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ilium-ilia · 1 month ago

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Chaînés

ballerina reader x gym-rat soap

It's hard for Johnny to focus at the gym when there's a ballerina spinning in a box just for him.

tags: johnny "came back wrong" mactavish, light stalking, non-consensual pictures/drawings, johnny is not mentally sound, references to johnny being shot, choke holds, abduction.

a/n: i keep having dreams about being back in ballet and being forced to dance so i this is my attempt of getting that dream to stop.

There is a new room in the gym. It stares through Johnny like baptism water in the church he attended when he was a child. It burns just as bad as the hellfire his pastor promised would befall him if he couldn’t tell the difference between good and evil.

He’s watched its construction for the last handful of weeks. Incessant drilling and the cacophonous melody of power tools has made his evenings pumping iron less than pleasant, and his ears ache from how far he has to shove his earbuds into the canal to drown out the noise. The only reason he started coming here was because of his sleeping issues—how his body seems too high strung to relax when the moon rises—and it’s been disrupted by inconsiderate construction workers. Now, every bastard in a high-vis vest has vanished, leaving him alone with nothing but the bar clasped in his palms and the lingering sillage of sawdust.

For a few more weeks, the room stands empty. It’s nothing special. Nothing that he believes should harbor more of his attention than has already been stolen. Floor to ceiling glass windows offer little privacy for the pinewood floors and dazzling mirrors that line the walls. It is an abandoned box. It haunts the gym with no heart to hold.

When no one is looking, he wanders through the unlocked door. He is met with only the sound of his running shoes echoing off of the pristine floor and the never-ending image of himself pasted upon the walls. He sees himself from every angle. From the side, like a bystander. From above, like an omniscient god. It only gets worse when the automatic lights trip and flicker to life, buzzing like the dying breath of an animal caught in the constricting ribcage of fear.

Johnny stares at himself as if he were a stranger. He scrutinizes the tattoo on his forearm and the stretch of his compression shorts over his thighs. Angry fingernails dig into the pink keloid by his temple. His skin buzzes at the bump. Hair follicles attempt to press through the scar tissue, but it follows the old fracturing of his skull. It dies in a star pattern that leaves him naked—a warrior without a weapon.

As his feet cross the threshold back into the weight room, Johnny promises himself he will never traverse back into that box again.

On Monday, the room is full.

Women clad in elastic garments sprawl out on the floor on multicolored mats as they stretch. Their appearance stops Johnny in his tracks, leaving him to stare through the thin window that separates them apart. Yoga, he realizes. The awkward positions and instructor towards the front has his skin squirming within its own confines. There are too many eyes. They echo through the mirror—they all find him.

Deciding to spend his evening on the other side of the gym, Johnny starts off with cardio. It’s the only way he can satiate the need to flee from wandering gazes without actually vanishing. It’s the only way he can drown out the solicitude that lurks too deep for him to reach in and claw it out.

Peeved that he has to now change his whole routine, Johnny grumples through the night as he packs up his water bottle and slugs towards the exit. As his feet tread, he reminds himself to request the class schedule for the room from the front desk. He wants to avoid the eyes. The gazes. The pupils that pierce through him worse than a bullet.

Johnny freezes when he sees something spinning.

There, through the thin veil, you dance. Rhythmic and fluid. Like a babbling river. Like blood dribbling from a wound. Propped up en pointe, you pirouette with your arms above your head and your head snapping in spinning circles, eyes keeping contact with yourself through the mirror. He witnesses the way your chest expands with a huff—how you refuse to rest before attempting the move again.

You see him in the mirror. Standing behind you, pack slung over his shoulder as if it were heavy enough to be a rifle. He sees you see him.

Ignoring him as if he is nothing more than a trick of the light, you continue with your practice.

Johnny can’t sleep at night. The image of you burns too deeply into his retinas, and he can’t shake you loose. You’re lodged in his psyche. Trapped deep in the tissue of his brain where you nettle—making space for yourself. A bed of brain matter. He envelopes you too readily. His body holds you home and it screeches whenever he attempts to yank you out like a weed from the earth.

So you spin.

And spin.

The next time he goes to the gym, he brings his sketchbook.

Really, he’s not sure why he lugs the thing around. The only thing it’s full of is pain—bleeding ink that soaks each page like blood on cement. That book harbors the residue of each gun he’s shot and the soil of every country his boots have kissed. It holds the memories of the places he can’t return to. The man he used to be before he was fractured beyond repair.

Now, he uses it to record you. Committing your image with his pencil, he sits on the bench press closest to the window as you practice again while the night waxes away from the evening. He sketches the curve of your pointe shoes, the delicacy of your fingers as you hold your arms out on either side of your torso—you’re printed onto paper as you present an arabesque with trembling calves and quads.

Throughout it all, you do not recognize him in the mirror behind you. You give him no hint that you are aware of his presence besides a quiet flickering of your eyes in the reflective surface before you continue to glissade across glistening floors.

It isn’t until the second week of this—of this new routine Johnny has found himself in—that he realizes he never sees you enter or exit the room.

You’re always there, appearing out of thin air the moment the area is vacated by the yoga class or anyone else who wishes to lurk within those four, painful walls. He blinks, and you’re there, dancing through the windows like a collector’s doll stuck in the confines of her box for all of eternity. Never to be embraced. Never to be loved. Only made to be gawked at while chained down by your hands and wrists, unforgiving zip ties digging into your skin like a honed edge.

It’s then that Johnny begins to question if he’s seeing things again. Factitious things. After he was discharged (bullet buzz, buzz, buzzing through his skull, cold cement on his cheek, blood, drip, drip, dripping from his teeth), it was troubling to differentiate between what was real, and what was fabricated. Thoughts bleeding into reality—a clear ichor that only morphs his vision, but doesn’t obscure it.

At home, his fingers brush over his artwork. Tenderly, as if he’s pasted your very flesh onto each page. He tells himself that you have to be real. The proof of it is in his very hands—it’s tangible. This book that holds your likeness. It would be impossible for his disconnected mind to dream up something as lovely as you. There is no morphing here. No shadows twist to contort and confuse his mind.

He’s sure of it—

—until he isn’t.

Once more, his sweet ballerina has come to perform for him—to haunt him. You spin before him like a music box doll, steady and without a care for the eyes piercing through the window to look at you. There is not a single soul in the building besides you and him. (If you even have a soul at all). The barrier that separates the two of you seems thinner than ever as he puts pencil to paper and inscribes your likeness as if he fears his mind might forget if there is no physical reminder to follow him home.

He soaks up the view of your feet. The way the arch curves beneath your body weight. The way sweat beads along your collarbones and the line of your forehead. He wonders if the brine is as tasty as it looks.

When you stop to catch your breath, your eyes find Johnny in the mirror. Sitting, hunched forward on the bench, scribbling down in his journal. His heart ceases to beat, and the tip of his pencil stills against his paper as he straightens himself up. He would open his mouth to speak if it weren’t for the insufferable barrier that separates the two of you—keeping you confined to your own little worlds. Instead, he smiles.

You stare right through him.

You do not smile back.

Johnny is incensed when you continue your routine. You leap through the air without a care in the world, and you leave him sitting there to wonder if you ever even saw him at all. No, you did. When he reaches up and touches his chest, he feels his shirt. He feels the blood pulsing beneath his fingertips. His hand presses forward and it doesn’t punch through his sternum because he’s real.

He’s real.

But are you real? Or are you some creature sent to torment him within the confines of his own mind?

Slamming his journal shut, Johnny tosses it into his bag with a huff. Hot air passes from his nostrils like a bull ready to charge, and he struts up to the glass, so close that his nose nearly presses against it. Fog builds on the surface as his palm lies flat against it. It’s frigid to the touch. Standing, separating. The barrier that traps you is real and algid beneath his fingers.

But are you real?

Metal bites into his skin as he twists the knob on the door to the room. He promised himself that he would never step foot in there again—where the eyes are plenty and his scar screams louder than he can—but he tells himself he has to know. It clicks quietly shut behind him only to be drowned out by the sound of your pointe shoes tapping against the pine at your feet. It echoes like a hushed prayer. It rattles his eardrum. Tangible. Real.

But are you real?

Feverish skin bleeds through his hand when he grabs your arm, stopping you in your tracks. Wild eyes look to him, and for the first time he’s able to see what they’re like without the barrier of a reflection to get in the way. Sweet lips part and he sees the way your teeth shine beneath the fluorescent lights that hang over your heads.

“Excuse me?”

Bitter. Sharp. Your question pierces through his eardrum and he smiles. Your voice. An alluring melody. His grip only grows more firm as you attempt to wrench yourself free from his grasp.

Real.

Your screams are just as corporeal as the rest of you. It reverberates off the walls of Johnny’s skull, and it forces his face to contort at the throb in his brain. Oh, how it aches. How it always aches. He muffles you with the palm of his hand flat against your lips and he presses until he feels your tongue. Rigid nails dig into his flesh as his forearm wraps around your throat and squeezes. He feels the sting of broken skin—real—and the pressure of dull teeth against his fingers—real—and hot tears along the back of his hand—real.

It isn’t long before your body grows heavy. Johnny lays you on the floor like Ophelia in a river; Odette in the lake; Aurora in her bed. Limp limbs lie helplessly as he stares down at you and rakes trembling fingers over every inch of your body. Every curve he has committed to memory for the last few weeks is now here before him—tangible.

“Real,” he says outloud. A tender thumb brushes against your split bottom lip. “You’re real. And I’m real. I made you real.”

Johnny sleeps better now that he’s started going to the gym. Muscles melt just as they should the very moment his head hits his pillow, and his slumber calls to him without issue. Of course, it helps that he has his sweet ballerina to keep him company. Head propped up next to his, tear stains on your cheeks, and eyes squeezed tight as you rest soundly in his bed.

He reaches out and cups your cheek in the palm of his hand. Your skin twitches beneath him, but you do not stir. Grinning in the darkness of his bedroom, Johnny hums, content with his life. Content with knowing that you truly are real.

After all, the proof of it is in his very hands.

#ilium writing #jm ilia #female reader #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader

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beanarie · 4 months ago

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of course

in which the helicopter crashed with both our guys inside. inspired by this awesome post by @mooshkat

(tw: vomiting, heart issues, near death angst, biphobia mention)

Once the wave of agony subsides, and Tommy is reasonably sure he's done vomiting into the dirt, he blinks over at Evan appraisingly. "Is your arm broken or did your shoulder go out again?"

Evan grimaces and finishes tying off Tommy's splint. "Shoulder. And my hip's not feeling great. Cracked rib, maybe two. But of course you had to outdo me."

"Didn't do it on purpose." Tommy glares at the spot where his tibia poked through the skin, like he can intimidate the pain away. "Anyway you've got me on quantity."

"There's nothing else?"

"My head hurts," Tommy admits, "but there's not much we can do for that right now."

Evan leans in to compare his pupils. Tommy is very proud of himself for not flinching. "Dispatch had our location?" Evan asks, and instead of reminding him that he was there when they confirmed it, Tommy nods.

He knows he can't go to sleep, even if the leg would allow him. He finds a stick and starts tic tac toe. Evan chuckles and joins in.

He wins the next two games. Tommy blames his probable concussion.

Evan holds his bad arm tight around his midsection, but his eyes seem stormy for a different reason. "These people who hurt you in the past, what- what are their names?"

"Huh?" Tommy gives up on the game, scratching it out of the dirt. "You want a full list of legal names or just what I called them?"

"Was it Evan, for any of them?"

God, he's so transparent. Tommy laughs.

"Do you- do you judge everyone by who came before? Is that just what you do in a-all situations? One barista spilled coffee on you in 2011 and you pay for Starbucks with one of those grabby reacher things ever since?"

"Fuck's sake." Tommy doesn't even like Starbucks, but he doesn't say that.

Evan sort of shrugs before he remembers his shoulder with a wince. "It's not generally considered a sign of maturity. Ironic, I guess."

"Yeah, call me old. See where it gets you."

Evan brightens. "You're talking to me. I like my results so far."

There's something indefatigable about this man. Tommy can't help but surrender in the face of it, just a little. "How did you know I'd have to pinch hit for this fly along?"

"I didn't. I just hoped." His grin is just the slightest bit abashed. "Worst case scenario, get out of the engine for a day and I pump one of your coworkers for info."

"They have very little to pump," Tommy says. Evan and the codependent 118 are the aberration, and they're well aware of that. Tommy has great coworkers. They do their jobs and leave, with the exception of drinks once or twice a month. None of them gave him shit after the breakup. Few of them noticed. This is how most teams operate. Evan, however, looks surprised and a little sad. "What were you hoping to hear?"

"I don't know." Evan looks away, suddenly self conscious. "That you messed yourself up at least half as much as you did me."

Tommy rubs at his face. "I didn't mean to mess you up, Buck. Truly. We- It just ran its course. It doesn't reflect badly on you, or me. This just happens."

He looks upset at first, then calculating. "What if I hooked up with those Not-Evans?"

Tommy looks behind him, searching for something that makes sense. "What if you moved to the moon? I have no idea what you're getting at right now."

"Would I be experienced enough for you if I let them have a go? They were terrible for you, so it stands to reason they'll be terrible for me, too." He lifts a finger, his eyes lighting up in a way that turns Tommy's stomach. "Oh, I guess one or two of those might be women. They don't count. Some might be bi and married to women. Do they count as half? If I bag a threesome, is that like seventy-five percent? Do you give points for polyamory?"

Tommy feels about eighty years old, and not a fit eighty. "When did I say even one of those things?"

"The implications were pretty clear, Tommy. 'You're just young and excited. You don't know what you're feeling or how to interpret anything going on in front of you.'"

Tommy doesn't know what to say to that. It's not remotely what he meant, but he's never been good at communicating through panic.

"Did you love me?" Evan asks quietly. Tommy can't look him in the face. "It felt like you- like you did, but when you let me go like that, like chopping off the top bit of a carrot, it made me re- reevaluate everything I thought I knew about us."

The note of devastation in his voice almost tips him over, but ultimately what does it is the implication that Tommy made Evan lose faith in himself. He can't abide being responsible for that. "Of course I love you, Evan. How could I not?"

The tightness in his chest, that felt so much like raw emotion, intensifies, growing sharper. It's hard to breathe now, like sucking a milkshake through a coffee stirrer, and he realizes, something is very wrong. About as wrong as it could possibly be.

