit her mom’s head off for talking to her like that.

But now look at her.

Her mom turns to me, smiling. “She might need a few minutes to warm up to you. She’s still adjusting to her new life.”

Claire digs her face further into her stuffies, whimpering.

“It’s okay, I’m sure it’s a big transition for her. I mean, she did go from Prada to Pampers! Gucci to Gerber! Cartier to cribs! But she’s just so cute in that diaper!”

“Well she does have the best diapers on the market! Only the best for Claire,” her mom says, “Plus she’s been much better behaved since she got back. Sure, she still throws tantrums—all Littles do!—but now they’re about not wanting her poopy diaper changed instead of throwing a fit because we got her the wrong Hermes bag!”

“Now that is something I gotta see! Clairebear throwing a tantrum in a poopy diaper?! How cute is that?”

More whimpers from Claire.

“Well, you’re in luck! She’s past due for her afternoon boom boom. She usually goes during her nap but not today. Should be any minute!”

She pats Claire’s diaper playfully.

“It’s just so crazy,” I say astonished, “Claire poops her diapers now.”

“Yep, the Littles Center recommended the full package to fix her attitude after meeting Claire. Complete unpotty-training, inability to orgasm, and strict reliance on the Littles Center’s special baby formula. She can’t eat any adult food without getting an icky tummy!”

“Well, judging by the fact I haven’t heard Claire talk back at all, I’d say it’s working!”

“Like a charm! She did have a meltdown after we gave her fancy clothes to her cousins, but Littles don’t need fancy clothes, do they Claire?”

“M-maawmmmyyyyy,” Claire lisp’s adorably.

“Sorry, honey, but you need onesies and diapers! And I almost forgot, Claire also got the Babble Package™️, so she sounds just like a toddler! How cute is that?”

“I na a tawdwa!!” Claire shrieks.

It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.

“Of course you’re not,” I coo, “You’re our Clairebear!”

Claire’s mom smiles, “Well, why don’t I leave you two alone so you can catch up. Let me know if she makes a poopy!”

Claire moans again.

For the first time since her regression, I’m alone with Claire.

It’s strange, seeing her there in her diaper, completely docile. Nothing like the bossy, sexy woman she used to be.

I sit on the bed next to her, rubbing her shoulder. “Hey, Clairebear.”

She lifts her head from her stuffies. “H-hi Wyan.” Hearing herself she hides her head again.

Doing my best not to laugh, I push forward. “Don’t be embarrassed, sweetie. Not with me. You know I love you. Even if things are different.”

Hearing the “I love you,” Claire immediately turns around. “P-pwomith?”

“Yes, Claire, I promise.”

For the first time since I got there, Claire smiled and sat up against her pillows.

“Is this your stuffy?”

“Mhm! It’s Wy-Wy Dog!” she says excitedly, showing me her stuffed dog.

“Awww, did you name him after me?”

“Yeah!” she says, blushing a bit.

“Well I think he’s the cutest little stuffy in the whole world!”

Her smile fades slightly. “Don wan stuffies, wan you!”

I sigh. I knew it would come to this eventually. I wasn’t lying, I did love her. But I can’t date a Little. I need a woman, not a pamper packer.

“Clairebear, I love you, I really do. But you’re…you’re a Little now. It’s not appropriate for you to be in an adult relationship anymore.”

“Buh, buh!” she starts, stomping her hands and feet, “Na fawr!!! I you guwlfwien!!!”

As I look into her eyes, I no longer see the sophisticated, sexy woman she used to be. Whatever she used to be, whatever fun we used to have, a distant memory.

“Sorry, little one. I need a woman—an adult—and you’re not that anymore. You’re not even potty trained, it’s just not meant to be. Maybe you’ll find a nice guy at daycare!”

I knew I went too far right away. The tantrum started right away.

“NOOOOO!” she shouted, kicking her feet more than ever! Na a baby! Na na na!”

The kicking of her feet caused an immediate reaction. Her screaming suddenly stopped as her eyes grew wide.

“What’s wrong, honey?” I ask before a grunt answers my question.

A loud, bubbly toot trumpets out of her diaper, leaving no ambiguity of what’s happening. Her eyes furrow in concentration at the task at hand.

Her diaper expands rapidly as she grunts. Her eyes still unfocused as she works to fill her diaper.

All I can do is watch as the woman I once revered poops her diaper in front of me, no different from an actual toddler.

Well, I guess she basically is a toddler now.

After a few bubbly toots, her grunting stops. Though the smell immediately attacks my nose, barely mitigated by the baby powder in her diaper.

“Did someone just make a poopoo?” I ask in a babyish voice. I couldn’t help myself. It was instinctual.

It’s just how you talk to pamper packers.

“No poopies!” she shrieks, legs kicking again. Her diaper swaying dangerously.

“Are you sure about that, little one?”

“I didn’! You did!” she squeals, trying to kick me.

“Excuse me, Claire? This is not how a Little should behave! You do not fib about your diaper and you definitely do not try to kick adults!”

“Don care! Na baby!!”

“If you keep acting like this you’re gonna learn what happens to misbehaving Littles. I’ll give you one more chance before you end up on my lap.”

I almost felt bad. The last thing I did was want to cause Claire to throw a tantrum. But here we are.

“You na my mawmy! You dum baby too!” she retorted, still trying to kick me.

“No, but I am,” her mom says walking in, “I could hear your tantrum all the way down the hall! Were you trying to kick Ryan?”

