#a scorching minute if you would

[zombified-hoglin]

Got a silly idea of a soulmate au with Xisuma who's trying his best and somewhat failing at not being jealous of Joel being Etho's soulmate in secret life

Joel's great, he's a very neat guy for sure, truly a wonderful servermate, but... Xisuma can't deny that he's not fond of soulmates in general

It's a fairly rare phenomenon, it's not just the red strings of fate that connect soulmates, there's a few different types, names or timers on wrists, words that appear on your skin, matching tattoos, songs stuck in heads

He doesn't know which is worse, having someone that knows everything about you or knowing that the universe didn't deem you worthy of having someone like that

Xisuma had a soulmate mark at one point in time but it's long gone now, a scar covering where the name used to be, it was thought that if the universe wanted people together so badly that it'd even be able to happen when one of them was missing their mark

He hasn't thought about soulmates in years until after double life and Etho had brought it up, not noticing how Etho looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, like he was expecting something

Etho didn't bring up the topic of soulmates again for a while, not until they were on the roof of Xisuma's base, watching a meteor shower

It was nice having the warmth of Etho beside him, the air around them a little colder than he usually likes it

Xisuma gets startled by Etho tracing over the scar where his soulmark used to be, the sensation sending shivers down his spine, he hears a soft "oh..." as Etho's eyes narrowed

He tries to laugh it off, redirect the conversation before he stops in his tracks as Etho tugs down his glove, showing a name resting on his wrist, Xisuma's name

Oh

[screampied]

JUNO, YOU KNOW! k. nanami

☆ sum. last thing nanami would expect was to get struck by a “fatal” love curse during the very end of no nut november. you tease him even more by saying one of you is cute….but two though?

wc. 8.1k

warnings. fem! reader, husband! nanami, unprotected, sēx pollen, mentions of pregnancy, fluffy smut <3, handcuffs, brēeding, cunnīlingus, him finishing too quick, cowgirl, praise, soft dom! nanami, cērvix mentions, size kink, he's soooo whipped n in love w youuu, (bless his dad's genetics), boob obsessed nanami, aftercare, petnames.

an. my entry for @luv-lies's yummy nnn collab! ❤︎

november 29th, 2024. 6:09 P.M.

december was right around the corner - but oh, was nanami kento fuckin’ screwed.

“nanamin!” satoru—his colleague hollered, speedily rushing over to him. they’d just defeated an unarmed A-cursed spirit unlike any they’d ever seen before. it was quite strong, but it was nothing the pair couldn’t handle. satoru glances down, extending out his hand. nanami grunts, swiping a hand over his sweat-glossed forehead before sighing. he’s a bit roughed up but takes satoru’s cold palm with an irked grumble. “you alright? that was quite the hard hit.”

“ ‘m fine, gojo,” he grouses, readjusting his glasses. with a swift hand, he fixes his crooked tie. “just hah- underestimated the opponent. don’t fret.”

he wasn’t ‘just fine’ though. nanami felt his entire body starting to arise with scorching temperature within a matter of seconds. he’s boiling hot- and it felt like his heart was pounding straight out of his chest. perplexed, satoru furrows a snowy brow at his comrade once he notices his awkward body language.

“what do you need? tell me- maybe we can-”

nanami was clenching his chest with one hand, panting heavily before letting off a raspy huff.

“i need . . my wife.”

the car ride home was silent.

satoru offered to take him home, wondering just what really happened. nanami was as stubborn as a mule though, so he didn’t question it further. he’d rather not get scolded. his head rests against the tented window as he stares outside.

driving through the rutted bumpy roads of tokyo, nanami’s droopy eyes occasionally drifted away from the bright street lights that merely blinded his naked eye from gazing a bit too long.

as usual, the city was packed, dozens of cars zooming by with the flashy beaming store signs. in the background, some random song was playing. it was pop—and of course, satoru was loudly humming along to the catchy poppy melody.

the lyrics were quite . . vulgar though, but nanami still remained quiet, focusing his eyes on the streets.

skrrrrrrrt!

satoru’s breaks eventually come to a stop. it was about maybe a good ten-minute drive and he arrived at you and nanami’s cozy minka. the light was on so he assumed you were probably still up. placing the rusty shift in the park, the white-haired sorcerer turns to nanami with a cheeky grin.

“take it easy, alright? ‘m sure the curse will wear off at some point,” and nanami scoffs once his palm pats his shoulder. reaching for his seatbelt, the blond click it off before unlocking the door. “oh! and tell your wifey i said hi!”

“sure thing, gojo.” nanami stops himself from rolling his eyes, reaching near the backseat to retrieve his dusty suitcase. with a loud vroooom, satoru’s aqua-blue convertible takes off and nanami starts to make his way toward the door.

glancing down, he fishes for his keys in his pocket, grumbling under his breath.

god- he feels so damn hot. even hotter than when the attack occurred..

was this supposed to be normal?

all he knew was that he wanted, no- he needed you.

something in his body . . whatever it was, was direly aching for you.

the entire car ride, nanami’s mind was entirely flooded with thoughts of you, you, and only you.

whenever he had missions, he’d always think about you, sure. but this time- this time was far, far different.

he felt like he was gonna melt right away if he didn’t touch you, if he didn’t smell you-

“ken…to?” you murmur with a quirked brow, standing behind the tall sliding door. nanami stiffly stood at the doorway, keys still idly in hand with the most dumbfounded look.

oh- he was so kept in his thoughts that he didn’t even realize you had already slid the door open.

you looked so pretty though. nanami could feel his face softening once his eyes locked onto you.

it was pretty dark at night but like always, he could make out your gorgeous physique as clear as day. you were actually wearing one of his business shirts with what he hoped were panties underneath once he took a glance between your bare thighs.

his fawn eyes continue to trace down every exposing inch of your skin, and he snaps back into reality once he feels your palm cup his cheek.

“hi, baby. how was the mission?” you hum.

“not hah- that good,” he pants, and you furrow your brows once he steps inside, sliding the door closed and tossing his suitcase to the floor. it lands with a banging thud, and nanami pulls you into a hug.

a coy smile goes against your lips, wondering why he’s being more clingy than usual, but nanami rests his face right on top of your chest. letting off a smoky sigh, he roughly grumbles, gently rubbing a thumb against your hips. “mmf- i missed you, sweetheart.”

with a soft expression, you comb a few tangled fingers through his blond tresses. “i missed you more.”

“no- i really missed you,” he protests, and you can see a bit of a pout forming against his lips. nanami’s drowsy eyes trail down at the bit of skin that shows through his shirt. it was a bit loosely oversized, and you smelled just like him. his cologne was good on you. so good.

uh oh- he was starting to feel even more hot.

just resting against your chest had him hearing the repetitively unsteady beats of his heart through each of his sensitive pointed ears. “at the mission today . . i got struck by a curse.”

with a worrying look, your face shifts into a look of concern. “a- are you okay? what happened?”

“ ‘m fine,” he lets out a muffled huff of reassurance. nanami breathes against your skin, sweetly planting kisses against the cotton fabric that shields the entirety of your chest. “i feel really hot though.. everywhere- not just my head,” he speaks once the back of your hand lands on his forehead, checking for a temperature.

indeed, he felt hot.

sepia-colored irises flicker up toward you before he shivers. “when you . . touch me, honey- it makes me feel weak. hah- like i feel-”

“aroused?” you finish his sentence, your concerned look slowly disappearing.

oh.

thankfully, it wasn’t anything serious . . or was it?

nanami stares at you with a cute head nod being his answer as you press a kiss on his warm forehead. “so was it some type of love curse?”

nanami’s breath becomes deeper as he takes a minute to formulate words in his overstimulated brain. “m- maybe. all i know is that i just- i want you…i need you,” and he sighs deeply, eyes lowering. “you look beautiful tonight by the way.”

“it’s still november, baby,” you tease, knowing exactly where he was going with his gruff words. nanami had a feral hungry look in his eyes, and it looked like no other expression of his you’ve seen before.

he lets off a frustrated groan at your words, remembering the little ‘challenge’ you both agreed on once halloween ended.

ah- ‘no nut november’.

where men have to apparently abstain from masturbation and cumming—according to you, specially for the entire month of november.

not that nanami necessarily minded, he had a pretty good tolerance, actually.

but today, of all days?

he felt like he was about to break. being so close to your proximity had nanami’s head spinning.

his face - it’s overly flushed. a pretty tint of pink starts to slowly paint his face as he pouts at you.

you don’t think you’ve ever seen your husband like this—let alone pout. “we made a deal, remember?” you continue, caressing a thumb across his cheek. his chin was still resting on your chest and you could see the frown marinating against his features. “december first.”

“but-” he grunts, watching the smug grin spread across your glossed lips. nanami gets sheepish, tilting his head down. “sweetheart- i know that, but you’re bein’ pretty cruel right now, no?” and you glance down, feeling his lips collide against the skin that briefly exposes your tummy. “do you always wear my work shirts when i’m not home?”

“yeaaah,” you admit, letting off a tiny snicker. nanami feels your shoulders slacken once you release a single breath, and you stare straight into his eyes.

his eyes however, never left yours, not for a millisecond. as the gaze continued, you could see the beads of sweat starting to race down each side of his forehead.

oh-

maybe the curse was serious. getting an idea you decide to amp up your teasing just a bit. “do you wanna know what i was doing earlier while wearing your dress shirt?”

nanami places chaste kisses between the valley of your breasts. “uh huh. tell me, wifey.”

“i . . might’ve been playin’ with myself,” you sweetly speak, and he could hear the tease lacing underneath your sentence.

the more you spoke about what you were doing, nanami was starting to feel even hotter-

and the pure image of you touching yourself with his button-front shirt on, engulfed in nothing but his musky cologne made him groan. it was clear you weren’t wearing panties. he couldn’t help but peek, and sure enough—you were going commando.

nanami keeps his lovingly longing gaze and slowly, he raises his head from between your chest, raising a brow as if silently saying, ‘continue.’

with a cheeky smile, you wrap your arms around his torso. “i couldn’t make myself finish though. my fingers aren’t as long as yours. so, i ended up falling asleep and i had a dream. about . . us.”

“i see,” nanami huskily utters, sinking his head into your left shoulder. you just smelled so so sweet — sweeter ever, and you could see nanami trying to restrain himself. clearing his throat, nanami invades an entire side of your neck with wet, loving kisses. “what was the dream, princess?”

now it was your turn for your heart to start racing.

it was quick, beating at such high beats per minute. with an impish expression, you cup his chin and make him face you.

tenderly rubbing a thumb over his lips, you finish what your cute, lewd admission. “i…uh- dreamt about you retiring as a sorcerer. or you have a safer job that makes you less stressed. we finally . . settled down, and we um . . ended up having kids.”

“kids, huh,” he whispers, dragging a hand through his blond strands. you could feel his feverish heat radiate against your skin and you were surrounded by his balmy warmth.

he wasn’t exaggerating—nanami was truly, truly burning up. the buds on his tongue sizzle each time he takes a fateful second to swallow, salivating the more his eyes focus on you. nanami ponders for a moment silently, and before you know it, he’s picking you up.

you let off a cute surprised gasp, hurling your arms around his neck before watching him sigh. “ah- don’t get shy, my sweet. keep going.”

nanami continues to walk with you in his arms, going up the creaking, wooden stairs and you run a few fingers down your exposed nape.

“we . . had about maybe two or three. you even started growing facial hair too,” and nanami’s grip on your hips softens. he raises a blond brow before trodding inside the quiet bedroom. “you’d make a good dad though, ken,” you purr, running a finger down his amber-dotted tie. “could you imagine though? one of me is cute, but two though?”

“honey-” he cuts off, lying you flat back against the mattress.

with a split-second glimpse underneath the oversized formal shirt you wore—indeed, you weren’t wearing any panties. he had to check just one more time.

nanami starts to pant heavily, watching as you playfully lift your leg, throwing it over his shoulder. “is that- is that what you want? to settle down?”

“only if . . you want to.” you murmur in a soft tone, deeply getting lost in his golden-hour gaze.

nanami’s eyes were bright, shining with nothing but love and adoration for you - always.

if you squinted just enough, you could see his pupils forming into cute-shaped hearts.

grabbing his hand, you place it on your tummy, sliding it underneath the buttoned shirt.

“i want… you,” he huffs, his voice turning from tender to raspy within seconds. nanami leans in and presses his lips against yours. his dimples happily curve forward once you immediately return the gesture, cupping his face with both hands.

right away, nanami moans against your lips as his hot tongue blissfully shoves itself inside your mouth. minty peppermint — it’s exactly what he tasted like, and his cool breath running against your tongue only made him taste sweeter.

nanami couldn’t help but roll his hips against you with his sweaty forehead softly pressed on top of yours.

each popping smack of hungry lips got louder, and he heard the faint clanks of his belt shuffling. you slid a hand down, reaching for the middle part of his pants. you’ve shared many kisses with nanami, but this one seemed different..

a current of chills ran down your spine as he deepened the passionate kiss as the callused tips of nanami’s fingers unbuttoned his shirt.

speaking of his shirt though—he just couldn’t get over how much his shirt was just prettily glued against your skin.

“god- this month’s been torture, sweetheart,” he’d breathe between nearly suffocating kisses.

nanami’s lungs were full, and he’d sometimes even forget to breathe. such full lungs of his were heaving in and out continuously, desperate for any sort of puffs.

they had to find air, they just had to..

but nanami didn’t care about breathing, not when he had his lips ardently locked against yours.

“couldn’t- stop- thinkin’- ‘bout- you-” he grunted in a hoarse tone, sweetly sucking against your lolled tongue. its mushy warmth invites him to continue, and you briefly open your lashes to stare straight into a very needy nanami’s eyes. “hah- you were all i thought about at work today.”

“mhm, breathe, kento,” you whisper, feeling your lips swell the minute he pulls away.

a web of gluey saliva leaves from both sets of puffed lips and he breathes like you said. with a looooong inhale, nanami then exhales before grunting. you simper, tugging on the hem of his beige boxers. “maybe i can . . help with that curse?”

and you did.

in more ways than one, really.

to be brief, nanami kento was a feral man-

he felt himself turning into a brand new man the second his tongue graciously rolls itself flat against the flatness of your pretty twitching clit.

a sharp gasp winds straight out of your lungs as you’re sat with your legs obtusely spread to a wide degree.

with your hands burying themselves underneath your plushy tits as he devoured you—you couldn’t help but toy with yourself for a bit. moaning, a thumb trails its way down against one of your puckered nipples that poke through the fleecy blue dress shirt.

“k- kentooo.” you’d hum out a whimper, a hand finding its way near the top of his head.

he’s slow… badly wanting to savor your sweet taste on his tongue while eating you out like the starved, starved man that he was.

wisping a bundle of fingers through his blond locks, you continue to cup one of your tits with one hand. long, thirsty sluuuurps exited from nanami’s lips as you watched his head frantically shake from side to side.

your tummy was already seizing, and the heel of your ankle started to guide its way down his back. wet, sloshing noises ricocheted against nanami’s lips as his eyes periodically averted back towards you.

he’s giving you the ‘i wanna marry you again’ stare, no doubt. even with his mouth stuffed, nanami kento’s never felt more in love—

maybe this love curse . . pollen, whatever it was was a secret blessing in disguise.

the panicky, racing beats of nanami’s heart never slowed, and a hand of his then grips your thigh. tenderly, you feel the tip of his tongue dipping its way in ‘n out — wetly lathering his pink twitching muscle with your sweet slickness.

your eyes remain on him the entire time, getting forevermore lost in his crave-like gaze. “shh- talk later, princess. promise.” he whispers against your cunt, delving his tongue in swerving, wide circles.

those wide circles eventually curve their way into hearts, though. a whine sobs its way from the back of your throat as the grip on his hair tightens.

you felt the scaly, hot of his tongue create the perfect heart . . even spelling out the simple eight letters of ‘i love you.’

your legs couldn’t hold still, they just couldn’t- and you could feel the skittish smile forming against his lips, tickling against your pussy.

you were drooling from your entrance, right from the puffy slavering slit down. you’re flooded, soddened with such amounts of dewy dewdrops that form into strings, and in a way though, it was pretty.

nanami was just struck in awe at how much you were just profusely leaking. like the gentleman nanami was though, he lapped it right up. his rose-swollen lips cupped everywhere, smothering the crevices of your sheeny thighs with his many, many kisses.

“r- riiiight there, ‘ken,” you’d mewl out a desperate plea, slowly dragging his head against your cunt. it’s moving around in a hypnotizing circle, but if it was anything that was leaving you in a mere trance of a state, it was his tongue.

nanami explores through every puffy wet corner, sloppily slotting his tongue in between your pudgy folds. he grunts against your throbbing heat, feeling the weight of his impatient boner prodding beneath his cotton-made boxers. “mngh- gonna cum. ‘m gonna cum, kento.”

“do it for me,” he soundlessly says, vertically smearing a fat thumb down your slimy pussy.

your entrance was soaked-

tearing away with drooling droplets of slick. every time. he was so enticed that he had to take a minute to just stare at your cunt—admiring how wet his pretty, perfect girl was - just for him.

nanami was entranced once he moved his face closer. the tip of his button nose then literally starts to drag itself down your sobbing slit and he moans, taking in your natural scent. “hah- c’mon, sweetheart. give it t’ me,” and he brings his ring finger right up against your core.

it’s a lanky finger that starts to bedaub against your cunt, feeling you writhe at the sensitive contact.

you whine, feeling his ring finger rub its way against your heat before poking your tongue against your cheek to silence yourself.

as you watch, his digit gets covered with your mess almost immediately, and you shudder at the cold band of his ring toying with your salivating folds. “pretty please-” and oh- he’s begging.

a blond brow of nanami’s quivers as his lips attach back to your cunt. sticky, glistening strings of arousal rills straight down his forward-pointed chin as he continues to rub the back of his wedding ring against your pulsating clit.

it’s icy cold.. you felt him keep up the pace as the material of the band smears itself around in circles before feeling a coil in your tummy tightening.

the pressure makes you see stars for a hot second—and you’re met with a bundle of nerves trying to introduce itself to the lower depths of your stomach. “ ‘m cumming!” you’d blurt in a staggering wail.

the crashing wave of endorphins made you exhale a cute sigh as your legs started to get more and more numb.

you felt like you were floating on every single cloud, including cloud nine - especially cloud nine.

nanami’s tongue still slid its way in between the slot your sappy folds, feeling the cute twitches of your throbbing clit against his bumpy tastebuds as you start to spasm. “fuh- fuck! ‘ken ‘m sensitive, baby.” and your words turn into a mere hush once your body started to limp its way onto the sheets.

your thighs locked around his neck, and you still had his hair in a firm grasp, digging your fingers deep into his roots and scalp.

with widened doe-eyes, you glance back down toward your husband who’s merrily licking you clean without a single care in the world.

if the beats of your heart was a car, you’d be speeding.

it’s beating so fast out of your chest that you can barely keep up. your legs felt like mush as your neck finally gave up, collapsing back against your pillow.

“mmh- should’ve just stayed . . hah- stayed home today,” he grumbles, giving every glossed part of your exposed cunt individual kisses. nanami starts at your pretty clitoral hood, sprightly nibbling at the tender fold of skin. you whine, yanking his head forward before nanami pats your pussy. “could’ve been playin’ with her a- all day.”

“you’re here now.” you speak out of breath, pulling his head back up. once you do so, nanami looks at you with the most pussy drunk expression.

his lips were all plump and red, lashes merely sticking together, and glossed sleek streams of slick racing down his chin. nanami leans into your touch, sitting up before leaning in to kiss you.

again- his tongue sloppily carved a wet trail through your mouth, and you moan once you feel the tint of his boner press up against your bare cunt.

he’s so hard, you wondered if it was painful. you swallowed each grunt of his in your mouth, feeling his body hungrily rock against yours.

a few ash tresses stick against his forehead as his lips violently crash onto yours—creating an impactful collision.

as dancing tongues swiftly twisted and spiraled around each other in sync, you hear a bit of shuffling again.

nanami's reaching into his boxers, grunting against your lips once he feels the anchoring weight of his heavy cock lie flat against his palm. “m- mhm, sweetheart.” he throatily groans, feeling your hand slip inside of his boxers too.

you feel a lightning-shaped vein shoot down his skin and he grunts. nanami was as sensitive as ever, and with your hands softly tracing circles over his bulky triceps, he knew he was in trouble.

deep, deep trouble..

“it’s okay, ‘ken,” you whisper, letting off a sharp inhale once his fiery hot tip smears its way on your cunt.

it’s almost flat out rude at first—with the way it smacks against your folds, creating a wet splash that lands right on his bulbous crown.

from the stout tip that’s round at all thick corners, nanami’s leaking.

milky, pearls of whiteness dribble from the fleshy sides of his fat cock and he grunts once he feels your shaky legs caging him in again.

god- you looked so pretty like this..

just laid back, wearing nothing but his business shirt. all the buttons were unbuttoned so now—it was just you, breasts cutely sprung out and all.

gently grabbing his face once more, you mumble against his flushed temple. “inside, it’s okay. go inside,” and your sweet words were like a chant.

he’s slow-

carefully aligning his maroon tip between your syrupy slit, feeling it clumsily slip out every few thrusts.

you even reached between your legs with a single hand, spreading your pussy open right before his eyes. “don’t be… shy, she doesn’t bite, kento.”

“hhh.. woman- you’re gonna be the death of me,” nanami gulps, openly staring at the slippery heat stick between your legs.

he didn’t know which action had him feeling hotter. your filthy words, you, or the way you spread yourself open for him with just two, cute fingers.

two twinned digits pried your lower lips apart, and he grunts once the swollen head of his cock snugly pops its way past your gummy barrier.

“hngh,” nanami sucks his teeth, pressing his forehead against yours. his palm rests on your tummy before he gives you a tender glance. “is this . . alright?”

chewing on your lip, you moan out a, “y- yeah.” before touching the back of his hand.

nanami’s face softens before he eases himself further inside, squeezing past that cute ring of your entrance that’s just always oh-so tight!

nanami was as round as a teddy bear. a few years into your loving marriage you noticed how he started growing a soft bear-type body, especially with the winter rolling around.

not that you minded, he was the perfect subject for cuddling. in this case, though, he was perfect for gradually placing his weight on you—to which you always ended up loved.

with his dress shirt all wrinkled and unkempt thanks to you, nanami sheathed his face inside of your neck. “g- goddd, ‘s like when i’m inside i feel even hotter.”

the love curse ran through all nanami’s veins, including invading near his bloodstream and every jabbing axon that continued to pulse through his achingly, hot skin.

eventually through . . after a very long three minutes, his gravelly pants started to turn more and more raspy.

browned eyes of nanami’s turn tender at your gaze once you grab both sides of his face, rubbing circles around his hollow cheeks with the soft tips of your thumbs. “don’t hide, look at me.”

“heh- yes ma’am.” he gruffly whispers, tilting his cheek, leaning into your touch.

nanami was on top of you, glued to you entirely as if both bodies were made of pasty adhesive. with your ankle running down his back, it took everything within him to not moan.

every part — every single part of his body felt insanely sensitive to your touch.

nanami would occasionally bite his lip, finding his eyes rolling upward or even letting off a ‘phewww’ just from being a few inches inside of your intoxicating cunt.

as his cock’s driving its way inside at a slow pace, you watch nanami’s blond brows twist into a furrowing curve.

he’s sucking in every breath that tries to escape from him, groaning at each inch that sloppily disappears between your puffed folds. without even taking a glance—nanami could feel how wet you were, and not only were you preparing to milk him dry, but you were also drowning every girthy inch of his cock with all slick amounts of your pretty mess.

he didn’t have to look down because he could just feel – feel your compellingly, vulgar squelches, feel each slosh that sobs between your cunt folds, feel each pulsating throb that would convulse against your clit.

you’re just so damn pretty though..

staring back at him as he’s trying to make his way inside, nanami ends up getting lost in your gummy orifice that’s desperately clinging onto him as if its life depended on it. it’s almost cute..

“f- fuuck.” you’d whine, tugging at his ruffed-up cerulean collar. peering your eyes a bit, you see a bit of faded lipstick marks that were from you earlier this morning.

you smile to yourself, knowing nanami would always proudly show off those marks to any woman who dared look in his direction.

within a few inches deep, nanami’s creating an unforgettable gap that stretches your cunt fully open. he keeps his hooded eyes on you, pressing a few encouraging pecks near your plump, kiss-bitten lips.

he’s never felt so hot..

nanami snaps his hips into you once- just once, and he lets off the prettiest moan.

it sounds more like a whine—it pitches a bit higher than usual and he falls face flat into your chest.

you get sheepish, wrapping your arms around him before feeling him grunting between your breasts. “honey, i think i just . . came.”

“oh,” you breathe, and sure enough, you felt a lukewarm batch of cum starting to pool its way inside of you. your legs remained snaked around his waist and you could feel nanami’s ashamed pout stretch against your chest. you pat his head, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “it’s . . okay, ‘ken.” and he’s kissing all between the slope that runs down your soft tits—his comfort place.

you hum, lifting his head and watching him grumpily pout with loose blond strands running down his eyes. “i can always take the lead if you’re too sensitive.”

“please..”

♡ ♡ ♡

nanami looks up at you with a timid expression, his hands restrained at each side of the bed. gulping deeply, he watches as your slick-glossed cunt just barely floats over his creamy white tip. from the coral-colored sides, it’s a blushing pink…itching for you to be inside again.

just a single inch or the mere feeling of you swiping your entrance back ‘n forth against the peeling hood of cock makes him groan. “handcuffs, honey? this is quite…eh- kinky, no?” nanami raises an ash brow with a weary smile, soft, dusky eyes never leaving yours.

in fact—each time you run your hands down the open slit of his shirt that exposes his blond growing chest hair, he shudders.

just a few fingertips of yours alluringly ghosting down his skin was enough to make him melt. through semi-blurred peripherals, he spots a bright color that sticks against his wrists. “they’re . . pink,” he chuckles, “and fuzzy.”

“it came in the mail yesterday,” you coo at his observation, inching your face closer and starting to kiss down his neck. nanami inhales before sighing in rapture, positioning his head to the side so you could have a better angle and it’s unintentionally sexy. “it’s not too tight…is it?”

“it’s fine,” nanami shakes his head, preparing to take another deep breath once the opening of your pussy starts to sloppily split its way ajar.

you’re sinking on his shaft and he lets out a husky grumble—bulky muscles flexing through his biceps as his arms stretched across both sides of the leather headboard. “mmgh- atta girl. like that- like . . that.” and his voice seductively lowers an octave at every inch.

it was almost hypnotic at how much you were soaking him. truly, you were already soaked but now that your cunt was accepting his vast tip that was descending its way further inside of you, nanami wasn’t sure how much longer he’d last.

profusely, your pretty pussy was drowning him. nanami’s muscles continued to bulge through his shirt as he slouched back against the mattress, watching your hips starting to moderately pick up.

“s- sooo big.” you moan, the stretch wholly expanding through your walls. sometimes—you don’t think you’d ever get used to nanami’s size, let alone his thick, parting stretch.

clicking his tongue, nanami takes every second he can just to stare and openly admire your body.

effortless, you were just effortless with every moment you did.

every twirl, every toss and dip of your hips had him hungry for only more – more of you.

as your pace maintained its rocky rhythm, his eyes found themselves trailing further down, pausing between the crack of your pried-open legs.

seconds pass and they’re now leisurely making their way up your chest, pausing right between your plush rounded mounds.

you still had his business shirts as you rode him, and your tits freely sprung as your hips started to grind quicker. as your hips pathetically stuttered, so did the wooden legs of the bed. “hng- puttin’ me in handcuffs just so i can’t touch my hah- pretty wife, hm?”

nanami tries to joke, but you could already see him breaking a sweat once his cock explores deeper inside of your cunt – zigzagging a bumpy pattern all through your inside.

it’s making sure every part of you from the inside memorizes his hits, sloppy thrusts and all, and fuck- were you about to collapse right then and there.

the sides of nanami’s forehead were already heavily covered in perspiring sweat. with lush tears dribbling down every crevice and corner, nanami starts to huff.

“but baby, you always touch me,” you lively tease, tossing both arms over his tense, pent-up shoulders.

the bed lowly creaks every second, constantly dipping from all the constant movements and pounds that jolt against the rickety aged boxspring.

its constant croaky groans sounded almost painful—and the quicker your hips swerved around and bounced, the louder it cried in the background from both jerking bodies.

nanami pouts, shaking his head and you make him nod by cupping his chin. “yeah, you do.” you then surprise a part of his neck with wet, balmy kisses.

nanami gruffly grunts, desperately wishing his hands were roaming down every part of your body. tending to every part, allowing his fingers to explore every part.

he’d caress circles around your ass—guiding his callused, rough fingers up up up before they eventually reach near your waistline.

with a clingy grip, he’d start to rock your hips faster into him, making sure he pumps all nth inches deep inside until you’re babbling out incoherent cacophonies of his name and how you’re just so full..

but you noticed—nanami’s eyes were only focused on only one thing. your soft, perked breasts that bounced at the exact second your body did.

at each powerful hop and slam of your hips, they playfully jiggled, flopping against your chest. they were nearly smushed right in his face, and oh- he could feel his mouth shamefully watering at just imagining them being in his mouth.

“closer, sweetheart,” he grunts, tilting his head down since he couldn’t exactly use his hands.

you were riding him at such godly speed, swerving your hips at such frantic intervals while wetly clamping down on his cock.

nanami always filled you to the brim with all of him, poking right through your slickly dripping orifices with every bouncy thrust.

once more, it makes his head spin, but all he’s focused on is your chest that was staring straight back at him. “f- fuuuck, ‘m still h.. hot. i think- i think suckin’ on them will help me cool off, sweetheart.”

saucily cooing, you lick a stripe down his neck as your hips accelerated. as you continued to speak, your voice started to get a bit bumpy from the unsteady movement of your jouncing ass.

“oh- is that what you wanted all this time, ‘ken? to suck on these?” and he watches as you lean back, cupping your tits with the smuggest smile plastered on your lips.

your hands sneak down between your unbuttoned shirt before you silently mewl, giving them a nice good squeeze. “imagine jus’ how plumper they’d be after i have your baby, kento.”

“h.. honey- you’re lucky ‘m handcuffed.” bronze eyes trace down your skin, stopping at your perked nipples.

they were oh-so-perfect.. and as you’re straddled over his lap, nanami couldn’t help but let his mind wander just a bit. he couldn’t help but allow his mind to wander near the very lewd lobe of his brain.

the mental image of you baring his child . .

his wife, you.

nanami grunts at the thought, wordlessly gasping in multiple honed breaths at the fierce clashes of sharp skin.

your hips were disgustingly brutal, and with the way your thighs clung onto him, you were nearly akin to a magnet – forevermore sticking against nanami, never wanting to let go.

“c’mooon,” the blond playfully whines in a gruff voice, his cock stiffening inside of you. “don’t hah- make me beg, sweet girl.”

“you make me beg,” you chaff, slowing your hips down just a bit. nanami grunts at your catty truth, feeling the weight of you gradually hover before you roughly buck right into him.

using all of your core, his leaking tip smears its way against your clit in an almost pretty heart shape and you stutter out a moan.

your syllables of each broken moan were a bit choppy as you were shooting blanks, arching your back against him. even as you’re still riding him, putting all pounds of movement from your body into your sprawled knees, you kept touching yourself.

seeing you guide your hands all over your body in such a sensual way, made nanami kiss his teeth.

in envy though - those should’ve been his hands..

“allll. the. time.” you finish your sentence in a spirited whisper, whispering against the twitching left side of his ear.

each thrust becomes increasingly sloppy with your grip getting more slick ‘n wet — glossed which such sticky amounts of your tangled juices.

each squashing slop! that squelches from between the arc your legs get louder, causing your thighs to nearly clamp together from the tender stimulation.

cupping your tits again, you bring them up to nanami’s face. “go ‘head.”

“woman.. you’re evil,” nanami muffles, getting a face full of your breasts. you hold onto them tight, watching as nanami brings his face closer until he’s shoved right between them. a sweet crooning groan slithers from his lips as his tongue fervently curls its way down toward your nipple.

sloppily, you feel him casually swirling greedy circles around your pulsating gland before switching to the other one.

nanami’s lashes close as you’re still rocking your hips forward, nearly riding him into utter ‘n erotic oblivion..

at this point—you thought the bed was about to break, devastatingly snapping into two due to how good you were putting your hips to use.

“mmpf- so pretty. all mine, m- mine,” he rasps between wet slurps, his wrists still trapped in pretty pink handcuffs. the woolly fur tickles against his skin as his tongue continues to rove shapes around your nipples. “need to get these girls plump… quickly.”

your tits remained grasped in your hands as you’re moaning from nanami’s tongue, and you now start to rut into him at a much more hurried pace.

nanami hungrily drives his cock all through your core, creating a near race-track path that smothers invisible kisses all against your g-spot.

every inch, he’s fat- and his even lengthier girth nearly makes your brain short-circuit for a minute. every wild jam of your hips feels like its last, and nanami’s already drooling.

treacly, sweet saliva pours from the corners of his lips as he’s sucking on each of your tits, muffled gargled moans and whines vibrating against your tepid flesh..

your body had adapted to a more steady rhythm, but you could feel his dick eagerly twitch inside of you every few rushed seconds.

a bit of drool ends up running down his mouth, landing on his polka-dotted tie, creating a gray dampening spot. it’s cute, and you rub a thumb over his thin lips, watching his tawny, soft eyes flutter back open.

it’s the look of love- and nanami could feel himself heating up more once your gaze meets his again.

for a moment, he had completely forgotten about the dumb curse because he was too busy lost in your gaze.

but his temperature started to increase. you let off a bundle of whiny mewls once you feel him nip the top row of his teeth against your nipple.

“s- so cute,” he purrs lowly, feeling your knobbly thighs get closer and closer to giving out. just a few more thrusts and you’d probably be done for.

“mmp-” he pops out your left nipple with his swollen wet lips, glancing at you. nanami looked like he’d just run a marathon with blond strands glossing strips across his forehead. grunting, he starts to pant like a greyhound, sliding a tongue over his lips. “you’re close, honey?”

“m- mhm!” you’d reply, your voice turning raw at each straining moan that leaves from your poor chords.

his cock was massaging everywhere, it didn’t miss a single spot. it’s tip was widely turgid, angrily crimson-red, and leaking from all veiny sides while narrowly delving into you raw.

nanami’s kneading through your guts, tending to each gummy part of your entrance to make you whimper out his name. from every deep, vigorous pump that profoundly batters inside of your pussy, your eyes cross.

you’re dumbfounded—dumb in general too from the way he facilely located every sensitive spot with just the stubby tip of his shaft.

including your pretty cervix - nanami made sure his cock smacked its way there a few times.

the deep pressure pounding inside of you, greeting every single spot inside of your pussy never failed to make your knees quickly buckle.

“f- fuck, fuck there ‘ken, theretherethereee,” you start to babble, the bumps of his tip making your jaw goofily hang. “ ‘m cum- ‘m gonna cummm.”

“haah- together, sweetheart. can you . . finish with me?” nanami murmurs in a throaty voice, kissing your neck.

he tried to lift his head but got slightly pulled back from the fuzzy handcuffs.

he’s molding your insides fully with his cock, squinting a bit at the crescent-shaped moon that hides behind the violent bed curtain.

that view was nice but the view currently in front of him, riding him.. ‘curing’ him from whatever curse this was was far a better sight.

you.

with a whine preparing to squeal from your throat, you give him a nod.

nanami tilts his head, tsking impishly with his smacking lips despite how he was just as sensitive as you. “ah- you know how i feel about head nods, princess. i wanna hear those pretty words.”

“y.. yes ken, ‘kentoooo,” you moan, gasping once you feel two things at once. your stomach tightly seizing and your sloppy cunt restricting around his meaty, stocky length.

it’s so good, soso good that you softly bite into nanami’s shoulder. he hums, groaning right with you before you continue. “ ‘m cummin. ‘m fuckin’ cumming, kento.”