"Oh," he says. An attempt to inflate his lungs all the way makes his vision go sparkly at the edges.

"Tommy?"

Tommy drags his eyes up to meet Evan's. "S- Sorry, I-" I wouldn't have said any of those things if I knew. "Sorry. Evan." You deserve better than a fucking deathbed love confession.

A rough hand grasps his neck, slowing his descent to the ground. "No, hey. Hey hey hey. Tommy, we'll figure this out." Evan sniffles and tries to smile. His tears are falling everywhere. "You're okay. You're fine. Just keep- keep breathing."

The coffee stirrer is about a millimeter wide. Tommy can feel the muscles in his neck straining like he's deadlifting his own weight. Evan rips Tommy's shirt open and he swears floridly, miserably. They both know what this is; they've seen it in a hundred MVAs. Cardiac tamponade. When his heart gives out from the strain of all the blood surrounding it, chest compressions can be worse than useless. They could punch his ticket that much faster.

"Tommy," Evan says, pulling Tommy into his lap. The complaints from his splinted leg are distant, belonging to someone else entirely. Evan's voice is a ragged mess trying to piece itself together. His shoulder and ribs are probably killing him. "Don't run out again. You need to stay. Breathe."

Half a millimeter.

One quarter.

Tommy can't remember what comes after millimeter.

"That's it. I know it's hard, but keep trying. That's all I ask. Just try, okay? Look at me."

Micrometer? Is that it?

Evan's face is shadowed by the sun cresting over his shoulder. Tommy closes his eyes against the glare and is rewarded with a shake.

"Keep your eyes open. Stay with me. Just a little- little bit longer, please."

Fingers are running through his hair, lips are pressing against his forehead, and he thinks he can hear... sirens.

#bucktommy #911 abc #my writing #things by beanarie #there's a second part but it veered off to the left #and i'm not sure how to get back on course #so self contained for now!

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eowynstwin · 5 months ago

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Blackbird, Fly - Four

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. - Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you. - ao3

When you wake the next morning, Hans’ side of the bed is empty, the linens already cold.

As sleep leaves you in fits and starts, the aches pull you inward—glowing dull and orange like banked embers. Your whole body feels like a twisted ankle. Nothing is broken, exactly, but every muscle feels as if it’s been pulled in a direction God never quite intended it to move.

Your shoulders. The meat of your thighs. Your hips.

The entrance to your womb.

It isn’t the knife-sharp pain from before. Only the muted, persistent throb of a wound left alone to heal. In the cottony space between sleep and waking, you think there should be more damage—for all of what happened last night. And yet, there isn’t.

Still, you don’t move when your eyes finally open. Stillness seems the only defense against the bare truth of the gray morning.

Your husband used you hard on your wedding night, and did not care for the pain he caused.

You are not fool enough to think your experience unique. Women talked as much as girls did. Your mother’s friends were wont to complain when they thought the children out of earshot: husbands who grunted and sweated over them in the night, often without uttering a word. Sometimes not even waiting for the pain of childbirth to subside before claiming their marital due.

You just had come to believe, with every letter that arrived, that your fate would be different.

But it turns out none of this is a dream after all.

Your throat closes, then. Tears prick hot in the corners of your eyes.

Stupid, stupid girl.

You swallow hard. Sit up away from the pillows, even as the aches flare in protest.

Beside you, where your husband slept, there’s a noticeable dip in the mattress. Worn in over years of slumber, and you, you suppose, on Anna’s side of the bed.

Was Hans kind to her too, before?

Abruptly you swing your legs out from the linens, and go to find one of the dresses you brought along from home.

The house is empty when you descend the stairs, as far as you can tell. You hear the steady tick, tock of a grandfather clock somewhere in the sitting room that you hadn’t noticed yesterday, in all of the commotion of the wedding preparations. The floorboards creak beneath your feet as your grumbling stomach leads you along to the kitchen.

The space is as modern and well-appointed as the rest of the house, and bigger than any kitchen you ever imagined needed to be. A cast-iron wood stove with four burners and a large oven, a sink with a pump right there by the basin, and—you nearly stop dead at the luxury—an ice box, right there beside one long counter.

You momentarily forget the troubles of the night, crouching beside the little box in fascination. A cloud of cool fog descends when you swing open the door; you brush the tips of your fingers across the huge block of ice on the top shelf, jerking them away when the cold unexpectedly burns. Not once in your life have you ever seen so much ice in one place.

On the lower shelf, you find cuts of pork and beef, wrapped in brown butcher’s paper and tied with string. Bacon for breakfast, then, and biscuits if you can find flour. Your mother always said that a difficult thing was easier after having a meal.

You find the larder stocked with further luxury. Nowhere are the home-jarred goods that would populate your family’s pantry, garden-grown vegetables pickled in vinegar or hand-pressed jams fresh from the blackberry bushes along the road. Instead you find rows and rows of cans, factory-sealed tins of manufactured uniformity, colorfully labeled and containing everything you might have ever thought to grow yourself and more.

Beans of every variety. Corn. Carrots. Peas. Beets. Tomatoes.

How much must all this have cost? So many, and lined up deep into the back of the larder. You and Hans couldn’t possible eat them all before some of them began to spoil. Of course, if he could afford to buy so much, maybe that didn’t matter.

You find the flour, and baking powder as well. Breakfast is a quick affair after that, and thankfully so, as your stomach really begins to complain as soon as the food is ready.

There’s a small table in the kitchen—yet more luxury, you think, remembering the long dining table you saw yesterday—and it’s there you sit down to solve your hunger.

The hard wooden chair is not kind to the ache between your legs.

You bite into the bacon, crunching it to pieces. There—it’s all right. You have your breakfast. Isn’t that something to be grateful for? Breakfast, and a nice stove, and an ice box, and a kitchen so stuffed with food that you can’t imagine ever running out.

Isn’t this what a loving husband provides? A good home, for his wife to live comfortably in? Pretty dresses, like the one he gave to you last night? A nice ring on your finger—the little gem glittering in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window?

Hans loves you. Of course. This is love.

You bite into one biscuit, hot and steaming from the pan and burning your tongue. Your mother can make them better, but you tried the best you could to follow the recipe she taught you.

The front door opens outside of the kitchen. Something quick and sharp travels up your spine. Heavy boots step inside—your husband, come looking for you—you freeze without realizing it, holding half-chewed food in your mouth—

“Mrs. König?” calls Kate Laswell, the foreman, and you relax.

“In here,” you call, after swallowing.

Laswell enters the kitchen, and turns to you, at the table. She’s dressed in mens’ clothes, dusty trousers and a heavy jacket over a button-up shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat still on her head. She looks like she’s dressed to travel.

“I’m afraid I can’t show you the accounts today, like I said I would,” she tells you, no preamble, no pleasantries.

You remember then your brief conversation with her the previous night—and Hans’ disapproval at the idea.

You set down your biscuit. “Good morning, Miss Laswell. Why not?”

“I’m going over to visit the Vargas place. We’ve been working on a leasing deal. I’ll explain when I get back.”

“Of course,” you say. “Would—” you clear your throat, embarrassed— “Would you know where my husband might be?”

The lines of Laswell’s face tighten. She has a severe look to her that you think is always present—ranch work must harden anyone, man or woman—but there is no wedding happening around you now to distract you from the unmistakable displeasure on her face.

“Last I saw he was out with the herd,” she says shortly. “Anyway, I’ll be gone for a few days. The ledger is in the cabinet by the desk. Take a look at it if you find the time.”

She tips her hat to you before you can figure out how to respond—some part of you bristles at being given orders by someone who is now, ostensibly, your employee—and leaves the kitchen. You scramble to follow her, and catch her when she’s nearly out the door.

“Miss Laswell,” you call, “is Hans—is my husband—”

You’re not very sure what you intended to ask her, before you began the question. Nor, you realize, do you think she could answer honestly, if you asked her what you really wanted to know. It wouldn’t be her place, and it would be inappropriate of you to ask.

If you could actually work up the courage to approach it.

So you settle for, “Is my husband angry with me?”

She stops, and blinks at you. You see her look you up and down, briefly, but when she meets your eyes her expression is impossible to read.

“I have no idea,” she says, and her tone betrays nothing. “Gaz wants to see you in the stables when you have a moment today. Ma’am.”

She nods farewell at you and leaves.

The steady ticking of the grandfather clock punctuates the end of the odd exchange. Disoriented, you return to the kitchen to clear away the remnants of your breakfast, flushing in confusion.

Do you really want this?

His question rings now in your ears. Along with it come memories of the previous night. The Madame’s odd interest in you. The store owner Miss Boucher’s sidelong glance at Hans. Myriad other quirks of the brow or mouth that you only now grasp the meaning of.

Everyone knew, somehow, what was coming. Everyone except you.

And Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you.

You tug on a shawl as you step out onto the front porch, breathing in the mountain air. The morning chill hasn’t yet burned off, and the sky has yet to gain its full color. Across the clearing, Kyle Garrick is at work in the stable’s corral.

He holds one end of a long lead, attached at the other to the bridle of a red-brown horse, which trots in a wide circle around him. Occasionally, with the lunge-whip he holds in his free hand, Gaz taps the horse’s hindquarters, redirecting it patiently whenever it tries to move inward or otherwise deviate from its orbit.

Horses are scared creatures, Miss, I don’t know if you know this, Hans had written. You must be gentle when you train them, or destine them to a lifetime of anxiety.

When you approach, the horse’s attention briefly turns toward you, but Gaz taps it again and it goes back into its pacing. You have a moment to admire the long line of the cowboy’s body, the focused angles of his shoulders and hips, before he addresses you, sensing your presence without having to turn and look at you.

“Good morning, miss,” he says. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” you say. It feels dishonest, even if it isn’t a lie. “Good morning, Mr. Garrick.”

The horse makes its way past you, and then Gaz brings it to a stop. He winds up the lead in one hand and makes his way over to you, meeting you where you stand by the corral fence.

You can’t help but notice how handsome he looks in the light of late morning. The serious expression on his face is the same one he’d worn the day before; you suspect it’s his natural disposition.

You remember the brief smile he’d shown you last night, before Hans had taken you away, and your cheeks warm despite yourself.

“I thought I might introduce you to the horses today,” he says. “If you’ve got the time, that is.”

“Oh,” you gasp, suddenly eager, “Please! I’ve been looking forward to it ever since Hans proposed! I told him about the two old nags we had on our farm, to pull our wagon, and he said—”

We must get you on a proper horse, then, to show you the true pleasure riding may offer.

You stop mid-sentence. Something about what Hans had written rings in your memory now with a different note. It seems…mocking, almost. Imbued purposefully with a meaning intended to escape you, given you had not the experience enough to catch it.

Shame blooms painfully behind your breastbone.

“…He mentioned he’d bring me to meet them,” you say lamely.

The smile Gaz gives you doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s very busy, or I suppose he would be today.”

“I suppose,” you echo.

Gaz inhales deeply, and then he gestures to the red-brown horse. “Well—this here is Newt. I’ve been getting him used to the bridle today.”

“Hello, Newt,” you say to the horse. You reach a hand out, briefly, but then pull it back; your instinct is to let the horse get your scent, like you might with a farm dog, but you don’t know if you should. Your father had always handled the nags.

Gaz notices, and brings one big hand to Newt’s long face, squeezing the arch of his muzzle. The horse’s eyes droop in obvious pleasure.

“He’s a big baby,” says Gaz, expression gentling. “I’m trying to see if he’ll make a good cutter, but it’s too early to tell.”

You reach out again. Newt’s velvety nostrils flare as he inhales, and then his hot breath bathes your hand and wrist. You suppose you have his approval, because Newt simply works his teeth a little and makes no indication of displeasure.

“A cutter?”

“Yeah. The kind of horse that can cut a steer out from the herd so you can drive it someplace else,” Gaz explains. “Horses either got cow-sense, or they don’t. Here, come around inside and I’ll show you the rest.”

Long Mask Ranch, Hans had written, built its reputation on the quality of its quarter horses. In the early days of its inception, his father had struck an extremely lucrative deal providing the US Army with its cavalry mounts, which had turned out to be a perfect way for the ranch’s reputation to spread. Even after the army mostly withdrew from the region, every state in the surrounding countryside knew: if you wanted good horses, you went to Long Mask.

“These are the yearlings,” Gaz explains as he leads you through the stable. “Just now we’re getting them trained to follow directions. Won’t be riding ‘em for a couple years yet.”

He puts Newt away and beckons you to follow. In the neighboring stall, one of the horses pokes its head out over the gate. It’s a light-colored colt, yellowish in the body and white-maned.

“This is Gus,” Gaz says, scratching its fuzzy chin. “He’s a big flirt, yeah, aren’t you, boy?”

You also reach out to give Gus a pat, and the colt chuffs and butts his nose into your hand, proving Gaz’s accusation. You can’t help giggling a little.

When another horse across the building snorts, Gaz chuckles, and leads you in the direction of the noise. “Ah, yeah, and that’s Woodrow. Him and Gus are always goin’ at it, but you won’t ever see better friends.”

Woodrow is dark gray horse with a distinctly unamused face. He accepts a pat on the forehead with what you can only describe as resigned patience. Gaz feeds him a sugar cube from one pocket for his trouble.

He takes you further along down the line of stalls. You meet a spirited filly named Elmira, and a colt beside her named July whose love for her is unrequited.

“We’ve already gelded him, so it wouldn’t matter much anyway,” Gaz relates.

He speaks fondly of every horse as you meet them, with the familiarity of long days working beside each of them. It relaxes him, you realize, to speak of them—the hard set of his expression has softened, the serious line of his brows eased from their iron setting.

It makes him look—not younger, you decide, but properly his age. A cowboy just beginning the best years of his career, still hale and fit enough to meet the rough demands of the job, but with enough experience under his belt to confront any challenge with confidence.

Such confidence is obvious in the way he moves. He walks loose and easy through the stable, his every step as assured as the sunrise the next morning. The line of his broad shoulders, the swooping curve of his back—they tell you at a mere glance that home is in this place, working with these creatures, and there could be nothing more Kyle Garrick might long for besides.

Envy twists your intestines around its fingers. There’s an empty space inside of you that you’d been expecting, as your wedding vows had finally taken flight, to fill with that same feeling.

At the end of the stable, in a stall in the back corner, a horse pokes its head out over the gate. It’s bigger than the yearlings, with a pale face and a dark, gray muzzle. It looks right at you, with such a clear focus that it startles you.

