#VESSEL WHEN I FUCKING CATCH YOU BUD

[frmtheroombelow]

I am driven to distraction

[pastlivesxpastlie]

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Cleanse Me with Pleasure

MDNI +18

praisekink!vessel x you

Tags/Heads Up: fem!reader, softbf!vessel, executive dysfunction, praise kink, mutual masturbation, masturbation (m + f), showerhead stimulation, checking in, smut

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

You find yourself on a Saturday afternoon staring at your dry erase board…there’s only one task left: an “everything” shower. Oh the plans you have to exfoliate, cleanse, shave practically every square inch of your body as your hair is slathered in a hair masque for 15 minutes! And then to dry your hair and paint your nails and pluck your brows…a heavy sigh leaves your chest.

Vessel puts his arm around your shoulder and gives you a small squeeze.

“I just wish this came easily.” You gesture vaguely to the dry erase board boasting “Everything Shower! :) <3” in pink marker. “I’d feel 100% better if I could just do this one thing.”

Vessel sighs softly and places a kiss on the top of your head. He knows you need to shower and he also loves the thought of you primping and making yourself feel good about yourself…but to what end? Practically every time you finish one of these finely curated “everything showers,” you’re exhausted and overheated. He cocks his head to the side and takes your hand.

“I have an idea.”

He leads you into the bathroom and turns on the shower.

“Don’t tell me you’re bathing me!” You say with a play scoff.

Vessel chuckles and takes off his shirt, nodding to you to do the same. “No. I’m just…supervising.”

With a curious lift of your eyebrow, you disrobe and step into the shower. Vessel follows behind you and simply leans against the shower wall. There’s a slight pause.

“Go on then, darling,” he says gently pulling you under the water’s stream. “Get clean for me.”

And you do. Perhaps you feel motivated simply because you have someone keeping you accountable. Or maybe it’s because Vessel stands before you, naked with soft beads of water clinging to his chest, has simply told you to do so. The warm water relaxes you as your eyes close and your hands reach up to begin washing your hair. You hear a satisfied hum from Vessel as your back arches, presses your tits forward as your hands work your strands.

When you finish rinsing your hair, you open your eyes to see Vessel watching you with slightly parted lips and a half-lidded gaze…his cock twitching as his hand rubs down his torso. His touch, in his opinion, is a poor substitute for yours, but it will do as you finish your shower.

“That’s a good girl…how do you feel after that?” He asks huskily.

How can you possibly answer? Your breath catches because you’re still processing that he’s hard just from you washing your hair.

“Ves…” he lifts an eyebrow as if to chide you. “I feel better.”

“Good. Wash yourself.”

Without breaking eye contact you squeeze your vanilla body wash into your hands and massage your naked, glistening body. Your hands knead your breasts and stomach as your breath quickens. Vessel’s own breathing picks up. He can’t help himself anymore.

“Fuck, precious girl.” He whispers as his large hand gently grasps the base of his cock. They’re slow, measured strokes…he bites his lip and lets of out a small huff from his nose. Like a frustrated bull. He wants to maintain his excitement for now.

As you rinse the suds off your body with the detachable showerhead, you flick the dial to change the setting; a jet of water comes from the middle. As Vessel gently tugs at his cock with one hand and his balls with the other, you bring the jet of water to your clit. The sensation is immediate.

Your mouth hangs open in a perfect, dreamy expression as the water patters against your sensitive little bud. Vessel groans and bites his lip as you pleasure yourself in a way he’s never seen.

“My love. Do you do this every time you shower?”

“Not…mmm…not every time.”

“Perhaps you should…ffffuck…my bathing goddess…pleasuring herself…darling”

His voice is becoming weaker as strokes his cock with more intention. All you can do is watch and moan softly as you gently move the stream of water up and down your now throbbing clit.

“That’s a good girl…yes…oohhh…my good girl knows exactly how to make herself feel good. Don’t you? Hm?”

Your voice croaks right in your throat as the pleasure of the water and your boyfriend’s praise hits you at once. But the climax is just right there. Your whimpers catch Vessel’s attention. He steps toward you.

“May I help you darling? Is that ok?” He asks gently, offering his dominant hand.

You turn off the water, frustrated. You just want to cum. Why can’t you cum? It’s not like you’ve never done it before…why is it impossible now?

“You can try…” you say as you prop your foot on the edge of the shower.

“Thank you, precious” Vessel purrs as his long middle finger moves slowly along your slit. The pad of his finger moves achingly slow as if he aims to memorize the patterns of your labia minora…to lock this information away for when he needs to remember the geography of your pussy.

“You going to let me in, good girl?” He asks teasingly as his finger nudges against the opening.

You let out a shuddering moan, and your hips buck downwards to work his finger into your needy cunt. “Ves…please…please!”

He lets out a smug closed mouth laugh as his middle finger plunges into you as presses against your g-spot.

“Fuck!” You cry out.

“Is this ok?” He asks, still keeping the intensity of the situation in his voice, but you know he’s genuinely asking.

“It’s…oh my god…it’s perfect. Please….please please please”

Vessel presses himself against you, your nipples mashed against his soft skin, and his mouth nearly your ear.

“You don’t have to beg for anything…such a polite…precious girl. Don’t force it, love. You’ll cum…don’t worry. It can be from my fingers…your own…a toy…”

“Your cock?”

He chuckles and increases his finger’s assault on your sweet spot. “Yes love, I would love to make you fall apart on my cock. I would die happy knowing the most perfect pussy…the most perfect girl…enjoyed being ab-so-lutely destroyed by me.”

You feel the heat from your desire blossoming up into your tummy. Vessel’s free hand now pinches and toys with your nipples as you shudder helpless on now two of his fingers. You capture his mouth in a wet, desperate kiss, but he pulls away.

“Tell me how you want to cum.” He whispers gruffly as he nibbles at the crook of your neck.

You can’t respond verbally. Instead your hand finds his twitching, throbbing cock. Your eyes meet his as he bucks into your fist and fingers you without mercy. He bites his lip and lets his eyes roll back in ecstasy.

“Oh…” he moans breathlessly, “someone wants to get messy again, hm?”

[miasmaghoul]

do you have any thoughts about mountains first time? doesnt have to be a whole ass prompt fill lol but who gets big boy?

(anon I regret to inform you that you sent this while i was disastrously high so you get a Weird One - warnings for terato/monsterfucking, mentions of blood (nonsexual), inhuman anatomy, scent kink, agendered character referred to as "it", use of cunt/clit to describe its anatomy, and some lore at the end)

I still have to finish that fic about his first time bottoming, that's with Omega. But his first time in general?

Well, technically...

Mountain was more feral than most when he was summoned, took a long time to settle into his vessel. He cost a number of siblings their lives before the higher ups decided it was a better idea to let him loose in a warded-off section of the forest. Let him work out the more animalistic traits in an environment better suited to his elemental nature.

He wanders the trees completely unglamoured, with furry, back-bent hooved legs and patches of moss, lichen and bark coating his limbs and torso. His antlers, still budding, grow faster like this and the trees in his path bear fresh gouges as a result. He hunts everything he can, tearing in with claws and elongated jaws alike. The scruffy mane of hair he sports lies matted with days worth of blood, sweat and grime, and it's the fourth night before Mountain finds his appetite sated.

Well, one of his appetites at least.

This new hunger is similar, but very different. He knows lust, of course - no being in Hell wouldn't - but ghouls don't have corporeal forms Downstairs. They feel things, sure, but in the way you "feel" and intense thought, or a specific fantasy. Like this, though, anchored to a physical being he's still learning the ins and outs of, the pressure sitting heavy between his thighs feels foreign. Foreign, but also hot and urgent and fuck he needs.

Mountain paws at himself with rough, inexperienced hands until the sheath between his legs starts to swell. The ghoul watches as it grows, chest heaving when the flared head reveals itself. Already slick and throbbing, Mountain's stomach clenches when every inch is finally exposed and the length of it pulses.

It's then that a certain scent makes his nostrils flare, his eyes go wide, and something deep inside Mountain goes achingly tight. It's not the first time he's smelled it since he woke in the forest, naked and groggy, but it's the first time he's felt the urge to find its source. Now that he does, though?

He needs.

Mountain crashes through the trees on instinct alone, panting and drooling down his chin no matter how many times his hooves catch a root or a row of thorns tears at his flesh. The scent grows thicker the deeper he gets into the dense wood; it's something raw, something syrupy sweet yet intoxicatingly bitter. Like burning leaves on a hot autumn day, rich and earthen but undercut with a sharpness that could only mean desire.

The closer he gets, the more he recalls smelling it before. He remembers catching it when he was savoring the spoils of a hunt, one he'd spent melting into the trees to stalk a particularly jumpy buck. Remembers waking up once, in a small clearing he'd thoroughly marked, only to find a second scent joining his own. Not covering his, not a challenge - though Mountain took great pleasure in...reclaiming his territory anyway. More like an invitation, one Mountain had had no interest in following at the time. That wasn't what he had needed.

Now that he's close to drowning in that scent, though, his cock dripping as it wags between his thighs, Mountain has no idea how he's gone so long without it.

He crashes through the branches of an overgrown willow, blood pounding in his ears and groin in equal measure, and the shiver that wracks him is one shared with the source of this intoxicating scent.

It sits in a nest at the base of the willow, one tucked into its roots and flanked by flowering bushes. There are enough gaps in the tree's limbs to let patches of sunlight filter through, dappling the creature before him.

The one currently on all fours, presenting its flushed, swollen cunt and staring over its shoulder and directly into the center of his brain.

It must be another ghoul, something distant tells him. He only has flashes of the time before the forest, but he can faintly recall a pair of...humans, were they called? They shifted before his eyes, one into a being of black fur and unnatural smoke and the other into scales and fins. They spoke the language of the Pit, and that's the only reason Mountain remembers them.

This one, this creature, looks similar to him, he thinks. He only has a few interrupted reflections in brooks and streams to go by, but it's legs are like his. Back-bent, hooved, but the hair coating them is jet black instead of his own sun-stained auburn. Their torsos differ too - where Mountain could blend in with the bark of any tree, it is instead coated in a combination of thicker fur and sleek black feathers that rustle like the leaves above. No antlers atop it's head, but instead a pair of segmented horns that curl against its skull. It's smaller than he is, more angular, and the few facial features Mountain can see are just as sharp as the talons it has dug into the soft earth.

It makes a sound then, a rattling hiss of a thing, and Mountain growls in response. It's automatic, as is the way he drops to all fours for his final approach. It watches his every move, unnatural eyes wide and growing blacker by the second, and Mountain flinches when it tips it's head and a scratchy voice fills his skull.

New, it rasps in a familiar but broken dialect, forked tongue flicking between it's lips. Maybe a ghoul? It's speech is odd. You're new. New smell. Different.

Mountain watches it's cunt pulse, a thick trail of slick dripping from its hole straight down the fat nub of its clit. That shiny length flexes, and Mountain's cock responds in kind. He snarls as he crawls up to the creature, licking his jaws. That incredible scent, so thick he can taste it, would be enough to drive anyone mad.

Could feel you coming. Could...in the roots and stones...

Mountain barely registers the words floating through his head, but he really likes the way they fade into an audible sharp trill when he buries his nose into the source of his torment.

The taste of it is beyond compare, and Mountain can't help but drag his face through its copious slick while he wriggles his long, thick tongue inside. Desperate to coat himself in it, ears filled with the unearthly sounds of the creature offering itself to him on a silver platter. His hips work in useless, uncoordinated humps, cock jabbing at thin air as that tight hole clamps down around his tongue, and the overwhelming desire he feels to be inside the being before him hits him like a punch to the gut.

You....watching me...

Mountain manages the message as he moves to bracket that smaller figure. It nods, shudders when he settles against its back, snuffling at the crook of its neck. Using his snout to nudge its head, force it to expose its throat so he can feel it thrum under his tongue.

Watched...hunt. Watched me...kill...

It gives a chirrup, and Mountain feels its short, raised tail twitching against his stomach. His cock jumps, the broad head smacking against its clit, and Mountain's growl shakes the earth itself. Those same stupid humps take over, and Mountain stretches his jaws to wrap around the back of its neck to force it still. He uses the last of his brainpower to throw a final thought into its mind.

Why...bring me...to you?

Mountain sinks his fangs into its throat just enough to get a taste of what lives beneath its skin, and as his eyes roll back the creature moans.

Different, it whispers back, canting its hips when Mountain mindlessly tries to line himself up. So long...since something was different...

Mountain's grunting like a disobedient dog, every thrust bumping his cock against its thighs, its tail, it's mound. So focused on getting it inside without releasing the creature from the cage of his limbs that the frustration only builds, his snarls becoming more and more bestial until -

The body beneath him arches as best it can, and as Mountain's aching cock finally squeezes between swollen lips to pop inside there's no way to know which of them is louder.

Mountain doesn't remember much after that.

One day, though, he'll learn the story of the feral ghoul who haunts these woods. The product of a botched summoning, it was always destined to become a creature of instinct. Tied to the realm Above only because its summoner still lives, left to its own devices where it won't pose a threat.

One day Mountain will learn the story of what used to be Cowbell, and when he does nothing will keep him from going back to those woods.

[babylooneytoonz]

The Vessel [Pt. 5]

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem! Reader

Summary: Geralt is beginning to warm up to you, however, in his own annoying way.

Warnings: Minor SMUT

[My Masterlist] [My Witcher Masterlist - Read the other parts here!]

You kept your gaze fixed to the front, your eyes lined to the back of the Witcher's head, his messy hair falling loosely all over his shoulder, covering the back of his neck. The forest was quiet, apart from the occasional croaking of the crickets, or a bird flying by, flapping it's wings.

Your feet hurt, as you had walked all the way from your home, and then had taken a detour through the forest, even though Geralt had said not to. This was all the more reason you took a deep breath, swallowing away the soreness for you couldn't let the man know. No— your ego won't permit that.

Another thing that bothered you was the Witcher's silence, which made you feel that probably it was better to have no company at all, rather than this.

Finally, you gave up— a mixture of both, your exhaustion as well as boredom which made you stop walking, and move to the side where sat a large rock. You lowered yourself upon it, your hand instinctively flying to your boot as you pried it off and began rubbing your ankles to relieve some pressure off them. It was only then that Geralt abruptly halted, when he didn't catch the sound of you behind him.

He twirled around, his hand almost flying to the hilt of his sword out of instinct, the first thought that passed through his mind was that you were taken. It was only after a split second or so did he see you, huddled against that rock, rubbing your feet. His nose twitched, his lips pressing into a firm line as he strode towards you, the sound of his feet against the hard ground causing your head to jerk in his direction.

The next second, you were protesting— angrily lashing out at him, trying to claw your nails into his arms as he grabbed you by your arm and pulled you off that rock, without even uttering a word.

"What the fuck, Geralt? What —"

"I thought you wanted to go to the village. Now, we are going to the village which means that there isn't going to be a stop. I want us to come back before sunset."

These words were the longest words that he had formed towards you all day but his choice of words made you hiss angrily at him, regretting how you didn't enjoy the silence earlier, which was far better than this. You tried prying the hand off your arm to free yourself but the grip instead tightened, pulling you towards Roach.

"Fuck, what the hell is the matter with you? I'm exhausted and just need a minute—"

Before you realized what was happening, you felt him place his hands on either side of your waist, almost like you do to a child when trying to make them climb onto a higher ground. That's when you realized what he was doing— he was trying to get you to climb onto Roach.

"Get on her, [Y/N]. We aren't stopping. The forest can be dangerous."

The blow of the moment hit you right in the gut. You skewered your head to one side, intentionally biting down on your lower lip as you watched Geralt walk up to the rock where you were sitting at. He bent, grabbed your boots, and walked back up to where you were perched on his mare, both your legs on either side of it. Without taking permission, he grabbed your foot, illiciting a gasp from your end but didn't stop, as you squirmed a little, just by the surprise of the act. He easily slid your boot on your left foot before making his way to your right one and you, unknowingly, lifted your foot, without even him having to grab it.

His eyes flew to yours, and you noted the faintest of the smirks that crossed his lips, before he removed the gaze and began working on your right foot to get your boot on, and you smiled, now that he wasn't looking at you.

He then moved away, back into the position he was earlier in— the only difference being that you weren't walking next to him any longer. He took hold of the reins again, as he began walking, as you held on tightly, even though the horse was only galloping in a slow pace.

After about five minutes of silence, the Witcher finally spoke.

"You could have said thank you."

He was facing the front so you couldn't clearly see, but you were sure he was smirking internally. You rolled your eyes, your hand mindlessly flying to your belly and grumbled under your breath.

"Nope. I'm carrying your baby, which makes it your duty to take care of me."

He turned his head towards you, his amber orbs meeting yours halfway, and the look he gave you— his lips curved into the tiniest of smiles over his otherwise serious, brooding face; made blood pump into your body faster and cheeks flush. If it wasn't enough, your mind couldn't stop the thoughts to slither back into it like a snake, the image of the Witcher on top of you, his thick arms pressed to the either of your sides, your legs wrapped around his waist, his cock sliding in and out, in and out, in a rhythm, his balls slapping against your skin.

Suddenly, a loud screech rang through the air startling you, and Roach at the same time, making her stand up on her hind legs, panic stricken. A bloodcurdling scream broke out from your lips as you lost your balance the moment the mare got out of control, your body falling backwards towards gravity as your eyes reflexively closed, your body waiting for a sickening crash.

But the hit never came—

When you opened your eyes, you were in Geralt's arms, his thick arms holding you like a bride, but his eyes were trained to his galloping mare, who was galloping away.

"Roach, she's ..she's running away, oh my god," you cried, just when Geralt placed you back on the ground and drew out his sword.

"She'll come back, you get behind that rock���"

"Geralt, what the fuck was that noise?" You blinked, your eyes concentrated on the side of his face, though he was looking around, his sword ready, and his posture tense. Your words made him grunt under his breath and turn towards you, just for a split second, but he was looking at you with frustration, before you felt him grab your wrist and start walking towards the rock. He jerked you slightly, but not harsh enough to make you fall, until you were crouching behind the rock and he was towering over you.

"Ever heard of a wyvern? You'll finally get to see one yourself."

You gave him a look of pure horror, as you slid down against the ground, keeping sure to stay hidden behind the boulder, your arms locking around your knees, when the screech came again, but this time, it didn't sound distant at all. His hand held a tiny vial of what looked like a coloured liquid, and he quickly downed the contents of it. After that, it took mere seconds for Geralt's eyes to turn into a monstrous black, causing you to shudder.

A loud, bellowing screech filled the air once again, and that's when you looked up to see the wyvern circling above in the sky. Your breathing hitched and for a minute you forgot why you were crouching, you were just so awestruck at the sight of it. Without knowledge, you stood up, staring at the sky when you heard Geralt scream.

"I asked you to stay down!" His voice was sharp and angry, instantly pulling you back to reality as the wyvern finally came swooping from the sky, descending straight towards Geralt, who was distracted, his eyes on you.

"Geralt, watch out!" You screamed out, your eyes thrown wide as Geralt, upon your warning, jumped back around, but a second too late. The Wyvern slammed into the Witcher, sending him flying through the air, his back cracking against a tree bark as he crashed and slumped against the ground, groaning. The blow was enough for his sword to drop from his hand, the impact having caused him to be thrown away from it.

"GERALT!" You cried out, a little too loudly, crouching out a bit so you could see him, which turned out to be a rookie mistake.Your eyes threw themselves open, your lips almost trembling when you saw the wyvern turn slightly, so its monstrous yellow orbs were fixated on you.

"Uh, Geralt? That thing is staring at me? What the fuck do I do?" You croaked, a lump forming in your throat when the creature screeched, the jabbing screech directed at you. You quickly stood up, pressing yourself to the tree, your eyes helplessly looking at Geralt who coughed a little and groaned, struggling to pull himself up. You bit your lip hard, so hard that your teeth almost nipped into your lower lip, the taste of metal flavouring your taste buds.

You had a few seconds to act now— for the Wyvern was already charging in your direction.

"[Y/N], RUN! THROUGH THE FUCKING TREES, RUN THROUGH THE TREES!" Geralt's yelling pounded through your ears, and he was asking you to run, but the sword— the sword was too far away from Geralt, and it was much closer to you. If only you could grab the sword, toss it to Geralt and then run towards the trees, Geralt will be able to strike this creature from behind, you thought to yourself, in that split second between life and death.

Geralt pushed himself up on his elbows, growling from the pit of his stomach like a wolf, his eyes ablaze. The wyvern, however, had gotten bored toying with the Witcher it seemed. He kept racing towards you, momentarily flapping it's wings as he lifted in the air and circled around for a bit before darting straight in your direction.

You screamed, knowing that what you were going to do was sheer madness, but yet, something inside of you prompted you to run towards the wyvern, towards the sword, and not away from its into the trees, like Geralt had asked you to. Your calculation wouldn't fail.

Ignoring Geralt's thunderous scream, you grabbed the sword, sweeping it in your palm, your fingers clasping against it at the right time as you threw it out in the air, towards Geralt, screaming, "Geralt! The sword!"

He caught the sword at the exact same time as you turned away, missing the wyvern's claw by a mere second as you began darting at full pace your legs could carry you, towards the trees.

Geralt growled once again, as he stood up, raising the sword as he began charging at the wyvern, who swivelled back to face him, when he jumped in the air, the blade of his sword slashing into the wyvern's wing first which disoriented the creature, who retreated to the ground, howling in pain.

You knew you were supposed to stop— but you couldn't bring yourself to. Maybe it was the adrenaline, that was making you keep running, deeper and deeper into the forest, using the canopy of the trees to cower over you. Behind you, you could hear the creature screeching, until the noises finally came to an end.

You finally stopped running, looking up to realize that you were by a glistening stream. Falling to your knees, you placed both your hands into the icy cold water, splashing some to your face, instantly feeling the cool wash over you and provide you with some temporary relief. Instinctively, your palm flew down to your belly as you stroked it twice over the fabric of your dress.

You waited for a few minutes, knowing that Geralt would find you.

He did find you.

About fifteen minutes later, you heard slight rustling from behind a thick shrubbery. You squinted your eyes, glaring at it, when suddenly a mass of familiar white hair flashed at you, the eyes now gone back to his normal goldens. He was limping, a deep gash having formed on his right thigh, that you could see.

