#a stock photo for every occasion

[scarlettgauthor]

Me, writing my main character with incredibly specific details about their appearance: Haha fuck yeah!!! Yes!!

Me, designing the cover and trying to find stock photos that look even slightly like my main character: Well this fucking sucks. What the fuck.

[kbwrites]

Lingerie? No Way

synopsis: how the JJK guys feel about Lingerie.

⚝content: nsfw, links to lingerie included, f!reader (gendered language used)

Satoru LOVES when you buy a new set (especially using his credit card).

Takes pictures of you, and has a whole folder full of just photos of you in lingerie.

Which is separate from his nudes folder for some reason.

If you allow him, he has no shame using the pictures he takes as his home screen.

Any excuse to show off to everyone that his partner is the hottest.

In bed Satoru loves to fuck you with the lingerie on.

Likes grabbing onto the lace, using the straps as leverage while he’s fucking you.

“S-shittt princess, you look so fuckin’ pretty.” He whimpers as he gropes your breast through the mesh fabric.

His hips snap up, one hand gripping the headboard as you ride him. His slender fingers reach around your back to unhook the bra, feverishly fiddling with the clasp. He curses under his breath before–

Riiip

“Sorry gorgeous…. I’ll buy ya another one”

Money is no object for Satoru so he can literally afford to be rough. 

★。------ ＼｜／------。★

Suguru orders you a new set almost every week.

He’s sending screenshots.

“Look at this one babe, you’d look perfect in it.”

“It’s nice Sugu.”

Adds to cart.

His favorite thing to do when you wear lingerie is watch you. He’s sitting on the loveseat in your bedroom, one hand wrapped tightly around his cock as he pumps slowly. You’re sprawled out on the bed in front of him two fingers plunged deep into your aching cunt. You try your hardest to reach the spots your boyfriend hit so effortlessly. He smirks maliciously as you struggle. Knowing full well he was the only one who could make your toes curl. 

“Awww what’s the matter, pretty girl? Can’t reach?” Even though he knows the answer.

As you whine shaking your head “no” he gets up and strides toward you. Taking in your panting form.

He’s already thinking about how good you’d look in the purple version of the set.

★。------ ＼｜／------。★

Nanami prefers you save lingerie for special occasions.

Birthdays?

Christmas?

He wants to unwrap you.

He’d be really into babydoll dresses, the sheer fabric that stops just below your underwear. 

He didn’t expect when you texted him about an “early Christmas gift” that he would come home to you in a gorgeous red babydoll dress. With thigh-high stockings to match? He’s in heaven

Takes his time slipping the fabric off you, kissing every inch of your body as he slowly removes your underwear.

“You’ve been saving this one for me, honey? You look absolutely breathtaking”

As his head delves down, flattening his tongue against your cunt.

★。------ ＼｜／------。★

Toji is a simple guy, he can appreciate a nice set but he much prefers you in his clothes.

His shirt? The way it swallows you makes his dick twitch.

Or his personal favorite a moo moo?

He’s ready to go.

All you were doing was making dinner in your nightgown, stirring a pot of pasta on the stove. The next thing you knew your boyfriend threw you over his shoulder.

“Fuck...mama, you look so good.” He’s got your face down on the mattress with your nightgown bunched up to expose your ass. The pads of his fingers digging into the fat of your hips as he slams his thick cock into your pussy.

Your moans are muffled as your face is buried into the pillow.

“Gonna breed this fuckin pussy. That what you want baby?”

Sukuna isn’t very understanding as to why you’re wearing ANYTHING when he enters the room. 

He prefers you naked, laid out bare waiting for him. He loves your body, so he prefers an unobscured view.

While you do look good. The fabric is just in his way.

Did you want crotchless panties? Well, you have them now.

Two strong arms rip and tear the fabric off of you as his mouth nips and sucks at your skin. The other two arms pin your wrists above your head as he devours you.