“Ah,” says Gaz, when he sees. “Was wondering if she’d notice us.”

“She?”

He nods. “A mare. She’s…difficult.”

The mare stares at you, with deep, night-black eyes.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

Gaz works his lips over his teeth. “Mr. König bought her last year off another rancher who was ‘bout fit to shoot her. She’s a thoroughbred, and she ain’t never met a white man she likes. As like to buck a man off as to let him ride.”

“Oh,” you say.

Gaz leans against the wall between two stalls. “Mr. König thought he might be able to break her. So far she hasn’t gotten him off her, but she won’t let him come near without putting up a fight. I’m the only one can saddle ‘er.”

You frown. “Why would he ride a horse that doesn’t want to be ridden?”

At that, Gaz’s eyes go cold. Shockingly cold, like an empty winter’s night. “Suppose he just likes taking what he wants, I guess.”

You should reprimand him. You know it immediately. It’s no way to talk about his employer, and certainly nothing he should ever say in front of you, his employer’s wife.

But you remember the blood, and still feel the ache. You have to look away from him, ashamed. Embarrassed.

You cannot defend your husband, and he must know it.

“I imagine he must know what he’s about,” you mumble.

Gaz gives a derisive snort. “I don’t know about that. He’s of a mind to start with thoroughbreds, but she will not let him breed her. Damn near killed every stallion he’s brought her to try.”

It hits you so sharply that you inhale with sudden pain, pressure knifing at your eyes. You turn away from Gaz entirely now, pressing your hands to your chest. Every ache from the night previous ricochets around inside you again, knocking all the way down into your bones.

You tip your head upward, as if it will prevent the gathering tears from falling. What’s worse, Gaz puts a hand on your shoulder behind you. You flinch at the touch, hips aching where Hans had bruised them in his grip.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” Gaz says softly. He sounds like he means it. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

He knows exactly what ails you. And why wouldn’t he? He’s known his employer for years. He’s worked this ranch for longer than you’ve even known of its existence.

He knew the previous Mrs. König, who first endured Hans’ attentions.

You are a terrible fool, and you are the last to know it.

He doesn’t remove his hand as you tremble. He squeezes you gently, the same caress he’d given to the young colt Newt. It is so kind that it nearly breaks you.

“Here,” Gaz murmurs, “let’s see something.”

You turn back to him; he takes your hand, and leads you to the back of the stable. The mare follows the two of you with her eyes, expression unchanging as you approach her.

Closer now, she is a stunning creature. You’ve never seen anything like her. Her coat is silvery-gray, with darker patterns all over her body, like ink absorbed into paper and then laid beneath a light rain. Her legs and mane are the same dark color as her muzzle, and there is a deep intelligence in her eyes as she beholds you.

“You might be the first woman she’s ever seen up close,” Gaz says.

He takes up a position behind you, and turns your hand over in his, opening your fingers. Then, slowly, so the horse can see it, he brings them to her face, pressing your fingertips to the soft whorl on her forehead.

The mare’s eyes do not leave you. She exhales a little through relaxed nostrils, chuffing, flicking her ears toward you. You play with the starburst of pale hair, following the direction it grows; her lids, heavy with thick, black lashes, drop a little.

“I’ll be,” Gaz murmurs behind you. “I think she might like you, miss.”

A loud BANG claps against the wall on the other end of the stable, and the mare jerks her head immediately, flinging your hand away. She grunts, snorts, and dances away from the gate, shaking her head, eyes flaring wide.

You and Gaz both look to the commotion—

Your husband stands in the open doorway, cast in a dark silhouette by the late morning light.

“Just what the hell are you doing?”

a/n: the horses' names are all references to characters in my favorite western, Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry.

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basketonthedoorstepofthefbi · 11 months ago

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Spencer Reid x Read fic. Reid and Reader are friends, like best friends. Reader is always offering Reid donuts and listening to his fun facts and info dumps. It's one of those, they both like each other, but also are convinced the other doesn't like them.

Spencer is taking care of a slightly drunk reader whose grandmother called and asked why they're not engaged when they're younger sibling is married and expecting a child. At some point Spencer makes his ever classic comment about how it's safer to kiss and drunk reader, before being able to think, kisses Spencer. I hope that made sense.

OOPS I DID EXACTLY THAT

Safer to Kiss (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

Word Count: 2899

Warnings: Mentions of food, drinking alcohol, mild cursing, outdated expectations of women, and lots of pining

A/N: Hi I wrote this in 2 hours and was extremely entertained, please enjoy and if you send me a fic request I'll probably do it bc this is my hyperfixation hobby right now and very much keeping the demons at bay xD @bxm-1012 thank you for dropping by my inbox! I am VERY tempted to make a part 2 of this, I hope you enjoy! c:

-----

The whole expiration date thing that women faced was, in your humble opinion, complete and utter bullshit. Here you were, slowly approaching thirty (definitely still told people you were twenty-five, when, in fact, you were actually twenty-eight), and the biological clock was ticking. No, you didn’t want kids. Not right now, anyway. Not when you were only two years into your career as a profiler for the FBI’s prestigious Behavioral Analysis Unit. Not when you still had tons of things to check off your bucket list - go to Europe, visit an independent bookstore in every state, pilot a helicopter.

And you didn’t buy into that whole ‘once a woman hits thirty, her stock plummets’ crap. Not usually, anyway.

But Nan’s phone calls always left you questioning your existence.

Back home in Ohio, your little sister, Kendra, had just announced her pregnancy. Three years younger than you (ironically, the age you told everyone you were), and married to a power plant manager, Kendra was living the dream of a woman from the 1950s. You tried your best not to look down on it, to wish for more for her - but Kendra was happy. She’d always wanted to be a mother, and you couldn’t imagine anyone better suited for the role. There was nothing wrong with wanting to be a wife and a mother, to devoting one’s life to it. You reminded yourself of that every time you spoke to Kendra. You especially reminded yourself of it every time you spoke to Nan.

That sympathetic tone your grandmother used when she said, “Oh, Button, you’ll find someone eventually, and you’ll be just as happy as Kenny” was like nails on a chalkboard. You resisted the urge to gag into your speakerphone and simultaneously rip your grandmother a new one. You wanted so badly to explain to her that you were perfectly fulfilled with your life.

You helped lock up bad guys on a weekly basis, you wanted to remind Nan. Your brain was one of few that had been chosen for a task force that caught criminals based on their behavior. It was amazing, working for the BAU, bouncing ideas off of your colleagues, finding a family within this small group of people that spent more than forty hours a week together.

Nan didn’t see it that way. She wanted you to be just like Kendra. She wanted you to have that white picket fence in the suburbs, with a broad-shouldered husband and two little tykes running at your feet. Domestic bliss just wasn’t in the cards for you, you’d decided. And that was okay.

You were still reeling from your conversation with Nan the night before when you walked in to work on Monday morning. It was Derek who caught the raging RBF first. “Woah, pretty girl. Pump. Your. Brakes.” He said, halting you just as you entered the BAU’s bullpen, holding a hand up to stop you.

“Good morning to you, too, Derek,” You flashed him a phony grin, and he rolled his eyes.

“And you’re grumpy this morning… why, exactly?” Derek asked, turning to walk beside you, essentially escorting you to your desk.

“Because I’m allowed to be?” You proffered, shrugging your shoulders, not really wanting to talk about it with him. You loved Derek - hell, you loved all your coworkers - but he was not the person you wanted to go to with these thoughts. You didn’t really want to talk to anyone about it, actually. You just wanted to ride the cranky train until it came to a complete stop.

Emily was returning from the kitchenette with a fresh mug of coffee and decided that the conversation concerned her as well. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Y/L/N’s wearing her cranky pants this morning,” Derek filled her in.

“Oh, those so don’t match your blouse, Y/N,” Emily teased, winking at you with a smirk before looking at Derek. “Cut her some slack. No one likes Mondays.” Derek held up his palms defensively. “Alright, alright. Forgive me for being a concerned citizen.”

“It’s appreciated,” You told Derek genuinely before setting your bag down at your desk. “But unnecessary.”

It wasn’t until later in the morning, around ten, that anyone bothered you about your obvious bad mood again. This time it was Spencer, the one person you couldn’t possibly be annoyed with. He rolled on his desk chair around the partition that separated your workspaces, holding his hand out expectantly, like he usually did this time of day.

Without speaking, you opened the bottom drawer of your desk and pulled out the white bag of mini powdered donuts that you always kept in stock. They were your guilty pleasure snack, and one of the first things you and Spencer bonded over when you started at the BAU two years ago. That, and the fact that you were the closest agents in age, was how you got along so well so quickly. Over several cases, varying in degrees of intensity, you and Spencer became really great friends. Best friends, actually.

There wasn’t anyone else in your life that you trusted more than Spencer Reid.

You opened the bag of powdered donuts and shook one haphazardly into Spencer’s palm, then grabbed one for yourself. Silently, you cheers-ed your donuts together, and ate them simultaneously, making weird-but-comfortable eye contact as you did.

“Derek says you’re in a bad mood today,” Spencer pointed out with a teasing smirk on his face. A smirk, and white sugar blanketing his upper lip.

“Derek’s full of shit,” you grinned after swallowing your snack, the smile on your face totally facetious. “I’m extremely happy.”

“I can tell,” Spencer snickered as you set the powdered donuts back in your snack drawer, closing it with a clank. You watched as he brought both of his legs up into his desk chair, crossing them like a kindergartner.

The action made your stomach flutter. You’d felt strongly about Spencer for a really long time, probably a year and half, if you had to try and pinpoint it. But there was no use in going down that road with him. For one thing, he was your best friend, and you didn’t want to risk flushing the best relationship in your life down the toilet. For another thing, you knew it was one hundred percent impossible that he could feel the same way.

“What’d you do this weekend?” Spencer asked, and you could tell by the question that he was trying to discover the source of your poor attitude.

“Stayed home, caught up on chores,” You said, crossing your knees and leaning back in your seat, your expression telling him that you knew exactly what he was doing. As much fun as playing mind games with Spencer was, you decided to throw him a bone. “Spoke to my grandmother on the phone last night.”

Spencer nodded understandingly. “Say no more,” he said with a chuckle. “She gave you the whole ‘when are you going to get married’ spiel again?”

You nodded. “Unfortunately. I usually don’t let it bother me, but for some reason it’s just, like, lurking in the back of my mind today.” You shrugged your shoulders and exhaled through your nose. “What about you?” You asked.

“What about me?” Spencer arched a brow, and you rolled your eyes playfully.

“What’d you do this weekend?”

“Oh,” Spencer began, pursing his lips for a moment, like he was hesitant to tell you. “I actually went on a date.”

Your stomach flipped. “Oh yeah?” You choked out, forcing a smile. “Who with?”

“That girl, Lisa, from the coffee shop, the one you told me wouldn’t stop ‘ogling my boy band hair’,” Spencer held up air quotes when he repeated your words from memory.

You recalled the cute barista from the coffee shop just down the highway from Quantico, a popular morning stop for agents on their way to work. You tried to stop the jealousy from turning your blood into fire. “How was it?” You asked, trying to resist the urge to sit on the edge of your seat, trying not to hang on his every word.

Spencer shrugged his shoulders. “It was okay. She was very nice, but there just wasn’t…” he trailed off, gesticulating as the words failed to come to that supercomputer brain of his.

“It was like a donut without powdered sugar on it?” You suggested with a small chuckle.

“Yeah,” Spencer agreed, nodding, meeting your eyes and smiling, mildly amused. “Exactly.”

Spencer went back to his desk a few minutes later, and the rest of the day went on. It was quiet, especially for a day at the BAU. There were, weirdly enough, no open cases right now, so you spent the day catching up on paperwork, which there was always plenty of.

You caught the elevator about ten minutes after five with Spencer in tow, and you held the door open for him. It was just the two of you as you made the descent from the sixth floor, and Spencer leaned against the back wall. “Plans tonight?” He asked.

“Not really, no,” You said, shaking your head. “Why, you want to do something?” You asked.

Spencer nodded. “There’s this landscape and nature photography exhibit at one of the galleries downtown,” he said. “Might be fun. There’s this artist, Milton Harvell, who takes photos of renowned locations around the world but zooms in on an obscure detail and gives the framed photograph to the person who correctly guesses the location.”

You smiled slowly at that. You loved it when Spencer went off on one of his tangents. You found it completely adorable. “It’s actually quite fascinating,” Spencer went on, an amused tone lining his voice, making it sound lighter. “Kind of like a Where’s Waldo, but in reverse. There was this one photograph he took of the Louvre in Paris, but he zoomed in really tightly on a young boy enjoying an ice cream cone. He even went so far as to edit the photograph to make it look like it was a different time of day. The four thousand and eighth person to view the photograph was the person who guessed the correct location.” Spencer’s head bobbed and he was smiling like an idiot.

God, you were down bad.

“Was the four thousand and eighth person… you?” You asked, narrowing your eyes at him scrupulously and allowing a teasing grin to cross your face.

“The photo’s hanging in my living room,” he confirmed.

You laughed softly. “Will there be alcohol at this function?” You asked him, and he nodded.

That was all you needed to hear.

— — —

You and Spencer went straight to the art gallery from work, sharing a cab rather than bothering with your cars. You immediately bought a glass of red wine, and began to follow him around the gallery. You weren’t an art aficionado, not by any means, but you enjoyed looking at beautiful things, and you especially enjoyed spending time with Spencer that wasn’t hunched over a dead body or trying to map out a killer’s comfort zone. It was a rare occurrence, so you tried to soak it all up as much as possible.

Plus, your Nan’s words were still lingering in the back of your head. It’ll happen for you someday, Button. Men just don’t find you strong, career types attractive. Maybe you should soften up your look a little.

You downed your first glass of wine within ten minutes, and caught one of the catering staff passing out champagne almost instantaneously after. The champagne fizzled down your throat as you strolled with Spencer through the art gallery, listening intently as he went on about each piece, rattling off whatever contextual knowledge he had. But you were a little bit biased; you could listen to him list different types of soil and find it interesting.

After the glass of champagne came another glass of champagne, and by the time you made it to the main exhibit Spencer wanted to see, your cheeks were flushed. It wasn’t that you couldn’t hold your alcohol; rather, it just made you a little bit silly. Your inhibitions were lowered, just like it would affect anyone. But with your arm looped through Spencer’s and your Nan’s nagging message still in the back of your mind, you were perhaps a little more loose than usual.

