#IS NO MACHINE IT'S WEARING HANDS OF SKIN AND BONE

[narsh-potatoes]

DOES ANYONE ELSE WANT TO BITE OFF HEADS WITH ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[artyandink]

maine coon

Summary: Dean initially hated your small touches. He used to feel weird with them on his skin. But now he craves them. He craves the high of feeling like a human, and you’re the best hit he’s ever had.

TW: Mentions of borderline dehumanisation (cause we hate John guys for making those two beautiful boys soldiers/mindless machines), two idiots in love, tooth rotting fluff! Thought up this little drabble :)

A/N - Maine coon because they’re a very friendly cat breed! Plus, a little comfort for Dean cause he needs it :) set in s1

Little touches.

It started like that. Just small brushes of your hand on his shoulder and ruffling of Sam’s hair. The younger Winchester would brush you off politely, fix his hair but wear an affectionate smile anyway.

Not Dean.

Dean would grumble, pout angrily, act as if he was wiping off the invisible trail your hands left and claim that he wasn’t a baby. All at first. But slowly, like an ice lolly in the sun, slowly melting, he found himself less inclined to brush you off. He’d get jumpy and irritable if you didn’t show him that affection for too long. He even found his nightmares appearing less frequently after being lulled to sleep with his head in your lap, your fingers in his hair because he couldn’t sleep.

You slept better too, knowing he was ok and he was able to turn to you, even though it was wordless. All it took was a flash of puppy eyes and you knew what he needed. The comfort that he deserved, after working himself to the bone protecting Sammy and you like his father taught him. Like a good soldier.

He didn’t feel like that with you.

Sleep was gently coaxed out of him by the sensation of nails on his scalp, a groan muffled by his face in his pillow as he instantly recognised the cool sensation of the ring on your finger as your hand smoothed down his hair. “Wake up, Dean.” You murmured softly, your thumb tracing his ear, and he almost smiled at the sensation. Almost.

The aroma of coffee hit his lungs, and when your hand ran down to gently press against his shoulders and massaging down to his shoulder blades, he didn’t feel so inclined to sleep further. So he sat up. He wanted to see you, your gorgeous face, with the eyes that told a thousand stories and those lips that were worth a thousand dollars when they were pursed in anger. Which only came out when someone hurt him or Sam.

He didn’t feel like he had a sword and shield in his hand in moments like these. Instead, he had a warm cup of coffee and your hand briefly petting his hair, which he leaned into before it even touched his head. “Mornin’.” He rasped out, voice crackly and hoarse from the morning, smacking his lips to get the morning taste off before taking the first heavenly hit of caffeine. And relishing in the aftershocks of the second euphoric high of your touch. “S’some damn good coffee, darlin’.”

“Black, two spoons o’ sugar, and a dash of beer.” You gave him a small smile as you stood up and moved to the kitchenette of your small motel room, looking beautiful to Dean even in your oversized shirt and sleep shorts, complete with black ankle socks. You had bed head that you were yet to sort out, but Dean was dazzled by the halo he could see over your head.

His mom said angels were watching over him. Maybe this is what she meant.

“Just how you like it.” You added, working to make some breakfast. The smell of cooking eggs and frying bacon filled the space, a small smile on your face as you contently cooked food for the man who was approaching you, coffee cup raising to his lips as his eyes followed you like a lost puppy. The cup clinked as it was set down on the counter, Dean’s tongue darting out to lick his lips before biting the bottom one as he tentatively made his way over to rest his chin on your shoulder from behind, his eyes closing slowly like a cat when your hand reached behind to gently play with his hair.

“Smells nice.” He murmured, almost like a purr as he leaned into your touch.

You chuckled, your fingers rubbing over the silky, spiky strands of his morning hedgehog hair. “That’s ‘cause I’m an amazing cook.”

“I don’t deserve you.” Dean added with a contented groan, wanting so badly to tell you how he felt. So much that it was threatening to burst out of his chest.

“What did I tell you about saying that?” You chastised, piling his plate with a bit extra of everything that he liked before sliding it closer to him. “C’mon, eat.”

“Thanks.” He cupped your cheeks, leaning in.

It was meant to be a simple kiss on the forehead. That’s all it was meant to be. But by some miracle (or maybe his eternal bad luck), his lips pressed against yours. Soft, slow, sweet. He puckered up, eyebrows raising in surprise, his eyelashes fluttering but staying closed before he decided to pull himself away, but it felt like yanking. Tugging. Practically peeling himself off, cause he didn’t want to let go.

His eyes didn’t open for at least a few second. But when he did, he saw yours. Your shining eyes, with a small, amused smile on your lips. Your gorgeous lips, that he just wanted to see swollen with all the kisses and love he could give you.

“What was that for?” Came your voice, quiet and docile as you looked at him in a way that only you could. Only you.

“I don’t know.” He murmured, eyes flicking to your lips again, itching for that high again. That hit. So he let himself taste you again, let himself lose his way in the labyrinth that came with your hand on the side of his neck and his cradling your cheek. The taste of coffee, the different ways you both liked it sweetening your palettes in a beautiful mix of sweet, sour and alcohol. The smell of old leather gracing you while the scent of your lavender body wash flooded him and sent him past cloud nine.

You pulled back slowly, because you also wanted to savour him. But when you saw the look on his face, his slightly swollen lips and the way they were parted in awe, you couldn’t help but melt and thumb his bottom lip.

“I think…” You paused to kiss his cheek softly, whispering against it, “I think I know.”

Make sure to leave feedback, everyone! I’d appreciate reblogs, likes and comments!

TAGLIST: @k-slla

[nonotnolan]

Rush Week

You develop a special sort of bond with a guy when you've swapped bodies and you're touching each other's dick. It's the justification that Sigma Epsilon Chi gave for their partnership with Cuerpo Inc. during rush week, and I had to admit it makes sense. More to the point, Sig-Ep is THE frat to be in, so I knew I was going to do whatever it took to become a member, hazing be damned.

My face has never been much to look at-- my ears have always been huge, my hair is hopelessly curly, and I think my features are more rugged than handsome. I certainly don't have legacy money or family connections. I pledged with the hope that my muscles or my vibes would get me a ticket in, and I was so relieved to get that offer letter.

They said the house would swap bodies at random for the weekend, but I know that the machinery they use allows you to specify certain swaps and randomize others. I was convinced one of the upperclassmen will be taking my body while I ended up in some twig body for maximum embarrassment... and I wasn't wrong.

Henry is... he's a good guy, honestly. His parents are loaded and he can eat damn near anything and it doesn't affect his figure. I've never been fashion forward, so having access to his closet has been wild. The guy actually owns a sewing machine! He's also one of those guys who is never seen without product in his hair-- he actually left me instructions on how to take care of it. I can only imagine what he's gonna do in my low maintenance body-- all I own are tank tops and gym shirts. I'm half-expecting to come back to a new wardrobe and a manicure. But holy hell, the dude is thin and lanky in ways I didn't think was possible. I hope he enjoys having some actual meat on his bones.

The biggest thing is that Henry is gay. Which, you know, that's totally cool by me! More chicks for the rest of us. But once I was put into his body, seeing all of my fellow bros roaming around shirtless and feeling up their new muscles... I don't know how Henry can wear these skinny jeans all the time. I was rock-hard within minutes and it physically hurt to have my new eight inches constrained by denim. I almost feel guilty, giving him the shorter end of the stick.

I'm pretty sure Henry is an insatiable bottom, so all of that size seems wasted but... what can you do? Anyway, we're allowed to hook up this weekend as long as we use condoms and... when else am I gonna have this opportunity, you know? If I don't take this chance, I'm gonna be consumed by the 'what if's forever. Also the part where I'm horny as fuck in his body.

Lucky for me, whoever ended up in Joey's body was giving me the side-eye the whole time we were at the opening mixer, so I don't think it will take much effort to get my dick wet. His body has the type of smooth skin I've always envied, and I'm honestly jealous at how handsome his face looks. He's got a dirty blonde dye job that plays into his charm, and his muscles are... well, they might be bigger than mine. My real muscles, anyway.

"You wanna head upstairs to my room?" Joey asked, grabbing my bulge in his hand. He flashed a dazzling grin, and I could feel myself swooning from the confidence. God, I wanted him so bad. But Joey was just a Sophomore, which meant he still had one of the smaller bedrooms.

"My room," I said, shaking my head. A thought crossed my mind, and once again I figured I may as well follow the impulse. I threw my arms around Joey's neck and jumped into his arms. He stumbled a bit, but pretty soon his arms were hooked underneath my body to support my weight. So many of my friends back home did that all the time, and now I understood why they found it addicting. I leaned in close enough for him to feel the heat of my breath as I whispered into his ear, "I want you inside me."

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

"I really needed that," I said, putting some clothes back on after the most intense session of my life. "Can't say that I had ever imagined getting fucked by a man before, but, uhh... I enjoyed it, it was good. Hopefully that was good for you, too?" I could feel myself starting to blush. "I've never been a gay man before, but I think I got the hang of it there at the end."

"Bro, you were great, don't even worry about it," Joey said, resting a comforting hand on my shoulder. "But, uhh... what do you mean, you've never been a gay man before?"

I paused, trying to figure out whether or not he was messing with me. "I mean... I'm in Henry's body right now? It's me, Matty. I'm not actually gay. But, you know... when in Rome."

He just laughed at me. "Bro, that's not how it works. Attraction is all in the brain. Like... yeah, the real Henry is out and proud, but you being in his body doesn't make you gay. If you were into that, you've always been into dudes. You were just too afraid to admit it."

His face was all smiles, but his words felt like a punch to the gut. "Wait, but... I can't be gay, I've had girlfriends, I..." I tried to come up with some sort of defense, but nothing came to mind. I thought I was caught up in what other guys looked like because I was jealous. Was that just some warped form of attraction? "Are you sure the swap works like that?"

Joey wrapped me in a warm hug. "I'm sure. Sorry, bro. Didn't mean to give you a existential crisis. I thought you knew. You may not be gay, if it helps? You might be, like... Bi or Pan instead. And no one's gonna make you pick a label right away. Take your time, see what feels right."

He had a point. Being attracted to dudes wasn't limited to just gay men. And anyway, it's not like being gay would be a bad thing. I just... I didn't think it was me. "Hey, thanks bro," I said, hugging him back. "And... sorry if I sounded insulting. There's nothing wrong with being gay, I just didn't think... well, I'll definitely have to figure out my, uhh... my truth, I guess."

I started lowering my hands back down to his ass, and pretty soon we were making out again. "Hey, are you sure this is what you want?" Joey asked, pausing as I started to strip again. "Feels like you're moving fast, and I want to make sure you're not, like... pressured or whatever."

"Yeah, I'm sure," I replied, smiling at him. "You're the one who told me to see what feels right. That was my first time having sex with a dude, and it felt pretty good. So I think I'm gonna have sex with a guy for a second time. See what happens."

He smiled back, and I could feel myself melt. I don't know who's in Joey's body right now, but I hope it's someone hot. There's no way we aren't hooking up once we swap back.

[the-californicationist]

he gets his revenge

Part 2 to "he comes closer and closer" -- at @numberonetastemakerwhispers request. <3

TW: explicit consent, sadism, masochism, spanking, degradation

“I know all of your hiding spots, pretty girl,” Price teased you in his low, rumbling voice, “....and I know that this one is your favorite.”

He was right, of course. But, you’d chosen this one on purpose. There was a part of you that wanted to be caught this time. You saw his bare feet pad slowly, skillful and silent, across the concrete floor of the office. You had fled to the base's reference room, and you were hiding under the microfiche machine. It wasn’t big enough to allow him in, but you could just barely squeeze through. 

“You like it because I can’t come in there after you, but...” he leaned his head down to the ground in a half-plank, snarling at you in the orange glow of the machine’s lamplight, “I have a long reach.”

You tried to dodge his hand, but he caught you by the ankle and dragged you out of your burrow like a cat does to a mouse. He flipped you over onto your stomach and shoved your body underneath his. He was still only wearing his gym shorts from before, and his dick remained soft and spent from your earlier edging. He’d asked you to play with him, to edge him, and you had. But, you may have taken it a little too far. Now, he wanted revenge and it was very much at hand. 

“John! Please. I was just doing as you asked!” He loved it when you turned helpless. You raised the register of your voice to a higher pitch, exciting his drive even further, feminizing your movements by over-exaggerating your cowering stance. Doe eyes. Just for him.

“Yeah?” He chuckled darkly, fully unrestrained in this dark office, “Call me by the name I like, love, or else…”

You pressed the first of many buttons,

“John…”

The slap that hit your ass was so hard that it made your body run cold. You couldn’t even scream. It was as if you had been a camera, and your mind had just taken a photo with the flash on. You were dazed by the stinging pain. He was upset, that much was certain. As the burn melted into a masochistic sort of pleasure, tingling out and radiating from the point of impact like a fresh sunburn, you cried out the words he wanted to hear,

“Sorry, Captain! Please…”

He purred like a lion, humming his approval as he pinned you to the dirty floor,

“That’s a good girl. Why can’t you be so good all the time? Such a fuckin’ brat. Needs her Captain to show her how to behave.”

Two more slaps stung sharply through your skin. One was to your ass cheek again, the same aching spot, but the other was to your hamstring on the back of your thigh. That one made you cry out in earnest.

“Mmm, yes. That’s what I like to hear. Sing for me, pretty girl.” 

He took both of his huge hands and smacked them down at the same time on both of your thighs. Your body tried to make sense of the feeling, and you could literally feel the wetness begin to slip out from between your folds, making your pussy lips slide together as you writhed from the pain, trying to escape his trap.��

“Ah! Please, please, Captain. I’m sorry,” you begged, knowing how much he liked it. Second button pressed, you waited for his response. 

“You will be.”

You had truly underestimated his wrath this time, and you were worried that he might actually take it too far. 

He grabbed your pants and raked them down, exposing your ass and thighs. He hummed, running his fingers lightly over the damage,

“Mm, that’s gonna be a bruise, love.”

Price slapped you hard again, just like the first one, but this time on bare skin. You felt it rattle your bones in your body, and you seized up from the pain, involuntarily trying to escape it. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. You had known you’d be a crying mess after his threat to chase you down, but you hadn’t expected to cry so soon. 

He grabbed your hair and yanked your body back into a cruel arch to meet his face as he hunched over you, menacingly. Price had a glare in his eyes that made you imagine him as some sort of animal. Beastial and primal in his ruthlessness. He kissed you, awkwardly and upside-down, licking you more than truly kissing your mouth. He whispered softly into your face, a heavy contrast to the pain he was causing to your body,

“Are you wet for me, love?”

