#Reminiscence tool | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

feeder86 · 2 months ago

Text

Gluttons

It was strange how you could go ten years without seeing someone and yet suddenly remember everything about them the moment you came across them again.

Oliver had never understood the alarm system at the house he and his boyfriend had bought a couple of years ago. However, since it had been setting itself off whilst he had been at work, he knew it was time to get someone in to see it. He’d called a company, not knowing that his old high school buddy, Tom, worked for them. That was, until the guy showed up at his door that Thursday afternoon.

Back in the day, Oliver had mixed with quite a diverse crowd in high school. He’d never been one to shoehorn himself into a stereotypical group and had amassed friends across the entire spectrum of high school life. Tom had been on one of those extreme ends of the scale: a typically gorgeous, athletic jock who didn’t have much time for many people outside of the usual jock circle. However, Oliver had always found him relatively easy to chat to and even remembered them getting dared to kiss each other during an alcohol infused round of ‘spin the bottle’ at one of their friend’s parties. Unlike many of the other jocks, Tom seemed more comfortable in his own skin, not caring that Oliver was gay, despite only having an eye for the most athletic girls in the school. It was fair to say that Oliver only had good memories of the guy.

“Oliver!” Tom smiled in recognition as he stood on the doorway carrying his bag of tools. “I didn’t know you lived here!”

The man stepped over the threshold, placing his bag down and reached in for a hug that almost seemed out of place after such a long period of estrangement. The scent of him seemed so familiar. He was still so handsome and good-looking, but what was that Oliver could feel as their torsos bounced against each other? He looked down the moment they stepped apart again, noticing that Tom had developed the cutest, tight and firm-looking paunch on him. It stuck out under his toned chest, stretching the material of the cheap work shirt, looking incredibly out of place on the guy who had once been so fit and active.

“Long time, no see,” Oliver smiled back, trying not to stare at the unusual shape of his old high school buddy. The pair spent a few minutes reminiscing, with Oliver explaining how he and his ex, James, had come to buy the house and lived there together up until three months ago, when the guy had cheated on him and abruptly moved out.

“I just remember that crazy old cat guy used to live here when we were in high school,” Tom laughed. “I never imagined it would be as nice as this inside.”

“Oh, it definitely wasn’t like this when we bought it,” Oliver laughed. “We pretty much had to start from scratch when we bought the place.”

Tom smiled at him, seeming to admire his achievement. It was the way he had always been, never jealous or competitive; just genuinely happy for others when things were going well; even if people beat him in a tennis match or smashed his high school athletics records.

As Tom settled to work at the alarm box, Oliver couldn’t help staring at his old friend’s new shape once more. From behind, it was obvious that the tight little paunch on him had pushed around to his sides, providing him with the sweetest little love handles, further emphasised by how ridiculously tight his shirt was around his middle. There was an added thickness to his butt too; his old, slim glutes replaced with more bulbous, stronger-looking butt cheeks. After three months of being angry at the world and swearing off men, Oliver suddenly found himself swooning. He’d always loved guys on the larger side and Tom appeared to be the most perfect dad-bod specimen Oliver had ever seen. As the guy bent down to collect some wires from his bag, an expanse of skin on his lower back came suddenly into view, alongside a sweet shot of his delicious-looking butt crack that his stretched and undersized underwear failed to cover. There was no doubt about it, Oliver was finally getting over his break-up.

“Would you like some cake?” Oliver offered, pulling out the leftovers from the birthday party he had thrown for his mother the day before.

Two greedy little eyes looked upon the cake and the man swallowed a sudden build up of saliva. “Sure,” he nodded eagerly, sipping on his fresh coffee and feeling a lot more spoiled than when he called at most folks’ houses.

Oliver could feel his erection flexing as he pulled out the knife to start cutting the slice. Tom had always been so fit and lean, yet now Oliver was serving him cake whilst enjoying the round, bloated shape of his stomach. He went to dish out the portion when a wicked, kinky part of his brain began whispering to him: ‘More! More! Cut him a bigger slice!’

As Oliver listened to it, he felt even more blood pumping into his groin. The slice he had cut was ridiculously massive. He almost felt embarrassed as he served it up. Yet Tom didn’t seem in the slightest bit put off by it. He simply stood to the side, resting the arm holding the plate against his tight, rounded stomach, feeding himself with the fork. The sight was almost mesmerising.

“Can I get you some more?” Oliver asked cheekily, seeing that the plate was cleared remarkably quickly. “It’s fresh cream. I’ll probably end up having to throw it out tomorrow,” he lied.

“Well… okay then,” Tom nodded, seeming to know that he was overindulging. This time, Oliver didn’t bother cutting a slice. The remaining cake was only marginally larger than the slice he had served up last time. He simply slapped the entirety of it onto the plate, thanking Tom for freeing up some space in his refrigerator.

“It’s been really great to see you again,” Tom smiled later on as he gathered up his things and headed to the door.

“You too!” Oliver nodded back, having enjoyed the last half an hour immensely. He felt reinvigorated and irredeemably aroused, as if the time had been the best possible therapy to get him over the sadness of his break-up.

“Perhaps you might let me take you out to dinner sometime?” Tom asked next, suddenly a little shy.

“Dinner?” Oliver shot back in complete and utter shock. “As in… a date?”

“Sure. Why not?” Tom chuckled. “I always remember the two of us having a good vibe together back in high school. I’d like to see whether we still have it.”

Oliver was almost speechless. Sure, he’d been flirting the entire time, but he hadn’t expected any of it to land. Tom had never… Tom wasn’t into guys… What the hell was going on?

“You don’t want to,” Tom sighed, trying to interpret the stunned silence.

“No!” Oliver shot back. “Not ‘no’… I mean, yes. I mean…” he spluttered, grumbling at his sudden inability to communicate effectively. “Okay,” he nodded, trying not to laugh at his own good fortune. “But why don’t you come over here instead of going out? I can cook us a meal.”

Tom smiled brightly. “I’d love that. Tomorrow night?” he asked.

Oliver reflected the smile as he nodded. There really was no time to waste.

At the supermarket the next day, Oliver felt the same sense of arousal he had experienced when serving the cake. There were so many things a relatively overweight, former jock should never eat, suddenly getting thrown into his shopping cart: beers, potato chips, pastries and sodas. Something inside of Oliver was captivated by seeing how much Tom had let his eating habits slide and he endeavoured to create the most decadent dining experience for his date that he possibly could.

When Tom arrived, he looked smart enough in his pants and polished shoes. But just like any guy who wasn’t paying enough attention to his expanding waistline, his shirt was once again tight around his stomach. Even standing up, the buttons looked slightly strained, positively gaping once he sat down and started to eat alongside Oliver.

“You’ve got a great appetite!” Oliver couldn’t help marvelling as Tom reached out for a second helping of the dessert. He got up, spooning out another scoop of ice cream for the man as well, pretending that he was merely pleased that Tom had enjoyed his cooking so much. The guy hadn’t stopped complimenting his food all evening.

“I’ve always enjoyed my food,” Tom nodded back, already starting to spoon it all into his greedy little mouth. “I always used to get away with it when I was younger. But once I hit my mid-twenties, it all started to stick to me a lot more,” he explained, giving his rounded stomach a pat, showing, for the first time, that he was actually aware of it. “I reckon it’s probably the reason I’m still single.”

The shape of that gut was completely mesmerising to Oliver, yet he pushed his urge to stare and marvel at it to the side. It wasn’t normal to be so fixated on a guy’s belly; a feature that most people would find to be Tom’s least attractive attribute. “The last thing I heard about you was that you were engaged to Molly Simpson from the year below us,” Oliver enquired interestedly.

“Oh, yeah…” Tom mumbled back, trying to eat at the same time. “That was a couple of years ago now.” He shook his head, as if something still frustrated him. “I just don’t get it,” he grumbled. “What do people expect guys like me to look like these days? I’m nearly thirty after all.”

It was obvious that his increasing weight had put an end to Tom’s engagement. But the way that Tom seemed genuinely annoyed by it all seemed to suggest that he placed no blame on himself, or his overeating, whatsoever. The volume of food he had devoured was more than extreme that evening, yet the guy seemed to believe his expanding waistline was just a normal part of ageing?

“You remember Steve, my older brother?” Tom asked, still feeding himself. “He’s the same. Only he goes to the gym to try and keep his weight down. But,,, It’s not like I have the time for that, do I?” he shrugged.

Oliver nodded sympathetically. However, there was an excitement inside of him that he felt almost impossible to contain. Tom’s genuine greed had captivated him all evening, yet the multiple excuses and denial about his own part in his increasing weight was adding fuel to that fire; supplying another strange level of arousal to the whole proceedings. “Well, I’m just grateful to have someone who actually enjoys my cooking,” he threw back, resisting the temptation to make a disparaging remark about how his ex had never appreciated all the effort he put into their meals. “So is this why you asked me on a date? You think the girls don’t want you anymore?” he teased, adding another small scoop of ice cream into Tom’s bowl at the guy’s request.

“I told you I was bisexual years ago!” Tom shot back.

“No you didn’t,” Oliver laughed.

“I definitely did!” Tom countered. “The night we played spin the bottle at Andy’s party. The night we kissed,” he chuckled. “You do remember that, right?” he asked, getting concerned.

“I remember us being dared to kiss,” Oliver nodded. “But I don’t remember anything else. I was pretty wasted. Did you really come out as bisexual to me that night?”

A small smile twitched from the corners of Tom’s mouth. “So that’s why you didn’t ever pick up on my flirting then,” he chuckled, rolling his eyes.

“You were actually into me back then?” Oliver asked, dumbfounded.

“Of course I was,” Tom nodded. “You’re gorgeous!”

The pair held a sickly, besotted look for a moment, before they both got up to move over to Oliver’s lounge space. Tom sat down first. He’d always carried a sense of presence about him, but with his imposing height and added mass, he seemed to fill the area with a deeply arousing, masculine air; his straining shirt gaping once more, bloating from all the food he had devoured; yet Tom appeared completely oblivious to it, with eyes only on Oliver. They talked for a short while about the people they knew from their school days; both of them realising that there were surprisingly few either of them were still in regular contact with. They’d both moved on, lived lives and experienced things that had altered them more than their eighteen-year-old selves could have contemplated. They were so familiar to each other, and yet excitingly new.

Oliver nestled himself under Tom’s arm and rested against his side; a gentle hand draped over the boy’s stout little tummy as they moved in for a sweet kiss. The smell of his body was arousing Oliver more than he thought possible; the gentle sweat and manly musk of a guy who had overindulged in stifling clothes, more than a little too tight for his fattened body. The kiss was good and followed swiftly by another, more passionate and almost frantic, as if their simmering attraction to each other had finally passed the point of no return. It wasn’t as if they were strangers just getting to know each other, and it was obvious what they both wanted.

Oliver’s hands wanted to explore more and more; to rip off Tom’s clothes and see it all. Thankfully, it was Tom who was leading the charge. Perhaps, just like Oliver, this was the first bit of action he had had in months. As such, the kissing progressed quickly, with hands sliding down into crotches and rubbing with gentle moans of encouragement. Tom grunted and unbuckled his pants, sliding them down to let his buoyant erection spring out. Oliver followed his cue, with the pair mutually stroking the other as they kissed; their breathing getting heavier and heavier.

Finally, Oliver could wait no more. He wanted to see under Tom’s shirt. He wriggled his dropped pants clean off, then raised his own shirt off his slender, gently toned body. Immediately, Tom’s eager hands explored his torso, smiling with eager appreciation. Now was Oliver’s moment. Naked, he stood and smiled wickedly and he pulled Tom’s pants further down and threw them across the room. He sat himself on Tom’s lap, finally taking his hands to the top button of the guy’s shirt, unpicking them all, one by one, making his way down. At last, he spread the material apart, revealing the rounded, most handsome potbelly Oliver had ever seen in his life. The chest was strong and a little hairy. Only the very gentle softness of the nipples gave away the obvious forty pounds Tom had gained since Oliver had seen him last. However, the extreme, solid and heavy ball-shaped stomach was more than he had ever wished for. Here was a man who not only enjoyed his food, but had clearly packed it into himself with relish, growing such a firm, well shaped, spherical mass. It was all Oliver could do not to lament at how insanely arousing he found the sight of it. Instead, he kissed the guy more and more, leading him upstairs to finish the job.

Oliver’s friends were always going to be sceptical when he started a new relationship. They’d witnessed how heartbroken he had been after his split with James, glancing at each other with concern as Oliver had lamented about seeing an old high school crush.

“He’s staying over again tonight?” Mandy had asked. “Doesn’t he have his own place?”

Oliver had steered the conversation carefully, sensing their worries. These friends had only ever known him as the driven, assertive version of his twenties; mistaking that now for a reckless, foolhardy fall into a rebound relationship. In contrast, Tom seemed to know him so much more; that unrefined incarnation of his teenage years and the way it had evolved now into someone the man appeared to have fallen for just as much as Oliver had in return.

“Trust me,” Oliver had smiled at them all. “You’ll understand when you meet him.”

However, when the friends did meet Tom, Oliver soon realised how much of a serious misstep he had taken in laying the groundwork. He’d talked too much about how they’d known each other in high school and how popular Tom had been with the girls because of his athleticism. So when he arrived with a thicker, slightly pot-bellied physique, he should have been less surprised when their eyes kept flying back to Tom’s swollen middle. Of course they would be surprised. Oliver’s ex, James, had been obsessed with the gym, whereas it was obvious that Tom was not. Like a typical guy who had packed on a few pounds, Tom was continuing to wear his medium t-shirts that clung unflatteringly against the expanded waistline, emphasising it even more. It also didn’t help that Tom had arrived, feeling pretty hungry. He ordered more than everyone else and even reached across to grab the things people had left on their plates when they were too polite to refuse him.

If Oliver was honest, he felt a strange sense of embarrassment at Tom’s overeating and attire. His new boyfriend’s greed and appearance did not match in the slightest with the men his friends were used to him dating. Upon meeting Tom, they were quickly realising that Oliver’s taste in men wasn’t always quite so mainstream. On the other hand, however, it was incredibly thrilling to show off the kind of man Oliver found genuinely so appealing: overfed, under-exercised and swollen. As Tom ate, Oliver’s hardness built, realising that were Tom to continue on this path, this was probably the slimmest his friends would ever see his new lover.

In truth, Oliver knew that he was significantly overfeeding Tom whenever he came over. It almost felt like something he could barely control as he stocked his refrigerator and cupboards with all the decadent favorites he knew Tom wouldn’t be able to resist. Meanwhile, Tom relaxed into it completely, resting back into the couch as he sipped on his beers and allowed his new lover to spoil him. It was obvious how much he enjoyed it all, lamenting more than once how great it was to be dating someone who didn’t constantly nag him about his eating, as it appeared his previous girlfriends had all done. In Tom’s mind, this made dating guys so much easier.