His lips were pressed into a firm line, his eyes lined on you, a look of rage plastered all over his face.

By one look at his face, the first thought that propped into your mind was, you were so fucked.

"Geralt, I—"

He charged at you, his hands coming to rest on either of your arms, his hold not gentle in any way as he pulled you into him, looking down at you, while you looked up at him.

"I told you," He hissed.

"That sword was right there, I had to go for it—"

"NO, YOU DIDNT. I ASKED YOU TO RUN FOR THE TREES, [Y/N]," his grip on you was hard and unwavering, his fingers digging into your flesh as you tried to wriggle free but were obviously, unsuccessful in that attempt.

"STOP, GERALT!" finally, you screamed with a finality in your voice, one which forced the Witcher to let go off you, but you didn't step away. In fact, you placed your palms on his chest, and pushed him hard with all your might. He did not even move an inch. When you looked up at him, your tears had finally betrayed you. You couldn't control yourself from letting out a weak sounding sob, straight from the pit of your stomach as you moved away from him, and began wiping the dirt off your knees with the river water, whispering, "let it go please. It's over. I'm safe now."

Geralt waited for a few seconds, unsure— a thousand thoughts running through his mind looking down at you, but he couldn't find the right words.

So, he cleared his throat, and in a low voice, walked up to where you were kneeling down, and knelt down next to you, not looking at you, but rather into the air around him, as he mumbled, "You're hurt?"

You snorted, more in annoyance and frustration, and disbelief at how easy it was for him to go from cold to warm. You glared at him, throwing him daggers from your eyes, not wanting to give him the answer he wanted, but that's when your gaze fell on the gash on his thigh.

"No, YOU ARE, Witcher," you whispered in a low voice, and he looked down at his thigh, then back up at you, giving you a grunt before he stood up, throwing out his hand towards you, "I'm fine, now come on. We keep moving."

You took his hand, and he pulled you up, but you grabbed his wrist tight when he let go off your hand, pulling him back, into your face, so it was inches away from yours.

"You're hurt, Geralt. We aren't going anywhere until I've made sure you'll live."

A ghost of a smirk crept over his lips for just a split second, and had you blinked, you were sure you would have missed it.

"I'll live. It will take more than that to kill me."

You were about to reply, come up with a good come back, when you heard the familiar sound of the mare's whinnying, causing both you and Geralt to turn towards one of the thickets, from where Roach trotted out, and Geralt smiled, when he took in the sight of his favourite four-legged companion.

The Vessel Taglist:

@kawennote09 @viking-raider @raspberrydreamclouds @pterodactylterrace @singeramg @historianwithaheart @miss-emilia-cavill @ayamenimthiriel @crazynocturnalkiki @xxxkatxo @coffeebreathy @fanaticnae @kmuir1 @little-jana @pineapplemama @auds24 @sassy-pelican @bitchynicole @cavillsim @ragamuffin285 @hista-girl @oliviali0930 @introvertedmouse

Want to be added to the list? Plz let me know via my ask box, inbox and comments. ✨

[reinvent-and-believe]

my blood is singing with your voice

Written for, but not posted in time for, @thewitchertransweek​

Ship: Jaskier/Regis

Rating: E

Tags: Trans Masc Jaskier, Smut, Body Worship, Oral Sex, Marking, Desperation, Secret Relationships, Very Mild Power Play, Jaskier and Regis Both Figure Out They Have a Vampire Kink, explicit and gendered language around Jaskier's genitals, referenced top surgery scars

Summary: Jaskier is lithe and beautiful in the moonlight, marked up from collarbone to hips.

Regis draws back to survey his handiwork.

A crimson abstraction on pale canvas turned pink, a dozen bloodred constellations just beneath the skin, so close Regis can feel against his tongue the very moment the blood vessels burst. It’s intoxicating, so close he can taste it. Just the slightest scrape of teeth, the most natural thing in the world to expect from an ardent lover, the gentlest pressure from too-sharp canines and the dam would give way, flood his mouth with the sweetest wine.

“Please,” Jaskier whimpers beneath him. He tries to press himself closer against Regis but he’s utterly at the mercy of the iron grip on his hips. “Mark me up.”

“That might not be entirely possible, I’m afraid.” He’s fixing the panting boy with a look that he imagines quite like a predator salivating over its prey. Jaskier’s moan confirms the suspicion. “It seems as though someone has marked you rather thoroughly already.” He returns to that same still pink patch of skin, one of the few places across his bare chest not mottled in various yellows and purples and greens. He kisses the hot flesh, sucking at the thin skin against his collarbone, dangerously close to the clear, unblemished expanse that remains visible when he’s clothed. “If we venture much further up, this clandestine affair will quickly become public knowledge, my dear. After all, your penchant for leaving your shirt open for the world to see has nearly taken care of that for us already.”

“Are you shaming me for the way I dress?” There’s a giggle in his breathy voice. Jaskier digs a toe playfully into Regis’s side. “Well, deepest apologies, darling, I didn’t mean to inflame your delicate sensibilities.”

“On the contrary, I’m quite certain that’s what you meant to do.” Regis grins, not bothering to cover his fangs. He runs his hands indulgently over the bard’s broad chest, memorizing the defined pectorals, the raised, rope-like scars, the soft, young tufts of hair. “Goodness knows I appreciate the view. I’m simply pointing out that it makes it a little harder to keep things, well. Discreet.”

They haven’t told Geralt.

Nor any of the others in their little band of companions. Regis is fairly certain Geralt’s sussed it out regardless, but he’s not spoken a word, taciturn as ever, and Jaskier seems to get a bit of a thrill from sneaking about, so Regis is more than willing to humor him. It’s new, and it’s exciting, and it’s…

Gods, it’s good.

Jaskier flirted with him idly since that first night with the mandrake spirits, touching his arm and fluttering those long lashes and knocking their knees together and dipping his eyes slowly across Regis before getting inevitably pulled back to Geralt with that lonely, distant expression. Regis couldn’t help being flattered by the bard’s attention, distracted as it may be, but had no intention of taking him up on his unspoken offer.

“Are you planning on fucking me or just looking?” Jaskier quips. Regis ignores him, spreading cold fingers as he continues to caress every inch of the flushed, blotchy torso. Patience is a virtue.

It had changed when the boy was wounded escaping the Nilfgaardian raid. Then Regis admitted quite stupidly that Jaskier’s blood smelled nice when he found no infection, because it had smelled nice and because he found himself horribly worried over Jaskier’s injuries, unexpectedly distraught at the thought that he might not again hear that flirtatious laugh or gaze into those eyes so endlessly blue. And suddenly the vampire found himself cleaning Jaskier’s wound and bandaging his head twice a day with deft and tender fingers, even though it meant defying the witcher who’d told him in no uncertain terms that coming back would mean death.

The revelation of Regis’s vampiric nature took an understandable toll on the budding relationship, of course; he heard the way Jaskier’s pulse raced at his approach, noticed the new edge to the nervous ramblings around him, the distracted fluttering, the awkwardness and stress and fear. This torture last nearly a week until one cold midnight, Jaskier slipped into Regis’s bedroll, eyes hooded, and asked, “Did my blood really smell nice?” with a flushed, curious expression, breathless and wanting.

“Regis.” And if the long, drawn-out whine weren’t enough to pull the vampire back to the present, Jaskier grinding up against him hard with a pout on his kissed-red lips certainly is. “Any minute now one of them will wake up and notice we’ve gone. Stop thinking and get on with it, if you’d be so kind.”

Regis tuts, slipping down his body. “You’re awfully demanding tonight.”

“As opposed to what night?” Jaskier lets out a contented sigh as Regis unties the overly ornate trousers and runs his cold fingers down their front, raking through dark hair and ghosting over everywhere warm and wet and delightful. He pulls the trousers down creamy hips and off, sitting back on his heels to take in the sight before him.

Jaskier is lithe and beautiful in the moonlight, marked up from collarbone to hips.

“Appreciating the view some more?” He’s wearing a sly, flushing smirk as he slides a hand between his legs. For all his talk of haste, he’s adopted quite the leisurely pace.

Regis rocks forward, catching him in a kiss full of heat and something else, something soft and unspoken. The bard’s practiced hand surges between them. Regis cradles Jaskier’s jaw, stroking his thumb against a stubbled cheek. “There’s quite a lot to appreciate,” he says. It sounds painfully sincere in his own ears.

Jaskier beams.

Regis can’t help taking his time. He luxuriates as he works his way down: the feeling of soft, blazing skin and silky hair against his lips; the smell of the boy, juniper and sage and sweat and need; the gradient bruises perfectly marring gorgeous flesh; the little skips and jumps of the boy’s excitable pulse.

He settles between Jaskier’s thighs, sliding his hands beneath to knead him and pull him close. The moan Jaskier lets slip is rich and full and lusty as he wriggles into the cold, careful touch. Regis leans in, savoring Jaskier’s little anticipatory gasp, and kisses the sharp hipbone, long and thorough. He chokes back a groan as he feels the blood rushing toward the surface of the skin, and he desperately follows the sensation.

Lust and bloodlust swirl together in every bracing breath, in every brush of lips and fangs against perfect searing flesh. It’s intoxicating, dangerous. It’s far too much and nowhere near enough, an absolute tease.

Regis mouths at him desperately and can’t help the little whimper that escapes as he wets his tongue through the bard’s folds. He’s not sure anymore if even blood ever tasted so sweet.

“Gods, Regis, your mouth.” Jaskier’s breathy voice carries an unexpected hint of a rasp. “I don’t know how I’ll ever survive it.”

He shouldn’t moan at the reminder of how vulnerable, how truly powerless the boy beneath him is. Shouldn’t revel in it, shouldn’t have to stop himself from rutting against the ground beneath him at the implication. A better man wouldn’t get off on it.

And yet...

“You look positively monstrous, love,” Jaskier moans, his heels against Regis’s shoulders urging him closer, harder. “As though you mean to suck me dry.”

Jaskier’s wet lip is trapped between his teeth. A delicate blush lights his face, but there’s no shame when he meets Regis’s glance, and no fear, only arousal and trust.

Regis kisses and sucks his way to the juncture of Jaskier’s thigh and groin, eliciting a most delightful cry when he carefully drags his fangs across the delicate skin. His long, cold fingers move to stroke Jaskier with deft, familiar motions.

He can feel the blood flowing through the femoral artery just beneath the pale, unblemished skin. And without thought or plan, Regis sucks, hard, until white skin throbs purple in his mouth and the boy beneath him is shaking and whimpering, and it’s too much, the skin threatening to give way and Regis tears himself away to mouth desperately at Jaskier’s cock.“Please,” Jaskier begs, “so close, darling, please...” His listless fingers find purchase, roughly tugging at silver locks of hair.

And it isn’t that it hurts, not really, but that shock of pain-pleasure is enough to stir something deep and primal that has him moving on pure instinct until he’s snarling down at the wide-eyed boy, pinned to the ground with an icy hand on his throat, a thumb just barely pressing down on the carotid artery.

After centuries of restraint, Regis craves nothing quite so much as indulgence.  

“Beautiful.” He lowers his head to brush his lips against the racing pulse.

Jaskier chokes back a sob. “Please, Regis.”

“Please what?” The slightest graze of his tongue, a cool wet trail following the artery several inches. He feels how close Jaskier is, would feel it pounding within them in tandem even without the thick, heady arousal carried on the night breeze. When the boy doesn’t answer, Regis looks up to him.

Jaskier’s staring at his mouth. “Suck me dry,” he breathes, flushed all over.

And when Regis moves back to his neck, he covers his fangs carefully with his lip before leaning in to taste him, to suck at the boy’s sweet, smooth skin, feeling the quake of each tiny blood vessel burst with the pressure. He slides his fingers on either side of Jaskier’s cock, rubbing him off desperately as he sucks at his throat, never quite enough, never the perfect pleasure of the skin parting, melting away between…

Jaskier comes with a cry, clutching the back of Regis’s neck as he rides through the aftershocks. Regis pulls away, grimacing yet reveling despite himself in the deep crimson bruise, so prominent, obvious. “Apologies,” he murmurs, tracing the splotchy skin. “I’m afraid I got a little carried away.”

Jaskier waves away the apology with a lazy gesture, still blissfully drifting in an exaggerated post-orgasmic haze that Regis finds utterly endearing. The vampire allows himself a few tentative touches, and when Jaskier leans into them eagerly, Regis indulges, kissing down his body until he’s back between the boy’s thighs, nuzzling gently against warm, wet folds until he’s licking him open again, a starving man, ravenous.

Jaskier holds Regis’s hand as he eats him out, the utter romantic.

Regis adores him.

[kkulmoon]

I KNEAD YOU | jhs ✦ m

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You have had your mind filled with indecent thoughts of your spin class trainer, Hoseok, ever since you started taking his classes. However discreet you thought your antics had been, Hoseok had somehow found out and was more than willing to fulfil your fantasies.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Hoseok x Reader(f) | 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut, pwp? | 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ | 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.3k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cunnilingus, fingering?, slight praising, ass play, he has his hand around her neck, unprotected sex (wrap it up guys~), slight edging, groping, biting, spanking, bathroom sex.

𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐲: my muse and soulmate @inkedxclouds​ as well as the amazing @meowxyoong​ (thank u loves <3333)

𝐚/𝐧: nothing to say other than I seem to like butts more than I thought,,,,, also victoria monét’s “ass like that” was the very inspo for this au, cause that song is a bop and for some reason it gave me hobi vibes + “juice” by lizzo (though I doubt the fic gives off that type of vibe but oh well) enjoy 🥺

Three months down the line and you’d think you would have developed somewhat of a sweat resistance by habitually working out. No, not at all. Still as sweaty as ever, but maybe now it was less about hard work, and more about hard want. You relax onto the closed toilet seat sighing deeply at your unfortunate situation. The changing room wasn’t safe and neither was the shared portion of the washroom.

At every and any small intermission you were offered during the heated class, you dashed towards the toilets letting your sweaty fingers hectically slip against the cold metal of the tap handles. The cold water slipping past your fingers as you tapped its remains on your skin, hoping to cool down or at least seem cool enough. But there’s only so much a little bit of cold water could do for your overheated body. As aware as you were about this, you made it a habit, involuntary of course, to let some of that desire out in the confinements of one of the bathroom stalls.

Today is no exception. You rush to the toilet, rugged breaths filling the air as you snap the flimsy lock shut, bending over to roll off your snug cycling shorts. You think back to Hoseok’s instructions : “You should always keep an eye on your breathing while doing vigorous exercise, you want to avoid back pain and strain on your blood vessels.” Back in class you almost let your thoughts tumble through your heaving mouth. “I don’t think exercise is the one doing that”.

As obedient as you are, you let deep puffs reverberate through your chest before diving in. Your hands, tired from clenching hard against the handle of the cycle to stay on it, tremble their way down your folds swinging with the same dynamic present in Hoseok’s glistening legs while he pedals. Your eyes flutter, blinding you from your surroundings, mind tumbling through all the imprinted images of your instructor you have stored in your mind.

That’s all you need. For now.

While you suck at cycling and picking up speed in that circumstance, the image of Hoseok’s huffing mouth, stable legs, and bouncing brown locks, drenched with his hard work, sticking to him the way you wanted him to stick to you, was more than enough for the tentative deep plunge of your fingers to rival the set speed record for your spin class.

Remember: deep breaths Y/N. You slow down, finger languidly straining against your walls. You hit a particular spot, staggering on the one leg touching the ground as your other hand anchors your edged form onto the whimsy bathroom stall walls.

The slow pace allows you to revel in the imagery of Hoseok’s long fingers pointed high in the air to countdown to your thirty second long spinning sprint, imagining those long digits plunged into the same heat your fingers are scissoring. He would know exactly what to do, ordering consecutive gushes of arousal out of you, the same way his fingers point towards your direction when he sees your energy falter.

With Hoseok, nothing but one hundred percent was acceptable. While you couldn’t always keep the promise of giving him just that in all of his classes, if he were to ask you, whether it be after class or somewhere in the lobby of the gym building, you would say yes to showing him where you excelled without fail.

Heart beating a firing rhythm you would snatch his trained fingers to some designated corner of the building, ready to get on your knees and stay there to take it all, the one posture you knew you could manage to keep without fail. Anything for Hoseok really.

Dripping fingers, drying cycling shorts clinging to your heated flesh, you croak out a moan, doing your best to quiet it down in the sleeve of your gym top. “Shit—” your hips buck into your erratic palm as you knead the sensitive flesh of your bud, hissing through clenched teeth.

“What the fuck are you doing to me, Hoseok,” the whispered whine travels to the small cracks of the bathroom stall, the sloppy sounds of your continued assault on your wetness bounce against the walls to fall upon the ears of the figure entering the toilet room.

“Hmmmm, fuck Hoseo—”

Your anticipated wave of pleasure catches your breath, stuttering breaths colouring the air with its warm essence. “Ahhhh,” you sigh into the sensation rippling through your bones, fisted hand sprawling itself across the cool wood of the bathroom stall door. A particular touch of your knuckles against your clit has your nails scratch against the material.

In the heat of the moment, eyelids heavy and ears focused on recalling the authority of Hoseok’s voice, you fail to register the footsteps that sound in the room. Footsteps that stall themselves during your explosive demonstration of your instructor’s effect on your body only to leave the toilet room after you’ve calmed down and said in a condescending yet satisfied tone, “How pathetic, masturbating to your instructor in the bathroom like some teenager. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Puffing out what’s left of your pent up air, you drag your fingers from your settling walls, staring longingly at the wetness and wishing you could be looking at another pair of fingers glazed with your cum.

Hand hanging lazily by your side you do your best to lift your shorts back up to a correct position using your only available hand. You fiddle with the lock, slowly opening the door. You peek to see if there’s anyone there to whom you might reveal your latest conquest  and only probe your head out of the stall when the coast feels clear.

As weak as legs might feel, you do your best to hurry up with the cleaning, washing the product of your forbidden fantasy down the drain just like the possibility of ever actually having the honour to let yourself be used by him in any way he sees fit.

Commanding words and strokes telling you exactly what he wants you to do for him, to give to him and you doing your absolute best to abide with clenched fists and a gagging mouth. You feel yourself fall down the rabbit hole, again, but you bring yourself back with a good shake of your head. You do not have another ten minutes to calm yourself down by attempting to fulfill your own lust.

You take one last look at the mirror to check that you do not look abnormally flustered before you leave to head back into the spinning room, face sweet and innocent, unlike the thoughts trying to invade your mind the moment your eyes focus on their inevitable target.

The hypnotising movement of his lips. Inviting and pink and shimmering from the quick swipe of his pointed lip against the surface. You sigh, in desperation, wishing for the presence of that muscle somewhere else. How pathetic of you, you think, almost releasing a single sobbing sound out of frustration. If only he knew.

You heave yourself into the cycle, fitting your tensed feet into the small caged armor of the pedal, unaware that Hoseok indeed knew and was very much ready to act on it.

His sudden constant and deliberate churning of your increasingly hot figure has you agitated, gaze meeting the floor. It is unusual for Hoseok to get off of his spin bike and personally assist you with your posture. Rather, he settled for quick commanding reminders that were shouted as enthusiastically as possible despite the sternness of his sweating face.

Yet for some reason, unbeknownst to you, he stops spinning and drags his taut slim legs all the way to where you like to stay at the back of the class, to personally adjust your swaying pelvis. “Engage your core. Squeeze your glutes.” He says, the order somehow managing to sound even louder than the blasting music. This is the first time he has touched you. You immediately stop spinning, hips swaying even more than before, chasing the inviting and rough heat of his short finger glove covered hands.

Your heart should have calmed down by the time he got back on his bike, but it doesn’t. You fail to admit to yourself that the coincidental eye contact you had with Hoseok in his classes, was more than enough to throw off your already fumbling posture.

If his wandering eyes are enough for you to follow their movement, accentuating each part that they laid on, his hands on your straining body is all you need to alleviate the ache of your muscles. You turn into a puddle, something that manifests itself right between your legs even before your body comes in contact with his.

“Okay guys, we have another half hour before we are done, so stay with me and there will be a sweet treat at the end,” Hoseok shouts out to the class, bursting your little thought bubble. Your eyes close as you nod, encouraging yourself to pull through, not for the sweet treat but for you. It’s the least you can do given how much you pay for these classes. But what a shame that your eyes are closed, unable to register the hungry and curious gaze Hoseok throws your way.

Twenty minutes have gone by, or maybe just ten? You feel so hot and disoriented from all the effort you’re putting in. Yawning, and trying your best to rid yourself of the final remains of sleep, you had theorised in your car that your goal for this class was to beat your old record, the one you had back when you came to class for the right reasons. Before the thought of riding Hoseok overtook your ambition to get fitter.

Calves burning, every muscle pushing itself to the verge of exhaustion, you think back to your breathing. Your mouth opens and closes as if you are giving birth, trying its best to collect all of the sweat ridden air needed to keep you going.

“Five minutes left. Keep going, you’re almost there!”

Your hanging head, that was focused on counting the sweat droplets falling from your face onto the shiny floor, shoots up to look at your instructor. It must be because of his job as a trainer and a coach that Hoseok flashes you his dashing smile the minute your eyes, gleaming with hope at the prospect of the class soon coming to an end, meets his own soft gaze.

Not wanting to seem rude or like a total nutjob, you tame your panting mouth into a simple smile, no teeth so as to not come across as too excited about something as infantile as eye contact. He winks in response and you swear you almost twist your ankle leaning forward to check if your eyes aren’t deceiving you.

Hoseok’s good at his job. He manages to keep your mind away from the propagating ache in your body as your legs chase time, looking to leave the room with your own small victory. He keeps you rooted and gives you the last bit of energy you need to make it. The timer beeps, startling you. You shake in your seat, breaking your contact with his warm brown eyes. If this is the power of his eyes, what the heck does his body have in store?

As much as you would want to let your mind wander to give you a probable hypothesis to the complicated case that is Hoseok, you’re too far gone to think that deep. Drained and sweaty, your arms dangle on your sides as you let your head lifelessly fall onto the bar of the spin bike. Too weak to push yourself back up but still wanting to know how far you cycled, you roll your drenched head onto the speed counter and stare down at it. At the sight of the double digit number, larger than the previous feat you had achieved, you sigh, a light laugh slipping past your dry lips. Finally some good news. As a way of congratulating yourself, you pat your thighs with the little force you have spared.