You tried to whisper out a yes, but he was pulling your neck at such an angle that only the air escaped through your gritted teeth. He understood you anyway, letting your body fall back to the floor unceremoniously.

“You are, huh? Let’s see, shall we?” He pulled your ass cheeks apart like he was breaking open a pomegranate, witnessing your plump flesh turn red from his slaps and spill its juices from your swollen lobes.

He seemed pleased, letting out a low whistle and chuckling to himself, delicately fingering your drooling hole, soft and supple, pulsing with anticipation,

“Wow… look at you. My naughty girl craves her punishment, don’t she?”

“No! No, Captain, I - ah!”

The captain used his other hand to smack you hard and fast, three times in the same spot. 

“Oh, fuck. You do like it, love. I can tell. Every time I hit this fat arse...” he slapped you again for effect. You let out a sob. He continued, “...your pretty little cunt grabs my finger and doesn’t want to let me go.” 

He was moaning now, humping his hard length on your thigh, fully erect again and extremely aroused,

“I wanna feel that with my cock, love. Green?”

Price was good about checking in, especially in the middle of a scene. He was patient, and he gave you plenty of processing time, leisurely fingering you while he waited for your consent. You sniffled, nodding,

“Yes, Captain. Green.”

He slapped you twice and left his hand on your ass to fondle it roughly, shaking it like a dog with a rabbit in its mouth. 

“Good. Now, give me what I want.” 

You were openly crying now, tears rolling down your cheeks. You peeked over your shoulder to show him your tears and to watch him push himself into you. He had his shorts rucked down to his knees and his cock in his hand, pointing it towards its target, and as he found it, you watched Price’s face twist into that familiar agony you knew so well.

Teasing him had been enlightening, and you knew that he only made that face when he was on the brink of his pleasure. You decided to press button number three, and you slammed your hips back into him, forcing his cock inside of you all at once as opposed to the controlled entry that he had planned. His eyes went wide with shock, and he looked up at you, just in time to see you hide your grin. The captain’s gaze turned sinister. 

As much as you had tried to spear yourself onto him, you’d left a few inches on the table. His first order of business was to remedy that, ramming you down to his base, stretching you far beyond what you had bargained for. Then, he began to slap you in steady, harsh, evenly-spaced beats. He chose a cheek at random, so you never knew what to expect except for more burning pain.

Each time he slapped you, you cried out, and eventually, the pain warped itself into rhythmic bliss. You could feel yourself clench around him. He wasn’t even thrusting into you, but it felt like he was since your body was squeezing him so damn hard. 

“You naughty girl,” he berated you, slurring his words, “Thinking you could rush me, trying to fuck yourself on me like a…” every word forward was punctuated by a slap of its own, each harder and more merciless than the last, “...filthy. fuckin’. slag!”

He gathered you up by your shoulders, somehow reaching into you deeper than before at your new, arched angle, and you moaned from his effort, feeling your pussy melt around him like hot wax. Price groaned too, low and slow, and you could feel his rod throb inside of you, aching to come. With your chest high, he raked up your shirt and played with your nipples messily and without aim, growling into your ear,

“Such a good little slut for me. Always so goddamn starved for my bloody fuckin’ rod, huh?”

“Yes, sir,” you replied obediently, making sure to put a high-pitched whine on it for his benefit, and for yours.

Price began to thrust into you now, no less cruelly than his hand had treated you, hard and deep, bullying your womb with his fleshy, swollen head. 

“Mmm. Every time you pulse around me, it makes me want to come in you. Makes me mad with it. I imagine how it feels while I watch you on base, sittin’ in your fuckin’ uniform, listenin’ to my bloody briefings, starin’ at me all hungry like. Arghh!” He slapped you again and sighed contentedly, “I get so. bloody. hard.”

“Ah! Captain, please…” He was too deep. It was as if you could feel him in your throat. If you swallowed, you thought the spit would soak his cockhead. 

“It’s my favorite fuckin’ thing,” he smacked you over and over, fucking you into the concrete floor, thrusting your body forward with his massive weight. Your nipples were raw, scraping the ground, and you tried to use your hands to catch yourself, but he was too strong. 

He shuddered, shouting with a gravelly resonance, still slamming himself into you, pushing through his orgasm, and you felt him spilling into you, warmer than usual. It felt like he had poured hot caramel into your walls and was stirring it up in you, frothing his cream to a bubbling, sticky mess. 

Then, he stilled. Laying on top of you, he panted harshly, trying to catch his breath. He began to kiss your neck and shoulders. Then, he gently removed himself and pulled your body into his lap, leaning against the photocopier behind him. You were draped across him, clutching his chest and neck with your hands, crying softly into his skin from your twisted joy. He used his fingers to play inside of you gently, feeling his messy come and spreading it all over your folds, massaging it into your ass cheeks, smearing it across both of your holes. 

“You okay, love?”

“Yes, sir,” you kissed his chest as it was the closest thing your mouth could reach.

“Gonna come back to my quarters tonight? We need to ice that arse. Not gonna be able to run your drills tomorrow.”

“Drills?” Your voice couldn’t hide your panic. 

He chuckled, kissing your forehead,

“I warned you, love. Don't test me.”

Reblogs and comments deeply appreciated!

[arminsumi]

. . . 𝐢 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭

Geto Suguru

Regret has haunted Suguru ever since he parted ways with you; he's pining, lost, going mad. It kills him that he's made an enemy out of someone he loved.

► "I know that I ended it... but why didn't you stop me?"

+ Warnings/content: angst, pining, friends to enemies to lovers

Suguru's deepest regret is that he didn't kiss you before he parted ways. It eats him up more and more every day, like a parasite in his chest, chewing slowly on his muscles down to his bones.

Why didn't I kiss you?

He asks himself this so often — too often, god, he can't catch a break from his own mind, can't stop this regret from gnawing on his ribcage.

But isn't he his own obstacle? He chooses not to get over you. Yes, he actively chooses to not move on. Day after day, Suguru chooses to vividly remember the day he said goodbye to you — it's become his favorite film, he's memorized all the expressions, words, tones and romanticized it to no end.

We were perfectly tragic.

Late spring, flowers on the floor, black night, his tears, his shivering lashes, that quivering voice. Looking into his eyes, you saw that he wasn't prepared to let go.

He was holding onto you. Claws in your flesh.

Maybe that's why he chose to say farewell behind the 7-eleven; it was the place where you and him first met. The story was that both your Jujutsu schools had coincidentally assigned you two to exorcise the same curse; you were confused by Suguru's technique and wrongly went for him, like he was the bad guy — isn't it all so ironic now? You remember how he panted with a smile, like he got a kick out of fighting you, how he explained to you that it was a misunderstanding and that he was on your side. He remembers receiving a hateful look from you; it made his heart tick, leading him to wonder to himself what's wrong with me? I always love women who hate me.

Because of how you met, you and Suguru being 'enemies' was a running joke that carried on through your late teenage years.

Springs passed. Things changed — no, things got worse. Suguru was drowning and no one could see it, not even you, the girl who knew him like the back of her hand.

Suddenly, all those years spent living side by side each other in blissful, oblivious youth converged into a moment of goodbye.

There went by the scent of those falling flowers. Suguru's nerves were at full attention, sharp and prickly all over his skin. Goosebumps. He was jittery, even shaking — a look that you never thought he'd wear, being as cool as he always was.

You told him, "You don't have to be someone you're not just because of me." but he didn't want to hear that. No, he needed to hear something else. He needed to be told "Suguru, no matter what path you take, I'll always love you, deep down inside."

The night breeze chilled him. He stared down at you, eyes full of hurt like you've never seen in a man's eyes before.

Stark neon light from the vending machines painting your features, he didn't miss how your lips quivered. He leaned into you slowly, but then there was a sudden stutter in his movements. Something held him back.

Suguru chickened out from kissing you — that's what it seemed like to you, anyways.

But it was deeper than that. He never opened up about it. He just left. He just went.

. . . 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭,

and he's still haunted by memories of that night, heart rotting with regret. He can hardly sleep, can hardly eat, can hardly keep any food down — how could he stomach food when he can't even stomach his own choices?

Suguru visits the place where you and him first met.

He trudges through snow in winter, kicks leaves off his path in autumn — leans against the wall where the both of you once stood and just stares at the floor, allowing himself to hurt all over.

But no season makes him hurt quite like spring, when the scent of blooming flowers is so potent and strong that he chokes up.

What would you do if you saw him again?

He's thought so deeply about what he'd say to you that it's become a script; he knows the words by heart.

Why didn't you stop me?

Did you have feelings for me?

Do you hate me?

Please let me kiss you. Just once.

No, he's scratched the last one off his script.

He sighs to himself all the time — all the time. How did he make an enemy out of the one he loved?

A question that plagues his brooding mind is do you still love me even after what I did? He wonders if it's even possible. Sometimes he just settles on the assumption that you and Satoru hold a deep hatred against him.

. . . 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮,

your face appears around the corner; he can't mistake it.

Meeting you again after years have passed, though as enemies, makes him feel stilled, like all the chaos stops momentarily.

He doesn't know what to say, or how to act, so he just stays silent and motionless in front of you.

You speak and feelings start to rip him apart. "Suguru, where have you been?"

It's awkward. It's melancholic. The tension between you and Suguru is not just because of the gruesome truth of what violence he committed, nor the betrayal; no, it's more than all that.

He's utterly speechless, holding an unbreaking eye contact with you. Gazing into your eyes after so many years of staring into fuzzy photographs makes him feel giddy like a little kid, despite the severe expression you have.

You talk slowly and carefully to him, almost warily, and it breaks his heart little by little.

"I know we're not allies, but I'm still the same Suguru that you used to spend nights talking to." he quietly reminds you, hurt evident in his voice.

He gazes deeper into your eyes, deeper and deeper until he's dizzy. You hardly know how to respond.

"Suguru," you whisper back, tearing up, "Why did you do it?"

He doesn't respond, completely ignoring this.

"... I still think of you."

"... hey, answer me."

As he comes two steps closer, you back two steps away.

"... and I left so many things unsaid."

"... Suguru, I know, but — "

"... and I should have kissed you before I left." he blurted out.

Shocked, you take a moment to register what he just said.

"Why didn't you?"

"I just didn't want to taint you." he breaths, "I'm too fucked up and you're too sweet for me."

He brings his face closer to you, casting a shadow over your whole body, backing you into the wall. The setting sun peeks out from behind him, the breeze slows.

Suguru looks at you like an adoring, sad puppy. His face is full of all his regret and lust and longing and desperation. You've never seen this look in his eyes before — he's kept everything to himself ever since you met him.

Looking intently at your lips and wetting his own, he begs you softly, "Please, let me kiss you."

You shake your head very slowly, feeling so conflicted.

"Just once? Please, I need it so badly." he admits desperately, and then says your name in the softest tone you've ever heard a man speak in; your name, every letter so special to him, each syllable quivering in the air between your faces.

He's so close you can see every detail in his face; the harrowed eyebags, the sorrow in the wrinkles of his eyes, and flashes of memories in his pupils. Even more than all that, you can see the downturn of his parted mouth.

"I want to," you admit, swallowing sharply, "But I can't."

Lashes fluttering so sorrowfully, Suguru pulls back a little.

It's the same place, the same season, and the same pitiful situation.

There's a small silence in which you feel a madly desperate feeling emanating from Suguru, and then he crashes his lips onto yours so hard that you whimper.

Breathing hard, heart thumping up against his chest, Suguru holds you in place while he presses his wettened lips against you, tilting his head to the side to deepen the kiss.

You quickly surrender to him, and when you reciprocate his kiss — he whimpers. It's so subtle and quiet, but you feel it on your lips and tongue.

Kissing until you both run out of breath, Suguru finally pulls away — plucking little kisses from your lips as he does, like he just can't stop yet.

"I'm so sorry," he apologizes heavily, still keeping close to your face, not ready to let go. "I need you."

You look up into his eyes and he feels shivers going down his back.

"... I won't tell Satoru." you breathe.

His breath catches, and he doesn't hesitate to go in for the next kiss — and the next and the next and the next until you're letting him mark your neck with a harsh hickey.

Of course, you can't spend all day there, you realize after fifteen minutes of making out with your 'enemy'.

"I've got to report back." you tell him, "He's going to get suspicious if I'm out too long."

"Okay," Suguru pulls away, licking his lips and rubbing them together like he's just enjoyed a feast. "Can I see you again?"

"I don't know..." you mutter unsurely, "If Satoru finds out, he's going to — "

"So what?" Suguru feathers, "I don't care what he does, I don't care if I ruin your reputation — I need you in my arms tomorrow."

Your expression spoke volumes.

"Okay, I'll be here tomorrow night." you murmur.

Suguru's guilt hardly affects him as he goes home; your kisses meant everything to him. Your reciprocation and lamb-like weakness in his arms filled him with ecstasy.

He doesn't care that you were his 'enemy' — maybe the taboo makes it feel even better. It's wrong. It's not allowed. And he wants it so bad, he stands with eager anticipation behind the 7-eleven every night, waiting for you.

This place where you two first met, now five years later, has become a spot where you and him make out like teenagers.

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬: 𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐢'𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲

[jpbpxma]

morning, baby;

content warnings/tags: nsfw, contains smut, nipple play, choking (slightly), sex on the kitchen countertop, joel miller x f!reader.

You wake up to the smell of coffee drifting up the stairs and roll over onto your back with a groan as the sun shines on your eyes. You smile when you hear Joel downstairs making breakfast for the two of you, it's just so blissfully domestic. You stretch your whole body as you give a satisfied sigh, then grab the nearest item of clothing, which just happens to be Joel's denim shirt from the day before. You yawn as you slip it on, carelessly fastening enough buttons up so you're not completely exposed and make your way downstairs.

You make a beeline for the coffee machine, eyes still tired and mind still sleepy, you really needed some caffeine to wake you up. You put your mug under the spout, press the button and yawn while stretching again, with your arms up in the air, when warm hands gently snake around your waist from behind you. "Hey, that's my shirt," Joel teases, his already deep voice even deeper in the morning. He peppers kisses on the back of your neck; you can't help but smile as he pushes the collar of the shirt to the side a little with his nose so he can trail his lips across your shoulders. "Morning, baby," he whispers between kisses.

When he presses up behind you nice and close, his sweatpants leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. "How do you look so beautiful right when you wake up, hmm? " He asks in a low voice, nearly a growl. He's such a sweet talker, you giggle despite yourself. He traces kisses along the bone of your shoulder while cupping your breasts. You smile at his actions, leaning into his hands and melting into his touch, "You're right, you're so lucky, babe," you say playfully, turning your head to kiss him on the cheek. He hums in your ear in response, nipping at the sensitive skin behind it, grinding his hard on into your ass at the same time.