The effects were instantaneous. When they first started sleeping together, Oliver could squint his eyes and still see the toned, athletic butt that Tom had had back at the end of high school, even with his slightly oversized glutes. Now, however, the tops of Tom’s thighs had started softening and the butt cheeks had pushed outwards, developing significantly more width to them through a lack of exercise. Tom’s ass had become that of a fat man, rather than a simple ex-jock, meaning that Oliver was able to finish with remarkable speed whenever they practised being versatile in the bedroom. But as Oliver thrusted and pounded, he wasn’t simply enjoying the feel and shape of Tom’s chubby butt; in his mind, he was imagining the size it could grow to with more time and encouragement. After all, it was obvious that Tom’s rear was only ever going to grow bigger.

Unlike other people, there seemed to be a genuine disconnect between Tom and the appearance of his body. He didn’t seem to notice how badly his clothes were fitting, nor become irritated by how obviously uncomfortable certain items of clothing must have been for him; his tortured, stretched out and exhausted underwear sliding further down his butt crack. After a performance management review, Tom came back wearing larger work shirts that had been issued to him after his manager saw the disastrous fit of the old ones. Tom had shrugged it off without complaint, nor alarm over how much thicker he was becoming. He was the type of man who didn’t make issues where there needn’t to be any. His weight wasn’t impacting his work, nor his sex life, so it surely mustn’t be a problem.

Out of both excitement and neccessity, Oliver took the initiative and started to buy Tom some new items to wear, finding that the man was more than happy to accept the guidance. Having never had an interest in clothes, he’d assumed that, as a gay man, Oliver would be a lot more knowledgeable about how to dress him. The casual look was so sexy on him as well; the sweatshorts and sweatpants, the sleeveless t-shirts and elasticated waistbands. It was obvious how Tom’s gain had been able to take hold of him. The guy had adopted a lazy lifestyle that Oliver had enabled with ease. As Tom drove around from house to house in work, he’d been making casual calls at fast food places several times in a week, as was evident throughout his work vehicle. He’d avoided walking as much as he could, always ensuring he parked as close as possible to the store he was visiting. When he got home, he would collapse on the couch and not move. Indeed, a brief look in the glutton’s kitchen cupboards would tell anyone that he had the taste buds of a five year old; with sugary snacks and tasty treats filling them up entirely.

For the first time, Tom was starting to carry a little more weight in his face, with cheeks that had swollen slightly and the start of a small chin. His pecs had softened, with fat beginning to spread under his arms as his rounded gut inflated once more. Oliver realised that in only three months of dating, he had probably witnessed Tom gaining a further thirty pounds of fat on his tall frame without a care in the world.

It was around that time when Oliver was taken to meet Tom’s family. Despite only knowing for a few days that their son had flipped to dating a guy for the first time, Tom was still remarkably affectionate with Oliver in front of them. His brother, Steve, and his wife, Rachel, had been invited along for dinner at the same time, really piling on the pressure for Oliver to impress.

Oliver had an image in his head of how he expected Tom’s parents to look; after all, Tom had done every athletics club under the sun when he was growing up, and it wasn’t unreasonable for Oliver to anticipate that this was as a result of his upbringing. However, Oliver quickly realised that the picture he had of them in his head couldn’t have been more wrong. Tom’s mother was short, round and carried an enormous amount of weight on her giant rear. His father was an even more extreme example of obesity, clearly weighing no less than four hundred pounds on his tall and broad frame. Oliver wondered if this had been a recent thing for the pair of them, but as he gazed upon the family photos around the house, he realised that Tom and his brother, Steve, had always grown up with very large parents.

Steve’s wife, Rachel, was someone Oliver remembered clearly as the former editor of the high school newspaper; an extremely bossy and studious girl from the year above and not someone Oliver had been particularly keen to get to know. Perhaps it was just the fact that she had seen so many of Tom’s love interests come and go over the many years she had been a part of the family, but she did not seem in the slightest bit as interested in Oliver as the rest of the friendly bunch. She picked at and chastised her husband for reaching for a second helping of dessert and she positively scowled at her mother-in-law when she brought out further snacks after dinner. Her reason for this was simple. Much like Tom, Steve had packed on quite a good amount of weight since his athletic high school days. He’d developed a stout little tummy and his face had that distinct puffiness to it that his younger self had not.

“The boys always overeat when they come here,” Rachel grumbled quietly to Oliver later on, as the pair were alone for the first time. “Walt and Sue have absolutely no idea about healthy diets or portion control,” she sighed, referring to Tom’s parents; clearly wound up and frustrated by having to be there.

“Well, they’re clearly good cooks,” Oliver smiled back, trying to keep the conversation light.

“Steve and I went through a rough patch a couple of years ago and he moved back here for two months,” she replied, still attempting to make her point. “Forty pounds!” she exclaimed. “That’s how much he gained from just being here with those two, eating the same things that they do. He’s still carrying around some of it now.”

“I see,” Oliver nodded, not really wanting to get involved in Rachel’s in-law grumblings.

“Give these boys an inch and they’d turn into the image of their father,” Rachel nodded, finally seeming to reach her point. “Tom’s weight has gone up and down in the last couple of years, but I’ve never seen him this big before. You’ll need to start putting your foot down with him, like I do with Steve.”

With impeccable timing, the pair watched as Tom reached out and fed himself a large doughnut as he finally finished drying the dishes with the others. Three large bites and it was gone, like it had been nothing more than air. It was plain to see that Rachel was absolutely right. Left to their own devices, both Tom and his brother were exactly the type of men who could stumble into quite extreme obesity. If only Rachel knew that Oliver had no intentions of ever preventing that.

Oliver had never dated a guy with so little inhibitions when it came to his body. Despite the fat little tummy he had developed, Tom seemed completely at ease lounging around Oliver’s house in nothing but his underwear; even answering the door to the take-out delivery guy with next to nothing on. Perhaps it stemmed from the days when Tom had been the ultimate fantasy for so many women; tall, broad and handsome. But with his gut pushing out in one direction and his chubby rear in another, the guy was getting further and further away from the sleek form that had once made women droll. His laziness was evident by how content he was to lay about all weekend, making multiple excuses whenever Oliver suggested going for a hike, or getting out for some exercise. Overfed, oversexed and under-exercised, Tom had reached a level of contentment in his new relationship that was only ever going to have one result.

It was easy to become blind to it all. Tom’s eating was indeed quite extreme. He could arrive at Oliver’s place with a tray of doughnuts and go to bed that night with not a single one left. Despite being well catered for, he ordered in food later in the evening and he slurped on beers and sodas like he’d spent a month in a dry desert. It was as if he was so comfortable and happy in his relationship with Oliver, he was taking the best vacation from caring about his diet at all.

However, as the months trickled by, it was clear that Tom’s eating was anything but temporary. Their first holiday season together had been an eye-opener as Oliver saw just how much Tom’s family indulged. Rachel had been a constant snarky killjoy the entire time, biting Steve’s head off anytime he went in for extra helpings in the same way Tom seemed to enjoy doing. It was obvious that neither Tom, nor his parents were all that keen on her, making it significantly easier for them to appreciate how laid back Oliver was instead. By simply not nagging or chastising Tom as his gut bloated up into an even more spherical shape, he’d become the firm favorire amongst even the extended family. It was something that Oliver didn’t mind too much. Rachel was abrasive and harsh. It was easy to feel sorry for Steve as they waved goodbye to them both after a meal at Tom’s parents; Rachel’s face set like stone because her husband had overeaten once more.

Moving in together had been the inevitable next step for Oliver and Tom. However, this process was sped up significantly by the fact that Tom’s landlord was wanting to sell. Although it had been less than eighteen months since Oliver had kicked out his last lover, there he was welcoming another into his home. He’d expected the usual teething problems as they learned to get along, living side by side. Yet the experience turned out to be nothing but pure pleasure. Not only was their sex life as rampant as ever, but Tom was considerate and funny, appreciating how lucky he was to have a guy who was not only willing to let him move in, but make the changes he wanted around the house: his significantly larger TV screen in the lounge, his ugly recliner chair in front of it; a beer dispenser by the refrigerator and a whole stack of games and console machines in what was the become Tom’s new man cave. Giving the guy his own space vital to making this work, Oliver reasoned. He’d had to set his own ground rules as well; chief amongst them that Tom tried his best not to sit down on some of the older pieces of furniture Oliver had inherited from his grandmother. Given the size of the man’s ball-like stomach these days, Oliver suspected that his lover had already surpassed three hundred pounds as the couch began grumbling under his weight.

In no time at all, Oliver’s home soon became a casual refuge for Steve as well. Being that Tom only lived a few blocks away from his brother now, the two guys were seeing a lot more of each other than they had in the ten years since Steve had first moved out of their parents’ place. With some amusement, Oliver would chuckle to himself as he saw Tom letting the guy in to watch the football on TV. Steve would always be dressed like he was heading to the gym and Oliver suspected that that was exactly where his wife had been told he was going. Instead, he was sitting on the couch, gorging on take out pizzas with his brother, whilst shouting at the screen.

Steve had always carried a stubborn, stout little paunch the whole time Oliver had been dating Tom. However, after only three months of skipping the gym to watch sports with Tom, the guy had packed on a considerable amount of additional weight, rounding him out further and bloating up his face in the same way that Tom’s had in the early days of dating Oliver. Judging by the amount of take-out boxes and emptied cans Oliver could come down to in the morning, it was obvious that Steve was every bit as much of a glutton as Tom was. The results of all those excess calories were staggeringly similar as well: the swelling ball of stomach, the widening of the rear. The more the boys ate, the hungrier they seemed to become.

Tom’s gut appeared to enter the room before he did and his hips had swollen outwards in a way that had completely altered his shape. There had always been at least a hint of the guy’s former athleticism in his physique: the strong chest, the biceps, the jawline. Yet all of that had now melted away, being replaced by a puffing fatness that had coated Tom’s entire body. As he slouched in his chair, the great mass of stomach fat arched out in front of him, expanding into his lap; his pecs long since succumbing to the build up of blubber. At what must have been 350lbs, Oliver could not get over how attracted he was to the man: the sheer enormity and size of him; the great appetite and joy he seemed to get from his eating, without caring in the slightest about how his body was changing.

Oliver had asked Tom to marry him whilst they were on vacation together in Las Vegas. Tom had gorged himself the entire time, going from restaurant to restaurant, and when they had won a sizable amount of cash on their penultimate evening there, it felt like everything had slotted into place as they headed off to the tackiest looking chapel they could find.

However, as one marriage began, it seemed as if another was ending. Steve and Rachel clearly weren’t getting along, meaning that the poor, hapless guy was soon spending more and more time in Oliver and Tom’s spare bedroom. Oliver tried not to pry but it seemed obvious to him what the main catalyst was for the couple’s troubles.

“Don’t you think you should go easy on the pizzas later when you’re watching the game with Steve?” Oliver tried to ask. “You know what Rachel is like about his weight and it’s clear that she’s not happy about how much weight he’s gained.”

Tom shrugged. Even he couldn't deny how much weight his brother had packed on in the last few months. After all, he had taken to wearing many items of clothing that Tom had outgrown himself: the sweatpants, the t-shirts, the sweaters. “What’s the point? We all know they’re not getting back together.”

Oliver sighed. Given how much of Steve’s stuff had been filling up the spare bedroom, he had come to a similar conclusion.

“And so what if they do get a divorce? Steve’s already starting to realise how much nicer life is without her.” He looked at Oliver, trying to get a sense of what he was thinking. “Unless… you’re frustrated at having him here?” he asked, suddenly concerned. “You know my parents would let him stay with them if it’s all a bit too much?”

Oliver shook his head. That wasn’t the case at all. Ever since Tom had quit his job for an admin role, working from home, he had worried that Tom’s weight would start to come down, now that he wasn’t roaming from fast food joint to fast food joint during his working day. But with Steve around, the pair fuelled each other’s enthusiasm for tasty treats, with an inevitable, incredibly arousing impact on both their bodies. In the last few weeks alone, Tom’s thighs had appeared to explode with additional size, stretching the capacity of even his most casual sweatpants.

Steve’s attitude seemed to change the moment he found out that Rachel had started to date one of his old friends. Rather than being angry and bitter, it was as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He could at last move on, rejecting the guilt he felt and enjoy his life.

“Steve’s out again?” Oliver chuckled as he came in late one evening. “Another date? Who is it this time?”

Tom nodded as he dipped his hand into a large bag of potato chips. “Some girl he met online,” he replied. “A new one.”

Oliver smiled, pleased that Steve was proving to be such a hit with the ladies, even with his larger stomach these days.

When Steve finally did bring a girl home, both Oliver and Tom quietly confessed to each other their surprise over how good looking she was: petite, slim and large chested, the woman could have had any man she wanted; yet she seemed physically incapable of keeping her hands off her new chubby boyfriend. As for Steve, he seemed blissfully happy and pleased with himself, knowing that he had struck gold. Gina seemed like the girl he had been waiting for his entire life.

“Your Tom’s a big boy, isn’t he?” Gina smiled, watching as Oliver’s husband and Steve retreated into the lounge after dinner.

“I guess so,” Oliver smiled as he tidied up the table, still undecided about the woman his brother-in-law was dating.

“You two must get a lot of looks when you go out together? You’re both so different!”

Oliver resisted the urge to roll his eyes. So many folks didn’t understand how he could be so in love with a man almost two hundred pounds heavier than him; yet few lacked the tack to keep that curiosity to themselves. “I guess so,” he replied disinterestedly.

“My Steve has a pretty big tummy on him as well,” Gina blundered on, chuckling nervously.

“Well, I think my husband is partly to blame for that,” Oliver smiled back. “He’s been teaching him some pretty bad habits since Steve moved in here with us.”

Gina nodded enthusiastically back. “Yes, Steve’s been telling me! He split his pants at work the other day,” she chuckled.

“I’ve lost count of the amount of pants Tom’s destroyed over the years!” Oliver joked back.

“So, are the boys done eating for the night? Or do they usually snack now?”

Oliver looked at his watch and shook his head. “It’s only eight o’clock!” he replied as if Gina’s question had been utterly ridiculous. “Tom likes something to eat around ten or so. Usually it’s a pizza.”

“And does Steve join him?” Gina asked, almost excitedly.

“Of course,” Oliver nodded.

Gina turned, looking towards the lounge area, sighing with pleasure. “I think this living arrangement is going to work out very well for all of us!”