Claire’s eyes grew wide. “I-I-I b-but!!”

“We do not kick our babysitters, do you understand me?” her mom said in that deeply maternal voice you hear when you’re in trouble.

In a flash, Claire’s mom is sitting on the bed, pulling her kicking and screaming Little on her lap.

Claire’s diaper is already browning, bulging under the weight of its contents.

She turns to me and says over Claire’s whining, “I’m sorry, Ryan. I did warn you about her poopy diaper tantrums! I’ll take care of this one, are you still on to babysit her Friday night?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

“Great, you go on, I’ll see you then. I have to teach this little one some manners.”

As I walk out, I hear SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

I may have lost my girlfriend, but I can’t argue this isn’t for the best.

[copperbadge]

This is not to sniff at packaged food in any way, because cheap, uniform, nutritious, premade food is important and necessary. And despite what your local tiktok orthorexic may tell you, packaged food is still capable of providing solid nutrition.

That said, I've been making my own bread for about twenty years, and for the last ten or so it has often been easier to make bread than buy it, solely because I don't need to leave the house to do so, and I live alone so a decent loaf can last me a good ten days. Being able to make ones own bread in this modern era is a product of privilege -- the resources to buy the ingredients (especially high quality flour, not cheap), the time and space to bake, the stamina to knead or equipment to make kneading easier -- my breads improved a lot when I got a good stand mixer, and those aren't cheap. But also, to make a decent edible boule you can get by with flour, water, yeast, salt, and time. Throw in a little oil and you can make pizza crust; add in kneading and a bit of sugar and you have bagels.

It did somewhat change how I eat, because homemade bread is often a little difficult to make a sandwich with, but I was never a huge fan of sandos anyway. These days I often don't even make loaves -- I make rolls or bagels, or flatbreads.

But all of this is to say that because I'm now accustomed to eating my own bread, which is necessarily small-batch and produced without stabilizers that make commercial bread so soft and uniform, I am starting to struggle when I do buy bread because the flavor and texture often feel off. It's not that it's objectively bad food, but it's very different from what I'm used to, which is unpleasant. I've been aware of the issue for a while but previously even if the bread wasn't as good to me as my own, it was edible and convenient, so it was fine. Making your own hot dog buns is a pain in the ass.

I just bought a loaf of Italian bread, reasonably fresh, a brand I used to eat regularly, because I wasn't feeling up to baking anything. I've been making toast with it mostly. But yesterday morning -- admittedly while dealing with some nausea -- I bit into a sandwich I'd made with it (cashew butter and strawberry jam) and thought, "this feels like eating upholstery fabric."

I haven't been able to eat any more of it since. The soft, dense texture, the specific preservative flavor, the mouthfeel. I tried to eat some toast just now and had to spit it out because it felt like buttered brocade and I started to gag. I'm kind of mad about it, honestly.

The bread won't go to waste -- if I can't eat the rest of the bag I'll dry it out and crush it for breadcrumbs for fried chicken or a panade -- but it's both sad and funny that I have functionally baked myself into a corner where packaged bread is no longer even an option.

It feels like I'm becoming one of the middle-aged eccentrics I used to know when I was a kid -- older people or couples in my church, sometimes parents of my school friends, who were just kind of oddballs, hippie leftovers, what I still think of as Berkeley Weirdos (affectionate) even though Berkeley has long since gentrified. The lady who didn't have a functional oven or stove because she ate raw vegan or the family that converted their old station wagon to biofuel but kept the rear-facing back seats with no seatbelts and would give us death-defying rides to the community pool in them. I'm already growing my own basil because I eat an unlikely amount of pesto for one person. My signature potluck dishes are kiwi dip or egg-free meringues.

I don't mind, exactly. I loved the Berkeley Weirdos and the community they built for us kids. But it's definitely not a place I imagined ending up.

[spidehpig]

the crooks are out, and the streets are grey

aka a prison pen pal au

HUUUUGE fucking thank you to @ceilidho for all of the writing advice and beta reading this and just generally being a big motivation and indulging in all of my random cod thoughts lol

this is incredibly self-indulgent. tags will be updated accordingly with a warning on each chapter when necessary. i'm a big fan of ghoap being perverted violent freaks if you couldn't tell.

thanks for reading besties. sorry there isn't any direct reader x ghost interaction yet. i promise it's coming.

you can also find me on twitter

[cw implied sexual harassment, future dubcon, explicit sexual content] 18+ MDNI

AO3

Part 1

It starts with a little slip of paper shoved under the bars of his shared cell with Soap. 

An official notice to inform inmates of the start of a new pen pal program the following week. Some rehabilitative bullshit about encouraging good behavior and rehabilitating prisoners on track to be released within the next few years. Ghost can’t help but roll his eyes as he crumples up the slip of paper and makes his way to the prison yard. Doesn’t give it another thought. 

That is until he receives a letter. Packaged in a little envelope with the prettiest handwriting he’s ever seen, addressed to the one and only Simon V. Riley: Inmate #634. The envelope had been torn open with a letter opener, read by prison staff, and searched for contraband, of course, before it made its way through the slot of his cell door. It comes in a lilac envelope and it's even adorned with a pretty little heart right next to his name scrawled in cursive. 

Ghost shoves the pastry he swiped in the cafeteria from a new inmate into his mouth as he rips open the letter with mild interest. He lets out a snort when he sees that the staple holding the pages of the letter together was ripped out by whatever guard had gotten stuck with mail duty today. He knows that you’ll have already received an angry voicemail from the prison advising you that all mail to inmates must be paperclip and staple free upon arrival. 