"Mmm, someone's frisky this morning," you say, cupping his face with your hand. His hands slide into the open front of the shirt to grab onto one of your breasts, while the other wraps loosely around your throat. You inhale sharply, gripping the countertop hard when Joel pinches your nipple sharply between his thumb and pointer finger, his hand flexing against your throat. You both knew exactly where this was going, you make a low keening noise in your chest with need. Before you could react, he picks you up by the waist and spins you around, dropping you on the opposite kitchen counter.

You gasp as the cold, hard surface touches the heated skin on the back of your thighs. He places himself in between your spread legs and claims your lips into a heated kiss as you wrap both legs around his waist and grab his thick hair with both hands. He scratches his blunt nails down the length of your back, making you moan into his mouth. Joel's poor shirt doesn't stand a chance as he pulls apart both sides of the shirt you're wearing, you could hear buttons bouncing somewhere in the distance. He dips his head down to kiss on each of your now pebbled nubs as his hands explore every part of your exposed body. Being as in love with your nipples as he was, he goes right back to lick your right nipple while rubbing his thumb back and forth over your left one - occasionally giving it a little pinch - before putting his whole mouth over it to suck on and run his tongue across it. He does this while alternating the actions between the two nipples, paying equal attention to both.

You whimper, body vibrating with desire, as you grip his hair harder. Both of his hands then grab your hips, pulling you forward roughly to the edge of the counter. He pulls his sweats down and brings himself closer to you, teasing your lips with his tip, causing you to shiver. You could tell he's worked up by the way his eyes are serious and focused, concentrated on the pleasure. Before you could even draw a breath in, he buries himself into you to the hilt. Never truly getting used to the sheer size of his dick, you gasp but quickly sigh happily at the feeling, your head thrown back as Joel's lips are on your shoulder, nipping and sucking your skin.

He starts with a deep and harsh pace, thrusting slow, but hard enough to make you jerk forward, gasping with your mouth agape. Your moans get louder as he kisses your collarbone and makes his way up your neck to your jawline, making you clench around him on his next harsh thrust. Joel lets out a groan so deep, it makes you somehow even more turned on than you already were. Searing heat and urgency coursing through your veins, you use your hand on the kitchen counter as leverage and start to thrust back against Joel, meeting his hips with your own.

You're over the moon with pleasure when he angles his thrusts to better hit your sweet spot. The first time he does this, your hand goes from gripping his hair to fisting the front of his t-shirt, twisting the fabric so hard you could rip it. With the pounding of Joel's hips at that angle, you can feel the coil deep in your stomach starting to tighten. You could tell he was just as close as you were, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. His face is flushed, biting his bottom lip with his eyes screwed shut and his forehead wrinkled with concentration, he looked so beautiful in this moment.

His hips start to stutter, desperately chasing his own high as he takes you. You tighten around him, coaxing his orgasm while lost in the pleasure yourself. When he gives a final, sharp thrust, you moan as the orgasm washes over you, your whole body quivering as he stills with a deep grunt. You're both breathing heavily still holding onto each other and your legs still wrapped around his waist. “I think it’s safe to say that we’ve worked up an appetite, baby,” Joel laughs, still slightly panting, "You're going to love the spread of breakfast I made you." Yup, domestic bliss indeed.

[cheolism]

hello my beloved jupiter i would like to peek at the kinkiest jun thots inside ur brain pretty please 🤓

THE SCENT OF YOU

✰ wen junhui x reader ✷ wc is approx 1.5k ✰ warnings: nsfw! salirophilia and olfactophilia (attraction to the state of being dirty; attraction to body odor/scent). ✷ notes: based off of that one thing napoleon allegedly wrote to his wife asking her not to bathe before he came home. thank you mars (@onlymingyus) and junie for helping me w the names of the kinks!!

i.

jun wakes up to the uncomfortable feeling of being terribly warm.

the summer sun blazes through the bedroom windows, peering through the blinds and casting its light. the aircon kicks on in the next room, the box fan -- set on top of a dining room chair jun had dragged into the room -- whirling gently, casting a slight breeze onto jun's face.

he's still unbearably hot.

the two of you had gone to bed at midnight, the temperature dropping considerably compared to what it had been that afternoon. you turned the aircon to the perfect temperature; jun switched on the fan. he tucked the duvet around your figure, giggling alongside you as you wiggled your toes underneath. and then he had ducked underneath the covers, pressing his body to yours and tucking his face into your neck.

naturally, cursedly, time crawled on as the two of you slept and eventually the sun rose into the sky, coloring it a lovely blue. the room had heated up, despite the aircon doing its best, and so jun woke with his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his arms and his mind hazy with heat.

irritated, he throws off the duvet and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. he had stopped cuddling you sometime in the night, and perhaps that is why he's truly pissed.

he checks the temperature outside -- eighty-seven fahrenheit, what the fuck -- and then adjusts the thermostat. the aircon kicks back on, and he stumbles back into the bedroom.

you're frowning at him from the bed, lips in a pout and brow pinched. "why'd you leave?"

jun jumps back into the bed, throwing the duvet back over his figure and latching onto you. "was hot," he explains, and then he's ducking his face to press it against your neck.

his nose nuzzles into the baby hairs at the back of your neck, breathing. his hand settles onto your hip, and then he's sliding his fingers underneath the waistband of your boxers. jun doesn't do anything more, just keeps his fingers against your skin, warm from your body.

he presses his face against you, lips skimming over your warm skin. you're wearing a tank top, and he thinks, faintly, that just like the boxers the tank top is his.

you sigh as his mouth dips to your collar. he presses his lips against your skin, pushing his tongue out and feeling the hard bone hidden beneath.

he moves again. jun presses his face into the valley between your tits, concealed by the tank top. it's hot there, heat radiating off of your tits and trapped beneath the tank top, which in turn was covered by the duvet.

you're hot there, and when jun noses along the gentle curve of one of your tits he can smell you.

it's the smell that comes from sleep and heat. it's a smell that is so inherently, distinctly you. it's the smell of your soul, he thinks, his dick beginning to swell in his boxers and his fingers twitching down down down, until the tips of them are touching the hairs of your cunt.

"junnie," you hum, reaching out and looping an arm around him. he catches a whiff of that gentle scent of sleep and heat, and then he's mouthing at your tits through the fabric and settling his hand against your pussy.

ii.

"i'll be home late," you murmur into your phone. he can hear the noise of the conference through his phone speaker. you had told him, before you left, to prepare for as much; had, optimistically, said that it would be over at four but seungkwan had booked a room with a karaoke machine so you may end up staying longer.

"are you having fun?" jun asks, bracing against the counter with his free hand and glancing over the ingredients he had set out. he'll have to put the pork back into the fridge, package the chopped veggies and hope they'll be as fresh tomorrow. really, though, it's for the best; he's low on egg roll wrappers and doesn't know if he'll have enough for a full meal.

"yeah," you say, and he can hear the smile in your voice. it's like bottled sunshine, the way it seems to settle within him and lighten his soul. "we got free pens."

"holy shit," jun says, and you laugh. eventually, though, you hang up; he can hear seungkwan scolding you for being on your phone during a company conference before you manage to end the call.

jun packs away the veggies and pork, snapping the lids onto the plastic container and stacking them in color order in the fridge.

he throws two packets of ramen on the counter; checks on the rice in the cooker. with thirty minutes left for the rice to be done, he leaves the kitchen and begins wandering about the apartment.

there's a sock in the hall. he swoops down, grabbing it and balling it into his fist. he rounds into the bedroom, and he begins picking up your discarded sleep clothes.

he throws your shirt over the crook of his arm — it once belonged to choi seungcheol, but the man had left it in jun's gym bag when he borrowed it once and so it had been put into rotation as a sleep shirt for the both of you. you wore your own panties and shorts to bed, and he picks up those, too.

they're one of your favorite pairs. they’re on the side of nearly too-raggedy, the elastic loose around your hips. jun remembers the first time he saw you wear them, nearly two years ago; remembers how he had pulled them down your thighs; how they had been soaking wet from your cunt, how he hadn’t been able to resist the urge to bring them up to his nose and —

jun presses his thumb into the flat seat of your panties, stretching them. whatever wetness that may have been there from your cunt had long dried. he can see the faint bleaching from your fluids on your panties. 

he lifts your panties up to his nose; breathes in. he smells you, still, hours later. jun can smell yoru essence, the very fabric of your being. slowly jun slides his hand down his stomach, fingers gliding over the veins of his hips and following down down down. 

iii. 

you look, jun thinks, absolutely destroyed. 

the half-assembled desk still takes up a majority of the second bedroom, metals bars sticking straight up and wooden surface flat against the floor. you’ve paused the music you had been blaring for the past hour, staggering into the living room with your phone in hand and a scowl on your face. 

“you want help?” jun calls, setting his own phone flat onto his bare stomach and stretching. 

“i can do it,” you snap, dropping your phone onto the lazyboy. your hair is pulled up off of your neck, strands escaping and flying about. your face gleams from sweat and your natural oils. you’re wearing a baggy shirt and pants, and when you lift an arm to grab at the ceiling fan string, he can see a patch of sweat on the armpit of your shirt. 

you are destroyed; you had attempted to build the desk and came out of it sweaty and ruined, pissed and unsatisfied. 

jun pats his thighs, sitting up a bit. you huff, and then you’re waddling over to him. you throw your leg over him, knee digging into the cushions as you settle back on him. 

your jaw drops, and you reach back and slap his thigh. “what the fuck are you hard about?”

“you’re beautiful,” jun says, taking you in once more. you’re messy and sweaty, and he wants you. 

his hands go to your thighs, settling. he smoothes his hands over your sweatpants, grabbing, groping, feeling you. 

you roll your eyes. jun moves up, wrapping his arms around your body to keep you in his lap. he presses his face into your neck, and you groan something out about being too hot for this. he can smell your sweat, your stink; he can feel his dick swell in his pants, can feel it strain and want. 

“wen junhui —”

jun pushes his tongue out, sliding it against your skin and tasting the salt of you. you let your head fall to the side, and jun slides a hand into your hair, feeling how hot and sweaty they are at the very start of them. it takes some shifting to get your sweatpants down your thighs, to tuck them under your knees and give him some space, but he does. 

and then jun is shoving his hand against your cunt. it’s hot and sweaty here, too, just like he had hoped. he can feel, through your underwear, how wet you are. the cloth near the elastic, damp from sweat; the cloth covering your cunt wet from your juice. 

jun pushes back again, and then your shoulders are against the cushions and he’s between your thighs. he pulls your sweats and underwear the rest of the way down your legs, discarding them next to the couch. jun lowers himself, pressing his face against your hot, sweaty cunt and breathing in. 

[upsidedownwithsteve]

BAD FOR BUSINESS: THE BONUS LEVEL

Steve Harrington x fem!reader 18+

It was the first shift you’d had with Steve since you’d made each other come in the front seat of his car.

It had been as you expected: a little awkward, a little nerve wracking. Gazes meeting across the arcade, dim lights hiding Steve’s pink cheeks, your frantic, wide eyes, the hitched breaths every time the other came a little too close.

You stayed away for the most part, hidden behind the cash desk while Steve helped Mike Wheeler and his friends with the jerky controller on Space Invaders. But then the eight o’clock was rolling round and the customers left, Robin vacuumed the floors and Murray was hurrying out the door and telling you that you were in charge of locking up. The rain came when Robin left, her jacket stretched over her head as she ran to her mom’s car and then it was just Steve, watching you from across the desk.

The weather outside was a roar above your head, a deafening din of water of rain on the roof and with the machines powered down for the night, it was the only thing you could hear. Maybe, if you listened hard enough, you would’ve been able to hear your own heartbeat under it all, matching the erratic beat.

“You gonna help?” You asked Steve, just to break the tension. You gestured to the stack of receipts and tickets and coins on the desk that still needed counted. “Or are you just gonna gawk?”

Steve turned pinker under the lights, ultraviolet and fuschia, neon aquamarine from the glow of the games and Steve was too pretty under it all, prettier with his flushed cheeks. It gave you a little piece of normality back when he narrowed his eyes at you, brows furrowed, gaze bored. But his nose was still tinted pink when he reached your side and when his arm brushed yours, you hated and loved how close he was.

Your stomach flipped, tumbled, an endless fall into something you couldn’t make out. Not yet.

You stood in silence for minutes, maybe ten, maybe fifteen. Maybe it had only been one. But the tension was too much, it was splitting at the seams, it was cracking you open, a yawning, stretching ache in your chest, beating at your bones and—

“You’re not doing that right,” is what you said. And then you just shut up, lips sealed, features pinched as if in pain because it was taking you everything you had to not talk about the kiss. Both kisses. The two fucking kisses you’d shared with Steve fucking Harrington.

And it was easier to fight about it than anything else.

Steve scoffed like you knew he would, eyes rolling, lips curling. “How the fuck can I be doing it wrong?” He bit. “I’m counting tickets, princess, not balancing million dollar cheques.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Because he was side by side with hand brushing yours every time you both reached across the desk and he was warm, he was solid and he was wearing the same cologne from the Photo Booth and if you were going to put your smart mouth to use again, it was going to be against Steve’s.

It was too hot and suddenly the rain above wasn’t the loudest thing in the room. You swallowed hard and tried to block out the best of your heart against your ribcage. It was so loud, you wondered if Steve could hear it too.

“What? No argument?” Steve glanced at you from the side of his eyes, frowning. You weren’t sure what gave it away, maybe your tensed shoulders, your blown out pupils. Whatever it was, it made the boy too bold. “You’re lookin’ a little warm, princess, you okay there?”

Smug. Steve sounded smug and it was fucking infuriating.

And then you were on him.

Or maybe it was the other way around, you were sure. It happened seconds ago, but you couldn’t remember. You couldn’t remember anything. All that mattered now was that your lips were fused to Steve’s and he was crowding you against the counter, his hands splayed against your sides, fingers slipping up over your ribs and making your shirt slide with it, bare skin exposed for him to touch, a gasp wrenched from his throat at the feel of you, your hands grabbing at his hair and pulling hard.

He was moaning, but maybe you were too, gasping into each others patted mouths and swallowing each others noises, noses smashed to cheeks and hands roaming, bodies pressed together in a desperate bid to get as close as possible with your clothes still on and you’d never been so glad that Murray never bothered with working security cameras.

Steve was saying your name, whispers of it between curses, making it sound like a prayer, like you were something holy, that you were gonna save him but you decided then and there you’d do whatever it took to make Steve sound the way he did - even if you went to hell with him.