Oliver simply wiped down the kitchen counter as Gina skipped off to snuggle under Steve’s arm on the couch, not quite understanding exactly what the woman had meant.

A couple of weeks later, Oliver nudged his husband as Steve came down the stairs ready to head out for dinner with Gina. His eyes had bulged at the tight shirt the guy was wearing; his stout, rounded stomach already straining the buttons.

“You can’t let him wear that!” Oliver whispered, panicking as he saw Steve grabbing his keys. “Tell him it’s too tight!”

Tom looked up from his heaped plate of cheese and savoury biscuits, balanced on top of the shelf of stomach fat he had accumulated. He saw the ridiculous shirt and smirked to himself. “Have a good evening, buddy!” he called out, letting the guy leave without a word of protest.

“How could you let him go out like that?” Oliver cried, utterly shocked by his husband’s lack of caring.

Tom merely laughed to himself. “You worry far too much about him. Trust me, Steve knows exactly what he’s doing!”

Oliver paused, never quite knowing how far to pry into the brothers’ relationship. They got along better than any other siblings he had ever known and were certainly a lot closer than Oliver had ever been with his especially aloof older sister. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

Tom seemed to ponder how best to answer as he continued eating. “Well, Gina is quite forthcoming when it comes to her appreciation of the extra weight he’s been carrying lately. I imagine he’s going to get very lucky tonight when she sees him in that tight shirt!”

“Gina likes it?” Oliver asked, feeling a lot more surprised than he should reasonably have been, considering all the compliments he had heard the girl giving the chubby boy.

“Of course,” Tom nodded. “She wants him bigger.”

“She… what?” Oliver gasped.

“Oh, come on!” Tom chuckled. “You can’t pretend you’re not exactly the same. It’s just like how you get off on my… what is it you say? My ‘big, manly appetite.’”

“That’s not quite the same thing,” Oliver mumbled, slightly embarrassed.

“Well, Gina thinks it is,” Tom replied. “Her and Steve talk about it quite a lot. She thinks you enable me to gain weight because you enjoy it.”

Oliver blushed. He never lied to Tom, yet if he opened his mouth at that moment, he wouldn’t have been able to help one from slipping out, denying everything. “And what do you think?” was all he asked.

“I just think I’m a greedy boy who eats far too much,” Tom smirked. “But I do think that might be part of the reason why you married me…”

Tom’s responses were light and jovial, relaxing Oliver as he came to terms with the fact he would have to own up to his kinkier side. “But, I don’t make you wear tight clothes that people will make fun of you for,” he replied, trying to shift the spotlight back onto Gina instead.

“No,” Tom nodded in agreement. “But you’re hardly stopping me from outgrowing everything, are you?”

Oliver merely stared at his husband for a few moments as he finished up the last of his pre-dinner snack; all those additional calories and fats he had prepared for his husband. He’d been outed as a chubby chaser. “So how big does Gina want Steve to get?” he asked.

Tom pressed his thumb into the plate, picking up all the leftover crumbs, before sucking them off. “They’ve had some very kinky conversations about just that,” the big man nodded. “She makes these special shakes for him, loaded with calories! Then she sucks him off whilst he downs it all for her.”

“And Steve is okay with that?” Oliver questioned, trying to hold back his surprise.

“Did you not hear the bit about the blow job?” Tom chuckled. “He’s a guy. Of course he loves it.”

Tom’s casual nature was making it harder for Oliver to unpick how the man really felt about all this. His brother had fallen into a feedist relationship and yet Tom seemed utterly delighted for him. “Are you saying that’s something you’d like us to try?” he finally asked.

“I’d drink one of those shakes for you, no problem,” Tom nodded enthusiastically. “Especially if it came with some benefits…You should get the recipe from Gina. I’m sure she’d happily share.”

“And you’d find that exciting?”

Tom scoffed, not prepared to let his husband hide behind the mask of his supposedly naive enabling anymore. “We’d both get off on that, and you know it!” he laughed. “Frankly, I’d love it if you were a little more vocal about enjoying my appetite; like Gina is with Steve.”

At that moment, a knock came at the door, just as Oliver was trying to take in the enormity of the casual comments his husband had just made. Dazed, he walked off to the entrance way and opened the door up to the visitors they had been expecting.

“Jeez!” exclaimed Dex, fresh from a year-long trip to New Zealand with his girlfriend, Marie. “We just saw Steve heading out as we pulled up,” he rambled, having met Oliver and Tom as a couple only once before heading off on their trip. “I can’t believe how much weight he’s…”

Tom waddled in from around the corner, ready to see one of the only friends he still kept from high school, simultaneously shutting Dex’s ramblings down in an instant as the guy saw just how enormous Tom had grown. His girlfriend’s eyes bulged too; the pair of them trying to contain their surprise.

“Hey… hey there, buddy!” Dex cried, walking over to Tom and giving him the briefest of hugs. His voice was unsure and it was obvious how uncomfortable he felt to have been caught commenting on Steve’s weight gain, given how much more extremely Tom had grown. That giant gut really was the only thing anyone ever saw.

Oliver looked at the pair, not really understanding why Tom still kept in touch with them. Dex was every bit the high school jock he had once been; Marie a moderately successful social media influencer. They’d travelled the world, worked in several different countries, declaring that they could never imagine anything worse than living an insignificant life back home in the small towns where they had grown up. It was exactly the sort of ego that Oliver had disliked about Dex back in high school. Meanwhile, Tom lived for his pizzas and take-outs. He worked from home and had little interest in anything that involved getting up off his couch. How many days had it been since Tom had even bothered to leave the house?

It was easy to become blind to Tom’s size ever since Oliver lived with him each day. But with Dex there, alongside his petite girlfriend, the contrast was clearer than ever. Since when had Tom’s face become so massive? Did regular folks like Dex and Marie really eat such small portions? It had been a little while since Tom had started sitting at the head of the table, instead of at the side by Oliver. However, as the four of them were sitting that evening, it was more than obvious that the seating position was purely to accommodate Tom’s giant size. Oliver had to lean over and plate Tom's meal up for him, catching Dex and Marie glancing with concern at each other at just how much food Oliver was naturally piling onto their friend’s plate.

The conversation quickly became dominated by uninteresting anecdotes from the high flying couple’s global adventures. Oliver could tell that Tom wasn’t really listening; neither of them were. Oliver simply kept a keen eye on Tom’s plate, spooning on more of the different items as they started to get low. It was second nature to him now. However, from the little, uneasy pauses Dex made each time Oliver did so, his disapproval was getting ever closer to the surface. But the more Dex and Marie rambled on, the less concerned Oliver felt about upsetting them. It seemed like their egos had inflated tenfold with a little social media success. They spoke as if they were the authority on several issues, with an arrogance inside them that they both seemed completely oblivious to.

Oliver slopped more food onto Tom’s plate. His husband was eating well; most likely because there was no opportunity for him to join in the conversation. If he kept it up, Oliver wouldn’t have to plate up any leftovers later. All the serving bowls could go straight in the dishwasher. He knew he was overfacing Tom by emptying the last of the cream and cheese potato dish out for him, but it was worth a shot, given that Steve wasn’t there to help out, as well as the fact that Marie and Dex had avoided it; seeming to know how calorie laden it was.

Afterwards, Tom stretched out and rubbed his swollen stomach with a grunt whilst Oliver dutifully cleared the table around him. He’d made a giant, hearty dish of sticky toffee sponge, leaving it out in the middle of the table for Marie and Dex to serve themselves. Unused to waiting for guests to be served first, Oliver tried to hold back a small chuckle as he heard his gluttonous husband swallowing back saliva as he watched on. Finally, the serving spoon was in Oliver’s hand, carving out a humongous portion and pressing it down until it fitted inside their oversized bowls. He’d made additional toffee sauce, pouring that on for Tom as well, before placing it down in front of him. The weight of it was obvious by the hefty ‘thunk’ it made onto the placemat; something that did not go unnoticed by the guests.

If there was one thing Oliver never had to worry about, it was Tom’s sweet tooth. But rarely had Oliver been so blatant as to start refilling his husband’s bowl the moment he dropped the spoon. The goal was simple: no leftovers. Having Dex and Marie there to witness it was even quietly thrilling.

“So, do you have any more plans for the house?” Marie asked, finally seeming to notice that they had been talking about themselves for over an hour by that point. “Last time we saw you, you mentioned wanting to extend out the back.”

Oliver shook his head. In truth, he’d lost a lot of his enthusiasm for the house ever since he’d met Tom. Houses and renovations were not the large man’s thing in the slightest. All Tom really cared about was having somewhere to rest his head at night. “I don’t think so,” Oliver replied, reaching under the table to rest his hand on Tom’s knee. “In truth, I can’t see us staying here for too much longer.”

“Oh, really?” Marie smiled back. “Are you guys thinking of moving out of town?”

“No, nothing like that,” Oliver shot back, realising that he hadn’t even discussed any of this with Tom. “But this place is old and has already been knocked around a fair bit. The shower is getting a little too small for Tom and there’s no way of making it larger unless we knock down the wall into one of the guest bedrooms. It’s a lot of work.”

“Or…” Dex began, looking at them both like they were simple, “...you could just put him on a diet.”

Oliver was surprised at the slight glee he felt at making Dex bite. Tom was busily scraping his bowl clean, determined to get every last crumb; oblivious. “Oh, I think that ship has sailed, don’t you?” Oliver chuckled, exchanging his husband’s empty bowl for the entire bowl that remained in the middle of the table. He lifted the jug of extra toffee sauce, emptying it entirely, before passing Tom his spoon back and slipping his hand under the table once more to rub his husband’s knee. His silent meaning was clear: eat it all.

Steve’s disgust was evident on his face as he simply watched his old friend annihilating the entirety of the remaining dessert without a thought. All three spectators were observing the masterful glutton taking on the sugary feast without even noticing he was being watched; the conversation halted. Oliver could hardly believe how erotic he found it and he was thankful that he was wearing an oversized sweater that covered his crotch as he stood up to collect yet another fresh soda for his husband. He imagined how boring it would be to be lumbered with a fit guy like Dex. Oliver knew he’d have to fatten him up with his calorie dense food and quiet enabling, until he got what he wanted; exactly as he had done with Tom, and now his brother as well.

“Check out this pic I found of us from high school,” Dex insisted, fumbling with his phone. “I found it the other day,” he explained, filling the silence as he clicked and swiped his way to it. Finally, he turned it around for Oliver and Tom to see: two handsome, shirtless jocks with glistening six packs by the pool. “Look at the pair of us! Man, I miss those care-free days!” Dex chuckled fondly.

Oliver tried to suppress a chuckle. Dex’s true intentions hadn’t been clearer, reminding his old friend of how fit he used to be.

“I don’t!” Tom grunted in reply between large mouthfuls. “I never liked being on the swim team. In fact, I haven’t stepped foot in a swimming pool since I graduated.”

“Seriously?” Marie asked in surprise. “In over ten years?” Given how many poolside selfies there were of her, it was a wonder she didn’t have gills.

“Tom’s not big on exercise,” Oliver confirmed, shaking his head.

Realising the conversation wasn’t going anywhere, Dex returned his cell phone to his pocket. “Dude, you’re starting to look like your dad,” he finally snapped as Tom began scraping the bowl for the last of the toffee sauce.

Having cleared some plates, Oliver was just making his way back to the table as he said it, making him chuckle as he rubbed his husband’s large back proudly. “Actually, Tom can eat even more than his dad these days,” he smiled, as if this was an achievement to be proud of.

Tom, who seemed to be finally switching back onto the conversation now his food was all but gone, nodded in agreement.

Dex had clearly expected more negativity from his comment and he looked at Marie as if they were both thinking the same thing. He gazed down at his watch and Marie nodded subtly in agreement.

“Thanks for dinner,” Dex sighed, already getting up. “But we have to be up early tomorrow for our flight.”

Oliver beamed. He had thought he was stuck with the pair of them all evening. “Oh, we understand,” he nodded, hoping to sound disappointed. Then he looked down at a still seated Tom, waiting for him to echo his words of regret. However, Tom seemed far more concerned with the tightness of his stomach after downing such a large amount from his fresh soda. He rubbed at his stomach and looked almost like he might throw up, before a giant burp came rolling up from his throat. Sighing with relief, Tom grunted as he rose to his feet as well; his stomach so bloated that the underside of it was visible from the bottom of his t-shirt.

No one hugged in goodbye. Dex seemed disgusted and, at the same time, pitying towards his old friend. Tom raised his great arm and Oliver slid underneath, resting against the man’s bulk as the pair stood just outside the house and waved the pretty couple off. “Do you think we frightened them away?” Tom whispered as the car rumbled off the driveway. “You’ve never made me eat like that before,” he chuckled.

“It was more entertaining than listening to all their boring stories,” Oliver replied, trying not to move his mouth so much that the couple would have the chance to read his lips as they backed out onto the road. “Did you enjoy it, though?” he smirked, raising his hand for the final wave to Dex and Marie.

Tom didn’t reply. He simply trotted his way back into the house and embraced his husband in a giant kiss the moment the front door was closed behind them. Oliver was the one who pulled off Tom’s shirt, feeling a freedom now to enjoy the giant size of his glutton’s stomach that he hadn’t allowed himself before now.

“You like?” Tom asked, standing proudly and full of confidence, even pushing his fat tummy out a little more.

“I do!” Oliver nodded, slipping down onto his knees in order to kiss the giant mass.

Tom grunted in approval, seizing the opportunity to lower his sweatpants and feed his stiff and buried hardness into Oliver’s mouth. He moaned loudly as Oliver settled to his work with such relish, rubbing his enormous stomach as if his own size was turning him on. As Oliver’s tongue worked him harder, Tom’s stomach rubbing only became more frantic and desperate, taking a hand to each side of it and bouncing it up and down.

“You’re never going to put me on a diet, are you?” Tom asked, his voice dripping with lust.

Oliver briefly pulled his mouth from Tom’s crotch to reply. “Never,” he teased back, noticing that Tom’s dick was even harder by the time he got it back between his lips.

The next time Oliver came up for breath, he pulled Tom along towards the couch, letting the fat boy down on his back, legs splayed, as Oliver set back to pleasuring him. In this position, Tom seemed to be enjoying himself even more; moaning loudly and rubbing his giant gut like it was an enormous wrecking ball pinning him down. There was almost no effort required to make the man ejaculate.

Afterwards, Oliver looked on at his husband with a satisfaction that no orgasm could give him. Naked and well-catered for, Tom had fallen asleep in the same position he had landed in during the blow job; a giant, fat slug draped over the couch that constantly creaked under his weight. The fat under his chin had made his neck disappear in this position and a contented, calm expression filled his face as he dozed. This was the reason Oliver loved his size and greed so much; for only he could deliver this sort of bliss to a glutton like Tom: his perfect man.

