#My pose options were limited this is what you get

[yieldtotemptation]

PYTHON ft. Danielle

danielle x male reader smut

17k words

“You really need to stop showing up like this,” you’re saying, knowing full well that it’s falling on deaf ears. But it doesn’t hurt to try.

Danielle tilts her head. Glossy lips part, flashing a smile. It’s pretty. So clearly practiced, and so fucking obvious. Worst of all—it absolutely works on you. “Like what?”

“Unannounced,” you start, before swerving, “Naked.”

“Well.” Danielle takes a step closer. Then another. Suddenly making you feel like a stranger in your own apartment. “If you really had a problem with it, you’d have changed the door code by now. Or told my sister what we’ve been up to.”

You need to correct her before this can get any further out of hand, there’s no we to tell anyone anything about, but—look. She’s half-right. You were going to get around to changing the locks. Eventually. The other part, the nuclear option, the sister of it all—“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then you’re just going to have to deal with me until you can,” she says, casually.

Doing that thing all pretty girls seem to have built into their genetic coding. Standing there, posing, like she’s the sum of a dozen happy accidents—the hip cocked just so, the hand at her impossibly tiny waist. The wet hair, the pout, the fucking collarbone.

Accidents—yeah right. 

Anyone else but her, and maybe you’d buy it. 

“Besides, I’m not completely naked,” she adds, smile sharpening into a grin, and—fuck.

She is far too gorgeous for her own good. She is also extremely, without a shadow of a doubt, bad news, persona non grata, unbelievably off-limits.

“I'm wearing your towel, after all.”

—

(Okay, okay, okay.

You’re well aware you’re the only person on this planet that wouldn’t be delighted to have Danielle stepping out of their shower.

But maybe consider the following points:

1)      You’re still raw, wound’s barely scabbed over from the last woman you let into your home;

2)      Your whole career kinda rides on the fact that you keep your head fucking straight and free from any distractions, especially the kind that’s crazy enough to break into your apartment and hot enough to make it seem like a perfectly good idea; and

3)      If you were going to ignore points 1 and 2, and just decide you’re going to let that towel drop and let whatever happens, happen (hopefully something with a lot of moaning and a lot of sweat and a lot of giving up on what little modicum of peace you’ve managed to claw back from the world)—she’s your ex-girlfriend’s sister, for fuck’s sake.

Counterpoint:

She’s Danielle fucking Marsh.)

 —

Clearly you should’ve ended things a week ago when she first showed up—kicked that irredeemably cute, tight ass out of your apartment and slammed the door behind her. 

You should’ve seen Danielle for the walking, talking red flag that she is: a jump-scare in skin-tight jeans, or a barely-there top, or more frequently than necessary (or not frequently enough, depending on how honest you’re feeling) in nothing but your towel that’s now clearly found its home around her razor-thin waist.

The girl is apparently allergic to clothes.

“I’m gonna make some ramyun,” she’s calling from the kitchen, rifling through your fridge. Voice carrying over the sound of a week’s worth of meal-prepping and pre-blended protein smoothies being carelessly shuffled out of order. “You want some too?”

No, not a ‘would it be okay for me to help myself’, or even a simple ‘do you mind?’. Just straight up making herself at home, helping herself to your bathroom, your kitchen, and after a very strong suggestion, one of your old sweatshirts.

Your casa; now her casa. Or something like that.

“I don’t have any ramyun,” is your answer. It comes out weak.

To that, she whips around, cradling in her arms her bounty—a pack of noodles, a tub of kimchi, and a cut of pork belly you’ve been saving for a special cheat day. Throws you a far-too-easy grin that you’re realising is her signature. “I know. I picked some up on the way here.”

“Of course you did.”

“It’s a good idea to eat normal people food every once in a while, instead of whatever this is,” she says, nodding her head to your stacks of perfectly portioned containers; your towers of health and virtue.

“I think I’m good,” you reply, cautiously. Resisting the urge to let your eyes wander and get caught for the nth time. Don’t want to give her even more ammunition in her campaign against your very clumsily-established boundaries.

At least not until you’ve made your cursory attempt to get her the fuck out of here. Trying (and inevitably failing) to come up with a compelling argument that would convince her to leave. Something to illustrate that this isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t do a thing for you, let alone register as anything other than a mild strain on your already tenuous relationship with your ex-girlfriend.

Yeah, you don’t even believe that shit yourself.

Regardless, recognise that your first instincts, like always, are terrible ones. Ignore all the parts of your brain that are telling you to do things that could end with you buried in some unmarked grave along the DMZ. Ignore how good she looks wrapped up in your oversized sweatshirt; how it looks so lovely draped over her body, stopping short of the tops of her thighs, letting the damp, pale skin peek out and glisten and—

Fuck.

Maybe you should take the sweater back. Peel it right off her body and—

Again. Fuck.

“Trust me, you’ll want some. Everyone thinks they don't, right up until they do,” she says, and there she goes, pursing her lips together, throwing you a wink. God knows what she’s insinuating.

“Do whatever you want,” you’re saying, leaving out the implied—‘not like I can stop you’.

“Careful with your promises,” she’s laughing to herself, turning away and setting her culinary treasures next to your stove. “I just might have to hold you to them.”

That you pick up on immediately. But she lets it rest, putting a pause on the flirting-that’s-totally-not-flirting, busying herself with the task on hand. Reaching for your pots, your spices, navigating around your kitchen like she’s done it a million times before. So at ease, so… natural, in your space.

It’s eerily intimate.

Wearing your clothes, cooking for you, chatting over her shoulder as if she’s the sister that you have the years of history, of baggage with. First times and fuckups. All the messy, complicated shit in between.

(No matter how well she fits the role, a reminder: she’s not.)

There’s all these incidental miracles too—a curtain of chestnut brown hair sweeping aside as she stirs, a hint of bare shoulder, a column of porcelain along her neck. The sag of her collar until it’s falling down one arm, and there’s no sign of a top underneath, no strap, nothing to curb your imagination from running wild.

And it's all extremely unfair, how the hemline rises with each sway, how it clings right to her waist and curves around the flare of her hips. It wasn’t built for someone like her, wasn’t designed to withstand being worn like this.

But it tries it’s best. You do too.

You really should force your eyes elsewhere. The living room, the TV, the window. Anywhere but her. But you can’t help yourself.

“So,” she starts, happy to let the dish come together on its own. Asks, apropos of nothing, “You ever wonder why my sister never wanted to leave us alone together?”

You blink, torn from the hypnosis of her bare skin. “What?”

Danielle’s facing you again, leaning over the kitchen island. Playing with a loose strand of hair, looping it around her finger. Taking the dumb look on your face as an answer. “I mean, before all these little hangouts we never even had a full conversation, just me and you. One-on-one. Isn’t that weird?”

No. It never occurred to you, because it’s not weird at all.

Because Danielle is, and this is plain fact at this point—not in any way, shape or form exaggeration—unfathomably, quite offensively hot, and very much aware of the devastating effect she has on the people around her just by simply existing.

You hardly trust yourself at the moment.

“Then again, she probably knew what I’d do if given the chance.”

Danielle bites her lip, and you make the mistake of staring for just a second too long.

Yeah, it makes a lot of fucking sense.

(Back in the kitchen, the pot boils over.)

—

(It was somewhere close to the end of things; when it became more common to talk in loud accusations than sweet whispers, that your ex was telling you—“I do love her. But I swear sometimes, I can’t stand her.”

“Who?” You’d asked, because playing dumb was much easier than accidentally stumbling into some new argument you weren’t quite prepared for.

“Dani.”

“Your sister?” you replied, too quickly, and without thinking, “I don’t know—she seems sweet.”

There’s a pause, a tension in the car and your hand clenches around the steering wheel as you realise what you said, and the entire world holds its breath. Then, she laughs. Something sad and bitter that makes you wince. “Sweet? Yeah, sure. She’s a fucking angel.”

And before she can even elaborate on that, she’s looking out the window, leaving you to wonder how you’re at fault this time.

So, you decide then and there to never mention her again, never even look in said sister’s direction when she’s around. Push her out of your mind completely. As far as you’re concerned, she never even existed.

That lasts right up until the next time you see Danielle, and she’s all smiles and friendliness and barely-dressed and so painfully attractive and so very happy to see you. And sure, maybe you smile back, reciprocate the hug, blush when she kisses your cheek, hold your hand on her lower back for that extra millisecond too long, bounding over that ephemeral line and right into flagrantly inappropriate territory.

All the while, somewhere over your shoulder your ex spits out the corner of her mouth—“Typical.”)

—

“I thought I already explained?” Danielle starts, the next time she shows up uninvited, half-naked, bright and early and ready to completely fuck up your day.

Despite the number of times you’ve witnessed the same routine, it still floors you every time she sashays into your kitchen, towel draped low on her body, wrapped around her ridiculously tiny frame, water droplets clinging to her flushed skin like a layer of glitter.

Fresh from a shower. She’s always just fresh from a shower.

She’s already rolling her eyes at whatever she’s about to say. Takes a deep breath, then: “There’s a whole thing going on with my living situation at the moment. You probably don’t need to know anything other than sharing a bathroom with four other girls can be a bit of a nightmare, and your place is so conveniently close, and your water pressure is actually unbelievably good, so—”

You’re very slowly realising that she’s never imagined a reality where this would actually be a problem for you. “And so you decided that the next best option was a complete stranger’s apartment?”

Danielle drums her fingers over your kitchen counter. Your eyes follow the beat. “You’re not a complete stranger.”

“You don’t even know me,” you say, trying to play the part of the responsible adult. Danielle scoffs, because you’re failing spectacularly.

“Well, according to my sister, I have nothing to worry about when it comes to you,” she says, adding, “she told me the two of you broke up because you were gay.”

“She said what?”

She recites, “He prefers rolling around with men than with me—were her exact words.”

“M-M-A. I do MMA.”

“Hm.” Danielle’s baring teeth now, a dangerous slant to her smile. “Is that a new addition to the acronym? LGBTQI-MMA? What colours are your flag?”

“It’s fighting,” you clarify, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “Mixed martial arts. I’m not—not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m not—”

“Sure.” She pushes herself upright and rounds the counter, swinging herself around and over to you. “And here I thought you had all those muscles for show.”

“I’m very straight.”

Her laugh fills the room, makes it warmer, the air sweeter somehow. You choke on it. “Good to know.”

She closes the distance in much fewer steps than you’d like, bare feet gliding across heated flooring, until you’re forced to notice that she’s taken the liberty of using all your shower products too, and you’re starting to rationalise the perfectly normal response it's eliciting. The shortness of breath, the thumping in your chest, the stickiness of your palms.

All perfectly normal.

Stand your ground, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re taller, probably twice her weight. You could pick her up and throw her out if you had to. Or onto one of the many softer surfaces in your apartment.

Erase that thought.

“If it really helps, maybe all we need to do is get to know each other better,” she says, all honeyed-sweet and fucking hazardous, and when she’s this close, you can’t avoid looking.

You try not to, but you’re absorbing all the details—how are her lips this pink, how do they look this soft? How does her skin look so smooth, how does vanilla and coconut and sandalwood smell so much better on her?

It’s fucking troubling how much of her sister you can see in her, except it’s all skewed in directions that make your brain short-circuit. Similar eyes, same shape, but darker; less warmth, more heat. That same mouth, the curve is a mirror when she smiles, but on her its natural state is a pout or a grin over anything close to reassuring.

The dial’s been turned up, the sliders are all wrong, no one should look this good with this little effort.

“For starters, how about we just exchange numbers? So I can call ahead before I come up next time. Avoid any unnecessary surprises,” she throws out, noncommittal. “Even though that’s the best part.”

It should stun you, the smoothness of her request. So innocent in its construction. Yet she loads it heavy, suggestion stacked on suggestion.

She continues, when she catches the look on your face, “I promise I’ll only contact you in strictly emergency shower situations. Would that be okay?”

“That’s fine,” you answer, making liars of you both.

“Then it’s decided then!” She practically cheers, jumps in your arms, wraps you in a hug. Looks up at you, all smiles, all teeth; all wide eyes and hopefulness and fucking hell she’s so close.

Instinct has you leaning closer, has you maybe letting your hands rest a little too comfortably around her waist.

Panic has you recognising that you need to get out of here before she catches on to the involuntarily reactions she’s coaxing out of you. Eyes dipping down to the towel, heart bursting out of your chest, and your co—

“It goes without saying, but you can contact me too. For anything. Emergency or not.”

Yep, it’s about time to get the fuck out of here. Peeling her arms off you, bailing on this conversation before you start agreeing to even more things you know you shouldn’t. You declare, rather robotically, “I should be on my way out.”

“Guys waiting for you to roll around with?”

You sigh, “Something like that.”

“Well, I’m always available if you want someone more fun to practice with,” she says, before amending. “Or, on.”

Again, this can absolutely not happen. You’re not usually one for rules, but it goes without saying—no fucking around with your ex’s sister. It’s like the golden rule of dating, or human decency, or something.

Besides, it’s not really about you that she's into. It’s about the idea of you—the one person who won’t immediately give her what she wants.

That’s all.

She’s just a brat that’s dealing with denial for the first time. Right?

Danielle pouts when it’s clear that you’re not going to feed into any more of her flirty delusions. Twirls on her heels, the towel dancing around her waist. You’re pretty sure you could write a whole essay on the physics of it all.

“Guess there’s no point in me sticking around if you’re not going to be here.”

You avert your eyes. No need to watch her disappear into her room.  

Correction—your room.

But then you hear it, and your head whips around so quick you get fucking whiplash.

Witnessing Danielle time her exit just right so the last thing you see before she rounds the corner is the sweep of her back, the drop of her towel, and the flash of her tight, bare ass that will burn itself into the back of your retinas and stay there for the rest of the day.

—

(You really should’ve seen this coming.

Or maybe you did, and the lesser angels of your nature thought it wouldn’t be so bad to let it happen.

Whatever, it’s too late to come back now because Danielle’s taken to sending you messages throughout her day. All mundane updates; what she’s doing, who she’s with, what’s she eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner. Little things throughout the day that somehow remind her—through bizarre and barely tangential logic—of you.

You read them, pretend to ignore them.

You choose not to reply.

She chooses to start sending photos.)

—

It really, really doesn’t help that Danielle is everywhere.

She’ll be in your kitchen, your living room, your bedroom when she conveniently forgot to bring a change of clothes and the ones that she came over in are way too sweaty and sticky to put back on. Hopefully you don’t mind washing it for her?

You’ll leave your apartment thinking you’re finally free, only to find her flashing that grin on giant screens hanging off buildings, or on the side of the buses you take to the gym, or on the cover of every magazine at the convenience store where you used to dive in for a quick snack without ever even having to worry about her existence.

Her music plays in the café you get your afternoon caffeine fix; her commercials show up on every single app on your phone—she’s selling everything from headphones to sneakers to fucking bank loans. All with that same sweet, annoying, lovely voice that haunts you with unabashed innuendo and questions about where you keep your fabric softener and why your apartment is completely barren of anything that could be considered a snack.

It's a sick, sick joke the universe is playing on you. Throwing her in your face every five minutes when all you can think about is how she looked that morning when she took her time putting herself together—just lounging on your couch in nothing but a pair of glasses and a towel, kicking her legs up in the air while she laughs over some meme that's completely skipped your generation.

The legs. Can’t help but think what it would be like to run your tongue over them.

She'd probably be thrilled to let you try.

“Hey,” Danielle says, choosing the moment when you’re trying to figure out just how high her legs go to catch your attention. “Did you and my sister ever do it on this couch?”

“What?” —the fuck.

“Just asking,” Danielle sing-songs, taking the opportune moment to adjust the knot on the towel. Higher up her chest, higher up her thighs. “It’s got good cushioning, you know.”

“That’s,” and really, stop right there, because you’re not about to rehash the greatest hits with her. Not going to even get close to dipping your toes into an innocent, casual chat about ghosts long exorcised—about all the nights you had your ex spread out like a buffet, her legs around your neck, her nails digging into your back; her whispers and pleas, the sweet taste of her—and fuck, now the memory of her face is twisting and morphing and you’re seeing Danielle in those same positions and—

You shake your head, clearing the fog.

"Not going there."

Danielle feigns innocence, batting those doe-eyes. You’re already sick of that sugary-sweet giggle. "Where?"

“Anywhere. With you.”

“You never know, it could help,” she’s teasing. Possibly the most dangerous sentence you’ve ever heard. “Replace all the old memories with some new ones? A little less her, a little more," she pauses for great emphasis, and it feeds right into the mouth of the devil on your shoulder, "me?"

“Danielle—”

“You know, you can just call me Dani. All my close friends do.”

Alarm bells are blaring. Take the easy way out, just leave again. Maybe leave forever. Get out of here and don’t look back. She can have your apartment as far as you’re concerned—the backseat of your car isn’t that uncomfortable.

But before you can make a break for the door—"I just meant we could watch a movie or something.”

And again, you find yourself asking so often these days, “What?”

“You know a little bit of Netflix,” she suggests, and you’re already anticipating the grin before it spreads across her face, because she’s far too smart to play dumb, “and a bit of chill?”

“Danielle—” you try once more, then correcting before you can think better of it, “Dani.”

Danielle blinks. Adjusts herself. Pats the cushion next to her.

Her legs spread, then cross over each other. Just to give you some room.

The towel holds on for dear life.

—

It all goes to shit in a matter of days.

Truthfully, you can’t be blamed for this one, no matter how predictably it plays out.

Danielle’s fogged up your mind with thoughts you’d rather not be having, really been hard at work convincing you of just how available she is.

(Translation: Look at me, aren't I just so damn fuckable?)

Even though it’s all been common knowledge from the get-go, her cards have been on the table since she first stepped out of the steam and rented a space inside your brain, whether you want to be honest with yourself or not.

She wants you, badly.

You want her too.

It’s all you think about.

So, it’s no surprise your coach sends you home early from training after taking one too many unanswered shots to the head. Pushes you out the door and yells at you to get over or on top of whatever the fuck is going on in your personal life.

You know he’s right.

And it’s in this state, where your brain is mildly-concussed and filled with the images of Danielle—the ones of her wearing next to nothing except that fucking wry, knowing smirk of hers, like she’s just counting down the moments until you finally, inevitably give in—that you stumble into your apartment.

You don’t even have the strength to close the door properly.

You barely notice the closed blinds, the heating turned up too high, the light coming from your room, the scent of something much more sweeter; something that doesn’t belong here at all.

No, you don’t notice anything at all—until you do.

A moan from down the hall.

Louder as you approach, joined by noises of shuffling bedsheets, the unmistakable rhythmic squeaks of your mattress. The slick sounds of skin on skin, and—oh fuck.

You push open your door.

Danielle’s there to greet you, flat on your bed, fingers deep inside her cunt.

Wearing your sweatshirt and nothing else.

Crying out your name.

It’s game over.

Every filthy, lurid though, every half-imagined fantasy, everything your brain has conjured up whenever you've caught a glimpse of Danielle's bare skin, brought to life.

Fucking gorgeous, pretty, even like this. Wrecking herself so sweetly, fucking herself with her fingers so deeply and carefully, half-naked and wet and begging.

“Ah, God—” She’s sinking into herself, not even registering your presence, nor the fact that the door’s even opened.

Her face is locked into this smile, and you clock it as the same one she wears every time she catches you watching her, every time she manages to make that crack in your armour widen just a smidge. It’s a trap. A challenge. An invitation.

You hover by the door, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but watch as she works herself over, eyes fixed shut, cheeks red, burning hot.