But then he was pushing you away, panting, big hands curling around the backs of your knees and you were on the desk, tickets and coins scattering, sitting in a pool of neon lights and the silk of your splayed skirt.

Steve sucked in a breath, wrecked sounding. He’d never looked prettier. Swollen lips, pink cheeks, hair a riot from your teasing fingers, his eyes darker than they were supposed to be.

“I wanna go down on you, so fuckin’ badly.”

You swore out loud, brain glitching for a second, stuttering over the words that had gotten stuck in your throat and you were nodding, frantic, head bobbing and jaw hanging loose because Steve was dropping to his knees and sliding his palms up your thighs.

“M’gonna need some confirmation here, princess,” Steve urged, kissing across your knee, his hair tickling at the insides of your thighs.

You were tingling, an electric kind of buzz running under your skin, your body a livewire and you hadn’t felt this turned on since god knows fucking when. It was a filthy, pretty thing, dirty and wrong and in an inappropriate place with a beautiful boy who you’d tricked yourself into hating.

Supposedly.

So you let some sounds rip from your throat and thankfully they made words, desperate pleas of agreement and Steve was grinning, looking like he’d had all his wishes granted as he mouthed his way between your thighs. He didn’t hesitate and there was no shame from you either as he dragged up your skirt, fingers hooking into the cotton of your underwear so he could pull it to the side. He groaned, a breath punching from him as his lips parted at the sight of you, pretty and wet and waiting.

He made you squeal, smiling against you as he leaned in to kiss at your folds, delicate little things against your slick skin, nose nudging at your clit and then you moaned his name and he lost all sense of control.

“Steve, oh— ohmygod, fuck!” You lurched forward, body curling over him as you grabbed at the boy’s hair and Steve just answered in kind, hands curling around the tops of your thighs to pull you closer to him, your ass perched precariously on the edge of the counter, toes skimming the floor and you were almost riding his face, hips rolling as he held you up and licked broad stripes over your cunt.

He only moved back to press a surprisingly sweet kiss to the juncture of your thigh but he had your eyes rolling when he looked up at your from under his lashes, lips pink and wet from you. “M’so goddamn hard right now, you have no idea.”

You were crying out, an awfully loud moan ripping from your lips and you were putty, you were a mess. And for the next fifteen minutes, you were entirely Steve’s. He took you apart with his tongue and his lips and you let him, his blunt fingernails leaving half moon markings in your hips that’d you stare at in the mirror later.

And when you came, hard, grinding down onto Steve’s mouth, his chin, his nose, you let go of your manic grip on his hair and smoothed a hand over his temple instead, coaxing him closer before you gasped out his name, breathless.

The next morning, nobody could answer why there were tickets scattered over the floor, hidden under machines and stuck to forgotten bubblegum. And when the rest of the team looked to you and Steve for answers, you both just walked in opposite directions, matching smiles hidden in the shadows between the neon lights.

[nevadancitizen]

-> HURTING, LONGING, LOVING – DANCING TO DISCO MUSIC

synopsis: you wake up and have no memory of simon. you can only hope to find him among your fractured memories and the scattered lights of a disco ball.

word count: 2.3k

characters: simon "ghost" riley, amnesiac! gn! reader

trigger warnings: transient global (aka temporary) amnesia, mentions of canon-typical violence/interrogation

notes: heavily inspired by disco elysium and part one of @roosterr 's amnesia series. go give it a read if you haven't already (＊๑˘◡˘)

Nothing surrounds you. Only warm, primordial blackness – the pond you learn about in Biology 101, the one where everything and everyone comes from. You don’t know this, of course, because you’re curled up in it, your mind fermenting in it. You’re no larger than a grain of yeast. You don’t have to do anything anymore. Ever. Never, ever.

But you’re growing. Gram upon gram of yeast, slowly morphing into meat. Muscles and bones and organs and a beating pig heart, decaying as soon as they grow. Soon you’ll need to do things. There’s a faint tickle of an idea. Soldiers. Battlefields. IEDs and tanks. You don’t know what to do with this information.

Somewhere within the idea – a sensation! Pain. Arcing, shooting pain, lightning through every new nerve in your new body. The limbed and headed machine of pain and barely-dignified suffering is firing up again. It wants to walk the streets of Manchester. Hurting. Longing. Loving. Dancing to disco music.

It wants someone. You want someone. A blurred-out face, someone you’re kneeling at the feet at. A ghost of a man. So lost he doesn’t even know what his face looks like. 

“I swore I wouldn’t let you go,” your barely-formed mouth mumbles. Your teeth are hot, melted-together plastic and your tongue is jet-fuel-fired rebar. 

Look up. No. You were just talking to yourself. That’s all you ever do. Even in this primordial pool. And the act is wearing thin, the spots of the disco ball fade around you…

The warm blackness is instantly replaced with a cold, artificial light. You bring your hand up to block it – since when have you had these? Gangly things with a red wire further down in… your elbow. That’s not a wire – that’s a tube. Of blood? Your blood. You have blood.

You remember now. You were born with hands and elbows, knees, feet, organs and fat and a copious amount of blood. A collarbone you’ve broken more than once. A body that was molded in the crucible of battle.

And holy shit does that body hurt. That hindbrain wasn’t exaggerating when it said that you are a being of suffering. 

A dull throbbing is behind your eyes as they rove around the room. They land on a button neatly labeled Call Nurse. You press it and wait.

Everything after that is a blur. Nurses, doctors, “Follow my finger with your eyes, but don’t move your head,” poking and prodding with various instruments, “Tilt your head back so I can feel your neck,” blue latex gloves, “How much do you remember?”, bright lights in your eyes.

One nurse checks the dressings on your forehead. It’s just above your temple. His hands are rubbery and unfeeling as he re-dresses it. A trickle of cold liquid dribbling down from an alcohol swab. Bandages press against your skin. “What’s your name and date of birth?”, “Can you name the members of the task force you’re a part of?”

A man cuts through the blur as he comes thundering through the door. A balaclava with a skull pattern. Three men are behind him, hanging in the doorframe, out of the way. But the man moves quickly towards you, standing on the edge of the crowd of medical professionals, pacing back and forth, eyes on you, like how a sheepdog circles its sheep. Longing, waiting. Held back by an invisible leash of respect.

After a while, most of the personnel disperse, leaving you with a transient global amnesia diagnosis, a nurse, and the men. But even then, they leave after casting a glance at the sheepdog.

He moves closer, then stares at you for a while. He’s expecting something. His brown eyes are like sodium lights. A small trickle of streets and the sky. In your mind, you know he’s the place to be. You’re still alive while he’s around. 

Yeah. He’s groovy. You want to disco with him. He is disco. But somewhere, a deep unaccessed area of your mind is saying, “You don’t want to disco like this. Not really. Not in the deepest part of your soul, where blond eyelashes only make you sad.”

Wait – come on, what are you talking about? Sad blond eyelashes? Blond eyelashes are fun!

“Why do I hurt all of a sudden?”

“Hey, it’s alright, darl.” He kneels by your bed and takes your hand in both of his. They’re warm, rough, calloused in places you thought couldn’t be calloused. “It’s me, it’s Simon.”

“What?” You pull your hand away from his. “I don’t know a Simon.”

Simon scoffs, but it’s more of an exhale of disbelief. “Don’t you remember me?”

“No.” You narrow your eyes. “Should I?”

Simon crumbles before you. His sodium streetlight eyes go out with an explosion of guilt – the bulbs pop with a fizzy sound. He looks like he should be groveling at the feet of a feudal lord, providing excessive evidence of his crimes, or throwing a cat-of-nine-tails over his shoulder and ripping the flesh from his own back. Whatever made him this way – you can be damn sure it was your fault. Those three simple words, instead of “I love you,” are “No. Should I?” 

“It’s me.” Simon’s voice cracks as he speaks. Tears flood his waterline. He takes off his mask, revealing his pale face and dyed-blond hair. “It’s your Simon.”

“Simon,” you say softly. You look at him and hurt. A hole in your still-beating pig heart. Blood spills out from where the bullet went in. 

“No. Nothing.” You look down at his hand. It’s palm-up, splayed out where you let go of it. It curls up into a fist, then Simon pulls it into his lap.

He says nothing. Just stares at you like you’re familiar yet somehow unknown. 

You don’t know what to say. You just can’t conjure up any thoughts as you stare back. The morphine can’t be the cause of your dumbness. And it certainly isn’t the new modafinil that was just introduced to your system. 

You search his eyes and feel, above all things, lost. Lonely in a hospital full of people. 

Simon pulls away. His breathing is heavy and labored. A single tear slips down his scarred cheek. He doesn’t look like he’s one to cry. The tear leaves a trail of wet that looks like a new scar.

He tugs his balaclava back on and shuffles out, casting one last longing glance over his shoulder before closing the door behind him with a soft click.

That’s where it is. He is disco. He’s stumbling through the streets of Manchester. Hurting. Longing. Loving. Dancing to disco music.

You’re stuck in the hospital for a week for physical therapy and observation. Simon visits intermittently. He brings things to jog your memory – men that are part of Task Force 141, small snow globes from where you and he have apparently been deployed. Some of them work. But none of them bring back any memory of your apparent relationship with Simon – your boyfriend.

Today he comes in with a small device. It’s not a phone, but resembles it. A small wire comes from the amp and ends in a small circle of plastic.

You point at it. “What’s that?”

“It’s a contact microphone.” Simon settles in the chair that’s set up by your bed. He points at the blocky part of it. “This part holds the recording. You can play it back if needed.”

“Are you going to play it back?” You ask.

“No,” Simon says. “This one is blank.”

You take it from Simon’s hand and turn it over, looking at it. Examining. “Then why are you showing me this?”

“You are…” Simon sighs, trying to find the words. “You were a profoundly talented interrogator. You used contact microphones to record the interrogation, the confessions, the works. There’s a specified interrogation chamber underground. Contact microphones pick up the noise better down there.”

You continue looking it over. Fiddling with the wire. Running your thumb over the mesh of the microphone.

“Anything?” Simon says.

You close your eyes and think. Contact microphone… violence, blood. There’s a welding torch in there somewhere. The smell of bubbling flesh and burning hair. Cauterization without anesthesia. It was that way on purpose.

You open your eyes and look at Simon. “Interrogation.”

“Obviously.” Simon huffs out a laugh. It sounds forced. “I told you that.”

“Yes.” You sigh, looking down at the contact microphone. You try to think more. Contact… physical contact. Your fist making contact. Something hard. Solid bone breaking under your hands. 

But also… something soft. Something that smells good. Smells homey. A black hoodie with some cheesy skull pattern on it. Actually, a closet full of black and grey clothes. A monotone voice to match a monotone closet.

The clothes smell faintly of cigarettes. A carton that’s mostly empty. They taste better than regular cigarettes – they’re some European brand. 

“Do…” You look up at Simon. “Do you smoke?”

“Why?” Simon asks. “Do I smell like cigs?”

“No. Just…” 

You close your eyes and try to remember more. The carton is a brown-orange color. The back is plastered with warnings about nicotine being an addictive chemical. No filters. A smooth, walnut-esque finish.

“Revaality,” you finally say and look up at Simon. 

“Yes! Yes.” Simon takes your hand instinctively, excitedly. He smiles. Like crying, it doesn’t really fit him, but you’re glad he’s smiling anyway. “That’s the brand I smoke. I smoke Revaality.”

He takes your face in his hand and guides you to look at him. His sodium light eyes are bright once again. “Anything else? Lovie, please…”

You cringe away from his touch. Again, Simon is punched in the fucking face when he remembers that you don’t know him. Not like that. 

Simon pulls his hands away. “Shit. I…”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “I know.”

I know you know a different version of me. The thought lingers, loud and unsaid. Simon, you’re a man with a lot of past, but little present, and almost no future. I’m sorry we only live in your memories, because I don’t even have those.

“I’m trying.” You look down at the contact microphone. “Believe me, I’m trying.”

“I believe you,” Simon says. “It’s just… it’s hard.”

Silence for a while. The artificial lights above you buzz and cast harsh shadows on Simon’s face. He looks… tired. 

“I still love you,” he says quietly. Almost a whisper. “I… you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

He rests a hand on the railing of your hospital bed. “I’m not the best. I drink. I smoke. I have a laundry list of mental issues and types of trauma. So much it’s not even funny.”

“But you…” he sighs. “You fell in love with me anyway.”

You look up at him. He’s crying again. A pang of empathy in your heart. You don’t know why, but you don’t want to see him cry. The tears that cut through the dirt on his face are unbefitting. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is a mirror of Simon’s. Soft and wavering. “I want to remember. I don’t even know what happened to me. The doctors always dance around it when I ask.”

Simon bunches the end of his sleeve up in his hand and wipes away his tears. “You were a fucking idiot. That’s what happened.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

“Not in a bad way.” Simon lets go of his sleeve and rests his hand on the railing of your bed again. “You love too much and too hard. You saved me.”

“It… the building…” He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his waterline to clear of tears. “The building was coming down. We thought we were out of danger close. But there was a piece of rebar that…”

Simon looks down at his lap. He’s ashamed. “It was supposed to hit me. I was supposed to die. I’m used to it. I’m used to close calls and blood transfusions.”

“But I’m not used to…” He glances up at you through his eyelashes. His long, blond eyelashes. “People I care about being hurt. Or people caring about me in general.”

“Simon.” You reach out and lay your hand over his where it rests on the railing. He holds his breath like he’s afraid.

A pause. You want to be sure of your words before you speak. 

“I’m going to try my damndest to remember,” you say. “Even if I don’t remember everything, I – I want to try to learn to care about you again. Because, based on our limited interactions, I know you’re a good man. Even if you drink and even if you smoke and even if you have a laundry list of mental issues and an assortment of trauma.”

Simon slowly brings his other hand and rests it on top of yours. His callouses brush against your knuckles. Abrasive yet comforting in a way you barely remember. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Really, truly. Thank you.”

And, in this moment, Simon finally has some sense of control in an ever-turbulent world. The world that tried to take his one and only love. The world that has taken his one and only love and is only now feeding him droplets of what he knows – what he once knew. He must exercise this control carefully, lest he lose you again. 

In the sky, there are no dogfights and no silverplate bombers. Only stars and the rabbit curled up on the moon and a singular winking comet. God is in Heaven. Everything is normal on Earth.

Somewhere, the spots from a disco ball freckle the dance floor once again.