The surrounding claps invade your wandering ears, as people shout out, patting themselves in the back and congratulating others for pulling through. Nobody congratulates you but it’s nothing you haven’t had to handle before. Content with your progress, you step off the cycle.

You gather your items, hurrying as you feel the effects of gorging on too much liquid during class. With a drenched towel hanging of your forearm and an empty water bottle in your other hand you speed to the unisex toilet.  

As you set your belongings on the sink countertop, someone enters. You don’t bother to spare them a glance, something you regret the minute Hoseok’s familiar tight fitting cycling top is reflected on the wide mirror. Your head instinctively looks his way to admire the soft slope of his nose and the harsh lines of his profile. He knows you’re looking to which he smirks softly. Your body shifts more to your right, afraid of what other things, sinful things,  you might feel compelled to do if you stay so close to him.

You aggressively pump some soap into your palm, anything to remove the silence etched in the surrounding air. Hoseok does the same, except he does it graciously like everything else he’s ever done.

“Y/N, right?” He inquires, letting a steady stream of water wet his hands as he lathers them.

Your mind tells you he’s simply asking for formality’s sake. Did he plan to keep a conversation with you in the bathroom? How much could you possibly fit into the time it takes to wash your hands? Unless he plans on drawing it out and drying out his skin? Many more questions run through my mind as you bite your lips, eyes staring at the floor until they inevitably wander up his legs.

This is your verbal first interaction with him that doesn’t seem to hint at any subject related to your given roles in the establishment, a trainer and his trainee. No, he’s asking as Hoseok, curious to know about a certain regular Y/N who spends her free time thinking indecent thoughts about his body.

Realising that you’re taking too long to answer to your own name, you blurt out, “YES!” before clearing your throat in hopes to compose yourself. Swallowing thickly, you have another go at it, “I mean, yes, that’s my name. Y/N is me.”

While your ears warm up at your embarrassing behaviour, Hoseok’s soft chuckle manages to overpower the loud hand dryer. Usually, once someone’s done cleaning their hands they leave the bathroom and that’s exactly what you see Hoseok do. You watch him walk up to the toilet room door only to turn back around to face the mirror, doing your best not to let the dejected feeling in you overtake your features.

You breathe in, trying your best to catch your sanity. He was just being nice and trying to  break the tension, one you seem to believe could only be perceived from your side. With eyes closed, you let the cool rush of the water provide some sort of relaxation and solution to your heated body. Your dripping hands reach towards the hand dryer on your side only to reach back when you think about the hot air, you don't need to get fired up again, so you decide to pat yourself dry with paper towels.

Ready to leave, you look up into the mirror to take one last inspection at your face.

Oh.

Hoseok’s eyes catch your own. He’s leaning against the toilet’s room door frame, head slightly hanging to his side and tongue dancing calmly in the small intrusion between his lips. You thought he left?

You want to look away, but you can’t. Not only because of the demanding energy coating his eyes, but also because of the entrancing way he runs a hand past his hair, heel kicking against the door as he pushes himself off of it.

He darts towards you. Or at least that’s what it feels like to you. An overwhelming wave of desire coats your senses forcing your legs to stagger backwards as your butt comes in contact with the hard and cold edge of the sink counter.

Those hands, those fingers, the ones you’ve fantasied about having buried inside of you or stuffed in your mouth, find their way on each side of you anchoring themselves on the hard surface as Hoseok corners.

He’s close. Close enough to hear your shallow breathing, to notice your confused yet intrigued eyes and to smell the fertilised desperation in your body. Head somewhat leaned down so as to reach your gaze, he lets his eyes take their own free tour around your face, mouth slightly parted.

“I don’t think it’s pathetic at all,” he breathes out, sloping down to bathe your hot ears in his warm breath, “it’s cute, actually.” The sweet tone is almost enough to deceive you of his intentions but the prominent scraping of his teeth against your earlobe makes it clear.

Your chest curls into itself at the action, slipping down, out of reach from his inviting mouth. You want to think it’s a coincidence that Hoseok references your words from earlier but to simply think isn’t enough, you need to confirm it. “Uhmm… I don’t kn–ow what you’re referring to.” It comes out more jagged than you intended to as he steps closer, so as to almost graze your heaving chest.

A pout on his lips, his gaze zig zags across your features, “See, cute.”

You feel like you’re melting. Your face finds refuge in the minor protection of your shoulder as you squeeze your eyes shut. This is all you had thought about. To have Hoseok look at you as if he already knew what is obscured from his sigh, for now, a sight he couldn’t wait to explore. To let his eyes, hands and mouth colour his imagination into reality.

“I mean that it would be nice if I could show you what I can actually do to you.” If you were properly breathing before you sure you aren’t anymore. His voice is covered with sweetness and curiosity. It acts as both a gentle threat and a request. He could and would show you.

The rub of your knee against his thinly clothed thigh says yes before you manage to catch enough air to utter an eager “please”, eyes opening to stare at his chest. “Go ahead,” at the sight of your yearning eyes he encourages you. The thin elastic material did little to protect your sanity from the hardness of his body.

Had your eyes been closed, you could have been fooled into believing that you were touching his naked chest. You pinch the material, tugging it off his skin only to let it slap back down. Something that brings a soft smile to Hoseok’s shifting lips. Hoping that he understands your wordless request, you repeat the action a couple more times.

He dodges your eyes more than once, letting his playful side show, before he leans into you. Your lips collide, strong enough to have your head inclined against the mirror, your body moving upwards at every hungry push of his determined body. You latch onto him, hands lacing themselves around his straining biceps as you match the feverish dance of his tongue.

If your moaning wasn’t already evidence enough of your state, Hoseok’s willingness to offer more encourages him to run a slow swipe of his delicate hands up your thigh and dangerously close to where you’ve imagined him placing every class that you’ve attended. The touch is prominent enough to have you squirming, letting whiny moans spill into his smirking lips as your legs bring him closer.

But Hoseok’s gentle yet clear tapping of your thighs tells you he has something else in mind. “Stand back up.” The order is clear yet in your current hazy state, you slide off the counter anticipating your weak landing, something Hoseok takes care of by pushing you flush against him.

Following through, he presses his long fingers in the soft flesh of your ass, spreading your cycling shorts covered cheeks all while pushing you closer to his straining cock. Spread out, head shying away from looking at his face, he leans in with a soft whisper, “Now tell me, kitty, how did you get an ass like this?”

Timid hands roam across his hard frame as your intended whisper becomes a rushing gasp, pulled out from you by Hoseok’s prominent kneading of your ass, “You.”

“What did you say, sweetheart?”

Hesitant, and quite frankly too hot to think straight, you let it all spill out.

“It’s because of you. You gave me an ass like this.”

“Huh, you think so?” His stretched palm travels up and down your clothed cheeks. You don’t respond letting the steady stream of strained moans be an answer in itself. “So you’re saying, my classes gave you this juicy ass,” He hisses out, firmly squeezing the jiggly flesh.

You nod your head against his shoulder, humming in agreement, the cadence at which the soft moans escape intensifying. Moans that you attempt disguise by biting into his cycling jersey.

“Don’t you think I should get to enjoy what I created?” The implications of his question makes your breath hitch.

What is he thinking of doing. Anal? Eating your ass? Spanking? Your mind is in haywire but you know what you think.

“You can do anything you want.”

“Anything?”

You nod once again, hardened buds tickling his covered chest. All Hoseok does is smirk at your eagerness.

“Not today, kitty,” he pushes lightly against your breasts, making your shiver at the friction, turning you around with a swift hand as he shakes his head, “I like it from the back.”

You’re now facing the mirror, able to notice the distraught state of your body as your desperation creeps further into your limbs. Hoseok finds himself caging you in again, but while you could have hid your warming face in his chest before, now you’re completely exposed.It’s something that brings a playful expression to his features.

As if he wasn’t already close enough to you, Hoseok drives his eager hips into the heated plumpness of your butt and your fingers tense further around the edge of the countertop. Every hitching breath of yours is complemented with his groans.

“What a beautiful ass I’ve made,” he says, pride in his voice as he crouches down behind you to give each cheek its own shameless squeeze. “Don’t you agree?”

“Hmm,” you hum breathlessly before a pointed strike to your cheek makes it clear that that’s not how he wants you to respond. Nodding, head straining backwards to catch Hoseok’s dark gaze, your knees buckle driving your ass closer to his face while you whine out a stuttering yes.

Hoseok’s your trainer. He knows how breathing works during physical activities and makes it known that, whether or not you’re in class, he rules still apply. It’s soft, yet commanding whispers to not forget to breathe or he will stop, tingling confessions that let his appetite for your body infest your nerves as you delve deeper into despair. You want his cock inside of you and, unlike your willingness to wait, his patience is much greater.  

The continuous sway of hips quickens his breaths, and they land on your shoulder where they leave shivers that travel down your spine forcing you to shimmy your ass into his crotch even harder. “Come on, kitty, patience.” He breathes out, biting your scalding shoulder.

“Nghh, but plea—,” the hard slap that lands on your misbehaving cheeks has you stiffening, hands slipping against the glass. At this point you’re sure you’re not going to sit down on your train ride back home. Hoseok seems to want to leave you sore and marked.

“I said patience. I will give you what you need when I want to.” You nod lazily, not that your mind registers the sentence, but the alarming tone has you on your best behaviour.

Your compliant action earns you a few sloppy kisses along your covered shoulders, his hands snaking upwards to catch the zipper and let it slide down as you bend, body yearning for his touch until his determined hands engulf your freed and neglected mounds.

“Hmmm, just as soft and juicy as your ass.” He moans loud and clear and you fear someone outside might hear. Yet it still makes you melt onto his hard body. “Hose—yes, like that, ahhhh.”

Hoseok, given his position, does like orders, something he lets you know by running his fingers around your perked buds and squeezing them so hard you screech and bend even deeper. Fuck. As much as it hurts it also feels so good; your watering folds are proof enough.

“I don’t like to repeat myself, Y/N. Misbehave and I’ll keep drawing this out, leaving you wet and begging for me.” His tone is calculated and laced with a certain layer of pity that has you whining as you place one hand on his forearms to turn around and meet his eyes.

You witness the slowed blinking of his eyelids and hope that he can decipher your distressed eyes that ask for more. While Hoseok cares for his trainees, he likes to push them to see how far they can go. That’s what the smirk creeping up on his lips tells you.

“All in due time, kitty. First, let me taste something that I want to make mine.” One confident hand pats your dripping pussy to further awaken your sensitive nerve endings. Your thighs instinctively snap shut capturing his hand. Hoseok catches your eyes in the mirror, shaking his head before delivering another strike to your ass.

“Ahhh, shit,” you bite your quivering lips and let your hesitant thighs part to welcome the sweet slide of Hoseok’s fingers past your clothed folds as he hums in approval at the present wetness. “Just how I like it.” The praise compels a soft smile on your end.

You can’t hide the confusion that coats your features when he suddenly extracts his hand, something that has him snickering to himself. He enjoys torturing you and you want to complain but you don’t think your ass could handle anymore pain so you suck up your remarks along with some air.

Your head dances around, left to right and back again trying to figure out what exactly he plans to do as he crouches back down to face your butt. Before you can enquire in order to save yourself from any surprise attacks, he dives his head into the expanse of your globes shaking it as you squeal trying your best not to lose your stance.

He hums deeply, breathing in your scent and you whimper once his wet tongue pokes out to slide along your pussy lips, his saliva mixing in with your oozing arousal. His arms snake around your thighs, fingers digging into the flesh to push you further against his face. “Fuck, your kitty is dripping for me.” You manage to hear the muffled sound above the blend of his groans and your stumbling moans. But for once Hoseok doesn’t abide by his own rules as his hands rush to the hem of your cycling shorts, wanting nothing more than to rip them apart, to have you bare as to allow him to witness your clenching pussy– soon to be his pussy.

Exposed and wet, ready for him since the day you laid eyes on him, you stare down at his soft brown locks, where your hands will find refuge in shortly, and try your best to examine his eager expression through hooded eyes. He has your right leg up on his shoulder and you let the rhythm of his stroking hand guide your breaths. “So fucking pretty,” his other hand travels up your other thigh, “and wet,” he bites his lips leaning into your drenched center, “and mine.”

It’s only one lick but you already feel like falling apart, hands squeaking against the mirror. “Ahhh shit,” your hips move on their own accord, meeting his hot appendage and coating it with your increasing neediness. Either Hoseok doesn’t mind or your eagerness, looking to satisfy your own urge, doesn’t register in his mind as all that’s there is the goal to have you trembling and gushing all over his hungry mouth.

For each lap at your folds, he takes a breath away. Your fingers find the courage to place themselves on his head, soft hair left to be scrunched in your clenched fist. His head moves vigorously up and down, drinking up your juices under feverish groans and needy hands that latch on the cheeks of your ass to keep you from staggering away.

His tongue drives your pants, saturating your cunt with pointed licks coupled with soft nibbles at your throbbing clit, an action that has you quivering in surprise. “So fucking sweet,” he drags out the suckling of your vulva as he hums, satisfaction clear on his face as his tongue slides across his bottom lips. You mewl, hips bucking into the empty air. He plants a soft kiss on your heat, “Just for me. How cute.”

“Hoseok, please,” your strained plea runs from your lips without much thought to meet his mocking pout. You’re so close, you just need him to keep lapping at your soaked entrance, feasting on your juices and you would come undone before you know it.

However Hoseok seems to have other plans in mind as he stands back up, the straining in his pants all the more noticeable in his tight shorts. He leans in to kiss your neck, holding your behind flush against his cock. “Unfortunately, I can’t eat you out until you fall apart. We wouldn’t want anyone to come open the door, now would we?”

Your want has made you forget your predicament. You’re in the bathroom of your gym, ready to have the trainer you’ve been daydreaming about rail your neediness away. He made sure to lock the door but someone could soon start asking questions, looking for staff to complain to. Staff who would surely hurry to unlock the door, after all client satisfaction is important. Something that Hoseok is very aware of.

You shake your head as his husk approval meets your slick ear, “Good kitty.” He bites the shell of your ear, scraping against the heating flesh, “Now spread your legs for me.” You shuffle your feet side to side following his orders, legs too heavy to lift. “You’re doing so good for me,” he says, hoping to reassure you as his hands leave your body and you watch him, in the mirror, slide his pants down to expose his erect and flushed cock.

You almost turn around on instinct, one based on your countless dreams of having him in your mouth, weighing down your tongue. But you stay put, resorting to ogling his long and pretty dick. Hoseok doesn’t seem to mind as his hand goes to stroke lazily at the throbbing length while continuing to keep his distance from you.

His eyes lock with yours and you whimper because you know exactly what you could do to that dick of his if he’d just let you. However, he’s adamant on having his way with you. Maybe another time? Maybe. You close your eyes to let the sour thought of this being a one time occasion wash away and let Hoseok’s touch bring you back to the moment at hand.

His hand digs into the flesh of your hips and your needy heat clenches around empty air at the sweet and slow slide of the fleshy and precum glazed tip of his cock. Hoseok’s likes to drink up your reactions, staring into the mirror to admire your furrowed brows, your open mouth and your squeezed eyelids as he continues to run his pulsating member up and down your slit. He slips up, his enthusiasm getting the best of him as the tip grazes your clit and you bite into your clenched fist, your moan still managing to seep through.

Hoseok’s chest leans into your back as he places one of his hands above yours. He orders your gaze to meet his, the other hand hiding between your bodies to position himself at your entrance.

“This is gonna be just like our sprints in class. Are you ready, kitty?”

You munch on your wet lip, and repeat, through your panting mess, the only the only two words that seem to be in your mind, “Hoseok plea—ahhh”

His hard cock eases into your needy walls, slowly filling you up as his other hand moves back to restrain your only free hand. Chest against back, hands weighing on yours, and forehead bent down against your shoulder, he bottoms out and you release a combined sigh. You shut eyes spring open to stare at the delightful connection between your edged bodies. You can’t comprehend the situation, nor do you try to. This is really happening, huh?

It feels too good. Too good to be true and too good for your practically spasming pussy. Hoseok’s calm approach is short-lived, his second thrust as frantic as your breaths. The force at which he moves inside your slick walls, force strong enough to have the edge of the sink countertop dig against your stomach.

Your hand reaches back to hold onto his shoulder, trying your best to stay stable as each continuous attack of his hips sounds against your tender ass. Hoseok drags his dick out, making you moan and pant so much you’re clouding the mirror. He eagerly snaps back against your straining tightness, bottoming out as he puffs out laboured breaths and you gasp into your trembling shoulder. “Yes, yes, right there,” you sigh in between ragged breaths

He delivers another pointed thrust, pumping himself deeper into your warmth, “Here?” He breathes out and you nod hastily.

You can feel the short yet intense slap of his balls against your ass, the thrill of it all making you bend to spread your legs even further apart. Your face only centimeters away from the cold, metal tap, you shriek feeling the weight of Hoseok’s imprints on the small of your back as he pounds your sopping pussy. “Shit, all of this for me?” He pants, delivering his beloved strikes on the ass he’s made.

With your current limited vocabulary all you can do is nod, head bracing itself in the crook of your arm. Chasing your own pleasure, all while melting on the wonder that’s Hoseok’s cock, you move your hips to meet the now frantic pummelling of his straining dick.

One of his hands migrates to surround the soft and tender flesh of your neck as he pulls you up to reveal your fucked out gaze. “So fucking pretty.” He suckles the skin of your neck, biting into it to suppress his own moans. You wrap your hand around his forearm, chanting your go-to high-pitched request once again, this time managing to add one more word, “Hoseok, please, harder.”

Your heart is about to leap out of your chest at sight of the soft gaze he throws under heavy eyelids. “Anything for you, kitty.” And he gives you just that. He pumps in and out, hard, hand still around your neck, more so as a sweet gesture to help your head stay put as he admires his work. His other arm pushing you flush against his body, mushing your ass cheeks against his crotch. A feeling he welcomes with a low hiss.

Hoseok’s dick pulsates against your walls, as they suck him deeper, his length allowing him to graze spots in you nobody has touched before. The quick and pointed hammering makes your breath stutter. You’re so close, you think, but fail to communicate, mouth unable to form any coherent sounds apart from heavy moans and whines.

You spare a glance in Hoseok’s direction, to see his head nested in the crook of your neck, eyes shut and his cheeks puff out for every passionate thrust he delivers. Warmth, not the kind that comes from your current vigorous activity, but the one that’s born out of hope for more, overtakes you only this time you have no wish to dispel it.

Your free hand meets your sensitive bud, rubbing circles as his cock continues to make a mess of you. He must have felt the soft graze of your fingertips against his hot girth as his hands move to meet yours. He slides his fingers past your slick coating fingers that are soon placed back on your clit. Digits dancing around each other, your chest stutters into the bliss, back morphing into the bend of his chest. “Oh,Hos– ahhh, I’m clo–se.”

Hoseok finds the sounds that leave you endearing, a smile stretching along his lips. “Go on kitty, let my pussy cum all over me.” You shut your eyes, lips pressed against each other, glutes clenched to Hoseok’s striking approval, letting your pent up and often castoff desire for a certain man with a blinding smile, and inspiring ethic rush over your limbs, choked moans leaving your once sealed lips.

He thrusts on every breath intake, adamant on literally taking your breath away as his own unraveling follows shortly. Even in this state of frenzy, he manages, ever the professional and hard worker, to land his last thrusts just where he wants them. Deep within you, before he snatches his hypnotising member away from your ever yearning heat to decorate your back with a fat load, as he grunts out, “Ugh, hmph–mine.”

Strikes of white cum hit you as you sigh, trying your best to regulate your breathing all while hitting your face to convince yourself of the reality of the situation. You just fucked your trainer. The one you’ve been fantasising about for the past three months. You try to find some sort of guilt, looking to appease your mind and assure yourself that nothing bad will come out of this.

You’ll still be able to attend your lessons each week, sitting down at your same spot, staring ahead at him indifferently as he manages to not even break a sweat during his excruciating classes. You tell yourself that you’re sure everything will go back to normal once the two of you step outside the sex stenched toilet room. Everything will be just fine. You almost believe it, until you’re brought back to the present moment, as he swipes a cool water drenched paper towel against your ruined slit. Yeah, this is bad.

Mixing fantasies, longing stares and care can only lead to one possible thing. A bus you doubt he would jump on if it were to show up at his door steps. You scramble to retrieve the towel and proceed to clean yourself. Hoseok jumps at your less than gentle action, but decides not to give it much thought, unlike you.

“Thanks,” you attempt to lessen your rude behaviour. He gives you a lopsided smile, winking away your weakly established reassurance that you’ll manage not to think about this encounter from a point of view that’s filled with craving feelings and expectations.

“That was nice.”

You fail to suppress the laughter that’s screaming to be released, to see him flustered has you smiling, nodding reassuringly at his statement.

“Very nice, indeed,” you respond, throwing away the towel as you join Hoseok in putting your cycling shorts back on and closing the zipper of your cycling jersey.

Your eyes travel across the room to make sure that nothing is terribly out of place or different before your hands stroke down your front while you stare at the now silent man. You wait, expecting him to say something, wanting him to. When he doesn’t seem to have it in his plans to speak again, you turn around to walk towards the key he left in the lockset of the door.

A loud cough sounds behind you and you snap around, eyes eagerly staring at him to notice the full blown smile on his glowing face, making your heart skip.

His fingers gestures towards his back and once he notices your confused expression, he articulates his concern with a small laugh and scratch to his neck, “Uhm, you kinda forgot the back, my…. yeah, is still there”

“Oh,” you turn around to look at your back through the mirror. The sight alone of his cum has your mouth watering and legs clenching, something that doesn’t go unnoticed to Hoseok’s focused eyes. Just the reassurance he needed to feel like you weren’t completely regretting what just happened. “Right.” You sidestep him to reach for some more paper towels, hands trying their best to clean it up only to end up smearing it even more.

Hoseok’s hand reaches out. “May I?” Sighing you nod, discarding the ruined towels in the bin.

On second thought, you should have said no and struggled through the clean up on your own. The soft press of his digits against your back ignites your skin and pulls you back to the not so distant events in your mind. Your sharp breath intakes at each touch from his body further aids Hoseok in building back his confidence.