You shouldn’t look.

You should turn around.

You should do anything but stay.

But you don’t.

You just witness her, in your bed, chanting your name in tempo with her own fingers. Your body betrays you—you take a step forward.

Her eyes open. Unsurprised. “Hey.”

She keeps going.

One more step couldn’t hurt. Moth to her flame, fly to her sweet, sticky trap.

The sweatshirt is a crime against humanity, hiding her like that. You could reach down, rip it off her, expose all her secrets to the cold air. Finally see it all.

But instead, you keep your eyes trained, transfixed, as she arches her back, her breasts pushing up against the cotton, points of her nipples poking through. Abs—chiselled, firm, tense—revealed inch by glorious inch.

Your name on her lips, moaned into your ears.

And her pussy. So pretty. Pink, plump. Perfect.

Sopping wet and making a mess of your bedsheets. The mattress will never be the same. 

“Welcome home,” she gasps out. Loving this turn of events. Spreads her legs wider, no intention to stop. Just going on and on.

She stretches out your name for good measure, fucking herself faster. Fingers plunging in and out of herself, hips rocking back and forth. Eyes locking onto yours, daring you to do something about it.

“How’s the view?” She’s grinning, aiming for seductive, nonchalant, but her voice is all broken-up and fucked up. Too turned on to be anything but earnest.

“Fucking hell,” you find your own voice much the same. Really, it’s a miracle that your lungs aren’t clogged up with the thick, heavy air that’s settled in your room. Or that your tongue isn’t a dry, useless slab of meat in your mouth.

“I’d say it’s rather—gah—” Danielle says, taking your words, twisting them into something that sounds like a whine as her eyes slowly shut, a fresh wave of pleasure washing over her. She opens them again, focuses on you. “Heavenly.”

You should have more to say. Something locked and loaded to navigate your way out of this specific situation, because face it, this was always going to happen one way or another the day you let her have free reign of your apartment, of your life, of your thoughts.

Your mouth opens, hoping something disarming and with enough wit comes out to end this whole farce, only Danielle beats you to the punch—“I bet it tastes heavenly too.”

And then the words come to you. You grit out, “Stop.”

Danielle laughs. Unconvinced. “Why should I?”

You repeat. “Stop.”

She just keeps fucking herself. “Make me.”

“Stop,” you let your voice come out deep, firm. Like it's a threat. Taking the closest ankle in your grip, lifting her leg up.

Danielle gasps. Her hand stills.

“Stop and let me.”

Danielle’s whispering now. “Then go ahead.”

You’ve never imagined yourself as that guy. You’re a romantic, you swear. Grand gestures, sweet kisses, candles, roses, the works, making love slow and soft until the sun comes up.

Nothing like this.

Like wanting to ruin something beautiful. Take the hottest girl you’ve ever met, probably ever lived. Cross lines so thick you’d typically need a buzzsaw to cut through. Make her forget about anything that isn’t you, anything that isn’t you. Make her need you in the worst way.

Make her come apart in your fucking hands.

The look on Danielle’s face gives you all the permission you need. Her words are just the cherry on top. “Please.”

You start small.

A kiss on the sole of her foot, and Danielle’s already trembling, giggling, at the light touch. More kisses, building, keen attention on the arch, the ankle, the calf, and she’s shivering. Muscles tensing under your lips, body tightening in anticipation.

She’s a ticking time bomb, was on edge when you walked in, so you don’t drag it out. Just long enough to make her whine. Get a few, “God you’re so—”, gasps and half-formed sentences that die the higher you get.

You kiss your way past her knee, and she’s properly whimpering now. Her fault that her legs are so long. A ladder of sweetness, salt on her skin, and you’re starving. She is right. It tastes heavenly. You’ll do your part by devouring it, bite by fucking bite.

“This is torture,” the words slip out of her, but it hardly sounds like a complaint. Moreso a confession. Something to say while her shoulders sink into the mattress and her fingers dig into the sheets. “Sweet torture.”

A chuckle into her inner thigh, where the skin is softest, smoothest, and her wetness has leaked down far enough to coat your cheek. Because this is the first time Danielle’s been anywhere close to a position of submissiveness to you. Let the mask, the control slip. The game, the pretences. All it took was the right use of your tongue.

“Higher, please, just eat me already,” she’s pleading now, and it sounds so lovely coming from her lips. And fuck, the scent of her, her arousal, sweet and heady. Calling for you to just dive in face-first.

But you want her to beg. Make her as desperate as she’s made you. It’s only fair.

Your nose meets the bottom of the sweatshirt. You push up, ghost your lips, the warmth of your breath higher up her thigh until her hips are practically stuttering.

Lean in, nibble the flesh just beside her pussy.

She convulses then and there. Arches off the bed, a sharp cry leaving her lips.

Only a moment to revel in it before your hair is snatched in her hands, pulling you closer, and you finally give her what she wants. Tongue darting out, tasting her.

“Right—yes—fuck!”

Her scream drowns out the groan climbing out from your throat, as your lungs are filled with the depths of her. No waiting, really, she’s fucking soaked already. Primed, prepared for your tongue. For the sucking, licking, kissing; every part of her that’s been begging for attention, waiting for you.

Her hips buck, but your palms shoot up, press down against the flat of her stomach, feel the ridged abs, the tiny waist under your fingertips. Holding her down with a firm hand. Letting her know the truth of it all. She’s yours now.

All she can do is whine, “I—I—God, I need—”

“Need me to taste you? Lick you, suck you right up, ruin you with my tongue?” The things coming out of your mouth, the aggression in your tone, it surprises you. But there's not enough time to ponder on what manner of beast she's turned you into so quickly, there's only what's next—press the flat of your tongue against her folds, give a rough, firm pressure, make her squirm.

It’s from here that you can witness it all: the bend of her neck as she throws her head back, the tightness in her stomach, the sharp inhale and heavy exhale of her chest. The tremble in her thighs against your cheek, her breath hitching and her pussy quivering over your mouth.

And it comes to you, so easily, like it was always there. Filth being composed in the back of your mind anytime she was in your presence. Everything you've ever wanted to do to this girl. Everything you've wanted to inflict upon her cunt.

“I'm gonna make you into a fucking mess all over my face, down my chin, all over my bed. Fuck this pussy, Danielle. I could get drunk off it. So fucking sweet.”

“It’s—fuck—” and you’re really enjoying this now, having her be the one that’s lost for words for once. “—whatever—all of it. Do whatever you want, please, because I’m so, so close.”

“I didn’t need your permission,” you tell her, speaking into her cunt. “But it’s appreciated anyway.”

And Danielle’s well and truly wrecked. Drenched cunt so swollen and desperate and really, truly in quite a state. So desperate for you, her body thrumming with it. Cunt pulsing like a fucking heartbeat.

You could take it slow. Could drag out the torture a little longer.

Fuck that.

Tongue goes higher, fixes upon her clit. Danielle falls apart.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” Her words are slurring together, choked out, gasps, whines. Barely coherent, and yet, “your mouth—tongue—please—”

The pleases you recognise, they come in staccatos as you lick her from bottom to top. Long, slow drags that make her legs shake.

“You’re going to scream for me,” you declare, a prediction more than an instruction. “Beg for me. Going to make you cum so hard. So loud. Going to make you remember it. Remember me every time you think about touching this sweet cunt.

“Sadist,” she manages, breathless, but it’s hard to detect anything from her other than pure glee. “I can see why my sister would always come home so—fuck—so worn out from seeing you.”

“Don’t,” you spit on her cunt. Take a long, gratuitous lap of your tongue against her folds. Force her hips against your face.

“I’m only wondering—” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice, and you know that whatever’s going to follow is going to make you fucking crazy— “Did she taste as good as me?”

You try your best to ignore the taunt. Just push your tongue inside her, feel the way she clenches around the muscle. Fuck her for making you even think about your ex.

“Or did she ever even get to feel like this? Did she let you? Or maybe you never gave her the honour. Because I can't imagine ever letting go of someone like you."

“Enough,” you murmur, not even sure if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth graze her clit. Danielle jolts. “This isn’t about her. It’s about you.”

A barely there—“Me?”

“You started this,” your voice is gravelly now, coloured with something mean, “Just had to be too pretty to ignore. Fucking cocktease.”

“Then—oh—give me what I deserve.”

“That would take hours.” The laugh that comes out of your mouth is anything but warm, and she tries to fire back with one of her usual quips—something that dances on the line of flirty and sarcastic and completely charming all at once, the full Danielle experience.

But that all dies on her lips when your finger pushes through until you’re knuckle-deep, curling up inside her.

“Ah—fuck—” That’s all she’s got, and it’s all you need.

You kiss her cunt, suction around those puffy lips. Her pussy is just so, so pretty; like the rest of her, same as every single fucking inch of her. Even now, all huffing and groaning and fucked-up on your tongue—so effortlessly beautiful.

“Baby,” comes out, all velvety and warm, and then again and again. Pitch rising, falling, voice getting louder, a crescendo dictated by your mouth.

Creamy thighs fit snug over either side of your head, but you’re not going anywhere. You need to make her cum—as hard as she can. Make sure she remembers.

You lick, kiss, suck. Danielle doesn’t require much precision, just intense passion. Showing her how much you love her cunt, love making her fall apart. Really sloppy with it, it’s the pace that matters at this point—giving her everything that’s been boiling deep inside her since she ever laid eyes on you.

Swirl your tongue around her clit, flicking it in a way that has her knees shake and bang together. Suck deep against her folds, making her fingers knot themselves in your hair. And when you moan into her cunt, vibrate your lips against her while your fingers—one, then two, now three—work her over, well—

She can’t fucking do anything but try to breathe, try to keep herself together. Be anything other than the excruciatingly cute and beautiful and fucking delicious mess you’re turning her into.

“Right—right there—right there—” Unnecessary instruction, really. Because you already have her dissolving underneath your tongue. Filling your bedroom, your apartment with noises of her cunt being properly fucked, the sighs and moans that bounce off the walls, echoing around your skull. Putting you in some heavenly torture chamber where the only way out is through her orgasm.

And it’s somewhere in her pleas for a higher power that you feel the beginnings, or the very rapidly approaching endings of it all. The tightness in her thigh, the convulsions. The waterfall dripping down your tongue, your fingers, onto the palm of your hand and pooling underneath her ass.

“This is—this is too much—"

Too much means not enough. Not enough of her, not when you’re so in love with the sound of her breaking apart. The smell of her on your nose, your chin. The feeling of her cunt colliding against your lips.

“Oh God, fuck, please, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—"

You breathe in, take all you can from what little oxygen she’s left in the room, and bury your face in her. You don’t let up until her cries become screams, until she’s bucking against your face, until her nails are digging into your scalp.

You don’t stop until you feel the first pulse in her climax, until her cunt clenches around your fingers like a fist, until she’s painting your face with her wetness.

And that’s when you reach your other hand around her, urge your fingers underneath those tight, firm cheeks. Push a finger up into her ass, press into that puckered button, making her seize like you just sent a bolt of lightning through her.

“What the fuck, it’s so—God!”

For a moment, she’s yours. Completely and utterly yours.

Her stomach tenses, abs bunching and knitting together. Not a single muscle in her body moves, just frozen in place, locked in pleasure.

Tiny, little shakes, building and building, until it’s a full-body experience; quakes all over her skin, shaking your whole bed. And then—

“Daddy!”

There’s a right word for this—flawless, absolute, divine. Or just plain perfect.

The way she cums is so at odds with who she is. It’s not pretty, it’s not subtle. God, it’s fucking apocalyptic. Orgasms herself into an out-of-body experience onto your chin.

It’s all so fucking obvious; people in the next building over will be able to feel what she’s going through just by the timbre of her voice when she cries out for some sort of God, or spits a filthy curse, or just screams your name in a dozen different ways.

“You’re fucking—yes!”

You need both hands back on her body to fix her to the bed, make sure she doesn’t fall off the fucking edge of the world. Help her bear it, through gritted teeth and sharp hisses, that one final push into oblivion.

A whine signals the end for her; a final real, loud, teary-eyed whine. The most honest sound you’ve ever heard from her and fuck you’d do anything to hear more of it. Give up everything for just an echo of the sweet obscenities that fall from her lips when she cums.

Danielle exhales.

Tries to relax her way out of it. But the trembles haven’t left her, still bubbling underneath her skin. Her legs fall away from your head, leaving your ears ringing, and you ease back. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

You massage her, run your hands up to her waist, underneath the sweatshirt. Stroke the lines on her body to coax her back down to the land of the living. Let it all slow down.

Her eyes are still hazy, glazed over, pupils all fucked-up and blown wide.

“Animal,” she says, when her lungs begin to fill again. She giggles, and there’s all the sweetness returning to her body. Radiating off her in this afterglow. Twisting herself a little beneath you to work out all the tension that you’ve just built up and wrecked her with.

“You asked for it,” you tease, hovering over her. Rightfully smug.

Danielle huffs. Looking so pretty behind all the tears. “And I will again.”

And you exhale too, because now you don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.

But Danielle doesn’t give you time to dwell on your thoughts. Scoots up and shifts so she’s on her elbows. Takes your chin in her fingers. Kisses you.

Inhales you deep, tongue immediately pushing past your lips, scraping around the edges. Licking up all the evidence that’s still stuck on the roof of your mouth.

You fall into her, hands rising up her body. God, you just need to feel her nipples harden beneath your palm, her body fold back into yours. Get to know every curve, every dip. You’ve tasted heaven, now you want to map it out with your fingers.

Your hips urge against her waist, pushing her legs apart, and that tells Danielle all she needs to know.

But her tongue leaves yours, escapes the chase of your own.

“Not yet,” and she’s laughing because you actually believed for a heartbeat that you were the one in control here. That you weren’t the one that was going to be left begging. Aching. Left with nothing to do but commit the taste of her to memory.

She draws her tongue across your jaw, your cheek. Licks your face clean, leaves it sticky. Smiles against your skin.

“But maybe later.” She pushes back, hand at your chest. Gets herself up and off your bed, turns away from you so you can only imagine the grin playing on her lips.

Her ass tilts. Her pussy drips onto your floor.

She looks over her shoulder, blows you a kiss, a wink. “Gotta take a shower first.”  

—

(This is the part where Danielle pulls her greatest trick yet—radio silence.

A week without hearing from her—not a text, not a peep, nothing. Turning your brain inside out. Leaving you with nothing but this tangled mess of thoughts about thighs and abs and moans and questions of did whatever the fuck that was really happen?

The worst part of it all is, you know exactly what she’s doing when she’s not busy haunting the edges of your apartment, leaving her fingerprints in every room, over every surface, just waiting for you to find them.

She’s quite easy to be found. She’s still everywhere.

Everywhere except the one place you need her to be.

It’s too early in the evening to be lying in bed, staring at your phone, nothing but the background noise of heaters, TVs and air purifiers to make you seem less alone.

You should really have much better things to do then to hover your thumb over her name.

Your screen lights up with a message—immediately disappointing you when you realise it’s not her. Just your training partner, sending a cursory group invite to anyone else that fancies a night out to break up the routine of getting punched in the head on the daily.

Fuck it.

It’s as good a time to drink as any.)

—

You’re barely in one piece when you get home; which is really par for the course for the past few weeks.

Dazed, horny, tired, concussed—and now, stone-cold drunk.

Habit has you collapsing on your bed in a heap, flicking on your phone, dragging your finger over the screen and taking an embarrassing amount of attempts to unlock it. The blue glow lights up your room, the screen immediately blasting you with the most recent thing you were looking at—the last photo Danielle had sent you.

The one she took in front of your bathroom mirror, where she’s leaning over the sink. A hand perched on the counter, hip cocked to the side. Towel hanging on by a thread, dipping, just so. Tongue poking out, lips looking so shiny and soft.

Eyes right down the barrel of the camera. Knowing the reaction it’ll force out of you. The power she has to stir your cock to life with just a single image.

It’s so fucked up. How in such a short amount of time, she’s occupied every corner of your mind, every corner of your digital life. Unavoidable. Inescapable.

And there’s truth in that: you’re flying too close to the sun; you’re going to get burned but you can’t help but soar a little closer anyway. Heading headfirst into tears, heartache, or worse, a very awkward family reunion.

And you hate that you miss her.

Hate that you’re calling her.

She answers.

“Hey—” you slur, making a stellar start.

You’re picturing the smug smile on the other end of the line. “Is this a drunk dial?”

“I—yeah.” No point in lying. You’re not good at it, and she’s not that dumb.

“Well, I’m flattered,” and there’s pure amusement seeping out of the speaker and into your ear. She sounds like she’s laughing at you. But it’s warm, familiar, and for a second it’s like she’s right here, in your room, in your bed, her naked body pressed against yours. “To what do I owe the honour?”

Since you’re too inebriated to be anything other than honest, you just outright say it—“Got drunk. Can’t sleep. Missed you.”

There's hesitation on the other end. Surprise, you guess. "Then that makes two of us."

"You're drunk too?"

"Unfortunately not. Just the insomnia and the yearning on my part."

“Why aren’t you here?” comes right out your mouth, before you can even stop it.

Her breaths come through the phone. Slow. “Because I’m in a hotel. Hong Kong.”

You roll onto your back, close your eyes. Picture it. Danielle, prettier-than-perfect, curled up on some plush, extravagant bedspread. A complimentary towel getting the luxury of being around her tight figure. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, painted toes digging into the sheets.

You still remember how they felt against your lips.

“I don’t believe you,” you decide, and demand, “Turn on your camera.”

“Oh, you’re very drunk,” is Danielle’s reply, right before the chime of your phone and—

There she is. Scarily accurate to your imagination. Only now, the details are colouring in the rest of the picture—the contrast of hotel white against her dark hair. The glint of light off her sharp cheekbones. Her lips absolutely wicked.

No towel, though. A bathrobe this time.

“It’s fucked up how pretty you are,” you say, because it’s true and you can’t hold back. “Like, Christ.”

Danielle giggles, and it’s also fucked up the things the sound does to your stomach. Forcing you to realise how much you missed having it in your apartment. She leans closer to the camera, head tilting a little to the side. “Very, very drunk.”

“Don’t have to be drunk to recognise how good you look.”

“I always look good.”

“If you were here right now—or if I was there—”

“You’d what? Bury your face between my thighs? Ruin me with your tongue?” She’s smiling. Teasing. Thank God you can see her face again. “Make me call you Daddy?”

“I didn’t make you do anything. That was all you.”

“And you just happened to love it,” she says so easily. Full of confidence. “What else would you love to make me do?”

It comes to your mind immediately, the thought of it—“Your shoulder.”

Her eyebrow jumps up at that, expression settling into something curious. “My shoulder?” She angles herself, gives you a better look. Leaving it bare, the bathrobe droops, doesn’t bother to hide the line of her throat. “Nothing about my neck, my eyes, my lips?”

“I’d get to that. But I’d start with your shoulder,” you recite, letting her in on the journal entries you’ve been writing in your mind. Notes on Danielle. “You’re always just leaving it out there. Your shoulder, collarbone. I’d kiss there first.”

Your words do something to her, you can see it through your bleary eyes. She shifts on top of her bed, twists herself around to settle into a more comfortable position. Leans back into the headboard of her bed. Juts her shoulder out so the bathrobe drops further down her arm.

Has you follow the path of her camera as she angles it lower, and it doesn’t help that she’s biting on her lower lip, and you can’t see where her other hand has gone, and she’s spurring you on by asking:

“Would you kiss me lower too?” The bathrobe parts, plush cotton revealing a single line of her sternum, and then further still, the shadow of her cleavage just out of view.