“i know.. i know, c’mere, girl,” he whispers, his face softening once your eyes immediately lock with him. “my sweet… girl.” his pitch lowers, and you decrease the distance between the two of you.

once again, your lips meet nanami’s but this time, it’s far more aggressive and less passionate.

it’s only one word and it’s – sloppy.

your body’s weakly rolling against him, losing its rhythm as the two of you end up finishing together, competing with each other’s inevitable high.

it all felt like a slow … rush.

as you were both drinking each other’s never-ending moans and grunts, the puddled, gooey mess began.

at the same time though, your legs ended up finally collapsing as your swollen, plump lips attacked against his - harshly.

nanami’s lips were almost competing with yours, mashing against your lips with the occasional rows teeth of teeth clash clash clashing away.

it’s loud, sloppy, messy..

the peppermint taste that still lingers in his mouth travels against your buds and you moan. nanami groans, spraying a geyser of bittersweet strips of hot cum inside of you as both tongues continue to explore each other’s mouths.

it’s a straight shot—it travels deep, introducing your womb with a fresh amount of cum as you end up letting go at the same time.

both sets of hearts fluttered as you pressed against his chest, racing frantic beats per minute as you melted the dozenth kiss he presented to your lips.

it’s hot- nanami’s rawly plunging into you as you whine against his lips, barely feeling your hips rutting into him anymore.

you’re just straddling him now – yet he’s still plugging you full with such massive inches of cock, with the addition of his creamy, gloopy seed that drizzles a sloppy white ring around his base.

your fingers wisp down his undercut, as he continues to quietly ravage your walls. it was a slick, slimy knot that buries itself deep inside of your pussy.

you’re moaning, slowly breaking away from his mouth that had strings of saliva clinging near the bottom of his glossed lip. panting heavily, you crane your head, taking a quick peek down at your ass.

it’s a mess, and as his carmine-colored tip slips out of you, it lightly smacks against his tummy.

ribbons of cum paint near the very undersides of your thighs, pouring out between your syrupy slit in such a slow yet filthy manner. time nearly stood still, and nanami went silent, staring at the gooey wads ‘n wads buttery cum that oozes out of your pretty, fluttering cunt.

“are you okay?” nanami sighs, feeling you reach for the handcuff key that rests near the rosy nightstand. you remove them, and he twirls his wrists in a circle before looking at you with kind eyes.

“ ‘m okay.” you reassure him, cupping his face and kissing the right side of his cheek.

nanami’s exhausted—especially after how good you just rode him.

your dripping cunt hovers against his happy trail and sheeny clenched abs as he lazily lies back, finally grabbing your hips. “good . . good,” and with a huff, he sheepishly smiles. “i guess i . . hah- failed no nut november, huh.”

“eh- there’s always next year,” you bring a chaste, sweet kiss to his quivering, pouty lips.

♡ ♡ ♡

surrounded by nothing but bodies of water featuring sods of glittery clear bubbles, you now found yourself lying against nanami’s broad chest. burly, swole arms envelope around your body as the two of you were in the ivory, spacious bathtub. as the water ran against your skin, soothing your aching muscles—you let off a sigh once he finished washing you off.

“i think it wore off,” his warm voice tickles against your skin. nanami kisses down your nape, reaching near the side of the tub where a bowl of fresh muscat grapes lies. tearing a few off the vine, he brings them toward your lips. “the curse . . pollen, whatever it was.”

“mmpf- did it?” you eat from his hand, feeling his wet palm softly rub against your chin. the smell of rich jasmine hits your nostrils as you let off a satisfied hum at the sugary sweet flavor. nanami’s body held you close, feeling your damp body lightly plop against his chest. you feel a bit of his chest hair land against your skin before you swallow. “do you still feel hot?”

nanami pops another grape into your mouth, then into his. “no, sweetheart. i’m fine now, thanks to you,” and you feel his left arm hook around your waist. the blond reclines back against the tub’s icy marble-made wall before sighing. “how do you feel, though? any cramps or body aches i should be aware of?”

with a content suspire drifting away from your parted lips, you move a bit in the calm, lukewarm water — closer toward the back of his chest.

“i’m okay, kento. althooough,” and you give him a playful nudge. “my legs still feel sore.”

“forgive me, honey,” nanami rests his chin against your shoulder. there was a bit of jest in his tone, and you could hear him trying not to snicker.

again, always the gentleman though.

“i’ll give you a massage once we get out of the tub, my treat.” and you let off a sigh, feeling him creep a few fingers up your thigh.

“hmm, okay,” you comply with a sight sigh, sneaking a kiss near the edge of his lips. nanami blinks thrice, his face flushing a bit before you cup his face with wet hands.

“i was serious you know. about . . what i said earlier. us settling down and–,” and nanami deeply stares into your eyes as you speak.

you rub a wet thumb against his sharp cheekbone before continuing, abruptly cutting your cute rambling short, ending with a sincere, “i love you, kento.”

tilting his head against your palm, leaning into your embrace, nanami brings you toward him before kissing the crown of your head. “and i love you more,” and as you felt butterflies party in the lower pits of your stomach, nanami brings your hand up to his lips.

gently, he aligns his mouth perfectly near your fourth digit before giving you another kiss, this time—on your ring finger. “mrs. nanami.”

but oh- he wasn’t done..

as you’re feeling a wave of tenderness overwhelm your heart, nanami leans a bit down before kissing the center part of your tummy that drips with teary droplets.

his wetly compressed lips give it a quick peck and ‘mwah’ before keeping his head lowered. “i love her too.” you raise a brow, glancing as nanami’s chin hovers over the bubbles of water.

“her?” you lift a brow as he whispers multiple ‘i love you’s’ against your stomach as if he was already talking to something – or someone..

“yes, her,” nanami repeats, giving your tummy one more kiss before sitting back up, rubbing his palm over the center of your belly.

looking up at you, he notices your confused expression and smiles to himself. “oh, just a little hunch,” and you gasp once nanami picks you up softy, carrying you out the wet tub, the both of you soaking wet.

“now, how about that massage? i’m quite good with my hands, especially when it comes to my woman.”

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Urgent Call

"I need your phone."

Tim looks up from his laptop. The boy in front of him looks like he's been dragged to Hell a week ago and just made it back: smudges of soot on his face, his not-so-white t-shirt smelling of smoke, and a nasty looking burn on his hand that he somehow doesn't even pay attention to. Tim thinks back to his mental list of 'Rogues currently on the loose', but it's only Ivy and Harley (who don't even count anymore), and Penguin, who is not known for setting things on fire.

"I can call 911 for you, if you want?" He offers, because this is still Gotham. Despite the fact that a slightly scorched guy casually walking into a coffee shop is not something out of the ordinary here, he's not giving his phone to strangers.

The guy grimaces and starts aggressively rummaging through his pockets.

"No, thanks, ACAB and all that, and they won't do shit here anyway," he says, and then pulls a handful of tangled golden jewelry — rings, chains, necklaces with various gems in them — from his pocket and places it on the table in front of Tim. "I need your phone," he repeats.

Tim stares. First, at the gold — these things look antique, and his parents were archeologists, he knows what he's talking about — then, back at the guy. He looks... ordinary, sans the dirt and smell.

But the burn on his hand looks significantly more healed than it did just a minute ago.

Thankfully, Tim has already had his cup of morning coffee. Which means he is thinking very rationally when he does get his phone out of his pocket and hands it to the guy, just to see what he does next.

"Thanks," the guy grins at him, plucking the phone out of Tim's hand and unlocking it. Tim's eyebrows shoot up — there's a password there! — but the stranger is already dialing in a number and pressing the phone to his ear.

It takes less than a second before someone evidently picks up, and the guy starts talking.

"I have less than three minutes before the phone dies, so listen very carefully. Etrigan is fine, Jason is not, Klarion is still being a bitch. Dora won't help anymore, so you're on your own until Sam makes it there with the staff. I'm in Gotham because, apparently, mazes and I don't mix well together, so if you could summon me back, that'd be cool," he says, a look of mild annoyance on his face.

Tim is back to staring at him. He recognizes some of the names, and, well, one could have been an oddity, two a coincidence, but three is a pattern.

"The fuck you mean you can't, I gave you the incantation two months ago!" The guy raises his voice, his foot tapping on the floor in frustration. "Do you think I just go around giving my summons to people for shits and giggles? Like, yeah, have a spell that unleashes a cosmic being of immeasurable power, use it as a bookmark!"

This interaction, despite Tim only hearing one side of it, gets more and more alarming with every word.

But then, the boy suddenly straightens up and stills, his eyes flashing bright, unpleasantly familiar green.

"You what?" He asks, his voice slipping from just angry to quietly enraged hiss, "Sold it to whom?!" But, before he gets an answer, Tim's phone makes a thin, tiny buzzing sound, and the guy takes it off his ear, looking at the screen.

"No, no-no-no," he mutters, shaking it like that would make it work. To no avail, though: the phone screen flashes a few times and goes black. The guy curses. At least Tim thinks it's a curse because he doesn't understand a word, but the stranger's face and intonation are telling.

"Useless fucking moron of a human, I swear I'm going to drown you in cow shit once this is over," he switches to English, dropping the phone on the table right by the small pile of gold, "I'll bargain your pathetic soul from everyone you've ever dealt with and give it to the Observants, and maybe, after a few millenia of endless Council paperwork, I'll have mercy and sell it back to Lucifer and watch him fry you on a skillet."

...Whoever the boy is, Tim absolutely refuses to ever piss him off, okay. That's an impressive threat to even make, not to mention being able to go through with it.

"Do you need help?" He asks cautiously. If he is getting his context clues right, this is something that involves JLD, and maybe John Constantine specifically since Tim doesn't know any other man who is a magic user, sold his soul numerous times, would care about Etrigan's wellbeing, and could invoke this kind of murderous intent.

The boy looks back at him, his eyes back to normal blue.

"Huh? Oh, no, I doubt this can be helped," he waves Tim off and pinches the bridge of his nose, "Sorry about the phone, but, unless you have a way to yeet me across the globe so I end up in London in the next twenty minutes..." he shrugs, smiling in that helpless 'nothing you can do here' way.

Tim picks up his phone. It's dead, wholly and completely, won't even turn on when he tries.

He really, really shouldn't do that. This is definitely none of his business, and very much out of his capabilities and area of expertise.

But he thinks about the zeta-tube in the Cave.

"Actually," he says, and the guy's eyes snap back to him, a bewildered sort of surprise on his face.

[prosypepper]

this is love ft. kento nanami

a/n: a few sappy slices of life with my main man :3 enjoy as i dig up motivation to finish kinktober. 18+ mdni!

"honey?" kento's voice is muffled through the door as he calls out to you, "everything okay?" the door rattles as he tries to open it, knob jingling.

"uhm, yeah! everything's fine!" you nervously shout, much too loud, and rush to unplug the iron that had melted your husband's favorite shirt. you panic and yelp when the hot iron scorches the side on your hand, throwing the stupid device to the ground in a clatter.

"why is the door locked—are you okay?" he asks, voice becoming more concerned as he hears the movement inside.

"i'm—i'm fine! promise! just give me a minute!" you're rushing into your shared master bathroom to run cold water over your hand, and kento’s using a screwdriver pulled from thin air to break into your bedroom. tears well in your eyes when you catch the sight of kento seeing his favorite shirt burnt and melted to his own ironing board. "i’m so sorry…"

in reality, he doesn’t care about the shirt—he’s already at your side to inspect your burnt hand. after a few seconds, he speaks.

"did you try to iron my shirt for me?" nanami asks, a small smile on his face, "you didn’t have to do that." he turns off the faucet and takes a small towel to dry your hand off.

"i tried to, i’m sorry—i didn’t know it would do that." you apologize, looking down at the cold tile flooring in defeat.

"oh, honey." he coos, "it’s only a shirt."

"have you seen your father?" you ask your son, yū, who’s sat at the dining table, eating breakfast. he shakes his head no, and when you look at your daughter, mayu, she does the same.

"jeez," you grumble to yourself, bedroom slippers pattering down the hallway as you go to search for your husband. saturday mornings were his time to sleep in, but realistically, he never slept past 9am. and currently, it was nearing 10am.

you check everywhere. he isn’t found in the bedroom, living room, his office, the garage, the patio or in the little garden he kept. upstairs, downstairs, everywhere, he isn’t there. and when you check in your bedroom for the last time, you hear a soft buzzing coming from the bathroom. upon entering, you see your husband bent over the counter, leaning close in the mirror as he shaves his stubble with an electric razor.

"there you are—when did you get that?"

kento had always been a clean shaven kind of man, going to a barber shop once every two weeks for his straight razor shave. it hadn’t even crossed your mind he didn’t go after work yesterday.

but when he looks at you—you burst out laughing. he’d shaven most of his beard off, but a few fuzzy patches remained on his cheeks, along with a mustache grazing his upper lip. peach fuzz and a few knicks litter his chin. this was the first time you’d seen him unable to do anything perfectly. and he looks ridiculous.

"is it really that bad?" he groans, pouting when you wrap your arms around yourself in a giggling fit. you shake your head, although your unforgiving laughs are a testament to the opposite.

"no—no, let me help," you say after calming down.

after gathering a new razor and some shaving cream, you sit atop the counter and your husband stands between your legs. kento is surprised how flawlessly you shave his face, without creating any more marks or cuts. you giggle and kiss him, getting some shaving cream on your face.

"ken?" you shout from the kitchen, where you’re sat, working on your dissertation. it’s been a long road of blood, sweat, and many, many tears; but you’re finally getting towards the end. about to earn a doctorate.

"yes, darling?" kento replies, walking into the kitchen on queue, his timing impeccable.

"can you read over this paragraph, please?" you kindly ask of him, pointing to your most recent written paragraph. he leans over you, planting one firm palm on the table, the other on your back; his eyes read along the sentences and his fingers tap along your spine.

"ah," his finger becomes more focused on a certain word, "wrong 'there', honey."

"no it's not..." you instantly retort, squinting your tired eyes to read over your writing. and you're right, it was the correct one the first time. this was his version of teasing you. but kento couldn't keep up the face much longer before he's giving in with a shit-eating grin you didn't see that often. "you're funny." you groan as kento stands back up.

after reading over the paragraph for about the nineteenth time, you notice kento silently slipping you some tea before turning back around to keep himself busy with cleaning. you absentmindedly take a few sips, then some more...and you find yourself becoming more and more sleepy...

and you're out like a light, forehead pressed directly against the table as a puddle of drool forms on the papers below. kento already has a warm blanket straight from the dryer to drape over you, and you stir just enough to get comfy on your arms.

kento knows that his back will hurt in the morning, but he sits around the corner of the table next to you, settling his head into his arms to drift off to sleep alongside you.

music of your taste plays rather quietly in the kitchen. you stir the pot of soup and inhale the flavorful aroma that wafts through the air.

kento sets two bowls next to the stove, then rummages through your silverware drawer to find two spoons. the kids are at their grandparents for the weekend, it's only you and your husband, converted into the duo you were long ago.

you step away from the stove to go fill up two glasses of wine, the brand kento had as his favorite had slowly turned into your favorite over time, too.

kento fills up the two bowls to the brim of the delicious food, grinning on the inside at the simplicity of it all. just you and him. he lids the pot with the matching glass top and makes his way over to the table.

you set out place mats for the both of you, then place the wine glasses in their prospective areas. kento places the bowls on top of the mats as you grab the spoons from the counter.

in the kitchen, your bodies subconsciously dance around each other. carefully, in perfect tune and pace. delicate steps of a routine formed over so much time together.

in the universe, your souls are tied, striding alongside one another in each lifetime repeated.

and this, is love.

[blood-smiles]

𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇, 𝐈’𝐌 𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐖˚ ༘ 🌱⋆｡˚

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐂𝐎𝐖/𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐎𝐘 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 . MDNI . TW// Naked man . Yandere . Suggestive? . Darling is breastfed by yandere. Male lactation . Forced affection

𝐒weat dribbled down your forehead, your scratchy sleeve running across your skin hastily before any sweat got into your eyes.

The hay bale in your arms irritated your forearms but you pushed through, throwing it inside the loft of your classic red barn.

The horses neighed, a little greeting for you, making little circles in their stalls as if brimming with energy.

You mustered a smile, trying to ignore the aching pain at your temples. Your head felt like a watermelon wrapped in rubber bands, about to explode at any moment.

You turned, exiting out the other end of your barn, picking up a tin bucket and kneeling in front of your large collection of flora.

You grumbled as you picked fat caterpillars off your Bougainvillea and unceremoniously tossed into a bin.

A deep frown marred your face as you looked at the various bite shaped holes in the leaves of your pretty flowers.

You sent a scorching glare to the bucket full of caterpillars.

 “You handful of bastards better be grateful I’m not feeding you to the barn cat..” you hissed, voice filled with genuine resentment.

The loud thunk of a truck made you jump out of your shoes, accidentally dropping the bucket, the caterpillars flying into the luscious green grass.

You bit back a groan, knowing you would have to pick out the little creatures by hand later.

You lifted your head, peeking at the men in white lab coats, who were throwing something extremely large into a pile of dirt near your house.

Now what the hell? They have no right to be dumping their shit in your backyard! Not after you had busted your lower back to keep it clean!

You were about to stomp over and throw some hands, however the men got into their high tech van and disappeared in a cloud of black smoke.

You coughed as you approached the garbage site, seeing if there was anything to loot off of.

It looked like there was something massive swaddled tightly in styrofoam wrap. 

You prodded the cocoon with the tip of your timber, you let out a small scream as it pulsated under your foot.

You jumped back in fright as the thing inside started moving even more, all out of the sudden, a muffled voice yelled.

You raised your brows, a person? Was a person wrapped in that? You could just stand by and act as if nothing happened but.. cleaning the mess up would be annoying.

You scrambled to dig your nails inside the wrapping and pulled as hard as you could, ripping the tough material to shreds.

You fell back to the ground, a large, naked man emerging from the dirt, styrofoam doing a horrible job of covering up his.. bits.

You kept your eyes up.. sorta, his well endowed chest was the first thing that popped out to you. Quite literally, it had its own shadow and everything, they were definitely bigger than yours. 

He was tall, taller than any creature or human you had ever seen in your life.

You painstakingly tore your eyes away from his chest, mourning the loss of titties.

You scanned his head, his hair was light blonde with brunette highlights, curling towards his face at the slightly curly tips, a curl of hair covering his left eye.

His skin was tan with patches of lighter skin, resembling the spots of a cow.

A golden nose ring gleamed under the sunlight, you just barely noticed the stubs of horns on his head, along side the blonde cow ears.

..Wait hold on a minute, ears and horns? What in the nudist cosplay is this?

The man tilted his head, his ears flicking as he followed you movements, like a baby bird mimicking its mother’s actions.

You didn’t stick around a moment more as you watched the strange male’s strangely beautiful face light up with wonder.

“Master!” He lunged. Missing you only by a hair, you swore you felt his thick fingers tickling your back.

“Stop following me! I am not your master!!” You hollered, speeding up your pace as you tried to jump over the fence of your barn.

“Wrong!” He giggled, strong arms stretching out to grab you, making sure to take victory this time.

“(Y/N)!~” he called out sweetly, opening and closing his hands, resembling of a toddler demanding uppies.

“HOW THE HELL DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?!?!” You never got an answer, simply a jolly laugh.

You ran around for 40 minutes.

And the strange bull cow hybrid didn’t stop, he wasn’t even breaking a sweat, it wasn’t very long until you dropped on the ground.

The man plopped down behind you, grabbing you by your armpits like he would hold a cat. Only to begin having a cuddling session, he didn’t let you go.

You begged him to let you breathe, but he had gotten too attached to let you go, at one point you had decided to take the drastic measure to bite his arm,

Which was a failure.

Because he let out the most pornographical moan you had ever heard.

You slowly retracted your teeth from his arm, deciding to never do that again.

“Well.. Can you at least tell me who you are? Why you are here? Why me?” You bombarded him with question, he hummed, his tail wagging on grass while rocking you side to side like a baby.

“Mm~.. m’ name’s Briar.. I’m a gift for you! And.. Because I saw you first!” He finished with a wide smile, his simplistic answers not actually giving away anything.

He rubbed his cheek against the side of your head, your back cushioned by two very prominent pillows.

You glared at him, wriggling out of his beefy arms and rolling onto the grass.

“Let me stay with you!” He chirped, getting up to follow close behind you.

“No.” You didn’t budge, looking down to dust your jeans off, but when you looked up Briar was giving you the most sopping wet pathetic puppy eyes you had ever seen.

Your harsh glare softened for a moment, no! No! No! You weren’t going to get emotionally manipulated by a fucking cow.

He dropped to his knees, getting on all fours and dirtying his knees with soil. His hands wrapped around your calves as if they were the size of water bottles.

“Please…”

That disturbed you more than you would think, this thing dwarfed every aspect of yours, only reminding you of how quick and effortlessly he could rip an arm of yours off.

“..No!” You grumbled more defiantly, closing your eyes for a second as you looked away.

you curiously cracked an eye open and saw how large drops of tears welled in his eyes, his bottom lip trembled, threatening that he would cry if he needed to.

A strong gust of wind blew in your direction, to your dismay, sending the last piece of wrapping around Briar’s hips off into the breeze.

You almost screamed in terror at the sheer size of that thing, because there was no humane possible way you could call it a penis.

That thing was the fuckin’ size of your arm.

“Okay. Fine. Come inside.” You grabbed his arm roughly, dragging him into your cottage in a panic.

He cheered as he allowed you to throw him inside your room, you skimmed your closet for something—God dammit! Anything to cover his big ass up!

You shakily exhaled as you found the baggiest jeans you owned, your hands gripping the widest flannel you had.

You screwed your eyes shut. Not wanting to see more than you already had.

“Thank..you!” He beamed, you could already imagine the sparkles around him.

You picked up the rustling of clothes, opening your eyes to see how your clothes fitted him.

You didn’t have underwear for him for now, so you had to compromise with just hoping that your jeans would be enough to cover his shame just a little bi…

Nevermind, you could still see the outline of it.

The supposed ‘baggy’ blue jeans hugged his thighs sinfully. This is a stranger, you tried to reprimand yourself, a complete stranger that you should not be ogling at but.. holy cow.

That shit was juicy. The pervert inside you was foaming at the mouth, trying not to pounce and bite the flesh off his legs and ass.

The flannel was hanging onto a single button, the fabric stretched over his chest so disgustingly tightly.

You had to unbutton the very first few buttons to let him breathe properly, it was killing you slowly. The need to bury your head between those glorious, magnificent tits.

You covered your face with your sun hat in shame, wishing to slam your head against the walls.

“Just..Just go.” You fumbled with your words, flush climbing the back of your neck all the way up to your ears.

Briar held his arms pinned to his sides, fingers flexing as he stared at you in awe. How he just wanted to aggressively cuddle you, he wanted to squeeze you so bad.

He thought humans were weird and mean.. But when looking at you he just wanted to bite you, not to harm you per say, just to somehow cope with the warm feeling in his chest.

“Okay!” He skipped out the front door, leaving you in ruins as he waltzed into the barn where the cattle resided.

You watched him interact and play with the cows for hours upon hours, at one point stealing a bell and wearing it around his neck.

“I’m your belle now!” He said, brimming with excitement. He had now taken the title of being your.. helper from now onwards.

You really did try to get rid of him, you tried selling him, abandoning him— Hell, even tying him up.

But annoyingly enough, he always returned, it didn’t matter what method you used, he somehow evaded it.

So you just decided to keep him around under a condition, that he helps out around the place.

He mowed the lawn.. He milked the cows.. He did some weird type of trick on the plants so the caterpillars wouldn’t eat them.. He was magic.

You made the mistake of introducing him to a friend, thinking that since he was so docile towards you, he would be the same way with others.

Could you be any more stupid?

Sometimes your neighbors would show up to chat and exchange goods or take horse back rides around the lands, Briar didn’t like it.

He was possessive and hostile, you had to stop him from trampling your friend to ground meat, you had almost pissed your pants in fear, never had you ever seen Briar with such a hateful look in his eyes.

Luckily, it seemed like he learned his lesson after you gave him silent treatment for two hours. He was in tears, sobbing that he would never upset you again, clinging onto your feet while nudging your stomach with his horns.

He had went as far as tagging his own ear after he got envious of a calf, he saw you clipping the babies ear and immediately begun to pester you to do the same thing to him.

You tried to make him understand that it was solely for identification, that he was already pretty identifiable, but he kept insisting.

You caved in, letting him plop down in your very much weaker and skinnier thigh. You tried to warn him that it would hurt, but he shook his head, affirming that he would take it like a good boy.

You sighed, monotonously counting down from three, before snapping clips closed.

He didn’t even make a face, you told him it was done and handed him a mirror to look at his brand new piercing.

It was a yellow, blank tag. You didn’t bother giving him a number, he wasn’t a legit cow to be kept in the barns so it wasn’t necessary.

You watched with curiosity as he grabbed a alcohol pen from your nightstand and slowly wrote your name on his tag.

“Baby!” He clapped his hands, ears slightly raising to reflect his mood, his tail wagged like a dog’s as he let out a little moo.

“You’re heavy. Get off.” You pushed him off, hoping that this was the end of his strange behaviors and urges.

He whined and pouted but you eventually peeled him off of you, the warmth and squish of his chest against your face leaving and letting you breathe properly.

Well, you thought that was the end of it.

You didn’t ask any questions about his origins or what he was, because in your book ignorance is bliss.

That was until you couldn’t ignore that your pillows and clothes were beginning to go missing, appearing as if by accident in the barn loft.

Briar was beginning to disappear more often, appearing after a few hours and dropping unconscious on your bed.

You noticed that the flannels he usually wore began to look tighter around his chest, more of the buttons on his shirt beginning to suddenly fly off like bullets, narrowly hitting you in the head.

You whistled a little tune, small pebbles crunching under your boots as you walked into the cattle house.

You swung a tin bucket in your hand, turning to your fluffy little cows to milk them of their milk. You spoke in a high pitched voice to them, reaching out and kissing their furry foreheads.

“MnHgh!” A familiar voice suppressed his aroused sounds with their hand, hoping he had fooled you and had slapped a hand over his mouth quick enough.

You stopped petting your cows, walking towards a closed closet door behind you. Your hand wrapped around the doorknob, the metal being slightly warm, someone with overwhelming body warmth had just touched this.

You groaned, Briar. What the hell was he doing now?

You swung the door open, your figure casting a shadow over Briar’s crumpled body on the floor. Another sweet whimper escaped him accidentally, he tried to cover his chest with his arms, as if shielding a secret.

His tan patchwork skin gleamed with sweat under the dim lighting, his eyes were irritated and glassy, like he had been crying for hours before you got there.

“Briar.” You sternly called his name, causing him to look into your eyes, his ears drooped in embarrassment, attentively listening to what you were going to say next. 

“Show me your chest.” Your voice ordered, putting the tin bucket down by your feet. You watched as Briar slowly did as you said, looking away in shame as he revealed himself.

Your eyes widened as you glanced down at his swollen pectorals, his nipples cherry red and tender. His chest was significantly heavier than usual, and even that was saying a lot when it’s common knowledge that he is very much above average.

“What..What happened?” Your eyes darted to his face, worry slowly seeping into your expression.

His obscenely large hand grasped your own, putting it gently on his chest.

You looked down, trying to decipher what his intentions were.. That was until you felt something warm trickling down your hand.

Something white and watery, slowly dribbling down your hand at a steady pace. It was shameful, down right perverted— But you brought your hand to your mouth, licking the substance.

It hit you like a tractor, it was silky—Sweet, better than any liquid you had ever tasted, it’s taste was one too similar to.. Milk?

“Y..Y-You can do that?��� You blurted without thinking, pulling the tin bucket under his chest to catch the liquid.

The slightest shy nod of his head, the most bashful smile you had ever seen of him confirmed all your suspicions.

..You actually had to milk him. 

Your face turned warm as your hands reached out to him, wrapping around his soft boobs, softly but methodically squeezing the milk out of him.

They produced milk steadily, squirting into the bucket, the sound of milk splattering against the tin making your gaze hazy.

You knew it was game over when the bucket was full, his chest didn’t seem that decreased in size by much.

You got off your knees to get a new bucket, only for Briar to cling on to you, making you fall between his legs and into his chest.

He didn’t wait, his nipple gently introducing itself into your warm little mouth, milk spilling onto your tongue in a moments notice.

You let out a strangled yell, trying to unlatch but Briar’s hand stopped you, pushing your head closer to his chest, forcing you to swallow the soft liquid.

“Hush, let mommy feed you..” he cooed, hearts forming in his eyes as he forced you to digest his milk.

“HMMPH.” You tried to protest, but didn’t make a move to stop Briar, he just shushed you, acting as if your protests were just a hissy fit.

He overpowered you, that sensitive shy act he put on before, being years light behind him. 

You closed your eyes, knowing there was no escape from bosom jail. Your throat was dry from dehydration and the warm milk being force fed down wasn’t the most unpleasant thing you had experienced.

He cupped the back of your head, a million dollar smile on his plump lips, you were embarrassed.

You pressed your nose close into the soft muscle of his chest, just letting yourself be smothered by warmth, milk dribbling from the corners of your mouth.

You could barely hear the overgrown cow’s deep voice over the sound of your heartbeat.

“What a sweetheart you are..” ♥

[sugarwarachan]

roll the dice - ft. sero hanta

pairing: sero hanta x roommate!reader

summary: It's Valentine's Day and Sero does his best to keep his horny thoughts to himself. He doesn't succeed.

cws: smut mdni, face sitting, sero hanta is a pussy-eating KING, dirty talk

based on this prompt list

"Wow," Sero whistles, while you teeter on one heel and hop into the other. That dress hugs every inch of you. "Someone’s lookin’ good. Hot date?"

You laugh, and fuck, he’s such an idiot, because the sound travels straight to his dick. He adjusts himself as subtly as he can and goes back to cooking dinner.

"Something like that.” You swipe on lip gloss in the hallway mirror. "He’s a coworker. I might have mentioned him?"

You’ve mentioned him 17 times. Not like Sero’s counting.

"Make sure he treats you right," is all he says instead, doing his best to ignore the cute little blush tearing across your face as you duck out the door.

Alone on Valentine’s Day, he thinks ruefully, settling his long frame on the couch. Alone on Valentine’s Day with a raging hot case of let-me-fuck-you-right-now for his roommate.

He should have turned down being your roommate the minute he saw you on Denki’s phone. If he had, he wouldn’t be this jealous of some random shithead taking you out for Valentine’s Day.

He considers texting Denki just to have someone to commiserate with, but the guy is probably doing his best to woo Jiro and doesn’t need the distraction.

He sparks up a joint and turns on 13 Going on 30 (so he’s a rom-com guy, sue him), trying not to think about how much better this night would be if you were here.

The door clicks a half hour later, followed by the rap of your heels on the ground. You trudge into the room and slump on the couch right next to him.

“He didn’t even show up,” you whisper into the side of his neck, wrapping your arms around him. He feels a few tears hit his collarbone.

Sero Hanta considers himself a pretty even-keeled type of guy, but wanting to punch this dick’s lights' outs shoots to the top of his to-do list.

“Oh honey, what a fuckin’ dickhole.” His hands tighten on your waist. “Doesn’t deserve someone like you, anyway.”

He probably shouldn’t say that, not when he’s rubbing circles on your hip through the material of your dress, the scorching heat of your body against his impossible to ignore. But he's been thinking it for months now, all of his own attempts at dating tossed to the wayside when he realized he just preferred coming home to you.

“No?” You pull away and delicately wipe away unshed tears. He doesn't know why he finds it so cute, this innate desire to preserve what's left of your mascara. “Who does deserve me, Hanta?”

You grab the joint and drag and his mind goes fuzzy. You’ve never outright called him on it like this before.

“Maybe I do angel, ya ever think of that?”

“Yeah?” There’s that megawatt smile of yours, kicking him in the teeth. “You think of me like that, too?”

It’s new territory for the both of you, admitting to the attraction that Sero realizes has been simmering for weeks.

“Yeah. I think of you all the time.” He cups your face and cocks his head. "We doin' this? You gonna let me show you how I'd treat ya on Valentine's Day?"

You roll your eyes at him affectionately. "Cheesy bastard."

He cuts off your laugh with the press of his mouth.

Sero's not normally one to wax poetic, but something about the way your body instantly sinks into his makes his heart lurch. You kiss him like you've been spending your whole life studying how to do it, and it drives him absolutely insane.

"Knew we'd be good together," he says, grinding the curve of his cock into the cleft between your thighs. "Feel how hard I already am, baby? Just from one little kiss."

You groan into his mouth and start pawing at his clothes.

"I know, I know, want you naked too. Don't fuckin' pout, I think you'll like the idea." He repositions the two of you with him lying down on the couch, you straddling his hips. "Remember when you said you've never sat on a guy's face?"

Your eyes darken with excitement. "I remember."

"What if we change that?" He strokes his thumb under the band of your dress, shimmying it over your hips. The pretty red lace covering your pussy makes his breath catch. "Because you know what's gonna happen if we don't?"

He traces the folds of your pussy through your underwear with the pads of his fingers.

"I'm gonna get inside this perfect fuckin' pussy and embarrass myself. Probably come after two pumps like an idiot because she's just so fucking sweet." He pulls your panties down and drags you up to his face. He catches the little whine of insecurity in your throat at the position.

Your pussy is swollen and begging for attention, arousal clinging to your lips like dew.

"Take a fuckin’ seat, baby, ya think I’ve never done this before?"

He molds his hands around the meat of your hips and thighs, and then Sero feasts, sucking and grinding his chin and nose and tongue up into your cunt. You wail and fall forward, holding yourself steady on the arm of the couch. He doesn't care if he has to hold you up himself; he's in heaven between your thighs, the taste and scent of you all he can fucking think about.

You cum quickly, gasping and shuddering above him as he drinks down your orgasm like fucking water.

"Felt good, didn't it?" he prods, biting your inner thigh and soothing it with a kiss. Your shaky nod makes him grin.

Sero sits backs up with you in his lap, wiping the back of his mouth with a forearm and licking at his lips like a dog. He hopes he smells like you for hours.

Black streaks of mascara run under your lashes. He swipes them away with the back of his thumb. "Sorry honey. You worked hard on this makeup, huh? And I'm just making you cry it off."

It's your turn to cut him off with a kiss.

ahhhhh i've written for him ONCE i hope i did him justice

[lady-luckk]

how about a cowboy or a farmer with a bimbo city girl reader??

itd b so funny if she was just like “do brown cows make chocolate milk??”

or maybe she almost kills the guy by accident trying to rake some hay

i love the trope “she’s an idiot but she’s my idiot”

so like, what’s the wifi password?

# pairings: yandere farmer cowboy x bimbo / himbo reader

# synopsis: while making your way to a fun hangout with your friends your car suddenly breaks down. a kind farmer allows you to stay with him until someone can pick you up. but why are the roads weirdly empty?

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, kidnapping, and murder. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

you’re not entirely sure what led to this. one second you were on your way to hangout with your girlfriends, the next, your pink convertible broke down next to the most farm-ass farm you’ve ever seen. and now? you're standing in front of a barn that smells like hay and something suspiciously meaty, trying to get a signal with your rhinestone-covered phone held toward the sky.

"phone ain't gonna save you out here, princess."

you nearly jump out of your glittery crop top. standing behind you is a tall, broad, sun-scorched wall of man with stubble, a permanent scowl, and arms like they personally fought god for dominance. he's wearing a stained flannel shirt, worn jeans, and a scuffed cowboy hat pulled low like he’s hiding from the law—or just the concept of smiling.

you blink up at him. "omg, hi! are you like, the farmer or cowboy guy?"

he snorts. "i’m the farmer. ain’t another soul within miles, and i sure as hell didn’t call for no... barbie doll on a breakdown."

you gasp, offended. "excuse you, this is Y2K chic. and my name isn’t barbie—it’s..."

"...of course it is."

“you’re not from around here, are you?"

"nnooope. GPS brought me out here for, like, reasons. and then my engine started making this very dramatic sound. sooo now i'm, like, a damsel."

he crosses his arms, face unreadable, then sighs. "you standin’ out here in the heat for long?"

"i mean, i guess? i was gonna call someone, but I’ve only got like, one bar and a lot of hope."

another pause. then he turns and mutters, "c’mon."

"huh?"

"you want heatstroke or you want a glass of water?"

you blink. "omg, you’re nice."

"i ain’t nice," he snaps, opening the screen door wider. "i’m just not leavin’ some glittered-up stranger to roast in a ditch."

inside, it’s a mix of rustic charm and obvious bachelor chaos. he pours you a glass of water without asking, sets it down in front of you like he’s done this a hundred times, and leans against the counter like he’s regretting all of it.

although internally he’s a whole different story. he can’t believe his luck meeting someone as cute as you in this area. he swore he felt his heart leap out of his chest the minute he saw you. 