You definitely liked him, or at least your body did. He thinks and he would definitely not mind a repeat, preferably somewhere where he did not need to worry about time or intruders and where he could knead your ass to his heart’s content.

Once done, you step away, this time thoroughly cleaned and ready to leave. You turn back to follow your previous path, hand clenched around the key refusing to unlock the door as you await another interjection from his part. To unlock the door means this is finally over and as much as you might not believe this to be your best decision, you still want to bask in the awkward sweetness of the aftermath, just for a few more seconds. But Hoseok stays silent this time.

Your hand weights down on the handle, pushing it towards you. Sighing, you are brought back to reality as you stare at the bypassers outside of the toilet room. Your hand releases the handle, walking out and heading towards the changing rooms.

Your steps are slow, ready to halt upon his request. Yet, all your ears can hear is the shuffling of hurried feet and the sound of other classes taking place. Soon enough, you’re walking slow out of dejection rather than apprehension.

“Hey! Y/N!” Your skin shivers at the timbre of the familiar voice and you walk faster to stop a bit further away. You don’t want him to think that you were waiting for him.

Your body whips around, using the little resolve you have left to mask your delight at the sight of him.

“I’ll see you next week,” it comes out as a blend between a question and an affirmation and you can see in his eyes that he needs you to clarify the nature of his statement for him. To let him know there could in fact be more than today.

“I’ll see you next week, Hoseok.” You smile sheepishly as you turn around to scurry towards your intended destination, squealing into the palms of your hands. Hands that had touched him and had been caressed by him. Ultimately, hands that couldn’t wait to knead him the way he kneaded you.

Posted: July 16 2020

a/n: feel free to share any feedback, it’s always deeply appreciated 🥺

[thegeminisage]

what do you think are some of the biggest pieces of evidence for cas being ace? i've watched so much of the show in the past month that it all blurs together, lol, so i can't remember many specific scenes. i do remember "i'm utterly indifferent to sexual orientation" (though that wasn't about his own orientation) and cas' discomfort at idea of sleeping with women at the bordello in 5.03... anything else you can think of? I'd be interested to hear your thoughts!

rubs my hands together okay a List yeah i can do a list

wait actually first i wanna say that the biggest reason is because i’m asexual and i said so 0:) like i know that sounds a joke and it is a little bit but SERIOUSLY it’s just a general Aura or what the fuck ever about people. you know how sometimes a friend group formed in teenage years will one by one realize they’re all queers and they just grouped together organically? ace people are like that too. many of my closest friends have been aspec and i didnt even know that when i met them, THEY didn’t even know. but like if you asked me to list the ten people i was closest to over my life the huge majority would be aspec like me. we find each other In The Wild. so when i say he’s ace because i said so like i’m saying I’m Ace And I Can See Him. He Is Ace Because I Said So. my ace-dar is EXCELLENT

okay anyway with that out of the way here’s your actual list. obviously much of this can be a point in favor of many different readings of cas (and i’m not saying those can’t be true at the same time as ace cas!), but i’m ace and he’s ace and that’s what this post is about so i’m focusing on the ace parts. thank you.

list of ace cas evidence:

in general cas has a lot of trouble connecting with humanity at first which is an ENORMOUS ace mood

when dean cracks in the 4.01 deleted scene “yeah i have that problem with women” (after cas talks about the difficult in finding a vessel that can contain him) cas absolutely does not get that joke. we were having ace cas moments right from the get-go

it’s shown as early as 4.02 that cas doesn’t understand personal space. this is him not getting one single thing about human intimacy works and that he’s overstepping a boundary. it’s not just that he’s an angel (though that’s some of it) he just doesn’t intuitively understand physical stuff like that

that dean/anna kiss in 4.10. LOOK AT HIS FACE. that’s a face that says “i had no idea this is how humans were intimate with each other” and also “do i want to try that?” answer: maybe. dean’s very pretty. but something about it just feels like he’s going “whoa i never even CONSIDERED that” - like that to be sexy with the humans he’s into just didn’t occur to him

i know you said so already but WOW 5.03 brothel scene. THEEE ace cas moment

i’d also like to take a moment to tip my hat to 5.04. almost every aspec will have had a period of frustration and self-loathing where they thought at least once about maybe just having sex they weren’t into as a way to be “fixed” or to prove something. when aspecs are at their lowest and most broken, they are having sex they do not want to have. and when cas is at his lowest and most broken (in 5.04 AND 9.03, thank you), what is he doing? having sex! it’s just Interesting to me that the only times cas fucks is when he’s literally in the absolute worst points in his entire life 

also, i’m getting out of order here, but that thing in 9.03 was absolutely rape. the way he talked about it after was THEEE most comphet bullshit i’ve ever seen. “that was nice.” “she was...sooo hot.” dean winchester can’t fool me and neither can cas thee tiel. 

i know everyone was uncomfortable with the cherub in 5.14 but cas was SUPER uncomfortable. “no one likes it” yeah that’s cause he’s not a big touchy-feely dude 

i actually really hate that porn scene in 6.10, but it is a classic “i don’t get it” moment + a side of “monkey see monkey do” later when he decides to mimic it and kiss meg. she started it - he’s just going “oh yeah i remember watching that on TV - like this, right?” he’s pleased with himself for correctly mastering a form of human interaction, he’s not, like, horny. 

didn’t get the erectile dysfunction joke in 6.19

obviously, godstiel’s utter indifference to sexual orientation

strongly implied to be in a chaste marriage with his “wife” daphne when he was an amesniac

being repeatedly lobotomized in season 8 is its own can of worms. they were trying to make him straight. alas, it cannot be done

meg propositions him in season 8 and it takes him a bit to catch on. i don’t think accepting means he’s not ace, just that he’s interested in stuff humans do. would have been nice for his first time not to be with a psycho reaper who got him to trade his virginity for a pb&j :/

cas seemed REALLY nervous at the prospect of the date in 9.06, almost like it was something he had to steel himself to do - yet another weird part of human life he was resigning himself to, especially after metatron told him “go find a wife and have some babies” when his grace was taken

cas in season 10 is UTTERLY oblivious to hannah’s advances, even the ones that include nudity (and his own nudity at one point lol), and when he finally catches on he lets her down in the most awkward way possible

in season 11 he says he’s gonna take dean’s temperature and doesn’t see how that’s weird lol

he never got to truly speak to dean about his weird “””attraction””” to amara but i like to think he would have been equally confused

in season 12 in the hotel room where an orgy had clearly just taken place dean snickers and picks up the panties but cas is totally oblivious

ALSO completely oblivious when the waitress hits on him in season 12

this is a little bit of a stretch, but despite being named as jack’s “real” father, his relationship with kelly, his ostensible baby mama by proxy, seemed INCREDIBLY platonic to me. like they were such good buds! but he never had any of that romantic chemistry with her - there were no lingering notes or touches or whatever. he just wasn’t interested in that same way. 

exasperated with gabriel and talking about porn stars in season 13 lol

canonically, castiel spent seasons 4-?? falling in love with dean, but he never made a move on him physically - yeah yeah the CW is homophobic but i like to think that most of castiel’s Urges where dean is involved are not in fact of a sexual nature. he wants to be close to him and important to him more than he wants to fuck him. you can long for someone in the ace way without longing for them sexually yk

this is part of why i actually really liked the 15.18 confession - the happiness was in the being, or whatever. he was already WITH dean in almost every way that mattered (i wrote a fic about this). they shared secrets, they shared burdens, they lived together, they fought and worked together, they even raised a fucking kid together! cas was convinced he couldn’t have more than that but also he didn’t really NEED much more than that and thinking about how he had been with dean all along was what made him happy enough to literally die. yeah there’s a version of that scene where the reciprocation was enough to do it but they accidentally hacked it into an ace love scene so i will TAKE it

this concludes my list! i bet it’s a lot longer than u were expecting

[spn masterpost]

edit: a few updates

[bluesparrow11]

This is a 1119 unedited blurb that I wrote last year and never got around to posting. The basic premise is that the sickness either kills the person or turns them into an animal shapeshifter. I’ve got no plans to continue it but wouldn’t be against doing so if anyone is interested in reading more.

/////////////////////////////////////////

Nolan is on the verge of smothering Travis with a couch cushion and leaving Kevin to find the body over some stupid twitter post about whether a poptart is a ravioli or not when he gets the call from G. Travis swipes his phone off the coffee table where it was vibrating precariously towards the edge and fends off Patty with a flailing arm while yelling at full volume into the phone,

“I promise you! A poptart is fucking a ravioli. It’s a fucking vessel with tasty shit inside!”

“Shut the fuck up and give me my phone you fucking fuck”

Nolan attempts to press him into the corner of the couch because even though he was decidedly out of his weight class, Trav was a scrappy fucker and wasn’t above going for the armpits when cornered.

Travis was still cackling with his stupid squinty eyes and his stupid patchy beard and Patty’s phone pressed to his ear, while he presumably ignored the pleas of the person who called him to give the phone back to Patty. Nolan finally got him pinned, sitting firmly on his stomach to keep him from kicking at him when the smile slipped off his face. In the sudden silence, he could hear the tinny voice say his name and then Travis silently handed him the phone.

“Nolan?”

“G? What’s going on?”

There was a heavy sigh from the other end of the line.

“The season has been postponed until further notice”

Patty slid off of Travis onto the couch.

“The virus a lot of people were catching in Europe spread into the league. A couple guys in Florida died before they could get to the hospital.”

“Shit”

He knew it was selfish but the first thought he had was that he just fucking got back on the ice. He had finally gotten his brain to get on board and now the world had decided it was the perfect time to end.

It, it being the virus, had started in somewhere in Europe but no one was quite sure where yet because it was so new. It had spread so quickly that it infected at least fifty countries before people started noticing and closing stores and schools and borders. Nolan hadn’t thought it reached north america yet but,

“Apparently, it’s been spreading undetected for weeks in the states and probably Canada too. The plan right now is to have everyone stay where they are and quarantine there until they're sure they’re not sick. No contact with people they don’t live with. Face masks if you have to go to the grocery store. After that, I know a lot of guys are planning on heading home until a plan to restart gets proposed.”

They talked for a little bit longer but it was mostly small talk about G’s baby and Nolan definitely staying on his meal plan until Claude had to hang up to call the rest of the team to let them know the news.

After he hangs up, Nolan chucks his phone onto the couch beside him to probably slide into a crack and be a pain in the ass to find later. Travis is unusually quiet next to him.

“What did he say?”

“A couple guys on the Panthers died from the virus and the season is cancelled. We’re also not allowed to go outside.”

“Fuck”

“Yep”

There’s another long stretch of silence before Travis apparently hits his quota for the day and starts badgering him incessantly to order pancakes off of whatever weird food app he’s been using instead of just using grubhub like a normal person.

When the pancakes and arrive they divide it between them (saving some for what Kevin likes to call the ‘roommate tax’), and lean over the coffee table to eat while watching whatever random crap was on the discovery channel. It was some show where a bunch of British people tried to make the best cakes or bread or whatever. Nolan was getting pretty invested in Sharon’s candied orange peels when Travis places a warm hand on his shoulder blade.

“Hey”, he turns and Trav is making an earnest face that he thinks is supposed to be comforting, “We’re going to be okay.”

Something twists in his chest and he nods. He looks back down at his pancakes that he’s been mostly just shredding with his useless bendy plastic fork instead of eating. Anything to avoid the way Travis looks while trying to be a good fucking friend with his face all backlit by the TV, cheekbones and the bridge of his nose almost glowing.

The hand on his back gives him a couple pats before it slides back to Travis’ side.

Later when they've trudged up the stairs and are about to part ways, Nolan to his room and Travis to the guest room next door that he sleeps in so much it might as well be his, Nolan catches him by the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Hey, thanks… for earlier. On the couch”

Travis looks confused for a second and Nolan is about to just turn around and go die of embarrassment in peace when he seems to realise what he’s talking about and he ends up with an armful of Travis.

It’s a nice moment. Travis is warm in his arms and must be standing up on his tiptoes because he can hear him very clearly say,

“Anytime Pats”

Before pulling away with a shit eating grin that is just so fucking him,

“Congrats on having a human emotion bud.”

“Ugh”

Patty rolls his eyes so hard they throb a little and speed walks into his room, slamming the door just to drown out Travis’ laughing.

While he sliding between his sheets and arranging his pillows to his likling he distantly hears Kevin yell at Travis to, “Stop making a fucking racket.”

He falls asleep still feeling warm inside.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

How they decide to go quarantine in the cabin. Patty is kinda hesitant but wants to do anything but stay locked in a house and go crazy. Also really doesn’t want to accidentally take anything home to his sisters and parents. Travis convinces him to just quarantine with him at the cabin. At least at the lake there’ll be things to do and fish and shit.

The plane. It’s almost empty and the flight attendants look very harried. A kid several rows back sneezes and everyone flinches. They’re all wearing masks and Nolan is desperately trying to remain calm next to Travis. Maybe they hold hands???

They rent a truck from the airport and drive the hour to the cabin. Groceries are already delivered and are sitting in and next to a cooler on the front porch. They unpack and eat some rice and beans from a can because they can’t be bothered to do anything else for dinner.

They both get progressively more tired and start to show symptoms as the weeks moves along

Patty wakes up in the middle of the week, in the middle of the night, to his phone ringing. It’s Kevin and he’s tested positive.

[finn-ray-nal-beads]

Just a 1am thought for you. You sneak onto Captain Blowhole’s ship bc the dicks just that good. When he catches you, he has to punish you of course. And find a way for you to work off your room and board in the captain’s chambers.

BITCH HERE IS YOUR WORST/BEST NIGHTMARE COME TRUE. THIS IS FOR SURE GOING TO HAVE ANOTHER PART TO IT. I ACTUALLY AM TOTALLY INTO THIS SHIT NOW. IM A PART OF THE PROBLEM. 

@safarigirlsp LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO! 

The swells swarmed the Atlantic in a storm like no other. Forty feet or more surrounding both sides of the Jolly Roger, crewmen frantically battening down the hatches, while Captain Flip manned the wheel as it spun furiously in the mood of the thunder and lightning. 

“Hold the sheet!” his crewman barked at the others spinning the mainmast as not to have it be struck down by the bolts that Zeus had rained down on them. 

“Watch the starboard side!” another shouted into the void of sopping men, struggling to keep the course for their next destination. 

“Captain, we need to find a shoreline or…. We’ll never make it!” his trusty first mate, Ron screamed his direction as his bulging muscles turned the captain’s wheel to the direction he pleased. Noticing his hat had flown from the gusts of wind, Ron picked it up and handed it back to him once the course was turned back to his liking. 

“Prepare for the worst, mate,” Flip solemnly nodded out of breath from keeping the course. He knew it was nearly impossible that he and his crew would make it out of the cursed triangle alive. He swore to himself when setting sail not even days prior that nothing ill would befall them. Karma certainly had its way of biting him back just as bad, if not, worse. 

Ron nodded back to him, returning to his post to keep the ship on course for as long as the storm would let the loyal crew set sail. Flip gazed out at the catastrophe before him, nearly tearing up at the fact that he may never get what he was fighting so hard for. He watched in slow motion as his crew battled the unforgiving waves, crackling lightning illuminating their horrified faces, the thunder drowning out their screams for help. 

Just then, a humongous bolt cracked down from the heavens into the front of the sip, sending a voltage of electricity through the wood of the vessel, causing a complete catastrophe. Crewmen flew into the abyss, shards of wood lost at sea. The last memory Flip had was his listless body sinking into the oblivion.

__________

His hearing returning to the real world echoed a mysterious melodious tune. A humming both angelic and alien in nature, his eyes fluttered as he took in his surroundings. Running his hands through the warm sun-kissed sand, his naked back on the heavenly shores of paradise. 

Putting his hand up to block the sun, of course to no avail due to the looming figure blocking the light. Thinking the shadow was a figment of his imagination, he moved to rub his eyes, groaning and flexing his tired biceps in the process. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, feeling like he had been hit by the largest monsoon this side of the Seven Seas. 

“Where the fuck…” he stammered off taking in the environment around him, the crashing shores, the palm trees swaying in the breeze, the beating sunlight of late morning, and that figure becoming more clear in his line of sight. 

The flowing locks in the breeze, the sunkissed skin of a goddess, the perfect form laying against the coarse sand, surrounded by sounds of seagulls and crashing swells. He blinked a few times to take in the fact that you were perched in the spot he’d seen previous, and sat forward, his muscles bulging, slightly burned himself from laying passed out in the morning light. 

“Hh-hello?” he questioned your direction, bringing his large hands around his thankfully clothed legs. You glanced over his direction, your naked form sprawled out facing away from him, only to show your globed asscheeks in the sunlight. Your alluring eyes batting those perfect lashes, your lip pursing into a gorgeous pout. 

“Well good morning to you there, sailor,” you sang his direction, rubbing your delicate hands over your side. 

“W-what happened to me? How in the fuck did I get here?” he suddenly and blatantly questioned you, still turned towards the ebbing waves of the Atlantic. 

You chuckled, playing with the shell you’d found while waiting for him to wake up, “Well, I saved you.” 

His eyes perked up at the out of this world comment you’d shrugged off, “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me, sailor,” you smiled over your shoulder, still rolling the shell in your hands, “I. Saved. Your. Ass.” 

Flip sat there completely dumbfounded. This gorgeous creature, dove into the abyss during a storm, of which he’d never seen previously, and rescued him from imminent death, dragged his burly over two hundred pound body, and brought him to an unknown shore, where you could have left him to rot in the sun and die. He wasn’t convinced given the fact that he hadn’t seen you on the seas the night before.

“No. No, you didn’t,” he shrugged and laughed as if he’d finally snapped. 

Taking his sarcasm as a complete insult to your kindness, you whipped your ethereal figure around, bearing your bouncing nude breasts and plump pussy to his eyes. 

“Yes. I. Did,” you asserted in the most melodic tone, floating towards his hulking body on the sand. “What?” you pouted, “Does my lil’ buccaneer not want to grasp the fact that lil’ ol’ me came from the depths across your lifeless frame, and scooped you out of near-death to save your worthless lil’ life?”

“Wait…” he stopped, standing to full attention, rippling pectorals, toned arm muscles, and a stern face staring into your soul, “you came… from the depths?” he cocked an eyebrow. 

You saddled towards his six-foot three-figure, no doubt him staring at your bare chest as you near him, and tilted his chin to your eye level, “Yes, sailor boy, I saved you. Do I need to spell it out any more than I already have?” boring your eyes into his, no doubt taking in the intense amber fired color they emitted as they scanned your every crevice. 

“N-no. No ma’am,” he gulped inward, simply agreeing under your entrancement.

“Thank you,” he whispered out, his trance only causing more tension between the both of you. 

“You’re welcome,” you murmured inching closer to his pink, full lips, taking in the rum-soaked breath he emitted. 

His eyes closed, and he moved in for the kill. Your lips suctioning onto each other, holding them there for fear of one rejecting the other. His calloused hands moving in synchrony against your warm body, feeling every single dimple, and curve you had. The left resting on one globe behind you, and the other snaking into your beach kissed locks, pulling ever so slightly. Your hands shot to his girthy chest, rubbing and caressing his peaked nipples beneath your dainty fingers. He gasped as you pinched the sensitive skin, pulling away looking half-lidded at your glorious features. 

“Who the hell are you?” he rubbed his thumb over your cheek, massaging the back of your head, causing your eyes to roll back into your head. Pulling yourself close against his swollen lips, you whispered on his breath, “Your dream come true.”

He smiled ever so slightly, letting out the smallest of chuckles, and shoved you back into his waiting lips, this time in a searing kiss that had his hands traveling down to lift you off the ground by your thighs. He shoved his tongue down your waiting throat, creating a symphony of moans and suction as he turned you around to lay your needy body on the sand. 

He loomed over you, pressing his very noticeable bulge against your pelvis. Grinding on you, eliciting more groans from his chest. He broke the kiss only to trace his wet lips along the outline of your neck, trailing to your budding breasts. He took one in his mouth, sucking ever so gently, and massaged the other with his mammoth hand. The sounds escaping you, only spurring his motions on even more so. He did the same with the other until you were writhing in pleasure and the buds turned to stiffened peaks. 

“God, sailor, I need you,” you pleaded, nearly out of breath, “Please.”

He looked up from the trail of his kisses on your stomach and settled his smiling face over your entrance. 

“Oh, now you wanna play nice with me? You haven’t even told me your name gorgeous,” he teased licking a stripe along your moist slit. 

“Uhhhh, fuck sailor, I could say the same to you,” you sang in euphoric pleasure. 

“Ladies first,” his hot breath sending vibrations along your clit. 

“Y/N,” you stammered unable to fully speak. 

He started to suck a welt on one of your thighs, and after breaking the suction looked up and moved his face to other, never breaking eye contact with your stare, “absolutely mesmerizing, Y/N,” bearing back down on the flesh, sucking for all it was worth. 

Just as he was satisfied with the bruising, he whispered back to you, “name’s Captain Flip Zimmerman,” and dove nose-first into your waiting hole, eliciting a scream from your lips. 

He traced circles around your pulsing vagina, humming at the thought of how turned on he was making you. His nose grazing your stiffening clit, every time his tongue entered your pussy. You twitched at every pulse his face was giving you. 

“Good, God Captain,” you cried out, “I-I’m gonna c-c-cum!” 

He moved his perfect lips to your aching bud, enveloped them in a French kiss, and sent you into the wildest orgasm you’d ever encountered. Crying his name out over and over again as he sucked relentlessly on your arousal. 

“There’s my pretty girl,” he cooed as you moaned in complete euphoria, “sing to me my sweet siren.” 

He slurped up your sweet release into his desperate mouth smiling in pleasure as his beard tickled your overstimulated pussy.  You came down from the high, as his face connected back to yours. Your hands brushing through his ebony locks, tasting your spend on his saliva. 

“Captain,” you gasped in between his kisses, “I need your cock.” 

He looked up with eyes black as his hair and began to pull his pantaloons down, releasing his Kraken of a cock to your hungry eyes. 

“You like what you see, siren?” he noticed your gaping mouth at his large member. 

“My God, sailor, your so fucking big,” pulling your hand over your precious lips, “do you think it will fit in my tight lil’ pussy?” 

“It will,” he moved to gather the wetness from his tip as well as the spend from your weeping entrance, and moved the mixture up and down his shaft. 