“Ryo! I bought this for you–” You whine as he shreds the delicate material. But he doesn’t respond, as he fumbles with the strings.

“Quiet. This shit is hindering my meal.”

[halcy0n-skies]

synopsis: gojo likes buying flowers for you.

a/n: just something short! Maybe I'll do a series of sorts with this and a few other characters.

When it comes to flowers, Gojo Satoru is always one to go big. No matter the season, the occasion, or your mood, you can always expect a large bouquet that’ll take up half of whatever counter you place it on.

When it’s spring, growing into warm summer, he’ll spend some time browsing through different local florists as he walks home. Hundreds of people pass him by as he scrolls through different business names…that is, before he habitually walks into the same one he always goes to. The light ding of the furin chime swaying in the wind easily blends with the high-pitched ring of the brass bell hung above the door.

Summer is always his favourite time to come in here, mainly because everything smells so sweet. Handmade bouquets burst from each shelf, a multi-coloured tapestry of amber, scarlet, lilac, and cerulean. It’s styled in light woods and deep reds, not unlike the shinto shrine near Tokyo Tower. The first few times he came in here, he was somewhat overwhelmed: it was like they stuffed every flower field in Furano into one room.

A surprising feat, considering who he is.

However, the more he visited, the better he got. Both with picking up what flowers you liked, and when the shop got a new stock.

Considering it’s not public knowledge, they’re always surprised to see his face in the early morning when they’re still unloading and sorting it.

(He says he has a work thing earlier than usual, but, in reality, he’s already in the store picking out flowers for you.)

Aside from it smelling so damn good–he did say mainly, didn’t he?–he loves coming here in summer because there is always an unsuspecting student working a summer job. If he were completely honest, other than seeing the pure joy on your face when you receive them, either in person or through photos if he’s away–though he always prefers seeing your reactions in real time–the reaction from the florists is practically his favourite part.

So, when he casually slips out his credit card and asks for a bouquet of a hundred roses, he has to steel himself not to smile too hard or laugh at how far the kid’s jaw drops.

It gets even better when he asks for some ribbon–the expensive stuff lined with silver thread. No matter the flowers, he almost always goes for light blue or white. It may or may not fuel his already large ego when you compliment it.

Sure, it’s somewhat awkward to take home–even with all the times he’s bought big ones like this and decided to carry them back himself–but nothing compares to the unmistakably dumbfounded–yet happy–look on your face.

He’s bought them for you many times, but your reaction never changes. It never fails to make his heart swell.

It’s not always roses, though. He’s trawled through enough terrible romance films over the years to know that it gets old.

When he sees the old ones wilting in their vase–both of you having left them long enough to get as much out of them as possible–he’ll find some time to walk down to that same florist shop and note down all of your favourite flowers. He’s pretty sure the usual workers have got a list or something in the back rooms of what he usually orders, because each time he does, they just raise an eyebrow and state, “Fifteen minutes, sir.” with a curt nod.

Never in his life did he think he’d become that predictable.

In winter, when Tokyo’s goliath skyscrapers seem more ice-topped mountains than buildings, and when the sakura’s branches are heavy with pearly snow, he’ll always go for something colourful.

While he doesn’t mind the cold, finds the snow–on the increasingly rare occasion that it does snow–quite delightful, especially when it gets cold enough to give him an easy excuse to cuddle with you on the couch, he hates how dreary everything ends up looking. Knows you aren’t too fond of it, too.

So, he happily brightens your apartment with flowers: the large red roses disappear, and are instead replaced with small, soft memories of summer.

Seasons aside, your favourite time to receive flowers is when he hasn’t been home in a while. Rest assured, surrounded by the ceramic roofs of Kyoto or the soft sand of Okinawa, he’s thinking of you.

Designing a bouquet based on floral meanings is rare for him. Very rare. He sits down with the florist and their archaic leather book which knows the words inscribed on each petal of each flower, and hand arranges it himself. Even if he complains he doesn’t know shit about it, they always turn out beautiful.