Only eighteen months later, Tom stood, filling his plate full of items from the buffet table at his brother’s wedding. It had been a long day for the guy, being the Best Man, with plenty of time up on his feet for the photographs. Oliver watched on, admiring the sheer size of his husband’s rear from afar. There was something so cute that happened to those glutes once a man crossed five hundred pounds. They were so plush and soft, yet grotesquely oversized and extreme-looking, especially in the tight dress pants Tom had been made to wear that day. He wasn’t used to such restrictive clothes, and he wriggled and twitched in them the entire time, silently longing to get back into his sweatshorts which wouldn’t pinch him like these pants did.

There had come a point a few months back when Oliver and Tom had decided to take a step back from the deliberately fattening regime Tom had seemed to take himself on. To some extent, it had worked. Tom was no longer growing at the rate that he had been. However, there was no denying the fact that the man was indeed still growing. Those unplanned pounds had made his body swell and soften in a way that none of the previous weight ever had before. His upper arms had ballooned with fat and his hips had widened so that he had broken more than a few chairs. It had been fat building upon already well established fat. Of course it was going to change his shape, thought Oliver, rolling his eyes as Tom finally began to have second thoughts once even his parents had shown some concern. But the weight was still finding him; still sliding onto his overfed physique and quietly arousing them both by the seemingly uncontrollable nature of it all.

Steve, and his new wife emerged onto the dance floor. It was almost pitiable to watch her dragging such a fat man out to dance with her. With such a hectic day, Steve had become dishevelled and a little sweaty; his large shirt untucking itself in all but a couple of places around his large circumference. His blossoming love handles an underbelly showing in just the same Tom’s had only one hundred pounds earlier. As for his new wife, she seemed to be loving every minute, showing off the giant, spherical man she could now call her own. Without much family to Gina’s name, the guest list seemed saturated with friends of hers with similarly bloated, overfed husbands; most likely undergoing the same transformation that Steve was under a feeder’s care. Oliver had seen them all looking across at him, nodding in approval at Tom’s size, as if they were all a part of the same strange and unspoken club.

“Are you not coming to watch?” Oliver asked his overstuffed husband, wiping his mouth after completing his monstrous mountain of buffet food.

Tom shook his head lazily, pretending to want to rest his feet.

Oliver smirked, spotting the vast quantities of pre-cut wedding cake sitting on the table not far away and knowing that Tom was secretly plotting a way to get more than his fair share whilst everyone was distracted. Indeed, if there was one thing Oliver could always rely upon, it was Tom’s sweet tooth.

“Okay, honey,” Oliver smiled, pretending not to have figured out his gluttonous husband’s real intentions. “You just rest here for a minute,” he smiled, turning his back so that Tom could quietly gorge himself, unnoticed by everyone else in the room. Given how well the man had been eating today, there’d certainly be fresh fat to explore on his body by tomorrow morning….

Life was sweet.

#gainer stories #gainerstory #gayfeeder #gayfeedee #gainer story #gainerstories #gainerfic #gay feedee #gainer fiction #gainer fic

829 notes · View notes

comatosebunny09 · 21 days ago

Text

how to stop the rain | sylus q.

— summary: you just wanted to catch bugs. but the rain had other plans, forcing you to wait it out in your home where another tempest brewed inside, spurred by your unlikely company.

— cw: female reader, female anatomy described, animal crossing au (the animals are human-sized & you don’t look like adorable chibis, just regular-degular people), vanilla-ass, penetrative sex, cunnilingus, fingering, creampie, friends to lovers, jealousy, silliness, romantic dribble, profanity, terms of endearment, consent king, praise, sylus is just a chill dude who likes you, like one bestiality joke, mdni

— notes: fueled by this blurb & this one & @alfredosaws & @asirensrage inspiring me with their comments. as always, thank you for reading, turtledoves.

— now playing: stale cupcakes - sleeping phoenix

It’s raining.

You can’t say you didn’t anticipate it; Isabelle forecasted it in her daily announcement. Still, you insisted on foraging for materials and hunting for bugs, dragging an indifferent Sylus alongside you.

You were about to capture a monarch butterfly, net poised overhead. Sylus watched you with quiet amusement, leaning against a cedar tree when the first clap of thunder shook the sleepy island. The resulting drizzle quickly morphed into a downpour, chasing the island’s other inhabitants inside.

“Not a word,” you clipped when Sylus snickered beside you, kneeling to help you gather your tools. You weren’t sure what irritated you more—the rain’s uncanny timing, Sylus’ teasing, or the pretty, cyan monarch fluttering just out of reach of your net. You had been hunting that thing for days!

The pair of you fled the forest as rain pelted down, your curses and laughter intermingling with that of your heavy footfalls splashing in errant puddles. Sylus used his coat as a makeshift umbrella, but it didn’t hold for long. You were both drenched, your clothes matted to you like a second skin, by the time you reached your doorstep.

Swathed in the pale haze of your entryway, you pant as your mirth peters out. And as the silence of your home takes over, you become keenly aware of how close you are to him. How warmth radiates off his skin, scorching you to the bone. And the scent he carries is reminiscent of bonfires and sea spray, an aroma you’ve learned to associate with home.

Your eyes slide over the contours of his torso, defined by the wet cling of his shirt. He’s a far cry from unsightly—you first noticed how handsome he was when he appeared on your quiet little island some months back, swept in by the idle drag of the tide.

Your study ends at his face where your gazes interlock, his scarlet eyes creasing with mirth to match the cant of his lips. “Like what you see, sweetheart?”

You quickly look away as heat creeps into your face, evoking a chuckle from the center of your ruminations.

“Clothes. I’ll get you some clothes,” you utter, feeling along the wall for your light switch.

The confined space floods with warm light—your saving grace. You maneuver through your home, drip-dropping onto the hardwood floors in pursuit of your bedroom. With a towel draped over your shoulders, you return to the figure standing in your living space, a dark, regal cutout amid your minimalistic decor.

You clear your throat, more so to cast away the dreamlike fog that had befallen you. Toss a towel at his head, avoiding the inquisitive arch of his brow as you deposit sweatpants and an oversized shirt into his hands.

“Clothes from an old fling?” Sylus pokes, something new coloring his typically flat tone.

You shrug as you make for the hallway, ignoring how a bit of you sparkles at the prospect of him being jealous. You are merely friends—you showed him the ropes when he was disoriented and irritable, helping him find a place on the island when he finally accepted that it was his new home.

As time passed, you found it more challenging to deny your attraction to him. Sure, he appeared rough on the outside. But as he settled into the humdrum of your lifestyle, his rigid edges started to smoothen, and you discovered there was more to him than his sharp quips and shady origins.

You retreat into your room once more, your waterlogged clothes puddling around your feet. You settle on a shower. Its soothing spray eases the tight coil of your muscles. Washes the grime from your skin. When you’ve thoroughly scrubbed off the day’s adventures, you pour yourself into something comfortable, towel-drying your hair before emerging in your home’s main lounge.

It’s serene here. Warm—you lit some logs in the fireplace to chase away the biting cold the rain ushered in. The pop and fizz of the fire merge with the sound of rain patterning your rooftop. The shower in the guest bathroom sputters to life. Sylus must have had the same idea, his clothes folded in a neat pile atop your dryer. Briefly, you tango with the imagery of him in the shower. Skin flushed from the hot spray, water easing over the ridges of his body, lips parted with a relaxed sigh pushing through them, his back muscles—

You chuck his attire into the dryer alongside yours, deciding that a pot of tea would be a lovely distraction.

Seated at your dining table, you smile as you watch the rain beyond your window, the warmth of your mug bleeding into your palms. With your finger, you draw nonsensical shapes into the condensation collecting on your windowpane, falling into a bout of normalcy.

You hardly register the guest bathroom door opening, nor do you notice the figure moving through the quiet tranquility of your abode until he startles you with the click of your electric kettle placed back on its base.

You’re met with a defined, warm ivory stretch of skin panning in. With scarlet eyes tuned to you beneath alabaster locks pasted to his forehead, wet from his shower. He towels off his hair as he slides onto the chair across you, legs crossed, and you owlishly blink as he sips your tea from one of your mugs as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

No matter how often you’ve invited him into your home, you'll never get used to this. How massive he is in comparison to your humble kitchen. What audacity he has, making himself comfortable as if it’s his second home. And shirtless, no less. Bloody shirtless and shameless, and your throat grows dry as you force your eyes elsewhere, grip white-knuckled on your cup’s handle.

“Was the shirt too small?” you ask to assuage your nerves, knocking the ceramic lip of the mug against your teeth. Smooth. Real smooth.

“It was,” he replies with a twitch of a smirk. Perches his elbow on the headrest, and you try vainly to ignore how such a simple movement boasts his bicep. “I don’t necessarily enjoy wearing another man’s clothes, either,” he adds, pensively looking down at his sweats. They’re a snug fit, the hems cinched around his shins. “A small one, at that.”

You sputter into your mug, tea flying every which way. Bite back a smug little smile as you blot your mouth dry with your sleeve. Sylus’ brow quirks. Never mind if the pants don’t quite fit him. He’s jealous, isn’t he?

Who would’ve thought your companion possessed such a trait? And for you, of all people? Perhaps you’re not as friendly as you perceived, and the notion makes you brim with muted glee.

In all honesty, the clothes are yours. You have a penchant for loose-fitting, oversized things. But you decide to play up this newfound insecurity, feigning nonchalance as you sip from your mug.

“Who else has been here besides me?” prods Sylus, voice fringed by bitterness. “As far as I've gleaned, we’re the only two humans on this island.”

It’s endearing, really—how up and arms he’s getting, bristling like a wet cat, leaning slightly over the table to interrogate you. Scarlet eyes narrow beneath pinched brows, something of a pout tugging his lips southward.

You shrug, spurred by his envy. “Who knows? It could’ve been the mailman, Saharah, maybe even—ow!” You flinch, rubbing your forehead. You fix Sylus with a scowl.

He smirks, leaning back in an easy slouch against your chair after flicking you, arms crossed over a virile chest. “That isn’t what I meant, and you know it, sweetie.”

The term of endearment rolls so effortlessly off his tongue. You forget how much your forehead smarts, your petty greed for revenge. He’s called you his ‘sweetie,’ or some variation of it, for as long as you can recall, rarely addressing you by your given name.

You sit up in your seat, clasping the steadily cooling mug between your hands. Drum your fingers against the crisp ceramic as a quiet smile rounds your lips, and you chuckle, fondness blooming like lotus petals in your chest. You decide you quite like this side of him, his usual cockiness traded for something fragile, childlike.

Just when you’ve decided to forgive him and reveal that those pants he’s wearing are yours, Sylus has to open his big, stupid mouth. And suddenly, you don’t feel so bad for giving him the piss.

“You don’t peg me as one for bestiality, so I doubt you’ve done anything with the animals on this island. Unless—”

The rain. When the fuck was it going to stop raining?

—

You’re not entirely sure what leads to it—your breasts, warm and soft beneath the might of his chest, your breaths intermingling as you study each other on your floor.

Perhaps it began whilst seated on your couch, your thighs occasionally touching as you listened to the rainfall, filling the hushed space with idle quips and chatter. Or maybe it started when Sylus draped an arm about the back of your sofa, unconsciously scooting closer, watching your lips form words so intensely. Could it have started when he grabbed your chin, canting your face towards his under the guise of swiping some lint from your cheek?

Or could it have been something long-forming? Something bubbling like sea foam between you, building over the span of six months spent in each other’s company. Playing this silly game of keep-away, like your feelings for each other weren’t branded into your wrists for all the island to see.

Who knows.

You haven’t much time to dwell on the source because his mouth is panning in. Petal pink and soft, dark lashes bowing over peach-tinged cheeks. And you’re quietly awaiting the union of your mouths. Polite as your eyelids shutter, your palms gently perched on his traps.

He’s kissing you before you know what’s about. Lips a tender yet insistent pressure against yours, sending your heart soaring into the stratosphere. His soft groan vibrates your lips, furls in your chest, your veins pumping liquid fire. You draw away from each other carefully, and your bleary eyes crack open, ingesting the sight of scarlet irises smoldering like liquid spilled over hot coals.

He sifts through your gaze, wordlessly asking to kiss you again. You don’t deter him, lifting your head to meet him halfway, guided by your arms slowly snaking about his neck. He kisses you again, full-bodied and assured this time, chest deflating as he presses more into you. His lips part, a sweltering tongue easing out, seeking out the slippery glide of yours. When you return his attention, he groans something bitten-off, the sound of it reminiscent of thunder churning in the horizon.

You lose yourself to the feel of him, to the pressure of his lips and his hips notching between your splayed-open legs. He’s heavy, mooring you to the floor with half his weight settled on his elbow beside you. You don’t complain, feeling so very safe, your fingers gliding between the warm, silken strands of his hair.

The kiss grows more feverish as the seconds pass. And you’re distracted from the devastatingly possessive slant of his mouth when his fingers creep like spindly spider limbs over your body, pushing up your shirt until the supple skin of your side skates beneath his fingertips.

He breaks away with a sticky click. Lips distended, curving into a smile. Affection colors his countenance, a side of him you’ve rarely witnessed, and the sight of it siphons the air from your lungs.

“We can stop,” he murmurs, voice gritty like sand caught between your teeth. “We can stop if you’d like to.”

“Never,” you breathe, snatching him into another lip-lock.

He laughs into your greedy little mouth, murmuring between each sticky grind of your lips. “Are you sure—” Kiss. “—your ex-boyfriend—” Kiss. “—won’t mind?”

You fix him with a deadpan look at his callback to your baggy clothes, to which he smiles, fragile and unguarded, and you feel it pulling in your chest.

Silence stretches between you, pulled taut like a bowstring, whilst you scrutinize each other’s faces. The atmosphere grows heavy with yearning and something more nestled in between. Something like love. For a moment, nothing but the distant rain and the violent pulsing of your heartbeats fill the space. Your lips quiver. His eyes fall to your mouth.

Sylus takes your wordless cue, sneaking his arms beneath your waist to draw you closer, and you’re giggling like an enamored adolescent as he hauls you up with him, your ankles intuitively crossing at the divot of his back. He carries you through your home, toeing your bedroom door open before laying you amongst the crisp, doughy comforter of your bed.

He leaves you breathless and starstruck as you sit up on your elbows, watching the focal point of your affections sluggishly pull the string of his sweats free. He observes you with a mischievous glaze to his eyes, chin tilted up, bottom lip caught between his teeth as the muted glow of your bedroom outlines the rigid contours of his body.