You nod, swallow. A strained, “Yeah.”

“And here?” The robe slips, falls further down. Revealing the swell of one perfect breast. A nipple, stiffened from the cold. Or the thought of your lips.

Your eyes are locked onto the image of her creamy skin, the darkened areola. You don’t care that you’re groaning, that your hand is already reaching down to palm your erection through your sweatpants. You don’t care that she probably knows.

It’s what she wants.

“Yeah, I’d kiss you there. Lick it. Get it between my teeth, and—”

“Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about me,” she murmurs, but she’s only saying things that you both are keenly aware of. You are—have been—putty in her hands. A man lost at sea with only her voice as a compass. The camera moves in closer still. You can feel the heat of her skin through the screen. “What if I told you I’ve been thinking about you too?”

Her free hand returns in view. Up to her chest. Teasing her own nipple; pinching between her thumb and forefinger. She gasps, breathes heavy down the line, and you swear you can feel it too, a phantom softness at your own fingertips.

“I’ve been thinking about what you did to me with your mouth, been thinking about it—” she’s panting, and her hand’s moving. Thumb tracing lazy circles around her breast, and you’re thinking that it’s the exact path you’d take with your tongue. “Every. Single. Night.”

It’s too much and nearly not enough. No where close to satisfying the ache she’s built inside you. You want her here, in your bed, underneath you. You want to show her what you can really do to her. How you’d kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, lick her until she couldn’t think, fuck her until she’s nothing more but a shivering mess, leave her begging.

And then, as if announcing your own thoughts back to you— “I want to cum,” she sighs, barely a whisper. “But I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Show me.”

There’s a beat, two, where Danielle mulls it over. Nothing but pants heard through the speaker. Her nipple still in view.

Until she turns, phone hitting the bedside table with a gentle thump. Screen still on, camera pointing right at her face. But the angle’s off—she shifts it downward and returns to the bed.

It sobers you up, puts you on alert. Danielle. Lying on her side. The soft, pale swell of her breasts, the dip of her vanishing, practically non-existent waist. The curve of her hips down to the long, smooth legs. The robe slides down, baring her other shoulder. Her neck. The cut of her clavicle.

Fuck.

Her breathing hitches when she sees you, the look on your face. So low, so quiet, when she says, “Now, you too.”

A mirror of her actions—your phone finds a spot to lean on. Hands wobbly, vision blurs as you rush to get the angle right. Sweatpants disappear, freeing your cock. The waistband catches on your length, causing it to spring out hard.

It’s Danielle’s turn now to groan out a “Fuck.”

And for a moment, it’s just heat and silence. Hot, laboured breaths filling the space between the two of you. Her hand drifts down, skating between her abs, lower—

“Tell me,” she says, fingers crawling to the hood of her pussy, gliding over where she’s most sensitive. Her thighs part slightly, slowly, showing herself to the camera, to you. How wet she is, how delicious she looks. You want to taste it. You’d die to feel the heat of her against your tongue once more.

But you’re not there. You’re both stuck in this digital limbo. Two people desperate to fuck each other through a screen. It won’t be enough. It just can’t be. But it’s all you’ve got, so it’ll have to do.

“Tell me everything.” Her eyes close, hand starting to move with purpose. Spreading her folds. Glistening clit standing proud. “Everything you’d do to me. All of it. I know you’ve been thinking about me. Give me every little detail. Make it dirty, make it good, make it—”

“I—” you start, only to stumble, “I want to fuck you.”

“Obviously,” she’s smiling into the camera, and yeah, you’re realising it was a stupid way to begin things. “Please don’t make me do all the work here. Where’s the guy that said he’d make sure I remember him every time I touch this tight, little cunt?”

“Sweet cunt.”

“You would know.”

You clear your throat. Adjust yourself. Angle your cock towards her so she can see how much you mean what you’re about to say. “Danielle—”

“Dani, please.”

“Dani,” you restart, “After your shoulder, your collarbone, after I’ve left those fucking tits all marked up—I’d run my tongue back up to your neck, suck on that spot right here—” you bring your other hand up, tap it over your pulse. Danielle’s eyes shoot open. Follows your finger. “You know the one.”

Her hand falters, she chokes on a breath. She’s picturing it. Feeling it. “Yeah,” she stammers. “Yeah, I know.”

“And then—then you’d feel my fingers. Pushing in,” you continue, hand tightening around your own shaft. Pre-cum making it slick. Recalling her heat, the tightness of her cunt. The clench around your digits. “So fucking slow. Watching your face as you take them. One, two. Three. Yeah, you’d look just like that.”

Her own fingers dip, bringing your words to life. Eager to follow word for word, whispering these hushed little pleas, and then a moan, and then— “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Slowly, Dani,” you make her whine, as if you’re right there, holding her hand, forcing her to balance on that edge. “Just like that. God, you look so pretty. You would look so pretty. Coming apart on my fingers. I don’t think I’d ever be able to stop telling you, because fuck.”

You break it down—break her down. Tell her the steps, one by one. The way you’d kiss her, taste her. How lovely it would be, lips as sweet as her cunt was. Kiss so deep that you’d steal the breath from her lungs, make sure she knows what it’s like to be consumed. The way you’d kiss her neck, her ear, make a mess on her tits. Every spot that makes her quiver.

There’s tension in her shoulders, tightening across her muscles. Eyes clenched shut, fingers dancing over her every inch that you tell her you’d explore once you’ve finally stripped her bare.

Leave her in her natural state: naked, beautiful, fucking breathtaking.

Her hand’s a blur now, thighs trembling with each pass of her fingers, and she’s chewing on her bottom lip so hard you can see the indentation. Whining, pleading, these divine little noises, intermittent—“Keep going, don’t stop, tell me more,” —pure bliss articulated,  and you’ve lost track of how many times she’s asked, “and then?”

“I’d spread you wide open, Dani,” you tell her, and watch as her legs part, leaving her splayed out on her bed. Image so fucking wanton it’s biblical sin. “God, look at you. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it through the phone.”

Danielle can’t help herself, “It’s you,” she’s gasping, panting, fucking herself with her fingers so intently that the sounds of her cunt are coming through loud and clear. “It’s all because of you. So, so wet. I’ve been like this all week.”

A thought, you realise, “So that’s why you stopped messaging me.”

The tightness in her voice confirms it for you, “Yeah. Couldn’t stop thinking of you. Reaching out would’ve made it too fucking much.”

This revelation hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Pushes aside any remaining inhibitions. You stroke yourself harder, faster, matching her rhythm, her breaths. Joining the slicks of her own cunt with the sound of your skin slapping against your palm.

“But it didn’t help. So, fuck it. I needed to let you see. Let you know. How much I want you. Need you.”

“Was never much a secret.”

“Never said I was good at hiding it,” and Danielle’s grinning now, looking so beautifully lost and downright filthy and there’s really only one thing left to ask, “Tell me how you’d fuck me.”

“Hard.”

One word and she fucking loves it.  

“Flip you over, from behind. Against whatever hard surface I can push you up against. Nothing sweet about it. Giving you what you fucking deserve.”

“God!”

“Leave you out of fucking breath. Just take my cock deep. You can see it can’t you? How big it is. How fucking hard it is for you. I’d make you take every inch fucking fast and rough. Make you mine. My own personal cocksleeve. Daddy’s little cocksleeve, how do you like the sound of that?”

Danielle’s back arches, chest rises and falls. Hand moving faster, fucking herself, really going for it. Head thrown back, eyes open, on you. Like she’s memorising the way you’re looking at her. Unable to do anything but look when you’re puppeteering her body across an entire ocean, words dictating every little shiver, every little pulse.

“Pin you against a wall, Dani. Make it so you can’t move. Can’t do anything but feel me. So deep inside you that you’d feel fucking empty without me.”

“Fuck, that sounds so—” Dani’s barely breathing now, and whether by some reflex or just a need to make your words feel a little more real, she rolls onto her stomach. Ass up in the air, pushing her face down into the mattress. You can see the muscles in her back ripple, the fingers disappearing between her thighs, and she’s biting down on the sheets but you’re making out the— “Just like that. Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me like that. Make me—”

It’s the view of her tight ass and it's like she's inviting you to tell her, “I’d spank you—leave you all nice and red. So you’d feel it after. Have you screaming until you can’t even speak. Make sure the last word you’ll ever say is my name.”

“You’d pull my hair too, right?”

“You wouldn’t have a choice.”

Danielle screams your name; the first time you’ve ever heard it sound like that. Somewhere between worship and pure desperation. It’s fucking heavenly. Your cock flexes in your hand, and you want to drop everything and rush over to her hotel room right now and shove it directly in her face.

But you’ll have to be content with what you’ve got.

With Danielle, an utter disaster; soaked cunt and all, splashing down onto the bed. And it’s going to be a problem, an explanation she’ll have to provide. How the perfect, idol-princess left her room stained and forever ruined with the scent of her cum-drenched sheets.

She’ll lie, of course. Spin something about a spill, or a new perfume she’s trying, or maybe she’ll fucking own it.

How some guy over the phone left her shaking with his words alone. Made her scream his name until she got noise complaints from rooms on the opposite side of the hall. Caused a fucking mess that the hotel laundry service would never be able to scrub out.

She’s so close, so fucking close. You know because you’ve been on the same tracks as her, charting it through the throbbing of your own cock, the tightening in your balls.

She’s just dying for release. For your permission.

“I’m just—I can’t—Can’t believe you’re going to make me—”

“Just fucking cum then, Dani,” you command. An order.

She follows without question.

Hand builds speed—faster, faster, faster. ‘Fuck—fuck—fuck’ spilling from her lips until it’s all just one noise buried in a mess of pleasure and bliss. Until she’s just a heartbeat in the palm of your hand.

Fucking God, she cums hard.

You do too.

You swear the camera shakes, it’s not just your vision, the head spin, the alcohol. It all vibrates around you and you can’t see straight.

Watching Danielle; her abs tense, back bow, collapsing into her bed. Eyes squeezed shut, choking on sheets as she tries and fails to muffle herself. Orgasm ringing through your phone, a chorus of sin. Your own cock is bucking, moving with her hips, and you’re fucking her, fucking her through it all, making her fall apart again and again, making her shiver, beg, cry out your name and—

It’s a fucking masterpiece.

“Cum for me please, Daddy!”

Like a gunshot, a trigger, and you’re gone too.

A mess—sticky, warm. Fucking satisfying.

And then it’s over.

You both slump down, dissolve into your own individual puddles. Needing deep, heaving breaths. Sweat sticking to your skins, to the sheets. It makes her glow.

Just laying there. Not bothering to clean up. Evidence of your lust smeared across your hands, your stomachs, your beds. The trophies earned.

The silence stretches out, and it’s weird because it’s just like she’s breathing right in your ear, coming down next to you. Warmth against your neck, hand sliding down your body. Fitting right in your arms.

Her eyes finally open. Slow movements have her hand dropping away from her pussy, sliding over the wetness to her side. A mess, and there’s a new kind of smile on her face. A little lazy, weak. Satisfied.

“Fuck.”

“Tell me about it.”

She watches you for a beat. Runs a tongue over her lips. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

“When?”

“As soon as I fucking can.”

 —

(It feels good—too good—to be honest for once.

The games are still there, but now that you’re a willing participant, Danielle’s tactics shift.

It starts innocently enough—a good morning text here, a photo of her breakfast there, a meme you’d both find funny.

And then the escalation.

Here’s what I’m wearing. Here’s what’s underneath. You want to see more?

Reciprocate.

Every notification from her has you running to the bathroom, or at least somewhere with a little privacy, because it’s always a photo or a video, a little slice of heaven to get you through the day or completely ruin it just by seeing her picture.

And fuck, you do look.

And then there’s the last photo—and of course there’s a bathroom and a mirror and your sweatshirt hiked up to her chest and she’s completely bare otherwise and you’re thinking she’s laughing here because she knows you’re going to zoom in and find the tiny caption left for you to discover between her thighs.

One word.

Your cock jumps, a silent cheer.

Tomorrow.)

—

It's borderline problematic how you have to hold yourself back from sprinting down your hallway when you get home. Just because you hear the sound of running water.

Danielle's here again.

She’s fucking back.

And that’s how you find her; the door to the bathroom’s been left wide open, an invitation you don’t really need—nothing could stop you at this point.

But it doesn’t take away from the surprise of it at all, you're knocked off your feet when you meet her in the shower.

Danielle, head thrown back, letting the hot water cascade over her. Down her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She’s soapy, skin a canvas of bubbles, your bottle of body wash in her hand, flipped upside down and dripping on her tits.

There’s a smile in the opposite mirror for you, and fuck, for a second you’re believing in love at first sight or the existence of angels or just the fact that maybe you were put on this planet to procreate.

“You’re late.”

You clear your throat, steam starting to warm it up for you. “I was at the gym.”

And she giggles, and she’s smug, and you missed her presence so much more than you anticipated. “Then it sounds like you should join me.”

She reaches out, grabs you by the wrist, and you have mere seconds to get rid of your shirt and your sweatpants and anything you don’t want to get wet because you’re falling into her. Threading your fingers through wet mattes of hair, pushing her into cold tile, and kissing the prettiest fucking girl you’ve ever met in your entire life.

“Missed you,” she murmurs into your lips, warm and steamy words that taste like mint. “Really fucking missed you.”

She’s too real now.

In your shower, beneath your fingertips, water running in rivulets over her body. Moisture evaporating off her skin, sticking to yours. Photos, videos, everything from that fabricated reality of pixels and soundwaves, could never do enough to come close to having her right in front of you.

You run your hands over her body, hers are doing the same down yours—as if needing multiple points of contact to confirm that you’re really here, that this is really happening. Her skin’s like silk under the water, slippery and smooth. You trace the outline of her waist, her ribs, the curves of her ass.

And her abs. Fucking hell. Sculpted, each ridge a testament to her dedication, to hours spent. To the sweat, the tears, the sheer fucking willpower it takes to become an idol. A map of her life’s work, and they’re begging to be touched. Appreciated.

You do.

A soft touch. Reverent. She responds with a gasp that sends a shiver down your spine. Danielle’s eyes are on yours, watching, as your thumb traces the line of here stomach.

You get the obvious out of the way. “You’re so fucking pretty, Dani.”

She arches a brow. “Just pretty?”

You smile, kiss her shoulder. Lap up the water pooling in her collarbone. Stuck between the need to take your time to worship her body like it deserves, and the primal urge to just claim her, take everything about her that’s good and soft and hot and make it yours. “It doesn’t even cover it. I don’t think any words do.”

“Then show me.”

So, you pull her closer, hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing against the soft skin of her cheeks. Kiss her until she’s melting into you, until her body’s pressing into yours so tightly that you can feel the heat of her.

A palm falls to her hip, thumb resting at that glorious spot where her waist sinks right in just before curving out to her ass. Your fingers dig into flesh, and Danielle’s moan; the sweet, sweet sound fills your mouth, vibrates down your throat.

Her hand wraps around the back of your neck, gripping tight; she’s not shy of about touching you either. About asking for more. More of everything. More of this. More of you. You kiss her harder, like you’re trying to break her apart and rebuild her in your own image. Like you’re trying to brand her with your mouth.

“This is,” she breathes between the kisses, slurring against your chest, “so much different in person.”

“How so?” You ask, and follow her eyes southward.

Her cheeks flush, and she looks up at you through wet lashes. “Bigger.”

You laugh, feeling something unlock in your chest. It’s so absurd. Like all at once, your entire destiny's been flipped on its head.

Danielle’s fingers take hold of your cock, stroking you gently. Staring at it in wonder. She’s worshipping it. This goddess, and it’s your cock that’s her idol. She squeezes at the top of your head. The glee in her eyes when you groan.

“God, it’s—” Danielle voice cracks, and she gives the words their proper weight when she says, “Taken too long.”

You can barely think anymore. Not when her hand is winding up and down you in these long, smooth strokes. Like she's somehow been practicing, rehearsing for this exact occasion, studied upon every sensitive spot and how to hit it just right.

“Could’ve had this from the start,” Danielle tells you, and you’re throbbing so hard in her hands. “Could’ve had this any time you wanted,” she says again; like it’s fact, a simple truth of the universe.

And suddenly nothing really makes sense anymore. Whatever logic you had leading up to this point—why didn’t you just reach out and take her? All the times she was right in front of you, on your couch, in your bedroom, or in this very shower, with the door unlocked.

“Could’ve had me whenever you liked,” she whispers, pushing herself closer, her pert little nipples pointed against your chest. “I’ve been so wet and desperate and ready for your cock this whole time. All you had to do was take it.”

You’ve got nothing but an uncommitted, “Couldn’t.”

To that she laughs, presses her lips into your jaw and her grip’s tightening. There’s pre-cum beading from your tip and leaking onto her palm, you both see it clearly before it gets washed away. “I know. That’s why I tried my best to be patient.”

You need a reality check, make sure she’s at all aware of the damage she’s been wreaking. “You? Patient?”

“Oh, you think this only started a few weeks ago?” Danielle taunts, and it’s with an air of ridicule. Incredulous that you could be so naïve. “You have no idea.”

But the honest truth is—you do. You’ve been aware of it—aware of her—from the start. Her sister had probably been aware of it even longer.

Probably why you chose to bury your head in the sand.

But there’s no avoiding it now. This girl—woman. This dream. A picture of youth and beauty; a masterpiece painted by time and genetics, with a touch of that special something that makes you want to frame her and hang her up on every wall in your apartment—make everyone see her the way you do.

And even then, strip that all away, and it's just those lips—the grin, the smile, the pout—and the intention behind each expression that is your true undoing.

It’s the smirk this time when she makes her point, “I’ve had the biggest crush on you since—” And that does it. That does you in. “Forever.”

“Yeah,” you tell her, falling straight into confession. “I think I have too.” 

Danielle’s pace picks up, the rhythm building until it’s starting to drive you crazy. Making you lean into her, pushing into the warmth of her small hands. She’s back to kissing into your throat, your ear lobe, any part of your skin she can get her lips to when she whispers, mockingly, “Is this the part where you tell me—I want to fuck you—again?”

That’s an unfair callback.

Danielle quirks an eyebrow. Daring you to do something about it.

You push off her. Slip out of her grasp. Hand trapping her wrists above her head before she can grab you again. You're the one grinning now.

"No. This is the part where I spread you wide open. Pin you against this wall. Make you scream my name.”

Her eyes dilate, pupils blown wide. She licks her lips, “Spank me?”

“And pull your hair.”

“Then go ahead and do it.”

But you pause. Wait. Hold her wrists above her head and stare into her eyes. Give her the chance to put the magic words together herself. Your grip tightens.

Danielle’s smile widens. “Please, Daddy—”

She’s so fucking small, light, practically weightless in your hands. Easy enough to take her hips and lift and spin her around before she can even register that she’s moving. She catches herself on the tile when you set her down, bracing herself against the wall; palms flush, fingers splayed out. Legs naturally split just slightly.

All this build-up and you can’t help but rush.

She turns to look back at you. Needs to see you, needs you to see her, all of her. Giving up on all ideas of teasing, of whatever game took you to this point. Just need. Just burning desperation.

“Need it,” is everything she’s wanted to say, everything she’s tried to tell you over and over again. Everything that makes her vanilla thighs tremble, her knees all wobbly, her cunt drip onto your shower floor.