If you were to ask him why he doesn’t do it often–since a gift with an intricate meaning hand crafted by himself is such a thoughtful way to show his love–he’d say he doesn’t need complex, well thought presents to show how he feels.

Your heart may be the most complicated organ in your body–he knows it each time he listens to the thrum of your blood–and the gentle hum of your soul may never truly be touched by anything but his eyes, but he knows his affections have no need to be as elaborate.

Loving you is easy. He hopes his roses and red carnations let you know that.

[beabnormal24]

Carcar + iron

I had so much fun writing this one! And I was particulary inspired by these two photos:

“Oscar!”

The sound of Carlos’ voice bounces from wall to wall as Oscar finishes buttoning his shirt to the last hole. He looks at his own fingers reaching the base of his neck in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, realising that the collar might be too tight, again.

He had bought the shirt especially for this occasion, Hattie sighing in exasperation on the other side of their FaceTime as Oscar rummaged through way too many shelves of shirts for his liking.

He had not tried it on, though, just grabbed the first one that looked like it could fit him and rushed towards the cashier because he had completely forgotten about that meeting at the MTC in about half an hour – a meeting that he would’ve probably missed if Lando hadn’t started calling him twice every minute.

So, he guesses, he might’ve put himself in this situation.

“We’re going to be late!” Carlos cries out from somewhere deeper into his apartment that Oscar guesses might be the kitchen.

He doesn’t spend nearly enough time in his own apartment, anyway. When he is not on the road towards yet another race weekend, he much prefers to hide himself into a burrito of blankets on Carlos’ couch, watching him type on his laptop about stakes and stock markets and other shits Oscar doesn’t really care to understand.

“I know!” Oscar yells back, quickly surrendering himself to the idea that he will have to leave the top button open in order not to choke himself in front of Carlos’ parents.

He does look smart, though, or at leats he thinks. Black slacks and light pink shirt should be considered smart, or at least classy – hedoesn’t really know. Usually, there is always somebody else telling him how to dress up for the formal stuff.

 Or it’s just Lando lending him one of his suits with a shake of his head and a scrunch of his nose, refusing to let himself be seen with his teammate looking like that at one of their promotion dinners.

But it’s- whatever.

“Then why aren’t you hurrying up?” Carlos asks, his voice sounding dangerously closer than before.

Oscar makes quick work of taking the deodorant out of the mirror cabinet, spraying it under his armpits and silently praying that it’s the stainless one Carlos bought last week.

Suddenly, the door opens with a creak, soon accompanied the familiar sound of Carlos’ loafers on the slick tiles.

“What. Is. That.” Carlos says, and even though it should sound like a question, Oscar knows from his voice that it does not.

“What?” He asks, alarmed.

He shuts the cabinet close, looking at the label on the deodorant bottle. As it turns out, it is indeed the stainless one, musk-somethting-vanilla scented, and as he checks himself in the mirror, he does not see any stain under his arms.

“What?” He asks again, turning around to loom at Carlos, frozen under the door jamb.

Oscar is not at all surprised that his boyfriend, much like always, looks effortlessly hot: hair slicked back and tight linen beige pants hugging his thighs, the muscles in his biceps bulge deliciously as he crosses his arms over his chest, his white polo shirt hugging his arms tightly as they move.

He looks smart, dressed like this, with that hair and that watch on his wrist.

But Oscar looks just as smart… right?

“That.” Carlos repeats, not very talkative of him, making a half-aborted gesture at Oscar’s shirt.

Oscar looks at his own chest, widening his arms to stare at the way the fabric of his shirt stretches over his pecs. “It’s the top button, isn’t it?” Oscar asks, groaning. “I swear I thought I could manage it but it’s way too tight and-“

“It’s not the fucking button, Oscar.” Carlos snaps, exasperated. “It’s the entire shirt!”