"name’s eli," he says at last. "i’ll take a look at your car. if it’s fixable, i’ll fix it. if not… guess you’ll be stuck here a bit."

you bat your lashes. "you wouldn’t mind that, would you?"

he shifts, jaw flexing. then: “don’t get ahead of yourself, sweetheart.”

but he won’t meet your eyes. and he doesn’t notice he poured you a second glass of water before you even finished the first.

you follow eli outside, trying not to trip on your own wedges as you strut across the gravel like it’s a runway and not, in fact, a minefield of dirt and despair.

he walks a few steps ahead, toolbox in one hand, broad shoulders shifting beneath that flannel like they’ve never known a day of weakness. he doesn’t say much, but you catch him glancing back once—just once—to make sure you’re not lost or dead or doing something ridiculous.

you're doing all three, probably.

when he reaches your car, he pops the hood with one rough tug and peers inside like he’s about to deliver bad news to a family of four.

after a beat, he grunts. “when’s the last time you had an oil change?”

you blink. "what’s that?"

slowly, so slowly, he turns his head and looks at you.

his face is completely blank. emotionless. a man on the brink. like he’s just been told that gravity is optional now. or that the cows have unionized.

you smile up at him, unbothered, chewing your bubblegum. “is that, like, something you get at a drive-thru? because i only do drive-thrus if they have fries.”

he says nothing.

just stares.

a long, long pause.

then: “you shouldn’t legally be allowed to own a vehicle.”

"that’s what my driving instructor said!" you chirp.

eli shuts the hood and mutters something to the lord, probably begging for patience, strength, or a strategic lightning strike.

“you’re lucky i don’t believe in abandoning helpless creatures,” he mutters, already walking toward his truck. “i’m gonna get the part you need. stay put. don’t touch anything. don’t lick anything. don’t—just... don’t.”

you wave sweetly. “k love you, byeee!”

he stops mid-step. shoulders stiffen.

and without turning around, he mutters under his breath, "you’re gonna be the death of me."

later that day, eli returns with what looks like half a junkyard and a grim set to his jaw. he spent hours elbow-deep in your car, occasionally muttering things like “what the hell is this glitter doing in the engine?” and “is this a sticker of a unicorn on the oil cap?”

finally, he slams the hood shut, wipes his hands on a rag, and delivers the verdict with the gravity of a man announcing a funeral.

“pinky, she’s dead.”

you gasp dramatically. “pinky? you named her??”

he squints at you. “she named herself the minute i saw the pink steering wheel cover. and now she’s toast. fried the transmission, shredded the belt, and i’m pretty sure the air freshener doing psychic damage.”

“oh noooo,” you moan. “so what do i dooo?”

he sighs. long and loud, like you physically pained him. “you’ll stay here until i can find someone to tow it and get you back to civilization.”

"yay!" you beam.

“that wasn’t meant to be exciting.”

as the days go by, eli gains a large affection for you. he believes that since you’re “living” with him now, that practically means that the two of you are married. 

when you two finally travel into town. he doesn’t like people looking at you. not the guy at the gas station who dared compliment your lip gloss, not the mailman who called you “darlin’” with too much sugar in his voice, and definitely not the tourist who asked if you were “lost” with that fake concern dripping off his words. 

eli’s a walking warning sign the second you step into town with him. the locals know him—eli carter, the mountain of a man with a scowl carved into his face and hands that could bend steel. most folks keep their distance, half-respecting, half-fearing him.

they say he’s good with his work, bad with people, and meaner than a rattlesnake if you push the wrong buttons. so when he rolls into town with you, all glitter and sunshine and questions like “do horses get cold?”—yeah, people notice. the butcher’s wife whispers that he’s gone soft. the old mechanic raises a brow like he’s seeing a ghost. when someone chuckles a little too long at your rhinestone boots, eli’s jaw ticks. when a guy at the feed store offers to help you lift a bag of seed, eli’s already there, grabbing it with one hand like it weighs nothing. “they’re good,” he says flatly, not even looking at the guy.

even when you try to chat with the locals, eli’s always close—never rude, but not exactly inviting either. he doesn’t trust easily, especially not when it comes to you. and if someone even looks at you sideways, he’s suddenly all sharp glances and low muttering, hand at your lower back like a silent claim: they’re mine to worry about.

eli’s jaw gets tight, voice real low when he steps between you and anyone who so much as thinks about flirting. once, a farmhand from a neighboring ranch tried to strike up a conversation with you at the feed store—eli didn’t say a word, just calmly picked up a full grain barrel, one-handed, and moved it like it weighed nothing. the guy left before eli even had to speak. you giggled, called him “jealous,” and he growled something about “men like that not knowin’ how to treat you right.” 

he won’t say this out loud , but every time someone shows a little too much interest in you, he finds a new chore to do right beside you. fencing, fixing the barn door, chopping firewood shirtless in the sun like that’s normal behavior. once, you saw him bend a crowbar back into shape like it was a breadstick and he acted like it was no big deal. he claims he’s just “lookin’ out for you,” but you’ve noticed how fast his mood shifts when someone else tries to.

eli always has an eye on you. he always seems to know exactly where you are. no matter what he’s doing, his eyes find you like it’s instinct. you’ll be picking flowers by the fence or sneaking another cookie from the jar, and somehow, he’s already looking. not hovering, not smothering—just always aware. like keeping you safe is a reflex, not a choice. it’s subtle, but constant. protective, almost possessive. like some part of him’s decided you’re his to watch over, even when you don’t realize you need it.

he can’t keep his eyes off you. to him, you’re just his precious darling.

eli gives you a curfew like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “sun’s down, you’re inside,” he says one evening, arms crossed and eyes steady like he’s expecting a fight. you blink at him. “wait, like... a bedtime?” he grunts. “ain’t about sleep. it’s about not wanderin’ into a coyote den in your platform heels.” you try to argue, but he doesn’t budge—just mutters something about you being a “walking hazard” and how “ain’t nothing good happens after dark out here.” and true to form, every evening as the sun dips low, he’s there on the porch, arms folded, waiting.

if you’re even five minutes late, he’s already out with a flashlight like a grumpy dad looking for a runaway puppy. he won’t admit it, but the curfew isn’t just about safety. it’s about knowing exactly where you are. keeping you close. keeping you his.

every night, without fail, you end up in the kitchen with eli—him cradling a mug of coffee, you wrapped in one of his old flannels, sitting on the counter like you belong there. the light is soft, the air warm, and he’s always gentle with you at this hour, like the quiet makes him softer. he’ll brush your hair back without thinking, pass you the sweeter drink without asking, and murmur low little comments that sound more like affection than teasing.

sometimes he rests his hand on your knee when he walks past, like anchoring himself to the moment. he doesn’t smile much, but with you like this—half-asleep, blinking at him under kitchen lights—there’s a warmth in his eyes that says more than he ever will.

there’s always a comfortable silence between you, broken by the occasional sarcastic quip or dry comment from him when you ask if cows dream or if the moon looks closer out here. sometimes he’ll pass you a spoon to taste something he’s cooking, or nudge your knee with his hip to get you to move over so he can reach a cabinet. it’s quiet, almost domestic. like this little nighttime routine just… happened. and neither of you questioned it.

and just like that it’s been a month. you no longer notice how the roads seem to “get worse” whenever you mention leaving, or how eli’s smile always grows just a little too warm when you say, “maybe i’ll try calling a tow service again.”

you’ve stopped wondering why your cell service hasn’t come back. you’ve accepted that the mountains are just “that bad,” as eli puts it. eli’s a good guy, there's no way he’d do anything to sabotage you from going back home. like eli totally did not install a signal jammer two days after you arrived or that he's murdered everyone who ever offered to take you home. there's just no way. 

now, you’re completely settled in—no wifi, no car, and definitely no cute outfits from home. but honestly? you’re so content. the cozy flannel shirts, freshly baked cookies, and endless cups of lemonade have turned life here into a dreamy routine.

but something nags at you.

you’ve been living with eli, enjoying his hospitality, but you don’t want to feel like a useless freeloader. so one afternoon, you decide it’s time to step up and offer to help around the farm. you can’t just keep eating his food and just looking pretty, right?

you walk up to eli, who’s messing around with the tractor, and clear your throat.

“eli, I was thinking… i should help out more around here. you know, so i don’t just sit around all day being a freeloader.”

eli glances up, his face a mix of surprise and a hint of reluctance. he wipes his hands on his pants, a sigh escaping him.

“you sure about that?” he asks, his voice gruff. “you’ve been here for a month and you’re just now deciding to help?”

you nod, determined. “yeah, i wanna pull my weight.”

he doesn’t seem convinced but shrugs. “alright, fine. you can start by feeding the animals. that’s simple enough.”

you beam. “great! i can totally do that!”

you were definitely not cut out for farm life. after eli told you to help with feeding the animals, you felt determined, but that determination quickly turned to chaos.

you squinted at one of the cows and asked, "so, uh... do brown cows make chocolate milk?" eli froze mid-step, gave you the most soul-dead stare, and muttered something about regretting every decision that led him to this moment.

then the chickens got involved. you tried to scatter feed like in the movies, but instead slipped on your own glittery flip-flop and fell right into the middle of their breakfast—cue one chicken hopping onto your back like it was claiming a new roost. 

the goats were no better; one of them chewed on your hair extensions while you screamed, "sir, boundaries!" and the pigs? the pigs chased you across the yard when you accidentally dropped a granola bar from your purse. eli didn’t even try to hide his grin as you ran by him yelling, “they smell fear, eli, they smell fear!” 

by the time it was over, you were covered in hay, dirt, feathers, and regret, and eli just handed you a wet rag with a grunt, like this was all perfectly normal. 

but this wasn’t the first time you’d gotten yourself in a mess. oh, no. this was just the latest installment of “you vs. farm life.” you had managed to almost flood the barn by forgetting to turn off the hose, break a shovel trying to pry open a stubborn gate, and somehow trip over a rock and sprain your ankle—while sitting down. eli had bailed you out every single time. and he didn’t even seem to be all that surprised anymore.

like that one time you got it in your head to “help” eli with a small fix on the tractor. it involved welding, and you’d sworn you could do it. five minutes in, you had almost burned off your eyebrows and started a small fire by the side of the barn. eli was on you in an instant, throwing a bucket of water over the flames, shaking his head like you’d done this a million times before. “i swear to god, you’re gonna burn this place down before we even finish building it,” he grumbled as he handed you a fire extinguisher.

"you really know how to ruin a moment, eli," you pouted.

“moment?” he muttered, sounding exhausted. “you were about to become a human torch.”

there was that time you tried to be helpful in the kitchen by making dinner, only to end up dropping an entire pot of spaghetti on the floor, then attempting to "clean it up" by throwing it into the trash—half of it splattered on the walls and the other half stuck to the ceiling. you’d been standing there, horrified, when eli walked in. “don’t even ask,” you said weakly.

he’d just sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work fixing it. “get out of the kitchen before you burn yourself,” he grumbled, tossing you out of the way with a gentle nudge, as if you were a ragdoll. “and don’t try cooking again until I’m here to supervise.”

you gave him a smile that could’ve melted the coldest of hearts. “you love me.”

he grumbled something unintelligible, but you could see the hint of a smile beneath his gruffness.

and it wasn’t just accidents. oh no. it was your sheer ability to get into trouble. like the time you wandered off into the woods to “explore” and ended up trapped in a thorn bush because you thought you saw a unicorn. yes, you. a unicorn. by the time eli found you, you were stuck, practically covered in thorns, and looking like a glittered-up forest creature. “if I hadn’t come to find you,” he’d said, grinning slightly, “you’d still be out there, trying to make friends with a unicorn.”

you had the decency to look sheepish. “i was trying to be imaginative.”

"yeah, well, next time, try not to get stuck in the thorn bush before you start trying to talk to magical creatures.”

safe to say after that incident eli forced you to wear and carry an airtag with you permanently.

then came the day you decided to help eli with manual labor—big mistake. you tried lifting a hay bale and almost dislocated something. when you grabbed the post hole digger, it practically dragged you across the yard. eli didn’t even let you finish struggling; he took it from your hands with a grunt, muscles flexing like it was nothing, and muttered, “you’ll break before the tools do.” you huffed, but he didn’t budge, already finishing the job in half the time. apparently, your job was now “supervising,” which mostly meant staying out of the way while he manhandled the entire farm.

and then there was the one time you decided to “fix” your own car because you were “bored” and “needed a project.” that involved you somehow locking yourself inside the trunk while trying to find your spare tire. it was a whole dramatic saga that ended with you yelling for help from inside the trunk, much to eli’s amusement. when he finally popped the trunk open, you had the nerve to ask him, “how’d you know i was in here?”

“because you’ve gotten yourself in a mess, like, again,” he replied, his tone dry.

you beamed up at him. “i’m just that special.”

“special? yeah, that’s what we’ll call it.” he smirked before pulling you out of the trunk and checking over your car like he wasn’t wondering why he didn’t just lock you in there himself.

but despite all the chaos you caused, despite the non-stop antics and trouble that seemed to follow you, there was something comforting about it all. eli might grumble, he might make fun of your messes, but he never left you to fend for yourself. he had this way of always being there—whether it was pulling you out of a thorn bush, rescuing you from your own cooking disaster, or simply watching over you while you made another mess in the barn. eli didn’t get frustrated. he just dealt with it—and, in his own way, he took care of you.

you were a disaster, sure, but you were his disaster. and maybe, just maybe, that was enough for both of you.

[dmitriene]

it's takes time with simon, patience, to wait for him until he warms up enough to crawl out from beneath his shell towards you, a shelter he built around, a place he let you approach, but never really left it, even when you started a relationship, a thing much closer than just a greetings and small hugs, ravenous kisses, long embraces, whispered, searing pet names, he still hesitated.

to let you see how his life looks, the military part of him, aside from a dirty gear he comes back home in, his friends, stories, his apartment, spacious, but too empty to be related as a home, his soul, the triggers and traumas that forever here to haunt him, simon never really leaves behind the ghost of himself, something he embraced instead.

so when he takes you with him to the town pub, not to spend time together, but to let you meet face forward with the curious, bewildered gazes of his military comrades, even his captain startled to see simon bring up anyone alongside himself, the realization makes something in you squeeze, throbbing right against your thumping, racing heart, overcoming with the sting that makes your eyes blink rapid, until a heavy arm tugs you almost forcefully close.

simon cradles you close to the curve of his side, fitting right against the slope of his waist, encircled fully with his draping hand, a protective gesture, a sharp, intent undertone to his smoldering eyes, catching the dim light of the room, he tongues at his cheek, gives a little bite to the tender flesh on the inside, calloused fingers spanning across the curvature of your hip, when his chest rumbles, reverberates through you whole, how he introduces you, his girl.

it's settles deep, the acknowledge, or a confession, hooking and tearing in your skin, sparkling like something long awaited, forgotten as a thing that would likely never happen, but it's there, voiced out to the stilling air between you all, the open mouths of his friends, simon's nose nudging in the crown of your head, leaving there a tender, flaming kiss that travels to your cheeks with heat, as you stutter, squeak a weak greeting, and their eyes soften, sweet and hopeful.

you hear a lot about simon this evening, how cool he is, hard as a rock, a good man, settled shy and pliable on his one thigh, muscular and solid beneath the suppleness of your body he holds tight, barking a laugh, crooked grin here and there while they talk, telling you things that seem like a secrets, but they're told in his presence, so you soak everything in, every little detail you're now have a permission to hold, close to your heart, nodding, giggling tender and raw, thanking every minute of what's happening.

his team is good, you scroll in your head when you both leave the pub, biding farewells out in the nighty, cold street, simon's jacket heavy and smelling with something heady over your shoulders, they loved you, made some affectionate nicknames that you're would definitely called again if you'll meet in the future, and it's stacks in behind your ribcage, heavy and bubbling, you suppress it all the way back to home, leaning on the sturdy warmth of the body you're cradled close to.

it's spills out unexpected, like a cork popping out from the wine bottle, pouring seemingly unstoppable, when simon lays you down on the cottony, cold sheets of your shared bed, tingling shivers trailing up from your curling toes at the contact, at the contrast of his chapped, scorching lips over your body and face, peppering sugary, gentle kisses, you sense the hunger in there, see through blearing haze at your eyes how his jawline tightens, teeth's grinding together, as he undresses you down.

you cry when he sheathes himself deep in, soppy, spasming cunt squeezed tight and wet around his bothered, engorged cock, walls seizing at the slip of your emotions, at the sob you let out, scaring something from simon that makes him pull you close instantly, bending awkwardly, tugging you against his sweating, firm chest, heart hammering beneath your ear and wet, tear streaked face as he rasps worried, short questions, listening at the way you choke small whimpers.

simon holds you still until you calm down enough to tell him, share all the worries you had, how patiently you waited for all of this, to hear how he proudly calls you his, introduces to his another slice of life, takes you forward with him hand in hand, as you weep, giggle during your speech, and he chuckles, not rude, brushing off way, it's as raw as your tears, hoarse, joyful in another kind, and he whispers then, voice mirroring yours in it's wetness, thanking you for being there all this time.

now his, for forever, and only, with nothing to wait for no more.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[sagatale]

Dreams Of You

Hello everyone! So, I thought I would give posting fanfics a shot, starting with this small "blurb?" of Jacob Black. Obviously, aged up! I have been wondering quite a lot recently how imprinting would feel and be perceived since it's described as more intense than normal love. I really hope you like it, and if you have any other ideas for a longer fanfic you would like me to write next, let me know, and I might write it!<3 sexual content 18+ minors dni

“I dream of you all the time.” His voice was low, his breath brushing against your collarbones as he found a place in the crook of your neck. Warmth surrounded you, scorching skin burning through the layers of clothing, heating you until all left were cold fingertips and even colder lips. “Even when I’m awake, I still dream of you.”

The words were almost unrecognizable as his mouth pressed against your bare skin, sending shivers down your spine. His words never failed to make your heart flutter at his blatant affection for you. Never did it cease to overwhelm you, for he told you that there were truly no words that could describe how he yearned for you every minute—every second of his long, exhausting days. 

Indeed, you couldn’t imagine what that was like, for if you harbored feelings in that vast amount, there could be no other way for you to deal with them than simply exploding. 

Sometimes, when Jacob was perched over you, arms wound tight under your back as he hugged you close to him, strong legs helping him push into you, you could almost be sure your thoughts weren’t too far off the mark. The way his hands always seemed to handle you softly now strained against his strength, pulling you so tight against him as if having you close was the only way to keep him from eating you alive.

His pronounced brows permanently furrowed something so terribly, eyes tightly shut as sweat dripped down his skin, the salty substance dripping down your chest as his lips distracted themselves by dragging his tongue over your pulse, breathing in your scent til it consumed him whole. Strained breaths could be heard, grunts mingling with your quiet whimpers as your hands trailed over his shoulders, feeling his body tremble beneath them, shaking something so terrible. 

You’d ask him if he needed a break, worry consuming you when his strong arms gave up, pressing into you more urgently as the bed rocked against the wall. Yet it turned out there wasn’t anything the matter with his stamina as he growled in protest when you tried to sit up, his heavyweight over you making your attempts futile, desperate lips finding yours as he slowed slightly, grinding into you as you moaned at the tortuous rhythm he set. 

“You’re shaking, Jacob.” You’d say quietly, fingers threading through his damp hair as his hazy, warm, brown eyes found yours, once more planting his lips against yours. “I’ll be okay.” He’d mumble through the kiss, tongue caressing yours as his hand softly placed itself on your cheek, threading over your skin as if it were porcelain.

It didn’t take long for him to move inside you again, eyes glazed over as he stared into yours through lidded eyes, mouth open over your gasping one as your fingers ran through his black hair. Bringing him down to you once more, you felt the ridges and bumps of his upper body against you, muscles clenching with every thrust as if it took every willpower of his to control himself. 

“God.” He panted out, releasing you to slap his hands against the mattress, gripping the sheets tightly in one hand as you heard them rip under his harsh treatment, the other hand taking hold of the headboard. The wood complained under his hard hold, crumbling as his hold tightened. Your hand found his cheek amidst the pleasure coursing through you, thumb carefully stroking the skin as you whispered his name.

It felt like every sense of reality was swept away from Jacob as his unfocused eyes fell on you, heart thumping so hard against his chest it felt like it would punch through both skin and bones. Shaking his head, he looked at you again, still finding your lidded eyes staring back at him like he had created the world you walked on. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” He grunted, reveling in the feeling of your cold fingertips against his hot cheek as his stomach coiled something so terribly, making him believe he was going to go insane with desire.

In a way, he always feared being this close to you, for only being in your presence was overwhelming for him, never mind feeling your soft skin against his and hearing your pleasure-filled whimpers as he took you. Oh, how he had longed for you, how much he longed for you now, even though he was the closest to you he could ever be. 

He didn’t lie when he told you he always dreamed of you. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you, like you were carved into his eyelids. He never could get close enough, and while that was a curse in itself, it was a curse he wouldn’t trade for any other.

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

ᴋᴇʏꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟɪᴍʙᴏ

Synopsis: A man arrives at your door in the dead of night asking for a simple favor, but once he's let inside, he begins making offerings too good to be true.

Now you're alone with a stranger that's odd in a way you can't quite place, trapped and isolated within a house that offers no safety . . . and normal men don't drool like that, do they?

Warnings: Fem! reader (in pronouns and body descriptions). 18+ content, MDI. Oral (Fem! receiving). Hints of sub! Remmick, but he's still a manipulative brat. Drool, religious themes, abusive relationships (nothing too graphic), infidelity (but her husband's abusive, so who really cares).

Notes: 28.9k words (This is way too long, I'm sorry). Not yet proofread, so please ignore any errors. I'll fix them later.

You've been staring at it for too long. Possibly only minutes, but truthfully it must be closer to an hour. You've long since fallen into a sort of daze, glazed over and trapped while your mind wanders, but you're still able to notice how the muted sunlight has dulled from the soft way it had streamed in through the window. Faded from the powdered shade of dusk and dimmed into a thick dark that eclipses shadows over everything. 

The only light now comes from the old fixture on the ceiling above, spreading out over the room in a warm, yellowed glow. Somehow, it only seems to make you feel more suffocated. The almost rhythmic drip, drip, drip, of the leaking faucet does little to quell the dread prickling and coiling in your stomach. 

It's haunting somehow, if not a little pathetic. Your hands have gone clammy. Palms turned damp from the thick air, all humid and dark from the night. Not even the setting of the sun has helped to cool the temperamental heat. It makes the atmosphere feel like a physical thing. Weighted; a damp blanket that's been draped over your body and tucked tight around the shapes of you. 

It makes you uncomfortable in your own skin, held in too tight it. The unease skirting across your nerves does little to help your predicament, and the wink of the light reflecting from the glass of the bottle, catching across the clear liquid contained inside seems like a taunt. It makes it tempting to drink from it. To feel the scorch of it run down your throat, fueling the fury in your veins. 

You had intended to simply pour it empty down the sink. To crack the top open and watch the booze spill down the drain. And you were planning to do the exact same to the three other bottles of gin that your husband has hidden beneath the floorboards, but you've found that he's already drank them empty. And somewhere along the way, the liquor has wound up out of your hand and down on the kitchen table. It's been sitting there for roughly around the last forty-five minutes.

Never in your years could you have imagined that a simple bottle would be so intimidating. You've been eyeing it as though it's a snake, all coiled in, ready to strike. But it isn't just a bottle. Not anymore with the dry laws, and if Colin knew what you were planning to do with it then you're certain it would send him into a frenzy. You can already hear the echo of his booming voice in your ears, ringing so loudly that you nearly flinch. 

You draw in a deep breath instead, curling your fingers tight to keep yourself still in your seat. He'd paid a fortune for the liquor; you know that well enough. Paid too much. Dug through the tin box that had once been hidden in the floor - the same space that the liquor now occupies - to remove the bills that had been kept there for safe keeping. Wasted through the little you had for some bathtub liquor. 

He needed to take the edge off, he deserves it after all the work he's been putting in, laboring for hours out of the day, callouses built on his skin and sweat staining his brows. His voice had edged close to that tight drawl, anger biting at his words while he seethed through his teeth while he had kneeled on the floor over the open gap in the planks. All you could look at was the money clutched in his tight first, the fierce, irritated glare of his eyes. 

You knew not to pry then. To agitate him any further. Not when his mind had already been made up. It might as well as been set in stone then. Once he's made a decision, he latches on with all the fury and ardor of a dog. You had swallowed down the angry words that welled up in your mouth, trapping the fire behind your lips to keep all the frustration he's been harboring for the past week from releasing out onto you. 

You can't stand the sight of booze anymore. It only reminds you of loses and arguments over money and his dependency. You've found that the fights are more trouble than it's worth. But the impact of them remains vivid. Stained behind your eyes, and the bottles always seem to be the incarnation of all that strife. 

You should pour all of it down the sink and be done with it. It's not a solution, but you know that it would feel good. A temporary relief but one that you would hold onto for years to come. A small retribution for his wandering eyes . . . and hands. 

It makes you nauseous to know that's where he reasonably is now. Out indulging in another woman. Finding pleasure between her thighs and comfort in her arms. He's turned his back on you long ago. You've known it for longer than you'd like to admit. He should have been home at dusk. You would have heard the thump of his footsteps on the porch, the low metallic whine of the door hinges as he let himself inside, his dirty boots would have thumped a little when he slipped them from his feet. 

And yet, he's still nowhere to be seen, but you can hazard a simple guess. Always bending to his impulses, he's probably already dragged himself up to whatever shady gambling den or dingy back alley that might still be willing to take him. If you're lucky, he might be holed up in the house of one of his friends from work, drinking up their booze and taking up a spot at their dinner table. 

He's built a name up for himself for being a man with a shaky poker face, poor luck, and stupid persistence. In some respects, that's what is more embarrassing, what stings and gnaws at you the most. How people look at you now, passing you fleeting, sympathetic glances as you walk past them. Now you're only the wife to the unfaithful gambler, the man who drinks himself into a stupor. Who finds solace in other women while he lays all of your funds out on a table. 

When they all look at you, all you see reflecting back is pity, oversaturated sympathy. It fills you with loathing, mostly because you can't blame them. If you were in their shoes, what more could you do but watch hopelessly from the side lines? 

They hardly see you as an individual anymore, only a woman who can't keep her man from straying. But that's the thing about some dogs, no matter how much love you give them, you can't always keep them from wandering from home. Sometimes you wish that he would wander so far off that he couldn't find his way back. That would save you from the agony of it all. 

But mostly you just wish that you could leave this place yourself. Countless nights you've sent a prayer out that you'd find the courage to finally save yourself and pick up the pieces you have to search for something better. That nerve hasn't found you yet. 

Now you just sit alone, plopped on a rickety chair in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the bottle as though it's full of kerosene that might light up at any moment. Take you up in a roar of fire. That might be a mercy. 

Your mind wars. It tells you to snatch up the liquor and dump it all, while another, more vindictive, fantastical side demands that you finally face your reality for what it is and leave. Fold and pack your belongings into that special suitcase and take off into the night. 

A wife's job is to endure, the words that your mother had said to have all but been branded across your psyche, burning. Permanent. What would God think? You made a promise, sweetheart - a vow, as the Lord your witness! 

The pain you've almost come to grow used to in a twisted way. Though the debasement is another beast in its own right. It digs deep, burrows down into your marrow and carves you out of your skin until you're nothing but bare. Stripped for the judgment and prying eyes to hail down upon. 

Common sense warns you to take the bottle and put it back in its place. He wouldn't even know that it's been moved. You could still nestle it down under the floor, tuck the wood back over into their places and he'd be none the wiser. And yet, you don't move. Don't so much as twitch in your seat. 

Defiance rages inside of you. Thick, heavy, pinning you down in place and thrumming through your limbs, making your fingers tremble. The hatred smoldering in your chest frightens you sometimes, as hot as it burns. Scalding and boiling just beneath your breasts. Sometimes it makes you feel as though you can't breathe, lungs choked on your own ire. 

You've gotten little victories in this marriage, and it's made you desperate. Foolhardy. Downright stupid from your anger and hopelessness. Often times you find yourself thinking, so what if he gets mad? What could he possibly do that he hasn't already? 

Let him hit, let him swear. Like a vagrant you'd take what you could get, no matter how lowly you'd have to scrounge, or how pathetically you'd strike back, you'd get yours. The urge dawns on you suddenly, a weak, scrambling idea, but you cling to it all the same. Colin can go out all that he likes. He can waste himself away, stick his hands up other women's skirts, and in turn you'll take what you can get. Scavenge and prod for the little triumphs you're afforded. 

You almost feel detached from yourself as your hand slips across the tabletop and reaches for the bottle. The chilled glass somehow seems hot on your skin, but you keep your fingers fixed around the shape of it. You hardly think, hardly resist the urge when you lift it up, listening to the liquid sloshing within the vessel as you press the mouth up to your lips to toss back a swig. 

You wince as soon as it touches your tongue, lukewarm and stinging as it slips down your throat, traced with smoke and earth. You haven't bothered with a sip of liquor in years. It wasn't worth the cash or the trouble, from the law or Colin. The last you drank had to have been back when you were a young girl, and your curiosity had you searching through the cabinets for your father's bourbon. He'd caught you red handed. You had expected a punishment then. For him to order you to scavenge the yard and search for your own switch among the fallen branches and twigs from the black gum and oak trees. You had stood awkwardly while you waited, bottle held in a shaky grip while your heart fluttered wildly. 

But there had been no discipline dealt that day, only a small drink shared on the porch while he made you promise him that you wouldn't do it again. When you had first tasted the unpleasant burn of the booze, it had been easy to agree to that vow. But the odd tenderness that he had regarded you with had alleviated the sting of it. If you concentrate enough, you can feel the balmy glide of the breeze on your skin from that evening, you can hear the soft thrill of the birds that had been chattering nearby, the rustle of the trees. 

That memory seems a lifetime ago, and the next gulp you take of the gin seems to bring you closer and pull you farther away from it all at once. You bring the bottle down on the table with a noisy thump. Your muscles tense while you suck a breath in through your teeth through a revolted grimace. The alcohol tastes as awful as you remember. Harsh, biting, and the hint of juniper, distinct and a touch too bitter, it makes your mouth twist. 

For a moment you consider actually just evicting it down the drain, but your hatred keeps your hold fixed around the bottle, though you don't make any moves to lift it back up to your lips. It sears its way into your stomach, settling there heavy and warm. It doesn't help. It doesn't soothe to ache that's been splitting you apart. It doesn't quell the anger and hurt. Not even while you imagine the indignation Colin will feel when he finally stumbles home and finds the last of his booze gone. The brief show of betrayal that will be in his eyes, the irritation that will show there, will be enough to turn your rage into a smug satisfaction. 

But it's difficult to allow yourself to try and bask in what that might could feel like while you're sitting alone in the kitchen with nothing but the sound of your own quiet breaths and the dull chirp of the crickets outside to occupy the silence. It's times like these where you start to fantasize. It becomes a simple thing, for your mind to drift somewhere safe and better. 

There's a suitcase in the closet inside your bedroom. It's made of dark, chestnut leather and brass buckles. You can't recall where exactly you got it from. It might have been an old purchase that's slipped your memory, or it's possible that you had taken it from parent's home when you had finally left it, when the wedding band around your finger was shiny and new. Despite the kind of enigma around it, you think of it often for an entirely different reason. 

Sometimes, when the house is quiet and vacant like this, you take it out of the closet and open it up on the foot of the bed. You remove your clothes out from the dresser - only after thoroughly evaluating each garment - and choose carefully. The room available in the luggage is sparse, and you'd have to make do for the journey ahead. You pick through all of your clothes, picking meticulously - sometimes for different destinations. You went through all of your thicker clothes for a trip to Missouri; you know the winters there can be brutal. You had selected all of your best dresses for a journey to California, the ones made of lighter materials to keep you cool during the heat, though you're sure that the dry temperatures would be nothing in comparison to the humidity down here. 

You organize all of your things, packing only what you'll need. You fold up your clothes, tuck in a book or two for something to entertain yourself during the monotony of travel, some of your makeup and the little pieces of jewelry you own, and then you shut the suitcase tight. You flick the buckles closed and it's a noise that's final. You still don't think you've ever heard a sound sweeter than the heavy, metallic click that always echoes out against the four walls of the small room. A private, gentle noise. 

It's the sound of being able to go anywhere, and you like to tell yourself that that's true. One day you'll get on a train. You'll head to the depot in town and buy a ticket. You don't care where to - Las Vegas, New York, Boise, Charleston. Anywhere else is better than here. But you think of the Californian coast often, sand under your bare feet and a sweet sunrise blooming over the stretch of glittering water in gold and blush. 

You have a postcard of the ocean. An artist's rendition of the waves, done up in pastels, watercolors, blues and beiges and pinks. A pier stretching out over a large body of water. You imagine often stepping out onto it and walking into the sunset, to be touched by a new light. You've held the postcard so often that the corners have become all bent up, weakened from too much touch, turned soft from your palms. You keep it safe inside the suitcase, but sometimes you can't keep yourself from admiring it, tracing the elegant font that's scrawled across the face of it, dreaming you were there instead of here. 

Deep down in the pit of your soul, you know that you'll never leave. That's what's killing you inside. Twisting you up, chewing you down and grinding you into a pulp. Brutalizing you in a way that not even Colin can. The hatred is like an affliction that's tainted you down the marrow. It's festered. Turned your blood black and eaten you down from the inside out, and now you hardly recognize yourself. When you look in the mirror you hardly see the person you had once been. You aren't the naïve girl who had fallen in love with Colin all those years ago, when he had been alluring one-liners and the protective nature he had shielded you with seemed well intentioned and not stifling and controlling. 

How dumb you had been. All ignorant and blinded by sugared feelings and young love. You'd dug yourself into a hole. Allowed yourself to be pulled in by the charm he'd once had, now curdled and rotten by time, and it's become too late to dig yourself up from the soil. This is where you'll take your final breath, curled up in a quiet house, blood on your busted lips while the cicadas send you off with a warbling cry. 

It makes your heart burn like a coal. It spreads through the sinew inside of you white-hot and coiling. Worse than that is the emptiness. The defeat that hollows you out in a shell. You're a ghost now. Dead and dull. You have no choice but to hate who you used to be, to be jealous of that youthful spark you once had, but it's all but been snuffed out and relit into something hateful. 

You want to scream. No one would here you all the way out here, tucked around the thicket of heavy trees and the swaddle of the night. It would be your secret if you let it all out, pitched your voice up into a wail that you know would pierce your own ears, release the tension that's been trapped in your lungs. And yet, no matter how much you long for it, the cry never rattles past your teeth. It's stays lodged there, like a rock behind your sternum. 

You hardly recognize the desperate reach your hand takes for the bottle again, slipping over the scuffed tabletop to grasp the smooth glass. The feel of it in your palm feels wrong, like it doesn't fit, but you hold onto it all the same. You don't want it, the bite of the liquor on your tongue. Not even the soft warmth that's scattered over your limbs, as balmy and satin as heated water, is tempting enough to want you to keep drinking, but the ire you have for Colin is. 

Your fingers slip up, smoothing up to clasp tight around the neck so that you can lift the bottle up from the table. The glass is cool on your skin, just whispering against your bottom lip when you tilt your head back to take another swig. 

Your grip slackens just a bit, a clumsy error, but that's all it takes for the bottle to slip from your clutch. The bottom of it hits the table with a heavy thud, and you hardly have time to track it as it tilts on its side and careens over the edge. It's a blur of silver as it hurtles towards the floor, and your breath snags harshly when it meets the wood in an eruption of shards. 

Everything in you locks in place. You go completely still as you stare down at the mess, taking in the liquor staining the floor, darkening the worn oak. The sting of the spilt gin pierces the air in a pungent bite that makes you sick to the stomach, blending with the sheer horror wracking your body and for a moment you fear that you might actually be sick. That you might double over and evict your guts all over the wooden planks; the pungent scent of alcohol already permeating across the air, staining the walls. 

You don't give it an ounce of thought when you crumble out of the chair, falling so abruptly the seat's legs scrape in a shrill cry and your knees smart when they strike the floor. You can't pay it any mind though. Not while you're cursing in a frantic stream, reaching down with shaky fingers to pluck up the shards of glass, desperate to pick it all up. 

Suddenly you don't feel invigorated or empowered, but just foolish. A dumb girl who tried to get the upper hand, who tried to feel big and crumpled under her own weight. 

You pick up the shards as quickly as you can, cradling them within a shaky palm one delicate piece at a time. It seems not even the universe is willing to allow you a victory, as miniscule as it may be. 

A cursory glance out through the kitchen window confirms that it is indeed deep into the night. It's so dark out that there's no definition to what lies outside the pane; there's simply just a strip of black velvet. An infinite void that stretches too wide, means to swallow you entirely.  