Your cock twitches, and there’s first contact, sweeping against her folds. Heat sticking to the tip and fuck, yeah, this is not going to be one of those slow, tender moments. You press into her, align yourself between her thighs. One hand at her hip, the other joining her palm against the wall because judging by the way she’s shivering, she just might slip away completely without it.

“Need it now, Daddy,” Danielle whines, so fucking cute and honest, and when you drag your cock so it’s kissing against her entrance, it turns into a demand of, “Inside—please, fuck, put that big cock inside my—”

A push of your hips, and she’s so fucking soaking wet that you slide right in.

Her moan.

You think she’s trying for ‘Daddy’ again, but it’s all fucked up and muddled. Lost in the clench of her muscles, the tension across her body, the way her face screws up and holds and makes all the noises that come out strained and whiny.

So fucking nice.

“God—fuck—finally—”

Fitting so perfectly around you; folding her body into yours. It’s partly the angle—her back arching into yours, her hips urging backwards so nicely, ass squishing against your waist. Her pussy. Hotter than hot, wetter than wet. A fucking vice, a perfect grip that makes you feel like this is where your cock was always supposed to be.

Buried deep inside Danielle’s hot, tight, fucking glorious body.

It’s all just so easy, everything about her, so easy to fuck. Not that she’s not tight—the feel is so fucking divine it’s enough to make your eyes roll back in your head—but because she moves with you, like you’re two parts of one machine, two bodies meant to be joined at the hip; or at the cock and the cunt.

She’s made for you. Tailored to each line and curve and angle of your length.

It takes several strokes—euphoric, mind-breaking, soul-shattering strokes—before Danielle gets some bearings on herself. Panting through it all, making some effort to tear off the bathroom tiles with just her nails, but she’s got enough breath to whisper over her shoulder, “Feels so good. I knew—knew it would be like this.”

A small hand leaves the wall, reaches behind her. Fingers dig into your thigh because she needs something else to hold onto. Something real.

“Knew I’d be perfect for you.”

You want to laugh, chalk it up to her doing her usual cocky little thing. But she’s got you too deep inside her, you’ve sunk all the way in so quickly your lungs are still in recovery trying to catch your breath. Got you so far up her cunt that it’s difficult to manage anything that isn’t a moan. So you just nod. Thrust harder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“God this is exactly how I thought it’d go,” she keeps going, slowly finding her voice again. Each word like a spell, a curse. “I thought about it—what you’d be like—how you’d fuck me—”

“Danielle,” you grunt out, surprising yourself with how easily it comes out. Then again, it's always been on the tip of your tongue.

“I used to think it’d be nice and sweet—gentle—” she says, shakily, “But this—rough—fucking me like you own me—like you can’t get enough—it’s so much better than I ever imagined. So much better—”

Her words cut off into a gasp when you kiss into her throat. Her hand snakes back up to your neck, pulling you closer, nails scraping along your skin, leaving little white lines. The sting is nice. A welcome distraction from the fire burning through your veins.

Your lips drift higher, and she twists her body to draw you into this clumsy, uncoordinated kiss. Sloppy in construction, she’s kissing at the corners of your mouth, your tongue is dragging up to her cheek at one point. But it’s all communicated in the clash of lips and teeth and the way she’s panting into you, moaning down your throat, “So good, you’re so fucking good, Daddy—”

And then just—

“More,” and she’s at your mercy, and she just loves it, is so fucking earnest for her need for you to just keep going. “Harder, please, I need—”

But you already know. She needs to be fucked, handled rough and just nailed like she’s wanted you to for weeks. Months. Maybe a year at this point. She’s done watching from the sidelines while you were too stupid to realise that she was what you needed all along. Done being the outsider, the third party, watching you go by unappreciated, watching you not get what you needed.

Your name bounces off the shower walls and back into your ears. Impossibly loud; the sound hardly sweet or loving, but it’s pure music. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear.

It’s joined by the wet smacks of skin on skin. The slick of her cunt around you. Her breaths hitching and catching every time you bottom out and rut your cock so deep in her bowels that it takes a herculean amount of effort to pull it back out again.

Her ass just bounces back against you. The perfect handful—slapping into your thighs with every push. And then, the idea thought of in tandem, two minds as one—“Didn’t you say you were going to—”

A smack ripples across Danielle’s ludicrously tight cheeks.

“Fuck!” She cries out, eyes start to moisten, but she just pushes her ass back. Ready for more.

So you give her another.

A snap; your palm against her. Making the flesh pink up, making it jiggle just right.

Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth opens. Forces out these adorable little sounds, mewls, whimpers.

And then another, and another, and her pussy tightens around you with every hit. You can hear her breath catch in her throat; and fuck she clenches even tighter down on your cock. It’s so dangerous for her because the way she’s reacting, practically thanking you with her moans and sighs and lovely tightening of her cunt around you—it’s making you so greedy.

Greedy to mark her up, to really draw a work of fucking art on her skin. Leave your handprints on something beautiful.

“Again,” she begs, and her voice is absolutely shot. Just raspy, desperate, needy. “Harder, please, Daddy. I’ve never, no one’s ever—"

You smack her again.

And again.

And again.

Leaving her cheeks red and stinging. Leaving her trembling. Just a boneless mess of beautiful sighs and blissful pleasure. You can see it, in the bumps rising on her skin, the way her toes are curling in ecstasy, her cunt gushing down your own thighs. There’s no hiding it. Without a doubt, this is what she’s always deserved.

It’s a hard thrust, a harsh smack, each following one after another in rapid succession. Fucking her apart, fucking her in two. Fucking her into oblivion.

Each spank, each perfect spasm of her abs, her cunt, it’s all a quiet mercy. Pain pushing her closer and closer to pleasure, balancing on that precipice where her pussy is strangling the fuck out of your cock so perfectly.

There’s only one word for someone who’s loving this kind of treatment, someone who’s this fucking filthy and vulgar and dying for more.

“Slut,” you bite into her ear, and the gasp that rises from her throat confirms it. The second word, “Cocksleeve," nearly shatters her completely.

You could never imagine someone like her, someone that could live in the torture if only because it brings out so much joy.

You know it, she knows it, but you still let her know, “You’re going to cum for me.”

And she whimpers and bucks against you because she sees it for what it is. A promise. And it’s all because she’s so fucking responsive, so eager for it, so fucking reactive. A pinwheel in a tornado, spinning and spinning until it’s just a blur of colour and motion and all you can do is watch in amazement.

“I will,” she promises back, and fuck you’re not far behind. “I'll cum for you. All over your beautiful fucking cock.”

It keeps you going, makes your strokes erratic, wild, just harsh, punishing thrusts into the depths of her cunt. And she keeps taking it, walls gripping around your cock with unreal pressure, like she’s trying to keep you there forever. Like she’s afraid you’ll pull out and leave her unsated.

But she’s wrong.

You let her know with your next spank. The hardest one yet.

“Fuck you’re—” and it’s your name, and curses, and filth, and begging and just “yes, yes, yes” again and again. Screaming it into your ear, crying it into your neck; she’s baring the deepest, darkest part of her soul.

Locked in place, cumming.

Unable to move, because her back’s to your chest, and she’s up against a wall so all she can really do is tremble and shiver and shake until she’s completely dissolved.

And it’s somewhere in all this that you come to terms with the fact that it’s not enough. You’ve crossed the line and you don’t even dream of settling. You’re going to make her cum again. And again. And again.

She’s spent all this time offering herself up to you, crafting herself into this toy for your amusement, a fuckdoll for you to play with; as if you were only going to take this one taste and let her go.

But you do give her a break, if only for a moment.

You massage her ass; soothe the sting with your fingertips. A little tenderness amidst the storm.

“Good girl,” you catch yourself kissing into her, and the words are like a password to some hidden part of her, something that makes her nearly collapse onto the shower floor.

Her cunt pulses, once, twice, milking you. Her muscles start to give out, and you need to wrap your hand around her body to keep upright. Fingers at her tits, squeezing, twisting her nipples because you’ve always wanted to and you know she loves it. Because she needs the sensation to keep her on her feet.

“Mine,” you grit out, and there’s no disagreement from Danielle. No, her eyes are too glassy, glazed over and not even looking at you anymore. Just feeling you, feeling what you’re doing to her.

There’s tears in her eyes too; it’s not just the water raining down overhead. She’s sobbing well and truly, because you’ve fucked her so thoroughly that it’s all she can do. It’s all her pretty eyes can show you to tell you just how fucking good it feels for her. So perfect. So much more than she ever hoped for.

Letting you see every bit of her. Every tear that falls down her face, every quiver in her legs. Every time she chokes out your name.

“Mine,” you repeat, kissing it into her shoulder.

Her response is a nod. She’s caught her breath. “Always have been.”

She’s just so soft, even as she’s still quivering. Legs somehow still holding her upright, even when the architecture's been threatening to crumble and collapse this entire time.

So you start to move again. Slower, gentler, almost apologetic.

Danielle ends all ideas of that very quickly. “Hey,” she kisses your cheek. Aiming for your lips, but misses entirely. You don’t mind much.

“Dani,” you groan, because God, even when you’re trying to take it slow, a little easy, it’s still so fucking agonising. So dangerous. Like you’re the first to ever get his hands on her. You’ve discovered fire, now you just can’t keep your hands off it.

“Don’t you dare go taking it easy on me now. Not after you just made me cum my fucking brains out,” is what Danielle rasps, “Remember, I’m yours.”

She kisses you again, gets your mouth this time, tongue pushes in. Convinces you with the sweetness of it that it’s far from over. Not until you’ve done exactly as you’ve promised to her—fucked her so hard, so deep, until she couldn’t move, until she’d feel empty without your cock inside her.

“Your slut,” she slides down you, until it’s only the tip of your cock that remains nestled at her entrance, “your cocksleeve,” her hips snap back, a rush of air exits your lungs and fuck, you’re in deep again, “and you still haven’t pulled my hair yet.”

Yeah.

Grab a fistful of chestnut silk, yank back, and she’s yours. Back to speed, fucking her open and raw, having this effect on her.

Seeing it blossom from her thighs, up her abs, her ribs, her tits, around her throat until it’s bubbling out of lips and the corner of her eyes. This girl is yours. This petite, perfect, fuckable body is yours to do as you wish—to use, to pleasure, to ruin.

You tell her to take it—she takes it. You tell her to beg for it—and she cries and pleas and makes it seem like the only thing that could settle her soul is your cock.

And when you command her to scream your name, and it's just so fucking soul-destroying—the loveliest noise from the filthiest tongue, and everything that comes with it. The ‘just like this’, the barely coherent ‘your slut, Daddy, I’m your slut’, and these encouraging quivers from her lips that take the shape of ‘give your good little girl all of your hot fucking cum and—”

“Fuck, this pussy is incredible,” you breathe into her, and your grip is tightening into a fist, tugging her back even further until she’s leaning into it, her back arched so beautifully like some mathematical wonder.

Head tipped back, throat bared, and she’s trapped. Trapped underneath your weight, trapped in your hands, trapped against the wall with nowhere to go but further down your cock.

It only seems right. After all she’s put you through; the mind games, the seduction, the fucking audacity. You’ll give it right back. Fuck her as hard as she’s been fucking with you. Roughness as penance, finding forgiveness in the soaked and messy and now red and swollen recesses of her cunt.

Fingers drift higher, two past her plump lips, into her mouth. She bites down. You don’t even care anymore. Pulling harder on her hair, fixing her body to yours, and God, even like this, wrapping her up in your body, having her as close to you as possible, being as deep as you are in her. It’s not enough.

She chokes on your digits, collapsing. “Fuck. Too good. Fuck!”

Getting wetter and wetter, messier and messier, thank God you’re already in the shower.

Telling you these things with every whimper, with every twitch of her body, every squeeze of her cunt around your cock. Find out, is what you’re getting. Find out how good she is at being a slut. Where her limits are—how much she can take. Find out how quickly she can make you cum.

“You want this, don’t you?” Danielle reads your mind. Had your number since the beginning, figured you out before you knew. “You don’t need someone nice. Someone sweet, someone good for you. You need someone who’ll—fuck—push you to the edge and then—and then—fucking kick you off. Someone who’ll let you do the same to her.”

Yeah, you’re fucked. Never had someone lay it out so bluntly. So perfectly.

“Daddy wants to cum so bad,” Danielle’s being whiny, slutty, drooling down your fingers, because there’s nothing else she can do. Just taunt and tease and be fucked senselessly. Helpless to take it—harder, deeper—faster, faster, faster. “Daddy needs to fill his slut’s cunt, doesn’t he?”

“I will,” you growl into her ear, and the quivers around your cock are nothing short of rapturous.

It’s all coming to a head—the shower’s a steamy mess around you; water’s cold now, but Danielle’s getting even hotter around you. Can’t stop moving; don’t you dare give her a moment to catch her breath. Not when she’s this close. Not when you’re this fucking close.

Her nails dig into your arms, you’re leaving bruises on her hips. You know it. You can feel them. She’s thanking you for them.

And then a glimpse, the light hits the glass walls of the shower just right and you’re seeing it. Danielle, grace and elegance in a package so tight and wet and perfect and it's all going to hell. Your hand in her hair, the water running over your fingers, splashing onto her back, hitting the gorgeous, sweet pink of her well-spanked ass.

You’re just fucking her. Like it’s all you can do. Like it’s all she’s good for.

Eyes fastened shut. Mouth—beautiful, kissable lips frozen into an even circle, letting out these wails. Danielle’s perfect. So flawless it hurts to look at her. And you’re ruining it all. Dumping a bucket of paint on a priceless work of art, watching the colours run down the canvas.

“God, just—“ Danielle tries, but it takes several attempts until she can piece together the words she really wants you to hear, loud and clear: “Just fuck your cum deep into me. Daddy, I’ve earned it, haven’t I?”

You’re not sure what noise you make as a reply. It’s very likely not something nice.

“Please, please, Daddy,” Danielle’s pouting, and there’s the brat again. The girl that gets what she wants with just the jutting of her lower lip and a voice so sweet it’s undoubtedly terrible for your blood-sugar levels. Just pleading for you to let her bring all your filthiest fantasies to life—fuck her deeper, fill her with all the cum you have, spank her, pull her hair, choke her, even. Letting you know there’s no limit to what she’ll do just to have her cunt spilling out your cum. “It’s what I need right now. It’s my reward for being such a good girl. That’s what good girls get, right? Their Daddy’s cum?”

Christ, this is going to become a problem.

You can never go back.

Not to anything less than fucking to incoherence; to cumming as gratitude. To using someone so pretty, so God-damn lovely, the embodiment of everything wholesome and good in the world; with all the angelic hopes and dreams and aspirations, and reducing it to a simple dumpster for your cum.

To destroying someone with just your cock, and being thanked for the privilege.

“Fuck you, Dani,” you spit at her, and you mean it. “You’re too fucking perfect. Too good of a slut, too needy of a cocksleeve. I’ll give you everything. Fill you with it. Every tight, needy hole, paint every inch of your body. Fuck you against every single surface in this apartment. Fuck.”

“Good,” and it’s fucked up how she blushes, only seeing the praise, the compliments in your words. Yeah, she’ll be all those things, and then some. She’ll be every pornographic fantasy you can think of and then show you even more you could never imagine. She’ll make sure to drain you dry and then drill deep inside you to get out every last drop. “All of those things. Do all of those things. But now���just—cum!”

Your hips meet, you nearly fuck her off her feet.

She cums, or you do, or you both do, it all gets lost in this noise. A wave of sound that could wake the fucking dead—you’re not sure who jumps first, no point in trying to figure it out. Just a blur of sensation and release, crashing through your veins and you’re going to tear her in half, or she’s going to swallow you whole; it’s two and one and fuck.

You try to hold on—her hands around your neck and then your thigh, yours straight to her tits; more of her, you need more of her.

But your knees are buckling. Your breaths are haggard. You’re pushing her into the wall, her cheek is squished against the tile and she’s slurring things that get lost in the water like God, fuck, this is so perfect and if you were paying more attention you might catch it when she says it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

You do hear your name.

“Thank you, thank you, it’s so fucking good, just fucking thank you—”

She’s on her tiptoes when you feel the rush down her thighs, when her cunt makes its final effort around your cock, and it’s all coming out in whispers and prayers and unholy verbal contracts to never let this end.

Her body jerks, hips slamming back into you, and the wall's cold on her face, but it's the heat from your chest that’s all she needs to soothe her shivering; her chattering teeth repeating, "Fill me, fill me, fill me, Daddy!"

Fuck, you’ve lost count how many times now, but you’re spurting inside her. Unbearable pressure, blissful release. You can’t see the end of it, but you don’t want to escape—only sink into the feeling of her cunt around your cock, the gasps of her breath in your ear, the pleas and overtures for you to keep going. And you do, because this is now your heaven, and you’re feeling more religious by the second.

Shot after shot into her, feeling it fill her up, pool inside her pussy. She tells you it’s not enough, her cunt tries to milk every single drop out. You’re okay with that. You’ll give her everything you’ve got. Just to see her stumble out of this bathroom with your cum leaking out of her. Witness her waddling down the hall, globs of it dripping down her thighs. That’s the power play right there.

And somewhere in all this obscene debauchery, she says, “I love this,” and there’s a kiss that follows.

Suddenly tender; still sloppy, and yet—gentle. Softer than any of the bruises you’ve left on her skin.

Danielle’s still holding onto your neck, your fingers are glued to her tits, but for the first time you give her the space to breathe.

Her body relaxes, the fight leaves her legs and she’s just a ragdoll in your arms. And you hold her. Just hold her there, still inside her, cum leaking out of her and running down her thighs, mixing with the shower water and going down the drain.

And you’re unwilling to let her go, you might never, because maybe if you pull out, she’ll vanish. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s all some sick, twisted, fucked up fantasy spurred by every thought she’s filled your head with over the past month.

But when you blink your eyes, she’s still there. Real and present and just as fucked up as you are. And she’s smiling.

You lean into her, catching your breath. Danielle’s panting too, happy to let you carry her weight, and so content. Back to being so smug. Another round of fucking might fix that.

“Told you we’d be perfect together.”

“You told me a lot of things.”

Danielle's lips meet the back of your hand. Your wrist, up your forearm. Says, “I also told you that I’d have you screaming my name so loud you wouldn’t be able to speak.”

"I said that."

"And yet here I am, voice still intact."

You roll your eyes, take a slow, careful step back. Your cock slips out, accompanied by a groan and a splash of cum hitting the floor between your feet. Danielle’s laughing, still shivering in your arms, body still quaking with aftershocks. You kiss her back, her neck, her shoulder, her ear.

Anything to keep her here.

Finally, the taps are turned off, and Danielle shifts in your arms. Cheeks flushed, eyes half-open, but undoubtedly—satisfied.

You manage a weak chuckle. “What now?”

Danielle takes you by the chin, plants a kiss on your lips and yeah, this feels right, this feels like providence, and this is going to last until the universe says otherwise, and even then. “Now?” She says, and another kiss, on your chin, on your cheek, down your chest and lower and lower and, “Now, I go back to your room, and you come with me, and we do this all over until we pass out.”

—

Again, there’s the kiss.

Only you’re both on your bed, and it’s peppered down the underside of your cock. Then her tongue's dragging along your shaft, staining it in her glossy saliva. Slow and languid. More occupied with enjoying her new favourite toy than your pleasure. It’s the simple things, you guess.

And as she’s doing it, she’s talking. Planning out the rest of your day, your lives, you realise, and you’re just nodding along like you’re listening, but all you’re hearing is the wet smack of her lips around your cock, her tongue lolling and swiping around the head.