“What?” Oscar asks, taking each side of the shirt and raising it up to his face. He gives it a sniff, just in case, but all that he can smell is the Carlos’ antibacterial softener, that he only recognises for how many times he has woken up curled into Carlos’ sheets. “What is wrong with it?”

Carlos pinches the bridge of his nose, defeated, as if Oscar is the one being completely stupid and not Carlos speaking all cryptic as always.

“Did you even iron it?”

“Ah.” Oscar shrugs. “No?”

Carlos forces him to take his shirt off in the middle of the living room and then sternly instructs him to not move of a single centimetre as he goes to fetch his iron and a microfibre towel to lay Oscar’s shirt on the kitchen table.

He feels almost shy, standing next to the couch and watching as Carlos moves around his flat with incredible ease.

“This,” Carlos says, motioning for the iron he plugs next to the stove. “This is an iron.” He explains, like Oscar is five. “You use it to take off all the- twinkle-winkle things on your shirt.”

“Wrinkles.” Oscar supplies, immediately regretting it when Carlos shots him a deadly glare.

“Do not correct me, Oscar.” Carlos says, impossibly serious. He checks the little red light on the iron, nodding to himself when he notices the button go off and pressing another to let the vapour go off at the top. “You should thank me for not letting you go out for dinner with my parents in a ‘wrinkled’ shirt.”

“I’m sorry.” Oscar says, genuinely.

He hadn’t thought about ironing his shirt at all, and he is ashamed to admit that most of the times, it’s not even his business to care. Usually, there is a PR person walking around ready to drown him in team kits to wear for the weekend. Other times, his personal trainer takes a look at his disgruntled state in the morning and hereby decides that he should take care of his clothes, at the very least.

Carlos, instead, looks completely at ease as he swiftly passes the iron over the fabric, gently stretching the flaps out on the makeshift board. He never lets the iron linger on the shirt for too long, swiping it gently on each wrinkle, careful to not fold the collar.

Oscar takes a step closer, tentatively teasing the previous boundary Carlos had imposed, but he can’t really resist it when Carlos looks so- so homey, and domestic, ironing Oscar’s shirt because he’s a messy teenager who grew up in a boarding school and then became a too professional athlete to learn to care about his own clothes.

He smiles, plastering himself to Carlos’ back, careful to not interrupt his work as he wraps his arms around Carlos’ middle, hiding his face in the crook of his neck.

“You look really beautiful right now.” He admits, whispering the words into Carlos’ shoulder.

Even though he can’t see it, he can definitely feel Carlos’ smile.

“Yeah?” Carlos says, wiggling his arse against Oscar’s front because he’s a tease. “Your beautiful wife ironing your work shirts for you? Do you want me to wear a cute little dress next time?”

Oscar groans pained, images of Carlos wearing a little black and white servant’s dress flooding his mind, his delicious big thighs put on display, the small spaghetti’s braces hugging his beautiful pecs, cutting in the middle of his perky nipples.

Perhaps he could not wear his boxers under the skirt. Or, even better, those lacy red panties he bought last time in Monaco-

“Do not get hard now, Mr Piastri!” Carlos admonishes him, turning his face to the side to give him another glare.

Oscar smiles sheepishly at him, but he can’t really help it when his boyfriend looks so handsome all the time, can he?

“We are already running late, you know how much my mum hates it when we are late.”

“But your mother loves me too much that she would only blame you.” Oscar counters back with a shrug. He knows that it’s true.

Carlos rolls his eyes to the ceiling with an annoyed huff as he turns around in Oscar’s arms, though the smile still toying on the corners of his lips betrays him.

“Here, take this.” Carlos tells him, thrusting the ironed shirt into Oscar’s still naked chest.

It is softer than before, carrying a slight warm from the iron that Carlos had so carefully used only for him, and Oscar can’t help but hug the fabric closer to himself for a second more, enjoying the feeling of familiarity in being taken care of.