He moves tortuously slow, tugging the waistband of his—your��pants southward, the neat beginnings of a silver trail catching your sight. He maintains some modicum of modesty, his girth prominent yet concealed by the loose hug of his briefs once he’s divested himself of your sweats.

Your mouth hangs open, throat dry. Something warm spills into your belly, puddling in the apex of your thighs. Your gaze flits back to his, and he moves like a soundless beast through the haze, pushing you back against your mattress with a kiss, your legs instinctively parting to make room for him.

He’s blistering your neck with kisses now, eliciting the cutest little sounds from your throat. Nipping, licking, claiming his way down, concluding his mouth’s excursion at your collarbones. Your fingers rove over the tight cords of muscle in his back. And you sigh, hot and wanton, shutting your eyes with your head thrown back when he bites down, sure to leave pretty splotches of purple flowering on your skin come morning. A marking, a branding, a claim on the off chance that there really is someone else.

His desire prods the inner cut of your thigh. You burn hot as your hips conduct a shy rhythm of their own accord, undulating off the bed to grind against him. Sylus hisses something sharp, sticky. Exhales all slow like he’s trying to rein himself in. Palms, broad and possessive, mold around your waist, anchoring you down, halting its tantalizing dance.

You whine petulantly, meeting the molten wash of his gaze.

“Are you sure this is what you want,” he whispers, open-mouthed against the column of your throat. The fragility of his tone makes your heart pinch. “Are you sure I’m what you want?”

You nod vigorously, biting your lip. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more. You’ve often craved this closeness—this level of intimacy with him. You were too afraid to act on your sentiments in case he didn’t reciprocate them. Would rather waste your days quietly pining for him at his side instead of running him off with your feelings.

“Your words, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “Use them.”

“Yes. Yes, I want this, and you. I want you.”

The words flee from betwixt your lips without nary a thought. And the muggy air of your bedroom shifts again, something of danger tinging it. His lips crook with a smirk. He sits back on his haunches, heavy hands scrubbing down your quads, over your knees and shins to close around your ankles.

“In that case, sweetling, we should get you out of these clothes.”

You move so comically fast, tearing your shirt from your shoulders, shimmying out of your bottoms and underwear to kick them off. Sylus can’t help but laugh, and heat branches into your neck. He swoops in to capture a pebbled nipple between his lips, corking whatever words of protest you planned in your throat.

You bow into him on an exhale, fingers sifting through his hair as a pleasant pressure curdles between your thighs. His gaze never relinquishes yours, and having him watch you so intensely makes you throb. It’s as if he’s already attuned to your body, a devilish hand easing down the ripples of your rib cage, past your navel, to cup the radiant heat of your muff.

He groans when he feels you. Sweltering and slick, dribbling into his palm. Two fingers curl inward, stroking through your folds in search of the pucker of your cunt. When he finds it, he teases its sticky perimeter, the tips of his fingers easing in and out with an obscene schlick. He moves to pay similar homage to your other nipple with his mouth, and the sensation of it on you, coupled with the slow press of his fingers and his thumb meticulously circling your clit, drives you to the brink of insanity.

“Sylus, please, just—fuck.”

“Mm?” he hums, sluggish tongue swirling about your nipple in his mouth.

You clench around him, trying vainly to trap his digits within the warm clench of your cunt. You whine when he draws his hand back, your slick painting your inner thigh like a gooey, translucent brush stroke. He’s going to make you beg—you just know it.

Swallowing your pride, your inhibitions, your bashfulness, you grab a fistful of his hair, and he shudders, releasing your nipple with a lew pop, all bleary-eyed and panting.

“Too much?” he exhales, his countenance awash with sleepy desire.

“More. I need more,” you relent, acutely aware of how tightly you’ve gripped his locks. You quickly release him, feeling bad for pulling to the point of pain. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine, sweetheart,” Sylus soothes, taking your hand and guiding it back to the delicate hairs at his nape. “I quite like this side of you. So beautiful when you beg. When you use me like this. Can’t get enough of it.”

His lashes shutter as he kisses down your stomach, agonizingly slow, mouth hovering dangerously close to where you radiate heat. He kisses each inner wind of your thigh. Noses the bulge of your clit, sending pleasant shockwaves rippling throughout your body.

“Here?” A kiss where outer labia meets thigh. “You want me here, sweetheart?” Another to the other side, the warm musk of your sex causing his eyes to dip into a mysterious shade of garnet.

You nod drunkenly, your fingers twitching in his hair.

“Words.” Sylus teases your cunt with a flattened tongue, drawing it back into his mouth when you’ve barely registered the sensation.

“Yes, fuck. Right there. Right there.”

He wastes no time licking you open thereafter, his long fingers splitting your cunt wide in an upside-down V. He groans with each swipe of his tongue as if thanking you for the meal. The gratified rumble of his voice, accompanied by the skilled flit of his tongue, pushes you closer toward that slurry edge. Closer to that blissful void where the world falls away, leaving you tenuous and weightless.

“Come for me, sweetling,” he urges against your cunt, employing his fingers to help get you there. They curl and twist and piston, the coiling sensation brewing in your stomach, slowly unwinding. And with a final nudge to your clit with his tongue, the world opens up and swallows you whole, making way for a blissful white, your tendons shaking, lips quivering around the vowels of his name.

He strokes you through your orgasm. Kisses and licks until the stimulation borders pain, and you pull on his hair, quietly urging him to stop. He reluctantly draws away from your sex, towering over you, chin shining with your nectar in the gray hue of the light filtering in through your curtains.

Your chest heaves as you greedily suck in oxygen. He strokes soothingly over your skin, watching you with all the fondness of the world. Pinches one of your nipples, and you wince, the aftershocks of your orgasm dragging over you like waves licking the shore.

When you’ve fully sunk back into your skin, you’re reminded of how painfully hard he is, his girth pressing against your thigh, a dark patch of pre-spend staining the slit of his briefs.

You sit up quickly, eager to please. Eager to reciprocate, fingers hooking beneath the elastic band, tugging down, and your mouth waters with the prospect of being wrapped around him. Of ingesting the briny edge of his pre-cum, sucking him sweetly into your mouth. But he stills you with a hand clasped around your wrist, a laugh dredged from his chest as if he’s perused the catalog of your thoughts.

“Later, sweetheart,” he teases, splaying your fingers over his chest, where his heart beats a wild cadence just for you. He holds your gaze, scarlet irises brimming with tenderness. “For now, I want to ensure you truly desire this.”

He’s fucked you within an inch of your life on his tongue, on his fingers, and still, he seeks reassurance as if your mind will change with a sudden bout of whiplash.

His mouth hinges open with the effort of breathing as your fingers ghost along the taut stretch of skin between his pectorals. Your hand eases down, wrist still ensnared by his pleasantly warm fingers, yet he doesn’t stop you this time when it dips into the slit of his underwear. He watches you as you tug him free, his turgid length slapping against his abdominals, a pretty, pearlescent strand of pre-spend catching in the low light, oozing from the tip, honey-slow.

Saliva puddles in your mouth at the sight of him. Red, swollen, and pulsing, and you guide your hand to the base of him, evoking a stifled sound and a shiver from his person when your fingers swallow him at the hilt.

“I want you, Sylus,” you assure with all the conviction of the world. And you stroke him so good, his length hot and sturdy in your palm, twitching with each possessive tug. You’re enamored by the hoarse noises you evoke, each sound seemingly pinched from his lungs as if he fears pleasure. As if he’s never received it.

Wordlessly, you lean back into your bed, guiding him against your slit. You coat his tip with your slick, sucking your lip between your teeth, watching him with lust-laden eyes as his carefully-constructed composure starts to crumble.

“You feel so good here, Sylus,” you laud, shocked by the low gravel of your own voice. How you mustered the courage to praise him, to tease him like this, your breaths collectively catching when the tip prods your opening. “So, so good. Need you…here.”

“Careful, sweetheart,” he bites off, catching himself on his palms, roosted on either side of your torso. Pressing his hips against you, testing the swollen barrier of your cunt. “If you keep talking to me like that, you might start something you won’t be able to finish.”

Your eyes shine with mirth, contrasting the terribly distracting thing you’re doing with your hand—with your pretty, sticky cunt. “Try me.”

Sylus snorts, swatting your hand away. You watch with bated breath as he tugs his briefs down, kicking them off to join your clothes on the floor. He anchors you to the bed with the welcomed weight of his body, his cock dragging through your folds, saturating the shaft with your slick. “Shall I go shake a tree for a condom before we get started?”

You blanch, whacking him on the chest. And he laughs something hearty, throaty, full-blooded, apologizing with a kiss as he feeds his cock into you, pushing into the tight webbing of your cunt. You share an exhale. Exchange a look with your foreheads pressed together, his eyes searching for any signs of discomfort as he strokes into you, easing his way home.

You find he’s massive in more than just stature. And you feel so very full. So complete, shaky breaths in, ankles instinctively locking around his waist.

Once he’s fully slid home, hips rucked up against your pubic mound, he stills, mercifully granting you time to adjust. There’s a crease to his brows. A downward twitch to his lips as he scrutinizes you. You lure his mouth to yours to kiss away his concern, clenching around him once you’ve settled, signaling for him to move.

You swallow each other’s groans as he fucks into you. Steady strokes at first, tempering the pace. Always such a gentleman, putting your needs first, his desires pushed to the back burner. He’s selfless in everything he does. You’ve already had your fill, the tang of your sex still emblazoned on his tongue as he pushes it into your mouth, and your hips surge off the bed, meeting him stroke for delicious stroke.

He tears away from your mouth, straightening. Looms over you like something beastly, one hand clasped around your ankle, holding you nice and open for him whilst the other eases between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with laser precision.

His weighted balls knock against the cleft of your ass as he quickens the pace, twitching inside you, panting. Reveling in the love-drunk look on your face, how your mouth hangs open, words left unbidden on your tongue.

“Feels so nice,” he breathes betwixt each knock of his hips. “Never wanna stop. Taking me so well.”

Your hand slides down to press against his stomach, and you crane your neck to watch the union of your bodies. You feel like you’re in a dream, still in disbelief of what’s transpiring. This stranger who had dismantled the barrier you erected around your heart and pilfered it, rocking into you, the headboard cracking against the wall, chorusing with the thunder rolling over the horizon outside.

That sparkling sensation builds again. Creeping like ivy through a lattice fence. You throw your head back, shutting your eyes. His fingers slip between the interstices of yours, pinning your hands to the bed as he fucks you, driven purely by instinct. By the sensation of you quaking around him, greedily sucking him in, never wanting to let go.

With one final snap of his hips, he comes undone, painting the gummy mesh of your cunt a sticky white, cum oozing down your inner thighs to stain the sheets below. He continues thumbing your clit as he pants, inching you off that plinth with him.

“Another, sweetheart. Just like that. Give me one more,” he dotes, still buried deep inside you. You clench your teeth, rocking your hips in time with the swipe of his thumb. “Give it to me.” Your walls finally shudder around him, phosphenes dancing behind your lids, the world full of static and floating around you.

You come undone for the second time that afternoon, this one lazier than the last, but still all-consuming. He falls against you, your bodies coated in a fine sheen of dewy sweat as you laugh. And you squeeze him in an embrace, ignoring how he crushes the air from your lungs with his weight. You could die happy like this, your affections reciprocated, desire sated.

He unsheathes himself from the hot suction of your cunt once your breaths have evened out. You groan from the extraction, feeling so lonely and empty when he disappears from your bedroom. But he returns shortly after, gently cleaning up the remnants of your lovemaking with a towel, chuckling now and again when you tease him with one of your terrible jokes.

The remainder of your day is spent swathed in his embrace, your hips notched up against his groin, until sleep claims him. His steady breaths tickle the sensitive skin behind your ear. With a smile rounding your lips, you watch the rain fall through the gauzy sweep of your curtains, lulled into a sleepy haze by its gentle symphony, by thunder stretching across the skyline, yawning like a sated cat.

You might not have caught the butterfly you’ve been hunting all week. But you’ve captured something much more appealing in its stead, you think, twisting in Sylus’ arms to admire him, gathering his cheeks in your palms, easing your thumbs over the tender swell of his lips.

You watch his lashes dance with sleep, stroking the divot between his brows away with the pad of your thumb. You pan in to kiss him, something chaste and adoring, and his lips twitch upward against yours. He pulls you tighter against him, murmuring something incoherent before burying his chin into the hollow of your shoulder, a content sigh pushing through his nostrils.

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus smut #sylus fic #sylus imagine #animal crossing au #sylus x female reader #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #sylus qin

433 notes · View notes

red-phantom-0 · 1 month ago

Text

Damien Wayne x Tokyo Ghoul Reader

imagine!! : Damien Wayne is a complex character on his own , he has his own complex emotions and feelings that not many people can understand, que in a ghoul like sibling whom can comfort Damien in his hard times by reminiscing their own experience with them.

Edit : ty for the 48 likes!!!

part 2 , part 3

Damien knew from the beginning that he was difficult . He knew that if it wasn't for the fact that he was Bruce's only blood child and the fact that he's bloody good at handling a sword that no one would bat him a bloody eye.

It was no one's fault in the family, really. He couldn't blame them honestly. Not one of them fully grasp the concept of being a living breathing weapon . A tool only made to bring destruction and wrath to others . Simply a tool. They won't understand that his angry outbursts was just him trying to come to terms with the fact that he was human and humans don't result to anger for everything.

But grasping that concept is easier said than done . Not when he grew up not knowing the warmth of a mother's embrace or the loving scolding of a father when he ate cookies for breakfast . He grew up only knowing that he had to kill to live .Not everyone in this family can grasp that but one .

Y/n is an enigma . At first, he found them absolutely weird when he first met them . He always thought their one red eye was repulsive - absolutely monstrosity. He hated how quiet they were , the bloody fact that he was a trained assassin, and he couldn't hear nor detect them entering the same room as them absolutely pissed him off.

He hated the fact that they were way too good at offense and defense . He always recalled the first mission he went with them and observed how they had somehow skillfully unarmed ten of Joker's henchmen with a bloody rock. He hated them alot you could imagine until one faithful night.

It was after one of his many tantrums , honestly Bruce and bloody Dick were getting on his nerves by calling him a child, and it only escalated when Bruce threatened to send him board school . He was so pissed he just straight up left the mansion himself and sat out in the garden.

He hadn't expected them to follow him though and at first he wanted to bloody stab them - so he did , he threw a knife at them and instead of dodging or catching it , Y/n allowed to knife to pierce their shoulder.

They hadn't even wince just gave him a smile.

" I understood why you're mad, Damien." They voiced as they sat next to him.

Damien only scowl . " You understand me - that's hilarious " .