He glances over the letter with disinterest, a couple paragraphs introducing yourself and one detailing your excitement about joining the program. He only skims his way to the second page where you start to ask him questions about himself before he’s crumpling up the pages to shove under his bunk. He’ll be free of this place in a mere sixteen months; doesn’t need a bloody pen pal to encourage good behavior. 

He knows that there is anger and violence rooted deep within him. On a good day, it simmers in his chest, a warm heat that lies dormant. On bad days, it burns so hot that he can feel the angry heat creep up into his throat. It makes the words that spill from his mouth cruel, and his calloused fingers twitch as he stomps his way over to the courtyard to beat the old punching bag until his shirt is soaked through with sweat and his knuckles are raw and bloody.

Not all bad days end with him wrapping his split knuckles with bandages from the infirmary. Sometimes they end with him in solitary and picking another inmate’s dried blood from underneath his fingernails. He hasn’t had a bad day like that in over a year now. 

If he’s being honest with himself, it’s only because he doesn’t want to jeopardize his early release. Most of the other inmates know well enough now to leave Ghost be. The last inmate to piss Ghost off ended up in the infirmary with three broken ribs and two of his own teeth spat into his palm. 

Poor sod ducks his head like a quivering dog every time he meets Ghost’s gaze now; surely won’t make the mistake of cutting in front of him in line at the cafeteria again. Ghost hasn’t been outside of a prison in the last seventeen years but he can’t imagine a civilian would try to swipe food from his plate or pick a fight with him just to see if they could win it. 

So he lies through his teeth at every psych evaluation. Tells the doctors that the exercises they suggested are helping him manage his anger. He has a feeling they don’t quite believe him, but he hasn’t had an episode in over a year to justify their reservations. And since they don’t question his ability to rehabilitate into civilian life, he tells himself that he’ll be fine on the outside. All he has to do is keep to himself until Johnny gets released eight months after him. He just needs to behave for another year and he doesn’t see how writing letters would make any difference.

He had thought that if he just ignored the letters they would eventually stop coming, but despite his obvious reluctance to partake in the program, the letters keep coming. Every last one in a pretty lilac envelope, notably staple free since the first one. He gleans little from her letters. Some young bird that signed up for this pen pal exchange. She’s twenty-one and has an interest in criminology. 

Ghost decides that he hates her for it. 

Each letter gets shoved under the bunk; most of the time he doesn’t even bother to open and read them. He rolls his eyes when Soap whines and begs to trade pen pals with him. Apparently the poor mutt got stuck with some seventy-four year old retired veteran and he doesn’t think it's fair that Ghost got paired with a young woman. 

It isn’t until he receives yet another letter from his unwanted pen pal, this time addressed from another country, that something finally makes him stop in his tracks. The bird is apparently studying abroad and when he opens the envelope, a flimsy polaroid floats down into his lap. He doesn’t bother to read the newest letter and instead snatches the picture up between his thick fingers. He can’t help the groan that escapes his lips the second he flips the polaroid picture over.

Ghost hardly even looks at the sweet smile and bright blue ocean behind her. No, that’s not what catches his attention. His gaze immediately flicks down to the swell of her breasts taking up half of the image. What would be an innocent selfie to most might as well be a page ripped straight from a playboy magazine to Ghost. Clearly taken at the beach after a swim in the ocean, sweat and ocean water glistening on your skin, and Ghost can see the peaks of your nipples poking through your thin bikini top. 

And fuck is that enough for him. He hasn’t had a woman in, well, ever, and the guards keep confiscating his playboy magazines, so this will have to do. A low grunt escapes his chest as he reaches down to palm his cock that’s now twitching to attention. He pauses to make sure Soap is still snoring, loudly , in the bunk above him before he reaches down to grope at his stiffening prick. Unzips himself from his prison issued track pants and palms at his stiffening cock over the thin fabric of his briefs. 

He hisses between his teeth when he dips his hand under the band of his briefs and the rough skin of his palm tugs against the sensitive skin of his cock. Has to yank his hand back and spit into his palm before wrapping his thick fingers around the base of his cock. His other hand grips the picture of you between his fingertips as he pulls his foreskin back to reveal his swollen tip already leaking precum. It twitches in his hand as another glob of precum leaks down his prick. 

He has half a mind to wake Soap up and shove his cock down the boy’s throat. If he fucks his throat deep enough he could pretend it’s the tight heat of your cunt clenching around his cock while he laps at one of the nipples peaking through your bikini. 

Ghost’s fantasy is shattered the second the little shit sleeping above him wakes with a loud snort. He watches Soap’s head peek over the side of his bunk, pretty blue eyes clouded with sleep as his disheveled mohawk dangles over the metal bunk. 

“Yeh could’ve asked for a helping hand yaknow that, Ghost. Yeh know I’d—” Soap’s voice cuts off abruptly, eyes narrowing on the polaroid clutched in Ghost’s hand and the other wrapped around his prick.

”Whatcha got there, Ghost?” Soap drawls, accent still thick from sleep.

”Fuck off, Johnny,” Ghost grunts as he looks back down at your picture and gives his cock another stroke.

No use in deterring his mutt once his sight is set on a bone though. He feels the bunk shake and squeak as Soap scrambles down the ladder, the pervert already tenting his boxers as he crawls into Ghost’s bed.