As Spencer examined the exhibit, you tapped your foot, unable to keep still, and scanned the open space. Your eyes landed on another patron of the gallery, a conventionally handsome man about your age, and you found yourself unlooping your arm from Spencer’s, subconsciously not wanting to appear taken.

“Are you gonna go talk to that guy?” Spencer asked, and you snapped your eyes back to his. “Because you can, if you want to. Don’t let me stop you.”

It was almost like he was daring you to. Spencer’s jaw seemed tense as you examined his expression, the way his gorgeous brown eyes darted from the man and back to you. “You don’t mind?” You asked, arching a brow, almost like a challenge.

Spencer shook his head, his lips pursed. “Not at all. I’ll wait here for you?”

You nodded, and turned towards the man. There wasn’t any harm in getting a guy’s number, right? Your feelings for Spencer were a lost cause, anyway. Plus, as Nan liked to point out, you weren’t getting any younger.

The man’s eyes locked on yours and he seemed to understand that you were about to speak with him. He met you halfway, and you shook his hand. “Malcolm Greene,” he introduced himself, and you spouted off your own name in return. “You’re not here with that guy?” He asked, jerking his chin over to Spencer. Your eyes followed Malcolm’s, and you saw Spencer with his body turned towards the photography exhibit, but his head turned to the side, as if he were keeping an eye on you with his peripheral vision.

“Yeah, I am,” you said, and Malcolm’s head inclined to the side. “I am. I’m here with that guy,” you panicked, suddenly realizing in that moment that you weren’t interested in speaking with Malcolm. No, you had absolutely no interest in spending your time with any other man but Spencer Reid. “I just, uh…” Your cheeks flushed, and you stifled an awkward laugh, anxiously trying to come up with some excuse. “I came over here to tell you that your shoe was united.”

Your eyes followed Malcolm’s down to his shoes, which were loafers. Laceless loafers. Malcolm’s mouth opened as if to point this out to you, but you managed to stammer words out first. “Ok, well, have a great night, goodbye!” You turned on your heel and marched back over to Spencer, your cheeks red as you reached out for his arm.

Spencer furrowed his brows down at you as your arm gripped his. “I need another glass of wine,” you confessed.

Twenty minutes later, after two more glasses of wine and a very watchful eye out for Malcolm, you and Spencer left the art gallery. You were awfully giggly on the cab ride back to your place, cracking puns and humming along to the radio intermittently. Spencer seemed to be amused, but more so concerned with getting you home in one piece.

As he walked you up the stairs to the door of your apartment building, he was teasing you about your conversation with Malcolm, which you still hadn’t told him completely about. “I still can’t believe you didn’t get his number. You were talking with him for exactly two minutes and twelve seconds. What, in that short of an amount of time, could have turned you off to him so quickly?” He pondered aloud, a playfully mocking tone lining his voice.

“Listen, I shook his hand! I had my fun!” You exclaimed, bursting into laughter as you leaned against the handrail of the stairs that led up to the door. “Good, clean fun!”

“You know, the number of pathogens that are passed during a handshake is staggering. It’s actually safer to kiss someone,” Spencer rattled off, and your eyes snapped to meet his.

You don’t know what took you over. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way the street lamps reflected in the irises of his eyes, or how you stood just a few inches away from him. Maybe it was his stupid tweed blazer, how he looked like a tenured art history professor despite barely being thirty years old. Maybe it was the way he smelled like pine and printer ink, a combination you wouldn’t have ever thought was attractive.

But when Spencer said that, you stood up on your toes and kissed him. It was slow and innocent at first, until it passed the border into lingering, and Spencer’s hands found your hips, pulling your body closer to his. There was a cool night breeze that filtered through the space between your bodies, and by the time you pulled your lips away from Spencer’s, and slowly opened your eyes, you were completely red in the face and breathless.

No, that certainly wasn’t the safest choice you could have made.

——

read part 2 here

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #basketonthedoorstepofthefbi #criminal minds spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!baureader

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kiame-sama · 6 months ago

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Not gonna lie, Drider!Rook made me think about the story ‘The Most Dangerous Game’ and I can just picture him wanting to hunt Reader since he’s never encountered such an exotic and unique prey like a Human, as he’s vibrating from excitement about how his newest ‘Prey’ shall fair against him

He probably read stories about Humans in his youth and wondered before they went extinct, how they were able to survive without gills, scales, claws, wings, poison, etc or even without magic

Because Reader uses hidden traps and misleading tracks, Rook calls her ‘Mademoiselle Trickster’ (Mademoiselle is a title for an Unmarried Women in French) and felt his heart skip a beat seeing Reader use her intelligence, cunning and trickery to get the upper hand over him

Only he’s not going to eat or kill her, rather he just wants to feel the thrill of the hunt by chasing an endangered species (He has no intention to harm her)

But here’s a twist, the hunt is actually a common mating practice for his species of Drider (Or just his family) when it comes to finding a mate

There’s not really a lot of information about Rook’s family as he’s quite secretive about himself (Which I find ironic because he wants to know everything when it comes to his ‘Muses’)

(I know the shadows over his eyes don't make sense given the pose and the angle of the lighting, but I liked the way they looked all darkened and menacing, so I kept the eye shadows for my own aesthetic.)

(Rook waiting in his web on the Pomefiore ballroom ceiling. He does this to observe the other students and document their habits and will even do this web building around campus in heavy traffic areas/popular gathering spots to stalk others more effectively. Vil will often throw things at Rook if he sees the Drider has built yet another web on the Pomefiore ceiling. His dorm robes aren't well suited for the upsidedown life, but he makes due and uses magic to keep his favorite hat in place on his head.)

- Rook would absolutely love hunting the little Human Trickster if only to experience the thrill of The Hunt. He wouldn't dare harm a hair on his sweet Human's head, but he would absolutely love a back and forth of Hunter and Hunted with them just for fun. He may not tell the little Human it is just for fun, seeing as he wants an authentic experience and a good hunt. Once he eventually catches his Human- and he will catch them at some point- he will be practically bouncing from the thrill of it all and only then will he inform the terrified Human that this was a game and not an actual hunt. Were it an actual hunt, they would not have seen a single hair of the Drider before he struck.

- There is little as exhilarating to Rook than a hunt for prey that knows how to fight back and evade him. Any traps his Human sets, no matter how flimsy or obvious, will only thrill Rook becuase he loves the idea of being hunted by his own prey. To flip the tables on such a skilled Huntsman only makes the game more fun. There is nothing quite like the thrill of chasing down dangerous game and it certainly gets Rook's blood burning hot and pumping.

- As Rook is a Golden Huntsman Drider, he doesn't often participate in web-building in regards to hunting his prey. He will build webs for many reasons in many places, but rarely ever will he build a web to be used in an actual hunt. Huntsman are a spider species known for wandering, tracking down prey, and foraging when needed, Rook is no different and is a voracious predator when it comes to the true hunting and gathering of prey. Naturally, this does mean all of his family shares this drive to hunt. Hunting is ingrained in a Huntsman's DNA so naturally they will also hunt prospective mates.

- Like their spider counterparts, male Huntsman Driders- upon locating a suitable mate- have a tendency to lay their legs in substrate and shuffle them back and forth to make a rustling or rattling sound depending on the substrate. Usually a hunter would not be keen to reveal themselves, but this sound can draw in curious prey and curious mates who are seeking the Drider making the sound. Part of this mating display is hunting their mates down and drawing them in with the sound before springing. Naturally, when they have their mates in their grasp, they don't let go easily as Huntsman Spiders are known to cling tightly to prey and even predators to stop themselves from being shaken off or dislodged from their quarry.

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #yandere rook hunt #yandere rook x reader #yandere twst #twst monster au #yandere drider #yandere monster #monster au #Humans Are Extinct TWST AU #hae rook

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mango-dot-yum · 2 months ago

Text

I don’t know if this is a hot take or not- or even if other people think about this- but the part in most versions of the choreography of Pumping Iron with the women on their hands and knees pisses me off so much. I don’t know why, but it makes me irrationally angry

All this over a man with “ball” in his name💔

#stex #starlight express #greaseball the diesel #this is all just jokes #but #I genuinely do not like this part of it #in almost all regards I prefer older versions of stex but not this specific part of Pumping Iron #why are they doing this bro #ESPECIALLY the components #stand up💔

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canonsinthehead · 8 months ago

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love ur random village headcanons!! what do you think is the beauty standard in the villages? for girls & boys

GALAXY BRAIN HAS ENTERED THE CHAT! YOU ARE ONTO SOMETHING...

It's a subject that has been on the back of my mind for a while so imma try to make sense of the few full paper notes I have... --------------------------------------------------//////////////------------------

Naruto Headcanons - Beauty Standards in Different Villages.

BEFORE WE START, i wanna remind the fact that not fitting these description doesnt make you ugly. It is what is considered ideal based on the village's cultural norms, history, social norms and etc.

KONOHA:

Because of the founders Hashimara & Madara's traits, like blonde hair or other flashy colors (except red) are perceived as uncommon/strange.

Over time, the standard switched from Hashirama features to Madara's.

Ironically, Konoha pumps out the most plastic surgeons than any surgeons than any other nations. Most of them operate outside the Country of Fire.

STANDARD FOR KONOHA MEN:

In the past, long hair in men was admired and desired as it signified you live long enough for them to grow. Wow! you made it this long, you must be strong but this ideal is lost as the preference shifted towards shorter haircuts.

Long slim face

High nose bridge and long nose

SOMEONE FITTING THE MALE BEAUTY STANDARD:

(obviously, Sasuke Uchiha & Minato Namikaze)

OTHER CHARACTERS FITTING THE MALE BEAUTY STANDARD:

Yuji Itadori (Jujutsu Kaisen) & Kang Dahyeok (Killer Crush)

STANDARD FOR KONOHA WOMEN:

Same here, Having long hair has always been perceived as the pinnacle of female beauty. those who cut their hair short or never grow their strands past shoulder-length often get bullied.

Delicate Hands

Round Eyes

Oval Face Shape

PALE SKIN (applies to everybody), as crazy as it sounds, Konoha & Kiri are nations where social status bumps up your attractiveness but let's be real for a minute. The Hyuugas & Uchihas are upheld to such a high pedestal for their social status AND adherence to the beauty standard (pale + oval face + slim long nose)

Also if you have something with your eyes (whatever it is), it's perceived as a positive since special ocular appearances is associated with great physical stregnth.

Along with all the features previously mentioned, if you have a (face + spirit) that shines like the sun or burns like an unstoppable fire, it is considered very attractive on both genders.

SOMEONE FITTING THE FEMALE BEAUTY STANDARD:

Ino Yamanaka & Mito Uzumaki

OTHER CHARACTERS FITTING THE FEMALE STANDARD:

Tohru Honda (Fruits Basket) & Shirley Fenette (Code Geass)

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

IWA:

STANDARD FOR IWA MEN:

Being larger is seen as a positive. it is believed that a thicker male body proves it is wealthy and well-fed. On the other side of this, skinny shaming among men is crazyyyyyyy (they don't want to leave Deidara alone). Not all men are bigger or thicker but there's high chances you'll get look down upon for being "too skinny".

if you look like you can't carry a bag of rocks, you don't fit the standard. there's a saying mentioning the need to be "build like a rock" and how its a measure of men's value based on appearance

Larger nose are liked on men, in other nanations (excluding Kumo) would cut you off the beauty strandard by this feature alone

"You need to eat more." "You look like a twig"

facial hair

SOMEONE FITTING THE MALE BEAUTY STANDARD:

Monga

OTHER CHARACTERS FITTING THE MALE STANDARD:

Dalton (One Piece) & Genjirou Tanigaki (Golden Kamuy)

STANDARD FOR IWA WOMEN:

The athletic slim built has always been the standard along with being tall since the average female height is the highest in the world

the perfect combo is perceived to be slim built + long legs.

due to the influence of the massive adult/corn industry, large breasts became valued in women and made their way to the beauty standard.

breast augmentation surgery is a huge and profitable industry but most of the surgeons performing it come from the counrty of fire.

going with the element associated with each village (in this case stone), earth tones colors are seen as more attractive.

SOMEONE FITTING THE FEMALE BEAUTY STANDARD:

Iwa Kunoichi

OTHER CHARACTERS FITTING THE FEMALE STANDARD:

Nico Robin (One Piece) & Makoto Kino/Sailor Jupiter (Sailor Moon)

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KUMO:

Clear and bright skin, no matter the skin tone.

Yes, Darker skin tones are heavely celebrated are seen as a sign of health and vigority. It is the only nation to consider this feature in its beauty standards modeled after the bloodline of the Raikage. It lead to the prevelence of tanning salons all over the country

in case you don't have it, it's still fine since Kumo is very considered of its diversity. But if you dont, please have clear skin since acne and pimples is frown upon on both genders especially among adults

Kumo has something for pale hair, the hair dye industry is huge over there.

STANDARD FOR KUMO MEN:

it may sound weird but a neat hairline. Also if you start balding, you might as well shave your whole head before being sent to bullying jail.

Strong legs are seen as the peak of mobility and aesthetic for men.

slightly longer faces

SOMEONE FITTING THE MALE BEAUTY STANDARD:

Karai, C & Raikage (for his immaculate physique and the standard for older men)

OTHER CHARACTERS FITTING THE MALE STANDARD:

Kento Nanami (Jujutsu Kaisen) & Aomine Daiki (Kuroko no Basket)

STANDARD FOR KUMO WOMEN

Curvier bodies (Coke bottle body shape) are upheld as the peak of the female beauty standard. hence why Karui was mocked for being slim and small chested. for this very reason, Kumo is the Lipposuction captial of the world.

plump/bigger lips

Winged Doe eyes

SOMEONE FITTING THE FEMALE BEAUTY STANDARD:

Karui & Mabui.

OTHER CHARACTERS FITTING THE FEMALE STANDARD:

Alex Benedetto (GANGSTA), Yoruichi Shihouin (Bleach) & Balalaika (Black Lagoon)

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KIRI

for centuries, just being of a higher caster could carry you to higher levels of physical attractiveness

STANDARD FOR KIRI MEN:

Shark teeth are a sign of great beauty in men for various ethnicites trough out the country of Water. It signifies resistance and tenacity as many past regimes attemped to supress/breed out this physical trait. Some men shave their own teeth to achieve this look.