You aren't certain for how long you've been sitting here, stewing in your own chaos, but if you had to try and guess it must be close to 10 p.m., if not nearing midnight. When Colin vanishes like this, he often isn't back for hours, sometimes not making his way back until the dawn, all but barraging through the door in a noisy shuffle as though he'd been ushered in by the rising sun.  It makes you thankful at least, that you'll have time to clean up properly without him stumbling upon you, a mess in the kitchen with his drink now a collection of glass on the floor. The very thought of it makes your hands shake, fingers trembling. 

A hiss rips from you when a sharp throb pulses through your hand. When you look down again, there's a bit of red beading from a sliver in your skin, long and thin from the serrated edge of jagged glass. It's a clean cut, narrow and not too deep from what you can make of it in the low light and the smear of blood, but it still palpitates white-hot across your flesh. Sliced from the heel of your thumb and easing off just shy of the direct center of your palm. 

"God dammit all," you swear but your frustration is snuffed out by the tone of ragged panic and defeat in the inflections of your voice. You lift yourself up to your feet on wobbling legs, knees turned feeble from the dread weighing you down, but you still manage to cross over to the sink. You toss the glass shards that you picked up and toss them into the basin as though they're hot coals; the clatter of them striking across the cast iron sounds akin to a round of gunfire. 

You snatch the rag draped over the lip of the sink up in a mean jerk to press it against the wound. It burns to hold it to the laceration, but you clench your teeth together to distract yourself from the pain. You're almost entranced in your watch, seeing how the scarlet blossoms across the thick cloth, turning some of the fabric a rich red, distant from yourself as your mind chants to hide the evidence - to hide the remnants of the bottle before it's too late. You got too big, too bold, and now God or fate set out to knock you down a peg. To remind you of who's in control. Humiliation burns at you, unforgiving, fire raging, violent and fueled by hatred.  The smell of the gin is noticeable in the air. Thick, burning in your nostrils. He'll smell it once he gets home. It'll hit him as soon as he steps through the door, distinct, undeniable. Truthfully, if you had drunk it or broken the bottle, the result would still be the same. It would earn nothing but one reaction: anger, the strike of an open fist.  But somehow this seems so much worse. Perhaps it's the lack of control. The fact that it hadn't been a conscious decision, not part of the plan. But it's horrific, leaving you panicked and frantic, mind spinning out in a blind terror.  You'll have to open some of the windows, let the house ventilate and breathe and hope that that'll be enough to get rid of the smell - A repetitive noise sounds out from the front of the house. Steady, polite. Knocking. Someone is knocking on your door. 

If Colin had come home, he wouldn't bother with announcing himself. He'd simply ram in through the front door without a care, probably dragging his feet and slurring his words as he mumbled in a drunken drivel. 

Not many drift this far out, apart from the occasional neighbor you might spy while out pulling weeds in the yard, many driving out in their vehicles or hitching it on foot for a trip into town. You're all fairly quiet. And despite the cordial wave in greeting or a nod of acknowledgement while in passing, you mostly keep to yourself unless something calls for it. The last time you had someone at your doorstep was when Helen Young needed to borrow some flour, and that had been nearly a year ago; you'd kept her for as long as you could, sharing recipes and nuggets of gossip. 

You can't think of a single reason why anyone else would be at your house at such a late hour. You struggle to come up with a logical explanation and it only seems to sweep you up in a bigger whirlwind, one too great for your scattered psyche to handle.  There's another knock tapping on the door, still mild, considerate. Decidedly unlike Colin, but you're still unable to deny that there's a slim possibility that it might be him regardless. That all it takes for your body to go up in an uproar of confusion and dread, but it can't help but to obey the call coming from outside. Not if it's Colin who's out there, waiting and impatient, temper turned hot by alcohol. 

Every facet of you winds tight from the possibility of him actually being home. But the nature of his arrival is abnormal. Though maybe, the prospect of someone having dragged him back here, having become too drunk and incoherent, isn't an absurdity. Just the thought douses you with the sensation of cold water, and you long to move to crawl back over to the splinters of glass on the floor and clean them up, to toss them away in the bin and pretend that your ignorance never got the better of you. 

But that's only a temporary fix from the inevitable. Colin will find out regardless. He'll know what you've done. Look in the hollow under the floorboards and find that it's empty. Smell the fumes in the air. It's pathetic how all of the defiance and rage in you has been snuffed out into a wild disquiet, traded in for fear.  

Despite your panic, your feet don't stop in carrying you towards the door. It goes in a blur how quickly you cross the space from the kitchen to the adjoining living room until you're standing in front of the entrance with your heart thumping wildly inside your chest . The floor creaks under the shuffle of your feet, seeming too loud. The door seems to stand imposing, nothing more than a tall structure of wood, and yet it might as well as be the Grim Reaper standing before you. Ice sinks low in your stomach, becoming weighted as you eye the knob in your cautious approach. 

You wind the cloth around your hand, binding it tight and tucking the loose edge into the wrap of the fabric so that you can hide your hand behind your back, just out of sight without fear of the makeshift bandage falling free and giving evidence to your crime. You have to steel yourself as best as you can, sighing deeply to calm your nerves, but it does little to help as you twist the knob until you hear the telltale click of the latch bolt slipping from its divot. 

It's cold when you finally grip it, a shock to your skin despite the sticky warmth that's swaddled the air. You have to brace yourself, swallowing a shaky breath as you prepare for who's on the other side. But as much as you'd like to cling to the shaky bit of peace that you have, you can't hold onto this moment for long. 

You loathe the low whine of the hinges as you draw the door open, like the hissing of feral cats. It nearly sets your teeth on edge when you press yourself to lean out and peek around through the gap between the threshold and the door, just enough to be able look out onto the porch. 

The dark outside dares to swallow you whole. It's only from the dull light of the oil lamp on the accent table on the far side of the room that offers a wisp of illumination to slip out past the threshold. A muted, buttery hue that struggles against the oppressive shade of the night, but it's enough to highlight the figure that stands at the edge of the porch, just above the first descending step. 

It strikes you immediately that you've never seen this stranger before, and that manages to alleviate you from the fear of facing Colin and distress you all together. Uncertainty seems to press down on your shoulders, nudging at the nape of your neck as you eye the man warily. You can feel your brows pinch close from your confusion as you sweep a glance down at him from down to his shoes and all the way up to the relaxed smile on his lips. 

The expression on his face is polite, friendly, but that doesn't make this situation any less odd. He - whoever he is - doesn't seem to have the same reservations or thoughts as you, not with how relaxed his posture is. Fully comfortable in a space that doesn't belong to him in the late hours. His boots are a little worn, the leather scuffed slightly around the toes from all of the walking he's probably done, and there's a banjo hanging from his back. Not by a proper shoulder strap but by a pale, old rope. 

It isn't entirely unusual to have travelers come walking through here. All in search of different things, individual goals and destinations. Many follow after the train tracks that depart from town, using the rails as a guide to help themselves along to the next town over. What is unusual is to have one standing outside of your house. It sets you on edge, and you're taken away with the worst-case scenarios, the possible horrors that might arise from being alone out here. Horror stories of people attacked and murdered in their own homes. 

It makes your heart thud. 

"May I help you?" you ask, and you hope that he doesn't take notice of the way you scan a vigilant glance around the surrounding land, looking out for possible figures lurking off on the dirt road in the near distance or hiding in the trees. Luckily, you see nothing out of sorts. 

When your attention flickers back onto him, something about him seems amused. There's a glimmer in his eyes and the shadows that are being spilt across his face seem to pronounce the lilt at the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry for disturbing you at such a late time, but I'm on my way through here and I was wondering if you'd be kind enough to spare a sip of water." 

It's a simple request, and good manners encourage that you comply, but common sense presses you to slam the door shut and lock the bolt. The urge to deny his ask rests in your mouth, right there on your tongue, but the refusal never makes it past your lips. It dies out when he dares to creep a little closer, stepping further into the murky fire light, and the weight of his shifting feet, despite their soft shuffle make the boards beneath creak. It could be a trick of the shadows, but you're sure that when he lifts his chin just the slightest, that his nostrils flare likes a dog that's caught onto a scent, and his eyes seem to flicker down to trace down your shoulder, following where you've tucked your wounded hand behind your back. 

Then his eyes are on yours, a movement so quick that you think you might have imagined the entire thing. The dark fashioning illusions, exacerbated on by your frazzled state. 

"I can't let you in," you blurt. It's all rolled out as though it's been struck from your chest, like you were worried he might try to shove past you and allow himself through the threshold. "My husband's asleep - he doesn't like to be disturbed." The lie rolls from your tongue easily enough, but it feels clunky too, unnatural. You find yourself hoping once again that he can't notice your discomfort, that the night will cloak your expression enough to keep your uncertainty hidden, the ceaseless cries of the crickets will hide your tone. 

"I don't need to be brought in," he replies. A reassurance, but you swear that something about its delivery seems . . . entertained. Like you've said something vaguely amusing. "I can stay right here on your doorstep. Take what you're willin' to give me and then I'll be on my way. It'll be like I was never here." 

There's something unsettling about the suave nature of his voice, like velvet wrapped around teeth, honey soft to lure you in and placate you. As tempting as it is, something animal skirts down your spine. Still you stand in the part in between the open door. You don't move. It's as though you've been stuck in place, caught by the societal etiquette that's been engrained in you since birth and something more damning, the weight of his stare. 

It isn't right, you know, to turn down a person in need, but your paranoia demands that there's a menace in the air. That danger might lurk right around the corner. Or that it's already standing directly in front of you, watching with a smile. 

You should step back, bid him to leave before your husband does actually make his way home, slam the door shut and sweep up the glass, tend to your wound. But you don't do any of those things. Instead you move back a hair, sparing the stranger a brief look as you begin to nudge the door closed. "Wait here," you relent. "I'll be back. But once you're done drinking, I expect you to leave." 

You don't wait to hear his response, but you think that you might catch a distant 'Yes, ma'am' passed you way as you head off towards the kitchen. You make quick work, opening the cupboard above the sink and grab the first glass you see to begin filling it from the faucet until it's full, almost trickling over the rim. You try not to glance at the broken shards still dusted over the floor beside the table, glittering and winking under the light, taunting you from the distance. You ignore the heated pulse that thumps and flares across your hand in time with your heartbeat. 

You twist the water off, catching it before it can overflow from the cup, turning the knob with a pronounced, rusted squeak. 

With another deep, steadying inhale, you find yourself opening the front door for a second time tonight. It's all too soon, as though you've blinked and lost time even though you can remember the steps you had taken to get back to this point. Your nerves feel shot, all fired up and confused, and it makes the minutes pool around you in a blur. The faint warmth that you had just begun to feel from the gin has all but left your system; chased out by the anxiety. 

When the door rasps open again, a part of you is disappointed to see that the stranger is still standing on your porch even though you fully expected for him to be there. When your eyes meet it's as though you've entered some sort of stalemate. He creeps closer, but there's a calculated edge to movements, as though he's approaching as one would a startled animal. 

You don't meet him halfway. You can't manage to get yourself to twitch past the threshold. Your hand that holds the cup hovers close to your chest. There's a disconnect somewhere. You tell yourself to extend your arm out to let him take the glass, but it doesn't happen. You remain tucked against the door. There's a safety here. An ability to close the man out if need be and hide yourself within the safety of familiar walls, but your hesitation has pulled a hush over the space. 

There's a clear uncertainty extended from the both of you now, but he doesn't eye you with awkward puzzlement but almost an intrigue. His head tilts a little, a minute movement that makes you feel studied all the same; an insect pinned to a board. That's how both of you remain for the next passing minute, for probably just a blink but a void seems to wrap out around you, turned hauntingly private from the dull hiss of the breeze shifting over the grass and the chirp of noisy nocturnal insects. 

It's another catch of the contained flame flickering within your home, but his eyes seem to reflect the night, the glimmer of distant stars catching in his pupils. You don't know if you've ever been consumed by a stare before; it's definitive that you have now. 

Your hand twitches forward, fingers flexing around the glass as though you might actually stretch your arm out past the doorway for him to take, but it hardly makes it more than a few scant inches. 

You notice the corner of his mouth nudge upward. "Plannin' on letting me keel over from thirst?"

A part of you can't help but hate how playful he sounds, as though you're well acquainted - cordial, familiar - and not outsiders to each other. The other, more buried half, the side that used to know how to smile easily and share harmless gibes in a second nature, rouses under his light ridicule. Maybe you would have insulted him for being the one crawling up as a beggar on a stranger's doorstep, and the desire to do so slips over you like a ghost. But you can't allow yourself the possession of that temptation. 

You force your hand out then, stretching it just enough to offer him the glass. 

The paranoid concern that he might grab you instead rises in your gut, but when his hand reaches, it only takes the cup with a polite, "Thank ya kindly," muttered out to you. There's a purposeful gentleness when he removes it from your own grip, keeping eye contact with you the entire time while he raises it to his lips, lifting his chin to drink it down in heavy gulps. He empties it in drawn out sips, pouring down his throat as though it's the only water he's had for miles. It has something like guilt whispering over you. 

 "What are you doing out here . . . so late?" The enquiry leaves you much more tentatively than you intended, and you reflectively clear your throat as though that might banish the nervousness in your chest. 

He seems delighted by the question. His posture straightens just the slightest, shoulders drawing up, boyish and pleased, as though he thought you'd never ask. "Oh, I'm a musician you see." He reaches behind to pull at the neck of his banjo, rotating it around to brandish it against his hip. "We've got ourselves a gig not too far up the road there." 

He lifts a finger up from the grip he has around the now empty glass and points out to his left in the direction of the path paved by car tires and wagons, cutting up through the earth and trees. The crickets chirping seems to ring out, raising up higher and higher as though they're loudly declaring him a liar. You hardly pay that any mind. 

"We?" Once again, you're scanning the surrounding dark with a worried glance, expecting finally see shadows lurking. Still and quiet, waiting for the perfect moment the lurch forward and take what they want. 

"A couple of my friends," he clarifies. He pulls on the rope around his chest, tugging the instrument back around in its proper place behind his back. He shifts on his feet, slipping about half a step closer, making the floor groan in a faint protest. "They're just up ahead, not too far from here. I thought I'd be able to make it just fine, but I have to admit that this heat is gettin' to me." 

"Yeah . . . It's plenty warm out here." You agree, half-hearted, struggling in your effort to keep him appeased with a geniality that you know must seem forced. 

This is odd. Something about this - him isn't right. It nudges at the back of your head like the weight of a reprimanding hand, pokes and prods at you to cut this interaction short and shoo him away from your doorstep like a stray that's overstayed its welcome. Regardless, you're stuck. All spun up in a glimmer of intrigue that sinks into you with a stubborn influence. All the isolation out here has made you deprived in a way, starved for interaction that doesn't come with the threat of scathing insults or the swat of a hand. 

You'd be fooling yourself if you couldn't admit that your fascination has been piqued. There's a magnetism around him that you can't quite explain. He looks like he could be any other man, not exactly plain faced, but his handsomeness shows in a way that isn't particularly arresting. It's pleasant, strong despite his rounded features and eyes that seem dark, impish. It's how he carries himself you conclude, the puckish lift of his lips and the lively way he expresses himself. 

There's a sort of energy around him that is almost palpable, thrumming and brushing through the light fabric of your dress to run over your skin; charged air in an oncoming storm. Suddenly, you feel a lot like a moth daring too close to an open pyre. You fear you might have already drifted too close to turn back now. Something instinctual and buried begs that you do, but like a bass captivated by the glimmer of a bobbing lure, you don't know if you're able to. 

It's like you can see the traces of his journeys on his body, remnants of the treks he's taken immortalized in the scuffs on the toes of his boots. You had seen that the calfskin face on his banjo has been turned darker in certain areas, made that way from frequent use; the brushes of his hand while he played. It aids you in picturing all the places that he's probably strummed the instrument in, plucking the strings with deft fingers while people dance and laughed, jovial in their celebrations.   

"Oh, it sure is," he answers with an excited grin. He tilts back just enough to place the glass on the railing, freeing his hands before he turns to you. It reminds you of a salesman preparing to make a pitch. "You could join us tonight, you know. It's fixin' to be quite the party, and the more the merrier." 

The invitation takes you aback, knocks you off quilter so that you're staring at him dumbly from within your doorway. "Excuse me? I can't - that's very kind, but I don't know you." You shake your head while it all leaves you in a sort of jumble, turned messy from your bewilderment. 

"C'mon now," he encourages as though he's a longtime friend and not an unknown, a stranger shrouded in mystery. When you lean back a little, tucking one of your shoulders tighter against the threshold, he tracks the movement with a stare that seems too eager, like an animal watching its prey twitch. "Everybody's a stranger to somebody; take a chance and we might just wind up as thick as thieves."  The smile on your face is tight, muscles twitching as you wield your mouth to shape an expression that's hardly convincing, too strained.  "I'm sorry, I have to decline. It's late. My husband is sleeping-"

"Your husband is occupied, all tucked into bed, sound asleep, just as you've said." His brows perk up a little, embellishing the question and he leans in close as though you're both sharing a secret. "So he wouldn't notice then, if you disappeared for an hour or two. He didn't even hear me knocking on your door - dead to the world, huh?" 

The last comment borders on mockery. A sardonic jab that's thinly veiled with an easy smile. It's knowing, as though he's in on something that he shouldn't be and can't help but to be a little smug about it. A distant, but clamorous voice cries from the corners of your mind in a paranoid stream of he knows, he knows you're all alone out here. 

He has an arrogance and condescension that leaves you a little speechless. You've only been in his presence for less than fifteen minutes, but the blurred genial character he has and the thinly veiled snark makes your head spin. You can't tell if he's attempting some strange, boorish flirting tactic, or if he's simply ignorant enough to believe that you would truly feel comfortable enough to allow yourself to be swept away by a complete stranger.  Even worse than all of that though, is that a side of you, dull but persevering, a remnant of your former self turned alone and quiet, is tempted. It's easy to fantasize about being spirited away, about being pulled into a whirlwind of titillation and celebration, flowing drinks and bubbling laughter. 

But those thoughts bring nothing but danger. A sinking in your gut that seems to tug you down to the bottom of a river, dragging you like a rock. 

"I can't." That's all you can manage to say. 

"Well, that is a shame." He concedes a lot easier than you had expected. He doesn't strike you as the type to roll over and except defeat, but he lets out a dispirited sigh. He nods like he understands, a minute gesture while he shifts his focus to his left, looking back off towards the road - a kicked puppy. That's what he looks like. Eyebrows furrowed over the wide shape of his eyes. He's actually pouting.  For a moment, you think that he's relenting. That he's finally picked up all the signs that he's been ignoring (willfully or otherwise) and that he'll turn and leave with a thank you, vanishing in the dark like a phantom that never existed. 

It would be easy then, to believe that you had made him up. A figment of your imagination come to haunt you. 

When his attention shifts back onto you, that glimmer of the faith you had fizzles out like water doused coals. It's involuntary when the hand behind your back flexes, clenching your thumb around the bandage. It licks a painful heat up the wound and you can feel your face wince. His nostrils flare in that peculiar manner, again. An animal scenting a trail. 

"I hate to take advantage of your kindness, but before I go, would you mind if I got another glass?" He lifts the cup up between you both and tilts his head as though he's eager to hear your response, rotating the glass back and forth to hold your attention. "I'm real parched." 

No. It's right there again. At the ready. But once again you can't find it in yourself to speak your mind. The stare he holds you in is testing. Evaluating. As though he's weighing you for your worth, challenging you to see how you might respond. It's become instinctual in you to waver, to shrink yourself down beneath a heavy stare. 

That's all it takes for you to grab it from his hand. You aren't sure if you appreciate the smile he gives you. He's stopping you before you can turn around and fill the glass - or get rid of him. 

"You wouldn't mind if I stepped inside, would you? Only to take some pressure of my feet. And these damn bugs, they're hungry tonight. I must taste good with how they're nippin' at me." 

He grins like he's said the funniest thing. As though you're close friends and he's made an inside joke. You can't manage a laugh though. You feel heavy, turned into stone as you stand in the doorway, tense, wound throbbing, and concern gnawing in your gut. It's kneejerk to want to refuse his request. Common sense nags at you to do just that, but fear keeps the words trapped inside. 

He's acting calm now, friendly, all things considered, but would his mood take a turn if you refused him? Would he lash out? Barge through the door if you slammed it shut or crash his way through one of the windows? 

Another voice entirely chides you for making assumptions. For being so judgmental in the first place. He might be a bit odd, but that doesn't make him a threat. He's a weary traveler looking for a place to rest his feet before he moves on, and you can hear your mother berating you from the grave, scolding you for turning a man in need away from your home. You can hear Pastor Hemley's voice raising high in that unwavering timbre, booming off the old, polished walls that existed long before you; echoes of one of his old sermons as he gripped the edges of the pulpit in an impassioned grip. "Who are we to turn away another man in need? What if it was the Lord himself asking, seeking you out for your aid, testing you of your humanity and goodwill, and you shunned him? Or what about your fellow man? Is it not our sympathy, our empathy - that makes us in His image? It is the meek who shall inherit the earth." 

Now you aren't ignorant enough to believe that Jesus himself has wandered up to your doorstep, but it still feels a sin to deny the stranger now. The prospect of it turns sour, bitter on your tongue, iron turning to rust. 

"You'd have to be quiet. My husband - "

"I'll be quiet as a mouse," he assures quickly. 

"I just don't want any trouble." You draw the door a little tighter, just enough that your shoulders and head can peek through the gap. Your hand tightens over the empty glass making the smooth shape of it dig at your palm. Your right hand squeezes tight too, and involuntary action that makes pain flare. A wince pulls a little at your face, makes your brows twitch. "My husband has early mornings; he needs his rest." 

"I ain't no trouble." It's a promise that brings you little comfort despite the sincerity. "If I so's much as look at you wrong then you can go ahead and throw me right out the door. Knock me out on my ass right on your front porch, if it pleases you." 

A kind of inner voice whispers from somewhere in the hidden fringes of your mind, distant but no less profound. It's like a brush along the nape of your neck, raising the small hairs there and it threatens to make you shiver. It settles in your bones, takes root deeply but as light as a phantom, distorted and chilled. It almost begs you to step out from the threshold and back into the familiarity of your house, and you nearly do. You can feel yourself coiling, the muscles in your leg bunching and it the heel of your foot slipping back just the slightest. Not even an inch but he notices, you can tell by the way that the corner of his mouth perks up. He's not even bothering to try and hide his amusement. 

You have to flex the grip you have clasped around the glass. Gripping it hard enough the rounded shape of the cup bites into your palm and keeps you centered. You really shouldn't let him in. The instincts creeping up your spine urge you don't, and yet you somehow find yourself split. Ensnared in a stubborn limbo that seems to hold you tight. 

The way that he's watching you doesn't help. His head is a little tilted, the smile on his face is still there, and the relaxed nature of his posture is intimidating despite that casual air of it. As though he's made a pocket for himself in your space. As though he's entitled to it. That it's belonged to him this entire time and you simply weren't aware. It irritates you. It intrigues you too. Everything about him seems to have been fashioned to lure you in. The easy confidence he emanates, the roguish glimmer in his eyes. 

He's laidback and odd all at once. The way that he stuns you is a product of pure roguish charm. He moves as though he's someone important, even while there's a soft smear of dirt on the cuff of his shirt, his boots are worn, and the leather has long lost its sheen, and yet you don't think you've ever felt so captivated in your entire life. It's as though you're held hostage. There's a grip that you can't shake, and it has your attention pinned onto him as though there's some sort of magnetic pull stretched between the both of you. You stare all while your mind chants in a repetitive, startled loop: Make him leave, close the door, lock the bolt. 

The crickets sing into the night. There's a caution somewhere in their cries. High pitched. Warbling. Animal. 

You best listen, they seem to say. 

You draw in a deep breath. 

"Alright, you can come in. But only for a moment." You relent so quickly that you hardly register it at all. It's not until you're shifting out of the way, nudging the door open and turning your body to give him a berth that you notice what you've said. Something in the pit of you urges that you slam the door shut before he can act out on your compliance, but like a spirit trapped inside a doll, you sit idle as he steps forward.  

Something seems to break now that he's crossed the threshold. A membrane has broken, been torn through and invaded as he moves across the floor, boots thumping softly in a hushed murmur over the worn wood. Each creak sounds like a scream to you. Ragged, strained, ringing out on a thin breath. The air is tense, strained with an awkwardness that you don't know how to navigate. 

The cup in your hand seems heavy. As weighted as a big stone. You track him from your place at the door as he comes to stand in the middle of the living room, not caring to hide how he sweeps a curious, evaluating look over the space. Eyeing the furniture, the outdated floral wallpaper - turned stained from age - and the family photographs hung on the wall above the sofa with an eager eye. A vulture scavenging. 

He just evaluates them for a moment. Staring as one might a set of paintings in a public museum. It strips you bare. Makes you horrendously vulnerable as he observes the images of your life; the glide of the satin air pouring in from the open doorway seems to perpetuate that vulnerability. Skirting over your flesh in dark, damp brushes. 

He scrutinizes photograph of you and Colin, the one of you tucked into each other's bodies, caught staring in each other's eyes while standing out on the stoop of the church. It was a time when you were still able to smile, when Colin built a warmth and love in you that burned inside, that could keep you safe. 

You had felt so beautiful that day, wearing your mother's own wedding dress, adorned in optimism and fine beading. Now you just feel stupid. 

It makes you sick to look at the picture. To see yourself draped in lace, all dolled up for a wedding that you'd come to regret. It's worse to have someone else staring at it with a kind of strange fascination. As though it's the most interesting thing in the world. 

It's worse still when his eyes drag downward to the frame directly underneath, taken a year apart, but the difference was telling. When you had first slipped the picture into its frame, you had wondered if others would be able to notice the strained nature of your smile or if it was an element that only you could see. If they would be able to notice how the light had dimmed from your eyes, turned dull in a muted reflection of the argument that had taken place only a few hours before. 

You know now that he, at least, is able to tell. 

"Happy couple," he comments, and it seems suspiciously sardonic. The remark could be private, an inside thought that slipped out, but he seems guiltless to have spoken it. 

He looks so normal and yet he's entirely out of place in the middle of your home in a way that you can't quite place. It's unnerving. It makes your skin itch. You can only watch as he steps around the coffee table to admire all of your belongings. The knickknacks and useless tchotchkes in the display cabinet, the bits and pieces of you collected over the stages of your life all held on the end table tucked close to the edge of the sofa. Unabashed that he's in a stranger's house. Stalking along the room with steps that are leisurely, but there's a calculated edge that can't be ignored. The saunter of a predator, careful but confident. 

When his eyes flicker back onto you, they seem to glimmer. Fire reflecting in their centers, gold pooling where the black should be. Abnormal. An animal's eyes peering through the dark. They burn through you, reaching at the edges of your soul. The suddenness of it snaps you from your daze like the pop of a hand. 

A trick, you tell yourself again. An illusion thrown by the light. 

"I'll just . . . go and fill this," you manage stiffly, brandishing the glass. You don't wait for a response, carefully shutting the front door with a heavy click before making off for the kitchen as though fire is licking at your heels. It's déjà vu to be standing back at the sink, tap running, watching the water bubble and churn from the flow from the spicket. 

For the first time in in years, a part of you longs to have your husband home, and that pitiful need disgusts you. You loathe that you crave the volatile comfort that he would provide. There is a familiarity in it. A predictability. But this man - the stranger - is a complete unknown and it's terrible. 

You have to curse yourself for crumbling. For weakly relenting and allowing a potential danger into your house with hardly any fight. It has self-hared, hot and boiling, twisting in your stomach. The disappointment is debilitating, sinking down into your shoulders as piercing as a set of talons. The chaotic panic swirling in your mind does little to help your state, injecting ice into your veins as you ponder the worst. That same worry has your eyes straying from the filling glass, drifting over to a set of drawers. The same one that's full of silverware. You think of the knives tucked into the left side of the top drawer, nestled right by the forks and spoons. 

It'd be easy to turn off the sink, sit down the glass and long enough to grab a knife. You could hide it under your skirt, slip the blade along your thigh and keep it held there by the material of your bloomers. The knife would have some weight to it, but you think that it wouldn't be enough to keep it from staying in place. 

Water pours over you hand in vigorous rivulets, welling out from over the lip of the glass in a heavy current that patters down onto the sink below. You curse under your breath, startling from the chill of it, and jerk from your fantasy. You reach clumsily for the knob, hissing through your teeth as your injured thumb clamps around the steel with too much force, licking lightning up the wound. 

It twists shut with a strained, metallic squeak. Even once its off it drips. A steady tap of water falling near the edge of the drain after a temporary pause. Just that has managed to set your heart fluttering, a simple overflow of water has it thrumming wildly in your chest. Like it's fit to burst out and leave your body behind. 

You draw in a shaky inhale, tainted with the bitter sting of the spilt alcohol that's long since seeped into the floorboards, perfuming the air in an acrid cloud. It has you feeling nauseous. Unwell from the thick of it burying in your nose - a reminder of your previous accident. Your thumb throbs at the reminder, smarting and warm. But you don't want to leave the kitchen either. You'd rather choke on the scent of the gin than have to face the man skulking about your living room.

God, you've just realized that you still don't even know his name. 

It's such a trivial thing, an absurdity, but a laugh almost bubbles up from your lungs. A loose, hysterical noise that lodges in your chest and stays there in an almost painful sigh. 

You don't want to leave, but you have to. You know you do. You can only hold off, resist the inevitable for so long before he becomes curious and comes looking for you, lurking around the corners of your house like a creature scenting prey. 

You hold the glass tighter, ignoring the damp feel of the water on your skin, blocking out the unease prickling over your skin as you turn from the sink. 

Your spirit leaves your body and soars far away from earth. It happens in a blink. You flinch, drawing up tight with a sharp gasp. You think your heart might have burst too, thumping in a craze as electricity scatters through your limbs. It's a scattered blur, your body recognizes that you aren't alone before you do, notices the silhouette standing directly in front of you before you can properly process it. 

You nearly bump into a chest, run right into it. You can't help the yelp you let out, can't even be embarrassed about it because you're so swept up and startled, your body draws up in a primal reflex, tensing like you might have to make a run for it. Muscles and tendons all clenching like they were going to eject your spirit up and out of them, send you flying high over the earth and into the heavens. You're sure your soul would have done just that if not for the pair of hands settling over your arms, gently clasping to keep you in place. 

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." His voice is apologetic, but the glimpse of teeth, the mirthful spark in his eyes, reveals just the opposite. 

You feel all shaken up, heart racing too fast in your chest, thumping up against your sternum in a frenzied patter. You can't speak, can't berate him like you truly want to or reassure him like your manners chide you to do. It's all a jumbled-up mess, and the sight of him standing so close, the weight of his fingers on your bare arms, callused from plucking strings and tepid despite the stifling heat, anchors you in a way that you don't quite enjoy. It forces you back into the moment, packs you into your skin with a sharp jerk that commands you to meet his eyes. 

Your tongue feels useless, your voice stalled and broken. For a pause too long, you can only stare. "It's quite alright," you just hardly manage, it's more of a whisper.  It feels as though you're lying through your teeth. You are, in a way. He shouldn't be here. You know that much. It won't stop howling at you, screaming under your flesh in a wild chant that tells you to send him off, to get him gone before the worst can happen. What the 'worst' might be, you aren't sure, but your paranoia and gut assure you that it's just looming over the horizon. 

"Appreciate ya," he thanks as he plucks the glass from your weak grip. You're grateful for that. You would have likely dropped it too, sent it shattering along the floor just like the gin if you held it for any longer. 

You can only nod. He doesn't step back. Doesn't give you room to breathe. He keeps you pinned between his body and the sink, only a sliver of space given between you both, just little more than a foot. It's as though all of the oxygen has been siphoned out of the room, turned viscous and too thick, pooling in your lungs like stove-hot molasses, burned and scorching. 

His eyes seem too dark, a pair of yawning pits held open to see, to taste. It's stripping, tearing you down in some terrible manner. It's as though you've been stripped of all your clothes. As exposed and naïve as the day you were born. You can feel yourself waver, shrinking under his attention as he raises the glass to his lips. But it is worse, so much worse when he rotates his shoulders just enough to comfortably look behind him, and you know instantly that he's taking notice of the broken glass scattered and winking on the floor. 

You're flooded with ice. Frigid, seizing. Even while it's fragmented into shards, it's still clear to see what kind of bottle it had been. The cap is still intact to the neck, severed and jagged from what had been the rest of it. It'd take a complete and utter fool not to realize just what it was, what it had contained. He doesn't seem like the law-abiding type, the sort to go running for the cops as soon as he spots something illicit, but the apprehension springs up on you regardless. 

You struggle for an excuse, anything that sounds remotely convincing, but you know you can't deny it. Not while all the air in here smells of liquor, doused so strongly with it that you could choke on it. 

He must catch your expression - not that you're doing a particularly good job at keeping yourself schooled - because he seems downright amused. All pleased to see you so stressed. 

"Oh, I ain't one to judge someone for lettin' a little loose. I've been at the bottom of a bottle more times than I can count," he consoles while grinning too much. "Nothing wrong with enjoyin' life's simple pleasures. Shame you went and dropped it." It's another comment that you're unable to tell if it's a mean dig or not, but it makes you bristle regardless, and unsaid retort sits heavy on the tip of your tongue. 

You don't like how he seems to effortlessly see right through you, how he toes a line between impish charm and disconcerting arrogance and unpretentious amiability. It makes you unsteady. Lost while standing inside your own home. You've been backed into a corner, herded there willingly, shoved there by a subdued snapping of teeth and eyes that don't seem quite right. 

It's too much, being held under his stare, standing as close to him as you are. You can smell the night on him; subtle and pleasantly honeyed from the pollen of blossoms, earthy with dew and humidity; there's the light tang of salt too, sweat and something you can't quite place, but it's severe like the traces of coins that have been left behind in a tight fist. Like copper or iron. Dust and ancient soil. 

It makes your skin crawl. 

You need a distraction, something to keep your mind from losing sight of itself and giving under the weight of your own discomfort and panic. You need to distract him too, it feels, wave something in his face like distracting a dog from lashing at your jugular in exchange for a fresh bone. 

But in a pattern that is swiftly becoming uncomfortably common, he knocks you off kiter before you get the chance to help yourself. 

"I don't think that old rag is doin' you much of a favor." 

Your brows pinch, your confusion evident as you try to make sense of what he's said. But just as fast you're able to connect the dots, much quicker with the dull, pained throb in your hand that seems to highlight his words in a burning scarlet. 

You can't keep yourself from looking down at your hand, tracing the tight bundle of fabric that coils around your palm and thumb like a worn, fabric serpent with your eyes. It's stained dark. The red dulled into a shade that nearly seems black in the murky, yellowed light. It's already coming loose. The edge that you had used to tuck into the rest of the clothe is beginning to slip, but using the one hand you had to fix it place had made it difficult. A few more minutes and a couple more twitches from your fingers and the poor bandaging you had done would unravel. 

"It's fine," you say instead. But when your hand protectively nudges close to your hip, that's involuntary. 

"Let me tighten it, at least," he offers. "The least I can do, as payment for the water." 

There's a gentleness somewhere in his tone that you don't trust. It doesn't sit right, it lurks and saturates his words, all sickeningly sweet. As tempting as the honeysuckle that used to grow outside your family home, the ones you'd pluck from the vine as a child, taking them as treats while you headed down to play in the creek that flowed in the nearby thicket. 

You've been tricked by pretty things before. Sweet sounding and tempting. Look where it's gotten you. 

"Really, it's alright." 

Surprisingly, he doesn't pry. Still, he doesn't quit staring. His stare seems fastened onto your hand, unwavering and fascinated, bordering on fervency. The glitter of the kitchen light reflects a fire in his eyes, shimmering in the dark pits of them. It's just another thing tonight that has you out of your depths, tugged down and far away from reason. This entire encounter has spread across so many different levels: he seems normal in certain lights. A laid-back traveler, just looking for a place to rest his feet. Relaxed until he's almost blithe. And that's what's so confusing. How heedless he is despite all the charm. 

Your skin crawls, nervousness shuddering in your bones. It's as though your wrist is tugged by a string when you nudge your wounded hand around your hip, hiding it behind your back. All out of the outlandish fear that he might reach for you. He seems akin to a dog tracking a strip of bloodied meat, following your hand until it disappears from his vision. And like a dog salivating, you need to distract it lest it lunge. 

"Have you ever seen the ocean?" you blurt. 

His brows perk at the question, the corner of his mouth curls, but the intensity that had been alight in his eyes seems to shift - redirect. It lets you draw in a breath that you didn't know you needed, just seconds away from becoming lightheaded. 