”I said fuck off, Johnny.” Ghost grits his teeth and clutches your picture to his chest. Trying desperately to reimagine the swell of your tits pressed against his chest when you finally sink down on his cock. But Soap is relentless. His needy slut straddles Ghost’s thighs with a smirk on his face. 

And fuck it, his boy is gagging for it, he might as well. He doesn’t acknowledge Soap’s incessant teasing and instead fists a hand through his soft mohawk before shoving the brat’s head between his legs. 

A low growl escapes his chest as the man’s lips wrap around his throbbing cock. And fuck, does his mouth feel good, tight and wet as his soft lips slide down Ghost’s length, throat swallowing around him. He loses himself in the feel of Soap’s practiced mouth, eyes only snapping open when Soap lets out a deep moan. Before he can even think, the palm of his hand is connecting with Soap’s cheek, hard . It draws a low moan from Soap’s throat which only serves to irritate Ghost more.

”Shut up,” Ghost snaps and pushes Soap’s head down on his cock until he feels the man flinch and gag around his prick. Usually he loves to hear the whorish sounds that fall from his boy’s pretty lips but right now, he’s trying to imagine the way you’d cry out and beg as he inches his cock into the tight heat of your cunt. Ghost slaps his boy across the cheek again when Soap lets out a low growl and scrapes his teeth on the underside of his cock. 

Soap seems to get the message, his moans and growls slowly quiet, swirling his tongue around Ghost’s swollen glands before sinking down until his nose is buried in Ghost’s pubic hair. Ghost loses himself in the wet heat of Soap’s throat once more, eyes rolling back as his head knocks back against his pillow, your pretty smile contorting itself into a cry as he bullies his cock into your cunt. His hips buck and bruise the back of Soap’s throat with every thrust while he dreams of fucking your pretty cunt full of his cum. He cums with a snarl on his lips and Johnny gagging around him. Holds Soap down on his cock as he reaches down to squeeze at his balls one last time before ripping the boy off his cock with a sputtering gasp. 

Soap is immediately scrambling up the bed, grinding his prick against the swell of Ghost’s thigh.

”C’mon, Ghost, lemme see, just a peek I swear that’s all I need,” Soap whines, frantically grinding his cock against Ghost’s leg. Ghost blinks as the bliss from his orgasm melts away, the bunk creaking from the force of Soap’s desperate thrusts, the man panting and grunting above him. 

He languidly flips your photo between his fingers, any streak of possessiveness gone now, as long as it’ll get his mutt to stop humping his leg faster so he can get some sleep. 

“Ah, fuck , Ghost, looks bonnie, don’t she,” Soap pants as his eyes flit over your bikini photo, the grind of his hips losing their rhythm for a moment. 

“Bet ‘er ass hasn’t been fucked yet,” Soap groans.

”Make ‘er take us both.”

”Bet she tastes sweet.”

”Pretty thing.”

Ghost barely registers Soap’s babbling above him, just grabs his ass and guides his hips against his thigh until Soap is cumming in his briefs with a low moan. When the boy finally calms down enough to catch his breath, he pulls the cum soaked briefs off of his boy and tosses them across the cell before pulling the mutt to his chest as they both doze off.

Ghost wakes annoyed, drenched in sweat and cum and Soap snoring loudly against his neck. The little shit has the audacity to grumble and pout when he makes Soap go sleep in his own bunk. When he hears Soap’s start to snore, he sits up, stealing Soap’s pencil and a spare sheet of paper. He starts scribbling words back to you. The first letter he’s responded to. His handwriting is ugly and near illegible, but he thinks you should be able to read most of it. He hangs his arms out of the bars of his cell and whistles at the guard stationed down the hall. Shoves his letter to you in the guard’s hand and grunts at him to send it to his bird.

The guard, Andrews, he thinks, scoffs snatching the letter from Ghost’s fingertips before banging on the cell door.

”MacTavish! You got a letter for your lovebird too?”

Ghost groans, already prepared for the bitchfest that’s about to happen.

Soap awakes with a loud snort, head snapping up over the edge of his bunk and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.” 

“Aye fuck off, you limp dick prick,” Soap growls and scrambles down the rickety bunk to press the length of his body against the cell bars as he curses the guard that taunted him. A litany of Scottish curses fall from his lips as Soap presses his forehead to the bars and goads the guard into approaching their shared cell. The little spitfire has himself so worked up he’s pacing the length of their cell and spewing insults at the guards on duty.

“I know yer playing favorites, Andrews. Think yer funny giving me some old bastard, don’t yeh?” Soap hollers into the hallway and slams a fist against the bars of their cell, pressing his forehead against the bars once again, growling and swearing some more when Andrews takes a step back, barking out a harsh laugh. Ghost can practically see the metaphorical fur on Soap’s hind spike up at that, just a moment before he spits at the guard’s feet. Andrews, the scrawny little fucker, lurches forward to swat at Soap’s fists clenched around the bars of their cell with his baton.

“You better back up and watch that mouth of yours Mactavish, or it’ll be another two days in solitary for you,” Andrews snaps at Soap and shoots a knowing directly at Ghost. 

And oh does Ghost hate when Soap gets sent to solitary. Can’t use his boy’s holes when he’s locked up on the other side of the prison. The rough drag of his own fist just can’t compete with the tight heat of Johnny’s throat or arse. Especially now that he’s got a bird back home to think about. Ghost grips the back of Soap’s sweat soaked shirt and yanks him back from the cell bars, grunting at him to give it a fuck rest.  Ghost retreats to his bunk when Soap finally cools off, watching as Soap flops down onto the chair at their shared desk and starts to angrily scribble in his journal, occasionally grumbling to himself under his breath. He settles back against his pillow, content with thinking about his new bird on the outside until the guards release them for breakfast. He almost feels bad about not writing to you sooner. Poor girl tired of her letters going unanswered, you really were just begging for his attention when you sent a violent inmate a photo of your tits now, weren’t you?