" I do, Damien . Do you think I wanted to be what I am ? I am only what I am because people want a weapon . They were far too weak and fragile to fight off their own problems for themselves so why not let an innocent child do it for them " they said as they ripped the knife out of their shoulder and threw it behind them.

Damien shared a knowing - an understanding look with them as he finally grasped what they meant . They were a weapon like himself. A shared silence consumed them .

" These twats don't get how - how angry I am " Damien finally muttered out.

Y/n shook her head in agreement .

" They don't understand the anger we carry is not just our own but the anger of an innocent child begging for their stolen youth back " y/n muttered back.

They turned to him and held his hand with a little squeeze . Damien looked at their intertwined hands with a little smile.

" Human contact feels nice," he muttered as he squeezed their hand back . Y/n only smiled back and from then on the two were inseparable.

Wherever Y/n lurked , Damien was right next to them and wherever Damien went , Y/n went with them. Whenever Dick took away Damien's swords , Y/n would always steal it back for him. Whenever Bruce was being a bit harsh on y/n for being blood thirsty , Damien would always stand up for them.

Thus the family was shocked to see Damien , a man of fury and blood lust bond with someone . Safe to say, many of the siblings were jealous of their strong bond .

So when Dick brought up the fact with Damien one day . " So you're allies with a weird ghoul who probably murders for fun -" he was met with a knife piercing his kneecap.

#batfam x batsis #batfam x reader #batfam x y/n #batfamily x reader #batman x reader #damian wayne #damien wayne x reader #platonic batfam #neglected reader #yandere batfam #yandere platonic batfam #damien wayne #male yandere x reader #platonic yandere #dc comics idea #dc x reader #dcu #batfam

417 notes · View notes

ckret2 · 4 months ago

Text

The second dimension has just been burned; Bill—who's definitely an innocent victim in this situation and totally didn't have anything to do with the fire—is inside the nightmare realm "dream realm" with a bunch of dying shapes from the neighboring dimensions that also caught fire; like a million gods are at the scene of the fire trying to figure out what happened; and the Axolotl's just been hit with a nonstop barrage of cosmic horror. But he's about to face an even greater horror: watching politicians and contractors try to get a single task done.

Here, have a fic. It's part three of a series about the Axolotl witnessing the aftermath of the Euclidean Massacre before anyone's even figured out what happened or whose fault it is. Here's part one and part two.

####

Outside what used to be the incinerated wall named Dimension 2 Delta, what seemed like half a city's worth of gods had assembled within just a few hours: agents from the Apocalyptic Threat Task Force, concerned local politicians, firefighters, cops, paramedics, reporters, rubberneckers, and volunteers. The scene was one of simmering panic being just barely suppressed by training and professionalism: everyone there had a job to do, everyone there was focused on doing it, and none of them knew whether it would be enough.

Behind what used to be the incinerated wall named Dimension 2 Delta, where there was supposed to be an empty void with the point-sized Dimension Zero, there was now a multicolored cosmic foam, frothing and roiling nauseatingly in a way reminiscent of waking from a fever dream to discover that you're actively in a state of delirium and behind the wheel on the freeway. Only the Axolotl knew that, inside that foam, there was a mad dance party of the enslaved dead and dying, overseen by the party host ghost who called himself the Magister Mentium.

Neighboring what used to be the incinerated wall named Dimension 2 Delta, five 1D and 2D dimensions had been burned down to nothingness. The ATTF had just confirmed that a sixth had joined them, two more were well on their way to full incineration, and there were unconfirmed reports trickling in that efforts to contain the fire had failed and two more 1D dimensions were burning up like fuses. The flat and linear living beings of thousands of worlds had been rescued; shapes huddled together uncomfortably on 3D worlds, evicted ghosts haunted ghost worlds, and gods who had once seen themselves as above all mortal concerns now found themselves sitting shellshocked in an "above" they'd never imagined—and they were the lucky ones. The ones who hadn't burned up in the pale blue fires or fallen down into the eternal dance party.

And amidst it all—all the fear, the fire, the death, the panic—the desperate attempts by gods that didn't know each other or didn't like each other to find a way to make this right—those who thought a crisis of such interdimensional magnitude called for kindness and compassion verbally wrestling with those who thought it called for punishment and control—a Time Giant in a hard hat, whistling a country song she'd heard on the radio that morning, completely ignored everyone else there, strolled right up to the sickly swirling border of Dimension Zero as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and started looking around for the wall named Dimension 2 Delta she'd been called out to inspect.

She was dressed in goggles, a flannel shirt, sensible overalls, and leather work gloves. There were several tools strapped to her belt: a time tape measure, a space hammer, and a utility repair kit with patches and sewing needles for making quick mends to the fabric of reality. She eyed Dimension Zero's undulating border, glanced down at her tiny repair kit, and frowned dubiously. It seemed that the problem she'd been called out for was too big to hand stitch back together. She shrugged in resignation.

The cop who looked like a crab with two mushrooms growing out of his hollowed-out eye sockets smacked one claw against the cop made of two interlocked burning rings. "Hey. Is she supposed to be here?"

VENDOR turned, took in the Time Giant's appearance, and shouted, "Hello! Excuse me? What are you doing?"

She gestured with a thumb at Dimension Zero. "I was called about a prematurely crunched dimension. Here to do an inspection."

Irritably, VENDOR said, "You're supposed to be inspecting Dimension 2 Delta, not—this thing!"

"Well, I don't see D-2Δ around here. Looks to me like it's gone," she said. "Some jackass has been blowing up my office phone all day trying to rush me out here. I had to cancel three other inspections, call another guy in on his day off, and come out myself to get this over with so we can shut this guy up. So I ain't here to stand around painting my fingernails. Unless you can point me to D-2Δ, I'm gonna inspect the dimension that is here."

VENDOR, the jackass in question, said, "I'm the one who called you and I'm saying you can't go in!"

"Uh huh." Behind her goggles, the Time Giant's expression was completely unreadable. "Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go do my job."

The flaming rings whirled between the Time Giant and Dimension Zero's border, hundred eyes narrowed threateningly. "This is an active crime against reality! It's still under investigation."

"Then what was the big rush to get me out here!"

The argument was clearly audible over the general din as the Axolotl and the storm cloud with the ATTF returned from inspecting one of the many out-of-control fires. "Cops," the storm rumbled. "Hate cops."

The Axolotl's frills fluttered in agreement. "Interesting from an apocalypse cop."

Static crackled irritably over the cloud. "I prefer 'apocalypse agent.'"

As they caught up, the Time Giant was saying, "I ain't got time for this." She pulled out a length of time tape without unlatching the measure from her belt. "So when won't this place be an active crime scene?"

"Hold on!" The cloud flicked VENDOR's metal side with a lightning bolt to catch THEIR attention. The crack of thunder startled the Time Giant and cops into looking its way as well. To VENDOR, it snapped, "This isn't your investigation, back off." To the cops, it said, "And this is not a crime scene." To the Time Giant, it said, "I put in the initial call. Dimension 2 Delta spontaneously combusted; we want to know why. He says"—it gestured toward the Axolotl with a fork of lightning—"whatever's left of it is in there, so that might as well be where you start your investigation."

"Thank you," the Time Giant sighed. She let the tape snap back into place. "ATTF, right?"

"Right."

"I prefer to get my info from whoever's actually in charge of a dimension. So, we got any gods that can tell me about 2Δ—property owner, in-house maintenance...?"

There was suddenly a large wall of steel and glass in between the storm cloud and the Time Giant as VENDOR physically shoved THEIR way back into the conversation. "2Δ is in Lady Morgenstern's district, but she's still on vacation—(and apparently decided this incident wasn't worth coming back into the office for)—but, I am on the urban planning committee. If there's anything you need to know, you can talk to me. I can request any municipal records we have on 2Δ's construction and maintenance."

The Time Giant screwed up her mouth. "How long will that take?"

"A few hours, most likely."

The Time Giant's scowl deepened.

She wouldn't get anything useful from a career politician from a different district who knew bupkis about Dimension 2 Delta. The Axolotl said, "If you need somebody who personally knows 2Δ, I... might know someone. A mortal from the wall."

"Uh-huh." The Time Giant didn't look much less dubious about this offering. "It better be a mortal that's at least a quantum physicist. Preferably one with experience in dimensional maintenance."

"I... don't know." The Axolotl nearly added I don't think so—but he was growing less certain he knew what that triangle was capable of, and he didn't like his suspicions. "But—he is an eyewitness to Dimension 2 Delta's destruction from the inside."

The Time Giant chewed on that; then sighed, pointed at VENDOR, and said, "Okay, you request whatever files you can get," and pointed at the Axolotl and said, "In the meantime, I'll talk to your guy. Where is he?"

"Turn around, jumbo."

The group flinched in surprise. They turned toward the missing wall and the grotesquely bloated singularity behind it.

From the zeroth dimension's impossible border, the shining yellow triangle, hardly larger than a fleck of dust, blinked blearily out into the third dimension. He was holding a red plastic cup and wearing a party hat. He looked very much like a hungover homeowner trying to sign for a package at 7 in the morning.

They stared at him.

VENDOR demanded, "What in the world are you?"

"I'm a triangle," said the triangle.

"You're not supposed to be in there. Get out."

"Hmm! Let me think! No!" He floated up to camera level with VENDOR, apparently not noticing he'd started tilting at an angle. "Why don't you make me?"

"How dare—! Do you know who you're talking to, mortal?"

"Nope. I only know the people worth knowing."

The Axolotl had to choke back a laugh as VENDOR's lights buzzed brighter with irritation.

The cloud quietly asked, "Your friend from 2Δ?"

The Axolotl nodded. "This is the Magister Mentium. He's the only survivor of Dimension 2 Delta. That I know of, anyway." He looked to the triangle, hoping he'd tell him that he was wrong—that the triangle's dancers really were his people from his own dimension.

But the triangle neither confirmed nor denied the claim. He just shot the Axolotl a dirty look. The Axolotl's heart sank.

"Are you sure he 'survived'?" VENDOR asked. "He doesn't appear to have a body. I don't think he's alive."

"What's with everyone's obsession with how alive I am today," the triangle griped. "Hey, worlds-for-guts! Come over here and I'll show you how 'lively' I can be."

"I beg your pardon?!"

"Beg harder."

The crab cop snapped his claws. "You think you can threaten a god? Better watch your mouth, mortal."

"Oh, now I'm mortal again!" The triangle laughed. "Hey, make up your minds! Am I dead or not?"

"I warned you—!"

The Axolotl quietly inserted himself between the two, muttering to the crab, "I'm sure I don't need to remind you that 2Δ isn't one of the dimensions hubris is illegal in?" From the corner of an eye, he could see the triangle pinching his fingers in mocking imitation of the cop's claw snaps. He blocked the triangle from the cop's view.

"It is up here—"

"He isn't up here. He's down there." The Axolotl stared at the crab until he backed off.

Throughout all this, the Time Giant was surveying the triangle dubiously, jaw set in an unimpressed line. Finally, she asked him, "Is uh—is your god home...?" (Even as tense as he was, the Axolotl had to fight back a chuckle. You could always tell when someone wasn't used to talking to mortals.)

"There's no gods here," the triangle retorted. "I'm the magister of this dream realm. So who're you and whaddaya want?"

No gods came up to smite the triangle for denying their existence, so the Time Giant shrugged and continued to address him: "Civil engineering inspector, cosmic structure maintenance. I'm here to figure out why D-2Δ collapsed, look over the place you're in now, see whether it's is up to code."

"Ugh, it's about time," the triangle groaned, as if he'd had any involvement in the Time Giant's appearance or any reason to expect her to be here. "According to these jokers, we got given a flimsy universe! Bad wiring or something!" (Had the triangle been eavesdropping on them the whole time?) "It'd explain a lot! The place wasn't very robust!" His irritated gaze circled the group of "jokers" in question—Axolotl, storm cloud, vending machine, the cops—then did a double take at the cop made of two flaming wheels. "Whoa, and I thought frills here was the freak. How many eyes do you have?" He squinted and started trying to count them. The rings rotated irritably and the triangle flinched. "You can shapeshift 'em. Wowww, optometrists must hate you."

The Time Giant waved a hand between the triangle and the rings to get his attention back. "So you are in charge of whatever's left of D-2Δ in there?"

"Of course he's not," VENDOR said.

"Yep, that's me," the triangle said.

"Fantastic," said the Time Giant, loudly ignoring VENDOR. She pulled out a miniature clipboard strapped to the back of her toolbelt. "Then you get first priority in deciding what happens to the place, as long as it don't violate cosmic construction code. What's your ideal outcome here? Gut this dimension, clean out the rubble from D-2Δ, and rebuild somewhere else?"

"Don't even think about it," the triangle said. "Stabilize our dream realm."

VENDOR cut in again, "You can't expect to stay in there! A void at the center of the multiverse is no place for three million squatters—"

"You're way behind, Jack," the triangle said gleefully. "We're up to ten million now!"

THEY gasped in horror. "Ten million?!" THEY started cycling through THEIR stock of moons for one better sized for the population.

The request to stabilize the dimension gave the Time Giant pause, but before VENDOR could try to jump in again, she said, "Sure, got it." She made a note on her clipboard. "I'll look around, figure out if it can be repaired, make sure it isn't about to collapse around your ears—or whatever you have. Corners?"

"Great! I keep hearing this awful grinding noise! And the electromagnetism keeps flickering on and off! Can you do something about that?"

"I'm here to try," the Time Giant said. "Can I come in?"

The triangle hesitated. He looked to the Axolotl. "Hey, frills. Do you vouch for this freak?"

His gills fluffed in surprise at the question. Him? "Yes—she's a professional." The Apocalyptic Threat Task Force wouldn't have her on call if she wasn't dependable.

"All right," the triangle said. "Both of you come in. Welcome to the dream realm."

The Axolotl and Time Giant exchanged a look. She shrugged, scooped him into her arms like an oversized house cat, and headed into Dimension Zero.

####

"Wow. I've never seen nothing like this before." That was the fourth time the Time Giant had said that so far. (Two of them had been spent on the eternal dance party. She'd made eye contact with a square who was coughing an endless plume of black smoke out from around his dry and cracking eye, and the Axolotl—still being cradled in one arm—had felt her shudder before she deliberately turned away. If she was horrified, she was doing a better job of locking it away than the Axolotl had.) "Just moved in?"

"Pretty recently," the triangle said. "I can't tell you exactly when! I abolished time."

"Probably for the best. This place is a real fixer-upper—I don't know if it could handle time." She had started poking and prodding as soon as she entered Dimension Zero—feeling the quality of the fabric of reality, flipping open invisible breaker boxes to inspect the fundamental forces. She paused as she peered into one box. "Where's the gravity?"