"There isn't an ocean in this country I ain't seen," he claims. He steps away from you then, backing towards the little dining table across the floor. His focus doesn't waver when his boots crush over the shatter glass, shattering the fragments into shimmering dust with his weight, the brittle pops and crunching peppers softly over the air. To you they sound violent, but he doesn't so much as acknowledge them as he slips the shoulder strap for his banjo over his head, lifting the instrument to lean it against the edge of the table.  He invites himself to sit, just opposite of the chair you had once occupied, like he belongs there.

"The Pacific, the great Atlantic. From sea to shining sea," he finishes in a familiar singsong rhythm, amused with himself and smiling. "I spent weeks harbored up on a ship once. Sometimes, late at night when I'm alone, I can hear the wood shudderin' around me. Groaning and moaning from the waves." 

It's almost conspiratorial, how he talks, though there's an unspoken invitation in his posture, relaxed, welcoming, thighs wide and spine slumped against the backrest of the chair as though he's sat there a thousand times before. It's as though you're the stranger now. Uncertain and delicate in a kitchen that suddenly doesn't belong to you. You're a phantom in a new space, lurking and banished to the outskirts while he observes you with a stare that's too disarming. Too calm, too wild simultaneously. 

"What's it like? Being able to travel like that?" You feel compelled to move closer, but your movements are still tentative as you approach the unoccupied chair. You don't remove your attention from him as you sit, watching him as though he might jerk forward at any moment. 

"There's hardly anything that compares to it. Free to wander wherever the wind takes you, just followin' after your own spirit." He finally sits his cup down on the table, now empty, and it hits the wood with a hollow thump. "And then I remember, that there truly ain't nothing else better than comin' home. That after being gone for so long, just lost and ramblin' through days and years, chasing after little more than a feelin,' the relief of coming back to the ones that love you the most is - well, it's religious. Better than breathin'." 

He speaks with something euphoric and distant. The tenderness and fervor of someone recalling a thing that's become lost but no less cherished. The passion he contains frightens a part of you, that flighty, uncertain part that jumps at shadows. But it's difficult to accuse yourself of being paranoid while he looks at you with the sort of restrained ferocity of a feral creature.  If you were truly a person that you could admire, you would have chased him out with a broom or a blade by now. And maybe you should do just that. The caution to do so has been weighing down heavy on you all night, and still, you can't manage to get yourself to act on that instinct. You can't keep yourself from being the least bit captivated when his eyes glitter with a passion and excitement that you haven't witnessed in ages. 

And you truly are entranced with how he's watching you. Staring as though you're some sort of cipher that must be understood. An artist staring down a slab of marble, mapping out the figure that resides somewhere beneath the stone. You aren't sure if you entirely enjoy it or not. 

"Have you ever felt that way before? Longed for something that's been taken from you? That you used to, but now it's entirely beyond you, jus' out of reach?" he asks. 

The questions suspend between you both. It's punctuated by the quiet. If you listen closely enough, you can catch the chitter of the crickets outside, but they're voices are muffled. Miles away. 

The inquiry is so outlandish that you can't help your laugh, as stilted and unsure as it is. He's still smiling, but he doesn't seem amused, entertained, certainly, just not as smug as he was before. There's a solemnness to it that could almost frighten you, as though the answer to the question is paramount, of the upmost importance.  You're pinned down in your seat. Terrified that you might answer incorrectly, as though this is some sort of test. All the while your mind chants to lie to him. Lie, lie, lie. 

"Of course not." You wrangle it out, muttered through a dry mouth, and now you're the one longing for a glass of water, though you can't seem to gather yourself up to fetch one.  What proceeds is an excruciating stretch of silence. A pause that spans over the kitchen like a chilled blanket, making you shiver despite the heat of the summer.  Once again you get the thought that he knows you aren't telling the truth. He knows, somehow, that you aren't allowing yourself to be honest, that there's a mountain you've erected between the both of you. 

You can't deny that it sounds tempting. You've dreamed of traveling, of packing up all of your clothes into a suitcase and vanishing into the night countless times, letting your mind drift up to the heavens to look down on every place you've ever dreamed of. Sinking your spirit down to cities that you'd never be able to see or touch or experience outside of books and paintings. You can only attempt to imagine what he may have discovered in his lifetime. The people who he's spoken with, the stories they've exchanged, the music they've shared. A hundred lifetimes in a single one.  Your vision drifts down to his left hand, idle on top of the worn tabletop, gold band encircled around his ring finger. It's lost its polish, gone a little dull from what must be years of being worn. He hasn't mentioned a wife once during this interaction, and you can only wonder if his she might be among the pair of friends that he has waiting for him up the road.  It seems typical that a man would neglect to mention that he has a wife at all while asking to enter a woman's home. You can't even manage the desire to scoff. 

"Don't you have family?" You pry, clasping your fingers together in your lap, smoothing your thumb over your nails and running it over the old cloth around your palm. You ignore the subtle sting when the fabric shifts the cut, but you don't think you kept the wince from your face. 

"Yeah, I've got family. If all goes well, I'll be seeing them tonight. It's long overdue" His voice is jovial, a sincere mirth shaping around his teeth in a visible expression of fondness. An excitement bleeding in alongside something that seems vaguely melancholic. Hopeful. Strangers with no clear description dance about in your mind, but if they're family of his, then they must be just as rugged and peculiar. You imagine dust smudged cheeks and fingertips worn from calluses, leathered from plucking and strumming musical strings. "It's been a long while since we've seen each other. Hardly feels real at all."  His expression goes a little soft and earnest, but you aren't able to share in his delight. Your too busy tussling with an envy that you don't recognize. It scatters across your sinew and nerves in a flash, as hot and bright and otherworldly as a lightning strike. You don't appreciate the guilt that comes with it, the confusion or the lick of self-hate. It doesn't belong with you. That jealousy doesn't have a place - it shouldn't. It seems impossible though, not to get all caught up in the brunt of your emotions. It would be easy to believe that this stranger isn't real at all. That you've manifested a vessel for the life you never got to live, the sort of ties and friendships you weren't fortunate enough to make. 

Colin lost his loyalty to you a long time ago. Or maybe he never had it at all. There was something about him that had seemed too good to be true, even way back when. Dahlia, his own cousin had seen it. Saw him for what he was. Warned you against him. Perhaps that's why Colin had shunned her out, nudged her back from the parameters of your marriage until she finally gave up and made a new life for herself up in Pittsburg.

A 'playboy' is what she had called him. All brawn and looks but nothing of substance, like a bit of candy. All sugar. But too much sugar does havoc on the body. It's unfortunate that you had to find that out for yourself. You still had time to set out for yourself back then and have all things your ever wanted. That's all too late now. 

It makes it horrible to have all of your wants echoed back at you. Reflected in a man you might never see again. It's as though the universe has dangled a trinket in front of your face, taunted a key before you to test if you'd reach for it. You clench your fingers tighter, threading them stiff in a lock as though it might keep you contained in your seat. The floor creak and groan beneath your feet. 

"That sounds lovely. Will your wife be there?" you probe. More of a slip of the tongue. You feel as though you've made an admittance that you shouldn't have. Your lips purse, sealing closed. 

His eyes glimmer in that odd way again. Catching light in an animal fashion. That ain't normal. That's not normal, is it? It makes you hate yourself as soon as you realize what you've asked him. You're certain that your mother is scolding you from her grave, cursing you for your poor manners. Humiliation stings at your cheeks, hot and damning, but the damage is already done.  "No, she ain't gonna be there." Is all he says, and the cold implications behind it is enough to make guilt turn to stone in your stomach. You can guess as to why she would be absent. Death or divorce, as rare as the latter is, but quite frankly, the state of his marriage and family affairs truly aren't any of your business.  "I'm apologize, I really shouldn't have ask-"  He leans over the table then, his chair creaking with the minute shift of his body weight as he crosses his arms over the counter. His teeth show in that good-natured smile that seems to be permanently displayed on his face, a flash of pale enamel - too sharp. "Are you lonely?" 

A chill seems to settle in with his words. Unwelcome and latching, gripping for whatever bit of skin isn't shielded by clothing. It stalls you in your seat, keeps you still and silent for a beat too long. You aren't certain how to properly answer. If you should at all. Quite frankly, it isn't any of his business at all. He's only been tentatively welcomed into your home, and he still conducts himself as though he is invited fully in your space, entitled to your honesty and situation. 

The anger in you - your exasperation with him - demands that you ignore him all together. To change the subject, maybe put him on the spot for a change - if that is at all possible. You know deep down though, that getting the upper hand on a man like him is a slim one. Men like him don't allow themselves to be bested. They throw their weight around, makes themselves the biggest thing in the whole room, sucking up all the oxygen until everything and everyone else dims out, starved flames. 

"Sometimes," you admit instead, gasping it out around a choked sound. Forbidden, lodged from somewhere in your throat.  He doesn't speak, but there is an unsaid question on his face, a gentle nudge for you to expand on it. He's leaving you to continue. To decide if this is something that you truly want to say. Somehow the choice of it all seems to make it so much worse. "Colin - my husband - works a lot. Long hours. He's rarely home. And when he is, he's . . . " He's mean, you want to say. As angry as a beaten dog. Lashing out at everything that moves, that looks at him the wrong way. And that thing is so often you. You can't make him happy, not anymore. There was a time that he used to admire you as though you were the prettiest creature he ever witnessed. That's all ash now. "He's usually sleeping. Or he spends his time somewhere else. Out with friends from work mostly." 

You don't know what to think of the stranger's expression. It sympathetic, understanding. There's a calmness in his eyes, though the friendly merriment from before hasn't dimmed, it's simply changed, become honed and tense as he falls silent.  He's steady as he observes you from the other side of the table. Unnervingly still, motionless. You can hear yourself breathing and the sheer realization of it makes you want to flee out of your own skin. You don't think you've ever felt so watched. Studied. Inspected. 

"I don't really mind when he leaves though. " You blurt it out in the beginnings of a nervous ramble. The need to fill the sudden quiet ripples up your spine. Makes you spit out your words in an anxious stream. "It's more . . . quiet. Peaceful. He works a lot. I'm sure you know how working men can be. All particular and all after a day of being on his feet. Can hardly blame him really." You pluck at your fingernails, curling your fingers together while your lips instinctively press up in an expression that you hope is convincingly relaxed.  You aren't sure why you're baring it all to this man. This knock at the door, a figure in the dark, a stranger at your table. Perhaps that's what it is. The comfort in knowing that he'll be gone long before the sun rises. That in a few short moments you'll finally urge him up from his seat and walk him to the front door, guiding him out into the night with a polite smile and a farewell. In due time, he won't be anything but a curious memory. A bizarre recollection that you might recall years down the road, distorted and strange. An odd man in the night, drifting along as bird perched on your windowsill might, spying into your house before fluttering away into the sky. 

There's a safety in that thought. You aren't ignorant to the insinuation hidden in your words. The implications they hold. If you were wiser, you'd might keep your mouth shut, but you can't stop yourself now. All pent up, restrained, left alone apart from the monthly trips you take to the grocery store, reduced to short, good-mannered interactions with the clerks. Brief, temporary, alone.  "What if I could help you?" 

You stare at him. You aren't sure for how long. A few seconds, maybe a minute at most, but the silence is disturbing. It gnaws at the reluctant comfortability that has settled between the both of you, fragile and cold and foreign like a sheet of snow. You aren't sure if you should laugh or scoff or ignore the comment all together. It's absurd that a man who had wandered up to your door, asking for help is now claiming that he would be able to do the same for you. His pants are worn from what's likely years of use, his knuckles are rough and there's uncountable number of miles on his shoes. He probably doesn't have much more than a couple dollars in his both of his pockets, and here he is, offering you salvation. 

He's earnest in his delivery. Unsmiling. Sincere. It's frightening because you don't know what to make of it. This doesn't seem to be some kind of play, and if it is then he's mastered himself fully. There isn't a hint of a smile or deceit. He's firm and committed, resolute in his proposition. It would have been more tolerable if this were a joke. There would be a punchline, a reason to laugh. That safety net isn't here. 

"How could you help me?" You can't cover the judgement in your tone, an inflection that would have gotten you nothing but pain had it been your husband sitting on the other end of that table and not the stranger; another row of bruises on your skin, mottled plum and scarlet and yellow with hurt.

The corner of his mouth quirks. Like he thinks he's caught you, shown you the light to something so much bigger than yourself. 

"How far will you let yourself go?"  

There's a challenge expanding out in front of you. A hurdle raising high that you've never jumped. It's intimidating, it's foreign. Once again, he's extending something out for you to take. For you to reach for. But this is much more pivotal somehow. It has you stuck, ensnared once again. Held captive within your own reservations and trepidation. Suddenly, this seems like some sort of pitch. A snake oil salesman waving a vial full of water and nonsense in front of you with the assurance that it's a cure-all. One sip of it and you'll be a brand-new person with a brand-new life.

Maybe it's the remaining remnants of a buzz that just haven't quite left your system, feeble but clinging, or maybe it's just the intrigue of having someone else to talk to. The relief of having another soul in your kitchen that doesn't belong to your husband, that isn't sneering or pacing about the house as tense and testy and as a pissed off as a junkyard dog. 

But this stranger is interesting in the same way that you can't help but entertain one of those traveling salesmen, but instead of a suitcase in one hand, he's got a banjo instead.

You've only had one drummer in all the years you've lived in this house wander up to your doorstep in the hopes of making a customer and fool out of you, knocking on your door and prattling on about combs and nifty pairs of scissors that would 'cut through fabrics like a dream'. How he had managed to take a look at your ramshackle home with its rickety porch and chipping paint and figured that he'd be able to make a client out of you is beyond your reasoning or imagination. 

You had wondered who he was. What paths in life had led him out in the middle of the sticks during the heat of the day, trying to sell useless wares; pins and lighters and needles. You could picture his life, a young kid that flunked his education or perhaps never had any at all and clung to the best means to make money. And now he's out catching trains and going from door to door in the hopes of squeezing a penny out of poor bastards that hardly have any at all.

That young man had been all nerves, sweating through his button up and stumbling over his pitch - no doubt a practiced one - while he struggled to keep your interest. But this stranger carries himself as though he has all the time in universe, as though you're the one who needs to impress him. You aren't sure how to adjust to it, the weight of his focus on you, heavy and evaluating. 

There's no consolation or support offered by the walls of your house. Not anymore. Perhaps not ever. A familiar feeling but never extended from the presence of a stranger. He's unsettling in a way that you've yet to grasp. A nervous ball has been lodged in the pit of your stomach since he greeted you out of the front porch, and it hasn't waned yet. It's been thrumming and prickling over your nerves, pooling deep, all wild and surging like the feral crack and blaze of lightning across heavy summer clouds.

You should tell him to go. To pick his banjo from where he's leaned it alongside the table and tell him to get lost.

But you know you won't. You would have done that a long time ago if that were the case.

There's an allure to him that can't quite be explained. A magnetism that's haunting. It isn't right, it doesn't feel normal. It's sinking under your skin, pulling on your bones and at your blood. You could blame it on the loneliness, but that doesn't seem right.

All you think of when you look at him is something's not right. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be in your house.

You tell yourself that he's trying to play you somehow. That he's some dumb hustler that's picked the wrong house. You're just as broke as him, if not more so, with only pennies and scraps left to your name.

Maybe that's what keeps you from dismissing this man all together. The twisted kick you might get out of pulling the rug out from beneath him - the promise of the satisfaction you might get when he realizes that he's spent his time trying to work money or means out of a woman who has neither to spare.

You could smile about it if you had the strength to. Maybe you're just bored, maybe the isolation of being trapped in these four, dying walls has finally caught up with you. Closed around you as tight as a pair of jaws because you get the wicked temptation to play whatever game he's set, to string him along and see where he thinks he might be able to take you.

Maybe that's why you find yourself speaking out, hushed as though it's some kind of reluctant confession, or a joke that you shouldn't be sharing.

"How far will you take me?"

You don't like the quiet that follows. The look of consideration on his face, the satisfaction that glimmers in his eyes. A wolf that's got its prey held between its teeth. You're choked, suffocating while you wait for those fangs to close in and puncture. Stuck on your seat while he watches you carefully from his side of the table, seeming miles away and too close all at once.

You seem to be toeing the line of something dangerous. There's a quality reflected in his eyes, one that you haven't had directed at you in a long while, and you nearly think that you might be imagining it.

It's heated, hungry, and you don't know if a man has ever looked at you in such a way. Not even Colin has, not even in the beginning.

It could be mistaken for raw lust, but there's an aspect about it that almost seems . . . God it almost seems violent. Glossed over but ardent, like a starved animal staring down a bit of meat.

You aren't sure if you should run or stay. More concerning that all of that is that you don't think you can run. Not now. Not with how your feet have seemed to stick to the floor again, gone all heavy limbed and immobile as though his gaze has turned you into stone.

"All you gotta do is trust me." That's his reply, cool and smooth toned. It's terrifying. All too soon you know that you're over your head.

He keeps you pinned down with that stare of his, held in your chair while he raises himself up from his; limbs shifting smoothly, water gliding over rock. And just like that you're watching a snake coil up in its hiding spot, body winding tight and tongue tasting the air while it braces for the strike.

The boards creak with his steps, the weight of his boot's thump lightly and hiss lowly with each drag of his footsteps as he moves around the edge of the table. The glass crunches under his boot and you nearly flinch. His eyes don't leave yours in his approach, tying you together while he consumes the distance between your bodies at a careful pace.

You've gone all breathless once he finally stops in front of you, his legs nearly brushing your knees as he looks down his nose at you. It's nerve-racking, waiting in silence for him to make a move, to say something, and it makes it terrible how you can hear your own heart racing, how you can feel it pitter-pattering in your throat.

For an awful stretch of time he simply stares. Quiet and still. It seems like another strange test; waiting for you to twitch so that he can lunge for you.

You don't. You're as motionless as a statue as you wait for him to do something, anything.

What you aren't expecting for him to do is to lower himself to the floor. The unexpected nature of it has you gasp, thin and surprised as he crouches down at your feet, slipping low until his knees make contact with wood, making it shift and groan from his weight. 

It's gone so quiet that you could hear a mouse rustling through the walls if there was one. Instead, you're doomed to listen to your own breathing, to hear the distant glide of the breeze shifting outside, the steady drip from the sink. But all of that fades out, dies into a useless background chaos when he takes one of your hands in his, the one bound in bloodstained cloth.

Now you truly do jerk, trying to pull yourself free from his grasp, just as an animal might try to rip itself from drooling, violent enamel, but the gentle clasp he has on your wrist turns firm. Long fingers curling tight around your flesh and bone, a vice grip. You're locked in place. "What the hell are you-"

"Easy now, I ain't gonna hurt ya, darlin'."

He smiles at you good-naturedly, as though he's placating you. He watches you as though this is normal - as if anything about this night has been normal.

It's unusual somehow, when his head tilts when he speaks. Something about it isn't right. Isn't human. Lacking fluidity and possesing too much of it. It's uncanny in a way that you can't place; a creature donning human skin with eyes that are too compelling, flat marbles glimmering in fire. Dark, bottomless, drawing you in with all the infinity of the night sky. Just two pools of black that glitter faintly; a pair of lights winking over ink.

Fire, your mind chants. Fire of damnation.

When his eyes flicker over your form, tightly wound in your seat, they leave scalding trails in their wake, burning underneath the shield of your dress.   You notice distantly that no warmth projects from his flesh. Even with the sparse space separating you both, a faint sliver, you can detect the chill that seeps through the fabric of his shirt, as though his vitality had been stolen from his body. Instinct itches at your hindbrain for you to do something. To resist (resist what?), to fight, flash teeth, claw and kick if you must. You do nothing of the sort.  You think somewhat dementedly that it's almost as though a corpse has wandered into your home and gripped you. But his stare is too lively, too impassioned to belong to a dead man.  Your tongue is dry, parched, rendering you voiceless as he smooths his fingers over the flimsy compress dressed around your hand. You can't manage to inspire yourself to speak when he plucks the bandage free and begins to unwind it from around you palm, the rejection dies somewhere in your throat. He does it slowly, tenderly cradling your wrist as though it were a wounded bird while he unwinds the old fabric free with a deft hand.  He doesn't look away from you once, holding your attention with the soft coos that have begun to spill from his mouth. A gentle stream of "Easy, we're almost done," and "Atta girl" that drifts over your mind in placid, hazy brushes. The tone of his voice has dipped all low, a smoky timbre that pours over you in a whiskey hue, buttery and tepid, dipping past your flesh to simmer somewhere past your ribcage.  And it soothes and placates your muscles just as alcohol would. The tension that had drawn you up tight and rigid ebbs away, relaxes as easily as hard wax held over an open fire.  It's intimate.  Undeniably so. The last bit of the makeshift bandage slips away, tugged free from your skin and you wince as loose threads in the fabric cling to the blood that's begun to congeal, tugged free only with a delicate pull from the stranger's hand. He hushes you when you hiss through your teeth, gritting through the sting that spreads across your palm in a smarting web. 

The wound is angry already. Inflamed around the edges of the gash, a deep, ugly red that throbs with a pulse of its own. You can't stop yourself from swearing, huffing it low within the strained base of your breath. You expect him to chide you for it; there's nothing more unbecoming than a lady lacking manners. Colin would have been keen to reprimand you for the slip of your tongue. Your body shudders from the memories of old bruises and welts, the lashings you'd taken on your rump. 

You almost flinch from the echoes of it, bracing to receive an admonishment. It never comes. 

You gaze up from the wound slowly, hesitantly glancing over the shape of the man knelt before you with a reluctance that you loathe to notice within yourself, but you can't manage to shake it. 

You don't meet the harsh stare of a person offended. There's no vehemence in his eyes for your transgression, no annoyance for a woman speaking improperly. His eyes are glazed. Glassy and distant, the sort of expression you see on drunks that are one too many bottles deep; rapturous, numbed to the world. 

He's barely paying you any mind, attention fixated onto your hand with a rapt fascination. Observing the wound, admiring the way that the blood catches that light as though it's the most interesting discovery. But there's a zealousness too. A detail to his stare that goes beyond intrigue and borders on a kind of mania. But that's not exactly right either. 

It takes a moment for it to click into place but once you recognize it, ice douses through your bones and sinew, seizing your body tight. Hunger. That's what it is. He's staring at it as though he's starved and longing to lick it up. 

Something damp drizzles across the heel of your palm, thick and cold. The press of it on your skin startles you out of your panicked daze. A gasp rips out of your lungs, thin and sharp when it snags inside of your chest. 

God - oh, God, he's drooling. 

You hardly believe what you're seeing at first but it quickly becomes undeniable. It's there, as clear as day, drool pouring from the corner of his mouth in heavy rivulets. The sort of slobber a sick dog might make, something rabid. Wet and smearing down the shape of his chin where it dangles precariously before dripping down to patter onto the floor below, and drop, drop, dropping on the palm of your hand. It starts to collect in a pool, blending with the blood that stains along the irate edges of the gash. 

There's no hiding your grimace. No swallowing down the appalled gasp of terror and disgust. It's a raw, animal panic that snatches you, tugging you back like a marionette on strings. You would have toppled yourself right over in your seat but the hold he has on your wrist turns ungiving, anchoring you in place. A rabbit pinned down by a serrated maw. 

The legs of the chair scream as they slip along the floor, stopping in place with a grating hiss when he snags you back down before you could flee. Wings clipped and earthed bound before you could even take off. It rattles you back into place, head snapping on your shoulders when he forces you still in your seat. 

He begins to hush you but it's no longer a comfort. It's patronizing, revolting to the ears and you fight against the grip he has on you, but now a manacle on your arm, it doesn't budge. 

"Shh, shh, shh, darlin,' I ain't gonna hurt you none." 

"Let go of me," you snarl, showing teeth that hardly pose a threat. "You best go and get out of here. Before my husband wakes - " 

"Oh, come now, you and I both know he ain't really here." 

He says it so casually and it's terrifying. Deep down you knew he figured you were bluffing, some unexplainable instinct in you urging that he was a lot more aware than he had let on, and like a fool you'd still ignored common sense when it had screamed at you. When it had knocked and wailed at you to turn him away. 

But to hear him confirm it is a humiliation all on its own. An insult to injury. 

He lifts his head then, an animal that's caught onto a scent and his nostrils flex as he draws in a heavy breath and huffs like one, tasting the fragrances on the air. It's a slap to the face and conformation simultaneously, all of those peculiarities that you've been ignoring, that your mind has been seeming to overlook all crash into you as his eyes burn in a demonic reflection. 

This isn't a man at all. This is a creature, a monster masquerading in human hide. You've heard stories before, whispered around the Delta, centuries old information exchanged from mouth the mouth and passed to willing ears, depicting creatures that wail and hunt in the night. It's why some paint the ceilings of their porches blue - a barrier between them and troubling spirits, meant to ward off and protect - folktales and ghost stories, you had called them. 

Well, unfortunately, a ghost story has wandered up to your door, and always the fool, you've let it right in. 

You don't bother battling with reason, there's no place for all of that here. Not now, while this man - this thing looks up at you with eyes that scintillate red, as bright as any fire, as crimson as the blood on your split flesh. 

His smile is one of brogue satisfaction, the pleasure a hunter would feel from having caught an animal in one of their traps. 

"It's just you and me now," he says. It's a punctuation, final. As though he's bent reality to his will, taken your fate in his hands and shaped it to a mold of his approval. And you let him, dumb and tricked, easily led astray by false fronts and pleasing smiles. It's an affront just as much as it is alarming. How you've been tugged adrift so simply, allowed yourself to be played by a simple disguise. 

And now this beast is inside of your house. 

"What are you?" You apply strength to your voice, but it's hollow, fragile around its fringes, ice thawed into mist. 

"You're savior." A response uttered without hesitation. Said as though it's an undeniable truth. 

If it's possible, you think your soul shudders and recoils in your body, shrinking away from his talk - downright blasphemous speech. A conman, a snake oil salesman, that's what he is. Some kind of test sent by God or the Devil himself, you aren't sure. Perhaps he is the Devil, or at the very least some kind of trickster spirit, voice tempting with that strange charm, the kind that sticks to your skin like a sap and drones in your ear in a smooth hum. 

You've heard how they often hide themself behind pretty faces, masquerading behind attractive guises to catch the ignorant unawares, and you've slipped into the razor teeth of his trap with hardly any resistance. 

"You can't save me," you shake your head, trying to slip your arm from his grip one last time but his hold remains persistent. 

"Of course I can. You asked me to show you remember?" His brows perk up, expression open and hopeful - vulnerable despite drooling, jaw damp with it. He's still on his knees before you, an imagine of submission, of seeking consent. You don't like how it makes the wedding band around your finger feel heavy and chilled, an uncomfortable pressure that seems too tight. 

"Just let me show you, like I promised," he offers softly. There's a plea on the fringes of his voice, delicate. His thumb strokes down the column of your wrist, smoothing over the impression of the bone that faintly lurks beneath your flesh, pausing along the thump of your pulse. Your skin prickles, heat sparking where his fingers touch, a sensation that's warm and sweet - sickeningly so. Nauseating in the pit of your stomach, and yet your mouth waters all the same. 

Something akin to anticipation coils inside of your chest, fluttering, alive. It's foreign, strange, and you find it difficult to try and shun it. It's instinctual to try and ignore its simmer, stuffing it beneath the anger and repulsion that turns in your stomach like an illness, but he doesn't allow you to ignore the ache. He holds your hand, locks his stare onto yours and forces you to confront the uncertainty settling across you, as fit as a tailored coat, smooth and fuzzy. Uncomfortably welcoming, molding across your person, inside and out. 

"Let me see where it hurts?" You don't believe you've ever heard a man beg before. Not while at your feet, but he certainly is. You get the terrible impression that you . . . might enjoy it, a perverse kind of satisfaction purring behind your ribs and it makes you shift in your seat as though it will help to shake the feeling off. It doesn't. Of course it doesn't. 

It doesn't make him quit staring up at you as though he's seeking absolution in your being. This isn't right. It must be a corruption against nature for some man - some thing to gaze up at you with the starved patience of a saint desiring solace. 

It's wicked. This is the temptation that you've been taught to resist, the resilience that you mother had done her damnedest to try and build within your marrow. Good women don't feel things like this, not for strangers in the night, not for demons that might possibly be posing as men. Especially not a married woman. 

You wait for a surge of guilt to crash over you, but when it does it's dull. Feeble. A pale sting in the back of your mind that's soothed away by the cool caress of hand along yours. He's hardly done a thing, and yet you can feel your determination wearing thin, the barrier protecting your will getting chiseled away at one breath at a time, turning brittle under the pressure of his stare. 

You have to gulp down an unsteady inhale of air, swallowing down your nerves.  "I shouldn't." 

That's not a no, and it should be. It's an excuse to your own ears, weak willed and flimsy. 

"Why not?" His head tilts on his shoulders while he squints up at you, analyzing the frequent rise and fall of your chest. "Holdin' out for your husband who's probably wet between some other woman's thighs?" 

You almost slap him, but old instincts stop you before your free hand could lift away from your side and strike his cheek. Lashing out's never gotten you anywhere before, still the itch to give into it never truly fades. You know that he can see the hatred burning in your eyes. Unlike your husband, his face doesn't contort from rage, he doesn't raise his voice to spew venomous insults, his patience remains intact, satisfied and deceptively sweet. 

" Don't get angry, get even. I can show you how to live without him." You can't get yourself to protest as he shifts closer still, nudging himself forward until your knees are only able to comply in giving him more space, spreading open to allow him room to wedge his body between your legs. It has the fabric of your skirt pulling taught and lifting up, threatening to give and slip over your knees.

It's purely indecent, revealing more skin that he should be able to witness. You can't keep yourself from reaching down to try and pluck your skirt back at a more respectable length but the way that he has your thighs wedged apart obstructs you from properly doing so, leaving the fabric to remain in place, creased and high around the shape of your knees. 

You can smell him like this, the night still clings to him, humidity and earth. You don't like how it sticks to you now, how he speaks of 'getting even,' of insulting Colin even if he won't be directly aware of the transgression. It's petty, perhaps disgusting how you long to give in. How curiosity sings against logic and urges you to relent, to see where this man with fire in his eyes and temptation pouring from his lips might take you. 

You've been in denial for a long time, you think, walking around with your eyes closed shut, pretending to see that parts of yourself that are ugly and ache and hate. You've always been the woman you were raised to be, holding your longing close, shutting it tight behind your chest, pretending that it isn't there. 

It's gotten you nothing but hurt and man who only touches you when he's raising his hand against you. And now he's probably a few miles away from home, swaying drunkenly on barstool while he drinks himself one bottle closer to an early grave. And this is what's set to be your life, isn't it? 

One day blurring between the other, smearing between weeks left isolated behind old wallpaper and smarting bruises. You know deep down that if you let this strange man win, let him get what he wants, then maybe you won't be surviving the night. You've heard that beings like this usually settle in taking your life in some way, regardless if it's by collecting your soul or sinking their teeth in until all that's left is bloodied remains, is inconsequential. 

You've always known that you were going to die in this house, at least now it'll be done by your terms. You've always been too afraid to take risks, too much of a coward to allow yourself to act, keeping your fantasies of escaping your life firmly trapped within your head. Abandoned and left for you to ruminate on, spinning around inside of your mind like a stunned bird flapping uselessly across the ground, trying desperately to find lift on damaged feathers. 

It's laughable that for the only time in your life, you've been allowed to know what it feels like to have control, though you know in your bones it's only the illusion of it. The stranger crouched between your legs could (will) surely kill you in a blink, snap the wrist he has clutched within his palm with the flick of his hand. It shouldn't thrill you, but it does. 

"Fine then," you relent, strengthening your tone with a confidence that you don't entirely feel. "Show me." 

His guise fully slips then, the both of you seeming to come to an unspoken unanimous agreement to quit with facades. You feel disgusting, allowing yourself to relent, baring the grimy parts of your soul to this demon in human flesh; in turn he grins, victorious. Shows teeth that aren't human, jagged and serrated, designed to cut flesh and tear. 

He drools and his eyes reflect, the gleam of blood-soaked coins. You've known now that he isn't human, but to see your suspicions so clearly confirmed, revealed to you so casually is as terrifying as it is reaffirming. 

"I'll make it all better, don't worry." You feel puffs of air brush over you from his words, drawing over your hand, ghosting along the cut on your palm. The wound throbs and stings from the chill of his voice, aching while he speaks into your blood as though he's making a vow, trying to imprint it into your being. 

Blood and his spit smears on your hand. It seems profane to see the blur of it so close to the ring on your finger. The sight alone has to be a sin, a perversion, but worse than all of that, you find that you don't truly care. The thought doesn't wrack you with guilt, it doesn't char in your gut, it rolls past you, as slick as any oil. Reason and morality begin to abandon you, leaving you behind to be a helpless observer as he lowers his face to your open palm. 

Fear shifts dim in your veins, unimportant, overpowered by the fascination while his lip's part and his tongue slips out to trace over your blood. You can hear the voice of rationality crying distantly, your psyches last resort to try and snap you from the daze of intrigue that clouds over you. But not even the burn of his tongue dragging over the split in your skin is enough to save you now, not even while your hiss through your teeth and twitch from the pain. 

The ruined nerves within the raw slice shriek, boiling hot from the press of his mouth. Your muscles bunch in preparation to tear your arm out from the source of the pain. Just as quickly, the urge nullifies, washes away from the look in his eyes. He watches you, seeming to gauge your reaction while he continues to lap at your blood. But that glazed quality is back in his stare, intoxicated, enraptured, lashes fluttering like he's consuming an ambrosia. 

You don't expect the groan that rumbles from his chest, though you probably should, a guttural, heavy noise that skips through his throat in a snarl - an inhuman noise that causes the small hairs on the nape of your neck to stand on end, goose flesh prickling on your arms and legs. 

"Don't pull away. Lemme see you." A gentle warning if you've ever heard one. Slurred from how he doesn't bother to remove his mouth to speak, smothering his face to your palm. He's hardly lapping at this point, unwilling to sacrifice the sliver of space that would require, instead opting to latch his lips around the laceration to draw in the scraps of blood draining from it, gulping and sucking like he means to drink down your very heartbeat. 

He curls himself closer, torso pressing into your knees so close that his head is practically in your lap, severing the minute scale of space between your bodies while he latches on to you with more conviction, holding onto your wrist with all the fervor of a disciple cradling a sacred object. 

Your jaw parts open, a revelation of your disbelief, a gasp stuttering inside of you while you watch. It's paralyzing, the constant pain and soothe of his mouth, the wet drag of his tongue curling and stroking. You can see his throat flexing; the thin gold chain draped around his neck catching light while he drinks down what must only be thin remnants of your blood. The flow had been previously staved off by the bandage, already congealing and turning thick to heal. 

He's groaning over what could only be compared to crumbs, a dog eating off of the floor, happy to gnaw the old dry bones given. A part of you uselessly attempts to convince yourself that this isn't real, an odd dream, or strange fantasy. That truly, you've swallowed down all of Colin's gin and drunk yourself into a stupor, passed out at the kitchen table and you'll wake soon, safe and sound. Untouched. 

You know that isn't the truth though. This strange man is here, kneeling at your feet, teeth too sharp to be normal scraping over the heel of your palm, breathing heavily through his nose, panting as though he'd die without the taste of you on his tongue. 

It's hypnotic. You've never seen anything like this in all of your days. Your imagination had never been inspired to create an image such as this and seeing it before you with your physical eyes has you breathless. Sparks scatter down your spine, pouring down to settle inside the shape of your hips, molten, honeyed, a shock of heat and stars that simmer between your legs. 

It should be insulting, shameful, the familiar heat coiling deep inside your belly, but the remorse doesn't have time to settle or secure itself, because he parts his mouth from you. A brief lull, a break from the sting and a strange glide of his tongue before he's rotating your hand around with his own. He descends just as quickly as he had separated, slipping your thumb inside his mouth to lave his tongue over the sliver of a cut slicing up the length of it, sucking on you the digit.  

His violent teeth trace over it, and he eyes you when the enamel grazes. You swear an unspoken, I could bite if I wanted to hangs in the humid air. It's twisted tight between you, a tense, quivering thing that hums while he cradles your thumb beneath his tongue. 

It's an indecent show, far beyond what is respectable between a man and a woman - strangers, no less. Then again, there hasn't been a single thing about this night that's been respectable. Your mother would swat you if she could see you now, pull you up by your nape and strike some decency into you. Prompt you to recite prayers until you lost your voice, until the words stung your throat. 

But shame is a faraway concept now. Diluted and vanquished from the fever spreading through your being, the calefaction building inside of you is poisonous, as steady and potent as any disease. 