He’s liking that way too much, perhaps he could fake being sick next time and let Carlos baby him around like when he got that flu. That would be amazing.

“Come on,” Carlos urges, slapping his bum. He grins coyly at Oscar, full lips brushing against his mouth. “If we are not late, I will buy that dress.” He whispers right before he disappears from Oscar’s arms, already out of the door.

Oscar doesn’t think he has ever ran this fast in his life.

[harrisonarchive]

At Friar Park, 1970. Photo by Barry Feinstein.

“Konrad Engbers recalls how George visited the [garden] centre just after he started. ‘He came in to see me and asked how things were. I told him it was a little slow and he said “I’ll give it a little push for you.” He then bought almost every tree I had in stock and first thing the next day a motorcycle courier turned up with payment. ‘Ever since then he was one of my most loyal and regular customers.’ […] ‘He had called in to another nursery just along the road from mine,’ said Konrad. ‘The owner there told him he didn’t serve hippies and to clear off. I had no idea who he was but we got talking and he began to visit regularly. ‘There was a small hut in the nursery that I had converted into a bar. We used to sit together and enjoy a couple of drinks. I remember one particular occasion when he played his guitar there for me.’ And George would walk down the hill from Friar Park to the market where Konrad ran a stall. ‘He would wait in the queue, take his turn and never expected any preferential treatment. One day he asked me up to his garden for advice on some trees that were dying. After that, he regularly asked for my advice on any gardening matters.’ […] ‘He was such a kind man with no airs and graces — a man with a truly big heart.’” - Henley Standard, December 2001 (x)

[dicllonius]

At Friar Park, 1970. Photo by Barry Feinstein.

“Konrad Engbers recalls how George visited the [garden] centre just after he started. ‘He came in to see me and asked how things were. I told him it was a little slow and he said “I’ll give it a little push for you.” He then bought almost every tree I had in stock and first thing the next day a motorcycle courier turned up with payment.

‘Ever since then he was one of my most loyal and regular customers.’

[…]

‘He had called in to another nursery just along the road from mine,’ said Konrad. ‘The owner there told him he didn’t serve hippies and to clear off. I had no idea who he was but we got talking and he began to visit regularly.

‘There was a small hut in the nursery that I had converted into a bar. We used to sit together and enjoy a couple of drinks. I remember one particular occasion when he played his guitar there for me.’

And George would walk down the hill from Friar Park to the market where Konrad ran a stall. ‘He would wait in the queue, take his turn and never expected any preferential treatment. One day he asked me up to his garden for advice on some trees that were dying. After that, he regularly asked for my advice on any gardening matters.’ […] ‘He was such a kind man with no airs and graces — a man with a truly big heart.’” - Henley Standard, December 2001

[soopibean]

SEVENTEEN VS DISPATCH

This is how Seventeen would react to seeing a dispatch reporter following them.

Disclaimer!! As we all know, dispatch is a questionable entity and obviously the members of seventeen wouldn't react in this way. HOWEVER this is just meant for fun so don't take it too seriously.

Warnings: Mentions of cultish activities, Jeonghan is a scary man, reporter may like coups a little too much. Kidnapping?

Scoups

He angrily rants at the reporter, aggressively telling them what he'll do if he sees them here or around his members again. (Papa coups)

The reporter is left feeling a mixture of fear and arousal. Doesn't return either way.

Jeonghan

They're not watching him, he's watching them.

After a few days of following him they begin to realise he's visiting places they frequent. Restaurants they eat at, even the school they went to... But the most terrifying is when they realise at the end of the day, Jeonghan drove right to their house.

The reporter bursts through his front door to find Jeonghan eating a meal with his own wife and kids, a sinister smile played on his lips.

The reporter quits his job the next day and leaves the country.