[foodpackaging04]

This is how Pet food packaging naturally conveys nutritional benefits

Ever wonder how your pet food packaging, whether a bag, pouch or even a treat bag (think cat food packaging or dog food packaging bag!), tells you about the good stuff inside? It's all in the design!  Pet food packaging bag suppliers use clever tricks to convey the nutritional benefits naturally. From using earthy colors and brown paper bags to featuring clear windows in stand up pouch packaging (both stand up pouches wholesale and bottom stand up pouches are available), the packaging tells a story about the healthy ingredients your pet needs. Read on to discover how! 

[misasimagines]

desperation / reader x Taiga (Tokyo Debunker)

included characters: Taiga! Romeo is a guest.

rating: NSFW!!!! The actual start of smut is marked with a (***) so if you wanted to read the rest and skip that, you can, but otherwise please. It's smut.

warnings: general Taiga warnings? gun, blood, biting, sex. let me emphasize blood. FEM BODIED READER! Not gender neutral.

anyway first smut fic and first time writing about Taiga, everyone please go easy on me. @ the ask who wanted possessive Taiga, uh, I hope this works for you

Taiga was an enigma to you. He seemed like a dozen different people all wrapped into one threateningly sharp package. Sometimes, you watched him gambling, feet kicked up on the dealer’s table, eyes glinting with mischief, and thought being around him would feel like life itself. All excitement and impulse and adrenaline and it made your heart race with the adventure of it all. You could imagine your own Bonnie and Clyde romance, doing whatever you wanted, getting whatever you wanted. Living solely for thrill and satisfaction.

Other times, you hid as he slouched through Sinostra, blood covered, eyes empty. You hid because you knew he wouldn’t even remember who you were after he finished gutting you and leaving whatever was left to bleed into the carpets. You hid and you shamefully wondered how bad it would be to step into his line of sight. Just risk it. You could be the rabbit jumping into the wolf’s mouth just to avoid the pain of being cut in two. Would it be so bad?

Today was different. Today, you didn’t watch him from the entrance of the casino or with a held breath around the corner in the hall. Today, he was sitting across from Romeo, head leaned back and staring up at the ceiling.

“-from a general admissions student in Mortkranken. Avoid the ghouls. I’ll text you the details, but take it back to your room first, do not come here. Someone will come pick it up from you. Do you understand?”

Sounded complicated, but that was par the course with Romeo. You wondered if he had you running drugs (again) and, with a nod of agreement, you decided it was best if you didn't know. It wasn't your choice to be Romeo's drug mule anymore than it was to be his secretary and verbal punching bag, but hey, it paid the bills. So to speak.

“Repeat it,” he demanded, arms crossed and staring down his perfect nose at you.

“I’m picking up your package from a general admissions student in Mortkranken. I’ll avoid Yuri and Jiro and take it back to my room and wait for one of your guys to come get it. Does that cover it?” You responded, crossing your own arms in retort. You were willing to put up with a lot when it came to Romeo, but that didn’t mean you had to do it with a smile and a nod.

His eyes narrowed slightly, annoyed by your attitude but unwilling to spend the energy on reacting to it. “Just go.”

You stood up and managed only a step before Romeo gave you another order.

“And take those folders to Shinjo on your way.” He gestured to a stack of papers sitting too close to Taiga.

It felt like trying to take a bowl of food from a territorial dog and you felt your blood pressure rise as you considered what violence he could enact simply for you getting in his space. He could rip you apart with his teeth, that was always an option. Or he could shoot you with any number of guns he just so happened to always have on him. He also wasn’t a stranger to beating people with blunt objects, though you didn’t see a baseball bat or metal bar in the vicinity. That option was probably off the table for now.

You stilled your racing thoughts. He wasn’t even paying attention. The papers weren’t his. Romeo was right there. You would be fine. You reached down for the folders.

And he snatched your wrist, his gaze dropping to you and cementing you in place. “You love taking orders, don’t you, kitty-cat?”

His grip wasn’t particularly tight. You didn’t feel your circulation cut off, your bones being ground into dust- no, he just held you. Kept you there until you answered his question, a question you didn’t feel so inclined to answer. Enjoy taking orders- of course you didn’t delight in being Romeo’s servant. To anyone else, you might have snapped at the insinuation. But no one else was Taiga, and snapping at him could mean getting your bones snapped in retaliation. Your heart raced and you wondered if Romeo would intervene. Probably not, not unless there was a risk of staining his furniture. You didn’t want to let it go that far.  “Let me go,” You insisted, voice more of a squeak than you intended.

Taiga cupped a hand around his ear and pretended he couldn’t hear you.

“Let. Me. Go.” You repeated, a decibel louder.

“No one told you you couldn’t leave.” He responded casually.

You flushed with indignation and wrenched your wrist free, grabbing up the files and almost running out. No one told you you couldn't leave…as if you needed permission. As if he hadn't forced you to stop. As if being Taiga didn't carry unspoken rules and crossed boundaries. As if- no, you didn't need to waste your thoughts on more as ifs. You knew the connotations he brought with him with every action, just by virtue of being Taiga and you know he had no reason to acknowledge them himself.