Small firece eyes

Short Dark hair

A large and muscular back

Being Tall, by average male residents are the tallest in the world but the out of reach ideal sits around 190-195 cm. Men this height were prime picks for millitary and guerillas trough out Kiri's history, now most of them this height are affiliated with criminal behaviour but aknowdledge for the physical strenght a body this big can offer.

(NSFW) A large schlong. it is a feature more present among the lower caste demography and has been demonized by Yagura's regime as a mean to dehumanize this male population. Ironically, according to many traditions it is perceive as a sign of fretility and often goes hand-in-hand with the height.

it is only recently that "softer" features made their way into the male beauty standard

SOMEONE FITTING THE MALE BEAUTY STANDARD:

Kimimaro & Zabuza Momochi

OTHER CHARACTERS FITTING THE MALE STANDARD:

Kuroko Tetsuya & Kagami Taiga (Kuroko no Basket), both fit the Kiri modern beauty standard (if you ignore Kuroko's height)

According to the most popularized/old school/traditional beauty standard than it would be: Guts (Berserk) & Gyomei Himejima (Demon Slayer)

STANDARD FOR KIRI WOMEN:

Feline/Siren like eyes

Brown or Black Hair

For the longest, curvier bodies were associated with prostitutes belonging to gang or the mobster's female counterpart. The standard have always been average built for women. It goes along why many found Sera very vulgar when she started her carrer. They associated her appearance with women of lower caste.

SOMEONE FITTING THE FEMALE BEAUTY STANDARD:

Suiren

OTHER CHARACTERS FITTING THE FEMALE BEAUTY STANDARD:

Yomi Isayama (Ga-Rei Zero)

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SUNA:

While facial markings/paintings are related to your family/clan/lineage, they are perceived as a great sign of beauty in men and women

head coverings are used for all types of reasons but are well regarded for both genders since it represent the ultimate form of modesty

Unfortunately, Suna has to be the most fatphobic nation out there as bigger people seen as unfit for (basic) survival in a desertic country

STANDARD FOR SUNA MEN:

Since Gaara became Kazekage, Red Hair became a sign of beauty and success regardless of being a rare trait in the Country of Wind. It is ironic since it has been a feature many people have gotten severely bullied for in the past (Gaara was when he was a child).

Slight Tan/Olive Skin

SOMEONE FITTING THE MALE BEAUTY STANDARD:

Gaara/Sasori & Shira

OTHER CHARACTERS FITTING THE MALE STANDARD:

Shanks (One Piece)

STANDARD FOR SUNA WOMEN:

Thick Eyebrows

you can see some of the most dramatic make ups in Suna (the golden highlights+ full eyeshadow+ contour). it goes the opposite way of other nations since the clothes designs are more simplistic and stays away from anthing considered too flashy. So makeup operates as a for of self-expression without standing out too much.

small chest

brown hair

SOMEONE FITTING THE FEMALE BEAUTY STANDARD:

Maki

OTHER CHARACTERS FITTING THE FEMALE STANDARD:

Cana (Fairy Tail) & San (Princess Mononoke)

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pininghermit · 2 months ago

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Shattered Armor

Request: @mairablue Hi 💞 Are you still taking requests for spin the wheel event about Adrian? I got the prompt, "He fell first". Can you please write a story with the prompt? Thank you!

AN: Hi friend, thanks for requesting! Please do excuse my own inner angst for this one but this was so cathartic to write.

Genre: He fell first

Pairing(s): Adrian Tepes x female Reader

Summary:Long ago Adrian had walked away from your world. World that never slept. Run by meetings, contracts, profits, grind. Adrian had left it for his mother’s cafe. To the world that smelled of roasted coffee and Mediterranean sandwiches. A glimpse of himself is perhaps what attracts him to you. Like a moth to flame, his heart follows.

Adrian remembers your coffee order as if it were etched into his mind.

Grande, half-decaf, oat milk latte with two pumps of hazelnut, one pump of vanilla, extra foam, and a light sprinkle of cinnamon on top. Exactly 135 degrees.

It was etched there from the first time you walked into his cafe. Typing away on your phone, a Bluetooth headset snug in your ear, you barely glanced at him as you rattled off your intricate order.

You had the air of someone important, busy, and detached. A person who lived in a world that never stopped spinning. Adrian had immediately dubbed you a corporate asshole in his mind.

That’s what he thought as he made your coffee the first time.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at your request, even as he worked to make it perfect. But when you tipped fifty dollars with a casual shrug and moved on without looking back, Adrian had to pause.

Who was he to judge?

When he brought the coffee to your table, he’d planned to offer you a free muffin as a gesture of goodwill after that mountainous tip. But as he approached, his words faltered.

Gone was the polished, confident figure in an expensive suit who had walked in just moments earlier. Instead, you looked small, as though the weight of the world had folded you in on yourself.

You were slumped back in your chair, staring blankly out the window. The person who’d walked in moments before had vanished, replaced by someone far more vulnerable.

Your shoulders were hunched, your hands limp in your lap, and your eyes, distant and red-rimmed, spoke of a weariness that felt all too familiar.

Adrian had frozen, caught off guard by the rawness of your expression.

He knew that look.

It was the same one he used to see in the reflection of office windows late at night. Back when his days were filled with meetings, contracts, and expectations. Back when the weight of his father’s company pressed down on his chest, even in the rare moments of stillness.

World was harsh to all. But it made itself harsher for women. It forged the might of iron to shape them into the form that it deemed acceptable.

Long ago Adrian had walked away from your world. World that never slept. Run by meetings, contracts, profits, grind. Adrian had left it for his mother’s cafe. To the world that smelled of roasted coffee and Mediterranean sandwiches. A glimpse of himself is perhaps what attracts him to you. Like a moth to flame, his heart follows.

Without a word, Adrian swapped the muffin for a sandwich. Sugar wouldn’t help someone who looked like they were barely holding it together. He set the plate down quietly, careful not to disturb you, and slipped away before you could respond.

Yet he saw it, the way you glanced down at the sandwich, brows furrowed in confusion, before hesitantly picking it up. Your movements were slow, deliberate, like someone unaccustomed to acts of care. Adrian had watched from a distance as you chewed, your expression softening ever so slightly.

You come during the quiet hours now, always slipping in like you’re sneaking moments away from something relentless. Adrian watches as you sit by the window, eyes tracing the slow crawl of traffic. He notices the way your shoulders loosen as the minutes pass, how the tension drains from your body in the comfort of the cafe’s stillness.

He doesn’t ask questions. Instead, he keeps leaving sandwiches by your coffee. Most of the time, you don’t finish them. He often finds the leftovers in the bin or in your hands as you leave, your fingers brushing crumbs from your lap.

Adrian doesn’t know why you linger in his mind. Maybe it’s the reflection of himself he sees in you, the person he once was, drowning in a world that demanded too much. Maybe it’s the quiet grief that clings to you, invisible to everyone else but glaring to him.

What he does know is that every time you walk out the door, holding a sandwich you’ll probably forget to eat, something inside him twists in ways he thought he’d left behind.

And so he keeps watching, keeps waiting. Because in the stillness of the café, he’s found something he never expected: a tie to someone who reminds him of what it’s like to need saving.

Patrick Len sent a meeting invite.

The notification flashes on your phone just as you’re about to place your usual order. The familiar chime of the Slack app makes your stomach turn, and for a fleeting moment, you imagine hurling the damned device off Mount Everest.

You suppress a groan, the simmering frustration bubbling beneath your skin. You’d just told Patrick about your lunch break, a rare and sacred 30 minutes of freedom. Yet here you are again, accepting the last-minute invite with the same resigned flick of your thumb.

As you place your order without even looking up, your mind replays the mechanics of your daily grind. The way your gaze always seems glued to your phone, your head perpetually bowed as if in servitude to the towering skyscrapers of the corporate hub that looms over your life. Every day, they press down on you, making it harder to breathe.

This time, you put your phone on silent with a little more force than usual, slamming it onto the table and fighting back the prickling sensation behind your eyes. You will not cry. Not until the handsome barista brings your coffee, at least.

By now, Adrian has probably witnessed a dozen of your near-breakdowns. Would one more really be that surprising?

There’s something about this cafe, though something that makes it impossible to hold back the cracks in your armor. It’s far enough from the looming heights of your office, just a 15-minute drive that feels like a lifetime away. Here, you don’t have to sit under the shadow of your desk, with its endless agenda waiting to devour your soul.

Here, you can breathe, if only for a moment.

You glance out the window at children skipping home from school, their laughter floating into the street. Middle-aged women huddle together, their grocery bags heavy but their conversations light. Dogs prance by with their owners, tails wagging, paws pattering. And then there’s Adrian, the barista who brings you the best sandwiches you’ve ever had, always with a smile that feels unearned.

In this tiny pocket of the world, no one is watching for your cracks. No one is calculating the sincerity of your smile or judging the perfect precision of your project briefs.

It’s liberating and miserable all at once. Liberating to step away from the chaos, but miserable to know how fleeting it is, how high the price is for chasing your so-called dream.

A silly dream, stubborn and relentless, the kind you can’t quite let go of no matter how much it costs you.

This cafe has become your refuge, the only place you allow yourself to slip from the relentless mold of perfection. A place where you let the cracks widen, if only a little, as you sit and let the world drift by.

Yet, this cafe is where you dare to let go of your shattered armor. And allow your nurse Joy (yes Pokemon Go had some great gems here) to allow you some healing with the most amazing hummus dressings.

The $50 tips? Excessive, even by your standards. But you leave them anyway, for Adrian. For the barista whose eyes follow you with a softness you can’t quite understand, like a puppy waiting for a reason to stay close.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s why you keep coming back.

#castlevania #alucard #alucard x reader #adrian tepes x reader #asks #tropevania event #strangers to lovers #he fell first

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emcscared-whumps · 2 years ago

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WRITING RESOURCES

This post will be updated with new entries

Last updated: 01 Aug, 2024

See the Updated Version!

WRITING TIPS & RESOURCES

ASL: Technicques to Write Signed Dialogue

Disability Writing Guides (Another resource post)

Disabilities that You Should Consider Representing in Your Writing More Part 1 (Another esource post)

Editing Service (by @concerningwolves)

Emotional Intelligence in Conflict

Ellipsus, the New Collaborative Writing Tool

Difficult Chapters

Drafting: Four Methods for Highly Anxious Individuals

Writing Disability: Overused Tropes

General Writing Resources Post (Collaborative)

Lay or Lie

MS Word Shortcuts Guide

Niel Gaiman Teaches the Art of Storytelling

Platonic Relationship Development

Passive Voice Advice

Publishing

On Punctuating Speech

Scene Transition

Sentence Ending Pointers

YA MacGuffins and Games, A Trope Analysis

Your Readers Don't Know - The Truth of the First 30 Pages

Weirdly Specific but Helpful Character Building Questions

The Writer's Sus Resources Post

The Writer's Workbook

WHUMP

The Anatomy of Kill Blows (Collaborative)

The Biology of Human Survival (Life and Death in Extreme Environments), by Claude A. Piantadosi

Whump Events (A linked Google doc by @whumpsday )

Whump Reference Books (A linked list created by @bump-of-whump )

Whump Resources (A resource post by @a-crumb-of-whump , how to start a whump blog, oc advice, advice on motivation and dealing with discouragement, and games

Iron Comb (Iron combs for processing wood/flax fibre used as a torture device in historical settings)

Mer Whump Bingo by @a-crumb-of-whump

The Whumpy Printing Press is Open for Submissions for Publication of Whumpy Novels!

WOUNDS, INJURIES, & TRAUMA

GSW Recovery - [A] [B] [C]

Malnutrition

Migraines

Passing out from pain

PTSD Dreams

Scar Tissue Info

Sleep Deprivation

Writing Traumatic Injuries Resources (Another resource post)

More Resources for Writing Injuries (Another resource post)

WEAPONS

Gun information

The Safety and Mechanism of a Bolt Action Rifle

Bolt Action Rifle Mechanism (Animated diagram)

Semiautomatic Rifle Mechanism (Animated diagram)

Pump Action Rifle Mechanism (Animated diagram)

CLOTHING

African Women's Fashion (Outfit examples video)

Lady's Clothes Guide

Men's Fashion Guide

Men's Suits Guide

Period Clothing References

Shirt types

Vintage Fashion Clips (Saved for scarf pin :))

MISC

African Hair Care and FAQ

Art Resources and References (Another resource post)

Creating a Chinese Name

Writing Deaf, Mute, or Blind Characters

Place Description Aid...?

Directional Hearing Underwater

Drawing Fat Simple

General Cane Guide

Ideas to Consider when Creating BIPOC Characters

POC Stock Photos

Wheelchair References for Art and Writing (features images) (broken)

Whump Community Directory (Tumblr blogs)

Wikipedia Monster Compilation Pages for People (Another resource post)

If there're any broken links, please let me know!

#emc's shit #writing resources #whump resources #i store neat shit i find :3 #2nd link in the entry of the whump category is missing??????

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sea-lanterns · 2 years ago

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AIRPLANE MODE

synopsis: you're the cute flight attendant they rail in the bathroom

featuring: ningguang and yelan

rating: 18+ n.sfw (men and minors dni)

warnings: sub! afab female reader, 3some, fingering, s.ex in an airplane bathroom, dirty talk, marking, double penetration...? (they finger you at the same time) s.ex in the workplace, unprofessional relationship between server and client, reader wears a skirt.

art credits: unknown (found on amino)

“This is so unhygienic…” Ningguang grumbled.

“Ironic you say that, considering you chose this place to fuck her in…” Yelan laughed.

You stifled a moan with your palm as Ningguang’s fingers slotted themselves into your cunt and separated your folds to spear them open. Yelan standing in front of you in the cramped, cramped bathroom and unbuttoning the collar of your uniform to suck dark hickies onto your neck.

The bathrooms of airplanes were never meant to be used any other way, yet in the small vicinity sandwiched between the two women, you realized that airplane bathrooms had their perks when it came to sexual affairs with passengers. As you choked on your own noises, Yelan groaned and nudged your skirt upward to gaze down at Ning toying with your clit.

“Move over. She can fit both of us.”

Reluctantly so, Ningguang made a face and pressed her fingers to the side, grazing against a spot that made you squirm, and allowing room in your pussy to fit both her and Yelan’s fingers all at once.

“Hold on—! That’s too much…” you groaned, watching as the bluenette’s fingers caressed your twitching lips.