You look down at her, and she’s smiling, so goddamn happy, your heart fucking splits in half.

She’s curled up against your thigh, and she kisses into your cock, "God, I could never get tired of this."

"Really?"

Danielle pulls away, a sad pout on her lips, and you realise you may have offended her. Repeats, with emphasis, "Your slut."

And it's funny how easily that assuages you. You probably should be worried. Maybe deal with the very likely outcome that this will not end well—reality tends to have complications that the simplicity of just lying in bed with an impossibly beautiful woman cannot anticipate.

Yet, it's okay to just believe for a second that things will be alright. It's okay to lean back into the pillows and let her have her way. Let her suck you until you're seeing stars, and then climb on top of you again and fuck you until you've forgotten how to function and you can't even see past your nose, let alone whatever comes the morning after.

"Of course, I'll remember that."

"And here I am doing my best to make you never forget, Daddy."

Only, one final, stupid, silly little question—"I never asked, how did you know the code to my apartment?"

Danielle laughs, letting your cock pop out from her lips, stifling her giggles against your thigh. "My sister's birthday. Got it first try."

"Ah," you answer, and then, "Fuck. Probably should get that changed."

"Definitely should get it changed," she answers, then tacking on, "Especially if I'm going to be spending more time here."

"Even more than you already are?"

Danielle just grabs her hair in her fist, loops it around and tightens it into a makeshift ponytail. Lifts her chin and looks up at you. Defiant. "Where else would I go?"

And for now, it'll have to be enough, because really, all you can think of, as she sinks her lips back down onto your cock, takes you deep into her throat, and her eyes start to water and you're already throbbing and ready to release, is that she's claimed total victory over you, and for that alone you'll let her have it all.

To the winner, goes the spoils.

Everything she wants, everything she needs.

With a gasp, Danielle lifts her head up; pre-cum, saliva, drool falling off her lips and grins so fucking adorably that you're already thinking of rushing towards words that she’ll never let you take back.

She reads it on your face, sees it take shape on your lips and stops you. Her hand reaches up to cover your mouth, her eyes wide and gleaming.

“At least let a girl earn it first.”

And so you let it rest, because right now you’re exactly where you should be—in your bed, nearly reduced to a puddle of basic needs, with Danielle in your sweatshirt with all her otherworldly beauty and loveliness straddled right on top of you.

Her mouth full of you, your heart full of her.

“Then don’t ever stop,” you tell her, knowing full well that she never had any dreams of slowing down. Your thumb pads her cheek. She leans into your touch. “Keep going, just like this.”

[kerink]

i want to talk about this idea the fandom has that curly didn't do anything to help anya. the fact of the matter is, curly didn't do anything to help anya on screen.

when we first join the conversation, anya's already told curly about the assault and is just updating him on her pregnancy status. we're never privy to what that first conversation looked like, what anya said or how curly responded or what decisions were made about it. but given that anya confided in him twice more about the situation (that she was pregnant and later that she had told jimmy), i have to assume his response to the initial assault disclosure was sufficient enough in her eyes that she knew she could continue confiding in him.

this exchange reads to me like "what to do about the assault" has been an on-going conversation between them, but curly has limited options to help her. but if he could figure out something to do, he'd do it.

let's look at the options available:

report it to HR. i don't think this option is very viable for a few reasons:

first, pony express doesn't seem to care about its employees. there aren't locks on their bedroom doors, there's only enough food and oxygen to get them from port to port with no emergency allotment, there are more crew than cryopods, they're not allowed to sleep for more than 5 hours a night, etc. i don't think they would have done anything to support her even if they had reported it.

HR may even blame anya for the assault, they may say that it happened because of something she did or did not do. it's her responsibility to take, not theirs.

second:

(thank you to @mudstoneabyss for pointing this one out to me)

curly needs this money because he's considering changing careers, which is likely to result in a pay cut or some amount of time job-hunting without income. swansea has a family back home he needs to provide for. it's daisuke's first year on the job and what a piss-poor welcome a pay cut would be, and he's an intern so the pay cut may be all or most of his salary. jimmy is living in poverty. anya has no savings.

it's entirely possible anya asked curly not to file an HR complaint not only because it would make her financial situation worse, but because she doesn't want to ask him, swansea, and daisuke to literally pay for jimmy's actions.

third:

even if curly did file an HR report he may have been told to do nothing. it's a long trip and they need all hands on deck to make the delivery on time! productivity over employee welfare. it's his job to keep the peace but keep jimmy working.

given how much stress curly's shown to be under, it can be assumed being captain is an extremely taxing job with a lot of both assigned duties and off-book duties. it may not actually be feasible to run the ship without a co-pilot.

maybe all he could do was talk to him.

2. go to the police. are there even police in space? i have to assume so because the alternative poses way too many questions. so there's space police. curly and anya call them and they come to the tulpar and dock on the ship and do an investigation and what happens to that limited food and air supply? the late delivery fee?

i'm a psychologist and my first psychology job was working as a crisis counselor for my county. my primary job was to sit with rape survivors as they had their rape kits done and support them as they made their reports to the police. this may not be true everywhere or across the board or in this dystopia but in my experience the police won't take a rape case seriously, or will have limited options to prosecute, or maybe won't even take the case at all without a rape kit.

so curly and anya call the police. they're going to have to file with HR too, to let the company know what's going on. and now anya has to pay for an HR complaint, a late delivery, and a rape kit.

is she going to get this paycheck at all?

3. curly acts on his own accord. this is the one that makes the least amount of sense to me, personally.

if curly just beats the shit out of jimmy then what? now jimmy's mad and embarrassed and takes it out on anya. we're going to confront him and risk making her suffering worse?

curly can't lock jimmy in his quarters for the duration of the trip not only because, as i said, maybe having a co-pilot is necessary for the ship to operate, but there are not locks on the doors.

curly can't lock him in the cargo hold because a) pony express would probably be beyond pissed off about that and who knows if the crew's pay would get docked or curly would get fired or if dragonbreath would sue them all for property damage and contamination. b) how do we get food and water to him? let him go to the bathroom? we open the doors and he busts out and who knows how violent he'll be then.

curly isn't going to kill him because a) that's one of his oldest friends, and i don't care what he's done or how angry curly is or how badly he wants to help anya, i really don't think it's realistic to think he'd be able to separate the anger from the love enough to end his life. b) it's cold-blooded, premeditated murder. it'd be one thing if curly caught jimmy in the act and killed him in defense of anya, he could maybe get away with that. but after the event is over? curly's going to jail for that, possibly for the rest of his life. if you worked at the post office and a coworker told you your best friend since childhood raped her are you clocking out and going to his house and killing him? it's not reasonable. i'm also just really floored how often i've seen this option brought up on the "prison reform abolish the police no matter how bad you are you still deserve human rights" website.

i also don't think it's reasonable, realistic, or kind to ask curly to act on his own accord without consulting anya. for curly to go against her wishes or act without her consent, that's further taking agency away from her. that's another man deciding what happens in her life. even if curly wanted to beat jimmy up or lock him away or kill him, maybe anya asked him not to.

so i ask, what was curly supposed to do? what did he and anya explore as options? what did anya ask him to do? we don't know and we'll never know. and that was intentional on wrong organ's part.

i don't say any of this to discount or discredit conversations or explorations or analyses about the role The Boys Club, toxic masculinity, and bro culture play into the plot, themes, narrative, or personal take-away players have. i fully 100% agree with, support, and endorse those narrative because despite everything i just said above, it's also true that curly is partially responsible.

it's true that he was irresponsible and an enabler for helping jimmy cheat on his psych exam, but there's no evidence at all that he's a conspirator to sexual assault and abuse, that he was going to cover for jimmy in a court of law. all he said was they would figure it out, and that could mean a whole lot of things.

i think curly has some percentage of the blame for what happened on the tulpar, i just don't think that percentage is as large of a number as a lot of people seem to believe. i'm not asking that we forgive or apologize or absolve curly, what i am asking is that we try to look at the situation with more nuance and empathy and good faith.

i don't think curly was a bad man or a bro who was ignoring anya and covering for jimmy's actions. but i also don't think he did enough to help her. he was never good at seeing the small details amongst the larger picture. he couldn't see jimmy for the dead pixel he was.

i think curly was sleep deprived, possibly under-fed, definitely overworked, and juggling too many balls with not enough options. i think he made the wrong choice, but i think he thought it was the lesser of the evils.

[a-hermit-pining]

I saw this on Twitter (i forgot the @), but it really got me thinking. What would your hc be if the boys were playing the game and you were the mc? I hc that Caleb would save every "y/n laughing compilation" he comes across, rafayel would edit y/n's face on random fish and make crack edits and from his alt account he would drop the most gorgeous fanart, and for some reason I feel like sylus would use "quality time" religiously

Hi anon, thank you for sending this in ^^

I completely agree with your takes. Here is my take to compliment yours.

Rafayel: Is the undisputed Fanart King, sketching your character from every angle, in every possible outfit. If an art contest exists, he has already submitted three entries before anyone even knew it was happening. But beyond his artistic obsession, he is also the cursed glitch hoarder. While normal people would be horrified at a headless version of you appearing in-game, Rafayel takes screenshots for exclusive content, considering it a divine blessing from the tech gods. Despite his god-tier art skills, he has zero patience for level locks that force him to wait before progressing, so instead of playing at a normal pace, he rage-quits for months, then returns to binge the game in one sleepless week. His camera roll is half fanart, half stunning in-game scenery that he edits like it’s going in an art gallery.

Xavier: Does not play games for casual enjoyment. He plays for answers. He is a speedrun menace, hitting the first dialogue option before the text box even fully loads. If he gets stuck, he immediately transforms into a lore-devouring beast, reading every spoiler possible just to figure out how to proceed. The only thing keeping him from fully losing his sanity is his refusal to buy premium currency, his pride dictates that he must grind every last diamond by sheer willpower alone. And so, he hoards gems like his soul depends on it, progresses at breakneck speed, and once he’s finished all available content, he descends into 3 AM theory rabbit holes instead of doing something sane like, you know… sleeping. He probably has a color-coded spreadsheet tracking all the route impacts.

Zayne: No one would ever suspect that the infamous, critically acclaimed AO3 writer Frozen Seal, master of soul-crushing angst and tender, breathtaking romance, is actually the stoic, overworked cardiologist Zayne. His fics have a reputation for being so emotionally devastating that readers leave essays in the comments. His update schedule? Completely dictated by his hospital shifts. His author’s notes? Usually something like "Sorry, a patient coded. Will update later." Writes the most heart-wrenching, steamy romance scenes with surgical precision, leaving readers sobbing and sweating in equal measure. Has the smut writing skills of an ace author- which are god tier. Daydreams about you constantly, except when he’s actively resuscitating someone (Even he has limits.)

Sylus: Sylus owns everything. Every premium outfit, every pose, every CG. His entire paycheck is funneled into this game, and no one will ever know the full extent of his power. If questioned about how he maxed out every possible feature, he simply smirks and says, “Skill issue.” But despite single-handedly funding the dev team, he is infuriatingly secretive about his content. His in-game gallery? Locked. His premium screenshots? Hidden. Some speculate he has developers tied up in his basement feeding him exclusive content, but according to Sylus, it’s simply the fruit of his labor. Strangely enough, despite having literally everything, he still has beef with the gacha system and will cuss out the algorithm if he doesn’t get his way.

Caleb: Is cursed with abysmal gacha luck, pulling three-star memories every single time without fail. He suffers, but at this point, he embraces the suffering like a tragic hero. His nights are spent watching crack compilations at 2 AM, laughing silently to himself like a man on the verge of losing his mind (he is this 🤏🏻close). By all accounts, he plays the game rationally until your character appears, at which point all logic is abandoned. He has every single one of Zayne’s fics bookmarked, and he doesn’t just skim he analyzes them like scholarly literature, leaving long, heartfelt comments. And, of course, in the quiet solitude of his room, a freakishly realistic body pillow of you sits on his bed. If questioned? He doesn’t even blink. "It’s a limited-edition collector’s item."

[diejager]

Nooo but there is something about the monster au where there is a casual mention from her that she won't live as long as them (I assume monsters/hybrids are longer lived plus she is a lot more likely to die on mission), like she probably just jokes about it offhandedly and it sends all of them feral because... no? Absolutely not? Insulting. Ridiculous. Not happening.

Cue ultimate clinginess, all rushing to be more intimate because the thought of her not being around is abhorrent. Soap maybe losing it a bit going off on a line of thought about how he could mate her right? Would it be awful if there was a way for her to be a wolf shifter?

I AM GOING TO LOSE MY MIND

Change cw: mention of turning, mention of death, joking about death, tell me if I missed any.

All options are on the table at this point, death had always been something that loomed over them like a shadow, the veil and sickle of death following you wherever you went. You’ve had more than one reminder of your short life, your vulnerability as a human, weak and tender skin, short lives and a delicate body. There were so many things in the world that could pose a possible danger to you and they hated that.

You lived shorter lives than most monsters or hybrids, you grew sick and frail whereas hybrids could fight any viral infections or diseases, you didn’t have thicker skin despite all the extra layers of protective gear and you were a target of many for your choice of career. They were reminded of you mortality whenever you get hurt, blood painting your skin with a strong, metallic odour.

And it didn’t help that you’d often joke about it, throwing offhanded comments that made their hackles raise, body tense and mind brewing with what ifs scenario that has them tearing their hair from the root. While some monsters were more solitary than others, all of them were possessive of what they deemed their family —pack.

Ghost and König stuck closer during training, a tall, imposing figure behind you that acted as a guard dog to ward away anyone they deemed a danger. Soap and Horangi hung around you in the rec room, either laying on you or clinging to you, putting a show of ownership over you. Rudy and Alejandro, the ever active couple, were always finding you around the base, striking up a conversation and wrapping their arms around you. Gaz would was the cuddliest of the group, finding time outside of his busy to snuggle up against you and cover you with his wings, pulling you to sleep on his shoulder. Price, the man with the most authority in the TF made sure that you were always with someone on every Op, having someone to back you up in the most dire situation.

Every visit to the medic made them wild, it brought them closer to desperate measures. Would it be so bad to turn you in one? Would it be so bad to let Soap bite you during the full moon, his bite infecting you with his power: thicker skin, sturdier build, longer lifespan and better sense? The only draw backs were the higher wildness, near feral during full moons and a competitive mindset over the possessiveness and brattiness of a young werewolf.

Would it be so bad to make you return as a wraith? While Ghost learned to control his powers alone, the pain and emotions building up in his body without any way of letting it out, you had him, you wouldn’t be alone with the resurrection. He didn’t want you to feel the terror and agony by yourself —he didn’t want you to know how it felt to die and come back.

Would it be so bad to have a vampire turn you into one without becoming a thrall? You couldn’t walk in the sun, something you told them you enjoyed, you’d be restrained to specific activities and you wouldn’t like that, being limited by the sun. Granted, there were solutions to that, but none very comfortable.

They knew you were aware of your mortality, made fun of it and laughed as it this was your last day, but you didn’t fear death, you only feared leaving them. You were open to their thoughts, listening to their ideas and options with a neutral expression, but you didn’t reject the idea of turning you. That was a good thing, a step forward in their mind.

Now all that needed to do was to let you decide which path you wanted to walk.

tag list: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel

[athena-gundampla]

HGUC 1/144 E.F.F. Prototype Transformable Mobile Suit NRX-044 "Asshimar" (XW Knockoff)

The Asshimar!!! This is one of my favorite transformable mobile suits, and one of my favorite suits from Zeta overall. Its design is loosely based on the G1 design for the transformer "Cosmos", with a circular Mobile Armour mode and a chunky Mobile Suit mode standing at over 23 meters (making it a very large kit).

This kit is actually a bootleg, made by the company XW and sold under the dubious title of "Pumpkin Pie Warrior". The Bandai HGUC Asshimar isn't all that hard to get but I had to pick up this bootleg for the funky box art alone.

Surprisingly for a bootleg, the quality wasn't all that bad. It's a fairly good clone of the Bandai mould, with the same level of colour separation and detail. There's a little bit of flashing that needs to be trimmed, but the mould lines were no worse than most Bandai kits - better in some places. The clear piece that goes over the eye-sensor was a little warped but it's not noticeable once the kit is assembled. One issue I did find was that the tolerances weren't quite as precise as with Bandai kits, with some pegs being too big for their holes and certain pieces refusing to stay flush. If you assemble this kit be prepared to spend a little extra time widening holes and gluing parts down to get it to work.

In terms of the kit itself, the colour separation and level of detail is impressive. Unlike some other HG transformable kits, this one doesn't require any parts removal or replacement to transform, and there's some really impressive internal engineering to achieve this, especially with the way the legs fold in on themselves. The kit is completely colour separated, apart from a little red for the thrusters and some grey vents and minor details around the suit.

I also cribbed some of the Titans stickers from my unbuilt GM-II as well as a few other spare stickers, and added a bit of custom graffiti and markings in white, as well as some light weathering. The graffiti was a little hard to come up with given the Titans position as a fascist allegory, so I kept it limited to some kill markings and a message on the gun. The unit number is almost entirely a result of what stickers I had to hand.

The graffiti and markings were difficult to plan out, as several panels change orientation in Mobile Armour mode and I wanted to avoid parts appearing upside down.

I made sure to include a little homage to the knockoff kit's name with a custom suit name and logo!

The kit comes with very limited extra parts, including its Large Beam Rifle, two closed fists hand options, and two pistol grip hand options.

A neat bonus with this kit is that it includes an extra Large Beam Rifle, so you can pose it with two guns at once! The second rifle can be attached to the top of the suit in Mobile Armour mode, but I found this threw of the balance a little so I didn't take any photos.

Overall this was a really fun build and I'm pleasantly surprised at the quality of the knockoff. It's not as good as my XFS knockoff GM Spartan, but it's certainty commendable especially at the lower price.

Definitely recommend checking it out! Next up is another knockoff kit for AoZ April - the XFS HGUC Woundwort, if I get to it!

[blueishspace]

Looped Sun 2

Loop #16

They didn't stop looping in time, but at least they had eachother. Grian had to admit that it was almost fun with Scar around, definitely felt less lonely with someone else to talk to.

Loop #19

It took 3 loops for Scar to suggest having some fun with this, spice it up. Grian hadn't expected stealing Martyns and Ren bit would be their objective this time but he didn't mind. Getting to be king and screaming "red winter is coming" was actually quite funny and being all shady in Last Life was nice too. As Secret Life comes to an end Scar whispers.

Scar: Alright alright, let me be king next time ok?

Grian laughs at the suggestion just in time for-

Loop #21

Grian had noticed soon that not every loop started the same exact day a while ago but he never expected to wake up already during Limited Life.

Surely things couldn't get weirder then that.

Loop #26

He spoke too soon. This time around he woke up as he was singing a piece of paper, a declaration of indipendence, while wearing a very weird blue american indipendence outfit together wih people he had never met before.

He just went along with it of course and fighting against a weird masked guy for indipendence had been a breath of fresh air but Scar was still missing and Grian was very confused the whole time.

Well until ...

Scar: Thank you Soot, however I think that I could run this country far better!

Grian: Scar? Where were you!? ... What are you doing!?

Scar: That's why I'm going to run myself! Vote for Scar 2020!

To be fair it took some times for things to go badly.

Grian: This is your fault you know that right?

Scar: Hey! Look! At least the country didn't explode or something-

*Boom*

Grian: ...

Scar: ...that wasn't me.

Loop #31

Grian: Damn I didn't bring enough tnt to rig the enchanter. How did I forget??