You just needed to leave. Still… As you rushed out, you wondered why he’d asked you anything. He certainly had never given you the attention before. You would have felt better if you knew he watched you on the way out, maybe with interest, maybe with disappointment, but as you reached the door and shoved your way into the hall, you peaked back. 

He was back to staring up at the ceiling.

~~~

It had been a long few weeks. Back and forth from house to house, you never had a chance to catch your breath. If someone wasn't ordering you to do something with a sneer, they were putting you in a situation where you ended up with bruises and scrapes and potentially even worse injuries. They didn't all intend to hurt you, but the results spoke for themselves and you did hurt. The hurts just weren't all visible.

It didn't matter that your hips ached and your feet were sore and there was a split blister on the back of your heel that bled into your sock. You had another errand to run that you were going to be late for and Romeo was going to kill you. You ran, letting out breathless apologies as you bumped into Sinostra students on your way to Romeo’s VIP room. A nearly overflowing bag bounced around in your arms and used your chin to try to hold the tons of little plastic baggies in place as you rushed. It wasn’t the best feeling, being so close and personal to what you could only assume was illegal, mind altering substances, but an accidental whiff of cocaine was definitely less painful than a lecture from Romeo. In fact, it might have made the impending lecture bearable.

Turning a corner, you slammed into something and your bag lept out of your arms.

Taiga had his hands in his pockets, hardly phased from your extreme collision. You had managed to stay upright, but your contraband was scattered all over the floor. 

“Fuck,” you hissed.

“You gonna pick all that up?” Taiga asked, making no move to help you.

You took a careful breath to steady your anger.  “I have to,” you responded as cooly as you could before crouching to start your collection. 

Once again, with the same pressure as before, Taiga grabbed your arm and pulled you back to standing. “Do you enjoy any of it?” He asked, nudging a bag with the toe of his shoe.

“Enjoy what?” You asked, watching his hand on your upper arm carefully.

“Anything.” He didn’t clarify.

Or maybe he did. “I-” You exhaled, tried to find some way to answer this impossible question. No? You didn’t enjoy being Romeo’s drug mule. No, you didn’t enjoy being passed around from house to house at Darkwick, the newest intern in every room you stepped into. No, you didn’t enjoy having your life uprooted, your identity all but erased so you could be whatever anyone needed you to be. No, you-

“Gah, you’re depressing,” he made a sound in the back of his throat, a rolling sigh, and then the corners of his lips curved into a smile. “Come with me.”

You had no time, or chance, to flounder, leaving Romeo’s import all over the floor as Taiga dragged you off into the casino. As you were led off, you couldn’t even imagine a world where you said no, where you got on your hands and knees and picked up every little bag and brought it to Romeo and still got yelled at. You sped up to walk faster, to keep up with him, to choose this, and thought this was the only option for you. As crazy as it was.

Taiga deposited you at a roulette table, pushing you onto one of the stools and clapping his hands over your shoulders. With a nod and a gesture, the dealer slid two untidy piles of chips towards you.

“Oh, I don’t-” You tried to stand up. Gambling wasn’t on your list of skills and you knew better than to gamble in Sinostra of all places.

Taiga held you down, “Lets see you make some choices, kitty-cat. See how much they really matter.” He leaned close enough so only you could hear him, though everyone else at the table and the surrounding area watched with wide eyes and rapt attention. Taiga alone was a spectacle. Taiga with you? 

They were just waiting for the bloodbath. Casting a nervous eye around at everyone, you figured you had two options. Refuse and suffer the consequences, or commit and suffer the consequences. If you forced yourself to stand, told Taiga no, and left, that could be it. He would decide you weren’t worth his time, you’d stay a nameless face in the crowd. You’d be Romeo’s little gopher and you’d be miserable for the time you had left. If you stayed, win or lose, you…Well, you could win or lose anything. You had no guarantee, no way of knowing. Nothing more than Taiga’s fingers resting on your shoulders.

You bet on red.

~~~

You lost most of it. You bet, sometimes at random and sometimes with the thought of “it can’t possibly be the opposite of what I pick 4 times in a row, right?” You lost until the dealer shook his head, saying you didn’t have enough left to meet the minimum.

Taiga stayed behind you the entire time, offering no direction or tips, just sometimes pushing more chips forward than you were willing to bet on any given round. His hands were on your shoulders at first, and then he draped his arms over you, resting his chin on the top of your head. At one point, seemingly with no intention or realization, he had wrapped a hand around your neck and turned to yell at someone a few tables away. 

You stayed completely still when he did that and received plenty of concerned glances in your direction. He put no pressure on your windpipe, and finally turned back once more to watch your games, going back to lazily leaning over you as if nothing had changed.

“Well that’s that, kitten,” He yawned. 

“I lost all your money,” You admit, realization dawning and heart sinking.

He howled with sudden laughter, “Shit, yeah, you did.” He spun you around and held you by the chin, studying your wide eyed expression with a toothy grin. 

The dealer cleared his throat and continued the game for the other gamblers. 

“How are you gonna pay it back?” He asked, leaning your head back and exposing your neck.

The usual sense of being a prey animal crept up in your veins. The desire to apologize and back down and agree to anything to save your life froze your blood and made your heart pound. But you wouldn’t do that this time. Gambling with someone else’s money made you bold. Being around Taiga made you crazy. You grabbed his wrist this time, pulling it down enough so that you could stare at him directly. “I won’t.”