[soursturniolo]

𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚔, 𝚌𝚑. 𝚘𝚗𝚎

- a wizarding world!au ft the sturniolo triplets

- intro post here

main pairing: unspeakable!slytherin!nick x tea shop owner! hufflepufflex-quidditch player!oc

A biting late autumn breeze felt as if it cut down to Nick’s bones as he hustled down the dark winding street. It had been a long work day, he had clocked in promptly at eight in the morning for his shift. Due to some mysterious circumstances that puzzled even his superiors, he had been forced to work overtime. The time was now nearing eleven at night, but he was walking at a brisk pace to get to the one thing he’d been craving all day: his favorite latte from a quaint little coffee shop he had visited a couple times since they opened. After a few more quick steps, he finally arrived in front of Teetering Teas & Apothecary; an unassuming little place that Nick firmly believed to be a small slice of heaven on earth.

As he pulled the shop door open, he was greeted by a warm golden glow of light and the heady smell of cinnamon, coffee grounds, and herbs. A rare soft smile painted his features as he stepped inside, a sigh of relief leaving his lips from making it to the shop before they closed.

“Hey, made it just before I locked the door to close,” an unfamiliar but warm and deep voice called out from the counter, “what can I get you?” the stranger asked.

Nick found himself frowning in confusion, where was the young girl who usually was working at this hour, he wondered to himself. But as he looked up at the sound of the voice, he was struck by the beautiful person in front of him. Short and curly hair, warm and tan skin, tall and strong with obvious muscles under the warm yellow sweater the man was wearing. He was gorgeous. He looked oddly familiar in a way, but Nick knew they had never met before.

“Hi, um, sorry im stopping in right before you close, work was a nightmare today,” Nick stuttered a bit, “where’s the girl who normally is here? I think her name is Quinn?”

“Quinn had to take tonight off, she’s not feeling well. Are you one of her regulars?” The taller man asked as he finished wiping down the counter with a damp cloth.

“Yeah,” Nick found himself chuckling lightly, “I guess you could say I am.”

“Well, what’s your usual? I’ll give it my best shot,” he said with a smile.

“I usually get a caramel macchiato,” Nick said, “are you new here?”

“No,” the man chuckled as he turned towards the coffee machines to begin making the drink requested, “I’m actually the owner of this place,” he said with a smile, hands working over the coffee machinery with an ease and skill showing he had plenty of experience.

Nick felt himself flush a bit in embarrassment at unknowingly asking the owner of one of his favorite shops if they were a new employee. He looked down at his loafers, dull and black like the rest of his work attire. He was a stark contrast from the bright and warm shop, full of color and life. There were plants all over, various herbs in different states of growth. There were cozy seating options, a few tables with comfy chairs on either side, and a few large booths along the left wall. Along the back wall was Nick’s favorite aspect of the shop, all the various homegrown and sustainably sourced potion ingredients.

“Hey, I remember you said work was a nightmare,” the kind owner remarked as he watched the espresso brew out into the small glass, “what do you do?”

Hearing this question, Nick had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. There it was, the question he dreaded most in life.

“I cant say, I work as an Unspeakable,” Nick explained, somewhat dryly. Usually, this brought on a gamut of questions, all of which Nick was clearly forbidden to answer. It was always irritating, not only because he was unable to answer, but also due to the sheer fact that even if he wanted to talk about his work, he cannot.

“Oh,” the shop owner responded, sounding thoughtful, “that must be a hard thing, not being able to talk about work and having to keep everything secret,” the owner sympathized as he poured Nick’s drink into a to-go cup before offering it to him.

“Yeah,” Nick responded, stunned by the owners thoughtfulness towards him, as he reached into his pocket under his work robes to pay.

“Oh, no, its on me tonight, no worries,” he says, placing the warm to-go cup into Nicks hand with a beaming smile.

“Are you sure? I’ve got it,” Nick questions, surprised by the generosity.

“Yeah, take it as a gift. All I ask is that you come back soon,” the owner smiled.

Nick found himself softly smiling again for the second time of the night, this time at the owner instead of the ground.

“Sure, I can do that. By the way, I never got your name?” Nick inquired softly.

“Thomas,” he says with a bright smile once again, brown eyes twinkling in the candescent light of the homey shop.

“I’m Nick, its really nice to meet you,” he responds, “hey, would you happen to be working again tomorrow sometime? I had some potion ingredient shopping to do, my list is at home but I wanted to ask some questions about some of your inventory, if that's alright?”

“I’ll be working from ten to two in the afternoon tomorrow, feel free to stop in any time, I’ll be glad to help,” Thomas cheerfully responds.

“Okay, I’ll see you then, have a good night,” Nick responds as he turns to head out.

“Have a good night! Be safe out there!” Thomas gleams with another infectious smile, giving a small wave.

As he stepped back out into the cold and unforgiving night, Nick found himself grinning to himself as he walked back to his apartment down the block. He took a small sips of his coffee as he walked, the warm and sweet drink seemingly warming him from the inside out even in the biting cold air. After a few minutes of walking, Nick arrived back at the large apartment which he, along with his two triplet brothers, called home. As he stepped inside, he was greeted by the laughter of his two brothers coming from down the hall, along with the comforting smell of laundry that was doing itself magically down the hall.

Shutting the door behind himself, Nick took off his robe and hung it up next to Chris’s Auror robe. The two were a stark contrast from each other; warm, scarlet red next to the dull and sharp black that Nick wore. Walking down the hall past the laundry room, Nick entered his brothers bedroom, leaning up against the doorway as he watched his two brothers sit at Matt’s desk, playing a muggle video game. Nick quickly found himself laughing as he watched Chris step the wrong way in the game, causing their characters on the game to fall to their deaths.

“CHRIS SERIOUSLY” Matt bellowed, angrily slamming the controller down on the desk.

“IM SORRY I GOT CONFUSED” Chris hollered back, just then noticing Nick in the doorway.

“Hey, how was work?” Chris asked, causing Matt to turn and look at Nick too.

“Must've been a good day, look how smiley he looks, usually he looks ready to kill someone” Matt commented with a slight smirk, which caused Nick to roll his eyes and turn to walk up the stairs to his own bedroom.

“Goodnight guys,” Nick called as he reached his bedroom door.

“Goodnight!” his two brothers chorused back, as they quickly engrossed themselves back into their video game.

Nick sighed softly and contently to himself as he shut his bedroom door, moving to quickly get ready for bed. He quickly jumped in the shower before bed, his thoughts drifting a few times to the sweet shop owner he had met, and the prospect of talking to him again tomorrow. As he finished his shower, changed into pjs, and got into bed, Nick found himself almost giddy at the thought of what tomorrow might bring.

thank you for reading! likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated 🖤

[charmercharm3r]

Investments

LFX

Masterlist

wc: 2.3k

Requested

Synopsis: Felix thinks a flashy coat will make him more intimidating.

warnings: smut, explicit sexual content, softdom!Felix, fem!reader, not really mafia but he's definitely a criminal lolll, money laundering?, oral (f), porn w no plot lol, piv, cream pie

“Don’t you think it’s a bit… excessive?”

The fluffy, exaggerated red pelt that covered his shoulders looked almost too heavy for Felix’s slim frame. Though, it suited him well.

“Not at all. If anything, I don’t think it’s excessive enough. I want everyone to know who’s in charge.” Felix adjusted the collar in the mirror and slicked the right side of his pretty blonde hair back.

“You’re already hard to miss as it is, babe.” You stood from your spot on the bed, making your way behind him and placing your hand over his to get him to face you. Up close, you could see how well the bright red color brought out his skin tone, freckles lining his nose and upper cheeks in a kind facade. Felix gazed down at you sweetly as you reached up to fix the collar yourself, “however, you look hot in red.”

A sly smirk spread across his face, “you think so? Hm, then perhaps this is the perfect thing to wear to the office today.” Leaning in and cupping your cheeks, Felix placed a quick peck to your forehead. “Join me?”

You knew what he did for work wasn’t necessarily… legal, and that it was incredibly dangerous. But Felix assured you time after time that the fear of getting caught wasn’t even on his radar and that he had protection plans in place. That was something you didn’t question further as it probably wasn’t something you should know for your own sanity. Hell, you probably should’ve ran in the opposite direction when he told you what his job was. But for some reason, you just couldn’t.

The warehouse was so far off the map that after all this time together, you still got confused every time you went. But Felix’s hand in yours as his other gripped the steering wheel was comfort enough that the two of you weren’t lost despite not having seen a single building for the past twenty minutes. The enormous coat was discarded in the backseat, leaving your long term boyfriend in just a gray tank top and matching red pants, and to say you wanted to jump his bones would’ve been an understatement. He knew how much you adored his body, even more when there was just a thin barrier between you and his skin. It was like he dressed this way knowing you couldn’t say no to spending more time with him, even if it was at his scary, illegal job.

There were no other cars in the lot as the two of you pulled up, but a single text message and the garage doors of the old warehouse opened up and Felix entered. Ominous as always, you got chills as the dark interior shadowed your car before your eyes adjusted to the dim light. Large machines were lined up in the middle, rows of people wearing gloves and handling the product with tongs and tweezers working away at them doing god knows what. If Felix had told you what he did for a living before bringing you here to witness the stacks of washing machines and dryers tumbling loads of green paper, you would’ve laughed in his face. How could such a charming and sweet person as he is, be involved in money laundering? Let alone, running the entire thing?

Felix didn’t let you dwindle on the recollection too long, putting the car in park and strutting to your side to open the door. You gave him a gentle kiss on the lips as he crowded your view of the working floor, he never did like you looking too closely, not that you were complaining. The less you knew, the better.

You stepped out of the vehicle and opened the back passenger door to grab his obnoxiously large coat, draping it over his shoulders to take his hand as he led you towards his office.

“On track today?” Felix called out to the person at the end of the pathway overlooking the floor.

“Hello Sir, greetings Missus. Ahead of the game today, actually. You were right, new machines were worth the investment. What a… wonderful coat,” the goon gave a quick bow and kept his head low as you and Felix got closer.

“I always am. And thank you,” your boyfriend said lowly, patting the worker on the shoulder when the pair of you passed him and entered his office.

Only once finally in the confines of his private room and locking the door behind him did Felix let out a quivering sigh. Though, you didn’t ask why. He knew you were there to lend an ear if he decided he needed the support. His work was a touchy subject, you didn’t want to add to his already heavy burden by pestering him. However, it seemed he was in a chatty mood.

“I hate that guy,” Felix admitted, coming in close and hugging you from behind with his back to the shaded window that overlooked the work floor.

You melted into the warmth of his chest and coziness of the fluffy red coat, “why?”

“He’s scared of me. I don’t like people who are scared of me. I’m not scary, am I, sweetheart?” He hid his face in the crook of your neck and lowered his voice to rumble against your skin.

“Not in the slightest. But I decided that before I knew you were a crime lord.” Felix laughed deeply and spun you around, taking your cheeks in his hands again.

“So you’re not even the slightest bit afraid?” He was smirking that stupidly attractive smirk and tilting his head so catlike.

You shivered, but not from his words so much as the way he was looking at you, that same glimmer of mischief in his eyes that you knew so well. You shook your head, no, “should I be afraid?”

Felix sucked in a deep breath before letting it out and coming in close to your face. You could feel his warm breath against your lips, grazing your own but not quite touching, though you wished he would. Years together and you still feel the electric shock whenever he so much as looks your way. “You don’t have to be,” he whispered and paused as your breath caught in your throat. “But everyone else should.”

He crashed into you with force so strong that you stumbled back until your ass hit the desk. Felix immediately drew your dress high on your hips and lifted you on to it without breaking the kiss, roaming his hands up and down your body while you laced your fingers in his hair. You struggled to breath at the sheer intensity at which he ravaged your mouth, tongues and spit mixing and echoing throughout the thin walled room. You silently thanked the heavens that the blinds were closed, it wasn’t particularly high up on your to-do list to be watched by all of his employees.

Nipping lightly at your neck then falling to his knees in front of you, Felix dragged your underwear just below your knees and ducked under them to toss your legs over his shoulders and spread them wide. He dove in without hesitation to lick a fat strip up the center of your core and have you whine out in sudden stimulation. As if he didn’t have you last night as well, he suckled and slurped and tongued at you like a hungry dog, no interest in stopping or slowing down. Felix was especially good with his lips, plump and thick cupping around your bundle of nerves so nicely as you clenched around nothing, eventually enticing your first orgasm out of you from his mouth alone. You squeezed his head between your legs and knocked away whatever was on his desk as you leaned back to keep from falling over, calling out his name with a high pitched cry.

He huffed and puffed for air when you finally released him, already pulling his pants down and clearing the desk behind you entirely so you could lay back. Felix guided your knees around his torso and lazily pumped himself a few times before swiping his red tip at your wetness. Between the delirious satisfaction you felt and the similarity of the color of the coat and the head of his cock, you couldn’t suppress the giggle leaving your mouth. “Oh no,” you hummed, “such a big, scary villain! What are you gonna do to me?” The feigned fear made him grin down at you and pull the top of your dress as far down as it’d go. In the process, he got a little too excited and ripped the seam down the front and side of the dress.

“Gonna make you scream my name, pretty baby. Gonna make sure everyone out there knows who you belong to.” He swiped the tip across your sensitive clit, making you whine a little more, but feel even more desperate for his touch. You pulled him down by the collar of the coat for a heavy, heated kiss, Felix falling and catching himself with both hands on either side of your head. Amidst the saliva being swapped he managed to blindly fumble to find your entrance and push in, both you moaning into one another's mouths.

The stretch was dizzying, you dug your heels into his back to reach further into your deepest parts and nudge the sweet spot. The coat was proving to be rather practical, making a wonderful harness of sorts for you to hold on to just because you wanted him to stay close.

Felix moved his hips slowly at first, working you up and letting you have your way for a few moments longer. But he was growing too desperate, unable to hold back now that he was buried in your warm, wet, pulsing walls. He placed a few more loving kisses to your lips knowing nothing he was doing to you was anywhere near appropriate for work. Not that he cared, he’s the boss, he can do whatever the fuck he wants.

Including fucking you senseless for everyone to hear.

He stood up again and let your hands keep hold of the hem of his fluffy red coat, big enough to cover your body if anyone decided to come wandering in. Felix brought his thumb to your mouth and pushed in, letting your saliva coat the digit to and bring it back down to your clit, rubbing slow, perfectly practiced figure eights into it. You convulsed tighter around his cock, slick sounds filling the room and he was hardly even moving. Though, as his pace picked up, the wetness was overtaken by skin on skin and the creaking of the wooden desk beneath you. Deep grunts accompanied your wails of pleasure as his thumb failed to cease its assault to your nerves and make you feel trapped in a whirlwind of bliss. His smell surrounded you and made it hard to breathe, his skin was so warm and he sounded so pretty, you couldn’t focus on anything except him, him, him.