Scar: Don't worry! I got some!

Grian: Oh thank... where did you get it?

Scar: I kept it in my second inventory from last loop.

Grian: Your what?

Scar: We have a second inventory now! Didn't you notice!

Grian: I see it now ...how?

Scar: It keeps stuff safe from one loop to the other! Cool right!?

Grian: ... Like an enchanting table? But for loops?

Scar: I guess?

Grian: How are you not freaking out about this!?!

Loop #33

This time they woke up early, back in season 6! Grian doesn't understand why Scar doesn't care because he does! Why can't someone explain it to him for ender sake.

Loop #36

Someone explained it. He and Scar woke up somewhere completely different and it was confusing and scary but they finally got answers.

Grian: So our universe is part of a big big big tree?

Anakin: Yes, like every other.

Grian: And the tree is what, under maintenance?

Anakin: Basically.

Grian: And so we are stuck looping?

Anakin: You don't need to pretend to be calm, I can feel your emotions in the force.

Grian: So... we are stuck? Forever?!?

Anakin: Not forever forever, until the tree is fixed-

Grian: So possibly for billions of years!?!

Anakin: Some of the older loops have been going for trillions even.

Grian: ... I'll... I...need to think.

Anakin: I'll write some useful terms down so you can read them once you aren't... You know.

Grian: Guess I have all the time in the world to come to terms with it... Scar is going to hate that he didn't get to meet you.

Loop #37

Scar: ....soooo what you up to?

Grian: Memorising these terms Anakin gave us.

Scar: Ooh sounds...fun!

Grian: Every loop has an anchor, without it the loop can't exist. I tought I was the anchor but it's not possible because I was sent to a different loop last tims.

Scar: So am I the anchor?

Grian: You were missing for the first loops Scar... the only option that makes sense is that both of us are anchors. But even then...

Grian underlines the term "co-anchors" a bunch of times.

Scar: Does that mean I'll get to meet Anakin Skywalker?

Grian: Probably? One day?

Scar: Wooooho!

Loop #38

They were waiting for the moon to crash when Scar posed the question.

Scar: Do you think we can just... stop the moon?

Grian: Hmmm... I guess I never tought about it, why?

Scar: I don't know, just thinking.

Grian: I have an idea...

Loop #43

Scar: Grian what are you doing?

Grian: You remember how last loop started in s7?

Scar: ... Yeah?

Grian: I decided to keep something in my pocket this time around.

Grian took out a golden gauntlet with 6 colored glowing stones.

Scar: ... The button?

Grian: The button.

Grian snapped and the moon disappeared.. He then carefully removed and pocketed it again.

Grian: Well, I'm surprised it actually...worked...

Scar: But what happened to it?

Grian: I just made it really really small.

Loop #51

This was unbearable, Grian tought it was weird when this loops Timmy was acting like an incapable child, then he became worried when he saw that Scott was a pacifist who wouldn't hurt a fly, and then Cleo started burning down literally everything and he started to question his life choices. Everyone was barely themselves, it was like they had been replaced by very cheap imitations.

(Poor Grian had to walk into fanonland)

Loop #67

Scott Smajor liked to think he was often in control of the situation. Not many people liked that about him but if he died it was by his decision.

He didn't feel very in control at the moment, back in the Last Life with Grian and Scar being completely different from what he remembered them being... And he didn't like it one bit.

Scott: Ok ok, stop it!

Grian: What do you mean? We aren't doing anything wrong!

Scott: It isn't right! You are supposed to be in a team with Jimmy and Martyn and you Scar should be alone on a mountain!

Scar: ...

Grian: ...

Scott: ... Sorry that was-

Grian: You remember too?

Scar: New looper! New looper!

Scott: ...uh?

Prev Next

[lassieposting]

Back on my Poppyposting bullshit to yell about something I haven't seen anyone talking about:

Prototype is still protecting the orphans

So. Obviously this new chapter puts a lot of effort into villainizing my boy. I still have some hope that not everything is as clear-cut as Poppy is trying to make it look - god knows there are a half dozen places where her story doesn't add up or she's been caught not being honest with us - but I reckon they're far more likely to go the predictable "Prototype-as-Big-Bad" route, and not in the fun morally grey way I theorized last year.

But

There's this one line that really sticks out to me. When the Safe Haven, Poppy tells us that the orphans have been "taken" and that they're "in the labs...the Prototype's home."

And then, in the conversation between Prototype and Harley Sawyer, Sawyer asks Prototype to give him labs access if he wants actual results.

And Prototype says, in essence, over my dead body.

He's still refusing to give Sawyer access to the orphans. He's keeping them in his own lair - the one experiment who does not need to eat - and he's refusing to let them be used as test subjects. Even though whatever he was doing with Sawyer was pressed for time, he prioritized their safety over achieving his goals.

He's still trying to protect them.

And like, if you think about it, it's strongly implied that he actually planned for the safety of the orphans well in advance. Miss Delight's tape confirms that she asked CatNap what had happened to the children, where they were, and if they were safe. CatNap refused to tell her where they were (and she says this was, "Probably because he knew I'd kill 'em all.") but confirmed that they were safe, and had been moved. Which means Prototype planned the move of the orphans ahead of time, and CatNap was aware of - and potentially involved in - the plan. The children eventually warmed to CatNap in Playcare - he may well have been their escort down to the bowels of the factory.

Which. This whole thing is a fucked up situation - obviously. Prototype is keeping them prisoner, for sure - I'm not refuting that. For them to still be children, he'd have to be keeping them in some kind of suspended animation state - unless they're now adults who have grown up down there with him. But I've seen theories suggesting he's planning to use them in experiments of his own, and that...just doesn't ring true for me.

He's done the best he could for them within the incredibly limited options available to him. Poppy says that he's explained to her why the toys can never leave the factory - he knows they'd be promptly shuffled into some government facility where they'd be taken apart in order to figure out how to repeat Playtime's atrocities. They will never be able to live normal lives. And releasing the children onto the streets in the aftermath of a massacre is a great way to bring the police howling to the factory's door - jeopardizing every soul inside. So he keeps them there. But he keeps them safe, as best he can - sometime between the Hour of Joy and Miss Delight being released from the locked schoolhouse after killing and eating all her sisters, he realises he's run them all into a bottleneck, and he has the orphans moved from Playcare (CatNap's territory - loyal to Prototype, but full of Critters who are going to start starving eventually and could pose a threat to the children) to his own lair in the labs. There is most likely no safer place in that factory for them. He is the only experiment who does not need to eat to survive - his digestive tract is vestigial - and as the facility's biggest, scariest apex predator, he is the most intimidating defender those children could have as the factory descends into chaos. Because really - even when the Bigger Bodies start starving, who's brave or stupid enough to walk into his home turf and fight their way through him - a being notorious for exceptional violence - to get to the children?

Nobody. The only fucker in that factory who seems willing to directly lock horns with Prototype is Doey, and only in defence of his own home - he's not fool enough to seek him out. For most of the Bigger Bodies, it's easier and less risky to turn on other experiments. Lives that have already been ruined.

I've theorized before that Prototype has been playing a long game of manipulation to grant everyone in that factory peace through having us kill them all, him included. We're his suicide. But I don't think that's his goal for the "children".

The letter he sent us at the beginning, prompting us to look for the disappeared staff members, says "We're still here."

The staff aren't still there. But the orphans are. And he's been keeping them safe from Harley Sawyer and the Bigger Bodies for a reason. Maybe we are it.

Anyway tl:dr; antihero/antivillain prototype still very much plausible imo

[e-vay]

Hi! If you have the time, could tell me a little about Love and Deep Space? I originally played a ton of Dress Up! Time Princess, as obsessed, and even occasionally threw a little money at it, but ditched it once the UI became too cluttered, they added a ton of things that used up massive resources, and almost all events were P2W. I keep eying LaDS but am worried it might have the same issue? Also, does it have a lot of customization/personalization options? That'd be a big selling point for me.

Oh my gosh, where do I even start! Listen I'm not a saleswoman but I'll do my best to explain. I'll put it below the cut so that people who aren't interested don't have to read. Oh and also (not that you are, but I just want to make this clear for everyone) Love and Deepspace is NOT a game for children. So don't download it for your kids lol

I haven't played any other game like LADS before so I don't know what to compare it to. It is just this very rare game that happens to check every single box of all my niches! It's a romance, it's a sci-fi/fantasy, it's got action and fighting as well as really cute mini games, its got steamy audio stories that'll make ya go WOOF, the writing is superb and the animations are STUNNING!!!! I am not kidding when I tell you the story is so well written; it makes me cry, it makes me laugh, it makes me sweat 🥵 (in a good way haha), the writers really know what they’re doing! Here are just some samples of the different things you can do in the game:

RPG Battles - Multiple fighting styles, including your choice between guns, sword, wand/staff and claymore.

Main Story - This includes written stories, animated cutscenes, character interactions and battles.

Special Events - Variations of the above ^ But limited to a small window of time so you can only participate and get rare items during that window

Lottery ("Wishes") - This is how you obtain 'memories' which you use for battling. Think of them like Pokemon cards. Some of them are extra special and will unlock dates/stories/animations for you to enjoy.

"Date Minigames" - These are cutesy things to do with your love interest like playing cards or claw machine. You can even choose whether you play the claw machine or your date does (hint: some of the guys are good at some of the machines, while others are not)

Photobooth - You can take cutesy snapshots with stock poses or you use the studio mode and make a lot of adjustments to capture the scene you want. They also have an AR mode where YOU can take a photo with him, haha!

Interact with your love interest(s) - The stronger your affinity with him, the more you can do together. This ranges from cute, animated interactions to having "conversations" with him. He'll also text and call you. You can romance all of the love interests if you want and it doesn't negatively impact your affinity with the others.

Audio stories - These are steamy vignettes starring you and your love interest. This one is for all the “Booktok girlies”!!! 🥵 Listen with headphones! 🙈

Anecdotes and other Side stories - The lore in this game is ENDLESS! If you enjoy reading, there are plenty of written stories within the game. If you don't like it, you can just skip through it to gain your reward and move on.

Dress up (limited) - As you play you'll earn different outfits, but there are also outfits you can buy. You can use real currency or in-game currency, it just depends on the outfit. You can't completely create your own ensemble but you can pair different outfits with different accessories to use in the photobooth. You can also decide what your love interest(s) wear or have him decide what he wants to wear.

LADS is free to play and doesn't have any ads. However, if you're prone to FOMO, you'll have better luck receiving items during their special events if you do make purchases. But again, you absolutely do not have to spend any money on it to play.

There is a little bit of a learning curve when it comes to the navigation of the game because there is so much to do within it, but you get the hang of it really fast. I feel like the UI is actually quite clean and organized. I’ve put a screenshot below:

The most confusing thing is the story mode; it kind of jumps around out of order because characters were added after the game's story had already started. But I personally didn't find that a dealbreaker and you can go back into the story and replay it in order any time.

The amount of storage the game will take up on your phone/tablet is a lot, but that's because the game is GORGEOUS. All the characters are fully rendered in 3D and the animations will blow your mind. I can't tell you how many times I'm playing it and I can't believe it's a mobile game. I play on "medium" resolution so my phone doesn't explode on me, but even then the quality is so good.

Customization is where the game unfortunately falls short. Though you do get to customize your protagonist, there are limitations. You can change her face, makeup, hair and voice, but during in-game fighting, dialog and cutscenes, MC will always default to a woman with long dark hair. Some players have found ways to glitch the game so that your customizations like hair style and color will appear in the “kindled” animations (you’ll know what that means when you play it), but it's not a long-term solution. We're all crossing our fingers that they'll update the game one day so the animations reflect our choices better!

There are other customizations in-game that are fun. You have a banner that you can change the appearance of and change your title. As you build a stronger connection with each of the guys, you can have them call you by unique nicknames and they'll refer to you as that moving forward (though you can change it every day). There are also elements of the game that involve you sending and receiving text messages, phone calls, and social media posts and you can customize how those look to an extent as well.

As far as the unique experience you have as a protagonist, when it comes to dialog/action choices there are only so many options you can choose from. The writers have an overall plan for MC so sometimes she'll say things that I would never want her to say, but I didn't write her so 🤷‍♀️ We still get more control than some games offer so I can't complain!

Personally, I do wish it was a little more inclusive than some other games out there. Right now you can only play as a woman and you can only romance the male characters. But that's what other games are for, I guess.

I don't know if this game will be your cup of tea and I know for a fact it's not for everyone, but DANG if this game wasn't made for me in every way! If you do end up playing it, I hope you enjoy it! And you can add me! My hunter’s number is: 82001322820

[chewyhanniebug]

you know pencil skirt hyeongjun got me thinking...

what if he orders one just out of curiosity. he's not planning to actually wear it outside or anything, he just wants to know how he looks in one. but then gunil and sumi walk in on him trying it out.

i'm pretty sure i can go somewhere with this but i'm at work and this is all i can think about rn🫠

sigh. i hate you. you're lucky this was calmer than my idea 🙄

Hyeongjun loved experimenting with fashion and there was nothing better than playing around with skirts. Even if it was just for his own enjoyment, not intending to go out in public in them or even show the others a lot of the time, it was fun. It was purely out of curiosity. Not thinking of it as a secret posed a slight problem, though.

The suits they were set to wear for their concerts meant that he couldn't wear any on stage, and even if he was also perfectly happy to dress in a more masculine way, Hyeongjun couldn't help thinking it was a shame. Being limited to suits that didn't quite fit properly felt too boring compared to what he was used to. There was a way around it, reminiscent of an artist he looked up to, but it was unlikely to be passed by the company. That didn't mean he couldn't try it just for himself.

Ordering online was really his only option. Hyeongjun had to hope that he'd gotten the right size, difficult to tell with a pencil skirt being vastly different to the loose fits he was used to, so it was a relief when he held it up to his body in front of the mirror after the box arrived. He had to try it on immediately.

It fit perfectly. Perfectly. The waistband wasn't too loose, the material stretched prettily over his hips and the hem sat at mid-thigh, making his body seem less awkwardly lanky and more curved. Hyeongjun had tried it without a shirt to see properly, excited to find out what would compliment it from his wardrobe, but he didn't get the chance.

"Hey, Hyeongjunnie? I—" Gunil stood frozen after swinging open the door, words dying on his tongue as he looked Hyeongjun up and down. "Oh. What's this?"

"The concert suits aren't very exciting. Wanted to see how this would look even if I won't get to wear it on stage," Hyeongjun answered honestly with a shrug, not seeing what the issue could be. "What do you think?"

"You look... good," Gunil appeared behind him in the mirror, his arms winding around Hyeongjun's waist as their eyes met in the reflection. "Really, really good."

That made it click in Hyeongjun's mind. He hadn't thought any further than it fitting nicely, more interesting than the normal suit, but he could see it from Gunil's perspective. It was hot. Especially with the way Gunil slowly ran his palms over his stomach, getting almost dangerously low before landing on his hips. Hyeongjun watched Gunil kissing from the back of his shoulder to the side of his neck, trying to keep his eyes open so he could see how the skirt would stretch when he inevitably got hard, but they were interrupted by a whistle from the still open door.

"Wow," Seungmin leaned against the frame with his arms crossed, smirking when Hyeongjun sighed from Gunil's teeth lightly dragging across his skin. "What were you hiding this for?"

"Wasn't a secret. I—"

Hyeongjun was cut off by a gasp when he stepped into the room, shuddering as  Seungmin's finger ran lightly up his dick over the skirt. It stretched the material just like he imagined, the hem lifting higher under Gunil and Seungmin's roaming hands, and he knew it wouldn't take long for it to be completely ruined.

Hyeongjun didn't care if it meant they would keep touching him. He could easily get another one

[pompomchihuahua]

I just saw you recent ask to the response you had to the anon. If it was the case of after seeing Genya, I wish they put more of Sanemi’s thoughts after seeing his brother for the first time in YEARS 😭

Not saying that Sanemi doesn’t care, but the fact Sanemi COULD have done more, but didn’t to stop Genya. Like I get he secluded himself from him, but that did nothing because in the end, he was still letting Genya fight demons…

I definitely agree that I wish that we saw more of Sanemi's thoughts on Genya in general. I understand WHY we don't in the anime; they wanted it to be a surprise that Sanemi actually still care for Genya because we were supposed to be viewing their story more out of Genya's POV. BUT, the novels were the best place for them to go ALL OUT and while we did get lines like Genya being Sanemi's sole joy, I always wish for MORE with these two.

As for Sanemi doing more, I think it actually says a lot about his character, whether the author intended to or not. He wants to make the situation go away by just... telling it to go away and ignoring it. Yes, he keeps tabs on Genya's health but other than that he just doesn't seem to interact with him.

I do want to pose a question though, to anyone who wants to participate: What would you do if you were Sanemi?

There's the very obvious "Just talk to him! Forgive him and explain your fears and why you don't want him to be in the corps." But stubbornness and emotional stunting aside, there's still no guarantee that Genya would quit.

In One-winged butterfly we get possibly my favorite line from Genya describing his feelings toward Sanemi: "I could get my brother to baby me because I was his kid brother. But who would baby him? He was Mom's right hand, working even though he was a kid. Taking care of his little brothers and sisters with an unreliable dad. Who on earth was there to baby him?"

I absolutely ADORE this line because it shows Genya has more than just a blind admiration for Sanemi but also sees him as a human being who deserves to be cared for and babied in turn. He so badly wants to protect Sanemi as well, I don't think he would willingly leave the corps as long as Sanemi is there in my personal opinion. I think he'd insist on fighting side by side with Sanemi whether he likes it or not. Now, I can see a case being made for him going into more of a supportive role, but leaving Sanemi's side? Absolutely not.

So if talking it out doesn't guarantee he leave, then why not go to Ubuyashiki? Well, there's no guarantee there either that he would forcibly expel Genya from the corps and Ubuyashiki is clever enough to talk Sanemi down from making an ultimatum. "What's to stop him from fighting demons on his own, just like you did, Shinazugawa? At least in the corps we can provide him with resources and some protection."

You could always do what Sanemi chose when pushed to his absolute limit after finding out about the demon eating: cripple him so he can't fight demons. Or even hold him captive against his will.

But it's clear that Sanemi had been actively avoiding those options. He thinks he's doing what's best for Genya, even if we, as the audience, very much know he's not. He's by no means a perfect character, he is EXTREMELY flawed but that's what makes him blorbo.

Hindsight is 20/20 and if he got the chance at a do-over knowing everything he knows now... well, that's a different post

[nocturnesmoon]

I have thoughts spurring around in my head like feral cats chasing a bouncy ball, and I'm making it everyone's problem.

What if we take the world of star wars, and smash you and the 141 into it.

There are so many different combinations and turns this could take, but what I'm thinking about is the 141, ex-military turned smugglers, and you a Jedi in hiding after order 66.

The clone wars have finally come to its brutal end, and the empire has taken over the known galaxy. The Jedi have been portrayed as traitors and have been promptly executed, and the rest forced into hiding.

It looks bleak for anyone still holding onto the hope of the republic, anyone not willing to adapt to the new world gets destroyed right along with the old.

The 141 being forcefully retired, not that they minded at this point they knew it was a losing fight. With their options limited, and not keen to do the empire's bidding, or anyone's bidding ever again, they chose the obvious choice, to run.

It wasn't the ideal outcome, but with a timer on their lives, and conflicted opinions, Price took charge of the group. He knew that right now survival was the only thing that mattered, that his men would still live to see another day.