“Mm, but you’re so wet already, dollface…” Yelan chuckled coyly. “Two more fingers wouldn’t hurt. Besides, Ning made sure to make room for me…”

At her taunts, Ningguang rolled her eyes and thrusted her fingers upward, a gasp eliciting from your throat as she pumped low and deep strokes.

“Hurry up. Or I’ll make her cum myself.”

“Never struck you as the impatient type, Ning.”

Oh, just how did you get yourself in this predicament…

“…Don’t you think that flight attendant was super hot?”

“You think every woman in tights is hot.”

As the only people flying business class, you were in charge of making sure their needs were met, as the two women that were on board were very important people. Not only were they extremely attractive, but the two of them seemed to be whispering an awful lot about you every time you left after serving them.

“I bet I could snag her before you do.”

“Hm. You seem awfully confident about that…”

It didn’t help that the both of them weren’t being very subtle every time they spoke to you. It was almost as if they had to flirt with you every time you interacted, as you always left their cabin with a blush on your cheeks and a deep pit in your stomach that begged to be unraveled. Yelan —the bluenette’s name you learned— was the more flirty of the two as she always insisted on you coming back with them to their hotel. While Ningguang —the woman with the beautiful, long locks of white— often stared at you with a calm, yet analytical gaze that admired how your uniform fit snug against your body.

She’s always loved a woman in uniform.

“So, what do you say? Come back with us when we land?” Yelan grinned deviously.

“Why wait? I think the bathroom is free. Three of us could squeeze in.” Ningguang hums, the tip of her tongue swiping over her lips, as she lets her eyes wander down your neck.

“Ah…we need to be quick then…” you mumbled weakly in response, the pit in your stomach burning hotter as you pressed your thighs together.

“Of course.” Yelan grinned. “I can finish you faster than Ning could anyway.”

The other woman scoffed and unbuckled her seatbelt.

“Don’t get too cocky. It’s a bet.”

Your eyes rolled back in pleasure as Yelan pressed her fingers firmly against the entrance of your cunt. Her fingers were skinny, colder than Ning’s but dawned a brilliant shade of dark azure that flicked your clit. You wondered if Ning’s nails were also painted, you didn’t get to see so yourself when she quickly plunged her fingers deep inside you.

“You look so mesmerized…” Yelan laughed airily. “Never been touched like this before?”

“Well…not by two women at the same time…” you mumbled, watching as the base of Ning’s fingers met with Yelan’s tips in an effort to tease her. “You play around too much,” Ningguang mutters. “You’ll make her hate you.”

“Awe, the doll wouldn’t hate me. After all, I fell for her first…” Yelan tilted your head up with her free hand and opened her lips. “Open wide sweetie, this one will be loud…”

You reluctantly parted your lips and Yelan immediately kissed you deeply, the sticky feel of her lipstick smearing over your own as she suddenly thrusted two of her fingers inside. Her fingers, along with Ning’s fingers, made you feel extra full as they stretched you to your limit.

“Mmph!”

“We need to be quiet…” Ningguang reminded gently, scarlet eyes trailing over to your pulled down collar. “Well, only you at least…”

And then she bit her mark on your shoulder. The other arm wrapping around your waist and keeping you firmly on her lap as she pressed you closer against her front. Possessive was she, you didn’t expect that of the woman, but it was always the more quiet ones with a darker side…

Both Yelan and Ningguang’s fingers thrusted inside you at the same time. Four fingers. You were currently taking four fingers in total from the two women, and it was making you feel so, so deliciously full.

“God…I want to take you with us…” Yelan mumbled into your kiss, a smeared color combo of your lipsticks stuck on the corner of her lip. “You’re so sweet. What do you say about becoming one of our secretaries…?”

“I have enough of those already…” Ningguang sighs, trailing the darkening mark with her tongue. “She can just be our spoiled girl. I’m sure she’d like that…”

Oh. Yeah, you’d like that a lot.

You groaned as your walls tightened against their fingers, gripping onto Ningguang’s thighs to stabilize yourself as you shifted your hips to meet with their thrusts. They were mesmerized. A mixture of lust —and maybe love— as they stared at you with the most undivided attention.

“Getting closer, dollface?” Yelan chuckles, starting to speed up and leaving Ningguang in the dust. “It’s okay. I can make you cum now…”

Ningguang did not like that.

“I’m sure she thinks otherwise…” she mumbled, soon speeding up her own thrusts as well.

Their rhythms were so, so out of sync. Yet it felt so good as their brutal, uneven rhythms moved quicker inside you in an attempt to outdo the other. So competitive, so brutal, yet you seemed to enjoy it as both women laid their claim on you with a searing kiss. Yelan’s on your lips, and Ningguang’s on the back of your neck.

“Gosh…you t-two…” you moaned against Yelan’s kiss and felt the heat building up more and more, their palms hitting your cunt with each repetitive swing that built a bruising force. “If you keep going like that…”

Like a wind up, it finally unraveled. Twisting and moving as you shuddered and came all over the fingers of those two women. Their pace unrelenting as they continued pumping quick yet deep strokes into your hole.

“She’s so pretty…” Yelan mutters, moving up to move a stray hair away and kiss your forehead. “A true doll…”

“You feel so nice, darling,” Ningguang adds on, kissing the lower half of your jaw, “Did so well too…”

You panted under their touch and slowly caught your breath as they pressed light kisses over any exposed skin they could find. It was…strangely comforting that despite how rough they could be, they were still so soft to you. Almost acting like actual girlfriends as they made sure you were okay.

“Here, you’re a little sweaty…” Yelan chuckles, wetting some toilet paper and gently wiping the sweat off your face. Was this aftercare? You didn’t think sex with strangers would involve aftercare…

“Hand me one. My marks are bruising…” Ningguang later asks, wiping down your neck with the towelette and kissing your skin gently. The two women doting on you and making sure you weren’t in any pain after their session.

…Who knew they would be so sweet?

“Attention all passengers. The plane will begin its descent in about twenty minutes. Please return to your seats and buckle your seatbelts.”

The sudden interruption of the pilot’s announcement grounded you back to reality. The lustful haze leaving your face, as a blush slowly returned to your cheeks. Ah…you just had sex with two of your passengers… Sex with passengers while on the job…!

Yelan and Ning however, don’t seem too phased by the announcement as they look back down at you with a smile.

“Well, what do you say, dollface?” Yelan chuckles.

“Come back to the hotel with us?”

#ningguang smut #yelan smut #ningguang x reader #yelan x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin imagines #ningguang x you #yelan x you

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rhea-ripley · 1 year ago

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"#RheaRipley is a role model. A heavy metal-loving, iron-pumping, chest-thumping role model and superstar of World Wrestling Entertainment. But when she was growing up in Adelaide as a blonde-haired, sport-loving Aussie kid called Demi Bennett, the future Women’s World Champion had few heroes to follow. Most of her favourites were blokes — Triple H, CM Punk and The Miz — and she didn’t see much of herself in the female wrestlers during the so-called Divas era. “Everyone was very petite, skinny and they all looked like people you see on magazines,” @rhearipley_wwe tells Simon Collins, ahead of her appearance at WWE Elimination Chamber at Optus Stadium on February 24. “I knew I wasn’t going to grow up and look like that.” But three time women’s champion Beth Phoenix was a beacon and now Ripley is proud of the influence she’s having on her millions of fans. “It’s wild, to know how much of an impact you can have on someone’s life just from doing the one thing that you love and being yourself doing it,” she says. Read the full story and see photos from our exclusive photo shoot at TWR at Crown Towers inside Sunday’s #STMPerth."

#rhea ripley #demi bennett #wwe #wweedit #photoshoots #stmperth #my edits

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deirdreskye · 1 year ago

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we're watching the pumping iron documentary and I think I would like this movie a lot more if it was about trans women and instead of bodybuilding contests it was who can hold their pee the longest contests and the losers start crying when they pee their camo cargo pants + hello kitty panties and it drips onto the floor by their feet and the spotlight catches it all

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stevenbasic · 1 year ago

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Growing into the Job, Post 392: Cat n Mouse, p3

Melissa Monroe's chest was heaving with the excitement - certainly not the exertion - of fighting the struggles of her boyfriend’s much weaker body. With just one hand she had pinned him to the kitchen counter like it was child’s play. He’s such a weakling.“I’m way stronger than you, Jay. Way stronger,” she said, “But you like it that way, don’t you?”

“Oh, god, please, Melissa,” he moaned, still trying his hardest to move her arm just a fraction of an inch. She had him pressed to the granite, his shirt was off, and it felt cold against his bare skin. She’d just ripped his pants to shreds as well, and had thrown them aside as debris. Her arm felt like iron as it held him down. He started hitting it with his forearm, allowing them both to see just how much smaller his forearm was compared to hers as they banged against one another. After a few hits he gave up; she was as immovable as the granite below him. He was doing nothing but hurting his own arm.

Melissa chuckled. “Do you really think you have any chance of getting away from me?” she asked, “Did you really forget, or do you just like being reminded how big I am, and how tiny and weak you are?” She cocked her head in earnest curiosity. Though it was like she could look inside his skull, his eyes said everything. He fucking loved this. “Yeah I thought so. You like being reminded of it. You like being told who you depend on, of who’s in charge. You like being put in your place.”

He likes this? He likes seeing me powerful? Oh god I’m going to- NNNGH!

As Melissa spoke her voice had steadily increased in power and weight until it felt as if her very words were trying to crush him. He had turned away and closed his eyes and god help him he was still able to feel the sonic waves of her voice rippling his cheek. The tiny rodent inside him told him to remain silent and wait for the massive woman above him to calm down. Women loved this idea, now, the fantasy of a smaller, weaker, more submissive male partner and he didn’t want to risk exciting her more than he already had. He knew she loved him, but, with her body and in this state of mind, she could hurt him so easily.

Melissa, in the meantime, had taken a moment to admire the enormous, straining erection that tented his boxers and pushed half its length up past his waistband and towards his chest. Her eyes glazed over for several seconds as she smiled and imagined it inside her mouth, between her tits, sliding up into her. God she wanted it, she wanted him. She wanted him filling her womb, and she never wanted to let him out.

With barely a thought the boxers were gone as well, torn away like tissue paper, leaving him naked and exposed.

He squealed, like a little mouse, and his eyes shot open. For a moment their gazes met. Then, slowly, his fell away as he looked down at himself.

She had him naked. He was shivering on the cold stone, nothing between him and the unforgiving granite. She knew he needed her for warmth. She could've just hugged him, but she wanted to start to push his boundaries even further. Their world - the whole world in fact - was becoming like this now, and he needed to learn. It could be cold, and he was going to need her. The world wouldn’t always be so soft and cuddly.

“So, I’ve spent the last hour getting all pumped up for you,” Melissa said, her voice low and soft, “What do you think? Do you like me at this size?” For effect, she flexed the framework of her upper body, swelling her musculature with even more blood and strength and watched as his eyes goggled again. God I love being big.

“Y-yes…I…I do,” he replied, nodding, acquiescent. Though she was so close he hadn’t quite been able to bring himself to look up at her. He felt like if he did, he wouldn't be able to speak.

Peering down at him, she sensed his predicament. She knew how captivated he was. And that’s okay honey. Stay speechless. As long as he appreciated what she was becoming. She needed him to see.

“Look at me, Jay, look up at me,” she propounded, watching as timidly his gaze stutter-stepped its way up her hyperdeveloped torso. “You’ve never seen me quite like this before, have you?” she continued, allowing him some more time to drink in the overwhelming reality of her body, how incredibly muscular she’d become.

“N-no…not like this,” he breathed. He barely even knew how he was making noises now – his throat was bone-dry, his mind in chaos. “Melissa…y-you’re huge.”

“Yes.” Yes I am. She needed to show him just how superior she was, in every possible way. She had the figure of a swimsuit supermodel, breasts that could feed a village, and the strength of twenty bodybuilders. Her cheeks were already flushing with excitement as she began to understand the absolute control she had over this man. It was just so intoxicating, using her phenomenal power to do whatever she wanted to him.

His cock sprang, twitched, bobbed in the air between them, waving with its own florid, tumescent brawn. Thick veins ran down its sides, the testicles at its base swollen and tender, near pulsing.

He needs my attention. “I know you fantasize about powerful women, but I’m just getting started honey,” she said, dreamily entranced by the sight in front of her as she reached out and took his shaft into hand. She watched him groan, she saw how his eyes fluttered and his mind went to a different place. His whole body went immediately tense under the touch of her hand. “Shhhshhh shhh….I know you’re excited, honey, and it’s okay,” she purred, “Your wildest fantasies, everything you read in your comic books is going to look like nursery rhymes compared to what I'm going to be able to do."

“y-yes, oh my god Melissa yes…” he moaned, his eyes glazing over as he became lost in the fantasy.

“Get ready, honey,” she told him, reaching down to him. Without pause she took his right hand into hers, squeezing it lovingly before placing it onto the left side, of her muscled flank. She took his other hand, and gently did the same on her other side carefully securing his hands in place. “Go ahead, you can feel.”

Melissa watched as his hands, along with his rapt gaze, began tracing her waist. His hands slowly made it up to her flared ribcage. She saw his jaw drop open as his hands drifted to her lats; they were enormous, swollen thick, and far beyond a handful themselves. she loved that he could not stop marveling at the contrast of her soft skin and the muscle that visibly pulsed just beneath. Her torso had developed muscles that she wasn't even sure he could find anywhere on his own body. She let his small fingers explore and his fascination grow. His touches made her tingle.

"All of this," she sighed, flexing her massive frame again as she let him adore her, "this gigantic, powerful body, it's all for you. All of it. I started getting big to please you, and it’ll keep getting bigger and stronger to please you even more. I need to protect you. You're all that matters to me now.”

“Oh, god, M-Melissa,” he stammered, “g-god…”

It was not lost on her that his vocabulary had haha become very limited. In fact, he’d been calling on divinity like this - ‘oh god Melissa, oh god’ - when speaking to her quite a lot. That’s good, baby, she thought, thinking fondly for a moment of the men living in the office basement, that’s a good start. Give me what I need.

Jay let his hands fall, sliding down onto her hips, feeling how much bigger and wider she was than him, before gently tracing back higher along her sides. His excitement sent chills through his body as she stared at him, seemingly content to let him caress up her body right to her breasts. Melissa knew what he really wanted, she could read it in his eyes and see it even deeper inside him. But why rush him? He was just so timid though, these days, so maybe a little encouragement wouldn’t hurt.