"Beats the heck outta me! I gave up looking for it. Think I like it better without gravity." The triangle had been weaving around her during her whole inspection. He was still clearly under the influence—but now, the Axolotl was less certain what influence he was under. The more the Axolotl saw him separated from his eternal dance, the less he looked like a partied-out drunk, and more like he was distracted to the point of dissociation. His voice fluctuated randomly between "loud" and "too loud." He tilted and zigzagged when he moved, drifted when he tried to hold still. He simultaneously flickered around the dimension like an indecisive quantum particle that couldn't figure out where it existed and maintained a steady, unblinking, spotlight-like stare at the Time Giant and what she was doing. "But the gravity's nothing. A while ago, the weak atomic force went out for like a whole week; you can imagine what a pain that was to get working again!"

She whistled under her breath. "Is this your first reno project? Should've started with something simpler, like a 2D universe, and worked your way up to 3D. 1D's beginner-friendly too; but honestly, with all the restrictions it's not worth it unless you're really creative with portals. 2D's a reasonably accessible middle ground."

"We came from a 2D universe," the triangle said. "After all the work we put into getting to the third dimension, I'm not about to go back!"

"Fair enough." She shifted the Axolotl from where she'd been carrying him in her arm to set him up on her shoulder so she could free her hands. He draped over her shoulder with his tail hanging down her back to watch as she shined a flashlight into the breaker box. There were five switches labeled in marker on tape, "ELECTROMAGNETISM," "STRONG WEAK ATOMIC FORCE" "WEAK STRONG WEAK STRONG!!! ATOMIC FORCE," "????," and "???????? (DON'T TOUCH!!)" The weak atomic force switch was being held in the "on" position by a bundle of black rubber bands that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be made out of the triangle's own arms. The ???? switch had been replaced by a wormhole.

She prodded the wormhole with the butt of a pen. The triangle yelped and flinched. "Hey, whoa! If you're gonna get handsy, at least buy me dinner first!"

She stared at him, slowly shook her head, and muttered, "Never seen nothing like that before." She shut the breaker box. "Well, this place is no Goldilocks zone, but it's honestly kinda impressive it hasn't imploded yet."

"I'm taking that as a compliment!"

She put away her flashlight, pulled out her clipboard, and said, "So you mentioned a grinding sound. What's this grinding?"

"Right, that!" Now that she wasn't doing anything interesting worth watching, the triangle zoomed in front of her to make direct eye contact. "Every time I try to move, all of existence starts creaking and groaning."

"You're moving now and I don't hear anything."

The triangle rolled his eye. "I don't mean moving in here, I mean moving!"

She frowned.

The Axolotl suggested, "I think he's—at the center of the dimension. When he moves, we move... through the dimension. Perhaps he means when the dimension's literally moving with him?"

"Uh." The triangle squinted uncertainly. "Yyyes?"

"Huh. Dimensions shouldn't be moving." She unhooked her time tape from her belt, held it up in front of her, and said, "Can you move about... twenty lightminutes away?"

The triangle sighed heavily. "Yeah, sure." He zoomed off to the side. Existence seemed to zoom with him. The whole time he was moving, the Time Giant stretched out more of her time tape.

The Axolotl felt something very far away rumble.

"Is that all you needed, or are you gonna ask me to roll over and bark, too?"

"Haw haw," she said flatly. "Yeah, that's it." She glanced at the Axolotl. "How long did it feel to you like it took him to move?"

The Axolotl tried to think through the momentary vertigo. "Thirty, forty seconds?"

"Uh-huh. For him to move twenty lightminutes in thirty seconds, he'd be moving forty times the speed of light."

"Oh."

"Is that good?" the triangle called.

The Time Giant grimaced. "Well..."

"I can do it faster!"

"D—don't do it faster." She held up the time tape for the Axolotl to inspect. "Look at this."

Every measure mark on the tape was labeled 0 sec - 0 sec - 0 sec - 0 sec.

The Axolotl gave it a baffled look. "He did say he abolished time."

"Sure, but there's relative time, and then there's absolute time." Which was probably a statement that made sense to Time Giants, but all the Axolotl could guess was that she meant the time tape was not supposed to say zero seconds.

She let the tape retract and stroked her chin with a gloved hand. After a moment of thought, she said, "Lemme check something out."

####

(Thanks for reading!! If the art lured you in and this is the first chapter you read, this is part 3 of a probably-7-part fic about the Axolotl in the immediate aftermath of the Euclidean Massacre. Here's part one and part two if you missed it. I'm posting one chapter a week, Fridays 5pm CST, so stick around if you wanna watch the Axolotl slowly discover just how much of a monster that silly triangle he likes really is.

It's ALSO chapter 63 of an ongoing post-canon post-TBOB very-reluctantly-human Bill fic. I'm gonna fix the chapter numbering once I know how many chapters this plot is. If you're not sold on the idea of a human Bill fic, I've also got a oneshot about normal triangle Bill escaping the Theraprism if you wanna read that.

If this is NOT your first time here and you already knew all of the above: okay, I lied that last week was the least horrifying chapter, but it's only because this chapter ran so long I decided to cut it in half. The horror comes next week. Enjoy this brief lull while everyone acts like this is a totally normal property inspection.

Anyway, lemme know what y'all think, and next week we're right back on the cosmic horror!)

#gravity falls axolotl #the axolotl #euclydia #bill cipher #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

529 notes · View notes

peachii-nitenite · 1 month ago

Text

Much Needed Support (sfw-suggestive content) Part 2

Synopsis: Now sick with a stress cold, Jayce and Viktor take you back to your dorm to rest. And also to unpack everything that happened in the lab. Upon reminiscing, the boys get an idea. 2.2k wordcount Content: reader with feminine pronouns, sexual tension, fluff, partial nudity, boys getting shy about said nudity, mutual pining, self-doubt, idiots in love, getting sick, friends to lovers, pervy daydreams, discussions on medical neglect, mentions of chronic pain, descriptions of chronic pain (slightly implied hand kink???), Jayce's corset kink lol

while i would consider this part PG-13, part 3 might end up being actual smut at this point...

The sun was low in the sky when you finally stirred awake, the late afternoon sun blazing through the windows of the lab. You found yourself curled up in the blanket your friends had so graciously lent you, with Jayce’s coat beneath your head as an impromptu pillow. You could still smell him on it: a clean smelling cologne, black coffee, and forge smoke.

It was some of the best sleep you’d had in weeks.

Still not enough to completely banish your fatigue, but enough to feel a bit of relief. The gentle sounds of quiet tinkering and clinking of delicate tools echoed from across the room.

“Still hard at work…” you mused sleepily.

Jayce perked up from his workbench once he noticed you stirring. Perhaps you were still half asleep, because the level of fondness in his eyes as he smiled over at you seemed a bit more than the norm.

Or perhaps, you had simply dismissed it before.

He set down whatever he was tinkering on as strode over. You wanted to sit up, but the position you were in was so comfortable you could almost feel yourself going back to sleep.

“Shh…you can sleep a little longer” he murmured softly, gently stroking your upper back. You let out a sleepy hum, burrowing your face further into his jacket. You felt him pause for a moment, but paid it no mind.

“…mhm…what time ‘s it?” You mumble groggily, eyes struggling to stay open.

“Half past five, we’re gonna wrap up here soon, okay?”

You merely hummed once more, letting your eyes close again. It had been 5 hours…you briefly wondered if they’d been working nonstop this whole time. It was extremely likely.

When you open your eyes again, the lab is dark, and Viktor is the one gently nudging you awake, encouraging you to sit up. You felt warm this time, head a bit foggy and tight. Blearily, you rasp out his name, discovering your throat is sore.

A day cold. Great.

“It’s time to get up now, can you do that?”

The tenderness in his voice makes you want to melt, but all you do is attempt to comply. You groan as you sit up from your comfy spot, the ache slowly starting to settle back in. The moment you attempt to stand, you buckle, promptly sliding back onto the couch. In an instant, Jayce is at your side worriedly looking you over.

“Are you alright? Do you need me to carry you?”

In any other circumstance you’d have refused, but now feeling iller and achier by the moment since waking up, you agreed readily; allowing him to scoop you up into strong, warm arms. It was as if you weighed nothing at all to him; his hold on you was gentle, but secure. You promptly wrapped your arms around his neck and dozed back off, only perking up at the occasional softly spoken “you okay?” From Jayce. You could feel his voice rumble in his chest like the purr of a big cat, and something about it made you want to hide your face in the crook of his neck. Instead, you merely grumbled and nodded each time.

At some point, you felt Viktor’s cool hand against your forehead- sliding down to your cheek as you leaned into it. It felt so refreshing against your warm skin, the contrast evidence of your rising temperature. His brows furrowed, noticing the slight sheen of sweat accumulating on your skin.

“She’s feverish.” He murmured, softly as if not to disturb you further. Though he was stating the obvious, the observation did not go unheard. You grumbled a sleepy rebuttal that sounded vaguely like, “I’ll be fine”, which was promptly ignored.

You were going to be taken care of whether you liked it or not.

“Do you remember if she has a thermometer at her place?” Jayce asked, hoping that they wouldn’t have to make another stop on the way. Viktor shrugged, adjusting his grip on his cane.

“We can worry about that later, getting her into a proper bed to rest is the main priority at the moment” Viktor assured him. You nodded against Jayce’s chest.

Bed. Bed sounded nice…

It felt like an eternity before you reached your dorm, but eventually the telltale sound of your keys in Viktor’s deft hands, swiftly getting the door open so Jayce could lie you down.

With you safely tucked into bed, a cold towel draped over your forehead; the two men opted to stick around, hanging out in your living room after scrounging around your medicine cabinet for anything that might help.

Just in case you needed them of course.

No other reason.

Definitely not because they needed time to unpack several different feelings that welled up in that lab.

Jayce definitely had it the worst at the moment.

There was relief, of course, that you had come to them for help and allowed them to examine you. And then there was the dawning realization that he was a much weaker man than he initially thought he was when it came to you. He was always eager to help, truly! But the actual task at hand proved far more difficult to focus on when he actually had you on that table in front of him, clearly flustered with your skirt hiked up, with his hand on your soft thigh. He had done so well at holding it together before then, getting lost in the math and the banter with Viktor. But once he noticed how you suddenly tensed up he was flung headfirst into the soft, warm reality of your skin beneath his palm.

He had had dreams exactly like this. Dreams that ended very differently, and much more messily.

And that’s why he had to pull away. He felt guilty. You had come for help, and there he was trying not to get hard over a bit of exposed skin.

And then the corset. The damned corset.

He felt no better than a dog, but watching you shed your sweater to reveal your makeshift brace made his blood rush to a very unfortunate place considering the situation. He thanked whatever gods were out there that you were facing away from him, so that you couldn’t see his shame as he struggled to maintain his composure.

How could you be so beautiful? The overhead light illuminating your topless form, as you ever so slightly leaned into his touch any time his hands were on you. Viktor had teased him before; about his…fondness for corsetry. But this was far beyond anything he had seen on old posters or the dirty magazines he used to hide under his bed.

You were real, you were warm, and he could hear how your breath hitched oh so sweetly whenever he touched you.

The first few times he thought he was imagining it, that he was finally losing his mind over something seemingly very small. But he kept hearing it, kept seeing it, kept feeling you shiver under his fingertips.

And it was testing his limits.

And he knew he wasn’t the only one.

Viktor considered himself a rational man. A focused man.

But that ration and focus went straight out of the window once looked up at you, with your calf in his hand, to be greeted with a tiny glimpse of your underwear.

He had been so focused, so practical up until that point- all to be shattered by the reality of what he so dearly desired being literally right in front of his face.

He fiercely wanted to help, after all; he had been down the same road you were currently on. A path littered with pain, apprehension, and isolation. He knew all too well what a difficult situation you were in: which is why he was so disgusted with himself for being unable to shake the mental image of that sliver of fabric between your legs from his mind.

At the very least, he could distract himself with the note taking, the numbers, the measurements- all of the things that required him to take his eyes off of you. But unfortunately, his reprieve was short lived when the time came for you to take your corset off. He had to step in; considering that by the look on Jayce’s face, the poor man might have short-circuited before he could even touch the first lace.

The quiet was deafening, and he focused on keeping his breath even behind you as he got to work. He didn't want to make you uncomfortable after all; so the quicker he got it off of you, the quicker he’d be able to ignore how uncomfortable his pants suddenly felt.

When he laid his hand on your back, basking in the soft expanse of your warm skin, he could admit that it was partially self-indulgent. Not yet wanting to pull away, wanting to pull you closer-

Wanting to bend you over the desk.

But still, he backed away, taking his place beside Jayce as you discarded both the corset and your flimsy undershirt.

In that moment, they briefly locked eyes- one understanding the other completely.

Their friendship was a strong one, one that had developed into something a bit… more.

And It had come up before, of course it had. Jayce was terrible at keeping secrets, and Viktor didn’t feel the need to. So both of them quickly realized that they both harbored a rather severe crush for you. But their mutual attraction to you was more of an abstract concept before; a passing thought, a daydream, a sleep deprived rant, or an unhinged dream. Something that came up late at night when neither of them could sleep, or when one of them had had a bit too much to drink.

How they would take you, where they would do it-

How they would share.

But it was never anything seemingly possible. Not nearly as possible as it felt now.

And then you turned around.

And the spiral continued- at a rapid, unrelenting pace.

Viktor had the good sense to look away first, but not before getting a good eyeful of your bare breasts. He was not a child. He had seen breasts before. But it was you- And that was all the difference. He had to discreetly pinch Jayce to get him to quickly follow suit.

Your comfort came first, above all else, despite his foolish yearning.

Jayce felt much the same, in spite of how awestruck he was at the sight of you. He would replay that moment in his mind over and over again, eyes screwed closed as he covered his face with his hand. Once they had forced you to nap, it was easier. But only slightly.

They made good progress on the plans for your updated braces, throwing themselves into the work to escape the torment of their own overactive imaginations. But every so often, they would get distracted by a soft groan or a sigh coming from your sleeping form on the couch.

It was all too easy to mistake it for something more sensual, with their minds so deep in the gutter.

Once you finally woke up, the trip to your dorm was a quiet one. And now with the two of them sitting alone in your living room, they could digest it all.

Both of them sat on your couch, Viktor’s legs draped over Jayce’s lap as he gave his math a once over. “...it's hardly fair” Jayce grumbled quietly, thumbing over a slender calf through the fabric of Viktor’s pants.

“..what?” Viktor looked up from his notes, with a quizzical expression

“How cute she is.” the larger man sighed, putting his face in his hands and groaning.