The year of acclimating to their new life was rough, they were used to sticking together but they also normally had more direction than this. Being wanted in any area governed by the empire limited a lot of work options for them.

It quite honestly didn't take long before Price resorted to less moral means, it was how their career as smugglers started.

With Gaz's excellent piloting skills, Soap's weaponry and science knowledge, Ghost's brute strength and intimating demeanor, and Price's own smooth tongue and connections, it was the most optimal choice.

And much to the their own surprise, they're pretty damn good at it.

They make good money smuggling a lot of different things across the galaxy, food, weapons, illegal goods. They take almost any job they can get in the start; they don't have time to be picky just yet, they need the credits more than good morals.

Their wanted status is likely to never get alleviated, but they combat it by never settling in one place too long. They prioritize the credits they have and get a ship big enough for both their job and to house the four of them. They're already used to being close, while this is a step further it's nothing any one of them has anything against.

They all agreed that they would stay together, they started this together and they'll end it together.

A few years in they have gotten quite the reputation for themselves, at least among other known smugglers and wanted criminals. They get bigger job opportunities, higher pay, more risk.

The bond they forge between each other is something none of them could explain, but they embrace its qualities, it's comfort and pleasure.

Some things are better to just leave unexplained and enjoy while they last. The only thing they have is each other, and they've grown quite content with that.

That was until something unexpected crash landed into their lives.

Docked at some lesser-known planet in system of farmers, they had originally planned to stop there for a few days to stock up on supplies and look for less likely work opportunities. Farmers sometimes had some strange inquiries they were quite content spending massive amounts of the little credits they have.

It was a peaceful little community, none the wiser to the person hiding amongst them. You, a Jedi who somehow survived the purge of order 66, posing as mechanic. Outside of your Jedi teachings, you had clear proficiency in anything creating and fixing.

It had been the perfect cover during the last year, who would suspect that the innocent mechanic trying to get by would harbor such a grave secret. That the kind person living in the rundown house, would be so full of survivors’ guilt that it was nothing short of a miracle they were still going.

It had roughly been 2 years since order 66, 2 years since you had survived and fled, 2 years on the run from the empire and the usual calm feeling of the force now gone.

Images still fresh on your brain despite the time, of your master, of your friends, those you'd considered your family dying from blasters that once aided them.

Every time you reached out through the force it was now hollow, the echo going into your brain and body, reminding you of the terrifying fact that you were truly alone.

You had no idea why you survived out of everyone, not even a fully trained Jedi, a mere Padawan with few accomplishments to their name. You shouldn't have survived that, someone better should be here in your place, yet no matter how much you think those thoughts, you can't change the reality.

The small farmer planet had been a good hiding spot for quite a while, you even dared to make a few friends during your stay. Despite it being less of a good idea you still kept your blade, the kyber crystal within being the only thing giving you comfort in your grief. Though you hadn't expected to ever need it again, especially not this soon.

Never had you expected that the empire would set their sights here, nor had you expected your methods of hiding had actually been that horrible. It didn't take them longer than a few days ‘til the people you thought friends practically turned you in.

You couldn't find it in your heart to blame them, the empire had very convincing methods, yet it still meant you were forced into a run for your life.

When the 141 had set their sights on this planet they hadn't expected the empire to already be here when they arrived. Price had insisted that the planet was still free, and he was right, a week ago.

They remained inconspicuous, did their shopping, and didn't snoop around too long. There was no need to get the empire hot on their tails once again.

When Ghost and Gaz went into the market, they intended on staying out of trouble, and technically they weren't the ones roped into it.

When they first spotted you, running from a few storm troopers, lightsaber blade raised, they nearly didn't believe their own eyes. All the Jedi were supposed to be dead, yet here you were, a sight to behold.

Nothing about their next actions were ruled by logic, if you ask them later about what they were thinking they couldn't tell you, because the only thing that was a priority now was to help you.

Perhaps it was some sort of obligation, maybe a sliver of hope for something better, or maybe it was just something about you that tugged at them, making them want to protect and help you.

Backed into a cornered alley, almost having lost your pursuers you felt the new threat loom behind you. A technique that was familiar in ways you couldn't explain, and too fast for you to register and counter. You were knocked out cold, and the next time you woke you were on a spaceship in space.

To say that Price was furious with the two was an understatement, they had more or less kidnapped someone unprompted. While Soap found the situation hilarious, he also had a feeling there was way more to this, and a possible danger they could've avoided.

When you wake it's Price that greets you, making sure to establish himself to not be a threat to you, so you didn't do anything drastic. You were on edge, understandably so, but he managed to explain the situation while also avoiding the main topic at hand.

You knew it would come up, he was toying with your lightsaber in his hands while you talked, and no matter how much you stared it down you didn't dare lunge for it yet. The dreaded question, and the answer that people had such varying reactions to.

"You're Jedi?"

You had expected something else when you confirmed to him what you were, what you've been since you could remember. A part of you had expected them to be bounty hunters, ready to turn you over to the empire at a moment’s notice. The reward on your head would be great, you imagine, yet that's not what he does.

He reminisces instead, telling you of a Jedi he once knew, of how he and his men had fought alongside a few of them on special occasions. Never had you imagine that this is where you would end up, in the metaphorical arms of people who could care maybe just a little.

He gave you an offer, they could drop you off at whatever location you requested, or they could work a sort of partnership.

You don't know what to make of it at first. They seem genuine, but people have ratted you out for less. You don't have a lot of options, going somewhere else and trying to find another inconspicuous farming planet wasn't the most viable choice, but neither was bunking with them. Who knew what kind of people they were.

Your chances were not the best, and unfortunately you had a sneaking suspicion they knew that. Whether their intentions were noble or just pity, you decided to take the risk and stay. If it all came crashing down, you'd still have your training, it had gotten you this far, it could get you further.

The first few days you stayed with them was tense, they were all in agreement on keeping you, there was nothing hostile about it, but it was still tense. It was partially your own doing, you walked on eggshells around them, never letting any of them behind you, etc. etc.

They understood to an extent, the way they met you wasn't exactly on the best of terms, it was natural for you to be cautious. So, they let you have your space, they don't pressure you into anything but do try to coax you into a more comfortable environment with them.

The crack starts to form when you see them all gathered in the main area of the ship, laughing, talking, playing a game you're unfamiliar with. Soap is the first to notice you staring, with a big grin on his face he invites you to join them. Hesitant but interested you approach.

Price explains the rules to you, and you get to watch for a round or two before you join in on your own. They go easy on you but you're a quick learner, and it doesn't take long before you become quite vicious in your play.

It becomes a common thing, almost nightly that they all gather to spend time together. The bond between each other grows fast, and it's not long before you start feeling like this is exactly where you're meant to be.

Settling in with them becomes easier and easier, as if they had always waited for another person to welcome in with them. To fill a missing part, they didn't know they needed.

While keeping the secret of what you are is the topmost priority, you end up helping them out on jobs. Due to your training you're very adaptable, able to fill any position where something was missing.

You were an excellent mechanic when the ship was down, and with Gaz's magic touch it halved the time it usually took to repair.

Soap had a really fun time explaining a bunch of different things about weaponry and the science behind it. There had been a lot of different questions you had in the clone wars that was left unanswered, you could finally have someone enthusiastic that could explain them to you.

A lot of long rides were spent like that, of you asking him questions and then more questions because the math he talked about in the first question was confusing.

Even though you were just a Padawan back then, you still had made your fair share of connections during the clone wars. People that you and your old master had come across, and old friends outside of the Jedi order.

Price found it very useful, and though most of the connections you had were friendship and not business, it could still be used as such. A few of them he even helped rekindle, you've been grateful for that ever since.

Though the Jedi order is no more you still try to keep up with your training. You have no guidance any longer, nothing new to look at, but you can maintain what you know.

The others are happy to help you with it as well, they know it's important to you and a part of them have always found it fascinating how you train.

Occasionally you'd have them all surround you in a circle, setting their blasters to stun and randomly shooting at you. It helped sharpening your senses, helped you rely on the force to guide your hand, and to deflect more accurately.

You'd do a lot of training with Ghost that wasn't necessarily Jedi training. While you did a lot of mental training on your own, the physical part was something Ghost had a lot of enjoyment in helping you with.

Sparring, running, lifting, anything he could think of that would help you, he did, and it quickly became thing for you two to train together.

It wasn't anything you had expected with them, not in a million years would you have imagined ending up here. It was a thing you couldn't predict, but neither was order 66.

Nobody you knew had been able to foresee the collapse of the Jedi order. Some things were just left up to chance, and currently here with the 141, you liked your odds.

I just finished reading the book project hail mary, and not too long ago i reread the Ahsoka book. So safe to say i've been in a bit of a space mood, still am.

And what better way to utilize that, than combine my hyperfixation on the 141 and my special interest star wars hehe.

[billietherock]

There was No Weirdmageddon (Pt5)

By:Billietherock

Chapter 2 (Pt2) Deals over Tea

Ford coughs not expecting that answer, I mean who would. But what Ford was concerned about was how he could fix this ‘too much Humanity’ problem. He knew it was how he worked, but was it because he went about things wrong or that simply didn’t have the mental fortitude for the amount of work Bill was asking of him? Or worse, maybe it was both.

It entertained Bill to see Ford in such a state of panic. Watching his thoughts race just behind his eyes, even entertaining for the fact that Ford was breaking the silence with his erratic breathing. This whole situation entertained the demon, even as predictable as it tended to be. His hand was almost twitching with the excitement of an incoming deal.

Bill pours himself another cup of the tea as Ford squirms under his gaze. Ford was finding it hard to focus on his own thoughts, desperately trying to fix himself on the spot.

Bill seems to soften his gaze,” Oh Fordsy, someone is in a panic again~” Bill floats over and lightly touches his head” here. Let’s make you feel better. Great minds can’t think when you’re in such a panic!”

Ford’s cheeks get a slight tint of pink to them, slowly his thoughts start to clear, he takes a breath. Bills chuckles and ruffles Ford’s hair a little before sitting on the table, directly in front of him. Bill throws his hands out to the side and the objects around him immediately disappear, the color even drains from the space they were in.

“So. How to fix that little limitation you have?” He pokes Ford’s forehead,” you can’t really erase the humanity out of a human, cause you’d just end up dead!”

Bill teleports behind him, causing Ford to jump a little,” the thing is, humans need to eat… sleep and rest, or else they become useless piles of worm food! So how do you fix that Sixer?”

Bill wraps his arm around Ford and pokes his cheek, causing Ford to look at him. Stanford Pines for once didn’t have an answer.

“You, don’t I suppose?” He says, grasping at straws for something.

Bill shakes Ford’s head around,” DING DING DING! That’s right! Boy are you smart! You can’t do anything about it! But I can.”

Ford shakes the dizziness out of his brain and quickly looks at Bill,” you can… suppress my human instincts?!” He seemed pleasantly surprised,” how have I never thought of this?! This would put my productivity through the stratosphere!” He grabs Bill,” tell me! How do you plan on doing it?”

Bill blinks and shakes out of Stanford’s grip,” well, unfortunately, eating is required… but sleeping isn’t.” He floats above Ford’s head,” so while you sleep, and dream of whatever, I’ll be piloting this meat suit you call a body! We’d get that portal done in no time.”

He teleports in front of Ford once again and holds out his hand,” so whaddya say? Goodbye to human limitations and hello to progress?”

Stanford Pines in another universe would be all too eager to shake Bill’s hand. Kick off the events that would lead to the deaths of almost his whole family. But now, as he stared at the hand of almost certain death, he was hesitating.

Bill held his pose for a while before quickly growing annoyed,” I will say it again! Sleep wouldn’t be an issue! You could wake up to pages and pages of new notes and get an added bonus!” He leans in,” You could fire that Fiddleford Guy!”

Ford stares at Bill as he keeps the pose, down to the smile only shown in his eye. It’s a few minutes of thinking, Ford’s heartbeat in his ears counting every second. The final stone falls on the cosmic scale.

“No.” He pushes Bill’s hand down.

Bill blinks,” What. do. You. Mean. No.”

Stanford Pines thinks for a second, before looking up with a sigh, he thought of his twin Stanley, what he would do in this situation. He thought about whenever they would get into a situation where they only had one or two options. Stanford steals his resolve.

“I mean I have a different deal… in mind.”

(Thanks to everyone showing their support! Ya’ll may get a few extra parts today since I’m moving back to Uni. Thanks everyone for the support. Any spelling or Grammar errors will be fixed in due time)

[thewebcomicsreview]

Oh hey, Hamsteak 2. Looks like Vriska's...back in Alternia? In a dreambubble?

they sent the thief here in search of power; the power to escape the containment i so painstakingly set up for them

Al confirmed as the Candy narrator. Also confirmed that the black hole is "containment" for the dreambubbles and non-canon worlds, and that all the ghosts falling in wasn't an accident of fighting Lord English.

the black hole could only ever shelter them for so long, and in their haste to shrug off my protection they have opened the door to something far, far hungrier.

This panel is a callback to Karkat about to open the door to the New Universe. Where there were interrupted by Jack Noir. Vriska is interrupted by-

Yoo! It's Davepeta! Who feel into the black hole and has been conspicuously absent ever since. They're the only Ultimate who is not connected to Dirk, and in some ways the only "true" Ultimate. Interesting that Al considers them such a threat, when Davepeta has never been anything but benevolent.

Looks like it's all the sprites, in fact. Why...are there two Nannasprites? Oh god, I'm being pushed to the endless limits of my ability to remember Homestuck Lore. Is one of them pre-retcon? I do not remember.

ERISOLSPRITE: wwe'vve been here for liike a miilliion fuckiin 2wweep2. DAVEPETASPRITE^2: B33 < actually we just got here DAVEPETASPRITE^2: B33 < this place didnt even exist until she popped in ERISOLSPRITE: gue22 ii'll fuck my2elf.

It didn't exist until a character arrived, at which point it retroactively existed the whole time, like how a planet works.

DAVEPETASPRITE^2: B33 < does that not sound insane to you fefeta? FEFETASPRITE: 3833 < 383

What? How are Davepeta and Fefeta coexisting? That definitely doesn't make sense.

Well, logic be damned, it's apparently time for a Vriska training arc.

Gah! Talksprites! Also, Vriska enters "Hell" on page 666 of Homestuck 2, which is I think the first time this comic has aimed at any kind of Meaningful Number.

God, we are full on visual novel here. I didn't know Ren'Py could export to web, but I guess it shouldn't surprise me. I presume/hope the save option is default and won't be needed here, it's 1:30am.

Tavros is here and, much more oddly, alive. I suddenly understand jack shit.

I have no memory of Tavros ever forgiving Vriska for anything...or, for that matter, Vriska even being aware she did anything that needed to be forgiven. I presume she's just lying here, though.

This line combined with this pose is the essence of Vriska

So, Vriska's being forced to "grow as a person" and her big idea to finish her character arc is to atone for her sins by getting Tavros to take revenge on her. Vriska thinks that the secret to gaining power is getting Tavros to kill her.

I wonder where she got that idea.

But that time she refused to mind control Tavros into killing her, she wanted him to grow from it, too. Now we're past that.

I felt smart for remembering the K8LL ME bit but we're being really obvious about it now so I guess they just assumed everyone would and I'm not special :(

Oh shit. Erisol wasn't kidding.

Davepeta roleplaying being a cat who dies horribly is kind of the perfect synthesis of Dave and Nepeta. What is this music. It's very toot-y.

Oh hey a text log. How convenient. So we're trapped in a time loop, then, explicitly recreating Groundhog Day. I guess that explains the infinity hourglass on the Plot Point machine.

Vriska's having a bad couple of years.

Davepeta is "countless" cool dudes and kitty girls, which I think is the first explicit confirmation they're an Ultimate Self, though that was pretty strongly implied at least. The only Ultimate to do so without Dirk's involvement.

Stop letting me intuit things and then immediately making them clear! I don't care if it's good writing, it's making my liveblog bad!

It's so weird to compare this Davepeta to the one in Homestuck OG. There Davepeta was presented as this wise sage mentor figure who'd achieved enlightenment, and here they're much more of "Dave + Nepeta's combined silliness as one character". It's a subtle difference, but go back and read Davepeta giving this same kind of talk to Jade back in Homestuck 1. I guess that's the difficulty of a character with so little screentime in the original, they're either very limited or they feel slightly off.

Oh my fucking god, a to-be-continued select screen. Shit, that takes me back in an unexpected way.

Also, from the associated news update, "the big flash" is apparently several months away (10/25?), and I have to say they might want to be careful about overhyping it, if they have small flashes and now Ren'Py novels that are just preludes. If it's anything less than a Cascade after months and months of hype it could fall flat where a surprise [S] Enter would've popped the fanbase hard.

[ashloremystic]

18+ MDNI

Something I need to get off my brain haha. (I may have something wrote up already 🤣) But pictures it. A Dark Romance app that you can swipe like some of the others we have now days.

Read the fine print..

Ad: Now Introduceing our Dark Romance Dating app!

Tired of thoes old boring and stale dating app? Looking for some more spice in your life? Wanna live on the edge...Well Look no further!

Our company DRD specializes in the not so normal needs that our clients may have. That means setting up a site that connects you to the partner of your dreams ....or Nightmares and utilizing our partnership with Sensational Simulations to explore your most forbidden desires.

Options that include but are not limited too...

Masked Strangers Package

Mafia Crime Boss Package

Dominant Stalker Package

Dark and Mysterious Business Men(Women) Package

Enemies to Lovers Package

(Beta) Monsters Galore (Multiple Storylines available)

MORE PACKAGES INSIDE ➡️

You found yourself getting bored with life. Dating was getting harder and most of the men you found on Swyper were getting boring. They either wanted the traditional wife right away or were the hit it and quit it with no foreplay types. You were craving more excitement! A Thrill. Not even the books you read were cutting it anymore.

So when you heard from your coworker about this new app that had just came out of Beta...You couldn't help but look up the details.

There were so many packages with promises of more to come and you had already heard of the lifelike club called Sensational Simulations. You'd even been on a tour there once for a work project and had been very impressed with the advanced technology they've developed.

"Everything is so overwhelming!" You told your coworker as you scrolled through the never ending list. You just wanted to get to the swiping part so you could hop right in.

"It will be fine y/n! Look just start off small for now. You can check the boxes for what you're interested in or even combine them."

"hmm" you sounded as you scrolled and found your mouth falling open as you read the orange print. "monsters? What kind of shit is that."

She laughed "Thats part of the Clubs add on. With the supernatural community's now become known to us..They are trying something new....You know. Trying to help us co exist or something like that."

"By having us date them?"

"its part of an experience. Just keep an open mind."

You shook your head trying to wrap it around the thought of going on some kind of date with a vampire or something along thoes lines...Were there other types of monsters besides just them and Shifters?

"I'm gonna head to bed. let me know what you decide on Y/n"

"sure, sure." you promised.

So you spent part of the night reading up on the different packages. Most of them sounded exciting. You wanted to try the Mask Stranger options. One of those included a "break in, with a night filled with a range of emotions and ending with pleasure if you wished it. You even swiped through a few of the men available, Each of them wearing a variety of masks and arranged in different suggestive poses.

Tempting and luring as they were, your mind kept going back to the orange print.

(Beta) Monsters Galore (multiple storylines available)

You did want more excitement, didn't you? So why not. A voice whispered in the back of your mind.

You clicked on it and a terms agreement popped. Hmm it was so much longer than the other packages. Ahh well you will read it later. So you clicked "Read and Agree" to bypass it. Making a mental note to go back.