“C’mon baby, where are your manners? It’s polite to praise whoever is doing you a service,” Felix’s voice seemed to have dropped into octaves you didn’t think was possible despite knowing you’d heard it hundreds of times. He never failed to amaze you.

“Fuck– more, baby, please. So sexy, so good, so big– ahh!” His pace picked up exponentially, short and quick ruts into your cunt instead of long strides to hit your g-spot at a consistent pace. Eyes rolling back, you could feel the knot in your belly tightening every time his pelvis hit yours, every delicious rub against your clit, he knew exactly how to make you melt.

“Say my name,” he demanded, his lower lip finding its way between his teeth and brow furrowing in concentration.

“Li– fuck– Lix, baby, god–”

“Again,” a not light, but not too rough of a slap he sent to your ass, causing your hips to buck into his hand.

“Baby, please! Gonna–”

“Say. My. Name,” each word menacingly punctuated in between thrusts.

“Fuck– F– Felix!”

The cry must’ve reached the logical part of his brain and allowed mercy, “shit– cum, sweetheart.”

He fucked you through your orgasm, letting both his hands grip your waist and take advantage of the erratic movement of your walls, quick staccato’d thrusts into you that prolonged the high. Once the light faded from the back of your eyelids, you were able to coerce your boyfriend into his own bliss, “fill me up, baby. Show everyone, who do I belong to?”

Felix’s head fell back as he sunk into you and let the groan rumble from within his chest, seed coating your walls and milking him dry. His hips twitched as he attempted to come back to earth and regained his breath. Slowly his head rolled back around to look down at you with the largest smile, “you should come to work with me more often.”

“I don’t think your employees would appreciate me taking up all your time,” you could only manage to whisper seeing as your throat was dry and sore.

“Doesn’t matter what they think. They work for me, I’m in charge.” Felix bent over and kissed you, soft and sweet, the same way you knew him to be. You hummed against his lips, “mhm.” 

He pulled out shortly after a few more moments of reassuring smooches, maneuvering to step aside and pull your panties back up while readjusting your dress. Felix laughed at the state of you while he fixed himself up as well, patting down your messy hair and gesturing at your smudged lipstick.

Thumb to your lips, there was a knock at the door. Felix yelled, “come in,” to reveal the same worker from earlier.

“Sorry to…” the employee looked at you then at his boss, “...interrupt. But Mr. Bang is here to collect.” Your boyfriend merely nodded his head and the goon disappeared again.

Felix turned to you, taking you in his arms again for a tight embrace and chaste pecks to your cheek. “Sorry, sweetheart. Time for business.”

-

tags: @sensitiveandhungry @babebatter @changbinluvr @epiphanynaffit @fawnpeaks @linovely @dumplinbokkieracha @finnydraws @naturules @djeniryuu @hamburgers101 @skzhomiehopper @yesv01 @hyunjinsamdl @dazzlingligth @lvrhyuka @alexis-reads-fics @linaliskz @0002linoskitten @chillichillicrabcrab23 @zerefdragn33l @straycrescent @binnies-donuts @soldierstangirl-blog @bakedlilgoonie @levanterlily @shelbyyy44 @yeetmehome @in2heartz @astroodledream @the-sweetest-rose @leebitsimpracha @lilbugs-things @viviennenstan @staurdvst @alex--awesome--22 @imzenning @jeyelleohe @kaitchan @iadorethemskz

[ckret2]

Chapter 26 of human Bill doing his best to arm-twist his captors into doing anything he wants, featuring: the gang going to the mall, where Bill tries on some of the most ridiculous outfits known to mankind, to Mabel's delight and Stan & Dipper's despair.

(please click on the second image, you can't imagine how long it took to make those two patterns. (Okay you probably can, it was a couple hours.))

####

Bill said, "Well, you can tell Stanford that if he's got a problem with my drinking, I'd like to see him try to get a good night's sleep in an alien body without some kind of sedative! I've got a fresh new liver, three little cans of cider a day won't kill me before one of us finds a way to get me out of this body!"

Exasperated, Mabel said, "Why do I have to tell him? Just talk to each other."

"You think I don't want to? He's the one who's put two doors, an elevator, and a trick vending machine between him and me."

Mabel supposed that was true. "Okay, fine. More importantly: what do you think of going shopping?"

Bill shrugged. "Sure. I'll take any opportunity to go outside. It'll be a good test run for other trips."

Mabel frowned, clearly disappointed by the reaction. "That's it? I thought you'd be more excited. You can finally get more clothing!"

"How much clothing do I need?" He gestured down at himself, wearing his hoodie and a borrowed skirt. "I'm not naked, what more do you want from me?"

"To like your clothing!"

"Oh, right. I keep forgetting you have a whole thing about people other than you being happy."

Mabel socked his arm. "Do you just not care about clothes? I didn't expect you to be like Dipper about it."

Eugh. "It's not that I don't like fashion in general," Bill said, eager to distance himself from the household wet blanket. "I have very strong opinions on other people's fashion! It's just..."

It was just that he didn't relish the idea of standing in front of a mirror, partially nude, staring at the bone-caged skin prison he was locked inside.

He still put towels over the bathroom mirror when he showered.

"Well," he said, "isn't the whole point of fashion self-expression? And my self can't be expressed in this body." He tugged on the collar of his hoodie, "This is as close as it's gonna get."

"Does clothing have to express your self? Can't it just look really cool?" Mabel asked.

Bill considered that. "I do like looking really cool."

Maybe he didn't have to see it as dressing himself. Treat it like inflicting his design whims upon a helpless human puppet. He'd done that before, he liked doing that. He was lucky, at least, that as far as puppets went, this was an incredibly good-looking one. Aside from the neck.

"Do I have to wear that, though?" Bill skeptically eyed the knit garment held in Mabel's hands.

"Yep! Grunkle Ford's orders! It's to make sure you don't talk to people."

"Can I put it on over my hoodie?"

"As heartwarming as it is that you love it so much: no, you've gotta take it off."

"How come?"

"It's safer this way! Your hoodie might freak people out."

"Freak them out how?"

####

Soos trudged into the kitchen at 3 a.m., yawning, and turned on the lights.

The Bill Cipher, triangular and angular, gold-bricked and one-eyed, hovered in the air.

Soos screamed. "He's back! Everyone watch out! You stay away from my family, you—" Soos picked up the nearest weapon and chucked it at Bill.

The spatula bounced harmlessly off his chest and clattered to the floor. Bill took his hood off. "Wow. Thanks for getting my hopes up, Questiony."

"Oh, whoops. Sorry 'bout that. At a quick glance, that hoodie makes you look a lot like... you." Soos looked Bill up and down again. "Hey. How come you're standing on the kitchen table in the middle of the night?"

"Eh." Bill shrugged. "It passes the time."

####

"Sometimes I curse your species's overactive pattern-detection instincts." Bill snatched Mabel's offering out of her hand and trudged to the bathroom to change.

He emerged a moment later wearing the tank top Mabel had knit for him, and tugged out the hem to examine it. She'd cross-stitched on the chest: "STAY BACK! I BITE SALES PEOPLE!"

"I'd be pretty insulted," Bill said, "if this wasn't the funniest thing I've ever worn."

####

Stan pulled the old Diablo near the porch to minimize the amount of time Bill would spend in open air between confinement in the shack and in a vehicle; then waited leaning against the car, glowering at the ground like the world's surliest chauffeur (he'd even put on his suit), for Dipper and Mabel to escort the prisoner outside.

The second Bill stepped off of the porch, he looked up in amazement. "What is that?"

Dipper and Mabel looked at Bill's face, then in the direction he was looking. He was staring straight into the sun without squinting. Mabel said, "The... sun?"

"No, not the sun! I mean the—" Bill gestured toward the sun. "Whatever it's doing."

Mabel looked skyward again. She didn't see anything else Bill could be referring to. "Shining?"

"I know what sunshine is!"

"Then what are you asking about!"

Bill studied the sky a moment longer. Finally, he said, "Guess I don't know what sunshine feels like! It's been a long time since I've been naked in the sun."

Stan's head snapped up to stare at Bill. Bill was still completely clothed.

After another few seconds, arms outstretched, staring in blank-faced wide-eyed wonder at the sky, Bill concluded, "I think I'm photosynthesizing again."

This time Dipper looked over. And, Bill was still completely human—a species notoriously well-known for not photosynthesizing. "'Again'?"

Bill didn't respond. Instead, with a shrill cackle that startled the nearby birds out of the trees, he took off at a full sprint.

"Hey!" Dipper tore after him. Stan tensed up, but then grunted, leaned back against his car, and waited for Bill to trip.

Bill's run was the awkward bouncing gait of a moon astronaut on fast forward: someone who at some point had definitely learned how to run, but clearly wasn't used to doing it in this body on this world. He switched to an odd sideways crab-walk gallop—which was, surprisingly, faster—and then attempted, and failed, a cartwheel. Dipper dove for Bill, Stan laughed at them both, and Mabel shouted encouragement at Bill from the porch; Bill hopped back up just before Dipper could catch him.

He attempted a second cartwheel but was caught in the middle by an invisible force jerking his wrist. He yelped and tumbled to the ground. "I think I twisted my arm!" He sounded way too giddy about this.

Mabel looked down at her own wrist and the chain bracelet. She wasn't being actively pulled toward Bill; but nevertheless she couldn't pull her wrist any further away from him. "It worked."

"Of course it did!" Breathing heavily, Bill got to his feet and leaned backward on his heels, using the tension of the bracelet around his wrist to keep from falling. "What, did you ever doubt me?"

"Yes," Stan said. "Always," Dipper said. "Every time you open your mouth," Mabel said.

"You're all haters."

Mabel took a flying leap off of the porch. Bill toppled on his back again.

Once they were all loaded in the car—Dipper in the front glaring in the rear view mirror, Mabel and Bill in the back with Bill making faces at the mirror—Stan said, "Okay. I'm not getting you anything nice, because you're not worth it."

"Aww. And after I made you almost five grand?"

Dipper's jaw dropped. "He what?! When did—"

Raising his voice, Stan went on, "So we're going to Shop Thrifty. Any complaints?"

Bill said, "You don't wanna go there."

Stan turned to give him a dark look.

"You don't," Bill said. "They were robbed this weekend. Security's gonna be high."

"No they weren't, you can't know that. You're making that up. I'm calling your bluff."

Dipper cleared his throat. "Actually... yeah, they were robbed. I've been investigating the possibility that it might've been..." At the sight of Bill's keen gaze in the rear view mirror, Dipper trailed off into mumbles.

Bill waited a second longer to ensure Dipper was properly cowed; then said, "See? You can trust me! But if you want to go to the thrift shop..."

"Ha." Stan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel; then reluctantly said, "I guess we could go to the mall—"

Mabel pumped her fists in the air. "THE MALL!"

"Yes! Finally!" Bill dragged his hands down his face in relief. "Civilization! Other people!"

"Hey!" Stan turned around to point threateningly at Bill. Bill held up his hands to block the accusatory finger. "This still isn't a social trip. Talk to anyone and we're going back to the car."

"I know, I know. I just wanna look at people. That's all!" Bill said. "You know that feeling when you come out of a couple weeks in the hole? When you're grateful just to see anybody?"

Stan's frown deepened; but he didn't say anything. He just turned around, ignored Dipper's curious look, and started driving.

Mabel and Bill high-fived.

####

As the car pulled into a parking spot, Mabel handed Bill a pair of mirrored sunglasses with one lens popped out. Bill rolled his (yellow, slitted) eye, but he switched his eyepatch over to the lensless side of the sunglasses and put them on. "Nobody'll notice my eyes. They only look inhuman at certain angles."

"We're being extra cautious," Mabel said.

"If you're gonna make me wear shades any time I'm in public, can I at least pick a pair I like while I'm here?"

Mabel said, "Sure!" at the same time Stan said, "Not a chance." Dipper looked between the two of them, and said, "I'm with Stan."

"I wasn't taking a vote." Bill leaned forward to shove Dipper's hat over his eyes, and followed Mabel out of the car before Dipper could retaliate.

Bill's grin got a little wider and his gait a little bouncier the closer they got to the mall, until he was practically skipping through the automatic doors. "Look at this place! I can't remember the last time I visited a bazaar this booming in person! Two stories, even! Wow!"

Dipper and Mabel exchanged a glance. Gravity Malls was, by far, the smallest mall either of them had ever visited. You could see from one end of it to the other in a straight shot, and the anchor store was just a more popular chain's discount outlet location. Dipper muttered, "He's trying too hard to talk up the place."

Mabel giggled. "Maybe he's easily impressed."

Bill evidently didn't care. He was too busy taking in the sight of all the stores and all the people who didn't hate his guts (or, at least, didn't know they did). He chipperly said, "Hey there!" as he wove around a haggard teenage kiosk salesman.

"Hello?" Snapping into sales mode, the kiosk kid said, "Are you interested in genuine gold-plated signet rings? We have rings with dragons, eagles, Chinese characters, American flags, football teams..."

Bill did a u-turn without slowing down. "Boy, am I! You got any secret societies?"

Stan wrapped an arm around Bill's shoulders—"No, you're not interested."—and dragged him away. He lowered his voice. "What happened to no talking to anyone?"

Bill laughed. "Sorry, I got excited!"

"Uh-huh. Get 'excited' one more time, and I'll assume you're 'forgetting' the rules on purpose and we're going home."

Bill stopped laughing. "Okay, fine." He trudged alongside Stan, sulking.

####

Stan tried to direct them toward the discount outlet store; Bill looked wistfully at Edgy On Purpose; Mabel overruled them both by grabbing Bill's hand and bodily dragging him to the coolest store in the mall: 18th Century, the place where the almost-and-barely college kids shopped, and Mabel's newest fashion avatars now that she'd had a year to explore "teenage" fashion and had gotten over it. "You can tell it's for college kids, because they also sell bedsheets and inflatable furniture," she explained as they entered, just before abandoning Bill with Stan as she ran off to start collecting clothing on Bill's behalf. Bill and Stan side-eyed each other, and Bill drifted off toward the small home goods section.

"Ooh, Dipper look." Mabel pointed at a sales rack. "Out-of-season prom dresses! Those are the fanciest dresses!" She dove in eagerly, checking the size tags.

Dipper hovered behind her, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, trying to stand far enough away that it didn't look like he was an active participant in this shopping trip but not so far away that people might start wondering why a thirteen-year-old boy was in the dress section by himself. "Are you shopping for B—for Goldie, or for yourself?"

"For Goldie, obviously! He likes having a triangular silhouette, he needs dresses!"

"Does he want dresses?"

Mabel made a vague I dunno sound. "I haven't asked him yet."

"Maybe you should?"