“It’s okay baby, you can touch them too,” she whispered.

When he finally cupped his hands onto them, resting each palm upward under the heavy heft of her massive breasts, he felt a certain unmistakable urge as his cock went ready to explode. He grunted, and clamped his eyes shut.

“Shhhhh….” she cooed to him, “shhhh….relax honey, it’s okay. Try to keep it under control…”

Haha he needs some help. A small dose of pheromone 0001.55.6027.xv from her skin was enough to stop him from blowing, unbidden. He’s so excited, the poor thing. His touch was groped over her white athletic tank top, but the size and softness and weight of them were apparently just a bit too much for him. She’d need to help him control himself, if they wanted to continue to play.

“I know you like them, baby, they’re big just like the rest of me,” she purred, a trickle of pheromones pouring from her as she watched him swim in his adoration of her chest. His eyes were glued to her big tits. She knew she could use other perfumes; there were scents she could release from her body that would make him absolutely melt. They could fry his brain for her, make him even harder, more excited, more confused and submissive. He actually liked when she used them on him, she’d learned earlier today, this afternoon in her office. But she didn’t need them, not right now. This was all him, and her. This state she had him in was just natural, just like his intense fixation with her body. She loved that, and she loved him. Even if he was a little boob-monkey, a little boob-monkey that liked being drowned in perfume and always hoped for more haha..

Especially that, hahaha. I can give him more n more n more in fact…

“So, earlier today, back in my office,” she began, as his small hands tentatively explored the curves of her bosom, “I could tell you were picturing being…a lot smaller. Small enough to just hold onto me, be buried in me.” The touch of his hands was making her nipples hard, and when he passed palms over them she shuddered in delight, but was able to fight back the urge to just grab and take him then and there. Nnngh. “I want to get there, baby, get to a point where my body can be all around you, give you everything you need.”

“oh, jesus, Melissa, yesss…” Jay whined, barely aware of what he was saying.

Melissa smiled, her pulse picking up as she pictured it. “You know you're, like, a dream come true for a girl these days, right? You're so ultra-vulni, and totally dependent. And that's exactly what you want too, isn't it honey?”

“oh my g-god yes.”

“Okay, then, baby,” she said, “then wrap your arms around me - behind, yes, that’s right…“ She smiled as her naked little boyfriend did exactly what she said, what she needed: best he could, his arms wrapped around to her back. “Good boy. Now…hold on.”

Slowly, she began to stand lifting him along with her. She’d been leaning, bent at the waist over him on the counter, but now, as she began to straighten - and take him with her - the thin, meager man was lifted off the countertop, First just by his upper body, but as she took a step backwards his lower body came too.

His face was planted between her breasts a bit awkwardly, with the strong elastic of her white sports top plastered against his squashed right cheek. He was clinging to her with all his strength, but even at his reedy weight he was too weak. He would need help or else drop, slide down her. She felt his struggle.

It's time.

“Here, sweetie, let’s do this,” she said, reaching for the discarded white bra of hers, the one he’d been breathing through just minutes earlier. She took it and - using it like a belt, a harness - strapped it around them, around his bony torso and her thin, trim waist. Soon, with a <snap snap> of its hooks, the bra was lashing him to her, yoking them together. It felt so right having him strapped to her like they’d done together this past weekend, though he likely didn’t remember much. She, on the other hand, remembered it viscerally, and couldn’t wait to do it again. “There you go, baby, just tight enough,” she purred, looking down at his little head, squashed into her big breasts, “Is that better? Now you won’t have to hold yourself up.” And you can’t get away.

“yethhh…” he managed, his mouth and jaw plastered into her chest.

She giggled, seeing his plight. Oh the poor thing.

To help, she used one hand to pull him, head and shoulders, away from herself, while the other hand stretched out the elastic lower hem of her top, pulling it up and away from her. She gently pulled his head back in, nestled his face between her bare boobs, and released the top back into place with a satisfying <snap>.

“Haha now you really can’t get away!” she laughed, letting go with both her hands and smiling as her little boyfriend was now strapped to her completely by his torso and head to her waist and chest. His arms were still around her, but he’d barely need their strength to stay on. Their hips met, and his short legs dangled, with his feet quite a bit above the ground.

She began to walk with Jay, her boyfriend and boss, attached to her body. Unlike last time, she managed to hold back pheromones, many of them. She wanted him lucid, and she wanted him to remember tonight, every minute. Let’s burn this into that little brain.

“Do you feel that?” she asked, as she began to move them into the great room, “Do you feel how the ground shakes whenever I put my foot down? How it, like, trembles with every step I take?”

“mmmph..!” was all Jay could manage, nothing but a beleaguered little grunt. He’d been struggling, a bit, since she’d lashed his body to hers, and now that she started moving he was tensing up even more. Yes, the soft swell of her bosoms around his head was enrapturing, but the feeling of being so helpless, strapped immobile to a woman was beyond emasculating and wicked humiliating for him. Maybe even a bit scary.

She could tell how he felt. She liked the thrill of dominance it gave her, being able to walk about with him strapped to her, but she didn’t want him too nervous or frightened at this point. She wanted to show him what it could be like, what she could do for him. Above all, she wanted him to enjoy this.

He needs to get used to this. Maybe he just needs a little help.

”Honey, earlier today you asked for more of my perfume, when we were together,” she said, tenderly. Having him touching her, and now so tight against her like this, had seemed to calm her manic energy. “You need to relax. It can help, if I give you more. Would it be okay if..?”

He nodded, she felt it, his little head bobbing up and down vigorously between her big breasts.

He wants it, Oh what a good boyyy, …

“Okay baby, open wide and take a deep breath,” she instructed, releasing her perfume and blanketing him in a soup of comforting pheromones. 0001.55.6022.cd, if you must know. He needed just a little; she didn’t want to put him to sleep. She wanted him to remember this time.

She felt his little lungs swell as he drew in a big, rattling breath of her, and then immediately relax as he went limp against her chest. ”There we go,” she purred, “that’s better, right?”

From under her sports top, she heard him murmur, agree. It made her giggle, how much he liked her perfumes. “Oooo are you drooling in there baby haha?” And you sound like a little junkie. A Melissa junkie, I like that! I want you hooked even more.

She also liked how he felt - big, hard, throbbing for her - between her legs. He’d been pent up for a while. She’d given him a hand-fucking earlier this afternoon in her office, but her little man needed relief so often these days. And now they were in the perfect position for an honest-to-goodness real fuck.

Melissa, full of hormones, couldn’t wait another minute, either. Standing in the great room of her mother’s house, she peeled down the overwrought, overstretched leggings which had clung to her like a second skin, thinned by the massive swells of her quads and thighs, her hips and glutes. The curvaceous swells of her growing body had brought them near to bursting. Even with him attached, she was able to get them down low enough to step out of them, giggling, and kick them off and away. Fresh air felt nice against her bare skin, and it took no time at all for her to also drop her panties, long ago soaked through with her juices.

NNNGH!

Suddenly he was there, pressed against her, shaft-to-hip/thigh and with just a little noodging - one hand to his butt and another directing his rod - she was able to-

NNNNNGH!!!!

She gasped, and he groaned. “Oh god! Oh Jay yes yes yes that’s good..!” she breathed, shuddering as his nine-plus inches of erection entered her, slowly sliding up and in until it nearly hit her cervix. “That’s right, oh god yes that’s right,” she growled, the one hand on his rear pushing him in as deep as he could go.

Lights began to swim in front of her eyes, and certainly he was lost in the moment too. He was helpless there, strapped to her, with one of her hands around his butt and the other now hugging his head to her chest through her white athletic top. Pillowy flesh, and the scent of her - a mix of perfumes and perspiration - were all around him as was her silky smooth skin and warmth and strength. He felt like a symbiote, a remora attached to a magnificent great white, a passenger holding on for dear life and survival and at the same time suffocating in pleasure.

His instincts took over. Without even thinking he began to move, his hips thrusting - as best he could - into her. Little thrusts, little pumps, as much as his position and the tight fabric of her bra would allow. With each fragile thrust came a frail grunt as he used all his strength to push his hips into her, into her, sliding his shaft up and in, up and in, again and again and again. She was wet, and tight, and it was amazing. It was perfect.

“Ohhh Jay, yesssss…” Melissa purred, voice rumbling through her chest around him. She was using her left hand to direct him, forcing them into a constant rhythm, keeping him at the pace she wanted while letting him think he was doing the work. “You’re doing such a good job, such a good job baby,” she encouraged, though already she could feel his little body beginning to buckle. She would let him hump her for a little while like this, let the little monkey exhaust himself. He was pushing himself to his limits, while her own body, on the other hand, was only becoming more and more energized. Melissa could've held him like this for hours. Her libido, though, was an absolute powerhouse, and she knew she couldn’t keep back her passions for too long. She wanted him - needed him - to come inside her so bad, and give her his everything. Oh, the hormones!!

“Oh, Jay, yes yes yes…” she lauded, “you’re stuck to me, held to me, my little bug, my little man.”

“Oh my god Melissa you’re so big. So… big. So…big.” He said it again and again. It was becoming a mantra, in time with his thrusts. He was lost in the size of her body, the strength of her arms, the overwhelming amount of flesh and softness of her breasts. But yes he was getting tired. “So…big. So…big.”

Music, yes, it was music to her ears! What girl in this day and age wouldn’t love this? Having her tiny little boyfriend stuck to her like a mooch, rutting like a needy thing, praising her size and strength and telling her she’s-

“Beautiful,” he grunted, “You’re so beautiful.”

More music! He was saying everything she wanted, he was acting exactly like she needed. Strength, size, beauty? Sure - yes - keep telling me! Keep praising me!! But this was just the beginning. There could be so much more! There was so much more!

“Oh honey, oh Jay oh sweetie this is nothing,” she panted, roughly thrusting him by the hips, now, into her, allowing herself a quicker pace while being careful not to shatter his pelvis, “I want to keep getting bigger, keep growing, show off my body’s power to you.” His body responded just as she hoped: he shivered, he tensed: he wanted more. “Keep loving me and I’ll keep growing. Keep loving me and I’ll show you - nnngh, oh god, Jay! - I’ll show you everything I can do.”

Strapped to her, head cocooned in her top and wedged between her big breasts, manhood deep up inside her, he pictured it. He pictured her huge and mighty and terrible, raining a storm of her beauty and rage unto the world like a go-

“Oh, Jay, yes, yes,” she panted, their passion having opened his mind even wider for her, “You don’t have to just imagine it. Let big, strong Melissa show you…”

She needed this, he needed this.

She drew her hand away from his hips, she lowered the bra which lashed his torso to her down to his waist. She took his head out from the inside of her top, by now peeling the tight white fabric off herself and throwing it across the room. Jay's arms, long ago, had lost all strength. So, now bound to her just by her bra at the waist, with his erection deep inside her, she let go and watched as he flopped back, bending backwards at the hips. His arms dangled useless behind him and, wide-eyed, he gazed up at her. She towered above him, mighty and bare-breasted, a monolith.

“oh jesus christ Melissa…” he mumbled, humbled.

Melissa was huge. Her breasts were massive. Melissa was huge. Melissa was huge.

She was huge and she knew it. She laughed and smiled and placed her hands on her hips. His little body was suspended off of her and as she rose majestically over him, her shoulders back. Her colossal breasts thrust out, pointing towards the sky as her lats, once again flexing, spread out to form a cobra’s hood of brawn. Her lats, and the huge balls of muscle of her shoulders were so defined that they may as well have been carved from stone. Veins, which flowed in mighty rivers down her arms, were so prominent that they looked like they might burst. She took a deep, proud breath and then flexed her muscles even harder, causing the pyramid of her torso to grow even larger. She held the pose for a moment, delighting in the stunned, overwhelmed reaction of her little captive, and then released it, causing the cobra’s hood to slowly recede. Melissa smiled to herself, satisfied with the effect. They had been so long in the making, moments like this. “Hard work pays off, hm?” she asked him, “And I can tell you really like seeing me like this. I’m getting stronger and more muscular every day.”

“Y-you are so incredibly beautiful, Melissa,” he praised from where he hung, just the look on his face and tone of his raspy voice a tribute to her.

In silent approval, she slid her hands up from his abdomen, where it met hers, and to his chest. Her breasts were squeezed between her elbows in a pillowy bloom, a mind-numbing display of cleavage which brought out another desperate whimper from him. She gently gripped him by the shoulders, appreciating how bony and fragile they felt in her grip. She knew she could squeeze and shatter them, she could tear them from his scarecrow frame like he was made of straw, and when she looked in his eyes, she knew that he realized the same thing. He was totally and completely at her mercy, a weakling thing. But rather than drive him into a panic, or bring out Melissa's manic violence, moments like these brought them closer. They fell more in love with one another, here, the foundation of their trust dug deeper and deeper and deeper. She would not hurt him, or tear him asunder, but she just might love him to pieces!

She slid her hands up from his shoulders, slid them up, and cupped the eggshell of his skull. Tenderly her thumbs stroked his cheeks as he looked up at her adoringly, she looked down at his head as if it was a delicate treasure that she could so easily shatter in her palms. His bones, like gilt enamel or eggshell-thin ceramic wouldn’t last a second if she decided to squeeze. She was his hero, though, his protector. With her he was safe and secure. She would keep him from harm and out of danger. She would keep him warm and fed and loved. Her heart was beating, by now, so hard and fast and strong that she swore it might burst from her chest if she loved him any more. “Can you hear it baby? Can you hear my heart beating?”

jesus christ yes. “I…I think I can Melissa,” he stammered, amazed. That noise? That thrumping? Th-that’s her heart?!? The thrumming of it, the lub-dup of its valves and chambers, he could hear it clear as day. Her heart was a muscle as huge and thunderous as the rest of her. “my god…” How fucking powerful is this woman?!?

Really, Fucking, Powerful, Jay.

“You think you know how much I love you, Jay,” she said, her building exhilaration making her heartbeat even louder as she cradled his head, looking down into his awestruck face, “but now - can you hear that? - I love you so much my heart just can’t be contained.”