Someone behind you gasped, and then played it off with a cough.

Taiga didn’t stop grinning, letting out another shout of a laugh before freeing you of his grasp and stepping back, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Maybe you’re more interesting than you look.” 

You held back any fits of shaking fear that were creeping up on you.

“Try that shit with Lulu, but I wanna be there when you do it, alright?” He turned on his heel and walked off. 

You exhaled. Shut your eyes. And stood up, walking in the opposite direction.

~~~

The casino was alive. Students from all houses gambled and drank and talked and lost all of their money. It was exactly what Romeo wanted. The flow of cash into his coffers would be extreme tonight.

The only problem? Taiga.

You leaned against a wall and watched him from across the casino. Despite doing something he seemed to enjoy, there was nothing akin to joy on his face. He communicated to the dealer in only gestures and each hand dealt, win or lose, gave him no hint of satisfaction. 

There was a shake lingering in your bones as you lamented the task laid before you. Romeo told you to get Taiga out and do it without causing a scene. How would you do it? You had no clue, and asking Romeo only got a slew of abbreviations thrown your way. Maybe there was some code hidden within. You doubted it.

Taking a deep breath, you accepted your fate and strode across the room towards Taiga. You were enough of a fixture in Sinostra at this point that guests and staff alike moved out of the way for you. It didn't make you feel any better about what you had to do.

“Taiga,” you said gently, “the vice captain wants to see you.” 

Taiga slung his hand of cards down on the table and collected the winning pot. He didn't acknowledge you.

“Taiga,” you tried again, “Romeo needs to see you. Lulu?”

“I heard you the first time,” he snapped. 

Your blood bubbled in frustration. “Then listen,” you snapped.

A hush fell over the table. No one looked at you, but no one could pay attention to anything but you. 

You crossed your arms, “Haven't you won enough?”

“Haven't you pissed me off enough?” 

You had no clue what you'd done to anger him so much. “What are you even talking about?” You hissed, acutely aware of the straining ears of every other gambler and staff member in the vicinity. 

“You’d kiss Lulu's shoes and thank him for the opportunity.”

You balked. The fucking audacity. “You- whatever. I'll leave you alone.” You threw your hands up in defeat and spun away from him.

You heard a click and something cold and metal pressed against the back of your head.

“You think it's that easy, kitty-cat?” Taiga's voice was low when he spoke to you. 

He was going to blow your brains out in the middle of the casino. 

“Walk.” He ordered.

You walked.

~~~

He directed you out of the casino and into the hallways of Sinostra, eventually guiding you down the corridor to his bedroom. Your heart hammered in your chest and you thought about every decision that has led you there. You thought about every way out, and admittedly there were few. 

You could throw yourself to his feet and beg for mercy, you could try to run and hope he missed, you could call his bluff and just leave. You knew none of those would actually work, but whether you died or not wasn’t the question. It was whether you survived Taiga’s inevitable disappointment that was.

You reached his door and stood still.

“You know how to open a door, don't you?” He snarked.

You opened the door and stepped inside.

“Take a seat.” 

You reviewed your options. There was an armchair, his scary torture chair, and the floor. Every option carried weight. Every option told him what you thought of yourself, what you thought you were. The prey animal in you made your knees weak and almost took the decision away from you. If you didn't use every ounce of spite and frustration you had, you'd have collapsed to your knees long before. But that was the case for this entire year, this entire curse nonsense with Darkwick. If you didn't have this burning desperation in you, you'd have collapsed long before.

Maybe that's what Taiga saw in you. Desperation. You couldn't say. You couldn't pretend to know his mind, hell, you barely knew yours. All you did know was that something about him, as terrifying as he was, made you strong. Something made you mouth off to him and something made you feel more than just fear right then. 

You took your seat on his bed.

He stared at you from his doorway, gun still aimed at you. Finger on the trigger.

You sat on the edge, the balls of your feet planted on the ground.

He broke into a grin and manic, empty laughter. He haphazardly tossed the gun onto a table and prowled towards you, throwing himself down on the bed and splaying out behind you. 

You exhaled and pressed a hand to your chest, feeling your heart hammering underneath your skin.

“You got what you wanted. You gonna run along like a good little kitty and tell Lulu you won?” Taiga asked, his grin fading into a bitter smile he directed at his ceiling.

You twisted at the waist to look at him.

His white button down was unbuttoned at the top, the collar unstarched and bent. He had his hands under his head, his red hair messy and tousled. The necklaces around his neck called to you to pull on them. The last thing you wanted was to go deal with Romeo right now. All you wanted was to give in to your desperation and he was just laying there.

You crawled over to Taiga and straddled his hips.

His eyes, so radioactive and piercing, dropped to you. Your face. Your chest. Your hands resting on him and the space he fit between your legs. 

“What do you know about what I want?” You asked him. It felt invigorating to be above him, on him. 

Taiga made no effort to move you. “You don't know what you're getting yourself into.” It wasn't a threat.

You linked a finger under one of his chain necklaces and pulled slightly. “Show me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up into a smirk. He hooked a leg over your calf and flipped you onto your back.

(****)

You gasped at the sudden change, your legs wrapped around him.

Taiga leaned down and kissed you. There was nothing chaste or sweet about it. He bit your lower lip, pulling it slightly between his teeth. You opened your mouth for him to kiss you again, his tongue pressing against yours this time.

He took your breath away and you grasped at his arms braced on either side of you. He pulled away and you whined, deep in your throat, completely unintentional. It earned you a self satisfied smirk right before he grabbed the neck of your shirt and tore it open all the way down.