Your thighs switch, muscles involuntarily squeezing to seek out a friction that isn't there, impeded by the wedge of his shoulders between them. Your cheeks tingle, humiliation waxing across your face when your mind, sluggish and hindered from the syrup that clings to your thoughts like molasses, processes what you've done. When you fully notice how your hips have begun to move on their own, subtly shifting on the seat of your chair, longing to raise and find something to ease the ache that's pooled between your legs. 

You're as rigid as a doll when you freeze, bunching your muscles up to coerce yourself back still on the seat. You can only hope that he hasn't noticed it, but you know that he has. There isn't a chance in hell that he hadn't seen you starting to hump at the air, as flagrant as any dog. 

You almost wish that he'd scold you for it, that he'd call you out for the degenerate that you are. He doesn't. He does look at you though, watching curiously, staring with eyes that see you for what you truly are but don't judge. 

Still, you can't keep yourself from apologizing, a hushed whisper of a thing uttered out on humiliated lips. The need to rectifying the wrong ignores that he's much more debased, polluting you slowly, drinking your blood from an open wound.  "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me." 

It's only then that he removes his mouth from your thumb, slipping his mouth from it with a damp pop! He shakes his head, not a silent admonishment but a confirmation of sorts - the apology isn't necessary. He licks his lips instead, cleaning up the drool that's sapped around his mouth, as though even the faintest pieces of you, small scraps and thin iotas deserved to be savored. 

He laps at the pad of your thumb one last time, like a parting kiss, before he trails his lips over heel of your palm, just outside the damaged flesh. It's as though he can't bear to part, inhaling deeply to draw in the scent that clings to your skin, the fragrance of blood staining the angry slash. 

You aren't expecting him to say your name (I didn't give him my name, you note distantly, thoughts distorted under fog. Haven't said it once), you aren't anticipating the reverence it's spoken with either, the tenderness, candied between his teeth. It shocks you immobile, confuses you into silence. He regards you - sees you entirely, you know that now. He watches like he's picked you apart, slipped past your flesh and rummaged around in all your parts, traveled from the fringes of your soul and all the way down to the pit of it, and equally delighted and sympathized in what he's seen. 

It has you naked while you sit fully clothed. Vulnerable and exposed within your own home. 

"He don't treat you right, does he." It isn't really a question. It's rhetorical, an observation. For perhaps a moment too long it takes a while for it to click, for you to make sense of what and who he's referring to. But once it all does, weak threads tug together, connecting under the inert pace of your mind, you can only stare at him. Voice stolen, snuffed out. 

It's as though he well and truly knows, as though he's carded through your memories, felt the strikes of an open palm and closed fists himself, tasted the echoes of violence and agony held within your veins. Perhaps he has. You've heard of the power that flows in blood, it's uses in practices. In spells and prayers, blood vows, pacts made and forged by blades to flesh. 

You aren't certain of what he is. Some sort of demon sent to prowl about the earth, a starved spirit that preys on the weak, either of those could be true or false, so it shouldn't surprise you that he was able to peek inside of your soul through the passage of your blood. That he's witnessed the reflections of your life, learned your name all from drinking you down with his tongue, but it does. The possibility of it unsettles you, curdles inside of your marrow, makes your stomach roll with nausea. 

It's wrong - this is wrong. This entire night has turned bad, unnatural, mangled and warped. He isn't meant to be here. He shouldn't be in your home; you never should have invited him inside. And yet your jaw remains a steel trap, containing your fears and opinions inside on a shuddering breath, just as it always does. Rendering you voiceless, compliant, the same as when Colin comes home in a mood, set on seeking out an outlet in your flesh. 

You stopped fighting years ago, the fervor for survival dying inside of you, a forgotten thing. 

You shouldn't enjoy that this unnamed man from the dark, this otherworldly traveler has seen the worst parts of you. The secrets that were supposed to remain hidden, the horrors you've kept close. What happens between a man and his wife isn't meant for the attention or council of others, it's a private affair, and yet he's peeked inside of you. Seen more than Collin ever will, forever set to be ignorant to how much you loathe him, how you wish that God would finally answer your prayers and strike him dead. 

There's been countless nights where you've sat across from your husband at this very table, hardly able to sit from the welts burning your ass, raised and white-hot, hellfire on your flesh. All while he perched directly across from you, unaffected by the sting on his right hand while he ate and partook in the dinner you'd spent hours making for him. 

You would dream that he'd choke on it. That the mouthfuls would catch in his throat and he'd collapse onto the floor in a suffocating heap, looking up to you with a plead for mercy glazing over in his eyes. Asking for the empathy that he's never shown you. 

"Men such as him deserved to be beaten within an inch of their lives."

It snaps you from your reverie, your fantasizing like the crack of dead branch splintering over a knee. 

There's a danger that lurks in his tone, sinister and coarse, the inflections enclosing on the sound of a growl. You swear the noise of it reverberates throughout your skeleton, it thrums up the nape of your neck, itching, clawing, phantom fingertips skirting over your scalp. His eyes are still burning, alight with the depths of hell, scorching, consuming. It'd be easy to believe that his body has been hollowed out, a vacant shell captained only by the flames of damnation, seeking to burn and corrupt. 

Maybe you were just easy kindling. 

"But I'm gonna make it alright," he presses the plush of his mouth to your palm again, a cloying glide of lips. "Let me kiss it better." 

You don't get to object or agree. There's not a second to process the salacious nature of his words because he lies to you. He doesn't kiss - he bites. 

It's a blur. A contorted smudge, grease besmirching a fine painting; he pounces forward, lithe and too quick to be tracked. And then teeth sink in, parting meat between the fine, daggerlike points, puncturing tissue and sweet flesh with a brutal mouth. Liquid fire douses across the heel of your hand, the one already damaged by the slice of glass, previously soothed by the sweep of his tongue. 

You cry out, from shock, from terror and agony. A shrill wail that cuts and chisels at your quivering ribcage when it pours from your throat. You writhe and heave in place, a rabbit caught in snare, struggling to hoist yourself out of your seat. You don't know if it's possible to feel betrayed by a man you don't truly know, but the sting of it blossoms regardless, violent and fatal. 

The chair wobbles beneath you, feet dragging across the floor with a shrill scrape that sounds like the call of a wounded animal. Despite all of your flailing, he doesn't budge. He's latched onto you, hand secured around your wrist in a vice, jaw locked onto you as though his teeth have become one with your being, enamel suturing to the bone beneath the damaged sinew. 

You try to strike him with the arm that's still free, but he takes that one too, clipping it down before it could be brought down upon the crown of his head. Gripping it within the steady clasp of his fingers, monstrous talons raking over you as they curl around the joint of your wrist to render you immobile. 

Tears blur and crystalize along your waterline, unshed but no less distressed. It's difficult to see past the watery film they leave in your vision, silvery wisps and hazy shapes making up what's visible, but you can still understand him through the distress. He's clutched onto you, still kneeling but just as selfish and persistent as any parasite, throat bobbing as he gulps down the blood that flows abundantly from where he's bitten. 

His thumbs caress you, elongated now, spidery and sweeping back and forth in motions that are meant to conciliate, but it only rouses more anger, more dread. You feel tricked even though he's been nothing but honest with his nature, drooling and flashing vicious teeth at all night. You were the one who tricked yourself, allowed yourself to believe that he wouldn't turn them against you. 

This is what happens when you allow strays inside of your home, expecting kindness instead of a snarling maw. 

Maybe a part of your soul recognized the death in his eyes long before the rest of you did. Maybe that's what you truly wanted. The solace of it, the release. 

He drinks and drinks and drinks. Filling his mouth and his belly while your head fills with fog and stuffing saturated with wine, inebriated and weighed down. Your skull lolls on its neck, suddenly heavy, too much to bear and your chin dips down towards your chest, giving you no other option but gaze down at him. An unwilling observer of the saliva and blood that slips past the seam of his lips, threading through your twitching fingers, soiling the gold hue of your wedding ring before it all drips and drops onto the floor in a rusted combination of blush and scarlet. 

It would be easy to assume that you've passed on already with how lethargic his bite has turned you, his gluttonous eating diminishing the blood in your veins gulp by gulp. It guides you into a sensation so dreamy, so airy and delicate that it feels as though you've slipped outside of your body and begun to levitate, but you know that you haven't. 

The view you have of him still kneeling before you, mouth fixed around your hand confirms it. Your limbs belong to a doll, motionless, unable to move, the connection between your brain and body having seemed to be stretched wide apart, too far for thoughts to travel. 

Limbs fill with sand, useless, unable to function from the fatigue that drips through your body and pours down your ligaments in a paralyzing pulse and boneless thrum. Something is taking root, sprouting where his fangs puncture you. Its seeps inside of your bloodstream, tingling, bubbling within vessels, sugar glazing across nerves. Working through your system, intrusive, an alien element that was never meant to join inside of your body. But you can feel it, you know that you can. Spreading, altering, searing and soothing simultaneously, rendering you stationary. 

He's a rattlesnake. Curled up in the grass, visible only until it's too late with fangs that kill. His venom's inside of you now, reaching depths beyond your understanding, altering tissue, destroying you from the inside out. 

He removes his mouth from you with a heavy sigh, one of relief. The kind of noise you let out after a long day of great labor once you're finally able to rest your feet and feed the ache in your belly. 

He bestows another kiss to the gash he's left behind. A gnarled wound, deep rows made from the rip of sawtooth fangs, torn over the cut from the glass. This kiss isn't sugared; it doesn't make that longing side of you swoon beneath his lips. You can't forget your rage, not with his mouth now glistening with the red of your blood, flickers of gold shimmering across the damp, reflecting from the light above. 

"I know you're mad at me," he answers, as though it's enough. A proper excuse and not an insult - a mockery. "I can see your anger, and I don't blame ya for it. But this - " he lifts your wounded hand, still cradled inside his lithe talons - "This is how how we're gonna get you better. How we save you from the man who was meant to keep you safe. You aren't gonna need Colin anymore. Not now, not ever again." 

You don't want to hear it, don't want to listen to the lies he spews, but the sound of his voice spirals and twines inside your ears in a that smoky drawl. Too hypnotic for his perversions. Your body yields all the same. You tell yourself that it's only the venom that no he doubt possesses that has you going lax, turning malleable despite the hatred that still lies in your heart, but you don't know if that's the case anymore. 

The truth seems murky now. An uncertain, undefined thing, and you're not certain if it ever existed in the first place or if it was always just a fairytale you told yourself for comfort. 

It doesn't help that he's staring up at you as though he's seeking your forgiveness, eyes wide, brows furrowed in a guilty pinch. The image of culpability, of remorse seeking forgiveness. It has you so transfixed that you don't feel him place your injured hand down inside of your lap, and you don't entirely register the glide of his palms cupping the outside of your thighs, honed points of his claws trailing over the supple skin, daring to slip just the scantest inch beneath the hem of your skirt. 

A suggestion, a request. 

He only deserves your denial. Your refusal. He's repulsive, a monster performing as a man, lurking around the shadows while you were vulnerable. And now here he is, still at your feet, the implication of obscene desires evident on his face. Behaving as though the proof of his deceit isn't torn into the flesh of your hand, blood trickling to stain the fabric of your dress. 

He's selfish, having injected the venom on his teeth into your veins. You're too dazed to physically reject him, inebriated fumes seeming to warp inside of your skull, fuzz brushes within your fingertips and toes, as though you've been encased within a perfumed mist. Though you still have enough clarity to cling to your animosity and pride, as tattered and useless as it might be, moth eaten paper clutched in a quivering grasp. 

You should cling to your righteous fury, your disdain, and yet it begins to slip. It grows brittle, tainted by the persistent warmth that remains between your thighs. A constant manifestation of your want that hasn't waned, not even when he'd sank his teeth into you. 

He must see the war on your face, the conflict. Because understanding shows on his, patient and lacking negativity. 

"I told you I'd kiss it better, didn't I?" 

"You lied." You don't spare him your indignation, glowering with all the visible loathing you can manage. He doesn't waver beneath it, as resolute as mountain pelted by the ferocity of a summer downpour. 

"I did," he agrees easily.

And you hate how something as simple as his admittance is enough to mollify some of the hurt and outrage storming inside of you. You're just as starved as he is, desperate for an escape, an exit that you'll only have in death. If you had something to live for, perhaps you'd find the will to fight. Maybe you'd generate an impossible strength and turn your teeth on him instead. But you don't have the resistance in you anymore. Sometimes you wonder if you ever did. 

"Let me show you I'm good for my word." His head bows, low enough for him to press the point of his nose to your knee, separated only by the thin cut of your skirt. He observes you from there, shadows spilling over his face, crimson smoldering from where peers he up at you. "Let me ease the ache." 

And you are aching, aren't you? Your body is buzzing, a humming livewire, something ancient and primal creeping up from the base of your spine. A ghost, an apparition, alive and singing with primordial promises and impulses that merge with the venom in your veins. It twists together, a confusing merge until you can't tell which symptom is a product of which, an ouroboros of heat that rides off the back of the haze clouding your head. 

You've never felt like this. So consumed. Turned inside out and left wanting. The loose fit of your dress is too tight, clinging to your hips and breasts in all the wrong ways, uncomfortable in a way that it's never been before. Your nipples brush against the material with each inhale of your lungs, annoying and tantalizing all at once. 

You're outside yourself, unable to recognize who you are as a need that you've never experienced rises up, seeking and frenzied. It's worse still because you aren't entirely sure if you can blame it on his influence, the infection that must be spreading and ravaging your body. It's terrifying to think that venom might have only induced or invigorated the desire that was already there, heating it until it could finally give and bubble up to the surface. 

Something in you breaks, snaps beneath all the conflict and pressure, the ceaseless tug between morality and longing. It could also be that you're tired of resisting, of holding yourself back from the lust coiling inside of you like a serpent. It could be how he continues to look at you, a little pathetic, devout. A worshipper at an altar. 

It's instinct and surrender concurrently. 

You allow yourself to settle against the back rest of the chair, hearing it creak softly from the weight, getting comfortable. Not once do you tear your attention from the man in front of you, not even as you reach down with your uninjured hand, using it to pluck at the length of your skirt, gathering it up to pool it on your lap. 

You don't know where this sudden surge of boldness has come from. Where the confidence that allows you to spread your thighs wide has developed, and why it's chosen now of all times to reveal itself. But it's empowering, stimulating. 

His own focus drops down between your legs, watching while you reach down to hook your fingers beneath your undergarments. You're both silent while you slip them down your thighs, gliding them down the hitch of your knees. You don't have to work them down the rest of the way. He does that for you, cutting them free from your legs with the sharpness of his claws. 

You feel them fall to the floor, useless, tattered. But you can't pay that any mind, not while you spread yourself open for him. You've bared yourself completely, and the caress of the satin air gliding across your cunt makes you crudely aware of the arousal that's smeared down the inner cushion of your thighs. 

You're soaked and aching, splayed open like a whore that's been paid, and he looks everything like a creature that's tore itself from the bowels of hell. Long talons raking across your flesh, elongated, boney fingers trembling with fracturing self-restraint, blood - your blood - blemishing his face in a stain of carnage. 

And yet you've never wanted a man as much as you do now. Not your own husband, not even when you were young and he was still tender towards you. Your fantasies then had been rose-tinted, spring blossoms and intimate embraces. Nothing as carnal as this. An animal creeps inside, snarling, vile, rippling beneath the cage of your ribs, contained only by bone and lungs. 

He stares between the apex of your legs as though he's been entranced. A hint if drool begins to drain from the corner of his mouth again, teeth flashing as he parts his lips and inhales in a greedy gulp of air. 

He's breathing you in, you realize, scenting your cunt in a disgusting display of hedonism. 

It doesn't repulse you like it should. You think you're too gone for reason to properly reach you now, floating on a high of intemperance and indulgence. Despite the temptation you know that if you go down this road, give him permission again that he'll mark each and every part of you - if he already hasn't. 

You don't know what might become of you, but you can already feel yourself changing. The exhaustion weighing you down grows heavier, dipping you closer towards a dark warmth that mimics the welcome of sleep, but it's too distorted and peculiar to be something so innocent - unusual, cold. Skeleton fingers. You assume, down in the furthest parts of you, the pieces that just know things, animal instincts, that it might be death coming to collect you. 

You aren't sure if there will be another side to great you. If you'll still be entirely you or not once you cross over it, or if you'll be just the same as him. A perversion of nature, of the soul. The venom must have done its work, set in too deep, because you no longer care what lies ahead of you. You can only think of now, of the drooling fiend wedged between your thighs. 

"Go on then," you prompt, reclining further. Draping yourself along the chair, unabashed, spread open. "You said you were going to set it right." 

He grins, wicked and pleased. He remains in place for only a second, just long enough to offer a gratified "Yes, ma'am" before he's leaning over and burying his face directly between your thighs. There's no teasing or playing, no unnecessary intention to draw it out to frustrate you. He gets right to it, dipping his tongue inside the entrance of your cunt, stroking it inside to gulp you down his throat as though it's holy water and he means to cleanse himself from the inside out. 

He eats you like he's still starved. A bottomless pit, cursed with gluttony. You couldn't have anticipated the fervency behind his hunger - not for this, at least. It has your spine bowing already, hips tilting up to catch the friction of his mouth and he groans, contented like he's the one being fucked. As though the pleasure is eating him alive and not you. 

Your jaw drops with a breathless sigh as your head rolls back to thump against the top edge of the backrest, body conflicted between going completely lax and basking in the steady drag of his tongue or allowing yourself to grind and chase after his mouth; greedy, wanton. 

The point of his nose catches on your clit, the rounded shape of it pressing onto it just as he effortlessly finds that spot inside of you - the same one that Colin always struggles to reach, probing at you with inept, impatient fingers. He doesn't struggle at all though, and the dual points of pleasure make you melt, thighs twitching while you roll yourself onto the rhythm of his tongue. 

It's messy. The combination of his saliva and your arousal is wet on your flesh, besmearing down the swell of your ass. You can hear it when his tongue splits you open, rebounding softly across the close walls of the kitchen in a lewd melody. The damp smack of his lips moves up to draw around your clit; a coarse, sloppy noise induced by the steady pulse of his tongue. Electricity skirts down your nerves and ignites inside the foundation of your spine, ravaging you with heat - lightning striking the earth in a thunderstorm. 

You can count on a single hand the number of times your husband has had you like this, an event arising only in a blue moon when you managed the confidence to request it; treating your pleasure with a detach responsibility. There was never any effort put into the curl of his fingers or the glide of his tongue. He approaches it with about as much enthusiasm as a chore, as though it's an obligation that he was unable to escape. 

Always clumsy, incurious. It never failed to make you guilty, weighing down your shoulders with an adamant shame, wracking you with humiliation and remorse, until you simply stopped asking it of him. It's what a good wife would do, after all. 

This though is shared ecstasy. There's no air of burden or indifference surrounding the man currently kneeling at your feet. He does so with passion you've never been subjected to, enthusiastic in a carnal way. Burying his face deeper as though he intends to suffocate himself with you. 

Though you wonder if a creature such as him bothers with an earthly requirement like breathing. 

You should be repulsed with yourself. This entire encounter, as unnatural as it is, goes against everything you've been taught as a self-respecting woman. Your wedding band is still on your finger, chilled and heavy despite the humidity and the balmy temperature of your skin. Another man is gripping onto your hips with claws, mouth on your cunt while he fucks you with his tongue, jagged teeth lightly grazing over tender flesh making your knees shake. 

It's obscene in every sense of the word. There's a high chance you're going to hell. You can practically feel the flames already, licking up your back, burning within your gut like a furnace. And yet you don't care. 

He's seen your thoughts, relived your memories like they were his own, slipped inside of your limbs and felt the scale and variety of your emotions. It's sickening how he's witnessed you in your most vulnerable stages of life, seen the worst of you from the reflections of your blood. There's nothing left to hide, no barrier to protect yourself under. 

It shouldn't excite you, it's horrid, invasive . . .  intimate. But there's something thrilling about a person observing the worst facets of you, the insecurities and the sins, the parts you've tried your best to repress and remaining unaffected, unbothered.

(Probably because he's so much worse.) 

Perhaps it's the blood loss giving you lightheaded delusions, darkening around your vision in a hazy vignette, or the venom infiltrating your body and soul, but you think that you can feel him too now. Twisting and invading through the map of your brain, singing in your blood to spread with the lethality of a disease, embedding down into the center of your bones where its deep and rich with life and marrow. He's in your soul too, he has to be with how something in you cries out, equally in spiritual terror and hedonistic elation. 

A wind that isn't real caresses over you, full of the scent of dew and fruitful earth, damp soil, the distant salt of far-off tumultuous water - waves, cresting and rushing. It's a land you don't recognize, but you know it now. Know it better than you know yourself, even as you see the impressions of it through another's eyes. 

Sights and sounds cocoon around you, vivid, vociferous, phantom touches of experiences you haven't personally endured pour across your body, a surge of mirages - of memories not belonging to you, expanding, stretching out years beyond your comprehension. A lucid, dramatic mosaic. You can taste his years on your tongue, like an aged wine, ancient, enduring. 

Whispers crowd your skull, fluttering about you, ceaseless, persistent, uttering a tongue unheard of to your ears. A throaty, rhythmic cadence; circling and persistent echoes that layer and overlap upon each other. Ghosts caught in different shades of emotions, some humming gentle tunes, some raising in blood curling shrieks, agony, terror; faint curls of laughter rising and falling in their mirth. You smell smoke, taste ash on your tongue, feel a terror and heartache that guts you down the middle. 

Something shifts above the rest, the silver flash of a fish gliding beneath the ripples and dapples of a stream, elusive and quick. Darting away before it can be caught. Scales slipping through an unsteady palm. You try to concentrate on it, try to pull it forward into something tangible but the pleasure distracts you, swelling and subsiding, a constant cycle of and bliss, repeating over and over again, unraveling you at the seams. 

He doesn't stop, doesn't give you time to breathe and process the sensations of it all. He's eating you alive, in each and every sense of the meaning. Taking you in, slipping little pieces of you inside of him, tunneling himself within you in turn, nesting, bridging you together until it all starts to become a little clearer. 

That one word becomes more distinct, shadows slipping back with the illumination of a midnight sun, silver scales brightening in the dark: stars crystalizing to spell names, uncovering false identities; faces he's claimed, lives he's taken, names he's stolen. Whispering them over and over, but one rises above the others, persistent among the mob, demanding, longing to be know. Chanting in the command to be spoken.  

It's right there, dangling on the edge of your consciousness, just out of bounds, suspended there as though to tease. A glimmer of gold peeking through mud and red earth, smudged in centuries, tantalizing. Each letter reverberates through your bones, lighting sparks along your nerves, the memories held with it cauterize, leaving a mark on your spirit that can't be seen with the naked eye. 

Longing undulates, the impact of a cold stone breaking water, an emotion so raw you nearly mistake it for your own, but it's far too ancient. A wound that spans years long before your making, still bleeding, gouged and picked clean, torn wide. A carcass hollowed out of all that it's made of, yearning to be filled, to have the appeasement of warmth and touch. But it's grown teeth, become violent, feral. A hatred, a starvation that's rabid, frothing at the mouth to infect. To tear when the prey isn't willing, forcing the resistant into compliance. 

Forcing just as violent hands willed it into acceptance. A hypocrisy. 

You nearly sob from the brunt of it, crushed under the agony of it, the devastation, the horror. The logic within you - the part of your being that seems to be dying off with the rest of you - attempts to swim and find the surface of reason, but the light never comes. 

His tongue glides over you, the point of it swirling around the shape of your clit in a succession of enticing circles before alternating into steady flicks that turn your thoughts and will into vapor. Dissolving, salt in murky water. His palms smooth down your hips, talons tracing down your flesh like he's tempted to leave marks; the sting blazes down your flesh from the fine points of them, and a twisted sort of pleasure scatters beneath their razor-sharp tips. 

He counters the subtle pain, dropping his mouth open to pulse the muted chill of his mouth around your clit, dousing you in bliss from head to toe. He gets greedy, apparently not close enough despite being shoved face first against your cunt. He grips your thighs, lifting them to hinge your knees over his shoulders, using the angle to shove you closer with a harsh jerk that almost has you slipping out of the chair entirely. 

Your hands fly up on instinct, raising to steady yourself and they find the crown of his head in your blind reach for an anchor, fingers threading through the sweat-damp tresses of his hair in a steel grip. Your injured palm screams from the pain of it, the pressure searing up the wound, but you can't manage to rip your palms from him, and he groans in the response to the tight clasp you have on his scalp. But it's from pleasure, not pain. 

You can feel yourself dying, fading around the edges, energy draining from you in a steady flow. You think your heart is straining inside your chest, pumping in vain on the meager flow that still supplies your system; the pathetic scraps that he didn't drink from you. 

You should tear him away from you, toss him to the floor and demand that he leaves, but you know that that opportunity has come and gone, snuffed out as a flame on a wick, a hot coal dulled to charcoal. You're already dead, you know that now, and when you wake up again, either minutes or hours from now, you wonder what kind of monster you'll make. 

A ruined, damned imitation of your current self. Unfortunately, you've always been tricked by pretty things, by decorated promises and rosewater words. You've cursed yourself once again, once with a ring and vows, and a second time with blood and teeth. 

Your fingers flex in his hair, split with the opposite desires to pull him away and bring him closer. You're between the rift of it, drawn in a limbo while your body squirms beneath his mouth, seeking out a bliss and reprieve from the onslaught of his tongue, but he's relentless. He doesn't let up, doesn't allow you a second to breathe or think, to gather a thought and center yourself. 

It's ceaseless, almost brutal in its ecstasy, tracing over you with a fervor and practice that you've never been pinned under. He's steadfast and calculated in his determination to bring you over that tantalizing edge. You're almost afraid for it to be over, horrified of losing the bliss that pulses over you, as molten as liquid fire. But more potent than anything is the fear of what comes after this ends, the promise of eternity looming over you with disturbing consequences. 

You think you've always longed for death. Yearned for the finality, the release, the embrace of it. And now that it's come to collect, smelt your desire on the air like a scent, infected your bloodstream with its venom, regret wells up inside of you. But it's come too late, you can't escape now - if you ever could. You've made your bed, and now you have to lie in it. 

"Remmick." 

It leaves your lips, thoughtless, odd, tasting ancient. Strained on a thin whisper, a beg for mercy or a request for more, you can't tell anymore. 

He answers you with another groan, not bothering to remove himself from as makes his next plea, purred out between licks on a throaty sigh. His eyes flicker up to look at you from his place between your thighs, two small flames flickering in the dark, drawing you in. "My name sounds pretty comin' from you, darlin'. Say it again for me." 

He seems determined to stir it from you, not waiting for you gather the breath to speak it yourself, he seeks to draw it out of you himself. His hands slip up, roaming over your body in a rapacious sweep, not stopping until he finds the shape of your breasts beneath the material of your dress. He doesn't waste a second to grope and feel, massaging his fingers over the fat. Your spine arches to meet his palms, seeking out more, pressing into the weight of his hands for more. 

You don't entirely register the shrill sound of fabric tearing, a thin hiss across the thick atmosphere. But then you feel it, the tepid skim of air drifting across your chest, pressing down upon your skin in a soft caress. 

You have to force your head to roll on your neck, the weight of it beginning to become too much, exhaustion creeping up on you makes your neck feel as though it's as weak and loose as a string. Your chin tucks against your chest, nudging close to your clavicle while you watch him - Remmick, your brain laggardly recalls - fondle and pluck at your now bare breasts. 

He's torn your dress, split the material right down the middle with his claws as though it was made of paper. An admonishment is right there, scathing and ready to be said, but it gets choked behind a moan. You can feel him grinning, the impression of his smile on your skin, the flash of his teeth grazing over your cunt. His hands are everywhere now, your breasts, tracing your ribs, smoothing over your hips and thighs, clinging over you as though he's memorizing your body, desperate to touch each and every part of you. 

He's inside of you in a way that no other could be, stained across your soul, minds merged together in an inseparable link. You can feel him too, the inside of him. As though you're sitting within his body. It's distant, fuzzy, but the press of the floor against his knees is on your own, textured and hard; you can feel the smooth plains of your body beneath his palms as though his hands are yours, stroking across yourself all while your fingers remain rooted within his hair. 

It's out of body, unnatural, but the doubled sensations is damning. You can feel his pleasure, the taste of yourself on his tongue, earthy and rich, the salt of your skin, subtly sweet in an aftertaste of powdered sugar. It creates an endless loop, an echo that's rapturous. You know that he's hard inside of his drawers, aching and throbbing, pressed up tight against the seam, getting off on your pleasure like it's his own. 

It makes it impossible to escape, overwhelming in the most delightful, terrible way possible. Your breaths come out quick, shuddering from your lungs in a steady rhythm of heavy panting, pitching and keening in the air. He's got you right on the edge, a burning wick, heat sparking and thrumming, smoldering into something dangerous and debilitating. 

You can't keep yourself from chasing after it, hips rolling, grinding yourself across his face and he seems all too eager to let you use him for it. His lashes are fluttering like he's actively resisting the urge to let them slip close, all so that he can watch you hurtle closer to your pleasure. 

It isn't now that you've noticed that you've been chanting his name, repeating it with the fervency of a newly learned prayer. His expression is smug, eyes shifting in the dark, a reflection of contentment and ego. 

You've never heard of a man getting off on someone else's pleasure, feeding from it so explicitly. Not like this. It's like he lives for it, hanging on the twitch of your thighs, the rise and fall of your breasts, the wet smear of your arousal glistening on his lips. And he has you right there, balancing on the precipice. All you need is a small nudge, a light push into the chasm below. 

All you can feel now is him, all you can hear is the both of you, the thrum of his pleased groans humming across your cunt, the messy, lewd sounds slipping from where you both meet; his tongue splitting you open, languid and hungry. His nose nuzzles over you, brushing along the apex of your thigh when he tilts his head to gently draw one of your lips between his teeth, sucking lazily to savor all of you. 

It's the first teasing thing he's done, parting from where you directly need him the most to skim his mouth over you, tracing it along the tender skin of your inner thighs. He nips and sucks where he goes, but he soothes the stinging just as quickly, dragging his tongue over the smarting to ease it with the chilled temperature of his spit. 

"Remmick." It's something akin to a reprimanding hiss and a needy whine. 

You hate how familiar that sensation is. The feeling of having the rug pulled out from beneath your feet, the promise of bliss being snatched out from your hands before you could bask in the brunt of it. You've been here a million times, worked up to ecstasy, tasted it on your tongue only to have it extinguished, lost on talentless fingers - by a husband that doesn't even know how to use his cock properly. Not for you, at least.  

You could sob or curse from the frustration of it. Your fingers flex with the temptation to shove him back right where you want him, but he hushes you again, head shaking just the slightest, holding your vexed stare with his pleased one while he leans down, placing a kiss just above your clit. His hands travel down as a pair, one on either side of you, drifting down to cradle the swell of your ass, holding you in place while he slips his thumbs along your cunt. 

You can't help the way you twist on the seat, instinct and worry spiking in you from the proximity of his talons held so close to the most intimate part of you. He silences your concern with a coo before you can even voice them, that patronizing sound that unfortunately works on you. Your muscles go lax, turning malleable as he spreads you open further with his thumbs, splaying you open in a pornographic display. 

You feel the old bruises there too. Still fading, reminders of Colin's last punishment, only just beginning to fade. It makes you nervous, disgust and hesitation bubbling in your gut, but Remmick doesn't allow you to ruminate on it. That new, strange connection between you hums, coming alive with a delicate caress, and that sliver of trepidation vanishes as though it had never existed at all.

"I got you," he murmurs gently. 

You can feel Remmick's devotion and lust trickle through you as if it were your own, burning and lecherous, gentle and worshipful, smoldering inside of your bones - in his. It's beautiful. It's horrible. 

"Don't worry. If I tease you, it's on purpose." At first you assume it's just arrogance, a man's confidence, but your dying mind gradually connects the dots. The realization that he's seen your memories - lived through them - catches up to you, and you see the comment for what it is. A subtle dig at your husband. A crass insult aimed at Colin's struggles with bringing you to orgasm. 

"You ain't gotta worry about your pleasure with me baby." 

That's all he says - his reassurance - before he starts right back where he left off, mouth fastening over your cunt, tongue licking over you in a persistent pattern that has stars and galaxies diffusing and streaking across your vision. It's as though he's never stopped. You're right back at the point that he had you off in, already burning, body on fire as though you've been doused in syrupy warmth, honey left to heat on a stove. 

He seems to double his efforts, going at it like he has a point to prove, and you're already splitting at the seams. You're wanton, coming undone, nerves lighting up to set you on fire. Pressure builds in your gut and your muscles drawn up tight, body winding up in anticipation while bliss and sugar washes over your palate. It's a euphoria that going to be crippling, winding back a loop, constantly recycled between the connection that's still tethering and strengthening between you and Remmick. 

You can feel him, and he can feel you, and it's overwhelming. An entire ocean dumped upon your head, a current pulling you under to pour inside of your lungs, suffocating you. Choking you on until you taste it. 

Suddenly it's on you. Too quick for you to anticipate. Cresting, churning, building, lightning beneath your skin. 

"Remmick -" You try to warn him, a plead for him not to stop, for him not to ruin the high blazing over you, but all you manage is a pathetic moan, forced out on a gasp. 

He must understand you, must feel your need, hear your thoughts in his head, because he doesn't change his pace, doesn't alter the lap of his tongue or the brush of his lips. He keeps it steady, persistent in the cadence he's built. He guides you through it, holding onto you with his hands beneath your ass, keeping you secure to his mouth, chasing after the desperate roll of your hips as you cling to and seek out the rapture of it all. 

The brunt of it rips through you, tears you open from the inside out. Guts you with pleasure until it's all that remains inside, molten, simmering, consuming you with ecstasy that blurs across your vision and blinds you; darkness and constellations rupturing in a kaleidoscope. 

The only thing to guide you through it is the press of his head beneath your hands, the grip of your fingers on his hair, clinging on to the damp tresses as though the hold might save you; the sound of his panting rising up alongside yours is just as wrecked, just as wild. All of it rings across that strange bond connected between you, singing and echoing between your minds or souls, or both, you aren't sure, but it feels infinite. Webbing, uniting, fusing, over and over and over until it seems eternal. 

He hasn't stopped, you realize. Hasn't let up, hasn't allowed the pleasure to crest over you and ebb. It as though he's determined to remain this way forever, keeping you beneath his mouth, tormented and loved by it. 

You didn't realize that your eyes had closed until you're willing them open. A simple action that takes more effort than it should, but the blood loss and the venom is doing its work, and the warmth soaking in your limbs, settled in by the blaze of your orgasm has all but sapped you of the fumes of energy you had left. Renders you all but limp and useless, unable to do anything else but watch as Remmick continues to subject you to more, gliding his tongue over you, grinding his nose on your clit. 

He looks just as blissed out as you must, eyes glazed over and drunk, hair mussed from your hands. Far too intoxicated for a man who's only been eating you out. But then you notice it, the frantic but subtle jerk of his hips, grinding into a friction that isn't there, riding out a pleasure that he shouldn't feel. It dawns on you suddenly, the severity of the connection between the two of you. 

He must have felt when you had cum. Felt it as his own, scalding and vicious beneath his skin, and his own body had reached its peak that same moment yours did. And now he's greedy, desperate like a mutt. An animal that's been spoiled, fed a proper meal and now it's ravenous. Insatiable and starved. 

He doesn't stop. He keeps his hands on you, secures you underneath his mouth and doesn't cease or pause in feasting. He must realize you're watching, feel you staring down at him through the bond maybe, because his lashes flutter open, vision lazily flickering up to take you in as you stare at him in shock. 

"Can't blame a man for gettin' off when you taste so good." He answers, voice slurred and smoky, drugged on you. "You're just too sweet." 

Everything fringes on too much, but he keeps going, pushing you to your limits. You're left to endure all of the sensations, sight, sound, the feel of him on you, inside of you. It seems impossible to recall how many times he built you back up that debilitating elation, hellfire and indulgence. Bringing the both of you to orgasm over and over again - twice more, three times, four - you aren't certain. 

They all merge into the other, pouring and intersecting, crisscrossing into an infinite torture, consumed constantly, expanding into something that the earthly flesh isn't meant to experience. 

You only know when it finally stops. A reprieve. A gasp for air after being held underwater. The kisses he peppers across your thighs bring you back to reality, escorting you down into your body, slipping you within the place of your weary bones and sweat-slick skin. Your chest heaves, lungs making an effort to cling onto oxygen, thighs quivering with the exhaustion of someone who's ran miles. 