“ahhh- holy shit…holy shit…” he began to stammer, and shake, and immediately Melissa felt it. She needed to release more pheromones to keep him from releasing, spurting his little man juice right there, hanging from her, not even moving. She released more of 0001.55.6027.xv and clamped down on him with her vaginal muscles to keep him in nice and tight. He groaned, he crushed shut his eyes and gaped his mouth, letting out a long and needy whine. The pressure was unlike anything he’d felt before.

“Hold on, honey, hold on there…” she coaxed as she felt his iron rod of a cock straining inside her. As bulky and robust and meaty as he was, he was no match for the musculature of her inner walls. She kept it at bay, she kept it away, kept him looking right over the edge for now.

My heart can make him come, she thought to herself, even my heart can make him come.

Meliissa took a deep breath, giving Jay time to recover. After a quiet moment of watching him hang there broken and exhausted, he opened his eyes to once again look up at her.

“That’s right, that’s right Jay, just look at me,” she cooed, more in love with this man now than she’d been even just yesterday, just ten minutes ago, “You’re going to be okay. Just look at me.” She then brought her arms out to either side, and slowly tightened them up into another massive double biceps pose. Again her heart sang with his awestruck expression. “I love showing off for you so much, honey,” she purred.

“god I love it too…” he managed. He was bent, backwards at the waist, nearly an upside-down “U” and strapped to her at the hip, but somehow he felt no discomfort. Rather, the tight grip of her womanhood around him kept him in pure pleasure. “sh-show me more?” he peeped.

She laughed. Oh my god, this boy! “Show you more? Show you more?” she giggled, “You want to see this big, strong body rising up even higher over you, is that what you want?" Indulgently, she redoubled her pose and pumped even more size into her biceps, even more brawn into her shoulders, flared her enormous lats wider and wider still. "Is this what you want? Is this what were hoping to see?" she continued in a husky voice laughing again as all he could do was whimper like a baby at her display. “Or maybe you want a …closer view?”

With that Melissa leaned over and gathered his upper body into the cradle of her left arm. God he’s so exhausted, she could feel it in the limpness of his frame - but he’s so turned on. She brought him closer, raising him up a bit and lowered her right arm towards him. She presented her bicep, swollen far past the size of a grapefruit, to his tired eyes. His gaze went wide as he beheld the muscle up close. Her bicep, by god, was nearly the size of his head. He trembled as she brought it to his lips. She flexed it again, massively, making him look at it, making his eyes goggle at its throbbing might. Veins pulsed just below the surface. “Kiss it,” she said, “Kiss my big arm.”

He needed no more encouragement than that, immediately finding the strength in his own pipe-cleaners to reach around it and grab her upper arm, opening his mouth wide enough for a puckered, worshipful <KISS!> <kiss kiss kiss> <kiss kiss kiss!>.

“Haha!” she laughed, looking down in delight at her little boyfriend, so adulatory, a little muscle-worshipper anointing her with fealty. He liked muscles? She had plenty of those. “Omigod you’re too cute, baby,” she praised. It was gratifying, to see him so enamored, but she didn’t want to spoil him just yet.

And so, teasingly at first, she began to draw herself back up and away, pulling her bicep with her. Jay’s torso rose up with her, his hands clinging to her arm in desperation like a baby monkey. She laughed again, and used her free hand to peel him away before gently lowering him back down. “Shhhh, little man, shhhh….” she cooed, “you gotta let mama go for now.”

Once more he hung from her, quivering and shaking, looking up at her with those eyes. She could read those eyes like a book.

“More?” she smiled, massaging him indulgently with the walls of her vagina. He was still inside her, still hard, and moaning for her. “You want more?”

She looked around, glancing to her right, to her left as she surveyed the room. And then she glanced behind herself. She was standing, with him still strapped by her bra to her waist, at the head of the huge dining table of her mother’s. She regarded it, and smiled. It was long - able to seat upwards of fourteen people - and it was thick, a farmhouse piece made of an exotic, reclaimed wood. Its boards were slabs, its legs heavy posts. Stained to deep, rich tones. It was funny; such a huge, massively elegant thing, but her mother rarely entertained, as far as Melissa knew anyway. Sometimes some friends, or a few people from work. She certainly didn’t cook much.

Anyway…

Melissa took a moment to test the sturdiness of the table by giving it a nice hard <THUMP!> that echoed through the room. Okay yeah…this’ll do nicely.

Pushing aside the captain’s chair in her way, she pivoted at the hips so she could grab the table at its head. With one hand on each side, she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection off the nearby sliding glass doors that led outside to the dark patio. The lighting inside gave her a perfect view of the two of them: Her and Jay strapped together. He looked the size of her child, but instead of snuggled up against his mother he was, down below, buried deep inside. Haha that’s awesome, look at the two of us. He should see this . No, haha he’s too busy looking up at me!

Anyway…

She turned her attention back to the table. Thankfully it was empty, not even a centerpiece, because if there was it’d sure to be a mess when she-

Wood groaned and Jay looked up in amazement.

“Oh my god..!” he exclaimed, watching as Melissa - with little effort, it seemed - lifted the table clear off the ground. Tilting it up, with merely the strength of her wrists, she then lifted the entire thing up with her as she returned to her full standing position. Braced feet on the floor, she slowly lifted it off the ground and up above her. Nearly a thousand pounds of Brazilian hardwood, and she now had it above her head, fully vertical. Luckily the ceilings of her mother’s great room were soaring, more than twenty feet, but she did have to be careful to pivot it around the hanging globe light.

She looked down at Jay and laughed - look at the amazement on his face! This was nothing, this was easy. She’d overhead-pressed weights four times as heavy as this in the labs at Evolution, but, haha, this probably looked pretty impressive to him. The table was twelve feet long, nearly a full tree's worth of wood, and she was holding it over her head with two - haha, no, wait, let’s try this - ONE hand.

One hand?!?!?!? SHE’S FUCKING HOLDING IT UP WITH ONE HAND?!?!?!?

Jay gawked, he gaped and goggled up at the breathtaking, hair-raising exhibition of her body’s capabilities, of the incredible strength she possessed in her incredible body. Also,the fact, that she stood so casually - while balancing and supporting the weight of the table along with his own, around her waist - freaked him out just as much as the feat itself. She seemed completely nonplussed, easily holding all this, looking like she could do so much more. This shouldn't even be physically possible! What the fucking hell?!?!?

“You seem surprised, honey,” she giggled, looking down at him and tenderly caressing his trembling face with the fingers of her free left hand, looking for all the world as if she wasn’t suspending nearly half a ton over her head, “Is something the matter?” omg this is too funnnnn

“MELISSA HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS?!?’ he belched, and then convulsed in pleasure as her lower muscles constricted around his manhood.

“I’m doing this the same way I can do everything else…” she said, plainly, “...like a superwoman.”

There it is, there you have it, she thought. Now the cat’s out of the bag. Your girlfriend’s becoming a full-blown superhero, baby, and you’re along for the ride. You better hold on tight!

Hold on tight.

Hold…on…tight.

That gives me an idea.

Still holding the massive table above her head, still bare-breasted and beautiful and carrying him around like a puppet, Melissa remembered what they’d done in bed on Saturday night. He might not remember, she thought, but I certainly do.

Her plan in mind, she brought her hand to the bra which strapped them together, the only thing supporting him and keeping him from sliding out of her and falling to the floor. She took a second to concentrate, centering her strength on her middle and tensing her abs and all the deep muscles within her, and then clamped down harder on his erection. Not too hard, though. She watched his face as he felt it - it was pleasure, and it was pain, the right amount of each, just enough for his frail body. She then, with her one free hand, deftly undid the multiple, industrial-grade hooks of the bra. <snap, snap, snap>. They all came undone, one after the other -

“M-Melissa w-what are you d-d-d-...d-doing..?”

- and with a loud <twang!> the bra snapped undone and fell to the floor. He, however, did not.

Melissa's mouth opened in wondrous excitement, his gaped in astonishment. She was holding him, his entire body aloft, by the cock, using just the muscles in her pussy. She’d spread her legs, allowing him to hang between them, floating, dangling, now in a true upside-down “U”. She did this all, of course, while still holding the giant wooden table over her head with one hand.

He gasped. He’d prepared himself for pain - whether by sliding out and falling to the floor onto his back, or being torn off by the root in a bloodbath. But she was strong. He was being held, and no pain came. How he was durable enough, how he wasn’t crippled in agony he didn’t know, but the fact remained: she was holding him up with her cunt.

Don’t you remember this, baby?

Something in his mind tingled. Then she spoke:

“Watch this,” she said, and began - with utter control of her vaginal walls - to slowly let him down.

“oh god…oh god Melissa…” he stammered, repeating the phrase he’d been uttering all night as he was slid down, inch by agonizing inch.

And then, even more incredibly, he was pulled back up. Inch, by inch, by inch.

“Oh god Melissa how..?!?”

She’d pulled him back up, tight, and then slowly let him down again. Sliiiiiding….

“oh god Melissa..!!!”

Uppppppp….

“Melissa…!”

And dowwwwwwn…

Just her cunt, just her pussy, just the ultra-strong muscles of her core and vaginal walls were able to lower him and raise him, up and down, over and over. She was fucking him, in a way only a superwoman of unimaginable strength, a marvel of eldritch genetics, could.

“Look at us, honey,” she said.

Looking up at her, he saw that she was watching. She had her head turned to her right and she was watching the spectacle of this moment in the ad-hoc mirror of the sliding glass door. He turned too, at the neck, and watched in utter, horrified fascination as this giant of a woman lowered, and then raised the shrunken, withered husk of the man between her legs using only her vagina. The details of it all were lost in the chiaroscuro of shadow and refraction, but the image was clear as day: his cock slid out, his cock slid in. His body went down, his body went up. Down, and up. Over, and over, and over and over, all while she held a thousand-pound table over her head with one arm, while now curling and flexing the mighty bicep of the other.

This is like… some…circus…freakshow! But it’s so….NNNGH!!

She laughed, she laughed and laughed and laughed. If there had been any struggle in him before, it was now completely gone. Looking into the dark reflection of the sliding glass door, he saw a glimpse into his future. He’d given up, and he now allowed his mighty girlfriend to just fuck him like a rag doll, his little body hanging limply between her legs and looking more like an appendage of her massive body than anything else.

Up and down, up and down, faster and faster. Faster than the rhythm that she was - oh my god no - she was pumping the table up and down in weight-lifting reps above her head, and she was making it look so effortless! How is she doing this?!? He marveled at her, seeing the smug confident grin on her face as she synchronized each pump with the rise and fall of his body.

Wait…why does this feel so familiar?

Nnnngh!!!

She slowly increased her speed, faster and faster, up and down and up and down and up and down he slid in and out and in and out and nnnngh oh my god. He looked up at her as she watched them in the reflection and smiled, posing and fucking him like he was simply an afterthought. She was in full domination mode, easily lifting both table and man, and becoming even more jacked in the process. She gloated her strength and laughed, in staccato barks: “Yes Yes YES!!”

Faster and faster, up and down. Table, Jay.

“That’s right, little man! Look up at me! Look up at your muscle-goddess MELISSA while she fucks your little body like it’s nothing!! Yes YES YES!!!

Faster and faster and faster, table and man, faster and faster and-

“AAAAAGH!!!!”

“YES!!!”

It was cresting, it would be huge.

She threw the table, across the room.

“YES!!!”

<<CRASH!!!>>

She felt her body explode with an apocalyptic orgasm. A torrent of her juices sprayed out around his shuddering member as she screamed in total euphoria.

“YES!!!!”

He came. She came. Windows shattered. The two of them came together, him up into her, she all around him, as the house exploded with the sound of broken glass and smashing wood. His gut exploded, her womb shivered and drew him in. Orgasm after orgasm erupted from her as she fucked him unceasingly, through his climax - “YES, YES, yyyyESSS!!!” - milking him for all he was worth and pushing him beyond.

He hung there suspended from her, completely limp and now occasionally convulsing in fits as she continued to milk his member. Spent, completely, his body could do no more. He felt now like nothing more than a piece of meat hanging from her.

Melissa, though, was still bursting with passion. Each orgasm seemed to release even more energy into her body, her colossal physique flexing harder with every one, causing her whole body to vibrate with an unholy power and shake the house anew. She came again, for perhaps the fourth time.

“rrrrRRRRRUAArggghhh haha the powerrrr..." she roared, laughing, still drawing his now near-unconscious form up into her, in and out, in and out, still hard enough. She knew he’d blown his load already, but she still needed him, she still craved him. Deep grunts poured from her locked jaw as the lines scoring the edges of her big new muscles widened, deepened, and stretched yet again. She relished in them straining and spreading. She wanted heavyweight bodybuilder proportions, she wanted to grow bigger and bigger, taller and taller, she wanted to be huge.

She wanted to grow. She wanted her girls to grow, and in fact - though they were miles away - she felt them all doing just that. She knew even as she stood there still fucking him, they were all growing, and they were all getting stronger. She wanted to become his enormous protector, yes, but there in that moment, in her manic, orgasmic passion, her hormone-fueled insanity, she wanted even more. She wanted to grow and be worshipped. She wanted to grow and rule. She wanted to grow beyond everything and be the whole…fucking…world.

“RRRRRRRAAAAARRRRRRrrrrgggggghhhhh..!!!!!!” she roared again, causing more walls to shake and his little rag doll body to tense once again. She looked down at him, her lungs heaving like mighty bellows, and smiled as her eyes flashed. He’d brought her all this, all this power and might, and she loved him so much!!!

Nnnngh, nnnngh, nnnngh she breathed. She breathed. She breathed.

One last, skin-shivering orgasm rippled through her - pleasant, and nice, a sweet tinkling of crystalline pleasure after the previous explosions of thunder - and she moaned, lust tempered. She loved him so much. She loved him so much.

“I love you so much,” she told him, bending at the waist and bringing her arms down now to collect his upper body. He was motionless, but she knew he was alive. He survived her at her greatest, throughout her enormous release, and that made her smile. “What a good boyyyy,” she told him. Slowly, gently, she relaxed the impossibly strong muscles of her inner walls and released him, allowing him to slide all the way out and into her arms. As she gathered him, now, into a cradle across her massive chest, she saw his eyes flutter open. He was looking up at her with a new realization.

“Oh my god,” he finally spoke, his voice full of the most delicious awe, “What are you becoming?”

At that, she giggled, soft and sweet. Her voice again was high, a singsong symphony. She giggled and she answered him:

“Oh, just the best girlfriend ever.”

===============================================

thanks oodles to RiF for editing and inspiration

#growingintothejob

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