“Don't start this. Not now.” Viktor warned, rolling his eyes as he returned to writing. “Thinking about it will only make it worse, and mind you, I won’t be able to help you considering we are at her place.” he stated matter of factly.

“I know you think so too” he pouted, reminiscent of a scolded puppy. Viktor sighed.

“It doesn't matter if I also think so. It’s irrelevant at the moment.” Viktor stated plainly “Are here to look after her. Nothing more. Our feelings don't matter.”

They both knew he was lying.

Silence fell between the two men for a few seconds.

Viktor closed his notebook with a frustrated exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“...I think she might be interested in us. Like we are in her.” Viktor admitted, a pensive whisper breaking the silence.

It was Jayce's turn to be surprised. “What?”

“It’s merely a theory. One that requires more…observation.” There was something lurking beneath his clinical terminology. Something playful. Something that nearly made Jayce shiver with anticipation.

“Somehow, I feel like this ‘theory’ of yours is an excuse for us to make the first move.” Jayce chuckled lowly.

“Eh, not quite.” he corrected, setting the notebook aside. “Ideally, we would hear it from her directly. Through simple questions, perhaps over coffee, or dinner-” Viktor elaborated. A gap toothed grin spread across Jayce’s face, letting his hand snake further up Viktor’s leg.

“-So a date? You want us to take her on a date?!” Viktor smiled at Jayce’s enthusiasm, before promptly swatting away the hand that was getting dangerously close to his crotch.

“We will wait until she is no longer ill. And I already told you- Hands to yourself, and let me continue.”

Jayce pouted, opting to let his hand rest over Viktor’s ankle.

“You're cruel, you know that?”

“As if you’d have me any other way. Now, do you want to listen or not?”

“I do…”

“Good. There is much to consider.”

—

Whew! This one took a lot outta me! We’ll be getting to the juicy bits next time!

#writing #my writing #my fics #jayvik #jayvik x reader #jayce x reader #viktor x reader #arcane viktor #arcane jayce #jayce talis #arcane netflix #x reader #arcane

271 notes · View notes

angellic4l · 20 days ago

Text

don't hate the player - d.m

massive thank you’s to @esote-rika @wheresmacoffee @notlongtolove @floraisunwell @mggslover my absolute angels!!!

in which; fem!bau!reader goes to a jazz bar and bumps into the last person she’d ever want to see

content: flirty!derek, fem!bau!reader, angst!!, they fight sort of, reader hates morgan (i promise there’s a point to this) mentions of sex but no one does anything, swearing, alcohol consumption, reader wears a dress and heels

2.5k

a/n: i see basically no derek fics unless its smut (i dont read that) so i’m showing him some love!! i will continue with spencer fics im just stressing trying to write my ideas for him. kisses!!!

One of the girls’ playlists was blaring in the big bedroom, ‘Cool For The Summer’ reverberating off of the creme walls as each of you were primping and priming yourselves. Hair tools plugged in and on, makeup bags half empty with their contents spread throughout the room, and mirrors almost everywhere.

The night had been planned weeks in advance, and you were lucky enough to get the whole day off instead of having to use a sick day. It was one of your friends’ 27th birthday, and the first time you’d been out with your friends for a while, so all of you were buzzing with excitement.

She wanted to go to a jazz club, to ‘experience that ‘20s aesthetic’, in her words. You absolutely couldn’t wait to be celebrating your friend in a jazz bar, imagining soulful music as the soundtrack to your night, espresso martinis, and just having fun with your friends while you got ready.

Once done fixing your hair, you turned off the curler and unplugged it, setting it back on the heat proof mat before grabbing your hung up dress from the top of a door. You changed in the bathroom, stepping into the dress so as not to mess up your hair. It was the perfect mix of elegant yet sexy, form-fitting in the right places, but not too much skin on show to be deemed inappropriate.

After taking photos with and of the birthday girl, and then a group photo of you all on a polaroid camera, a taxi was ordered to the house. Excitement gathered in your stomach, the realisation that you were actually going out for the first time in forever, to celebrate one of your closest friends’ birthday no less, setting in and making you feel giddy.

As you all walked into the jazz club, you were greeted with a dimly lit room, illuminated with orange lighting to give it that cozy, intimate atmosphere. Red brick walls, decorated with vinyls, paintings, and wall lamps, were lined with brown leather booths. The sweet symphony of the saxophone softly sailed through the place before settling in your ears.

For the first time in a while, you felt alive, truly alive. Of course, working in high stake situations, apprehending some of the worst criminals known to man, and acting in life or death situations constantly fills you with adrenaline. That would be considered as feeling alive by most people, but it isn’t.

In this moment, you felt electric. You were on a high, not because of adrenaline, but because of pure euphoria. The atmosphere was welcoming, intimate, and so full of passion. You and your friends were all sat around a table sharing anecdotes, laughing, drinking, and just having fun. There was nothing to worry about, no nerves about a phone call from Hotch, no having to filter what you say.

It was pure bliss, everything you’d been missing for a while, and you felt like nothing and no one could bring you down from this peak.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Being so in the moment with your friends, enjoying good gossip and reminiscing on your uni days together, meant that you weren’t really checking the time, nor did you care to. Subconsciously though, you figured it had been at least an hour since you’d arrived; 12 five minute songs had been performed, give or take.

Everyone was taking turns buying rounds, the group had agreed on it before the night. It was your turn to buy everyone’s drinks now. The bar was popular, but it wasn’t packed like a club was, and for that you were thankful. Carrying a tray of drinks back to the table, in heels no less, would’ve been a nightmare.

Standing at the deep brown, oak bar, waiting for the drinks, you watch your friends laughing and giggling. The contentment you felt still hadn’t gone away, coursing through your body as if it were inside every red blood cell, depositing this gleeful energy with each pump of your heart. A few moments pass before you turn your attention back to the bar, leaning on it ever so slightly, observing how the drinks are made.

Suddenly, you feel a presence to the side of you, but you figure it’s just another patron buying a drink. Then, there’s a voice. An all too familiar voice that seems to not only pull you down from your euphoric high, but plummet you deep into the depths of anger, too.

“Pretty girl, fancy seeing you here,” he almost sings and you can hear the arrogant smirk on his face without even turning to face him.

“Morgan. Please, for the love of all things good, do not talk to me,” you try to remain as civil as possible, he hasn’t actually done anything yet, and you’re not horrible.

Derek raises his hands in some mock surrender, but his smirk never wavers. Sometimes you wondered what it would be like to humble him, wipe that smirk off of his face, and bring his ego down a few notches. Immensely gratifying, you’d decided a while ago.

To put it simply, Derek Morgan was everything you hated about men in today’s society. He was a cocky, arrogant, bastard with little to no regard for people’s feelings. And the worst thing? He talked about women as if they were conquests, notches in his bedpost, trophies for his fucking shelf. It pissed you off to no end, how he could act like the women he ‘dated’ or slept with weren’t real people who deserved basic human decency.

But, you worked with him, day in and day out, and you weren’t about to lose your job over someone as insufferable as him. Besides, as much as you could hate his self proclaimed ‘CasaNova’ ways, he was damn good at his job, and he hadn’t done anything to you directly. He was fully unaware of the stance you’d taken against him, and he hadn’t done anything to require you airing out your grievances. Yet.

A long suffering sigh escapes your gloss coated lips as you come to terms with these facts, realising you can’t be hostile to your coworker, even if you’re not at work, because he doesn’t even know you have a problem with him.

“Look, Morgan, I’m sorry for that, but I’m here with my friends, celebrating, and I want absolutely nothing to do with work right now,” you murmur, still leaning across the bar.

“Look, mama, I get it. Jus’ didn’t wanna be rude, that’s all,” his tone is soft, softer than you’ve ever heard Morgan speak, and it’s filled with understanding. To say you’re shocked would be an understatement.

The pair of you exchange small smiles, a fleeting farewell, before he grabs his drink and leaves. Maybe you’ve misunderstood him, even if you don’t agree with what he stands for, and maybe you’ve been too impulsive with your initial judgements. Derek Morgan is a dick, but maybe he isn’t always a dick.

Drinks are passed around the table, manicured hands grabbing at various coloured liquids in different shaped glasses. Euphoria is long gone after your interaction with Derek, no longer on that high of serenity but in a sea of uncertainty. You won’t let yourself be a Debby downer on your friend’s birthday, though. Being a profiler means knowing all of your own tells, so you mask them well, putting up a front of glee until it isn’t fake anymore.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Jazz music speaks to the soul, transcending all borders, dimensions, and whatever the hell else Reid talks about, to reach the quintessence of your being. Rhythmic notes reach deep until they’re at the core of you, becoming a balm to the very essence of yourself.

Being surrounded by something so passionate and deep works quickly to heighten your mood once more. The sea of uncertainty parts for serenity’s peak, the fake smile becoming real, and the way Derek’s surprising attitude had shifted your mood is washed away.

Out of nowhere, a server comes over to the table with a tray full of everyone’s exact orders, seemingly confident about the table number. She smiles at you, but your brow furrows with confusion.

“Oh, these can’t be for us, I just bought drinks,” you explain, confusion painting your face even more, bottom lip jutted out ever so slightly and a small wrinkle in between your eyebrows.

“No, no, they are! That guy over there just ordered them all for you. Don’t worry, he didn’t touch them, just bought ‘em,” the server explains, pointing to none other than Derek Morgan, sitting at the bar.

All of the girls’ heads whip over to look in his direction, finding the man sitting on a bar stool next to his friends, but his attention isn’t on any of the guys. Instead, his gaze is on you, a soft smile playing at his lips, watching expectantly. For what, you don’t know, but it seems shady. If you know anything about Derek, it’s that he doesn’t do things that don’t benefit him directly. God, it’s almost too predictable, sending drinks to a table of pretty girls, hoping to luck out and get some.

Clearly, your own friends don’t share the same sentiment, because there’s a chorus of ‘awh’s once they recognise him as Derek. None of them have met him before, but they’ve seen pictures, having stalked each of the BAU members after your transfer request had been accepted.

The birthday girl says your name, almost as if you’d personally offended her, while hitting your arm lightly. For a moment, you’re afraid Derek sending you all drinks genuinely did offend her, but she’s speaking before the worry takes root.

“You didn’t tell us he was hot! My god, look at those muscles,” she raves, rolling her bottom lip beneath her teeth while staring at him past your head.

“Hot? You’re kidding, right? He’s awful.”

“He just bought us all drinks! That’s not awful, that’s lovely.”

“No, but he’s not actually like that. It’s just a ploy!”

“Not everyone has ulterior motives. I think you’re letting all that crime stuff get to your head.”

“You don’t see him like I see him, he’s really no-“ she cuts you off.

“Can I go for it? Am I his type?”

You actually have to bite back a scoff at that, because anyone that breathes is basically Derek Morgan’s type. He’s not good enough for your friend, not for any of them, but you know her well enough to see that she won’t listen to a bad word you say against him now. Truthfully, you’re resigned, you don’t care, it’s her choice. If she wants to make the bed and share it with him, she can lie in it, too.

“You’re stunning, of course you’re his type. Be my guest,” and the second the words are out of your mouth, she’s walking over to him like a lioness about to pounce on her prey.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

For the rest of the girls, two drinks becomes four, then shots, and before they know it they’re slurring their words, no longer making any sense. Of course, you’d come out tonight to celebrate your friend’s birthday, to have fun and let loose, but you also know that at least one of you needs to be somewhat sober.

Not to say you’re entirely sober, because your inhibitions are definitely a little loose, but it’s the kind of drunk that reduces your filter and boosts your confidence. You’re still in full control of yourself, just maybe not your mouth. Or your bladder’s strength, ever since you broke your seal.

Walking back from the bathrooms through a larger crowd than there was before isn’t too difficult, but the singer on stage now is semi-famous in the jazz world, so people are treating the bar like a concert, standing in your way. Succeeding in your mission to get through the crowd, your speed picks up once you’re in the clear, the clack of your heels becoming more frequent.

In your rush back to your friends, you aren’t properly taking in your surroundings, gaze trained on the table to ensure they’re all alright. Thus, you’re quickly met with something hard, prompting your foot to slip, and you stumble backwards.

A large hand reaches out quickly, grabbing your hip to stabilise you and resting there to make sure you’re alright.

“Watch your step, pretty girl,” the hand says and you know the voice too well, the nickname slipping off of his tongue like it’s nothing, and suddenly your eyes are on Derek Morgan’s face once more.

How fucking embarrassing.

“Oh gosh, ‘m so sorry, I didn’t even realise,” you rush out, not even thinking about the fact that the man you have a massive issue with has his hand on your hip still.

“Don’t apologise. You can push up on me anytime you want to, sweet thing,” his voice is smooth, tone suggestive, and the smirk on his face is one you’ve seen plenty of times before. When he’s talking to pretty female police officers on a case, after he gets a girl’s number, when he’s talking about his rendezvous to Rossi at work. The fact that it’s being directed at you makes you feel a bit sick, to be honest, and it’s definitely not the martinis.

Any and all uncertainty you had about Derek Morgan’s character is gone in a flash, as is the serenity, and is instead replaced by an overwhelming fire of rage because he is exactly what you thought he was. He’s a pig, a disgusting one at that, and no small one off conversation, or him buying your friends drinks, or how good he is with kids, or how great he is at the job will ever change that in your eyes.

While the alcohol may not be making you feel sick, it’s definitely doing a whole lot for this rage, feeding the flames and giving you the confidence to finally give Morgan a piece of your mind. However, you still have some semblance of self control and so, you hold back a little, but not completely.

“As if, Morgan.”

“Pretty girl, you don’t gotta play hard to get.”

His arrogance drips from every word that leaves his mouth, seeping from his pores like sap from a tree. The fact he genuinely believes that you aren’t saying no, is so full of himself he believes your dismissal is you ‘playing hard to get’ enrages you even more, fueling the fire of your rage for the last time. Grabbing his hand on your hip and shoving it off, you start talking, tone as bitter as ever.

“I am not playing hard to get, Morgan. I simply do not want you.”

“Woah, sweetheart, what’s all the hostility for?”

“Because you’re a classic player! You have no respect for women. You just think they’re there for you to fuck and move on.”

“You know what they say - ‘Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

“No. I do hate the player. You’re a self centered, egotistical, whorish bastard who doesn’t see women as anything but notches on his fucking bedpost. You don’t have any fucking respect for anyone that isn’t beneficial to you. People are not pawns in your game, women are not queens waiting to be conquered. Grow the fuck up, Morgan.”

Your words wiped the stupid smirk right off of his stupid face, left him speechless and expressionless, like a deer in headlights. Like your words, you left him standing there too, heading back to your friends at the booth. You were right. It was immensely gratifying.

tags: @darkmatilda

194 notes · View notes