“You’re gonna take your Captain’s cock whether you like it or not,” he beamed back up at you, pushing his sword into your hole in a punishing motion. The stretch causing you to cry out over the crashing waves on the beach. He stilled, watching you writhe in pleasure and pain, drinking in your perfect little moans as best he could.

“Captain, please move, my pussy is so tight, I need you to stretch me out,” you begged, tears rolling down your face. 

“You’ll be patient and keep me warm, siren, I like watching you bend to my every will.” 

He stilled for a few moments, watching the tears roll, your lips gape open, and your sweet cunt flutter around his large dick. He could cum right there, he thought, watching the shadows dance on your pretty face. After a few moments of admiration, he pulled ever so slightly out and pushed back in.  

Setting a grueling pace, he emitted the deepest groan his chest could muster upon hearing the slapping of his balls on your ass, the squelch from your wet pussy taking every inch of him. He watched your face twist and turn as he pushed in and out, his pupils only dilating more as he took you in. 

“Siren, get on your hands and knees, face in the sand, ass up,” He pulled out, watching your tears fall at the loss of contact. You did as you were told, bearing your sand clad ass to his feining stare. He smacked it and a gust of sand fell to the earth, the roughness causing an instant handprint to show on your bare skin. 

“Motherfucker!” you steamed into the beach. 

“Watch your mouth, siren,” he smacked another hand on the other cheek, “no one like’s a dirty lil’ whore mouth.” 

He shoved his dick back into your gaping hole, setting an even faster pace than previously. The moans you both emitted spurring the release even sooner than you’d thought. His hands white-knuckled the sides of your hips, pushing your body impossibly closer. His balls slapping your skin, emitting howls as he plundered your special spot. 

“Fuck, Flip,” you groaned, “I-I can’t hold on much longer, I’m gonna cum again!”

“I’m. Almost. There. Gorgeous,” he punctuated on every thrust, bringing his hand to rub his thumb along your puckered asshole. Without warning, he punctured the perfect little hole, sending you into another earth-shattering orgasm. 

“Jesus. Fucking, Christ,” he screamed as you milked his cock of his sweet, succulent, spend, “Captain is blowing his whole load!” 

He stuffed you full of his cum, thrusting a few more times just to be sure it stayed up in your heat. Both breathless, he leaned over you, sweat dripping from his brow, hands gripping around your stomach. He pulled out, turning you over, admiring your utterly fucked face. 

“You alright, gorgeous?” he laughed towards you. 

“Y-yes, sailor,” you relented, “I’m more than just alright.” 

You pulled his face towards yours, tasting his salty sweat in his mustache. He grabbed both cheeks and shoved his tongue back down your throat, causing you to melt into his brawny body. 

He pulled away, “where did you actually come from?”

You smiled, looking away bashfully, “you really don’t understand do you,” pulling away and getting up from the spot you’d both wrecked each other in. You walked towards the waves, letting the cool water caress your feet the further you stepped in. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” he questioned almost alarmed. 

You looked back towards him, the smile eroding from your face, “home,” you said clear as day. 

And with that, a waterball formed around your goddesslike figure, consuming you in a snowglobe of sorts. A bright light emitted from your middle and expanded all the way around the cocoon. Your form changed from legs to a gorgeous aquamarine fin, your skin melding to the attachment, and the globe took you further out to the ocean. 

Flip stood there, dumbfounded again. He blinked a few more times, not even realizing what he had just seen. 

“Did I…” he told himself, “W-what the fuck.” 

He sat back down on the beach, contemplating what had just occurred, trying to justify the possibility that this was just his imagination. 

“I need a fucking drink,” he concluded. 

He scoured the island in search of more answers, only to come upon another impossible find. 

His ship. 

Parked on the beach, like it hadn’t been through any kind of storm in the slightest. 

He noticed his crew as well, packing goods away like he hadn’t witnessed them sinking to Davey Jones’ Locker the night before. He blinked several times, thinking it was all a mirage, or that he may have been drunk to no avail. 

Ron noticed his Captain gawking at the ship, and flagged him over, “Hey there Cap! Where ya been?” 

“I-uh,” he had no words for what had happened. 

“Hey Cap? Let’s get you back in the boat,” Ron pat his back, leading him to his quarters on the hull.  

After making sure Flip was okay to be left alone, he went back to his duties. 

The Captain sat at his wooden desk, feet perched on the top, his hands running through his mustache, trying to piece together what had just occurred. 

The storm, the destruction, you, his ship turning up unscathed. 

You. Holy shit. You. 

A fucking mermaid. You were a creature of the ocean, who had happened upon him during his hour of need, scooped him up and saved his entire livelihood in the process. You were enchanting. A literal siren song. He played through the moans you made, the sarcasm you shot at him, your whole aura was absolutely mesmerizing. He’d never encountered anything as perfect as you. 

He wanted to find you again. To feel your soft skin on his beard, look into those piercing eyes, and hear his name on your lips. He had to find you. If it meant he didn’t have any other purpose than that on the ocean. 

As he made his mind up, he took all the texts he had on your kind to study the lore, hoping to find the answer he so desperately needed. Upon hours and hours of inspection, he stopped at the Holy Grail. Picking up the map slowly, he chuckled like he’d lost his mind. 

The City of Atlantis. 

That had to be home. You had to be there. 

“Fuck,” he groaned out, now knowing what he had to do. 

He set the course, watching his crew scramble to get the ship headed the correct way, smelling the salted sea air on his nostrils. He tipped his buccaneer hat and looked into his spyglass. 

“Here we fuckin’ go boys,” he muttered, gritting his teeth, anxious to see you in the flesh again.

__________

CAPTAIN BLOWHOLE IS OUT TO FIND HIS LADY LOVE!

THANK YOU FOR YOUR THIRSTY ASKS PLZ SEND MORE I LOVE YOUR SICK MIND. 

🖤,

ray-nal-beads 

[demauryss]

murphy’s law | 1/2

anything that can go wrong will go wrong. eliott just learns it the hardest way possible.

or, kind of an expansion of hold you here my loveliest friend

 alt er love advent calender, day 18

(for my dearest mtea @bluronyourradar, this is the thing which i was writing for you. i tore my heart in half while writing this hehe hope you enjoy reading this. part two coming soon i promise :-))

The thing about giving your heart to your best friend is, you never actually see it happening. You don’t see it coming. It just happens. Maybe at the speed of tar moving over the road. Maybe at the way the sunlight fades behind the darkness of the night. Maybe in the blink of an eye. But it happens.

You see, they’re always there. You find their smile punctuated by the way they look at you, and their words sweet like honey and heart as warm as a stream of water on a hot day. The fluttering of their hands over your skin and in your stomach burning like the crackling fire you’d have stood in front of, smoke from the ashes mixing with the tears in your eyes as you’d have turned away. They’re always there, so you don’t see.

(Maybe sometimes you do. Amidst fleeting glances and stopping heartbeat and sometimes, concrete as the sky and bottomless as the ground beneath your feet. You don’t.)

And it’s the best thing, those short moments where you don’t have to worry about someone else having a hold of your heart, twisting it to their desires. It’s the best thing about giving your heart to your best friend. Because you’re as blissful as you can be around them. Because you’ve always felt this welcoming warmth radiating from them which envelops your bones and makes a home for you inside itself, stopping you from stepping out of it into the unbidden cold, which is sharp and sinks itself over you.

And when your best friend gives their heart to you, you take it without any questions asked. You hold it close to the space where yours used to be. You spend your nights dancing through the grass and your days lifting the feeling slowly settling in your head, blurring your thoughts and fading every sense of reality. You hold on to their heart tighter than your own, and maybe that’s the first mistake you make.

Because then your grip on your own heart starts to loosen. Till a time comes that it completely shifts away from you. Because your brain is busy protecting your best friend’s heart and forgets the part of itself which you have given away.

And because. Because you let yourself. So there comes a time when your best friend hands your heart back to you. They hand it back, warmed and loved and wrapped in a curtain which makes it to look like it hasn’t been used before. They hand it back, a delicate bundle of fibers and beats mixing into one.

And you’ve spent so much time in cutting all the nerves and vessels tying you to that beating flesh. You’ve spent so much of yourself living without that part of you. And when you get your heart back, despite of your wishes, you don’t know what to do with it. You place it beck inside your chest, behind that cage tightening against the walls, hoping it would find its place back. But it sits there, a foreign and estranged piece of you; a displaced swing finding its equilibrium again; a stretched elastic held against its wishes to recoil.

Because you know if you let it go it would return to them in a heartbeat.

And that’s another thing about giving your heart to your best friend. The first time it happens, you don’t realize it. But the second time, when your heart literally crawls out of your chest, and walks away from you and back to your best friend. It rips your skin in the way, leaves your hands frozen, unable to stop the process, as you watch it run away from you.

And you watch, realizing that it will never be yours if you stop it now. So you watch. And you let it go.

And with it comes the realization that the thing beating inside you was never meant to stay there and hide. That even after they return your heart to you under the guise of doubts and ache, it’s ready to turn away in a second. That no matter the layers you put over it and the pain you go through to cover the fierceness with which it is beginning to tear itself from you; it won’t work. And there comes a time where you’re left to collect the pieces of your skin and the fibers your heart has left in its trail.

And that’s the worst thing about giving your heart to your best friend, you see. The realization, the feeling, the fucking knife which keeps on twisting in your chest and you keep screaming for it to stop, just stop. But the blood seeps away and the wound gets deeper and you find yourself filling it with the dust in your lungs and the shivers in your hands. But it fills your mouth with iron and your legs become studded with lead when you realize – you realize that no matter what, your heart will never be yours to keep after that.

    Lucas’s mother owns a candy shop. When he hugs Eliott his hair smells of butterscotch and banana, all combined into one. It’s peculiar, but the thought fades into the back of his head when Lucas nuzzles his face into his chest, and as his hands squeeze the space above Eliott’s hips in a frantic cry of help.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, muffling a laugh behind the wild mess on Lucas’s head which needs to be toned down desperately – but Eliott isn’t complaining. “What is it this time?”

Lucas separates himself from Eliott, his lips puffed in a pout and eyes filled with a look of great disgrace as he grimaces. “Blueberry and basil! Like would you believe that?” He shudders effectively, his eyes going wide as he looks at Eliott. “It tastes terrible.”

Eliott shakes his head, “Terrible as in sriracha and peanut butter or terrible as in terrible?”

“Terrible!” Lucas throws his hands up as he starts walking into the shop. Eliott follows him. “Like how you’d expect someone's locker to smell like after months of dirty clothes accumulating there.”

Eliott shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips, “That’s oddly specific, and besides, I don’t think it’s that bad. I mean, you said the same thing about orange and tarragon and it ended up tasting bloody amazing!”

“I knew you would say that,” The small rainbow embroidered at the left side of Lucas’s olive green sweater catches Eliott’s eyes when he turns around to frown at him. Eliott has half a mind to remove the piece of lint and fraying thread from it, like they used to do before. Pieces of wool caught on Lucas’s hair, eyelash on Eliott’s cheek. Dirt smeared on Lucas’s face, and charcoal on Eliott’s fingers.

He has half a mind to fall back into the circle he barely made out of alive, and blow away the lint for it to catch something somewhere else. But he stops himself.

They don’t do it anymore.

“What makes you think so?”

Eliott’s first memory of Lucas is from the same spot Eliott’s standing on with the two jars of Ali’s homemade orange marmalade. Lucas’s eyes are a shade of an orchestral blue which he finds tainting the memory, and there’s a troubled smile blooming over his features a minute later when he hears another pair of footsteps coming closer.

“Eliott, is that you, dear? Please help me in letting this devil know he’s wrong. You’re the only one who can help me right now.”

Lucas lets out a wounded groan, his eyes widening as he whispers, “That.” Eliott smothers his laugh when Lucas starts to rush in the opposite direction to the resounding footsteps.

“I don’t work here and you never saw me.”

Ali nears into Eliott’s view just as her son disappears behind a display of colorful candies wrapped in pretty ribbons. Eliott, even when he was stumbling about his footing around Lucas, had always been awed by the intricate knots and the curves Ali has placed in the ribbons. When she approaches him, her eyes soften into a blue much like Lucas’s, but still on a different side of the spectrum.

“Lucas’s being a diva again,” she tells him, holding out a wooden spoon dipped in a questionable mixture in a purple bowl. It smells strongly of sugar and home, an exact opposite of what Lucas had so graciously – and wrongly – described. Ali holds out the mixture for him to taste, and he does so, dipping in a figure in the velvety warmth gathered on the tip of the spoon and bringing it to his mouth.

“It…actually, it tastes so good.”

He knows Lucas is hiding behind the shelves somewhere. Before, when it used to be as simple as Eliott using his fingers to do the counting on, or the stars simply dotting the sky without meaning anything, Ali would have Eliott and Lucas spending hours in her little kitchen, having them as the testers of whatever she would have made. It started out as a rush of a breeze for Eliott quickly picking up space before transforming into this pleasant routine he hasn’t departed from yet.

(Despite letting go of the person it all started out with.)

Ali’s smile brings Eliott into a cocoon of familiarity, “Tell this brainless idiot hiding here somewhere. I swear God really messed up when he gave Lucas those taste buds.” She shakes her head and Eliott laughs.

“Please stop talking about me like I’m not here,” He hears a muffled voice, one coming from directly behind him. Lucas emerges, licking around an orange colored candy which Eliott is absolutely sure isn’t meant for eating by him at all. His suspicion is confirmed when Ali gives her son a disapproving look, which he absolutely dodges when his eyes start burning brighter.

“And you please stop stealing the stuff I made which you previously rejected with those abominable taste buds of yours.” Ali bites back and Lucas turns a faux-offended face towards her. It’s familiar. It’s warm. It burns.

“I’ll have you know my taste buds are anything but that; very high in demand too. Tell her Eliott!” Eliott is more shocked on the mention of his name than the suffocating feeling the simple request brings as his lungs almost collapse on themselves. Lucas is unaware of the weight his words had on Eliott, as he struggles to keep his breathing even and heart forcibly inside his chest. There’s something very primal about this feeling – the one of tightness in his lungs and restlessness in his legs – something which takes him back to the very first time he’d seen Lucas a decade ago – right here in this candy shop with butterscotch in his smile and sugar in his hair, gripping Eliott in a saccharine tanginess bound to hold him for the rest of his life.

Lucas says something, and Ali threatens to catapult the bowl of the gooey mixture over his head. Eliott watches, silent, when Lucas shakes his head – all faux annoyed – as his mother stands rolling her eyes at her bratty son.

“Anyways,” Lucas says, looping his arm through Eliott’s at a place where a familiar burn seeps through the material of his shirt. “Since all of your attempts of stealing Eliott from me have considerably failed, can you let us go now?”

Eliott makes a sound of indignation in his throat. As if –

“As if you need any permission from me.”

Ali hasn’t even completed the sentence, and Eliott is being forcefully dragged towards the door. He’s always been amazed by the strength Lucas holds, now even more so when he finds himself just near the door between shouting a goodbye to Ali and taking his next breath.

“Hey,” Eliott starts when they’re outside. He’s resisting the pull Eliott has on him. It’s somewhere around the sun beginning to set behind the clouds. “Slow down, will you?”

Lucas looks at him, eyes narrowed as if he’s seriously judging Eliott, “Yann will have my head on a plate if we do.”

And Eliott would like to know where that we in this conversation came from. But before he does…..”And we can’t have that now?”

Lucas grins, “You know we can’t.”

  Lucas Lallemant is a tide –

He’s a force which keeps on moving forward, carving shorelines and curved shapes in places Eliott finds hard to keep up with. He’s high when the moon comes, rising on his toes to offer Eliott a hit of the blunt curled in his fingers, sometimes snug between his lips. Sometimes he rushes away. Sometimes he crashes against Eliott – but then he slips out of the gaps between Eliott’s fingers, through the cracks in his skin – and settles somewhere hidden, alien, and then Eliott has to crawl – follow the trajectory he would have carved, only to find him crashing against his walls with a rhythm impossible for Eliott to match, to get hold of.

He’s a force which keeps on giving – to shores, to coasts.  To the moss gathered on stone wearing with time and tide – with him. He gives – he gives till Eliott finds himself surrounded in every pore, every grain that is Lucas. He comes like this: little ripples on the surface of Eliott’s skin setting in motion

And that’s when he takes. The sand which lines the edges and the plants covering the base, tearing away their roots, dissolving them into smithereens much like Eliott’s heart in his hands and the blood in his mouth from biting his tongue too hard as it escapes; his heart among the waves melting on the floor and rising upwards, higher, faster. Till the blue of him surrounds Eliott in a lightning contrast against the warmth of his hands, resting, curling in his chest and plunging him into once deep then hallow darkness as he rises.

And when the ebb comes – Eliott drowns in it.

    Idriss takes him by the lapel of his jacket onto the balcony once they’ve reached Yann’s flat.

“Hey,” he says, his voice weighted by the bass which beats under his feet. Lucas gets swarmed into the crowd, one part of it taking him, another forming a barrier for Eliott to reach him.

“How have you been?”

It doesn’t register in his brain; the grave being which holds Idriss's words together for Eliott. He hums out a non-committal response, which does little wonders to ease Idriss off of his case.

“Eliott,” the end syllable of his name catches on a sigh as it comes out of Idriss’s mouth. But he wonders. It’s his name, isn’t it? Then why does it feel so foreign when Idriss says it; like the Eliott in his name and the Eliott that he is are two completely different beings.

Outside it’s cold, but still there is a feeling of warmth – all nebulous and out of place. Eliott doesn’t know what it means, just that he isn’t used to feeling this way.

“What is it?” His voice feels hollowed, and it must have been a trick of light, but he sees Idriss flinch.

“You stood up,” his voice sounds equally grave, “again.”

Eliott has to grasp behind the lines to understand what he means. “The date,” Idriss complies, when he sees the lost look on his face.

Eliott stills for a moment. He was supposed to go on a date. But, did he want to.

“Idriss,” Eliott sighs, turning around and putting all of his weight on the railing, hoping it would swallow the thing weighing him down like mercury. “I don’t want to be set up on dates. You know that.”

Idriss doesn’t speak for a moment. But then, “You can’t keep doing this to yourself Eliott,” He lands a hand on his shoulder, “you can’t.”

Eliott stays quiet, he doesn’t know what to say. What is it he’s doing, exactly? “Forget it-,” He says, at length, “- just leave me on my own. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Eliott feels it, inside him, the feling holding him getting impregnated with lead and rust when Idriss replies, “But did you – with Lucas?”

What?

Idriss reads his confusion. “Did you talk with Lucas about the reason why he didn’t want to be with you anymore?” Eliott bites his tongue and something other than physical pain fills his senses at the soft reminder of what went down mere three weeks ago.

“No,” His voice sounds scratchy, like it has taken him a great strength to get the simple word out. “Lucas doesn’t owe me an explanation. Besides, you can stop feeling for someone you thought you liked, no?”

The air is still and Eliott feels desolate from the domain outside his mind. He almost doesn’t register Idriss and his quiet, “But can you?” Almost.

There, something burns in his eyes and his chest and his throat feels awfully familiar to a thorny stem Eliott has grasped in his hands. There, outside, as leaves begin to fall and Idriss lets out a small whisper of comfort, that Eliott feels overwhelmingly small and separate from the significant part of the universe holding Lucas and the currents of waves rising from his touch.

Just tell him, Idriss says and when he leaves Eliott chants a mantra of too late too late too late in the havoc of his mind. And then Lucas comes, like a tide. He looks up at Eliott with fire behind the blue in his eyes and water raising it up instead of dimming it out. He takes away Eliott’s heart, yet again, the space in his chest feeling like a hollow piece of log left to be accumulated as moss on stagnant water and dew on drooping leaves. 

And when he leaves, he robs Eliott off of his breath like a flood does one of his belongings, leaving him wrecked and floating uncertainly in the sea of the world.

    He makes a mistake one day.

They are on the roof of Eliott’s building. Lucas’s hands are covered in gold which glitters in his soul and the stars above. His tongue tastes of mulberry and wine when Eliott licks in his mouth. His lips bleed soft kisses into the place Eliott’s neck meets his jaw. His eyes are dusty asteroids which circle into Eliott’s orbit with a force which knocks him of gravity and his breath when they close with laughter as Eliott finds the particularly ticklish spot on his neck.

I’ve been waiting for this, Lucas says, his voice light and warm and so, so soft. Eliott feels a cloud of smoke in his lungs. Me too.

He makes a mistake that day. He falls.

But then he’s standing next to the fire which Idriss and Yann created using plastic wrappers and leaves they found lying around. Lucas is a comet, the, his cold hands gripping Eliott’s as the fire pricks his eyes and the smoke in his lungs becomes a relic from before.

I can’t do this Eliott, He chokes, his voice heavy and sad and laden with so much hurt that Eliott has to take a step back. We’re – we will be better as friends. I’m sorry I just can’t.

So Eliott swallows around the charred cage in his chest doing little to keep his heart still. Okay, he whispers. Lucas’s red-rimmed eyes curving into a sad, watery smile burn like a star in Eliott’s gut.

He makes a mistake one day. He doesn’t stop falling.

    November comes, and Eliott finds himself shifting between cold winds ruffling his hair and tinging his cheeks with a cold he feels in his bones. It takes him skipping rocks among dirt and catching falling leaves in the palm of his hand. It takes him to Lucas, nestled between the shelves in his mother’s shop, eyes wide and engulfing warmth as sugar and syrup drips from his mouth and stains Eliott’s shirt in a stubborn red.

Eliott sees Lucas, sees him coming for his heart, and the pang which rises inside his chest feels sound in the void which grows around him. It becomes foreign, the security the pain brings him. But he drowns in the cold warmth encompassing him when Lucas smiles and asks him about another constellation, or when he brings Eliott’s coffee from the shop on the curb – when they talk, and their once, five month relationship becomes a fleeting whisper; a puddle after rain gone when the sun came up.

They don’t mention it, and neither their friends. Somewhere between that, Idriss takes the hint and stops trying to get Eliott to go on dates. His heart grows accustomed to having Lucas’s hold over it, and the thorns growing in his throat shrivel. They don’t fall like Eliott thought they would, and sometimes it happens that Eliott feels them digging into his windpipe, swallowing his voice when he sees Lucas from across the room. Or when his eyes glisten like gold and honey all combined into one.