Joshua

Simply gives them a gracious smile as he approaches them, offers a firm handshake as he begins his indoctrination. He doesn't see 'dispatch', he sees lost souls perfect for his cause.

The reporters are easy to convince.

Jun

Hasn't noticed. Assumed they were the trash collectors so he personally hands them his bin bags when he sees them. This was a good opportunity for them to snoop, though after opening them, all they find are bags full of scrunched up paper. It's all completely blank.

The reporters are left confused and empty handed.

Hoshi

'Horanghaes' in their direction whenever he see them, asks them to do it back. If they don't he becomes very upset.

The reporters now do it on impulse in most situations... They've become the laughing stock of the office.

Wonwoo

Notices them immediately. Convinced it's the government. Goes into hiding and starts wearing a tinfoil hat.

The reporters receive a bonus for capturing a photo of Wonwoo in said hat.

Woozi

They wait outside his studio for weeks. The blinds are always pulled, the lights are always on but no sign of life is seen. They finally leave but as they do, they miss the chance to see the wild Woozi emerging from the building, hissing at the sun and passing out from dehydration.

The reporters wasted everybody's time and are swiftly demoted.

DK

Greets them like old friends, asks about their families, brings them coffee on occasion. Even if they did find something they could report, they could never bring themselves to betray him.

The reporters become his personal protectors.

Mingyu

Immediately thinks they've caught him in a dating scandal. They follow him as he leaves the dorm late at night dressed perfectly in an expensive suit. He arrives at the restaurant, greeting somebody with a hug... It's Jungkook.

The reporters get sued by HYBE.

The8

Starts filming and taking pictures of them out of spite. Glares in disapproval at any given opportunity.

The reporters end every day feeling judged and self conscious.

Seungkwan

DRAMA QUEEN. Acts annoyed but is actually flattered. Begins to create his own fake scandals.

'O-oh I didn't see you there, I was just talking on the phone to my- oh I shouldn't have said that'

Struts off giggling, looking back every few seconds in hopes they'll follow.

The reporters decide to leave him to it.

Vernon

Does. Not. Care. Completely devoid of emotion when it comes to them. Simply stares blankly and unblinking in their direction.

The reporters are left feeling insignificant. They do little tricks to try to impress him. It doesn't work.

Dino

After watching him get left behind by the entire group on a beach trip they were having, the reporter offers him a ride home out of pity. Dino doesn't question the man and happily accepts, just grateful to have some company on his birthday. After hearing this the reporter couldn't bring himself to turn in any of the information he had gotten.

The reporter goes home and hugs his son.

However, if Dino had waited a few more minutes, he would have seen Seventeen returning with a birthday cake adorned with candles. Though upon seeing their youngest member missing and witnesses claiming he left in a suspicious vehicle, they are now convinced he had been kidnapped.

Thus chaos ensues... But that's a story for another time ;)

[tetsunabouquet]

Kanato Sakamaki NSFW Headcanon

(18+)

-You can expect some very freaky roleplay with him. -Kanato has a big wardrobe for his every fantasy. -Cute summer dresses for picnics, babydoll nightgowns, etc. -Ever since falling in love with you, he upgraded from his bridal fantasies to using you as a doll in every style he thinks is cute. -You're his doll, and if he happens to feel any arousal, it is a fuckdoll you shall be. -Which is why, often, he doesn't actually makes you wear any panties. -He often wants to fuck you in those very outfits he bought for you. -He won't even take your knee-stockings off, no. He needs the cute aesthetic. -Kanato worships you in lolita clothes, but he after a while he decided to seek out the simpler Lolita dresses because the many layers were difficult in bed. -He loves blowjobs when you're wearing hair ribbons. Your cute hairstyle really is the cherry on top that will make a boner pop. -Because of his creepy side, he often takes suggestive photos of you in those clothes, but styles you like a corpse before he snaps the picture. -He often makes you twist and bend uncomfortably to convey a dead body, clunkily sprawled on the ground. -After he takes the picture, he'll start jerking himself off as he plays with your clit. -He can be surprisingly sweet after those pictures, and really pampers you. -Has a gigantic pile of sweet treats for you if you want something after the sex. -Will feed you -Also wants to be fed -Might make a romantic comment comparing you to what he's eating. -Long kisses, because he wants to enjoy the taste of sweets on your tongue. -The way he goes from creepy, to sexual, to somewhat adorable has your heart do loops. -There is something about his sweet side, that makes you accept the creepy shit. -Sometimes, on the rare occasion there is a light-hearted, playful atmopshere between the two you can convince him to wear your accesoiries. -It's moments like these, were you feel like you're falling for him even more. -He takes aftercare for the two of your surprisingly seriously, and pretty much holds the maids at gunpoint to get them cleaning and restoring the outfits he defiles as he orders them around as he takes your clothes of in the bathroom.