You can feel it, really feel it now, the influence of death slipping over you, a chill on your skin that prevails in the sticky heat clinging to the air. It isn't far off in its lurking anymore, it's imminent. A hitch in your breath, a delay in your lungs. The terror that awakens within you is a primal thing, frenzied, a determination to live, unfortunately that resolve sits host inside a body that's half dead. One foot already out the door, standing on the other side. 

You could sob, cry out from the hopelessness of it, but you can't manage a sound. Not with how weak you've grown, heart overexerted, growing lethargic inside of your chest with only pitiful drops of blood left to pump. You've been bled out, and the one responsible for the bleeding caresses you like you're breakable. 

"Don't fight it now," he soothes or warns. Still knelt between your legs. He cups them both, removing them from their places balanced on his shoulders, settling them down until the soles of your feet settle back on the floor. Moving you tenderly, like one would something cherished. His eyes glitter still, red hued, stunning and hideous in the dark. "You're gonna feel so much better when you wake up. It's all gonna be so much better, you'll see. For all of us." 

He grins up at you, still kneeling, but there isn't an ounce of control in your grasp. The bond you have already sings, twines across your psyche, joins you to him, but you know that it's yet to take full effect. You aren't dead yet, and once you are there will be no escape for you then. You'll be a part of him fully, as attached as any other limb, a unit in separate bodies; sewn to him by fragments of your spirit, threads from your blood. 

Death is inevitable in two ways now: death of the body and of your soul. A wish you've always made, sent out to the universe and now it's answered the call. Delivered a creature to your doorstep and now he waits at your feet, carefully fixing your skirt back down around your knees, as considerate as any lover should be, but his eyes show the truth. A truth that you had been too stupid to see. 

When you slip off into the threads of death, as welcoming and soft as a blanket, you drift off with a life that doesn't belong to you playing across your vision. Facsimiles of a land and a time you've never witnessed before. Faces, voices, horrors and cruelties; old memories, unwelcome and unfamiliar, take root as though they're yours, clicking into place right alongside images of your own life like they'd always existed there. 

A cuckoo's egg in a blue jay's nest. 

And it's with your heartbeat dying in your ears, inspiring a final flicker of consciousness, a weak death rattle of the mind that you think of regret. The regret of opening the door when that knock had sounded from the other side. 

You see his eyes burning in front of you through the film tainting your vision, the same color of the blood on his lips - your blood - perched at your feet, as loyal as a guardian angel; a scavenger waiting for a weakened animal to finally collapse beneath its own weight so that it can feast on the remains. 

It all begins to vignette, shadows elongating, crowding around you, desperate for flesh. 

Those eyes are the final thing you see. Burning, horrid coins, unwavering in their observation of your trip to the other side. Pretty, otherworldly, grotesque. 

You never should have answered the door. 

[sixeyesonathiel]

what happens when an overworked magical girl from another anime franchise crashes into satoru gojo’s world?

a/n : consider this as a pilot or something so pleeeasee do tell if y’all see the vision hehe. i might write this either as oneshot or series, crack treated seriously, fluff and fix it :3 this is pre-hidden inventory arc.

the sky tears.

satoru doesn’t notice it at first. he’s too busy kicking the hell out of a training dummy, sweat clinging to the back of his neck as the sun swelters high above jujutsu tech’s back field. his shirt clings damply to his back, white hair tousled and sticking to his forehead in unruly, sweat-drenched clumps. every kick sends a dull echo through the otherwise quiet yard, and his brows are furrowed, teeth gritted—not out of effort, but boredom.

it’s supposed to be a solo mission—a recon exercise, or so yaga said, but more like a punishment for cutting class again. the kind that comes with no supervision, no curse threats, just him, a dummy, and the blistering heat. satoru checks his watch for the fifth time in ten minutes. detention by any other name would still be just as tedious.

then the air goes still.

the cicadas stop screaming. the clouds part with unnatural precision, like curtains pulled by unseen hands. the temperature spikes—no, drops—and something surges through the atmosphere with a pulse so loud it rattles his bones. his body stiffens, spine prickling with instinct. midnight blue eyes narrow behind tinted lenses, sensing the shift in reality before his other senses can process it.

and then you crash into the earth.

not fall. not descend. crash. like a meteor. like a magical girl-shaped missile. light explodes in a pastel burst of ribbons, iridescent butterflies, and shattering sakura petals. the air rings with the high-pitched chime of otherworldly bells, the tinkle of crystal stars, and the unmistakable sugary pop of transformation magic gone sideways. the ground trembles beneath it.

the training field goes silent except for the sound of scorched grass and the faint, whimsical hum of residual transformation magic. a stray butterfly, translucent and shimmering with cosmic dust, flutters past satoru’s ear before dissolving into sparkles.

satoru blinks behind his sunglasses, now slightly askew on his nose. he adjusts them with a slow push of his index finger, head tilting, brows raised beneath snowy bangs that flutter faintly in the shifting breeze.

“…huh.”

in the crater, you groan.

you’re face-down in a shallow pit, skirt ruffled, hair scorched at the ends, and your transformation outfit—sky-pink bodice with cream lace trim, crystalline brooch shaped like a winking star, thigh-high boots with wing-shaped heels that somehow remain pristinely white despite your crash landing—is smoking gently at the edges. your star-shaped wand lies beside you like a fallen weapon of cosmic justice, occasionally sputtering pathetic little sparks as if trying to reboot itself.

above your head, a tiny, winged creature that looks like a deranged mix between a rabbit and a plushie on its fifth espresso flutters in frantic circles, trailing stardust and anxiety in equal measure.

“you’ve breached the astral veil! the interdimensional tether’s fried! we overshot by three star realms!” it shrieks, voice unnaturally high, paws clutching at its fuzzy cheeks in distress. “this is NOT how galactic school exchanges are supposed to go! we’re so off-schedule! the stellar alignment council is going to have my tail!”

satoru approaches cautiously, one hand in his pocket, the other hovering near his weapon just in case. his steps are deliberate, almost lazy, yet somehow soundless. the breeze tugs lightly at the hem of his uniform jacket, ruffling his collar and loosening the tension in his shoulders. cursed energy flows through him, ready but controlled, his limitless technique humming just beneath his skin.

“uh,” he says, peering over the crater’s edge. “you okay down there?”

“no,” you groan, rolling onto your back. your eyes are half-lidded, voice hoarse, lashes clumped with ash and what might be leftover mascara from yesterday. there are dark circles under your eyes that no amount of magical transformation can hide. “i have two essays due, i haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, i still have cram school, i fought six darklings at dawn, had to seal a nightmare portal during lunch break, my transformation pen is running on fumes, and now i’ve apparently crash-landed in a world with no ley lines.”

you pause.

“…and mipple won’t shut up.”

“you ripped a hole in space,” mipple screeches, buzzing frantically around your head, leaving a trail of panicked sparkles. “this is not sustainable hero behavior! you need rest! regulation mana! a snack! the magical girl handbook specifically states that cosmic defenders should maintain a balanced sleep schedule and nutrient intake! page forty-seven, paragraph three!”

satoru blinks, slowly crouching beside the crater. his weight settles on the balls of his feet, elbows resting loosely on his knees. his expression is unreadable behind the glare of his glasses, but there’s a hint of genuine curiosity in the tilt of his head. “you’re not from around here, huh.”

“gee, what gave it away?” you mutter, dragging your gloved hand down your face. a heart-shaped gem on your glove catches the light, flickering weakly. “was it the interdimensional wormhole or the talking plushie?”

satoru grins. his teeth flash white in the sun, a hint of mischief curling at the edge of his lips. “the sparkles.”

mipple flits a fast, nervous circle around him, sniffing the cursed energy. its tiny nose twitches, ears flattening against its head. “her readings are flat. nothing’s reacting. it’s like this whole place runs on… rot.” mipple’s eyes widen to comical proportions. “this isn’t a darkness realm, is it? please tell me we haven’t crashed into a darkness realm. the paperwork for that is a nightmare.”

“charming,” you deadpan.

“you’re leaking glitter,” satoru says helpfully, pointing to the trail of iridescent dust that seems to be following your every movement like dejected confetti.

you sit up with a scowl, brushing at your skirt with short, angry movements. flecks of glitter and ash catch the sunlight, making you shimmer like a very irate disco ball. the ribbon in your hair droops sadly to one side, and your magical girl tiara is slightly crooked. “great. fantastic. this is exactly what i needed today. another crisis. do you people have dimensional transit hubs or are you still in the dirt age?”

“dirt age?”

“never mind,” you sigh, pushing back a strand of hair that falls immediately back into your face. “point me to your nearest leyline stabilizer and maybe i can reverse the jump. preferably before i miss another math test. i’m barely passing as it is.”

“uh,” satoru squints, pushing his glasses higher with a knuckle, fingers smudged with sweat and dust. “we’ve got vending machines? and i think i saw a fortune teller at the corner store once.” he pauses, then adds with complete seriousness, “the milk bread is pretty good.”

mipple facepalms in mid-air with an audible poof, leaving a tiny puff of glitter.

“okay,” you say, standing slowly, wobbling. your knees wobble like a newborn deer’s. “okay. it’s fine. i just need a second. maybe ten. maybe an hour. or a nap. or the sweet release of death. or caffeine. ideally all of the above.”

you stumble.

there’s a flicker of light. your form glitches slightly—one ribbon vanishing, then another, your skirt shortening then lengthening, your magical aura flickering like a dying lightbulb—and with a tired sigh and the sad deflating sound of a party balloon, your transformation dissolves into a shimmer of pale light. your star-shaped wand vanishes with a chime, and the magical embellishments melt away like soap bubbles.

you’re left in a rumpled high school uniform: blazer, skirt, tie askew, one sock missing, the other scrunched around your ankle. your hair’s a mess, sticking to your cheeks. your face is streaked with dirt and interstellar ash. your school bag materializes with a sad plop beside you, spilling out a half-finished homework assignment, three empty energy drink cans, and what appears to be emergency chocolate.

satoru catches your elbow without thinking, touch light and instinctive. “whoa there, sparkles.”

you slap his hand away with the strength of a very tired moth batting at a streetlamp. “don’t touch me, i’m radioactive with stress. also, i shock people sometimes when i’m low on magic. it’s not pretty.”

he snorts—then, belatedly, catches a proper glimpse of your face.

he goes still.

there’s ash in your lashes, a scratch on your cheek, and you look like you’ve clawed your way out of a magical apocalypse—your hair is a mess, your uniform is wrinkled in ways that defy physics, and there’s a sparkly band-aid on your knee with little moons on it—but still, for some reason, all he can think is: she’s pretty.

heat prickles across his ears. he shoves his sunglasses back up his nose, suddenly very interested in a patch of grass beside his foot. he scratches the back of his neck, pretending to study a dandelion like it’s the most complex thing he’s ever seen. like he hasn’t faced down curses ten times more dangerous than a tired high school girl who occasionally sparkles.

and for a second, everything’s quiet again. awkward. your breathing slows, the wind picks up. somewhere, a cicada remembers how to scream.

“listen,” he says, voice a little lower, a little softer. “this isn’t a leyline whatever, but we’ve got a place to crash nearby. and sugar. and air conditioning. i mean, if you don’t mind hanging out with some weirdos.” he gestures vaguely in the direction of the school building. “though, from what i’m seeing, you’d probably fit right in.”

you glare at him, narrowing your eyes like you’re trying to set him on fire with sheer willpower. you cross your arms, wobble slightly, then uncross them when you realize it’s taking too much energy to maintain the posture. mipple lands on your shoulder, tiny paws patting at your cheek in a comforting gesture.

“mipple,” you say slowly. “scan him for monster corruption.”

“he’s clean,” mipple says, whiskers twitching as it sniffs the air around satoru. “just stupid. and full of something weird. but not evil-weird. more like… chaos-weird.” it pauses, then adds helpfully, “he smells like blue raspberry slushies and bad decisions.”

“fine,” you grumble, bending down to stuff your homework back into your bag. “lead the way, mister. but if you try anything funny, i still have enough magic to turn you into something small and amphibious.”

satoru flashes a grin that tugs crooked at the corner, brushing a hand through his damp hair. it fluffs back into place, soft and silver, catching the sun in a halo-bright sheen. “that’s what i thought.”

the glitter trails behind you as you limp off the field, exhausted, annoyed, and absolutely, cosmically done with today. a butterfly manifestation charm falls from your pocket, too depleted to even flutter. your magical girl compact beeps once, twice, then falls silent, the battery icon blinking sadly in the corner.

satoru watches you from the corner of his eye, still grinning, a faint pink on his cheeks. his hand drifts briefly to the spot where your elbow had been, fingers curling slightly. the residual warmth lingers, along with the faintest trace of stardust.

he’s never met anyone like you before.

and watching you now—dragging your feet but still holding your head high—he knows he never will again. behind him, the training dummy collapses with a defeated thud, like even it can’t keep up with the kind of day you’re having.

you don’t notice.

you’re already walking off, one hand adjusting your sleeve like you didn’t just nearly destroy the field. it’s the kind of tired that comes from trying too hard, too often. but you carry it like it’s nothing.

satoru watches you go, something warm and strange curling in his chest.

yeah.

he’s definitely in trouble.

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 5 — APHRODISIACS

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — gepard, luocha, jiaoqiu

— warnings. — fem! reader, aphrodisiacs, dub con, established relationship -> the both of you decide to take them before bed, petnames used: love, baby, sweetheart

⚝ — GEPARD

gepard sat beside you, his armor long since discarded and positioned on the floor, leaving him in a simple, white shirt that clung to his broad frame— yes, nothing happened yet, however, his cheeks were already flushed from the heat of the room, more or less because of you— or perhaps something else called excitement.

"you’re sure about this?" he looked at you, his entire attention drawn to your lips as his usual command softened by the intimacy of the moment and your body unbearably close to him.

you take his hand and nod, holding up the small bottle of aphrodisiacs you both had decided to take together, "only if you are," there wasn't necessarily a reason as to why you wanted to do this, if anything, the eagerness of what the thick liquid could bring forth was exhilarating.

with a soft sigh, you took the dose, first gepard and then you.

the effect was immediate, deeply engulfing your nervous system like a black hole swallowing you on instant, wrecking havoc— with heat, scorching hot sparks, spreading from your core outward, leaving you breathless.

you’re beginning to feel faint throbs settle under your skin and there's an unknown tingling that quells at the base of your spine— you begin to slightly panic, yet gepard took it upon himself to lead the both of you as he laid down next to you, his rough palms skimming up your hips, squeezing at the skin— strong, defined arms wrapped around you until your back was pressed tight against him.

his growing bulge nudges against your naked folds, but it only choses to make your want for your boyfriend burn hotter as he inserts himself slowly, you walls squeezing at the thick muscle when he gasps out, whimpering when he rests his heavy palm on your hip so he can feel the fever from your boiling skin.

this position was not only his favorite, but in this scenario it felt the absolute safest— you trusted gepard the most, knew he would put everything into consideration for it to feel good for you.

"i've never wanted anything so badly," you whine, breathing ragged as you begin to grind back at him. he slides his fingers towards your clit before spreading your liquids lewdly as everything around you turned dangerously intoxicating, dazed and like you lost absolute control of your cunt moulding and pushing him farther in.

gepard’s eyes darkened as he leaned into your shoulder and smirks, then grunts when your pussy milked him fiercely, forcing you to feel every little detail of his cock, heavy throbs, his thick load already splattering inside your thrumming spots, "i didn’t expect it to feel like this…"

he adds, "this ugh, good, fuck," the sensation was overwhelming, the world outside fading away as his hands roamed over your skin, each touch igniting something deeper— you feel dazed, yes, your movements lead by the purity of desire as his first actual, rough thrust of hips rewired the entirety of your brain, your lips parting to moan as your fingers twist into the pillows below you.

⚝ — LUOCHA

you felt electric, a quiet tension lingering between you as you messily made out with luocha, tongue's colliding as his golden eyes glimmer with intrigue, his usual mysterious demeanor giving a clear path-way to something more primal, more otherworldly.

it's been a couple of minutes after you've taken the aphrodisiac and fuck— it's surely working, you're sweating all over, hair a mess, your nipples erected and swollen— not only that but the way luocha dragged his cock out of you was slow, teasing, wet after he's given you a couple seconds to get used to the thickness of him, which only felt much bulgier due to the aphrodisiac doing its magic.

you cry out his name, your skin shaking and pussy so desperately in need to be touched more at the constant draw backs of his hips rocking you apart, like each thrust of his dripping dick lasted forever and ever, your cunt clasping around and making you melt into his flesh with every raw drag.

his hands were on your waist, your legs on his shoulders, and well, luocha wasn't cruel— no, but those positions felt the best, you were the tightest when he squeezed you together like a cute, little toy, finding you absolutely ravishing with your spasming cunt holding him in.

"my love, you look… breathtaking, like this," there's a carnal hint in his tone as he grunts, his voice rough and blurry, "so fucking tight, hah, i can barely move."

⚝ — JIAOQIU

"it seems the effect is… potent," jiaoqiu laughs into your skin, cheeks pinched up with champagne pink and his lips brushed against your neck with you slowly wrapping your palm around his length, stroking him, pressing him tight against your slick folds with every wet connection of his shaft.

the man jolts when you're teasing him with your entrance, he trembles when he curls over you deeper— his heavy weight automatically pressing his cock against your hole as he laps along your throat towards your jaw, "t-that feels nice, so much more intense," jiaoqiu pants, his fingers twitching in the flesh of your body.

his name fell from your lips like a plea, and his response was immediate— his grip tightening, it's just a little motion, yes, back and forth, back and forth, only inserting his tip and pulling out, not even anywhere near the good parts if it wasn't for the aphrodisiac,

it's nice, wet, and your pussy quivers as if he's already all the way in.

"i want you, baby, now," you babble against his lips, the repeated touch of his cock making goosebumps appear along the slopes of your body as you sigh out his name again, "you have me, sweetheart, you have me right there,"

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

𝐒𝐎 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘, 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐖・h.j.

🎸 — you don't think jisung cares about you enough to tell your fans you're dating, fucking. he proves you wrong when he pulls you in on stage, and kisses you in front of everyone.

♟️ — paring・hanji x reader // genres・suggestive, band members with benefits, han writing hold my hand for the reader // words・1.5k // warnings・illusions to sex, kissing on stage, cursing and general crude language, han is kind of an asshole in the beginning, but he makes up for it, kinda silly kinda sexy, a little bit of my weird awkward writing style.

a/n・ ngl it was kinda crazy rewriting this. i wrote this near the very, very beginning of my old blog and i found it rotting in my drafts bc i never got to re-upload it...then i re-read it and remembered why... (why did i never use proper punctuation holy shit) but yeah i had fun writing them on stage ngl also what do we think of the new layout/theme?? (guys im still @lixies-favorite-cookie :))

"So you're okay with fucking me before the show, but telling people we're together—that's where you draw the line?" you spit, narrowing your eyes at a frustrated Han, stress-sweating as he wrestles with his guitar strap, huffing when it gets caught on a tuft of his hair.

He's flustered, cheeks flushed and red as he cards his fingers through his hair, untangling the rogue strand from the slider. It's a Han Jisung staple: rushing right before a performance because, before he can actually get ready, he has to hear the setlist 143 times, chat with the sound tech about his new gaming system, and—his personal favorite—drag you into the bathroom to screw the daylights out of you.

He calls it: jisung's good luck fuck™

You haven't decided if you love it or hate it.

He huffs, giving you an agitated look, "We really don't have time for this, the show starts in 5 minutes." He continues tuning his guitar, testing a few strings.

"You seemed to have plenty of time when your dick was inside of me!"

He buffers, his ears flushing red as he fumbles a loud, off-tune string.

The crew freezes.

"Jesus, just put your damn bass on, y/n." He mutters, his entire face painted dark red.

You clench your jaw, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes. The crowd roars from behind the velvet curtain, anticipating, your now, very soon arrival. He's right, you do need to get ready. Though, that knowledge doesn't make the crack inside your ribs any less painful.

It was futile arguing with him—if he wanted to, he would.

There's no wound getting on stage couldn't fix.

It's already an hour into the concert and the adrenaline still hasn't worn off, thrumming hot through your veins. Han's guitar explodes, threading its way into your last string fluidly. You whisper into the mic, your voice low and seductive, rolling over his riff like whiskey and wine.

The crowd goes wild, stomping so loud it makes the platform shake. Han eats it up, running across the stage and high-fiving a throng of women right before the final riff.

You finish the song with a dark, crisp chord that vibrates through the stadium with a bitter hiss. You're both gasping into the mics when everything's said and done, exchanging exhausted looks. You look over, watching as sweat drips down his forehead, making his hair stick to the back of his neck. The same thing is happening to you.

It's scorching up here, but it's worth it.

Han pants, scrunching his brows as the camera zooms in, tearing his IEM's out. You're both smiling, wobbly and slightly off center, but smiling nonetheless.

Then, he looks at you.

He's looking at you like he's plotting something, like he's in love with you, and like he's about to do something monumentally stupid all at the same time.

Whatever he was thinking, you were down.

Suddenly, the next song erupts from the speakers and he turns to you with a smile.

Han wrote the lyrics to this song after, finally, putting a label on the whole bandmates-with-benefits thing you two had going on.

It was three in the morning when you found him slumped over the bathroom sink, steam slipping out of the glass shower panels. He was butt-naked, a white towel slung over his neck, catching beads of water trickling from his wet hair. It was clear that he was troubled, a tight knit forming on his eyebrows as he stared at the single sentence written on his notebook.

First, you laughed at him for not putting clothes on before grabbing his notebook. Then, you spent the next three hours working him through his writer's block.

It was then, with your hair disheveled and mascara smudged underneath your eyes, he realized he was completely, irrevocably in love with you.

And in a typical Han Jisung fashion, he wrote a song about it

And, also, in typical Han Jisung fashion, he hid that song and his stupid feelings away from you, until, well, now.

You give him a 'what the fuck are you doing?' look before, just like he practiced, he slides towards you, plucking the first dramatic chord. You anxiously flick your eyes over his face, then the crowd, then back to him again.

"Numerous trials and errors and fights,"

A thousand eyes are watching him, and yet, he's only worried about yours. You stand there, looking both very awkward and very pissed, not knowing what to do with the bass hanging off your shoulder. He just smiles.

"Every time I see you cry

I feel like drowning in the dark

You said it's fine, but no, I'm not 'Cause all I want is you, not your tears

눈물이 마를 때까지

I wanna make you the happiest one, no fear"

His gaze never falters as he takes the final step forward, dropping his guitar and pushing away his mic. You were a mess—hair caked to your forehead by sweat, eyeliner streaming down your face from your tears, but, to him, you were as beautiful as you have always been.

It was just you and him in that stadium, when he cups your cheeks, and whispers—

"So baby, hold my hand now"

Then, he kisses you. He kisses you so hard, with so much passion it makes your knees go weak, melting into his arms. Confetti cannons explode around you.

There was no mistaking who he belonged to now.

When he pulls away, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are swollen and he just can't keep his shit-eating grin off his face. Tiny, colorful paper flutters around you, falling onto his shoulders and in his hair. It was magical, all of it was utterly magical.

It takes you a solid fifteen seconds to realize that there are other people in the room.

Forty four thousand to be exact.

He turns to the crowd, throwing his hands up into the air and finishing the song like nothing happened.

Han has been studying music for about as long as he has been alive, and in all of his 24 years of living, he has figured out three things.

One, music was the language of the heart. Two, music can only be created through passion. And three, his heart never stayed silent when he was with you.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can I request reader giving The Void lots of kisses when he appears? Doesn’t have to be something super long, I just want to give the big scary man kisses )):

'pretty, pretty boy.' You whispered as you craddled Void's face in your hands and kiss where you assumed his cheeks were in abundance, free of fear of his power, only ever feeling protected and safe as his large hands rested upon your waist and tugging you closer to him. Void laughs as he felt your kisses scattered wherever they could, cover as much as they could before your fellow teammates come back from their mission.

'You're the only one who can call me such things and walk away unscathed.' He tells you lightheartedly as he felt you pull away much to his dismay, choosing to look into his pinprick eyes that you had often told him which looked like a pair of lonely stars, he called you a hopeless romantic for that comment alone but yet his actions in the past have shown that he was equally taken with you as you were with him.

'maybe becuase deep dpwn you're a secrete softy,' you kissed what you hoped was his forhead, it was hard sometimes to know what you were kissing when Void was pretty much a living shadow of Bob, you remembered the times where you thought you had kissed his cheek, only for it to be his jaw or nose. So after a while of planting millions of kisses upon the entities face, you have grown confident in knowning what your lips were pressing against.

Void hums as he took the time to look at you as he thouroughly enjoying this rare moment between the two of you, knowing that spending quality time together was difficult enough when your teammates also lived within the Watchtower, going on missions and so when you did finally have the time to share that was longer then five minutes were treated with such privilage and honour as though you both were expecting it to be ruined. 'That's one way to call a man who's willing to scorch everything for you my little bird.' Void replied playfully as his pinprick eyes seemed to shine a little brighter.

you gave him an unimpressed look. 'i thought we put a stop to you wanting to destory everything that hurts me?' you tell him, your hands now running through his hair and toying with the ends as his thumbs drew patterns into your waist, squeezing possesively as though he was being remebered that you could possibly be taken away from him sooner or later; which was not an outcome he favoured becoming reality.

Voids shruggs innocently, bringing you in closer to him until your hands were pressed to his chest to stabelise yourself on your lap. 'for you i'd be more concerned that there aren't many others who wouldn't do the exact same thing and be punished for less.' you kissed his lip once, twice, three times as you lingered there as long as you possibly could becuase this entity manage to draw alot of feelings out of you, feelings that have becoming addicting each time you manage to steal time with him under the pretense that you'll be caught.

'Sappy Void.' you teased as you stole your fourth kiss that day but before you could pull away fully, Void raised a hand behind your head and kept you in close proximity to his lips as he stole a few kisses from your lips himself, sighing in content as he stole a few more after those each one lingering longer then the previous ones. 'Very sappy and affectionate Void.' You added as Void only tightned his grip on you, nipping at your bottom lip on occasions and tugging before allowing you to pull away, his thumb massaging the back of your neck.

'you done?' Void asked but you couldn't help but laugh as you rest your head against his shoulder, cuddiling up to him eagerly, inable to wipe the smile from your face.

'never.' you responded as you kiss his jaw.

Void rests his head atop of your own, sighing as he felt himself at peace. 'i didn't expect that you would little bird.' he murmurs softly, just enjoying the time he was given with you, no matter how small it maybe it was worth every second.

[seokgyuu]

The Sweetest Thing

All your life you’ve been your sisters’ punching bag. Never good enough. Never fully accepted. When your mother makes one of them choose you as her maid of honor you reluctantly agree. Semi-vacationing in Tuscany with your ‘beloved’ family, you meet two handsome strangers one night and let them do whatever they want with you. Too bad you didn’t ask for their names first.

Pairing: Heeseung x F!Reader x Sunghoon 

Genre: Strangers to ???, Porn with Plot

Warnings: CHEATING!!! reader is hooking up with her sisters’ fiancés, sisters are horrible and suck, mentions of past verbal abuse, reader is somewhat a pervert (she defo is), heeseung & sunghoon definitely are perverts, heeseung & sunghoon are mean, they have nothing good to say about their fiancés, alcohol consumption, adult content MDNI! smut warnings under the cut

Word Count: 9.2k 

a/n: and here it is!! my little box of filth. i wanna give a shoutout to @c-oupsie for hyping this up and telling me to keep going, ilysm!! and also @chwepen for beta-reading!! sending you smooches. <3 now everyone, please enjoy this sausage fest.

Taglist: @skzenhalove, @haelahoops, @deobitifull, @shiningnono, @jakeswifez, @slut4hee, @gyuhanniescarat, @branchrkive, @doublebunv, @capri-cuntz, @jaehyuniewifeu, @whateverhoon, @c-oupsie

Smut Warnings: threesome, dom!heeseung, dom!sunghoon, sub!reader, lowkey public sex, p in v sex, throat fucking, unprotected sex (be smarter than this pls!!!), degradation (usage of the words: whore, slut, filthy, stupid (only indirectly?)), praise, tit job, mc is described to have big tits, sunghoon can carry mc, manhandling, cum eating, cum play, shower sex, consensual sex taping, pls tell me if i missed any!!

Pastel colors are slowly but surely becoming your greatest enemy. You can’t count how many different patterns and matches you have seen on this day alone - and the preparations for this wedding have been going on for months. 

In all honesty, you didn’t even want to be here. As pretty as Tuscany is - this is the last place you want to be at right now. You would rather sit at home and play a game, would rather sleep in and not have your mother be all over you, pressuring you to do better in a job you never wanted in the first place. 

It is your sisters’ wedding. Yes, sisters’. They are both getting married at the same time, same place. Just the grooms are two different men (even though you wouldn’t put it past them to share a man for convenience). Men, you haven’t even met yet. Men, that your mother and sisters kept on swooning over. Look, it is no surprise your sisters got lucky in that department; They are extremely conventionally attractive and they love doing fun things like going out and spending money on things they really didn’t need. 

You grew up with them being six and seven years older than you, making them already inseparable when your mum decided to push another one out. Getting along with them sure as hell wasn’t an easy task, in fact it still isn't. It’s pretty clear you only got the job as Linda’s maid of honor because your mother threatened her to do so. There was probably a very heated rock, paper, scissors round going on between your sister dearests to decide who got to have you. 

And now you are here. In warm, beautiful Italy with yet another color scheme to look over and authorize. You surely didn’t sign up to suddenly become the wedding planner as well. 

“Yeah, that’s perfect, thanks,” you say to one of the florists who are just now setting up the arrangements for the rehearsal dinner happening tonight. 

It’s hot, so hot that you have to take shelter every ten minutes because of the fear of burning up. You don’t usually like to spend this much time outside - let alone in the scorching hot sun, so this is rather the change for you. 

When the florists leave to get another load of flowers, you decide to take this as the next round of shade and air conditioning inside the resort your sisters have chosen for their special day. 

It’s insanely beautiful. High ceilings, incredible murals on the wall, a big round table in the center of the entrance hall with a crystal vase on top, filled with flowers that would make the florist outside turn green in envy. 

The air inside immediately cools you down and you take the moment to sit down in one of the arm chairs in the lobby to calm yourself. Only a week. That’s all you need to survive. A week with your sisters and their fiancés, soon to be husbands and your and their families. Guests would arrive the night before the wedding and as soon as the reception was over - you could finally leave and hopefully not see your sisters for another year or so. 

“Ah, there you are.” You close your eyes for a second. 

“Shouldn’t you be outside?” Linda and Liza are standing in the lobby in their designer sun dresses, very obviously judging you for not being where they want you to be. 

“I just came in to escape the heat for a second, that’s all.” You explain as you open your eyes again. The two certainly don’t look happy. In fact, they roll their eyes and flick their perfect hair over their shoulders.

“Okay, well, time is up. If this wedding doesn’t go according to plan, it’s on you.”

“You don’t want us telling mum you don’t care about your big sisters, do you? She’d be so disappointed knowing you aren’t doing your job right.” 

Your fists almost immediately ball into fists. How many times have they been like this over the three days you’ve already been here? You honestly lost count. One week. Just one week.

“I was just about to go back outside, don’t worry.” 

Anger well hidden away, you stand up and present them with a fake smile, moving to go back outside. 

“Oh and, Y/N?” Linda’s voice feels like a ray of ice hitting you, “try to look a little bit more presentable when talking to our staff. We don’t want them to think we can’t actually afford being here.” 

Your sisters giggle happily all while you bite your tongue once more. One week. Stay calm. One. Week. 

Something about the Italian sky seems different. Maybe it’s because you’re not close to a big city, but the stars shine brighter than you’ve ever seen them. It feels like a movie; the stars and moon so visible with no cloud in sight, the small street of Arezzo you’re currently sitting in - a small restaurant with a small menu but a nice older man that speaks decent English. A glass of wine standing on the small table beside you and the first bit of peace you’ve felt in days. 

It’s when you take your next sip of wine you see them. 

Two men straight out of a magazine walking towards one of the free tables next to yours and sitting down. There is nothing you can do but stare. Both of them have dark hair, one of them a bit shorter than the other. They are dressed elegantly, designer shoes and pants, blazers hanging over their chairs. Even if you wanted to - you could not possibly say which one was more attractive. 

What a nice way to end a horrible day, you think. Smiling, you finish your glass and immediately order the next, not entirely used to drinking so much, but not caring since you are miles away from home and no one here knows you anyway. The waiter nods and then proceeds to go over to the newcomers. The one with the slightly lighter hair and the mole on his nose orders in perfect Italian, with just enough of an accent for you to know they aren’t from here. Your choice of table appears to be perfect for watching them, listening to them converse in a language you understand. 

And it all stays innocent like this - they talk about their flight and about friends - until suddenly the conversation sways.

“I honestly- fuck, I can’t believe we’re actually doing this, you know?” The one with shorter hair says and his friend sighs, taking his wine glass and finishing it in one go. Impressive. There was at least half left in yours. 

“I don’t know what to tell you. We committed and now we’re fucked.”

“Just that we aren’t getting actually fucked.”

They look at each other before they laugh, shaking their heads. Meanwhile, your ears perk up. 

“Fuck, I really don’t know the last time she let me hit it, Hoon. I think I’m going crazy.”

“Yeah, same here. Like, yeah, we fucked once the day before her flight. But literally only missionary and she didn’t suck me off.”

“Again? Dude, is she ever even putting her mouth on it?” 

“Nope. Ever since we got engaged she’s like this fucking prude. Is yours like that too?”

“Yeah. I got her flowers and her favorite chocolates and she still wouldn’t even jack me off, like fuck, if it’s gonna be like this forever I can just go cut my dick off.”

Jesus. These two seem to be in very happy relationships. Makes you almost feel better to not be in one. Even if your mother would beg to differ. She’s been desperate for you to find a match for ages. For whatever reason, really, considering her two golden girls were about to get married to rich and handsome heirs. 

“Just one good blowjob, man, that’s all I want, really. I miss getting some good fucking head.”

The way short hair looks at mole - with so much understanding and pity, you can’t help but chuckle. Chuckle loud enough for them to take notice. 

Their gazes burn on your face before you even see them. But when you do your smile dies and instead makes room for horror. They heard you laugh at them. Even worse, they know you’ve been listening. Shit. 

Thankfully, you are three glasses of delicious white wine in and the fourth one is almost empty. Which means you aren’t the sweet little wallflower you’d usually be. Scary, how alcohol can change people.

“Oh, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have eavesdropped.” You apologize, placing your hand over your heart. 

“Agreed.” Short hair says, his eyebrow raised. Now, with both of their eyes on you, it seems like they are even more attractive. Perfect faces with pretty eyes and soft looking hair. Handsome men in unhappy relationships that fail to give them what they need. It’s almost comical how the switch in your head turns over, how the persona you normally never let anyone see until you’re in a secluded space comes out and gives you the courage to speak your next words.

“I just couldn’t believe my ears,” you let your finger glide over the rim of your glass, eyes on the two men with your tongue slipping out to lick over your bottom lip, “how anyone would be opposed to having sex with you.” 

Oh.

Sunghoon and Heeseung’s ears perk up just like yours did earlier. Eyes widen slightly as they understand the innuendo in your words. 

They think about the same thing - the last time they took a girl together. Probably during senior year in college. Back then, they used to do that regularly. Having almost the identical type in women. Instead of having to let her choose, she’d get them both. 

But it’s been years since then. They are in committed relationships now, about to get married. And still - neither of them can deny that you fall right into their usual prey, or well, the prey they’d chosen back in college before their parents had picked out their wives for them. 

It’s the way you look at them, the way your eyes say so much more than your words. It is also the way both of them feel like they are 22 again with nothing but getting their dick wet on their minds. One thing about Heeseung and Sunghoon - they always worked perfectly in a pair. Back in college and now, too. They can almost read each other’s minds at this point, only a short exchange of looks needed to know neither of them gave a single fuck about anything right now.

“Want to sit down with us?” Sunghoon asks and points at the free chair opposite them. You smile. 

“It’d be my pleasure.”

The very small bathroom stall is crowded with three people, but you make it work. 

Sunghoon is holding your head in place, his cock buried so deep down your throat he’s seeing red. You’re perfect. The sweetest thing on the outside, and a filthy little whore behind closed doors. You literally begged him to thrust down your throat without paying you any mind. You wanted, no, needed him to use your throat, to act like you were nothing but his little fuck toy. And, shit, he was more than happy to do exactly as you asked. 