He keeps taking Eliott apart, piece by piece, but Eliott grows familiar to the feeling making a home inside him. And when Lucas holds his hand and points to a falling star much like Eliott looking for a place in the universe, it doesn’t hurt.

Except when it does.

    There’s a hole in his jacket.

Eliott finds it the noon he’s inside the video store he worked at. He must have gotten it when he’s jacket got stuck in his neighbor’s fence, and in his haste, he must have pulled it, hard.

Lucas finds it funny for whatever reason when Eliott delivers him the news with sadness. His laugh rings through the speaker of Eliott’s phone. “You and that jacket, I swear.”

“It’s my favorite,” Eliott says, hoping his tone would convey his feelings to Lucas, “It’s been with me through thick and thin.”

“Yeah I know,” Lucas sounds solemn, “We’ll make it right,” Eliott believes him.

“But listen,” Lucas pauses, then begins again, “the reason I called you – I wanted to ask you something.”

Eliott holds on the phone, “Yes?”

“Sarah let me off with two passes for this art exhibition tonight. I wanted to know if you – if you’d go with me?”

Eliott’s chest gives a resounding ache which travels like water through his body, chilling his fingertips so much he can barely feel the phone held in them. The thing is – they don’t do this anymore; this just Lucas and him alone thing. He hasn’t done anything like this in such a long time that he forgot what being with Lucas – just Lucas – is like.

And he can't wait to remember. So. “Yeah,” he breathes out, “of course I’ll go.” With you.

“Perfect,” Lucas’s voice hold quiet happiness, something Eliott is sure is so fragile he’d break it if he takes another breath.

So he holds it, deep inside his lungs when Lucas says, “I’ll be at the store at 6:30. We’ll walk together.”

And he holds in when he says goodbye, a promise tethering on the edge of something so strange yet so comforting at the same time. His lungs burn, and his chest caves in.

But Eliott gets to work.

    Evening drags November to a cold, scruffy end. He can’t feel his hands when he accounts the last of the sales into the computer. It hits close to six when he finishes, and decides to spend the rest of the time till Lucas’s arrival sorting out the DVDs left on the counter.

It’s between that, one moment picking up the assortment and the other spent looking over his phone lying on the side as it lights up with a notification, that there’s the sound of someone closing the door behind them.

Eliott whips around, heart in his throat at the prospect of seeing Lucas, but the person standing in front of him takes him by surprise.

“Hi Eliott.”

Lucille’s smile is warmer; her hair is shorter, blonder. Eliott takes a hard minute to reply.

Lucille,” He’s sure his tone doesn’t do justice to the feeling she brings inside him. It’s been long – a long time since he last saw her. And that too ended on partial good terms.

But still he tries his best to smile.

“How have you been?” He asks, awkwardly placing the DVDs from where he picked them up. Lucille shrugs her shoulder, and a small laugh leaves her lips.

“Good, I’m good.” She says. Eliott nods, then, and tries to shake off the uncomfortable tension settling around him and over his shoulders. Lucille comes to his rescue, thankfully.

She points to the array of movies behind him, craning her neck to the side as she speaks, “I – I needed a recommendation, actually.”

Huh. “The movies. I – I kinda need one for uhm- this date night. My girlfriend- uh, Sophie is into screenwriting and stuff, so I want to do something to impress her.”

Eliott turns his neck sideways, “And I’m the only one you can come to for that?”

Lucille smiles sheepishly, “You know you are.”

He laughs, bright, and turns to sift through the movies he pretty much knows her girlfriend will surely appreciate. He’s always loved doing this, rec-ing stuff when asked – whether it be movies or artists or funny enough, dubstep artists to listen to.

(The credit for the last one goes mainly to Lucas, and Eliott feels proud to share that at least he’s helped him get into the kind of music he himself loves. Even when the insults Lucas throws after listening to the music are worth keeping in a jar and remembering for later.)

Lucille takes the movies he picks out.

“How are you and Lucas?”

Her tone carries an infinite amount of casualness which Eliott is sure she isn’t faking. But it makes him still – you and Lucas in a sentence together. They don’t go like that. Never have.

“We uh – we’re not together anymore.” He says, voice low and taut as he rings her up. “Uh- yeah. We broke up.”

Lucille is silent. Then, “Oh. I’m sorry.”

 He stays silent. When he’s done with her items, she takes it from him without a word. I’m sorry. It’s funny how many times he’s heard that.

“Um- Thank you,” She’s quiet, soft. Eliott smiles, as terse as that may be. “I’m happy to see you, Eliott.”

“Yeah, uh, I’m happy too.” He admits, because he is. Because she’s familiar. Because he knows her.

Lucille smiles, as she clutches the items to her chest, “If – If you’re free some time, I’d like for you to Sophie. She uh - knows about us, and I’m sure you both will like each other.”

“You’re sure?” He teases, and she slaps him lightly on his arm; familiar. Rolling her eyes, she bites back, “Yeah, idiot.” Eliott laughs; it’s warm.

“I’d love to meet her,” is what he settles on, and it’s what which has Lucille brightening up further. “Great,” she says, and leaves Eliott not before rising up on her toes and giving him a half-awkward, full warm hug which Eliott gladly accepts.

When she leaves, it becomes a game of watching the hands on the clock move. It’s fifteen minutes over the time Lucas and him and decided. But still Eliott sees no sign of him. He’s worried. There’s no text or call from him either, and Eliott knows he could do so too, but it doesn’t guarantee him not sounding desperate.

Five minutes to seven and he gives up, closing the store and walking out into the clear night sky. He spots a couple of uncluttered, adrift stars he doesn’t know yet. Cold air nips at his skin, eyes search for the sign of the familiar boy walking towards him. But he finds nothing.

He sighs, then, and starts walking in the direction of his apartment. Maybe something came up. Maybe Lucas is okay. Maybe he forgot. Maybe maybe maybe.

It’s then that the phone in his holed jacket rings, bringing him back to the now. He hustles to take it out, and as Lucas’s name blinds his eyes, his heart returns with a hopeful tingle in his chest.

His breath fogs in the dark as he whispers, “Hello?”

“Eliott,” Lucas’s voice feels distant, like they’re the same poles of a magnet and the field between them is just pushing them away.

“Lucas, are you alright?” It hurts, that it’s the first thing which comes to his mind. That something happened to Lucas – with Lucas, and he wasn’t able to make it to him. He hates it. He hates it.

“Yeah uh – I got held up. I’m sorry I couldn’t- can’t make it. I just – I didn’t – couldn’t find time to call you sooner. I’m so sorry I -.”

Eliott cuts Lucas off, “It’s alright,” his heart beats on the floor. His legs remain frozen on the sidewalk. It’s not Lucas’s fault if he found something more important than Eliott. He doesn’t owe him anything, anyway.

Eliott doesn’t hear the rest which follows. There’s something – someone on the phone behind Lucas, someone who calls Lucas – “You’re coming back Lu?” Eliott hears the voice.

Then he hears Lucas, loud and clear, “Yeah, baby, you go ahead. I’ll be with you in a second.”

Baby. Lucas only ever called Eliott that. He feels something twist inside him as his lungs burn with a ferocity which leaves him aching all over. His fingers go numb, and his feet drag painfully on the gravel.

Lucas seems to be talking, and Eliott only catches the end through the static in his head.

“I gotta go. But I – I promise I’ll make it up to you, Eli. Okay?”

Eliott purses his lips, doesn’t fight his hear combusting as a layer of heavy rust settles over it, preventing it from moving back to Lucas as he lies motionless there, on the concrete, forging stars from its dying matter.

Okay. Eliott whispers when Lucas hangs up. Then he releases his breath and starts walking.

[imagine-loki]

Between pages

TITLE: Between pages

CHAPTER NO./ONE-SHOT: One-shot

AUTHOR: fanfictrashdump

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki always carries a book. Not because he’s reading 24/7, but because he likes tucking flowers from the bouquets you make and leave in the shared kitchen in between the pages. 

RATING: T

NOTES/WARNINGS: There is fluff in my soul and I will not apologize for it. Language, extreme awkwardness, and unlikely friendships ahead. Let Loki be soft 2020.

=

Loki, God of Mischief, Prince of Asgard, Rightful King of Jotunheim, Odinson was a master sorcerer. His talent was unmatched in the Universe, and he was capable of feats that were previously unheard of in all the Nine Realms. He could defy the laws of physics, of imagination. He could bend the very fabric of the Universe and arrive at a different planet with merely a step in any direction. He was awe-inspiring and nightmare-inducing in equal measure.

So, how in the fucking hell did some silly flowers become his ruin?

Groaning pathetically against the plumpness of his down-filled pillow, he contemplated escaping the Tower. He had run away from more dangerous places before. Surely, walking out of Stark’s prized building would be little more than child’s play to a sorcerer of his caliber. However, any time he reminded himself that he was, indeed, a sorcerer the wound on his ego would split and bleed fresh, once more.

It would have been so easy to explain away. There was a reason they called him the Silvertongue, but he just stood there. Like a moron. He just… he just handed it over, and now…

He groaned again, teeth bared in a half-snarl as the memories flooded his mind.

There were few things in this little, mortal trash heap of a world that intrigued Loki. The supersoldiers held his interest for a moment or two, until he had all but uncovered the secrets of their endurance and had promptly become bored. The spies were fun to watch, if only to watch Barton squirm under his intense gaze, thinking he had another plot to put him under mind control. Banner was… well, he didn’t mess with Banner. Or Stark, for that matter. They were on an unspoken truce upon which his very survival was pinned. After all, Loki was nothing if not self-serving in his quest for continued breathing.

Then, there was the mutant; the plant witch.

The five-foot-nothing little imp who he could not seem to put the fear of god in, no matter how much he tried. The mortal had talked back, disobeyed direct orders on the field, sassed, hugged, and blackmailed him over a hobby in the course of less than a year. Loki would be impressed at her ruthlessness of character if he wasn’t utterly annoyed at her existence.

Well, that, and the fact that he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out how her powers worked.

And that was the source of his current anguish.

Lily, the little mutant, had a predictable daily routine. She would wake up with the sun, make breakfast for the whole team, go to the gym and be back in time for the meal. Once she set the table, she would always conjure a handful of flowers in the vase in the middle of the table. It was never the same arrangement, twice, and it was never the type of arrangement the mortals would overpay for at the local flower shops. Wild variations of popular flowers, bits of flowering tree branches, weeds–wildflowers of all types that brought in butterflies from the open balcony windows and delighted all.

At first, he thought she simply picked them outside and coaxed them into bloom. It wasn’t until one morning, when he had been up uncharacteristically early that he had been proven wrong. He watched her kneel on a chair at the table, hands held aloft around the vase before every vein visible pumped a fluorescently-bright green. Like seedlings, the flowers grew from tiny roots until they overflowed from the jug. Loki had walked over, almost reflexively, watching how the petals bent under his fingers and how the cool stems still felt like they were thrumming with life as if freshly picked.

Fascinating.

Loki, while talented in his own right, had never been able to conjure a flower that looked so much like a flower. They usually looked too perfect, almost artificial–like a painting of a flower brought to life. He plucked a bud and tucked it between the pages of the book he had been reading (ironically, it had been Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman). He decided that he would study this specific specimen and figure out her secret. Surely, it would be easy to conquer the skill that a mortal wielded.

He had been horrendously wrong.

That first failed attempt at replicating her craftsmanship prompted him to grab a few more samples, the next day. And the next. And the one after that, too. After a while, he had all but given up on learning how to conjure these life-like flowers, with their slightly irregular patterns and charming blemishes. But the habit had stuck and he still collected them.

Every morning, like clockwork, he would go to the kitchen for a glass of water, pull a bloom and press it between Whitman’s promises to return to his beloved dirt. The team had started making jokes about his current inability to put down the poems book, everywhere he went. They wrongly assumed that he was simply enamored by the mortal’s views of humanity or that he was learning what being human really meant. In reality, all Loki was doing was carrying the vessel for his preservation and lying in wait for the opportunity to be all on his own to snatch another souvenir.

He’d be loathe to admit that his theft was now out of pure admiration. Flowers were always his mother’s thing and he never really cared much for gardening, but he could appreciate the intricacies of every subtly veined petal and rough leaf. His fingers often ran the length of the stems and leaves, gathering the light coat of dew that glistened on the greenery, smiling to himself all the while. He supposed he had never found the need to conjure a flower or anything of the sort meant to be a soft gift–it wasn’t really his style–but the fact only made him all the more awestruck.

“You like today’s bouquet, Lokes?”

He nodded, a little distracted, having just pressed the most perfect daisy, with a little notch in one of the petals into the book. The small, leather-bound tome rested beside him on the table, golden lettering catching Lily’s eye.

“Oh my gosh, I love Leaves of Grass,” she exclaimed, and Loki had mindlessly handed her the book for her to peruse before he even had the good sense to panic. “I know. Surprise, surprise, plant babe likes plant-themed title of book, but I truly loved it when I read it in high school. It’s sad, but a good type of sad, if that… makes… sense…”

It was her trailing voice that had made Loki blink away from the flowers. Green eyes trailed from the vase, to his empty floating hand, to the table. His book was no longer there… and he was the reason for that. When his shocked gaze flickered up to hers, he found her dainty fingers trailing over a perfectly dried dandelion that Loki had chosen because it had a singular freckle amidst a canvas of soft yellow.

Loki had disappeared before she even looked away from the keepsake.

“Maybe I should just take my chances in the dungeons. I’m sure Father dearest would rather see me in a cell,” he moaned petulantly before he stiffened.

There was energy crackling in the air, making it smell like ozone and magic. Loki sat up in bed, retrieving a dagger from under his pillow and noiselessly stepping onto the carpeted floor. Beneath his feet, the carpet felt odd. With a frown, he glanced down, finding the floor covered in green and yellow–a blanket of buttercups. By the door, Lily smiled shyly, her body slumping slightly against the wall as the green faded away from her veins.

“You’ve overtired yourself,” he remarked, drily, ignoring the fact that his cheeks burned in a way that told him that he was flushed crimson. His feet shuffled beneath him, grounding him to reality and allowing him to resist the urge to bend down and run his fingers through the blooms.

She shrugged. “I’ll feel better after breakfast.” There was a tense silence between them for several more seconds. Lily held the book out in her hand, but Loki hesitated crossing the landscape to retrieve it. “You always pick the iffy ones.”

His brow pinched in with confusion. “What?”

“The flowers. You always pick the ones that aren’t perfect. Spots, notches, missing petals or stamens–”

“It makes them real,” he interrupted. “The flaws make them real. Machines can make flawless flowers.”

“I agree. I just… didn’t peg you for the type who could appreciate that, y'know?” Lily sighed, trying to suppress a grin. “Then again, I didn’t peg you for the type who pressed flowers, either.”

Loki glanced at his feet with a frown. “Everyone likes flowers,” he muttered under his breath, just shy of defensive. He managed to will his feet forward, relieving her still reaching hand of the book without glancing at her.

He swore that he hadn’t been this pathetic before he moved to Midgard.

Lily cleared her throat awkwardly, tipping a golden flower back with the toe of her trainer. “Would it be OK if I brought some flowers for your room, every once in while?” She gave him a hesitant smile before adding, “I-I need the practice,” in a rush.

“Don’t you think the others would be more deserving of them?” Loki hated the fact that he sounded somewhat bitter.

She giggled under her breath. “The others won’t really appreciate them, will they?” Before he could offer a witty retort to try and dispel the awkwardness he felt, Lily had grasped his wrist and tugged him along out the door. “Come on, we’re late for breakfast,” she remarked, conversation already forgotten.

[67impalaandwhisky]

Destiny Is Heaven Sent

Summary: Knowing Dean Winchester since you were fifteen, you’ve always been pulled in his direction. Always wanting to open up the rattled and broken cage your heart lives in. But when the child you’ve been raising together dies, you find yourself closing up the cage of your heart again. And if destiny has one thing for you, it’s to break you down before bringing you back up.

Characters: Dean x You, Sam, Castiel, Bobby, OFC’s, OMC’s, (Ongoing)

This Series Is Set Through Seasons 1-6 With Knowledge That The Bunker Exists

Rating: 18+

Warnings (Ongoing and Will Be Updated): Grieving, Mentions of Rape and Defilement (As Per A Case), Show Level Violence, Swearing, Smut, Impreg Kink, Blood, Fighting, Drinking, Dean Being Dean, Fluff, Angst, Dom!Dean, Sub!Reader

Warnings For This Chapter: Grieving Over Dead OMC, Drinking, Swearing, Flirting

A/N: This is my first Supernatural fic ever! I’ve been writing for a while and have adored Supernatural since the beginning so I’m really excited for this series and I hope everyone enjoys it!

Chapter 2.

"Good morning!" Dean yells out as he unlocks the motel room door. 

To his surprise, neither his brother nor you were there to greet him. 

He furrows his eyebrows before looking at what should be his bed to see the sheets wrinkled and messed up. He was happy that you slept in his bed and not in Sam's like you've done throughout all these years.

He knows you would never get intimate with his brother, but he can't help the heart wrenching curiosity of it all. He shouldn't have slept with that girl last night, but he did to ease his pain. 

You both handle your grief differently and yet, it's the same.

He finds women to distract him, he makes offensive jokes to cover his cowardly self. He does all the things an asshole would do to stop the pain from spreading through his limbs and to his heart.

You barrel your anger towards anything and anyone. You completely shield yourself from the world like everything will hurt you, because it does. You drink the pain away until you're numb with relief. 

Two ways of dealing. Both disappointing to one another.

He lays down on the bed, grabbing the pillow and pressing it to his face as he sighs.

The smell of lavender and oak invade his senses. It was so you. It was home. 

He lets out a groan before flipping on his back and staring up at the water stained ceiling. 

You pretend to never love anything. Never give a fuck about a single thing. But, one thing you did love was Marsh. And, you weren't afraid to show it.

You would baby him and hold him like he tethered you to the planet because he probably did. 

He turned you all into a closer family then you were before. He made things domestic in the bunker. 

He made Dean feel like he finally had a chance. You felt like his wife, someone who he would bicker with and laugh with. Someone who discussed their son's attitude and his problems.

You were like his life partner. Until that fateful day.

"Good job, baby." You say sweetly as Marsh puts the gun down on the table.

Dean steps over, inspecting the shooting range sheet. 

"Hey dad?" The puberty cracking the young boy's voice makes his adopted father smirk as he pulls the sheet off of it's holder.

"Yeah bud?" He asks as he walks back over. 

His eyes catch a glimpse of the woman he's known for years as she combs her fingers through the soft brunette locks of the young boy in their care. 

She loved him so dearly. Finally having someone to care for. 

"Uncle Sammy said he found an easy job and I wanna help...Can I come with you, mom and Uncle Sammy?" He looks over at you and there's an unspoken conversation just with your eyes.

He's getting older and he wants to do this. He wants this life. He wants to prove himself. Dean can see his willpower and his need to grow up. 

When his father was younger, John treated him and Sam like recruits rather than his children. Dean chose to take it a different way, letting Marsh decide when he was ready and he says he's ready now.

They have to respect this.

"Sure you can, baby." You whisper before kissing his forehead and smiling at him.

"Hello Dean." The voice rips him from his memories and he sits up quickly with his hand over his heart.

"Goddammit! What do you want, Cas?" He barks out as he lays back down on the bed.

He hugs the pillow tightly to his body as the angel sits down on Sam's bed.

"I would like you to fall in love with Y/N." Cas says as he puts his hands on his knees calmly.

He lets out a sharp laugh before throwing the pillow at Castiel.

"Not this again!" He says as Cas gently places the pillow on his lap.

"You must do this Dean. You must make a child with her. It's your destiny." Dean sits up quickly, frustration starting to seep into his bones as he points at his friend.

"You don't get to sit there and tell me about destiny. You hear me? You telling me that I'm supposed to fall in love with her makes me hate the fucking idea. That we're supposed to get pregnant and have a kid? For what? So they-they could be a vessel just in case something wants to come crawling back and inhabit my kid? No thanks!" His voice is sharp and agitated as he walks over to the small fridge and grabs a beer.

It's five o'clock somewhere.

"I know this is...difficult for you to understand but-"

"God-fucking-dammit Castiel. It's not difficult at all to understand! I've known Y/N since I'm fifteen years old. I've loved her from the moment I saw her. I raised a kid with her. And you know what I can't do?! I can't show her how much I love her or be with her because of this stupid destiny crap." He says before chugging his beer and slamming the bottle down on the table.

There's silence in the motel room for a while. Closing his eyes, he knows Cas is still there. He didn't hear wings flutter and he can practically feel his gaze burning through his skin to his heart.

"Yes. I understand." Cas says quietly.

"No. You don't." Dean says simply before putting his hands over his face and sighing.

"You might see how I feel. You might be able to get a glimpse of it in my mind but you don't know a damn thing about what goes through my head. I thought I had something good. Was working up to something great with her. And then Marsh died and she's right back to how she was when we first met. When we were fifteen. You don't know how destroyed I am." He says finitely, waving his hand as if to tell his friend to just stop talking.

Dean opens his eyes to the empty room before scoffing loudly. The tip of his tongue laps over his bottom lip as he leans back against the counter. 

You are his everything and his nothing all at once. 

Picking up the beer bottle, he flings it across the room only to watch the brown glass shatter into small pieces.

"Hi, I'm Agent Simmons and this is Agent Thayer we're with the FBI." You say, holding up the badge to the coroner.

"Great, thanks for coming KISS but I already told everything to the sheriff. If you didn't read the report." The older man says as he gives a short glance to your badges.

"Right. No of course, but we're looking into it because the case is so odd. So if you could just tell us what you told the sheriff. We would appreciate it." Sam says as you walk along the corridor. 

"Well you got that right, kid. Odd isn't even the word. Try freaky." He says as he pulls open one of the smaller doors that line the wall.

You can smell bleach along with the underlying scent of decay. Grimacing you focus on the covered body as it rolls out of the wall unit. 

This was never the most fun job but it beats waiting at the motel for Sam to get back, or worse. Dean.

You couldn't help but be bitter that he didn't show back up last night. Too deep into the pussy that he got last night to even think of you.

Even though there's no reason why he should think of you.

You weren't together. You've never been together.