"It's fine, I'm going to! He can tell me when he catches up!" Mabel pulled out a sequin-studded dress that looked like it had been constructed out of fluorescent pink peacock feathers. She paused. "Okay, it's not exactly his style, but do you think he might try it on anyway?"

Dipper groaned. "Mabel, he's a guy, he's not gonna try on a dress. He wears top hats and bow ties, remember?"

"I know, but... just for fun...?"

Dipper shook his head. Mabel sighed.

Bill rounded a rack of clothing, using a curtain rod he'd claimed out of the home goods section like it was a cane. "Hey, star girl. I know we're here on a focused mission, buuut do you think we could spare a minute to try something just for fun..." He trailed off as he and Mabel simultaneously realized they were both holding a pink peacock dress. Bill's face lit up. "Where have you been all my life?"

"Shut up! How are you this cool!"

"Where's the dressing room."

They took off for the back of the store, Bill tripping over a whole clothing rack as he went.

Dipper watched them uncomfortably, decided he didn't want to follow, and picked his way to the front of the store, where Stan was leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed tightly and a sour look on his face. Dipper asked, "Does it worry you how well Mabel and Goldie..."

"Ohhh yeah."

####

Bill swung open the dressing room door. "Well? Whaddaya think?" He fanned out the feathers as best he could with his hands. 

"It's so beautiful," Mabel said.

"It's hideous," Stan said.

"It's kinda baggy around the shoulders and chest," Dipper said.

Bill shrugged. "I've got the shoulder span of a snake and the hips of a sumo wrestler, what do you expect?"

"It's okay, I can tailor anything we get," said Mabel, who had never tailored anything in her life but was sure she had a book on it in Piedmont.

"Tailor nothing," Stan said, "we're not getting this! What, are you crazy?"

Bill said, "Obviously."

Stan gestured at him. "What in the world would you wear this for?"

"Who cares? It looks cool and this body is merely a meat armature to drape coolness upon." Bill stepped back into the dressing room to eye the dress in the mirror. "Color's a little uniform, though. I'd need some accessories to break it up."

"I think you're right," Mabel said, stroking her chin. "You know what color goes best with hot pink?"

Simultaneously, she and Bill said, "Lime green," then cracked up and pointed at each other excitedly. 

Stan and Dipper exchanged a tired look.

####

"How about this one?" Bill looked at Stan and Dipper, who were standing guard while Mabel searched for more clothes. "It's obviously the best shirt in the store, but is it me?" Bill was wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt covered in bright multicolored triangles with animal skin patterns—leopard, zebra, tiger, checkers—and a pair of black jeans that fit his hips but consequently drowned his ankles. "Trick question. It's me all over!" He laughed. His laughter petered out. "It's... it's more me than I am. Wow."

Dipper and Stan didn't laugh. "I'm a Hawaiian shirt kind of man," Stan said, "but if the choice was between that thing and going naked, I'd go naked."

"Keep your nudist fantasies to yourself, Stanley." Bill studied his reflection again. "The shirt's great, but they make the pants look dull. I need something that coordinates with it. But what..."

Mabel returned while Bill was musing on his shirt. She wordlessly held out the pair of cheetah/tiger print rainbow leggings she'd been retrieving. It matched the shirt perfectly, in the sense that they both had so many colors on them that inevitably some of those colors were accidentally the same.

Bill accepted the leggings with an expression close to awe. "You're a fashion genius," he said. "Are you sure you don't want your own planet?"

"Not from you," Mabel said.

And for a moment, Bill actually almost looked hurt.

####

Bill held up several shirts thoughtfully. The first was an eye-searing abomination; the second was a retina-burning nightmare; and the third was about the same, but it was covered in smiley faces, and somehow that made it worse.

"I feel like they'd all have the right psychological effect on my enemies," Bill said, "but all three is a little redundant, isn't it?"

Not looking, Stan asked, "Is the effect you're trying to have boring your enemies to death? Because it's working."

Bill scowled. He chucked all three at Stan's face. "Fine! Stick them in the 'maybe' pile, I'll narrow them down later." By this point, the "maybe" pile in Stan's arms was almost too big for him to carry.

"My willingness to indulge Mabel is losing to my annoyance at indulging you," Stan said. "I thought this was going to be a quick trip."

"Yeah, well, I'm kinda getting into it."

"Well, would you get out of it and dress like a normal person?"

"Okay, fine. I'll try on something subtle—"

"Goldie!" Mabel ran up waving a ruby red jacket over her head. "Look what I found in the clearance bin! Glittery vinyl!"

Bill's eyes widened.

Reverently, Mabel said, "It looks like a 50's diner booth."

"Is the picture on the back a—?"

"Yeah, it's a puking kangaroo."

Bill snatched the jacket from her hands. "I'll try something subtle after this."

Stan groaned. "I'm gonna stretch my legs." He dropped the "maybe" pile on the floor. "Dipper, make sure the demon doesn't try to end the world while I'm gone."

Dipper resigned himself to the fact that this shopping trip was never going to end, and curled up on the floor to wait to die.

####

"Now, this is a keeper," Bill said, examining the summer dress in the mirror. With Stan gone, Bill had a moment of leisure to properly inspect the way the fabric moved and draped. He was using the opportunity to grab the skirt and twirl it like a three-year-old who'd never worn a dress before. "It really speaks to me."

Mabel asked, "Is it because it's covered in—?"

"It's because it's covered in yellow triangles. I know what I like!" He spun around to see how the skirt flared out, tripped and fell over—"I meant to do that!"—and heaved himself back upright with his curtain rod cane. "I'm fine, shoo." He waved off Mabel's attempt to help, and brushed off the dress. "Too bad it looks weird with pants. I'd prefer my legs covered, but dresses are the only thing most human stores carry that flatter my shape, so what're you gonna do."

"What about more leggings?" Mabel asked.

"Do they have any black ones that don't look like cheap spandex?"

"I think I saw some that look like jeans!"

"It'll do. Good thinking, star girl."

"Any time, triangle... guy." Mabel paused. "Hey... just out of curiosity—since I don't think we ever really covered this, since you're an alien and all—aaare you a guy or a girl?"

"I'm a triangle! C'mon, you already know that."

Mabel opened her mouth to protest that Bill hadn't answered her question; hesitated as she realized that maybe, in fact, he had; and instead asked, "Is a triangle more like a guy or a girl?"

Bill paused as he gave the question a moment of contemplation; and then he said, "No, not really."

Dipper, who'd been using the "maybe" clothing pile as a pillow and pretending to ignore everything Bill did, finally gave in to the urge to glance over curiously.

Mabel concluded a triangle must be either in the exact middle of the scale, or else outside of it completely. "Oh! Okay."

Bill elbowed Mabel and said, "Keep this bit between you and me," blithely ignoring the fact that Dipper was totally within earshot and now seething about being ignored in return. "But if anyone else on this planet asks, I'll usually imply I'm a 'man,'" he put the word in finger quotes, as though he wasn't wholly convinced that "men" really existed, "but—that's strictly for business."

"Business?"

"You know, work stuff," Bill said dismissively. "It makes things easier. See, for the last few millennia, most humans have taken a male's suggestions a bit more seriously than a female's, even when the entity they're talking to is an all-knowing extra-dimensional divine alien angelic muse. Crazy, right?" He said this like he was imparting some great secret he'd figured out by himself.

"Ugh, yeah," Mabel groaned. "Sexism."

"Sexism," Bill sighed, as if he had any dog in this fight at all and wasn't just pretending he could commiserate with his only local friend. "So I figure I can get things done faster as a Bill than a Jill. But honestly? Your local gender system doesn't make any more difference to me than it would to you if somebody asked how many sides you have."

Mabel considered the matter of her hypothetical sides. "I feel like I'd have seven sides."

"Oho! I stand corrected." Bill laughed. "I would've pegged you as a pentagon. I'll remember that."

Mabel had no idea what information she'd just conveyed to Bill, but she felt like he was impressed she had an answer at all.

####

"How about this one?"

"I love it. It's so mysterious," Mabel said.

Stan said, "I thought you were gonna try on something subtle?" 

"What's more subtle than camo! That's the whole point of it!"

Dipper said, "You're not wearing camo."

Bill looked down at his galaxy print tank top, galaxy print button up, galaxy print skirt, galaxy print leggings, and galaxy print sneakers. "I guess what counts as camouflage depends on the context."

"Wh—" Dipper blinked at Bill in disbelief. "In what context could this possibly qualify as camouflage?"

"Is that a trick question?"

Drily, Stan asked, "You got travel plans taking you to outer space anytime soon, pal?"

Bill's shoulders slumped.

"Now put on something you might actually wear," Stan said.

####

Bill opened the dressing room door with four sets of basic black leggings and pants, a couple shorts, and several plain tops in various shades of gold and yellow. "Okay, done."

"Not gonna model each of these for us?" Stan asked.

"Do you want me to?"

"No."

"Fine! You kids don't need to weigh in on these—they're not as fun as the other outfits you were busy unappreciating." Bill shoved the whole pile against Stan's chest, burying the "maybe" outfits he'd insisted he would narrow down. "Okay, let's go."

Stan scowled. "How many outfits did we agree to get you?"

"You didn't." Bill headed to the front of the store.

Mabel started to follow him, paused, glanced back at Stan, and said, "Maybe you can just... toss some of it back on the racks?"

"Maybe you can toss most of it," Dipper said. "How much does he really need, like two shirts and two pants?"

Mabel laughed. "Shut up, that's what you wear!"

Stan rolled his eyes, but headed to the front of the store with an armload of clothing.

The cashier smiled as Bill approached, read his "I BITE SALES PEOPLE" shirt, and quickly turned her attention to Stan. "Hi! Did you find everything you needed?"

"Yeah, and then some," he grumbled, shooting a look at Bill and Mabel. He dumped the pile of clothing on the counter with a heavy groan proportionate to the emotional weight of carrying Bill Cipher's shopping, and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Where'd I put my wallet?"

As the cashier scanned the clothes, took off the security tags, and stuffed them into bags, Stan alternated between snatching up the bags to sling them over his arms—looking grumpier with each one—and searching for his wallet. "I'm sure I put... ah-ha!" He withdrew it triumphantly. "There! I know I've got a twenty in here somewhere."

The cashier immediately stopped scanning to give Stan a perplexed look. Hopefully, she asked, "Will you be paying for the rest by card?"

"What do you mean, 'the rest'? How much could this stuff—?" Stan grabbed the price tag on one of the shirts, squinted at it, and grabbed his chest. "Holy moly! For one shirt? This is robbery!"

Mabel winced. "I guess it's a little bit pricier than the thrift shop, but it's not that bad—is it?"

"Not that bad?! For prices like this, it'd be cheaper to get a boat ticket to Taiwan and rob the sweatshop where they sew this stuff! Forget it!" He started sliding bags off his arms and tossing them back on the counter. "Keep them! We're not shopping here!"

"But Grunkle Stan!" Mabel grabbed his coat. "We just found a bunch of stuff that's perfect for Goldie! Please?"

"Do you think I care? He'd be wearing potato sacks if I had my way! We'll go to the outlet store, those are the prices he deserves."

Dipper groaned. "Do we have to do this whole thing all over again?" He and Mabel both looked pleadingly at Bill, waiting for him to protest the return of his carefully-curated wardrobe of tacky golden horrors.

Bill shrugged. "If he didn't bring enough money to the mall, there's nothing we can do about it now."

"Hey! This isn't on me! If it wasn't for you, we'd be at the Shop Thrifty right now!"

Bill scoffed. "Come on, Stanley. It's the 2010's. Even at a thrift store, how far do you think a Jackson's gonna carry you?"

"I think it'd get me a sock I could cram in your mouth, how do you like that?" Stan tossed the last bag on the counter, told the dismayed cashier, "And he looked ugly in everything he picked out, anyway," and stomped toward the door.

"I'm so sorry," Mabel said to the cashier, and hurried after Stan with Dipper. "But Grunkle Stan, we found so many nice things here! We could at least get a couple shirts or leggings..."

"Hey," Bill said. "It's okay, kid."

Mabel shut her mouth, but she didn't look happy about it.

The party trailed behind Stan past a couple of stores, before Bill sped up to walk alongside him and asked, "Well? What's our haul?"

Stan grunted. "What?"

A slow, sly grin spread across Bill's face. "Come on. You can fool the humans, but you can't fool me. What's our haul?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Bill raised a brow.

Stan only lasted a couple of seconds before he cracked a mischievous smile as well. "Oh, did you mean this haul?" He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a pair of leggings. And then another pair. And then, from his other pocket, a Hawaiian shirt. And—

Mabel gasped. "Grunkle Stan," she hissed. "You didn't!"

"Aw, man." Dipper smacked his forehead. "So all that was an act?"

—and three pairs of socks out of his jacket sleeve, and a dress from his inner coat pocket, and— "Yeeep. I've still got it."

Mabel and Dipper exchanged an exasperated look.

"And you were gonna hit the thrift store." Bill lifted his sunglasses so Stan could see him roll his eye.

"Hey, they've usually got less security than the mall. It's a safer score."

"Cheaper, too."

"You shut up! I'd like to see you do as well."

A bright smile snapped across Bill's face. "Would you! Then get a load of this—" He showed off the front and back of one empty hand, then the other; curled one into a fist; pushed his fingers into the fist and plucked out a corner of fabric; and then, like a magician revealing a long line of scarves tied at the corners, pulled out one garment after another, shirts and skirts and pants. Mabel buried her face in her hands. Dipper looked around like he expected mall security to run up and immediately arrest them all. Bill said, "What'd we lift, almost half the stuff I picked? Neither of us managed to get the kangaroo jacket, did we."

"How did you..." Stan trailed off, jaw dropped.

Bill smugly stuffed the clothing back under his tank top. "All that, and... these." Bill lifted one foot and wiggled it, showing off the yellow foam clogs he'd changed into.

"You just walked out with those on?"

"Sure! You'd be amazed what you can do in plain sight—as long as you don't call attention to it."

"Where the heck are your sandals?"

"Not my problem." Bill gestured vaguely back toward 18th Century with his curtain rod cane. "From the lost-and-found they came, to the lost-and-found they shall return."

Stan, having had his attention called to the curtain rod cane, snatched it out of Bill's hand with a muttered "No weapons," and tossed it in a nearby trash can. Bill watched it go with an expression of miffed resignation. Stan said, "Okay, but how'd you get the security tags off all of those?"

And Bill's grin was back. "Maybe I'll show you—if you show me how you got all that clothing out of those bags into your pockets."

"I thought you were watching."

"My eye is better than my physical coordination. Give me a couple pointers and I'll give you a couple."

Stan looked doubtful. "I just saw you hide half a suitcase under a tank top. I don't think you need any more help with..."