Disclaimer: Where as these aren't all part of the dark romance collection, It still falls under our brand of unique experiences and can be combined with some of our DRD human packages as well.

"They just thought of it all haven't they?" You mumbled to yourself as you selected randomly from the list of monster packages available. Sleepiness starting to take over as you took your phone with you to bed to swipe through. Weirdly enough, not all of the monsters had pictures.

But the few that did were pretty interesting. You swiped for what seemed forever until you found yourself staring into the most mesmerizing almost gray eyes... His hair black and not even the blue black. His appearance almost Asian like but not. His skin warm light brown. He was beautiful and you wanted to know more about him.

The bottom of his profile where they usually put what they were, had MISC. Next to it.

"Of Course. I finally find someone and I have no clue what the hell they are. Ughhh!" You tossed your phone down and groaned some more in frustration....Until the curiosity takes over. It really can't hurt, could it?

Grabbing your phone you look down at the man again. Taking in what you could make of him...."whats the worst that can happen?"

You swiped right.

Your request has been received. You will receive a response shortly.

And so the wait begun....

To Be Continued

--------

Thoughs? I think this has so much Potential.

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Yellow Shy Guy

Debut: Certainly not Mario Kart Tour! (It was Super Mario World 2: Yoshi’s Island)

Yeah yeah yeah this is a very Regular Mario Enemy. Yes, you are on the right blog! But this is a Regular Mario Enemy, in a Weird Mario Situation... yeah, it’s another post about the specifics of character alt colors in Mario Kart Tour. I hope you like those!

Shy Guys come in all sorts of colors! They always have! Red may be default, but yellow can always be counted on to make an appearance if other colors are present. It makes sense, since Yellow is one of the main characters of Colors. Do you consider the primary colors to be red/blue/yellow or magenta/cyan/yellow? Doesn’t matter! Yellow is there! Please do not bring up RGB. But if you do, I will simply retort that the powers of red and green light must combine to give rise to the mighty Yellow!

Yellow Shy Guy is also very often playable! In older, more limited games, the default red may be the only one playable, but these days you can confidently expect Yellow Shy Guy to be an option. If you were lucky in Mario Kart DS download play, you might be assigned Yellow Shy Guy by random chance! Yellow Shy Guy finally became selectable in Mario Kart 8′s DLC, which to me is more appealing than any of the added characters. While my favorite color is light blue, I am a big fan of Yellow Shy Guy, and find his green shoes more fashionable than Light-Blue Shy Guy’s red ones!

But then, along came Mario Kart Tour. Red Shy Guy was the first one present, no problem with that! We all knew the rest would come soon enough. But they came in a weird order! Black, pink, green, light blue, blue, white, orange... At the time of Orange Shy Guy’s release, it had been nearly three and a half years since the game launched. And yet, still no sign of that classic yellow fellow? I’m normally mellow, but that makes me want to bellow! Even a gold Shy Guy was added... gold. The coward’s yellow!

On the wiki’s list of Shy Guy colors, Yellow is among the only ones not using a render from Tour, instead being shown using one from Dr. Mario World, in a different pose. Yellow looks like an impostor among all these others! I’m here if he ever needs to vent.

According to Mario Super Sluggers, Yellow Shy Guy loves to steal. Hey! Stealing is bad! Is that why you’re not allowed in Tour, Yellow Shy Guy? Green Shy Guy loves to hit and run, but that’s okay. Mario Kart is all about vehicular violence. They love that kind of attitude!

This all being said, Yellow Shy Guy is technically playable in Tour, though as a variant in the form of Yellow Shy Guy (Explorer). This is an act of community service, as Yellow Shy Guy is graciously role-playing as an old-timey prospector as seen in the new version of Sunset Wilds, replacing the racist usage of Shy Guys from the GBA version of the track. Thank you, Yellow Shy Guy! But still, he should not have to hide himself behind a costume to get a place in the roster. Or I guess a second costume, in this case. When will being a humble Yellow Shy Guy be seen as enough...?

Poor Yellow Shy Guy. But oh? What is that, under the read more of this post? Wow! I can’t believe it! What a thing to behold! You should click Read More, so you can see it!

Donkey Kong is finally getting a costumed variant, and about time too! Congratulations to him! Sorry to Yellow Shy Guy though. Yellow Shy Guy is not Donkey Kong, you see. Unless he IS Donkey Kong under his robes and mask, and gorillas can be compressed into much smaller states than I was aware of.

...Huh? What’s that, live studio audience of children? There’s something I’m missing? There’s something else of note in this tour? Oh! Thank you for letting me know! Let’s see...

HOORAY!!!!!

Yellow Shy Guy loves to steal, it’s true. And he is especially great at stealing the show! I am so proud of Yellow Shy Guy for finally making it into Mario Kart Tour! #YellowShyGuySweep! It makes me want to play as Yellow Shy Guy in Mario Kart 8, which is a much better game where you can access Yellow Shy Guy quickly and easily.

To celebrate our friend’s victory, if you have Mario Kart 8 Deluxe, you could play the custom Yellow Mode I made up! Here are the rules:

1. All humans must play as Yellow Shy Guy, and use only the yellowest of kart parts!

2. Only yellow items may be used! This means Coin, Banana, Triple Banana, Golden Mushroom, Star, and Lightning!

3. Only yellow courses are allowed! There are not that many yellow courses, so you can use your imagination here. For example, Toad Circuit features a big Yellow Toad balloon, and untextured Yellow sand! Wario’s Gold Mine is about mining some Yellow Minerals! Ice Ice Outpost features a whole yellow track, but don’t even think about driving on the green one!

And speaking of yellow tracks... I hope everyone’s looking forward to the Simpson Tour, featuring the new Springfield Streetrace track! Mario Kart Tour? More like Mario BART Tour! Aye carumba!

[sayit3x]

Mrs. Juice's Journal #31

The early 80’s were densely packed with leaps in technology, evolutions of culture, and milestones in history. Fashion changed, disco died, Three Mile Island melted, Mount St. Helens erupted, John Lennon was murdered, MTV was born, and the AIDS epidemic began. Staggeringly, all within a few short years of each other. Yet, the times felt unremarkable to Betel since he’d finished his curriculum at Juilliard. He stayed taking classes longer than he originally expected, adding guitar, drums, and violin, among other instruments, to his curriculum. But eventually, he left Juilliard to resume his full-time focus on bio-exorcisms, and day after day was the same old routine. That is, until one night in 1985, when Juno appeared in my living room while I was home alone.

“Good evening, Beatrice,” Juno said, more politely than was typical for her. Never a good sign.

“Good evening, Juno. Not that I don't appreciate your visit, but I'm assuming I should get Betel?”

Her voice sounded tired and frustrated when she said, “He’s already been informed and is on his way.”

On cue, Betelgeuse appeared, already scowling and disgruntled. 

“I was in the middle of a job. What the Hell is so important that this couldn’t wait?”

Juno tried to exhale some of her frustration and replied, “You two were going on your monthly outing tonight, correct?”

Betel blinked and gawked at her, confused. “Huh?”

I jumped in, “Yes, right after Betel's job. But why does that matter?”

Juno somehow managed to look even more frustrated. “It doesn’t matter to me. It matters to them.”

“Who?” Betel asked, furrowing.

“The powers that be.”

We tensed, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Juno continued, “Now that there's a chance, however slim, for you to break your curse, the powers that be are keen to limit your time topside. They're asking that you only be summoned above by potential clients and the living.”

Betel blinked repeatedly. “What?”

I rarely curse, but in that moment, I couldn't help myself, even as Betel and Juno gaped at me for my tasteless language. I realized what the powers that be were doing and it made my blood boil. They'd seen how my participation in Betel's afterlife, summoning him topside, had helped him skirt the constraints of his name limiter and made his existence tolerable over the past 450 years. They felt he wasn't being punished enough and would do their best to put an end to what little comfort he enjoyed. Finally, I collected myself enough to pose a useful question. 

“You said ‘asking’, that they're asking him not to be summoned topside except for work or by the living. What does ‘asking' mean here?”

Juno replied, “They technically can't prevent anyone from summoning him, but have expressed a preference on who should do so and under what circumstances.”

She glared at me and her eyes told me to read between the lines.

I nodded and turned to my son, speaking directly to his mind. “It's a trap, Betel. She's saying they can't stop me from summoning you above ground, but that we'll both be punished if I do. Only she's not allowed to tell us that and they're hoping we'll disobey and get caught. They want you gone.”

Betel looked away, silent, and anxiously rubbed the back of his neck. Now it was his turn to unleash a string of curses.

Juno spoke directly into both of our heads then. “There’s not much we can do, but you do have an option. Graveyards.” 

I turned to her and, out loud, invited her to sit at the table, hoping our ongoing silence hadn't already aroused suspicion. There was always a chance the powers that be were watching this very moment, waiting for someone to slip up.

Out loud I asked, “Can I get you anything, Juno?”

Then I replied telepathically, “What’s the point? Graveyards aren’t even haunted by other ghosts most of the time, and the living only go for funerals. Hardly anyone alive visits the dead after they’re buried.”

Catching on, Juno replied aloud, “Some tea would be nice, thank you.”

Juno answered in our minds, “True, but it’s something. And the higher ups haven’t sniffed out this particular loophole yet, so take advantage of it while you can.”

Betel caught on to what we were up to, joining Juno at the table. 

“You drink tea?” he asked, trying to fill the silence with an inconsequential question.

Then he jumped into the telepathic chat and silently asked, “What counts as a graveyard?”

“Earl grey,” Juno answered out loud before silently adding in our minds, “Typical graveyard definition. It needs to be a space where the dead are buried and marked as such. Even an anonymous burial stone would do.”

As I fetched her tea, I asked out loud, “Do you take sugar?” followed by my true telepathic question, “What about a new graveyard? Intending to bury the dead there, but no bodies interred yet.”

She spoke, replying, “No, thank you,” and silently added, “Even without the dead yet, if there was some kind of a memorial marker already in place with the intent to house the dead, it might fly. But we’ve never tried it, so I have no idea if it works.”

I set down her cup of tea and she took it in both hands.

“Can you actually drink that with, you know…” Betel asked aloud and gestured to his own throat.

“Betel!” I barked at his incredibly rude question.

“Ass,” Juno answered through a smirk.

She lifted the tea cup and smelled the fragrance wafting up with the steam. With an eye on Betel, she put the tea cup to her lips and tilted it back, watching him focus on her in anticipation of a disaster. Unbothered, she swallowed the tea and when it didn't spill from the wound in her neck, she flipped Betel the middle finger. I figured she must have used a little magic to force the tea past her fatal injury since we knew if smoke escaped through that same gap, food and drink would as well. How very like her to deliberately mess with Betel. When she lowered the now empty tea cup, she lifted a defiant eyebrow at him and he chortled.

With that, Juno rose from her chair. “Well, that's all the news I have for you two. And thank you for the tea.” 

Before either of us could reply, she disappeared.

After Juno's visit, Betel started putting out feelers for graveyards, sensing them from the Neitherworld to find ones he’d want to pop up into. He could feel the bodies of the dead, whether there were other ghosts, the condition of the graveyard, and so on. He started investigating ones worth his time, talking to the ghosts if there were any present (usually they were totally empty), and getting a sense of how often people visited. Again and again, most graveyards usually lacked both the living and the spirited dead. There were sometimes a few visitors, but of those few, barely half were women, and none could see him. The only time graveyards seemed to get predictable foot traffic was on Halloween when misguided humans would try to summon a demon with a nonsense spell they saw in a movie, or heaven forbid, a book. Still, no one saw him. 

And so, it went on like this for a few years. Betel and I still visited once a month, occasionally going topside to a graveyard just to take in the air and any views nearby, but it wasn't the same when he was otherwise stuck in the Neitherworld. Even though we still enjoyed each other's company, every visit felt like a cruel reminder of the now heavier chain around Betel's neck. His relationship with Juno also became more strained. Targeting fresh ghosts for his bio-exorcism work meant sniping clients from right under Juno’s nose, making her afterlife more difficult when his success meant the newly deads never learned to haunt properly. Inevitably, new people would move into the same haunted house and the young ghosts continued to struggle without Betel’s services. And if things escalated, sometimes the living got hurt in the process. Not that Betel or the newly deads cared, particularly, as long as no one died, no rules were broken. But the rare humans who were truly determined to stay would try to cleanse the house or exorcise it, and the fresh ghosts were the ones on the hook, not Betel. As much as it frustrated Juno tremendously, per the terms of the contracts the clients signed, Betel couldn’t be held responsible. With or without Betel’s involvement, exorcism was always a risk to ghosts actively trying to drive the living from their homes. But despite how much Betel’s bio-exorcisms irritated Juno, she never revealed his graveyard explorations to the powers that be, and his tiny topside searches continued.

And then everything changed in 1987, when Betel sensed something new. It's not everyday that fresh graveyards are built, and this one felt different. He went to investigate and came back not five minutes later, grabbing my hand.

“MA! You gotta see this!”

We disappeared and reappeared in the middle of what seemed to be the tiniest graveyard I’d ever seen, but it looked entirely fake, like it was made out of Halloween decorations, even the trees and grass. Everything about it was wrong. Especially the part about it being literally tiny. A quick glance around revealed this itty bitty graveyard was in the middle of an equally small town, itself surrounded by an enormous room. I felt like Jack after he'd climbed the beanstalk to find himself in a giant’s house.

“Betel, what is this? Where are we?”

“We’re in a model town someone built in their house, Ma! With all this junk, I think it's in their attic. We’re only a few inches tall right now.”

I gawked at him, incredulous. “You're telling me we've shrunk down to fit into a literal small town in some human’s house? And those fake little headstones count as a graveyard?”

“Apparently! Ain't it wild?”

“Wild doesn't even begin to describe it.” I puzzled for a moment. “So, now what?”

“Well, I can't leave the model, but could you take a look around for me? I wanna know what we're dealin’ with. Hell, I don't even know where this house is.”

“Good idea. Sit tight.”

I disappeared from the model, reappearing next to it, automatically restored to my normal size. I glanced down into the model and spotted my teeny tiny son, unfortunately adorable in his smallness. I couldn't help but giggle. He crossed his arms and smirked up at me, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Get it outta your system, Ma.”

I somehow managed to contain subsequent giggles, but couldn't stop smiling. 

“I'm sorry, Betel, you're just too cute pocket sized.” 

When he put his hands on his hips and glared at me, I put my hands up. 

“Ok, ok, I'm going! I'll be back soon.”

I phased through the attic door and floated down the stairs to quietly investigate the house. From the homey decor, I guessed these were small town folk. Their framed photos told me they were a young married couple, Adam and Barbara Maitland according to the mail on the table. I wandered the house and found it to be quite large, perched on a hill at the end of a long driveway. Phasing through the front door, I flew down the driveway and quickly followed the road into town. Sure enough, the house stood in the barely-there town of Winter River, in the middle of Connecticut. The Maitlands ran a small hardware store downtown and seemed well liked by their customers and neighbors. Now that I knew the way, I teleported back to the house on the hill, directly to the attic in front of the model where an itty bitty Betel looked up at me expectantly. 

“Well, the homeowners are a lovely young couple named Adam and Barbara Maitland and your new graveyard is in Winter River, Connecticut.”

“Small town?”

“Barely bigger than this model.”

He nodded and glanced around, thinking. “I think I can work with this.”

I blinked. “How? It’s all fake, Betel. Even if it’s a loophole within a loophole, eventually a grave without the dead is just a hole in the ground.”

I could see the gears behind his eyes turning before he said, "Then let’s make it real.”

I squinted at him. “I’m not going to like this idea, am I?”

“Prolly not.”

I sighed, “Alright, spill it. What’s your plan?”

“I need you to bury me, Ma.”

I balked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dirt, shovels, coffin, all of it. We’ll dig me a hobbit hole I can live in underground, the coffin’s the door, we bury the whole thing. Boom, it counts as a grave cuz there’s a genuine dead guy in it. My topside home away from home.”

“So you’ll have a miniature vacation home in a fake graveyard no one visits except two country bumpkins in Middle-of-Nowhere, Connecticut?”

“Yeah, basically.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “But what’s the point, Betel?”

He looked at me desperately. “Ma, this is the closest I’ve gotten to finding humans in a graveyard for years. And they live here!” He was pacing now, emphatically gesturing with his arms as he spoke. “This model’s huge! It ain’t goin’ anywhere for a while. Maybe they’ll have kids, grandkids, great-grandkids, neighbors visiting who wanna checkout the weird diorama in the attic, I dunno! Maybe someday, one of ‘em will…”

When his voice trailed off, I realized this absurd model with its ridiculous graveyard was the chance he’d been waiting for. That a secret corner of his heart still wanted to break his curse. That he still had hope.

I sighed, knowing that I’d help him, whatever it took, including (apparently) burying him. I disappeared, reappearing back in the model next to him and shook my head, smirking.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” I said, resigned.

His relief and gratitude were immediate. “And you’re gonna help me. Crazy must run in the family.”

“Definitely.”

He picked an empty spot and, with a little magic, we tunneled a huge cavern into the ground the size of the whole cemetery, punching nearly to the model’s wooden foundation. It really was like a hobbit hole, tall enough that he could stand up straight with clearance overhead. It had space for a bedroom, kitchen, living room and bathroom, almost like an apartment in an underground bunker. Windows were out of the question, but a few magic-imbued artificial lights quickly remedied the subterranean darkness. With a few snaps, he furnished his new “vacation home” and, knowing my eldest, this was the cleanest it would ever be, even for a big hole in the ground. Grinning wide, he practically bounced with excitement.

“Well? Whaddya think?”

“It’s cozy,” I began. “But for a grave? It’s downright posh.” I smirked.

He squealed with delight. “Now the fun part! Coffin door!”

We floated back up to the surface and with a quick snap he materialized a coffin in the air. After cutting the back off to make it an elaborate doorway, he magically shoved it into the entrance to his new house and closed the lid, piling model’s cardboard and foam over and around it. The fake grass followed, covering the entrance completely, restoring the little fake cemetery’s appearance perfectly.

Betel eagerly rubbed his hands together. “And finally, the cherry on top.”

An elaborate headstone appeared, adorned with skeletal, winged demons perched on top, one pointing down to his new gravely bunker.

His head tilted. “What should it say?” he pondered aloud.

In my ears, it suddenly felt like a heavy question. I never knew what happened to his body after he died. It might have been tossed into a plague pit, or perhaps set ablaze by Delores’s cult, or any number of other horrible things that happened to the dead in the middle ages. All I knew was his body was gone, and he never had a headstone. No one alive had cared enough to give him one.

“You can’t ask a mother that…”

His head snapped to me and he suddenly recognized the weight of his ask.

“Ma…”

“I'd only embarrass you.”

He paused and finally said, “Maybe once in a while ain't so bad.”

I took a breath. “Here lies Betelgeuse, cherished brother and beloved son.”

He swallowed and blinked rapidly, willing the moisture in his eyes away.

“Ma, I…”

“It's alright, Betel. I know you can't risk your reputation. Can't have potential clients getting the wrong idea.”

He looked down at the fake grass and nodded.

Finally, he said, “How about this?”

And the words “Here lies Betelgeuse” carved themselves into the headstone.

“And only we'll know the rest,” he said.

We stood next to each other, admiring the headstone, and he put his arm around my shoulders when I sniffled.

The Maitlands drowned only a few months later in 1988, and their deaths changed everything.

This journal dovetails into a Beetlejuice fanfiction epic that I'm posting chapter by chapter here:

Chapter 30 "Return to the living world" is now up.