He made that clear when you both were seventeen. He could see how comfortable you were with him. Flirting and giggling all the while as you helped his father out with jobs.

John encouraged canoodling between you two, honestly. And you think it put Dean off. Or maybe it was just you in your entirety that he was putting off.

He would only flirt and tease playfully when he was drunk. And, as you got older and went out to bars you noticed that he did it with everyone. But, you were comforted when he laid it on thicker with them. Almost like he could just be himself around you.

"So what are we looking at here?" Sam mumbles as he grimaces.

You put your hand over your mouth, happy for the distraction even though this is so fucked up, as the sheet is taken off her body.

"We had to vacuum out her insides. It was all mush. But her kidneys were intact which was odd. And this." Spreading the girls legs, you can see black, thick goo shining like oil on her thighs.

"Haven't gotten the test results back yet on what exactly this stuff is." Swallowing uncomfortably, you look away before shivering.

"Got it." Sam whispers and you can practically hear the gag in his voice.

"I hope you catch the son of a bitch. Or at least make out heads or tails of what's going on." The coroner says covering up the body.

"Jesus." You whisper before closing your eyes.

"Thank you. We'll see ourselves out." He says before putting his hand on the small of your back and walking you out of the room.

"Absolutely disgusting." You say to him as he undoes his tie, weaving through people in the hallway before ending up back next to you.

"What is going on? I've never seen that before." He says dumbfounded. 

"What ghost has the mojo to do that? Ectoplasm cum? That's just insane." You say as you both shove the doors open.

"Hey Y/N...do you wanna talk?" Sam asks as he makes his way towards your car.

You stop in your tracks before tilting your head.

"What Dean did last night… It wasn't right of him. And, I know you must be feeli-"

"Keep it to yourself kid. I'm as fresh as a daisy." You cut him off as you unlock your car.

"Yeah… Okay… Right. I just-- I'm here to talk to you always, you're my best friend y'know?" Sam says gently as he climbs into the car with you.

"I know Sammy." You mumble as the engine purrs to life.

Too bad there's nothing to talk about.

Ending up back at the motel. You shove the door open to Dean and some random chick as she sits on his lap.

Your jaw clicks and you throw his bag of food beside him before walking over to the fridge and grabbing a beer.

"Hey Y/N. This is Candy." You scoff in disbelief and your heart clenches as you press the bottle cap lid above the corner of the table. 

Slamming your hand down, the cap pops off easily and you give a fake, terse smirk to the girl as she waves.

There was a time when Dean called you 'Candy girl' for a completely different reason. It was a pet name you cherished but now you think it's sickening.

"Candy girl!" Dean calls to you as you put your rifle back together. 

You look up, one eye squinting from the blazing sun as he holds out a chocolate bar.

"Oh man! I love Twix." You say grabbing it from his hand. 

"I know. That's why I got it for you." He says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"This is why you call me Candy girl?" You ask lightheartedly as you rip open the packaging.

He pushes the hood of Baby up before turning his head slowly to you.

"No. I call you Candy girl because you're the sweetest woman in my life. God. You moron." He mutters before burying himself inside the front of his car.

"Get out." You tell her as Sam enters the room.

His eyes go wide and he looks at you quickly before swallowing thickly.

"Oh Y/N. Come on…" Dean whispers at the fierceness of your voice.

You look at him expectantly before chugging your beer and wiping at your mouth with your thumb. 

"Dean Abel." You mutter as you grab another beer.

"Okay, sweetheart. You heard the boss. No fun for me today." He says as he runs his hands over her arms. 

You are so grateful he has never uttered the word sweetheart to you.

It makes you feel as if you're a smidgeon different then all the other women he's ever known.

You don't watch as she leaves but you can hear her heels clicking and you can see Sam move out of the way out of the corner of your eye.

You take in the broken glass by the bathroom before shaking your head slightly.

"Why don't you do some fucking work or something?" You ask him as the door gets swung shut.

"I was doing work. Apparently our dead girl was a prostitute that worked with Candy." You hum to him before leaning back against the counter.

"So that's what you do now? You pay for it? Last night you seemed to like getting it for free." You mumble as you grab another beer. 

Sam flinches while Dean raises his eyebrows towards the heavens.

"Got something to say to me, Candy girl?" Dean asks with a laugh.

That's it.

"Y/N!" Sam screams as you charge at his brother. 

The bottle of beer smashes onto the floor, your feet stepping into the puddle of hops and suds as you ball up your fist.

"Bring it on." The oldest whispers as he clenches his jaw.

"STOP IT!" Sam bellows as he wraps his arms around you.

You struggle against his vice grip, your tongue running over your teeth as you smile at your best friend. 

"Can't you see how horrible you're being to each other? Beating each other up and taking your guilt about Marsh's death out on one another?!" The younger brother asks as he throws you down onto the bed.

"Sam. Don't." The authority in Dean's voice makes you swallow nervously.

"I miss him too, Dean. We all miss him. But you can't keep beating yourselves up like this. You can't keep treating each other like shit when it's not your fault he died. He wanted to go with us!" His voice cracks as he puts his hands down to his sides dejectedly.

"I said don't!" His brother barks out before looking at you.

You didn't even realize you were crying until now. You press your fingers to your cheek, gathering a tear as it falls before scoffing and wiping your face.

"Fuck this." You whisper as you stand up.

"Where are you going?!" You hear the oldest call to you as you walk to the door.

"Away from you." You mumble as you tug the door open harshly.

Dean sits in complete silence. 

He's been this way for an hour. He usually cleans guns when he thinks, or drinks. But, he can't bring himself to do anything. He just wants to crawl into a hole and stay there for all eternity.

You're so closed off. So gated from this reality now. It's breaking his goddamn heart. 

God knows what you were up to. 

Fights between you both is always bad. But there's never an underlying tone of hate. 

He could hear the venom rolling off your tongue like it was nothing.

He could feel the angst that was vibrating throughout your body so clearly. 

And, he just goaded you on. Because, that's what he's always done. But he shouldn't have. 

"Dean?" It's a mere whisper in the dark room.

"Yeah." He whispers back, a choked voice echoing throughout the room.

"Aren't you going after her?" Sam asks quietly as he lays down in bed.

"No Sammy. She doesn't want me to." He looks down at his calloused hands before biting his bottom lip and lowering his head.

"Yes she does. You know that. She doesn't even know that she wants you to. But you do." His younger brother replies.

"I can't go to her Sam. I can't let myself fall into this trap. Her hating me is better than nothing. Then she can't love me." 

"You're an idiot. She loves you regardless. Whether she's going to admit it to herself or not. This whole destiny thing is bullshit. So what if you guys have a kid? Doesn't mean it has to say yes to being a vessel." Dean clicks his teeth at his brother's words before carding his fingers through his hair.

"For now you have to go make sure she's okay. You have to take care of her. She's hurting so deeply." 

He mulls it over for a minute or two.

He's worried sick already. He just has to go. Even if it's wrong to give in, it's right to take care of her. Always.

Standing up, he grabs his jacket and his car keys.

"She'll be somewhere fancy since she wants to get rid of you." His brother says as he walks towards the door.

"Bitch."

"Jerk." Sam mutters as he rolls over in his bed.

"Just put down the fucking bottle." You mutter to the bartender.

"Ma'am this is a two hundred dollar bottle of whisky." The bartender says as he looks over your appearance.

"Did I stutter?" You ask annoyed, handing him the money.

As he sets down the bottle, you put your hand under your chin before huffing out.

This whole thing with Dean. This whole battling each other with mean words and fisticuffs is so exhausting.

When Marsh was around you never really fought. You had tiffs and even those ended with light hearted slaps. These fights, they're big. And, they take an even bigger toll on your mental health.

Yes, you're pushing away the one man who makes you happy.

Yes, you're closing yourself off again just like when you were a teenager.

Yes, you're completely ignoring reason for the hatred you feel in your gut.

But of course, you couldn't hate Dean Winchester. Quite the opposite.

And, that's what makes your stomach churn at night.

That's what makes everything a bitch.

He started it first. A few days after Marsh's death-- the whole push Y/N away until she wants to claw her own eyes out task.

And, he is doing a great job at it.

You're not letting him in and he's pushing you to the edge of not even wanting to get back to a place you're comfortable with him.

But, why?

Why is he pushing you to the edge like this? Why do you even fucking care?

"Can I get an extra glass over here, sweetheart?" You hear a deep voice ask and you let out a low whine as you cover your eyes with your hand.

Great. Just fucking fantastic.

A chair scrapes loudly across the linoleum flooring before you feel his big, rough hand on your bare thigh beneath your ripped jeans.

You shiver at his touch before turning your head to him and peeking through your fingers.

"I know you better than you know yourself." He says before winking at the girl as she sets down the glass.

You watch her blush and you grimace at the interaction before slinging back the shot.

"You bought the whole bottle, Mel Gibson?" He asks as he pours himself a shot.

"Go away. Please." You whisper before putting your hand below your chin again.

"Nah. I'll help you finish it. Come on. Let's go to the booth." He says, jabbing his finger to the other side of the bar.

"Why? What's the point? Hey, Carrie. Wanna distract this guy for me?" You ask the bartender and she perks up at the thought.

Typical.

"No thanks. I'm with my wife." He says before grabbing the bottle and your wrist.

You snort at his comment before whining as you get dragged off to the booth like he asked.

"You shouldn't lie to women like that Mr. Winchester. They might think you're not chivalrous." You jeer as you slide into the booth.

"Ha. Ha. You're hilarious. Shut up." He deadpans as he squeezes in beside you.

He was so close you could smell him again. You could smell home.

You push yourself away from him before grabbing your glass and shaking it asking for more.

Looking up at him, you find his deep green eyes staring at you and it makes you feel like a deer in headlights for once. They were so riddled with emotion. Emotion so far beyond anything you've seen for quite some time now.

He pours you some whisky before leaning back in the booth and sighing heavily.

You just stare at each other for a while. Both of you drink one another in, but you break the line of sight first.

You take a large gulp of the alcohol before cringing. The burn is soothing to the flaming fires in your gut.

"I'm sorry. I've been pushing you when you don't deserve it. I've been angry at the whole world." He says finally.

His voice is laced with sorrow and your heart pangs.

"I don't need your sorry." You retort before pouring yourself some more whisky.

"Hey… Hey-" He whispers softly as he holds his hands up, "-I'm not trying to fight with you. I'm not trying to create a rift between us. I'm opening up." 

You grumble gently. You wish he just fucking wouldn't. It's always such a blessing and a curse to see him like this.

He pours his heart out and you have the overwhelming emotion to do the same.

"I'm sorry too." You whisper back before finishing off the glass.

"We both handle things so wrong when we're upset. Sam says it's because we're almost like the same person and I think I'm starting to believe it." He says before chuckling.

You begin to count the freckles on his face again, like you once did many moons ago.

He's so perfectly not yours.

So perfectly Dean.

The silence this time is easier. It's almost welcome. 

"I shouldn't have slept with that girl last night. That's on me." He mutters above the lip of his glass.

You tilt your head before snorting, "We aren't together. You don't have to apologize to me. We've never been together."

"No! I know!-" He says quickly, "-But still that doesn't mean it was right. I just wish...I just wish things could be like before. When Marsh was around...there was no sorrow or no anger." 

You sigh before putting your hands over your face.

"Yeah. I know. But he isn't here anymore and we all deal with it in our own way." You pour some more alcohol.

"Yeah we do...But, I want you to lean on me more. I want you to trust me with your thoughts like you used to. Like when you cried when you killed your first wraith." 

You begin to smile at the memory before rolling your eyes.

"I was crying because I literally felt like I was going insane." You deadpan earning a chuckle from him.

This is easy too. Falling back into routine.

The cage you've locked yourself away in these past weeks is slowly opening again and it's a terrifying notion.

"Or the time when you got abducted by the djinn and you told me to leave you there. Because you loved your dream so much." He says and you smirk in response.

"Nothing like a djinn twisting my mind into having four babies with you and you being my husband." You say raising your glass before downing it all.

He swallows thickly and looks away before clearing his throat.

"We almost had that. Hurts that we can't have that." He mumbles before pouring a tall glass for himself.

"We aren't meant to be. You know that. You fucking told me that." You say as you throw your boots over his lap.

He looks down at your boots and you can't quite read the emotion in his eyes as he begins to play with your laces.

He lets out a small laugh before shutting his eyes and nodding.

"Would you? If we were meant to be? Would you be with me?" He asks before looking back up at you.

He's never asked you that before. You stammer on syllables before putting your hands through your hair.

"I don't… I don't know." You say truthfully and you see him nod rapidly before swallowing.

"What if it was our destiny to be together? What if we were made for one another?" His voice is feeble now. 

You click your teeth before slumping down in the booth.

"I can't tell you an answer because it's not true." You say finitely. 

He hums in agreement before looking away.

"Yeah… You're right." 

"Come on you lazy drunk." Dean groans out as he pulls you out of the car.

You stagger on your feet as you fall into his chest.

"Dean Abel." You slur out as he closes the door with his foot.

"Yeah. Yeah. I got you, princess." He murmurs as he scoops you up into his arms.

"I bought a room. Five." You say holding out the key with a large smile.

He shakes his head with a smirk as he walks down the strip of concrete of the motel.

"Why'd you do that?" He asks as he takes it, pulling the key loop onto his finger.

"To get away from you." You reply as you bury your face into his neck.

"Oh...Joy." He mumbles as he approaches the room. 

Opening the door, he makes quick steps to the bed before gently laying you down.

"Okay. He-Here I am, Dean. One of your sweethearts. Strip me!" You whisper as you hold your arms up. 

He smirks as he shakes his head before rolling his eyes.

"You're a fucking psycho." He mutters before helping you out of your jacket.

He takes in your slightly parted lips, your cheeks that are tinged pink from the alcohol that pumps through your veins.

He sighs gently as he takes off your shirt.

His eyes drift anywhere but your body as he discards your shirt elsewhere.

"Take your pants off." He instructs as he takes off his jacket.

"No. You take 'em off." You mumble as you close your eyes.

Grumbling to himself, he rolls his eyes before pulling your pants off of your legs in one quick swipe.

"Now go to bed and don't throw up." He says as he tosses your pants onto the couch.

Your head as heavy as it is still lifts off of the pillow as you look at him, seeing double but two Dean's are better than none.

"Sleep with me." You whine patting the spot behind you.

He hums to you, an unsure noise before sighing and taking off his shirt.

Your eyes rake over his toned chest and stomach, defined just enough to see small abs beneath his soft looking skin. You can see the freckles that fleck and dot his chest and shoulders as he walks over to the bed.

"I ain't takin' my pants off. You pervert. Go to bed." He mumbles as he lays down beside you.

You smirk before pressing your head into the pillow. 

"I think I would…" You find yourself saying as you close your eyes.

"You would take my pants off?" He asks loudly, his voice riddled with surprise as he wraps his arm around your body.

"If it was destiny and we were meant to be I think I would be with you." You say as he presses his chest to your back.

"Shut up and go to sleep." He murmurs as his forehead connects to the back of your neck.

"You don't know what you're asking for." He whispers as he closes his eyes.

Forever Dean Tags: @akshi8278​

[organizationhimself]

Dark Bramble Guide [Taco Bell update]

My friend keeps getting deep space murdered so I figured I would help.  Please note: I am extremely witty and hilarious and I know it.​

So here’s what I’ve learned.

Dark Bramble has five SIX AUGH different openings.  Four along the sides, one on “top,” and one on the “bottom.”  I consider Dark Bramble to be “upright” when it is oriented like so:

Most of the time you’re going to be dumped in front of the four middle openings, which can be the hardest to recognize if you don’t know where to look.

I’ve also determined two routes.  In some cases you can get straight to the Vessel, and in others it’s better to go to the Escape Pod 3 first, and then change your marker to the Vessel (which at least gives you something to do while you’re floating past the three fish).  There is ALWAYS a fish guarding a Vessel seed, but the one in the Escape Pod room is much easier to avoid aggroing as a rule.

Bear in mind that when identifying these routes, I have just shot for my targets (Escape Pod, Vessel) completely full throttle the entire time, not giving a fuck in the world, and eliminated routes that get me eaten this way.  So the key to fish avoidance is to go in one direction as much as possible and avoid firing your rockets in any other directions; often I have been able to full throttle right past a fish that didn’t get upset till I fired a rocket to one side or the other.

I’ve decided to help identify these with some features I call the Dewclaw and the Forsaken Breadstick:

Right in between the Dewclaw and the Breadstick, we have Chili’s:

Chili’s has an Escape Pod in an ok place close by the entrance, and if you’re practicing going straight from Timber Hearth to Dark Bramble, you will always see Chili’s first.  But there’s some vines and stuff in the way of the Escape Pod that make this route sub-par.  There’s better places, so we’re gonna skip Chili’s.  Let’s talk about Tim Hortons.

Tim Hortons is always to the right of Chili’s and the Breadstick and has the best Escape Pod route on the planet, apart from his brother Tom Hortons (who we will get to later).  There’s no fish getting to the Escape Pod’s seed, it’s VERY close, and I have always avoided fish on my way to the Vessel seed from very soon after entering the room unless I was looking for a fish for Science (though there’s some annoying twisting geometry in the way if you don’t go in the direction of the Escape Pod for a bit).  His Vessel route is very dangerous (2 fish yikes) and I got insanely lucky, so that’s a hard no.

This Escape Pod is the route I used to beat the game, so I’m sure it works once you have the warp core (I don’t know if more fish can spawn after you get the warp core but just in case).

Left of Chili’s, we have Olive Garden:

So at first I didn’t really recommend Olive Garden, because I thought the Escape Pod route was ideal and its Escape Pod will absolutely kill you.  But its Vessel route is actually pretty straightforward and could actually be a winner (I had a hard time attracting the attention of its fish).  It seems like Olive Garden tends to be the facing you get when you go straight from the Twins to Dark Bramble with the warp core so it’s probably the one most people naturally go into first.

To the right of Olive Garden (and left of Tim), basically in the “back” of Dark Bramble if you’re facing Chili’s like when you first arrive, there’s Tim’s brother Tom.  This far around it’s hard to see our main two landmarks so here’s a newer, shittier one (sorry):

I called him Tom Hortons because at first I thought he was basically a copy of Tim’s, but Tom is actually better because Tom is an all around yes man.  You want to go Escape Pod?  Do it bud.�� Vessel seed?  Yeah man.  Tom’s a bro.  However he is, as I discovered intensely painfully, very easy to mistake for Dark Bramble’s sixth location (the one most visible from directly on “top”), which I have decided to call Taco Bell because it is a pain in my ass:

Taco Bell is kind of caged in by everybody’s sick ‘do’s and is most easily accessible from going around back of Chili’s, to either Olive Garden or Tom Hortons.  It has a perfectly acceptable Escape Pod, and its Vessel seed is basically completely hit or miss.  There’s a vine in front of it in some orientations, so if you go the wrong way around it there’s a Very Mad fish. So like, unless you’re aiming for an Escape Pod route, just don’t go to Taco Bell, y’know?  It’s not worth it.

Finally, on the bottom, there’s Subway:

Subway is extremely easy to find because it’s on the very bottom and caged inside a bunch of vines that can be a little tricky to navigate.  Also, its Escape Pod route will kill you.  Its Vessel route may, potentially, also kill you--I found the fish easier to aggro--but it is very close and convenient like Olive Garden and Tom Hortons.  Basically you might as well go to one of those, they’re just as close and easier on entry, but if you’re really struggling to identify them then Subway is impossible to miss.  You have to want to go there.

Again, orientation is EVERYTHING in Dark Bramble, so if I say things are in the upper left/right/whatever then that’s gonna be meaningless if you approach from a different angle, but here are some outside and inside photos from the center openings as approached from an “upright” angle.  This is proceeding around Dark Bramble’s center, starting from Chili’s and moving right:

Taco Bell on top and Subway on bottom are impossible for me to give a consistent orientation for, so Subway may vary significantly from what you see depending on your angle:

Taco Bell is a pain in the ass so it gets two of these based on which other (better) opening you face before you fly “up” over it:

So basically, the safe Escape Pod seeds tend to be very close to the ceiling or wall and out of the way, and if the Vessel seed looks far away I’d try another entrance.  From cross-referencing I have determined that a safe initial distance is usually between 1 and 1.3km, and a distance between 1.5 and 1.7km almost certainly has a fish, but again some orientations may still end up attracting attention where others would not.

Best Escape Pod Routes:

Tom Hortons

Tim Hortons

Taco Bell

Chili's (obstructed)

Best Vessel Routes:

Tom Hortons

Olive Garden

Subway

Taco Bell (obstructed)

I am pretty sure that both the Escape Pod room and the Vessel room are the same entrance flipped around different ways no matter where you enter the seed, and it’s really impossible to make the orientation consistent, but as a result both the Pod and the Vessel should be in the same place and you can navigate from there.

If you choose to take an Escape Pod route, I’d recommend aiming for the Escape Pod itself until you see a really prominent red glow from the Vessel seed.  This can help you avoid all the crap floating around in the way, and it’s also completely safe once you get into the vines (I have never been eaten there from any orientation).  Alternatively, following the lights to the dead Nomai also gives you a straight shot to the Vessel seed with what feels to me like the smallest possible chance of running into a fish (I think this is a gameplay mechanic), but it takes longer.

Once you actually make it into the Vessel seed DO NOT MOVE.  You will not hit the fish.  You cannot hit the fish.  You will literally go through the fish, and then it’s ok to start accelerating up to 2 bars as long as you are under 900km away from the Vessel marker (but probably safer at under 800km). After further testing, I’m pretty sure there’s only one fish inconveniently close to the final seed, which you pass on the way.  I tend to be drifting at this point to make sure I don’t slam into the branch between me and the seed, so I don’t recommend going above 1 bar around here if you can help it, the fish is more aggressive than I first thought and it’s kind of 50/50 whether he’ll actually chase you.

Fortunately, there’s a pretty foolproof direction to go in:

This last branch before the seed has a little curved area that is the perfect size for your ship, and if you go through it while still aiming for the Vessel, you will be almost perfectly lined up for an opening.  (In this particular orientation I managed not to alert the fish at all, but it’s not a good idea to stop to adjust here, I’d just aim for this opening regardless.)