“Taiga-!” You didn't know if you were scolding him or begging for more.

His head dropped back down, this time to your chest, kissing down your collarbones and treating your bra with as much delicacy as your shirt. You felt the embarrassed urge to cover your chest for modesty, and might have had he not immediately latched his mouth around one of your nipples. He teased it with his tongue and then let his teeth brush against it just roughly enough to send a shudder up your spine. His hand kneaded the other he couldn't service with his mouth and before you could get comfortable with the routine of the sensations, he pinched your nipple roughly and sucked on the other hard, coming off of it with a pop as he grinned down at you.

Your face was flushed but you couldn't look away from him. You didn't want to.

He didn't bother removing your skirt. He shoved it up around your waist and rubbed his fingers over your panties, “How long have you been this wet?” He teased, pressing down on your covered clit.

You arched against him, desperate for more of his touch, desperate to be rid of any remaining layers between you. His fingers sent jolts of electricity through your core. 

“Answer, kitten. You don't have to do what Lulu says, but you don't have a choice with me.” He growled into your ear as he leaned down again and his teeth grazed your earlobe.

Truthfully? “When you held your gun to my head,” you admit.

He laughed. And then bit into your neck. He broke skin and you whimpered in pain. At the same time, Taiga pushed your panties aside and sunk his finger into you. Your mind was going blank, your body not sure whether to focus on the pain of his teeth against your skin or the pleasure of his finger curling against your inner walls.

He worked his finger in and out of you and his tongue was licking the slight trickle of blood dripping from your neck. He slid another finger in as he pulled away from your neck and kissed you again. This time, you tasted your own blood in his mouth.

You wrapped your arms around him. You did know what you were getting into. This. Him. Good and bad, pain and pleasure, you were desperation made manifest and you weren't denying it anymore. 

“Taiga,” you whined into his mouth, “need you. Please.” You arched against his hand and he ground the heel of it against your clit.

He pulled his fingers out of you and you clenched pitifully around nothing, thighs flexing and chest heaving. He sat back on his knees, stared down at you, and licked his fingers clean. He looked so, so amused by your want of him and you didn't have the shame to care. Taiga took his time unbuttoning his shirt, one button after another, until you couldn't take it anymore.

You lifted yourself up and gave him his own treatment, grasping each side of his button down and tearing it apart. Buttons flew off and you pulled the rest of his shirt off his shoulders, hands immediately pressing to his chest, down his toned stomach, reaching for his belt buckle. He grinned at you and grabbed your hands, pulling them away, letting you both fall back down on his bed. He held your wrists above your head. “Don't go thinking you're in charge,” he kissed you and you let him hold you down, eagerly rubbing the back of your foot against his legs as if you could urge him to just fuck you already.

He reached down between you to unbutton his trousers and free his cock, letting it rest over-top your mound. You couldn't see it, your bodies pressed against each other, his lips on your own, but you could imagine how he'd feel just from the weight of it against your stomach. He bit your lip as he pulled away, splitting the skin and once again making you bleed.

You pressed your lips together, letting the blood coat them, and fought back a wince of pain at the feeling. 

His expression wasn't amused anymore. It was heavy, watching your tongue lick the corner of your mouth to clean away the blood. He was mesmerized. He lined himself up with your opening and pushed in all at once.

You cried out and he just caught you again, kissing you, pushing his tongue into your mouth, sucking the blood from your lips. You whined as he bucked into you, filling you so completely you couldn't imagine going back to being empty. You wrapped your legs around him, crossed at the ankles, locking him to you even though you both knew he wasn't going anywhere.

He barely pulled out with each thrust, his hips meeting yours as he slammed into you as deeply as he could. Taiga didn't let go of your wrists, his nails digging into you and you had started craving it. That pain he was so good at granting you in the midst of mind numbing pressure. You tightened your legs around him, rocking against each thrust as much as you could, feeling his cock driving into you over and over.

You felt everything in you tightening, your cunt fluttering and spasming around him as you reached your high. Taiga pulled away from your kiss, letting you moan and scream unmuffled, your back arching and your vision blurring as you came. He let go of your wrists, his fingers moving down to grasp the fat of your hips as he continued fucking you through your orgasm. It was too much and not enough at the same time. He hammered into you, dropping his forehead down to the mattress next your neck, right back to sucking and biting at the wound he'd left earlier. 

He groaned into your ear, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he shuddered and came inside you. He rocked his hips and stilled. He nearly crushed you with the full weight of his body, his cock still nestled deep in you as he emptied everything he had into you. 

You laced your fingers behind his neck, gently petting his hair as you took deep breaths and your heart beat slowed to something more manageable. You felt sore all over, your tongue coated in the metallic taste of your own blood, your neck throbbing from the bites. As you calmed down, there was an undeniable lightheadedness washing over you. 

Taiga licked your neck and slid out of you, rolling over on his back next to you. You keened quietly at the loss, your legs dropping onto the bed, shaking and useless.

Taiga turned his head to look at you, expression blank and unreadable. It hurt too much to turn your head fully. You could only glance at him from the slight tilt you managed.

“That’s not gonna be enough for me,” he told you, voice uncharacteristically steady.

You hoped not. 

“Don’t listen to anyone else anymore.” He rolled onto his side and traced a finger over your lips, down your neck, your chest, your stomach, and then dipped between your thighs. Your breath hitched in your throat. “You're mine from now on, kitten.”