His hips are moving in rapid speed, his groans music to your ears. Drool is running down your chin and dripping onto your knees. He is not holding back, he is just doing whatever he wants with you and you are throbbing. Throbbing around Heeseungs fat cock that is fucking into you with no care in the world. 

Heeseung is sitting on the toilet seat, his hands on your hips, cock rapidly leaving and entering your sopping hole. His head is literally spinning at how fucking good you feel. He bets you’d also sound fucking perfect if only Sunghoon’s cock wasn’t in the way. He can tell by the way you are already squeaking around his best friend’s cock, how your pussy is continuing to spasm around him after you already came on his cock once before.

“Take it, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Heeseung breathes out, hips speeding up and your eyes roll back into your head, your body seemingly on fire. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been fucked this good by a strange or, in this case, two strangers. All you know is that you’ve already cum before and that Heeseung surely will get you over the edge another time. He’s thick and veiny and he fills you up so good there was nothing you could do but cum after only a minute of him fucking you like an animal. 

“Shit, look at you,” Sunghoon groans, one hand now wrapping around your throat, his eyes glossy as he stares down at you, still fucking down your abused throat, “you’re a perfect little fucktoy, aren’t you? Enjoy being used by two cocks, huh? Fuuuuuck, you’re gonna make me cum, fucking slut.”

Heesung feels you squeeze around his cock, feels the way you suck him in even deeper. 

“This filthy little thing likes when you talk to her like that, Hoonie. Squeezing my cock so fucking hard.” His head tips back and his mouth drops open as he focuses on his pleasure, already fantasizing about stuffing you with his cum. He moves his hands up, squeezing your perfect tits over your dress and you moan around Sunghoon’s cock, tears streaming down your face. Every touch, every thrust, every word is getting you closer to another high. With Heeseung’s hands on your breasts you can freely move your hips now, bouncing up and down on Heeseung’s cock, matching his thrusts perfectly. 

There is no chance Sunghoon will last much longer. Your mouth, your throat - he’s scared he already developed an addiction to them. Maybe it’s the long time he hasn’t experienced anything like this, but right now it feels like no throat has ever taken his cock so well before.

“Where should I cum, huh? Down your throat? On your pretty face?” Sunghoon groans, his cock twitching over and over before he finally pulls out, jerking himself off so you can answer the question. 

“Cum on her tits, look at those fucking perfect tits, bro.” Heeseung decides to answer for you and Sunghoon smirks as he watches Heeseung get your tits out of your dress for which you thankfully don’t need a bra. Your perfect tits bounce free now and Sunghoon nods, eyes glued to them and how they bounce now that Heeseung continues to fuck into you, your back now arched against him. 

“Fucking hell, such fat fucking tits,” Sunghoon is in a trance, mouth dropped as he jerks himself off with the help off your spit and his precum. 

“Tell him to cum on your tits, slut, come on, tell him how much you want his cum all over you,” Heeseung whispers into your ear, his cock still continuing to ram into your g-spot like it has never done anything else. 

You moan loudly, eyes flying open and Sunghoon almost doesn’t need you to say anything - your fucked out face could well be enough to make him cum. 

“Pl-please g-give me your cum, want it a-all over my tits, pl-please, need it so bad!” You cry out and Sunghoon feels his orgasm hit him, thick spurts of cum landing on your tits and neck, some even on your lips that you hungrily lick off of them, only making another spurt come out of Sunghoons cock. 

“Holy fucking hell, shit,” he groans, falling against the stall door, his chest heaving. 

Heeseung, meanwhile, grabs your hair and tilts your head back as he does his final thrusts, filling your pussy with his seed, white making you feel warm inside and tipping you over the edge, milking him for all he has with your own orgasm, high pitched moans escaping you as your toes curl and your hands grip the material of your dress. 

Once he’s done fucking both of you through your orgasms, Heeseung helps you up, his cock slipping out of you. You’re a little shaky on your legs and Sunghoon catches you before you can fall, his eyes immediately going to your tits that are covered in his cum. He licks his lips. 

“If we had more time I’d take you to my room and fuck those tits until they are covered in even more layers of my cum, baby.” He mumbles, one finger scooping up some of his release and shoving his finger in your mouth, watching in awe how you eagerly suck it clean. 

“Holy fuck, you’re perfect.” Heeseung has put his cock back into his pants, considering to get it back out just to have you lick it clean of your and his juices. He decides against it mainly because he knows there isn’t much time. He and Sunghoon have to get back to the hotel, their fiancés probably awaiting their return. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” Sunghoon says, but you shake your head, only putting your tits back into your dress and stepping back into your panties.

“I wanna keep it for a bit, keepsake if you will.” 

Both men are silent. Where the fuck have you been before they got engaged to the sisters from hell? For a second they contemplate just keeping you. Using you for when their soon to be wives were being difficult again. 

Obviously, though, this was just a fantasy not meant for reality. 

Perhaps it’s well deserved. Having the worst morning all week, the day right after you fucked two strangers in a restaurant’s bathroom. Two engaged strangers. It’s not a surprise that you didn’t care about the blurred lines of their… relationship status, considering you’ve had quite a few hook-ups with married men who were out of town and needed someone to fulfill their needs while their perfect trophy wives were sitting at home waiting for them. Not the proudest thing you’ve done, but whatever gets you cumming. 

Today, your sisters seem to have it out for you especially. You blame it on the nerves, after all their perfect fiancées are about to arrive today. Everything needs to be in order, their dresses, their hair, their nails, everything. 

You’ve become their personal stylist, nail artist and hairdresser all for nothing more than a chuckle at the way your shirt rises up and shows your stomach that they love to comment on. It’s a win-win situation, for sure. 

“Can’t you see you’ve made a mistake!” Liza screeches, pointing at her (to your eyes) perfectly drawn eyeliner. You blink at her and take a deep breath. Six days. 

“I apologize.” Quickly, you move to fix your error, but your sister slaps your hand away and rips the pencil out of your hand.

“No, thank you. I’ll do it myself, like everything else, you useless piece of trash.”

Six. Days. 

Since there is no point in responding to her, you only nod and turn to Linda who is currently checking herself out in her hand mirror. 

“Anything I can do for you?” You ask, feeling ridiculous. One could think you’re their personal assistant and not their younger sister. 

“Just get out, Heeseung and Sunghoon are about to arrive and I don’t want them seeing you first thing, imagine their shock.”

Heeseung and Sunghoon. 

Something rings in your head. Had they ever mentioned their fiancés names before? Probably - why else would they be so familiar to you. 

“Alright. I’ll be by the pool then.” 

Neither of them deems it appropriate to even slightly acknowledge you before you leave the room.

A huge sigh leaves you the second you step out of Linda’s room and instead head for your own. Just a quick change into a bikini and down you go. A few hours in the sun, maybe a couple laps in the pool. Another bit of peace while your sisters are occupied. Sounds like the perfect morning to you. 

Just that, when you reach your room and change into said bikini - you notice a bruise right above your hip. Your eyes widen at the sight, moving closer to the mirror to inspect it. There is no other possible reason but what happened last night. 

“Shit,” you mumble, looking around your clothes for this one light pink scarf you could easily wrap around your hips as some sort of cover. The last thing you want is for your sisters to see this and ask questions. Bad enough you had the face and figure you had - imagine their outrage if one of these was even further damaged! 

For as long as you can remember your sisters had been your biggest haters. No matter what you did, if you changed your hair or your wardrobe, they’d be mean to you about it. To them, you were nothing but an unwanted addition to a family they had deemed already perfect. Neither of them had ever wanted another sibling, especially not six and seven years apart from them. Suddenly, you were the center of attention, had your mother cradling you and loving you and not giving them the attention they were sure they deserved. 

Even now, at their grown ages, about to get married, they couldn’t seem to get over it. 

From an outsider's perspective their lives were fairly more successful than yours. With great jobs in high positions, a perfect routine that included gym visits four times a week, and of course their perfect soon-to-be husbands. If it weren’t so frustrating it might have been funny how they literally kept them from you - kept everything from you. Blocked you from their socials to not be associated with you, living in their own little bubble, acting like you didn’t exist. 

So, expect your surprise when Linda called and asked you to be her maid of honor. You had only accepted because you know your mother would be devastated if you didn’t. 

That all seems like an okay trade for the view of the hotel pool right by the beach, your body rubbed in sunscreen and your sunglasses on top of your nose listening to music and enjoying your moments without a sister (or mother) around to tell you what to do. 

But your life wouldn’t be yours if your peace weren’t suddenly interrupted by the high pitched laugh of one of your sisters floating through the air and reaching your ears. It hadn’t even been half an hour. Maybe, you think, they won’t even come over. After all, they had hidden you away from them for as long as they had been together. Perhaps they wanted to wait til the day of the wedding next week to finally introduce you. 

Curiosity gets the best of you at last. Who are these men they’ve been gatekeeping from you, who have been nothing but your mother’s pride? Slowly, you turn into the direction of the high pitched laugh, opening your eyes behind your sunglasses. 

And the world around you seems to shake. 

“No fucking way,” you breathe out, moving quickly to get up. Panic arises within you, sheer ugly panic that has your body shaking. This can’t be true. This can’t be happening! You move to throw your phone and headphones onto the lounge chair, your eyes darting back and forth between here and your sister’s location, finally freeing yourself of all the things that can’t get wet to jump into the pool. It seemed like the only way not to get noticed by them. 

There are several other people in the pool and the splash of you jumping in had been drowned out by the sound of a child laughing and screaming. You stay underwater for a good while, thanking your strong lungs, and only come back up when you feel like enough time has passed for them to have left - only to be met by absolute horror. 

They had taken seats right next to your stuff. In their bathing suits from Chanel or Prada or whatever, they looked breathtaking. Not that they would ever get into the pool. It wasn’t them, though, who made your blood turn cold and the insides of your stomach threatening to say hello again - it was their fiancés. 

Short dark hair, beautiful faces. One with a mole on his nose. The other with clear shock in his eyes. 

The men from last night. 

As if to remind you further, you feel the bruise on your hip suddenly starting to throb with pain. You wince and look down, noticing your make-shift cover up being gone. Wonderful. 

Your sisters notice you now, their eyes widening when they see you in the state you’re in. Dripping with water, your hair pushed back out of your face, your body dressed in nothing but a flimsy bikini. They had always envied you for your breasts - not that they would ever admit this. But seeing them right now made them even angrier, after  all Heeseung and Sunghoon were right here and could see those monstrosities! 

And yeah, they see. See your body in that bikini that is leaving nothing to the imagination. See your tits almost falling out of the bikini top - tits that were covered in Sunghoon's cum not even 24 hours ago. They see your pretty face, your long eyelashes, droplets of water sliding down your soft skin. 

Heeseung and Sunghoon don’t realize the gravity of the situation yet, right now all they think about is how they’ve hit the jackpot because you’re in the same hotel as them. Right now, neither of them knows who you are besides the girl they’ve fucked the night before. 

“Y/N!” Liza screeches, “get out of that pool right now, you look ridiculous!” 

Linda gets up and grabs one of the towels next to her, throwing it into the Pool. She wants you to cover up, needs you to cover up. 

It is then that Sunghoon and Heeseung slowly understand. Your name. They have heard that name before. Time and time again. 

“Mum made me pick my ugly little sister as my maid of honor, Hoonie, can you believe her?” 

“Ugh, Y/N, called today. Wanted to congratulate us. Can you believe her? I bet she is so jealous, Hee, she could never get a man to stay. She’s just… too…. ew.”

You’re their sister. Their little sister they have nothing good to say about. 

You. The girl from last night. The girl who potentially could become the best fuck of both of their lives. 

If they had been able to, they would have looked at each other. But they are too mesmerized by you getting out of the pool with the towel wrapped around your body, or at least around your upper half. They can still easily see your legs, your perfect thighs, the little bikini bottom that does almost nothing to cover up your ass, can see the bruise that is a clear indication of what happened last night. It’s safe to say they are both growing harder in their trunks. Relatively bad timing. 

“Sorry, I told you I would be at the pool,” you mumble once you get out, grabbing for your stuff.

“I don’t think so, I would have remembered that!” Liza hisses, her arm sneaking around short hair. So, he must be Heeseung. Heeseung who had his cock buried inside of you mere hours ago and whose cum was most likely still inside of you. 

“Just go back upstairs,” Linda shoos you away with her hand and you let your eyes wander to mole next to her. Sunghoon, then. Sunghoon who had been craving a mouth around his cock, Sunghoon who had his cock in your mouth, who had cum all over your exposed tits. 

Your body heats up and you quickly turn around to leave. 

“It was nice to meet you!” Sunghoon calls after you and you swallow hard, not turning back to them before you leave. 

Dinner that night is horribly awkward, to say the least. The fact you’re even allowed to participate is insane. Your parents are delighted to welcome you once you sit down, your sisters and their fiancés showing up a little while after you. 

As it turns out, the two men had insisted you’d join them for dinner. Judging by the way they look at you, you feel like they’d rather have you be their dinner. 

Nothing could have prepared you for this. For the utter want you see in their faces, the utter want you feel in your bones. It makes all of dinner extremely awkward, makes you press your thighs together, shove around your food on the plate because suddenly your appetite is for something entirely different. 

But you know you can’t. The first time, so you tell yourself, was fine because you didn’t know who they were. You even go as far as to blame your sisters for this, after all they had never bothered to show you what Heeseung and Sunghoon look like. 

Now, it’s different. Now you know who they are. And as much as you despise your sister’s, you don’t think you could do this to them. 

… Or at least that’s what you tell yourself. Because the second you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom and find yourself pressed against yet another stall door, you know you’ve been lying to yourself.

It’s Heeseung, his hands on your hips, digging into the bruise on your side, having you moan in no time.

“What are the fucking odds, hm?” He whispers, his breath hitting your face. You open your mouth to answer, but Heeseung dips forward, his tongue sliding into your open warmth, his lips pressing down on yours. It doesn’t matter what you thought of before, doesn’t matter who he is. Your body is taking over, melting against the strong man, against his chest and arms. 

Heeseung kisses you hungrily, like he has been starving for days. He had wrapped his hand around your wrist and yanked you into the one bathroom stall for men, had claimed you as his for the next few minutes.

“We-we can’t!” You cry out, pushing him away, but Heeseung only grabs you harder, turning you around, your chest hitting the door and a gasp escaping your mouth.

“If we can’t, why are you so fucking wet, baby?” His fingers are inside your cunt the next second and your eyes roll back, hips already chasing his touch. He smirks behind you, shoving your dress up with his free hand. Your backside is a sight to behold and he licks over his lips before landing a slap to your right ass cheek. You squeak. 

“I guess bathroom stalls are just our thing now, aren’t they?”

Just that this one is spacier. You’re pressed against the door that leads right into the open restaurant. You can hear the people outside, can hear the sound of cutlery meeting plates, of glasses clinking. 

“Hee-Heeseung, yo-you’re my sister’s fiancé!” You tried again, even though your hips were already bouncing on his fingers. Heeseung chuckled lowly.

“Don’t tell me now you care about the fact I’m in a relationship. It seemed like yesterday you couldn’t wait to get this taken cock shoved into your pussy.”

He’s not wrong. You bite down on your lip and turn slightly, looking over your shoulder into his dark eyes. God, he’s beautiful.

“Please,” you pout then, and his smirk comes back, his nimble fingers freeing his rock hard cock. You lean back against the door, your cheek pressed against the cold wood, your hands on either side of your head. Your pussy is dripping down his fingers and once he removes them, you’re already impatient to feel his huge cock fill you up.

Wiggling your hips, he lands another slap on your ass before shoving his cock into you, both of you groaning once he bottoms out. 

Then, he doesn’t show you any mercy. One of his hands sneaks around you, pressing down on your mouth to keep you quiet as he fucks you right into the door. He is panting, staring down at the way his cock slides in and out of you over and over again. His other hand fishes for his phone in his pocket, halting his thrusts for only a second to concentrate on opening the camera on the phone and hitting record. 

“Need to bring Hoonie something to jerk off to later,” he grins as he continues to fuck you, your moans getting numbed only by his hand. He just feels too good. Feels like no other cock you’ve had before. He’s big, wide and so god damn veiny. Every vein seems to drag along your walls, seems to push you closer to the edge. Your eyes are rolling back as your ass bounces off his hips, as his thrusts become sloppier with every second. He needs to cum soon and so do you. There isn’t much time for this, no time in fact. But he’s been craving you, and so has Sunghoon. Thank all the luck in the world for him to have won that rock, paper, scissors round. 

“God, you take it so well, you’re such a good little whore, aren’t you? All ready to go when I need to get my cock in you, fuck.” 

Heeseung’s words make your pussy spasm around him, his next groan deeper than before. He changes the angle slightly, fucking into you faster and harder, his orgasm getting closer with every little squeeze of your pussy. 

“Gonna cum so hard into your pussy, gonna have you sit at that table with my cum trickling into your panties.” He breathes into your ear and bites into your earlobe after, causing you to triple over the edge and cum hard around his cock - taking him right with you. 

He curses as he fucks both of you through your orgasms, his cum filling you up, warming you from the inside. 

Planting kisses on the back of your neck, Heeseung pulls out, watching his release drip out of you. 

“I could get used to this,” he says and puts your panties back into its rightful place. 

It doesn’t stop there. And it also doesn’t stop with Heeseung. But while Heeseung is more daring (coming to your hotel room at night, sending you pics of his dick after a shower, telling you to send him a voice note of you cumming), Sunghoon decided to take his time to make his move. You know it’s coming. You just don’t know when. 

Heeseung is like a wild animal - he can’t get enough of you. He wants to have his hands on you, his dick in you and his cum all over you as many times as he can. But the week only has seven days, and you only have four more to go until this whole thing is over and they are married to your sisters. 

Four days until you won’t be around them all the time, four days until Heeseung won’t be knocking on your door at two in the morning asking you to get on your knees. He fucks you like he owns you, like he knows your time is limited. It is, after all. He leaves marks where it is hard to spot them, kisses you in places no one has ever kissed before. 

Yes, the nights with Heeseung are special and steamy and perfect - and yet you wonder where Sunghoon is in all of this. You see the way he looks at you, and you did get a dick pic from him the night you and Heeseung fucked at that first dinner, courtesy to him seeing the video Heeseung took of you. And that is the thing, Heeseung films you. He films you when you’re on top of him, when he’s behind you, when you got his cock down your throat, when you’re bouncing up and down his cock. All of it goes straight to Sunghoon, all of it leads to Sunghoon cumming all over himself in the bathroom and sending you a picture of it. He never leaves his room, though, never does anything about it.

It’s day minus three til the wedding and you’re at the beach with everyone. The other maid of honor has arrived, and so have the two best men. Jake and Jay, they had introduced themselves as and judging by the way they were looking at you… they knew exactly who you were. If you weren’t so busy with Heeseung, you’d gladly have slipped into one of their rooms at night. 

You’re laying on your towel, happy to have everyone around you be busy with something that isn’t you. Your book is in your hands, the words getting more and more raunchy, your thighs pressing together. Perhaps this isn’t the best place to read smut, but it’s not like you have any control over when these scenes happen in the book. You just know every word hits you deep and has you biting down your lip. Even with the soreness still left between your legs from last night's visit, you feel yourself growing wetter with every sentence. 

“In broad daylight, sweetheart, really?” 

The voice makes you flinch, your book flipping closed as you turn around, spotting Sunghoon standing right above you. He is wearing a slight smirk on his lips and you feel your cheeks heat up. Not just because he caught you with your book but because he’s standing there in nothing but his trunks, a cup of iced coffee in his slim hand. His chest is defined, so are his abs. His arms look strong, toned, like they could throw you against a wall and hold you there. You swallow the lust that is daring to come up.

“What do you want?” You hiss, sitting up and looking at him. 

He hasn’t really talked to you much. Too busy giving you looks and pretending like he didn’t when your sister or parents or any other already arrived wedding party approached him. 

“What would I want?” Sunghoon asks back, tilting his head. The view he has from up here, your tits sitting in your bikini top, looking as delicious as they always did. It takes all in him not to drag you up and take you in front of everyone. 

You snort and roll your eyes, turning back to your book.

“Well, if there is nothing you want, you can leave me alone.” 

He watches you, how you lay back on your stomach, how you open the book and look for the page you just read. Licking over his lips, he roams his eyes over you. At this point, he has lost count of how many times he’s looked at you. How many times he has waited in the bathroom at night for Heeseung to send the videos, the pictures. As much as he was jealous, he enjoyed looking at you as he used his lubed up hand to get himself off. Except… for the last two days. He hasn’t sent you a picture of him with his cum all over his torso or thighs for two days because he simply hadn’t let himself reach climax. He’s been edging himself for all this time, waiting for the right time to unload all of his seed… preferably on you. 

It doesn’t feel like enough. Just getting to watch you through a screen, imagine what you would feel like. Your mouth, he remembers. Vividly. Your pussy… he can only wonder. Only guess when Heeseung sends him those videos or when he tells him before they head down to breakfast. 

Letting his eyes wander over your frame, your neck and back, your hips and ass, your legs… 

“Get up.” He says. You don’t move. 

He growls.

“I said,” his voice is low and warmth gathers at your core, “get up.”

It is when you still don’t move, Sunghoon feels his patience run thin. He places his iced coffee on one of the tables next to the lounge chairs.

Then, he is quick to pull you up, both his hands on your hips, a yelp coming out of you as he skillfully gets you on your feet. You stare at him with wide eyes and your mouth agape. Oh… your mouth. He has to restrain himself - already half hard in his trunks. Sunghoon looks around, sees his fiancé in a conversation with your mother. An idea flashes before him and he smirks slightly, alarm bells ringing in your head. What is he planning?

Not even a second passes when he grabs his iced coffee and spills it all over himself.

“God, watch where you’re going!” He yells, making all of your family members and their friends look at you. This little shit. 

Linda immediately jumps to her feet.

“Look what you’ve done!” She screeches and you press your lips together, acting the part of the guilt ridden sister.

“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to!” You defend yourself, but your sister just shoots you a deadly gaze. 

“My darling, are you alright?” She is looking at Sunghoon now at his coffee stained self. He shakes his head.

“I really wanted that coffee. And these are my favorite trunks,” he sighs, “come on, Y/N, you’re gonna get me a new coffee.”

“I can get you a new coffee, babe!” Linda tries, her fingers wrapping around Sunghoon’s arm. It fills you with a sense of triumph when he moves out of her grip.

“You didn’t do this, honey. She did. Go back to your lounging.” He says it to her, but looks at you. And, god, you don’t think you’ve ever been more aroused in your life. 

It starts in the elevator up to his room. His hands are on your tits and your tongue is in his mouth. He groans when he feels you grabbing around his cock, hand swiftly inside his swimming trunks. There are no words being exchanged, only moans and sighs and gasps as he presses you against the wall, your kisses getting deeper and heavier by the second. 

Sunghoon has never wanted anyone as much as you right now. His cock is begging to be freed, leaking into his trunks. His thoughts are spiraling, a part of him just wants to push those skimpy bikini bottoms to the side and just fuck you right here, no matter if someone could walk in at any second, the other wants to take his time, bring you to his room and explore every inch of you. 

When the elevator stops at his floor, he drags you out, glad no one is around to see as he pushes you against the wall next to the now closing elevator doors, his hand immediately moving between your legs. He moans at the wetness already there. Well aware you haven’t been in the pool or the ocean today. 

“Fuck, look at you. So fucking wet.” He mumbles against your lips, pulling them into yet another heated kiss just as his fingers slip underneath your swimming suit, making you whimper. Your hips roll against his hand and he bites down on your bottom lip, fingers getting closer to where you want them, need them, the most. 

But he pulls away, grabbing your hand and leading you to his room, getting the keycard out of the small pouch he had in the pockets of his trunks. You watch as he opens the door, watch as impatience and need radiate off him and another feeling of triumph, of confidence overcomes you. He is actively choosing you over your sister. He wants you not her. 

Once you’re inside and the door is closed, you find yourself stuck between him and yet another wall, or in this case, door. His first mission is to get your tits out, his hands losing the strands of your top, the little fabric falling onto the floor a second later. He licks over his lips.

“I’ve been dreaming of these, baby,” he whispers, “come on, get on your knees.”

You do as told instantly. Dropping to your knees, eyes focused on him and only him. On how he now shoves his trunks down slowly, his cock, hard and red at the tip, springing free for you to admire. Your pussy starts throbbing. How badly you want him inside you, how badly you want him to fill you up with his cum, joining Heeseung’s from last night. 

“Open up, slut.” Again, you obey. Your mouth drops open, tongue sticks out and Sunghoon’s cock twitches at the sight. This is what he has been dreaming about. Your mouth around his cock, your perfect heavy tits naked and oh-so ready to be painted like that first night. 

“Good girl, so, so obedient.” He moves closer, right hand around his cock as the left is leaned against the wall, helping him keep his balance. Slowly, he brings the tip of his cock to the tip of your tongue, watching as you lick over it immediately. His eyes don’t leave yours when he begins shoving it in, his chest heaving. There is a good chance he might not last long, but he won’t let you leave this room without his cock having been inside you and if that means going again right after his first or second load. 

You take him like a pro. Feel him slide down your throat, hitting the back of it before going even deeper. You choke just slightly, breathing through your nose. He stops only when he is fully buried, his breath getting heavier with every passing moment.

“You take it so fucking well, what a good little whore.” Sweat is pooling at the top of his forehead, his knees about to give in. He begins to move his hips slowly at first, but when you tap his thigh, he takes it as a sign to go harder. And, shit, does he go harder. Throwing his head back as he brings both his hands to your head, holding it in place as he thrusts down your throat over and over again. His balls hit your chin whenever he moves to bury himself again, his moans and groans nothing but music to your ears. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck!” He groans in pleasure, pulling his cock out and the next thing you know there is cum all over you. Your tits are full with his seed, your neck, your chin, your face. You gasp slightly, staring at him with your lips swollen from the roughness of his movements. He breathes hard, hand around his cock to hold it steady as waves of his pleasure make more cum land on your tits. 

“That’s right, look at you, fuck,” his eyes are glossy watching your tits covered in his cum, his cock not losing any of it’s hardnes even after the amount of cum he just left on you. It’s not hard to notice. Your fingers scoop up a bit of it, sucking them clean and not letting him out of your sight. Sunghoon feels like he might have reached heaven. 

“You’re so fucking filthy,” he grumbles, pulling you up by your arms and crashing your lips against his again. He pulls you to the bed and pushes you down, watching your cum-covered tits bounce as you fall. You know what he wants and you slightly sit up, your elbows behind you, watching as he moves on top of you. His eyes are still so full of hunger, of need, of pure and hot lust. 

His cock slides between your tits, his hands pushing them together around it. Then, he begins to thrust again. Just like he had wanted back at the restaurant. Fuck your tits covered in his cum, add a little more. 

You feel like the luckiest woman on earth with him like this. Using you to get off, his cock fucking your tits like a madman, whimpers and moans and groans, his head thrown back as he enjoys the feeling. It is even better than his imagination. Every second feels like he’s gonna ascend any moment now. His skin is tingling with desire and he wonders if it’ll ever stop. Right now, he thinks, he could probably go on for hours, for days. Just you and him and your tits and your mouth and your pussy. 

When he looks down again, sees the way you look at him, see the way his cock looks sandwiched between your breasts, Sunghoon can’t help but cum again, less than before but still enough to cover your chest and neck, adding even more paint to the already perfect canvas. 

Exhaustion is starting to spread through his bones, but he’s ignoring it. Instead, he pulls you up with him again, kissing you hard, fingers now finally finding their way into your bottoms again. He shoves them inside you immediately. 

“Sunghoon!” You cry out, fingers gripping his strong shoulders as he places you on his lap, straddling him. He fucks you with his fingers, hard and fast. Your pussy squeezes them, your arousal dripping onto his bare thighs.

“So, so wet. So fucking filthy with my cum all over you. Tell me, baby, are you a whore?”

“Y-Yes!” You squeak. He grins wickedly, adding a third finger to the two. You cry in pleasure, bouncing up and down on his long, perfect fingers.

“So eager to be called a whore. Fucking a taken man, two taken men. Your sister’s men. Aren’t you ashamed?” He breathes into you ear and you moan again, nails digging into his skin.

“N-No!” You answer and he laughs quietly, thumb now pressing down on your clit. You feel the first tears starting to pool in your eyes.

“Oh, but you should be. Such a dirty fucking whore, full of cum, getting her pussy fucked by her sister’s fiancés fingers,” He chuckles, “and soon his cock.”

You reach the edge just then. When he promises you his lengths, when he tells you how ashamed you should be. As if you don’t know. That’s what makes this whole thing so ridiculously hot. 

He fucks you through your orgasm, kissing your mouth again, tongues slashing against each other in a heated fight. You need him to fuck you. Right now. And as if he could read your mind, Sunghoon picks you up, hands underneath your thighs, lips never leaving yours and brings you to the spacious bathroom. 

First, he fucks you in front of the mirror. Makes you watch yourself, getting fucked like a cheap whore by his sister’s soon-to-be husband. He makes you lick his cum off his fingers, thrusts them as deep down your throat as his cock is penetrating you. 

Your pussy might be the best he’s ever had. The second he was buried inside of you, he knew he was done for. Knew this couldn’t be the last time he did this. Every bit of you, he wanted for himself. He even thought about asking Heeseung to back off, which he knew his best friend never would. Not with you. Not when you were this perfect. Fulfilling their every need, letting them do with you whatever they wanted. 

When he gets you in the shower, he washes the drying cum off of you softly. He’s still inside of you, his still not fully satisfied cock. You squeeze around him, throb around him. You need him to do more, he knows it as well as you. But he’s gentle. Uses a sponge to get every bit of his seed off your body, his lips kissing your cheeks, lips, nose, neck and breasts. It’s almost too soft for you. 

This is supposed to be about nothing but sex. He is supposed to fuck you, call you names while you’re at it and then disregard you. Instead, he’s being gentle. 

That is, until the door outside opens and your sister’s voice interrupts the softness. It makes room for yet another wicked grin and Sunghoon’s first thrust inside of you for minutes. Your hand flies to your mouth covering the pathetic whimper that would have come out. Sunghoon’s eyes sparkle.

“Hoonie? Are you in the shower?”

He begins to thrust again, his hands on your hips, staring into your eyes as he gives you his fucking all. Your eyes roll back.

“Yes, darling. Your stupid sister managed to get me all sticky with that coffee!”  

Your pussy fluttered at the words. He grinned wider.

“Oh, like it when I call you stupid?” He whispers into your ear, cock twitching rapidly as he bites into your neck, hips showing you absolutely no mercy.

“Ugh, I am so sorry about her! She’s not just a klutz, she’s also insanely dumb. I can’t wait to never see her again after this is done.”

Perhaps these words would have hurt you, if Sunghoon wasn’t railing you like the god he was. Every thrust was smooth and yet hard enough to make your toes curl. He made quick work to lift you up, your legs now wrapping around his middle as he continued to fuck into you, moaning into your neck to drown out the noise. 

“Yeah, she is a real piece of work,” he finally replied, his eyes staring into yours as he smirked. 

“No wonder she can’t get a boyfriend! Who would ever want to be with that?” 

Sunghoon rolls his eyes, pressing his body closer to yours, kissing you again, his tongue licking sensually over your bottom lip. It makes a shiver run down your spine. 

“Anyway, where did she go? I didn’t find her in her room.”

Sunghoon reluctantly parts from you.

“No clue. She got me a new coffee and stormed off like the big baby she is.” 

He grabs your tits again, squeezing and massaging, nipple between forefinger and thumb, leaning down so he can put it in his mouth and suck and bite down, your hand on your mouth pressing down harder. 

You explode around him. Squirt like a fucking porn-star, liquid shooting out of you and down his legs, mixing with the water of the shower. Sunghoon’s knees are once more about to give in. He moans against your lips, hoping Linda didn’t hear and at the same time also hoping she did. Your climax makes him cum for the third time that day, his hot semen filling your spent pussy, painting it white like the clouds. 

“That, she is indeed,” Linda laughs, “anyway, we’re gonna go get dinner in the city, baby. I’ll be at Liza’s room, love you!”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer and Linda just leaves. You feel like no words were even needed to understand. 

Once you’re sure Linda is gone for good, Sunghoon and you step out of the shower. It’s quiet between you, quiet and somewhat heavy. You don’t like it one bit. You’re quick to grab your bikini and put it back on, relieved to know you most likely won’t find your sisters back at the beach where you’re headed now. 

You don’t turn around again when you leave the bathroom. And you also don’t expect Sunghoon to say anything. Still, when you open the door to leave, you feel just a tiny bit disappointed that he doesn’t hold you back. 

How utterly pathetic of you. 

Heeseung doesn’t come for you that night. You wonder if it’s because of Sunghoon and decide it most definitely is because of Sunghoon. 

Yet, the slightly younger male doesn’t come to seek you out either. 

Tonight, it’s just you. 

And perhaps, you think, that’s just how it’s supposed to be. 

to be continued...

header & divider credit to the wonderful @wongyuseokie <3

[rosemaryhoney27]

Dont mess with our daughter

Wrath of the Fentons

Jason Todd had seen a lot of weird things in Gotham. Lazarus pits, immortal assassins, fear gas-induced nightmares—hell, he'd been one of the weird things, once upon a time. But watching a bunch of black-market meta traffickers haul a very pissed-off redhead into an unmarked van in broad daylight was quickly climbing the ranks of what the fuck moments.

She wasn't screaming. That was the first sign that something was wrong. Most metas—or normal people—would be terrified. Instead, this girl looked annoyed.

Jason had been tracking this particular ring for weeks. They specialized in kidnapping metas with "unique features"—horns, glowing eyes, animal traits, things that marked them as different. The bastards made a killing selling them off to the highest bidder.

The girl—Jazz, he caught one of the thugs saying—fit their usual type. Her hands, bound behind her, had faint green veins pulsing under her skin, as if something otherworldly coursed through her. Her eyes flickered a ghostly green before settling back into a sharp, human blue.

Jason knew that look. It was the look someone got when they were waiting.

For what? Backup? Did she have a tracker? A hidden weapon?

He was about to interfere when Jazz sighed dramatically and muttered, "You poor, poor idiots."

Jason didn't have time to wonder what she meant before his comms flared to life with a frantic Oracle.

"Red Hood, stand down—I repeat, do not engage—the girl's parents are en route, and—holy shit—these guys have no idea what they just did."

Jason frowned. "Parents? Who—"

And then he saw the tank.

It barreled down the street, mounted with weapons that absolutely should not be street legal, glowing green with ominous energy. The side of the vehicle had a logo painted in jagged white letters:

FENTON WORKS

The doors flew open, and a massive man in an orange jumpsuit leaped out, wielding what could only be described as an anti-aircraft cannon converted into a rifle. His wife followed, a visor covering her eyes, her sleek blue bodysuit glowing with strange symbols.

"JAZZ!" the man bellowed, aiming the cannon at the traffickers as if they were just another ghost to blast into oblivion.

"Hey, Dad!" Jazz called, still completely unbothered as one of the thugs tried to hold a knife to her throat. "You might want to be careful. They think I'm a meta."

"Oh, honey," her mom said, pulling out a gun that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi horror movie. "They won't be thinking anything in a few minutes."

Jason took a slow step back.

He'd seen Bruce handle hostage situations with surgical precision. He'd seen Dick talk down armed criminals with nothing but charm and a smile.

He had never seen two civilians go full scorched earth on a meta trafficking ring without so much as a plan beyond "rescue daughter, destroy everything."

The traffickers barely had time to react before green energy blasts tore through their van, their weapons, and the street around them. The sheer destructive enthusiasm was a sight to behold.

One thug made the mistake of aiming a gun at Maddie Fenton. She shot him with a glowing net that phased through his skin before electrifying him into unconsciousness. Another tried to run—Jack Fenton threw what looked like a modified bear trap, which snapped shut around the guy’s legs and dragged him back, screaming.

Jazz, still tied up, sighed as one guy tried to use her as a human shield. "You do realize that you're standing between me and them, right?"

The thug barely had time to consider his life choices before Maddie calmly shot him in the leg.

Jason, crouched on a nearby rooftop, slowly exhaled.

Well. The ring was definitely out of commission.

As the Fentons loaded the unconscious criminals into their highly illegal ghost-proof containment units, Jazz finally noticed Jason watching. She arched a brow.

"Hey, Red Hood, right?"

Jason, still processing, just nodded.

Jazz smirked. "You look like you're having a what the fuck moment."

Jason stared at the still-smoking wreckage of what used to be a human trafficking operation and then at the grinning, trigger-happy Fenton parents.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that about sums it up."