I think this section is kinda designed for the fish to notice you, and even if he does, you’re generally going to be close enough to the seed to make it inside before he can reach you.  But sometimes he screams at me just as I’m about to go inside it even if he made no reaction before, so be prepared for that possibility.

Last tips: -If you do attract a fish, try to put it between you and a seed.  It will get slowed down or stuck in the geometry, giving you some time to go into the seed. -If a fish groans and comes your way, stop thrusting IMMEDIATELY.  If you go dark before it screams, it will go where it last heard the noise and you can coast right past.  (It helps to be going at a pretty fast pace.) -For endgame setup, I found 2:00 - 3:00 to be an optimal timing to doze off at the fire before going to Ash Twin to catch the first cycle (but that can vary across consoles/computers).

(Edit: Looks like my theme is not nice to these images so larger versions are available here if you need clearer ones, or the full guide is also up on Steam now because I am a menace.)

On a final note, Outer Wilds doesn’t care about your suffering, which is why the very first time I finally pulled out the warp core, Ember Twin got ahold of my ship and did this shit to it:

thanks for coming to my ted talk good luck with ur endless fish.

@autopotion

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke smut: Body Say

Inspired by the eponymous song by Demi Lovato, which I looooove. 

~1810 words; read here on AO3 instead, AND TO SEE THE SOME GORGEOUS SMUTTY ART BY @schoute, which is too spicy for lame Tumbles.

***************************

Hawke really likes to talk. 

Ever since Fenris met her, her sunny voice has been a nearly constant fixture in his ear. She teases and flirts and jokes, and she strikes up conversations with everyone who crosses her path. She skillfully cajoles the Hightown merchants into cutting deals for her whenever she visits the market, and she befriends servants and nobles with equal facility – often by gossiping about the nobles with the servants, but the nobles don’t need to know that part.

There are some people who would say that Hawke talks too much, and they aren’t wrong. She puts her foot in her mouth constantly when they’re at the Viscount’s Keep, and only her own charm – or Aveline’s intervention – has saved her from being fined or charged on more than one occasion. When they visit the Gallows… venhedis, Fenris wishes she wouldn’t talk so much when they go to the Gallows, but there’s no stopping that whip-sharp tongue of hers.

Fenris is the first person who will admit that Hawke talks a lot. But Fenris also knows her in ways that other people don’t. People hear her speaking and laughing, and they watch her while she bats her eyelashes and smiles. But they don’t see the subtext behind that pretty smile. 

And they don’t know just how exquisitely Hawke can communicate without saying anything at all. 

It’s partly in her eyes. When Fenris and Hawke are alone, her whiskey-coloured irises are bright and feverish and focused on his chest as she lays it bare. She pulls his clothes away and pushes him back on the bed, and her sweeping gaze is intense enough to raise excited little goosebumps on his skin. She stares hungrily at his body, her eyes fixed shamelessly on the rise of his cock as she sheds her own clothes. She crawls onto the mattress to kneel between his knees, and when her keen gaze returns to his face, he understands what she’s feeling without her needing to speak at all: she adores what she sees, every inch of his tawny skin and every twisting line of lyrium and ink that Fenris never wanted. She adores it all, and the perfection that’s reflected in her eyes is enough to bring a lump to his throat.

It’s partly in her hands. They push his legs apart with a gentle kind of firmness, eager but tender all at once, and the way she curls her fingers around his cock is reverent and slow, as though she’s been waiting all day to feel his hardness in her hand. She leans over him and laps the drop of salt from his tip before opening her lips to take him deep, and Fenris presses his head back into the pillow and arches his spine in ecstasy. It’s not just the heat of her mouth and the softness of her throat as he slides between her lips inch by blissful inch; it’s her hands: the touch of Hawke’s firm and tender hands. They’re constantly stroking his skin while she suckles his cock, smoothing up his thighs and pressing into his hips, and the pad of her thumb rolls over his nipple in an exquisite tease while her lips slide up and down his length. She smoothes her fingers firmly over every inch of his skin that she can reach, and Fenris understands what her hands are saying: his body is more than a marred vessel meant for violence and abuse. It’s meant for pleasure too, for feeling the sweet and heated touch of her hands and for receiving that which he was previously only forced to give, and the steadily rising rapture in his abdomen is at war with the steady rise of emotion in his throat.

It’s partly in the sound of her breath. It’s a sharp inhale through her nose as her lips rise and fall along the rod of his cock, and when she releases him to grasp his shaft instead, the intake of air that enters her lungs is a lust-filled gasp. Hawke smoothes her fist along his saliva-slicked length, her eyes on his cock as she pumps pleasure through his body with every stroke of her palm, and Fenris stares at her breasts as they rise and fall with the desperate depth of her breathing. She’s panting for him, sharp little breaths that are punctuated with a moan, and her hips are shifting restlessly in time with her pretty little sounds. Hawke pants and whimpers and arches her spine, and Fenris understands the meaning behind the frantic rise and fall of her ribs: she wants him, wants him with an eagerness that she is unafraid to show, and the desperate way she drags the air into her lungs drives his own desperation and propels him to grab her arm, pulling her higher up his body until she is straddling his face.

It’s partly in the twisting of her hips. He guides her down to his mouth with his palms on her bottom, and her hips instantly start to roll in a smooth and sinuous rhythm against his tongue. Fenris laps hungrily at her dew-slicked folds, long smooth strokes with the flat of his tongue so he can taste every sweet-and-salty drop of her desire, and Hawke grips the headboard and lets out a pleasured little mewl. He strokes her clit with his tongue and lips in turn, and with every eager heartbeat, his attention is lured unerringly to the movement of Hawke’s perfectly curved hips. She flexes toward him eagerly, the muscles in her bottom tensing against his palms as she chases her pleasure, and the rolling grind of her body coaxes him to swirl his tongue over her clit until his mouth is moving in time with the rhythm of her hips. She gasps and moans and thrusts toward his face, and her unspoken message couldn’t be more clear: she is drawing near to her climax, drawing closer with every roll of her hips and every stroke of his tongue over the swollen bud of her clit, and when Hawke suddenly arches her back and lets out a wild cry, Fenris understands what she means: she wants him, his body and his hands and his love, and this is exactly what he is so desperate to give.

He kisses her folds one last time, then lifts her away from his face and shoves her down onto her back. Hawke arches her spine and opens her legs and lets out a needy little mewl, and Fenris stares gormlessly at her as he settles between her parted knees. Her fevered eyes, her clenching hands, her rapid breathing and her twisting hips: the language of her body tells him more than words. It tells him everything, a whole entire picture made clear of just how desperately she wants him and the immensity of her love, and as Fenris clasps her hands and rocks his steely length against her slickness, his only wish is to use his scarred but pleasured body to tell her everything in return. 

He grips her hands and slides into her tight and heated depths, and the breathy sound of their shared pleasure mingles in the air before melting away at the meeting of their lips. Fenris seals his mouth over hers as he fills her up, savouring the heated stroke of her tongue as he pumps down to meet the rising cradle of her hips. He slides in and out slowly, taking his time to really sink his focus into every thrust inside of her wet and welcoming depths, and when Hawke nips his tongue with her teeth, he understands what she means by that as well. 

He breaks their kiss to look at her. Her copper eyes are bright and blazing with lust, and her hands are clenching tensely beneath his own. Her breathing is coming so short now that it is more a sob than a breath, and when Fenris meets her gaze, she twists her spine and rolls her hips toward him in a way that clearly communicates her wants. 

He slams into her with a hard stroke, and she cries out and arches her spine. Fenris grips her hands and fucks her with a rhythm of fast and steady thrusts, his pulse rising along with the rise and fall of his hips, and all the while Hawke’s body is telling him everything, telling him exactly how she feels and precisely what she wants without saying a single word. Her eyes are tightly shut and her fingernails are digging into the backs of his hands. Her hips are rising to meet him in a frenetic rise and fall. The breaths that escape her lips are desperate mewling cries that he translates easily into an exquisite feeling of ecstasy, and he understands everything. 

Fenris understands everything. Everything her body says, everything she is communicating to him: he understands it all, every loving nuance and every lustful wish, and every bit of it simply feeds the climax that’s building and rising in the depths of his belly. He clenches his jaw and fucks her hard, and at the moment that his rapture rushes over him, he gasps and drops his forehead to her shoulder.

He shudders and groans into her sweat-dampened skin. She pulls her fingers from his grip to stroke his hair, and as he falls bonelessly still under the aftershocks of his orgasm, Hawke tilts her lips to his ear and tells him what he doesn’t need to be told. 

“I love you,” she whispers. “I love you so fucking much, Fenris.” 

His heart is still pounding in his ears, a frenzied underbeat to the smoothness of her tender words. He’s still trying to catch his breath, still trying to gather his wits in the wake of the rapture that she gave him, and he gulps in the sandalwood scent of her skin until he can find the air to speak. 

He finally lifts his face from her shoulder and stares into her guileless amber eyes. “My heart beats for you,” he tells her. “You are thoroughly under my skin, Hawke. And I welcome it.”

Her eyes grow brighter still, and a slow grin lifts her lips. She laughs and pinches his chin. “Smooth talker,” she purrs.

He smirks, then slides his hand around her neck to cradle her nape. He lowers his lips to hers for a slow and tender kiss, and for a time, he and Hawke don’t speak at all.

Hawke likes to talk, and she does it well: she charms and flirts and jokes, and she talks her way out of trouble the majority of the time. But when she and Fenris are alone in the sanctuary of her bedroom, she doesn’t need to talk; her body says it all.

When Fenris and Hawke are alone, her body says everything.

[mordoriscalling]

The Colour-Magic Theory (3/?)

Intro  Part 1  Part 2 

A/N: oof, this one has some angst

***

From every beginning, each life’s fate is driven by choices. The noise in the inn is steadily dying down. It’s late into the night and many patrons have left or are about to leave for their homes to rest. Jaskier wore them out with his performance, or so he likes to think. The bard sits with his witcher companion at the table, both sipping on their ales quietly. Jaskier is tired after entertaining the rowdy audience while Geralt is still regaining his strength after yesterday’s contract. The air between them is strained, and Jaskier decides to finally say it.

“At the banquet... did you feel something?”

Geralt’s tenses. Jaskier noticed that there was tension about his friend the moment he re-joined Geralt on the Path three months ago, for the first time since the Law of Surprise fiasco. The bard can’t decide whether the witcher is upset due to what happened in Cintra or it’s because he is here. The curse of understanding each other’s silences is that they can hide very little from one another. Jaskier sees how the witcher doesn’t soften around him as much as he used to. Geralt is less patience and more bite than he was before.

Geralt wants to forget. Tries to, but doesn’t succeed. The resentment sits heavy in his gut as he can’t help but think he wouldn’t have even known of the cursed banquet hadn’t it been for Jaskier.

“I felt that I’d just pulled off the worst fuck-up of my life,” the witcher answers with a grunt. “That’s not what I mean,” Jaskier replies and leans in towards his companion. He goes on in a hushed tone, “Something happened there, Geralt.” Geralt rolls his eyes. “I got myself a fucking Child Surprise,” he answers harshly, “That’s all that happened.” The bard tsks. “Don’t play dumb,” he tells the witcher sternly, “it doesn’t suit you.” He pauses and tries to catch Geralt’s eye but the witcher stares down at the table stubbornly. Jaskier sighs. “You must’ve felt it too.”

Back then, the sensation was barely noticeable, like a quick brush of a hand against the skin. Jaskier and Geralt didn’t give it a second thought. Then, not thinking about it started being harder and harder.

Jaskier’s ears have become keen to hear any news about Cintra for some reason. Even unwillingly, he listens to what plants and animals have to say. Shrikes often tell him that there is “the girl in the woods”, swallows twitter “Zireael!”, while trees ask him about his very own bud-ling. All this strangeness leads the bard towards a suspicion – he’s gone mad from roaming the mortal world for so long. After all, he doesn’t have a child. His body can’t produce offspring with any human or non-human. Besides, he’s looked for the girl in the woods but never found her.

Tired of this madness, Jaskier spent most of the last three years in the fae side of the world. He found respite in the realm of Order, where nature was quiet. Only his mind wandered, but he lived with that. Jaskier pities his friend, though; he doubts Geralt’s had much rest from the unwelcome thoughts. The witcher bares his teeth. “You don’t fucking feel Destiny,” he snarls, “because it doesn’t exist!” The topic is a raw, bleeding wound that refuses to heal. Geralt doesn’t want to discuss it, refuses to think about it. He finishes his ale in a few gulps and slams the tankard against the table, then storms off. Jaskier, as always, goes after him. Later, his humming lulls Geralt to sleep.

*

He pulls the net out of the lake and growls in frustration. No vessel again.

The witcher is so tired. His recent contracts have worn him out more than usual – his magic failed him when he needed it and he suffered serious injuries as a result. His recent inability to negotiate with Chaos as well as he used to puts him on edge. He longs for some kind reprieve but even sleep doesn’t come to him. Renfri’s last words echo in his head every time he closes his eyes, and Geralt is exhausted of constantly wondering how many future should-haves he trespasses with his every move. He must put an end to this. A djin is a perfect solution to all his problems.

Then Jaskier shows up.

It’s a disaster of their own making. All three of them have their share in the outcome.

Before Geralt made the last wish, the sorceress wasn’t so important. The danger to Jaskier’s life, and Geralt’s guilt about having caused it, overrode everything else. Then, Geralt and Yennefer shared a bath and deep understanding and after that, there was magic and madness. The aftermath of the last wish is a wild pull between him and Yennefer. 

Geralt and Jaskier keep stumbling upon her on the road - Yennefer has got woven into their story with a thread made of thorns and it hurts all three of them. Sometimes Jaskier and Geralt still find peace together as they walk the Path, almost like in the old days, but it’s always ruined when the storm of sheer power, violet eyes and lilac-gooseberry perfume shows up. Every time, she takes and takes and takes until Geralt has nothing to give, then leaves. Every time, the witcher feels more hollow and mad about the sorceress than before. He thinks himself in love and it’s painful when he and Yennefer part ways.

The witcher is not a good company when it happens. In fact, he’s downright awful. Yet, Jaskier stays – the bard always chooses to remain by the witcher’s side. He bears Geralt’s snappish comments and grim silences with much grace, only saying that Yennefer is no good for him. Geralt deserves someone who would cherish him, in Jaskier’s opinion. Geralt’s suffering hurts him too, so deeply that it becomes his own pain.

 When Jaskier offers to lull Geralt to sleep, Geralt still accepts sometimes. In those precious moments, the bard runs his hands through the witcher’s hair, and Geralt’s body relaxes under the touch. It makes Jaskier feel such warmth in his chest that his blood runs cold when he finally understands. 

His humming ceases and his fingers stop their movement as shock paralyses him. Geralt opens his eyes and looks at him questioningly. Jaskier gazes into the witcher’s eyes, cornflower blue connecting with bright gold, and a part of the bard’s heart wilts. The gold of Geralt’s eyes has never appeared so beautiful to him, so full of warmth and strength. Geralt is breathtaking, but Jaskier will never have his love. 

He doesn’t hum to Geralt again.  

The distance between them grows. The rift slowly becomes an abyss as the years pass and the weight and consequences of Geralt’s choices wear him down more and more. He tries to be reasonable and blame himself, as he should, and fails. Jaskier’s suggestion to get away for a while is his desperate attempt to bridge that gap but the effort is futile. On the day when it all comes to a head, the sky is grey, and within a few moments, three hearts get broken. Destinations and destinies shift in the echo of their pain.

Jaskier is a blessing no longer. The witcher’s words leave the bard with only one choice to make, but Jaskier is sure he’ll come to terms with it in time. Geralt, on the other hand, later realizes that he himself won’t.

TBC

Part 4

[winchester-fantasies]

Scarlet Fix

Summary: Sam is hungry and craving something only she can give him.

Word Count: 1270

Warnings: smut, knife play, blood play, kinda rough sex, sub/dom Sam, sub/dom reader, angst, swearing

Pairing: Demon Blood!Sam x Demon!Reader

A/N: This was written for a request by my good friend, @samuelsangel : Hey, girl 💕 Could you please write a DemonBlood!Sam x Demon!Reader oneshot that includes a little angst and then smut? They’re both a little rough and Sam kind of begs to drink her blood while she teases him? Thank you! I love you & your writing! Thanks for your request, girl! Love you, too, and I hope it’s everything you imagined. ❤❤ And thanks to @demonbloodsam​ for the perfect GIF!

Winchester Fantasies’ Masterlist

Sam shoved her against the wall, her back coming into contact with the sheetrock with a heavy thud. He needed a fix. He could feel it waning and new the withdrawals would begin and soon, if the sweat dotting his upper lip and the fuzziness inside his brain was any indication. He’d called her as soon as he and Dean had stopped for the night, sneaking out of the motel room when Dean’s steady breathing turned to snores. 

“What’s wrong, Sam?” she asked, her voice lighthearted and innocent. Her eyes flashed black and a smirk crossed her lips. 

“Need...need it,” he growled, clenching his jaw at the effort it took him to hold himself back. These rendezvous had been going on for…. He wasn’t even sure anymore. It could’ve been months or even years and he wouldn’t even know. 

He knew Dean would be angry and disappointed if he knew what his little brother did in the cover of night, but Sam couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when he craved the one thing she could give him.

She tsked, her eyes returning to her vessel’s color. “You know that’s not how this works,” she crooned. His grip on her loosened just a bit, and she used it to her advantage, shoving him back with more force than her small body should have been able to. “On the bed!” she commanded, her tone serious and leaving little room for argument.

His already half-hard cock twitched at her forceful words, and he hurried to do as she demanded. He sat on the edge of the thin mattress, the rusty springs squeaking under his weight. 

She sauntered over to him, her hips swaying, that perpetual smirk never leaving her lips. “Sammy,” she breathed, settling herself across his lap. “Our meetings are getting more frequent….” She leaned forward, capturing his lips into a passionate kiss. She thrust her tongue between his parted lips, their tongues fighting for dominance before she pulled back, dragging his lower lip between her teeth. 

“I can tell you’re getting stronger,” she said, pushing him back into the mattress. She ground herself into him, his body shuddering and a low groan escaping his throat as she rubbed herself against his throbbing erection. 

“Mmm,” she whimpered, the seam of her jeans rubbing across her swollen clit. “But sometimes,” she breathed, leaning forward and resting her hands against his broad chest for support as her pace picked up, both of their orgasms feverishly close. “I still wonder if you’re really man enough for it.”

With a low and throaty growl, Sam had rolled her to her back, the springs groaning in protest as he settled between her spread thighs. Her chest was heaving, her pupils dilated, nearly mimicking them when they’d flash obsidian. “You have no idea what I’m capable of,” he ground out, the need to come out on top swirling in his chest and mixing with hunger and desire. 

“I could break you...limb from limb,” he leered, his eyes roaming her body provocatively. “But I won’t,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Because you’re far too valuable to me.”

He grasped her arm, pinning it against the mattress. He leaned forward, his tongue sliding against her skin, the saltiness of her flesh meeting his taste buds. “I need it,” he said again, this time more forceful and confident. 

A wicked grin spread across her mouth as she swiftly disengaged herself from him, somehow sliding out from under his body. She stood, leaving him sprawled out on the bed. “I told you,” she stated. “That’s not how it works.”

She turned, heading for the door. “Please,” Sam’s voice met her ears, his tone needy. She paused, her hand on the doorknob, her mouth cocking into a smirk of satisfaction. She knew how to work him. Knew how to make him a groveling mess. Knew how to stay in control.

“What was that?” she asked, turning slowly to face him. He sat on the edge of the bed again, his eyes wide and fearful. She could see the sweat dripping from his face and the way his body trembled with need. 

“P...please,” he begged.

“Good boy,” she praised, his cock coming back to life with vigor. “Move!” she clipped, jerking her head for him to stand. He jumped up, his breathing coming out in shallow heaves. 

She stooped down, taking her bowie knife from the sheath at her ankle. She twisted it in the light, the metal glinting in the dim lighting of the room. She darted her eyes to Sam, his gaze honed in on the blade like some valuable relic.

She lowered herself to the bed before placing the blade against her skin. She hissed at the slight sting as she pulled it over her forearm, droplets of blood falling to the floor, Sam’s eyes catching each one.

She laid back on the bed, extending her arm out next to her, her blood soaking into the old mattress. “Drink,” she commanded.

Sam all but pounced on her, his mouth latching onto her skin and lapping up her blood like a man starved. She grinned at the sight of her blood marring his mouth and running down his chin. “Taste good?” she asked.

Sam hummed in agreement as he closed his eyes, the symptoms of his withdrawal slowly fading away. “How does it feel, Sam?” she asked. “To have all that power...coursing through your veins?”

“Like fucking bliss,” he said. His eyes darkened as they settled on her face and in a matter of seconds he had both of them naked from the waist down. He grunted as he thrust his erection into her wet heat, a small cry of ecstasy falling from her mouth. 

He pounded into her, the sounds of skin slapping against skin and wanton moans, groans, and expletives falling from both of their mouths. The only sounds in the dingy room. She tightened around him and he groaned at the feeling. “H...here,” she panted, handing him the knife that was still clutched in her hand. 

He took it from her, his thrusts only pausing briefly to scrape the blade across her other arm. He picked up his pace again as he leaned forward, letting the scarlet warmth fill his mouth. Fuck, she tasted sweet. 

She took a gasping breath as he shifted his angle, his cock spearing her deeper and deeper with each powerful thrust. He lifted himself to his hands, holding himself up over her, his pace picking up slightly.

Without warning her walls clenched and with a groan his hips stuttered, thrusting into her three more times before he came, his white, hot cum filling her to the brim. They were both panting, Sam’s head falling forward as her core contracted around him with aftershocks.

He slowly slid from within her, his seed spilling from her red and sensitive pussy and onto the bed below her hips. “Thanks,” he huffed out, pulling up his jeans and stuffing his now limp dick back into his pants. He brushed his sweaty hair off his face, a small grin crossing his mouth.

“You know I got you, Sammy,” she said, carefully getting off the bed and pulling her pants back up. 

He stepped forward, taking her chin in his large hand and running his thumb over her bottom lip, his eyes darting between hers and roaming her face before he pulled away. He sauntered towards the door, exiting without so much as a glance behind him, his craving sated. He smirked. At least until he was in need of his next scarlet fix. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you for reading! If you liked what you read, let me know!! ❤❤

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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