"I'll sweeten the deal," Bill said. "I'm not really a clogs guy. You set me up to walk out with a pair of proper dress shoes, and I'll help you grab a couple rings from that booth at the door?"

Stan scowled. Bill grinned wider. "Come ooon. I know you were eyeing those rings too."

"If we get caught and you throw me under the bus, I'm dragging you down with me."

"I wouldn't dream of it! I don't think either of us can afford to show up on the police's radar, do you?"

"All right, fine. You've got yourself a deal, Cipher."

Mabel silently slid her cell phone over to Dipper so he could text Soos and Ford about this unsettling development.

####

(Thanks for reading!! As always, if you made it this far I deeply appreciate any thoughts & comments you want to share! Stay tuned next week for the unsettling development to get Even Worse.)

[ssaeri]

for your eyes only

☆ tags: elliott x gn!reader, elliott and farmer are married, he writes love poems for his spouse and is told to monetize them, oh boy is he not happy about that ☆

You pat your pig's backside encouragingly and coo as it digs its snout into the ground, unearthing yet another truffle that you add to your basket. Can't believe you were worried about this one being the runt of its litter—it's quickly proving to be one of the fastest learners, taking to truffle hunting like a duck to water. It'll do just fine with the rest of the adult pigs.

Taking care of the farm by yourself has always been a gargantuan task, but as the years go by, everything grows bigger—the coops, the barns, the ponds, the crops, the expectations—and exhaustion wears you down to the bone. You sigh and push to your feet, ready to head into the nearest coop to collect more eggs. Collect animal products, drop them into churning machines, harvest and sell. It feels like the cycle never ends. Against your neck, the small mermaid's pendant slides on its chain, another reminder of your absent husband. An extra pair of helping hands made the daily work light; you wonder if it's selfish to ask him to stay home more often.

"I know, I know," you say to your angry chickens once you open the door. You miss your husband, but these girls like to remind you that they miss him more. "He'll be home soon. Bear with me, okay?"

After giving each of them pats on the head, a motion they accept with reluctance, you dig around the hay for eggs. The large chicken and dinosaur eggs are easy to spot, but for the delicate duck eggs, you prod every corner with your fingers until you come across something warm and smooth. You push away your hens as they peck at your hands. The ducks are fine with you. The chickens, however...how in the world did Elliott win them over?

Outside, your dog barks. A single warning to the intruder before the tone shifts into excitement. Someone familiar, then. Maybe Marnie is stopping by to give you some hay like she mentioned last night. With winter approaching, any addition to your reserves is appreciated, and you're already wiping your hands on your overalls to greet her.

"Hey, Marnie! I'm just in here—"

You stop in your tracks when the visitor raises his head, though he's not exactly a visitor. Elliott smiles as you draw close, ignoring the horde of chickens now lining the fence for his attention. Their wings flap, clucking loudly as they hit each other.

"Good morning, my love," he says over the noise, as if it really is the start to a normal day. His thumb reaches out to rub at a dirt smudge on your cheek. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Just some leftovers and coffee," you reply, dazed. Your husband tends to have that effect, and after two weeks apart, you feel it more than ever. You lean into his touch, comforting against your wind-blown skin. "I thought you were coming home tomorrow?"

"I decided to come back early. The office didn't need me today, anyway."

"You should've messaged me! I would've picked you up at the train station," you say. Behind him sits his traveling suitcase, the wheels speckled with mud from being dragged through the road. He steps in front of it. "Why don't you go get unpacked? I'll be done soon."

He leans his elbows onto the fence, tilting his head until his fiery hair spills over one shoulder. "You're rather quick to dismiss my presence. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're unhappy to see me," he says, though his words hold no accusation. It's merely a way to boost his ego when you reassure him. After all, you practically radiate by his side. "Would you like me to help?"

You glance at the dress shoes, the slacks, the spotless cardigan that he's already shrugging off to reveal a clean pressed button-down. Not exactly farm-friendly attire. "No, I'll be alright by myself."

"I could go change really quickly," he offers in a suspicious rush.

You search his expression then, and underneath the joy of being back, there's...something. You squint, unable to make it out. Sure, he must've missed you, but this feels like it runs deeper than that. When you give him a nod, he hurries towards the house, your dog chasing and barking at his heels. True to his word, he's back in minutes.

The chickens are much more cooperative now, and you roll your eyes at how they parade around your husband. They even hop around the coop, showing him where they've hidden their eggs from your intrusive searching.

"Thank you, dearies," he says to the hens. You swear they swoon.

"A real heart breaker," you deadpan. "Have you told them you're married?"

He chuckles, taking your hand as you move into the barns next door. While you lay out new hay on the feeding bench, he unhooks the stools and milk pails and sets them on either side of the door. It's hard to believe that just a few months ago he barely knew how to approach your animals, let alone help you with the chores.

He whistles lowly, and the first cow trudges to his station, ready to be milked. You get settled at your own station. One of the newer goats skids to the front of the line, eager to be let outside. It's not quiet in the barn—it never is, not with twelve grown animals waiting for their turn—but when you call Elliott's name, he looks at you. His ponytail needs to be retied.

"So why'd you come home early?" The young adult goats don't have much milk, just enough for a small container. You pat its hind leg, and it runs into the crisp autumn air with an excited bleat.

"I missed the atmosphere of our farm. The fresh air of the valley is good for my creative soul, unlike the bustle of Zuzu City."

You only raise your eyebrows, and he sighs from your all-knowing gaze.

"You read me a little too well, my love."

"I sure hope so, after all this time together. Did something happen at the office?"

Since the release of his last collection of short stories, he's been invited to the city more often for author-related events. This latest stint, running a series of writing workshops in partnership with Zuzu University and the local community, was organized by his agent in hopes of bigger opportunities. Maybe even a guest lecturer contract, they've said on more than one occasion, though Elliott refuses to be apart from you for too long.

Elliott gives another sigh. "Something like that. I just...it was admittedly negligence on my part. I was in the middle of writing you another letter when someone required my presence down the hall. I thought that it'd be a quick matter, so I didn't clear my desk. But apparently one of the secretaries came looking for me while I was out."

"Did they read...?" You wrinkle your nose, knowing how private Elliott is about his unpolished work. He's even more private about what he writes for your eyes only. "I'm sure they were embarrassed."

"That's what bothers me the most! She had the audacity to bring it up in front of everyone when we had a meeting, even quoted a few lines—"

The cow groans as he moves particularly rough. He gives it an apologetic scratch under the chin.

"So for the past two days, everyone has been trying to talk me into releasing a collection of love poems, which I would have no issues with if it didn't stem from such a personal...I mean, the poems were addressed to my muse, and when I explained that it was you, they said that was even better. Something about how the romance will really sell." He frowns. "I like being able to support myself—contribute to our funds, you know—with my writing, but it's not...a commodity. I'm allowed to make art for the sake of making art."

His forehead is furrowed, and you would reach out to ease the frustration if your hands weren't busy.

"What's your plan now?"

He scoffs. "There's no plan regarding that. I completely refuse. It's quite insulting, in fact, the idea that I'd put my love on display for a paycheck."

It's relieving, you have to admit. Even after getting a taste of success, your husband remains the same person you said your vows to. The same romantic who holds you in such high esteem. There's so many emotions—namely affection—swirling in your chest, but you're not the writer so all you manage is a simple Okay.

"Okay," you say again for good measure, but he must understand you because his expression smooths. "So what do you want for lunch?"

[prime-adeptus]

Uncover

You find yourselves in an unknown territory.

✧ PAIRING: Ramattra x GN!Reader

✦ CONTENT: Ambiguous relationships, not canon compliant, emotional hurt/comfort, no dialogue, non-sexual intimacy. Possibly OOC?? I did my best though q_q ~0,5k words

✧ NOTES: I've been yearning a lot lately 👹

AO3 | Masterlist | @houseofsolisoccasum @interstellar-inn

Could a machine know how to love?

The question rings in your mind once again as you stare into where Ramattra’s eyes would be. Cold fingertips cup the side of your face, caressing your skin with a fondness you haven’t felt since you’d left home. Blood rushes beneath the surface of your cheeks, warming the steel pressed against you just the slightest. He towers over your frame with ease, which would intimidate you any other time, but with him, you don’t feel that way. You feel safe, protected.

It’s hard to think of what he is to you. It’s harder to think of what you mean to him. You’ve lived a life of uncertainty, and moments like these are no different. Somehow, you don’t feel as rigid. There’s no need to put a label on what you have with Ramattra. You know you hold at least some meaning to him, otherwise he wouldn’t have let you stay for this long. He wouldn’t tell you to wait for him to return if you meant nothing. He’s straightforward, though he speaks to you without vitriol.

You suppose you have your teetering the line between machine and human to thank. Even your peers don’t know how to classify you. All you know is that you’re some sort of freak, a misfit, someone so incapable of becoming part of a community no matter how hard they try. You’re too withdrawn yet you talk too much, wearing out whoever you speak to. You’re kind yet you’re too unapproachable, your face stone cold in every happening. Things out of your control led you to become an outcast.

Solitude was all you’d known in your entire life, but the ache for companionship never quite goes away. The desire to be loved as you are feeds into the ache instead of suppressing it. It’s an innate desire for all humans, you think, and it’s one you can’t seem to get rid of. You always question him—asking him why he keeps you around, why he treats you differently, and not once has he ever had an answer for you.

Something burns behind your nose, creeping up to your eyes as tears brim their corners and slide down your cheeks. With trembling hands, you clasp them over his and allow a choked whimper to leave your lips, overwhelmed by every sentiment possible. You try to speak, but your throat closes up and your mind goes blank, forcing you into silence.

That’s fine. He never forces you to talk. He knows how difficult it is to be vulnerable and put into words all your thoughts and feelings, even if speech comes so naturally to him. The quietude that blankets over the both of you is comfortable. The wind whistles in the forests outside and snow falls to the ground, but you can hardly feel the chill in your bones. The cloak he draped over your shoulders is more than enough to shield you from the cold despite its roughness against your skin.

You nuzzle your face into the palm of his hand and sigh. The tempest in your mind won’t quell. It never has. You’ll always question everything again and again just to wind up dissatisfied with the outcome. You know that better than anyone. And you know you’ll eventually have to address whatever your situation with him is, but as you melt into his touch, you wonder if you really have to.

Maybe you don’t need that answer. Maybe it’s fine to let things be as they are.

[queen-of-hellfire666]

Nightmares [Joel Miller X Female Reader]

Warnings: scary topics, fluff, angst, comfort, nightmares Summary: you have not been able to sleep due to nightmares, Joel takes a notice and tries to help you.

"You okay?" Joel asked, grabbing your shoulder. "Honestly?" Your eyes are glossed over, stressed to the brim. Joel took one look into those bloodshot, dark eyes of yours and nodded. "I'm stressed. I- I'm having these dreams every night and-" your breath hitches as you look down. Joel watches you, eyes softening. "I just want them to stop, I have tried everything. Teas, pills, warm baths, stupid books, lewd thoughts-"

Joel took a moment. "What are these dreams about?" he asks softly, sitting down next to you on your front porch. "Being torn apart, ellie getting killed by raiders.. You- losing you to clickers." Joel nodded, listening closely. "I don't know what to do." your voice was broken. Joel experienced these a while back but with Sarah. He would dream of her death, being eaten alive by his own daughter or monsters. He felt this same pain.

"I used to drink whiskey until I passed out." he recalled. "I don't recommend it but.." his voice trailed off. "No, I cannot take booze." you smiled softly. He made you smile, it made him feel good. "uh I read having a companion in bed helps? like sleeping next to someone." Joel offered up. "Who would just sleep next to me and even try it?" Your eyes wandered.

"If you need it I can." Joel put a firm hand on your back. "c'mon, lets try it darling." he reassured, helping you up. "its really late and plus I don't wanna bother you-" your voice wavered. "Look I'm old, I don't wanna walk home." he chuckled half heartedly.

Upstairs was a whole new ballgame. Joel Miller didn't expect your room to look the way it did. Memories everywhere. He got himself comfy, laying down and waiting for you. "Nice outfit." he teased at you wearing HIS shirt and panties.. that's it. He had to remind himself, wholesome thoughts. "shutup old man." you teased right back.

Settling into his arms felt right, its like his arms were meant to be folded around you, your head on his chest. Its like it was suppose to be this way, this was suppose to happen. 'Joel.. is this okay?" you asked innocently. "Yeah, that's fine darlin' " Joel was warm and smelt like cedar in the forest. He always had a good smell.. even when he was soaked with sweat or blood.

Joel was fast asleep in a matter of seconds. His breathing comforted you. Joel was a snoring machine but it didn't bother you. after what felt like hours you finally fell asleep.

your eyes opened to the middle of a field.. Standing infront of you was a turned Joel.. Your eyes darted for a way out, for this to be fake. Joel runs toward you. "NO!!" you scream and run, running faster than ever into the woods. You dodge him through tree's before tripping over yourself. Joel was on you, growling, eyes white and face fleshy. "please no!!" you tried to fight and push, nothing. Joel was slowly killing you, eating your skin off the bones..

You shot up out of bed, crying and screaming. "Baby girl!!" Joel yelled, holding you. "Hey.. its okay.. its okay shhh.. what happened?" he rubbed your arm. "Y-You-" your breathing was still heavy. "Hey.. Its alright, I'm right here ain't I? Your not dead or dying." its almost like he read your mind.

"I_Im sorry." he pulled you into a hug, letting you sob. Your sobs wracked through your body. Joel had to fix this. He secretly loved you and this just broke his heart. "Hey.." he cupped your face, pushing all the wet hair from your eyes and face. "Let me get you something to drink-" you shook your head violently. "okay, then let me hold you." he pulled you back down, laying with you basically on top of him. You buried your head into his neck.

"I'll always protect you.. I promise." he whispered gently, his hands running soothing circles into your back. "Please don't leave.. Joel I-I love you." your words caused him to freeze. "I love you baby girl." He whispered back. He needed you to say it tomorrow to confirm it. Your hands gripped him tight, clinging for dear life. "Shh.. close your eyes. I'm here. I promise." He waits for you to go to sleep first. Seeing you rest peacefully.

The next few nights were better, Joel was able to soothe you while you were asleep and even stop the dreams. Finally they were gone but you didn't want Joel to leave your bed and neither did he?

part 2?

[narsh-poptarts]

THE HOPE OF MAN IS NO MACHINE IT'S WEARING HANDS OF SKIN AND BONE

i lost my mind over this song again

more versions under the cut!!!!

really couldn't decide for this, tho i actually really like the black and red text. may or may not make it a print at some point