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

In the wake of the horrific attempt to shoot Donald Trump, Jim VandeHei and Mike Allen of Axios reported Monday that advisers close to the former president say he “plans to seize his moment by toning down his Trumpiness” and by “dialing up efforts to unite a tinder-box America.”

Because Trump has suddenly stared death in the face, the report suggested, he has attained benevolence toward his political foes, which will manifest itself at this week’s GOP convention with a “unifying” display. As Tucker Carlson told Axios: “Getting shot changes a man.”

Tell that to Trump himself. Only a few hours after that report appeared, Trump uncorked a new rant on Truth Social that left zero doubt that he remains fully committed to the range of positions that make Trump and his movement such a profound threat to democratic stability in this country—the very same ones that have done so much to bring about the “tinder box” that Axios imagines he is now preoccupied with addressing.

This led some to chortle that media predictions of a Trump “pivot”—a stock joke at this point—have imploded yet again. But it should occasion something else too. If media figures are so eager to depict Trump as unifying, then let’s lay down a hard metric: Before such claims are made, the absolute minimum threshold he must clear is fully renouncing the authoritarian designs he is threatening to inflict on this country and its people if reelected president.

Needless to say, that’s not going to happen.

Here’s Trump’s full rant:

“As we move forward in Uniting our Nation after the horrific events on Saturday, this dismissal of the Lawless Indictment in Florida should be just the first step, followed quickly by the dismissal of ALL the Witch Hunts—The January 6th Hoax in Washington, D.C., the Manhattan D.A.’s Zombie Case, the New York A.G. Scam, Fake Claims about a woman I never met (a decades old photo in a line with her then husband does not count), and the Georgia “Perfect” Phone Call charges. The Democrat Justice Department coordinated ALL of these Political Attacks, which are an Election Interference conspiracy against Joe Biden’s Political Opponent, ME. Let us come together to END all Weaponization of our Justice System, and Make America Great Again!”

Note that Trump is positioning himself as a “Uniting” figure (when he capitalizes words, you know he’s branding himself) while also reiterating that every single legal proceeding he faces is entirely illegitimate. And note especially his evocation of “the January 6th Hoax,” which really means that Trump remains fully committed to pardoning the January 6 rioters—and to canceling the ongoing prosecution of himself for insurrection-related crimes.

Those positions are irredeemably incompatible with any stated goal of unifying the country, at a very fundamental level. They embody the notion that there was nothing whatsoever wrong with trying to cling to power illegitimately, through violent means, in defiance of the votes and political aspirations of a majority of his fellow Americans. They also embody the idea that he and his movement should not be subject to the same laws that the rest of us are. Trump is telegraphing that he won’t back off any of that in the slightest.

The effort to assassinate Trump was an abomination and the enemy of the rule of law. Yet it’s also true that Republicans are cynically trying to exploit the shooting: Many have blamed it on the message from Democrats that Trump poses a fundamental threat to democracy, self-rule, and the American experiment, claiming this incited the shooting. Clearly, as Brian Beutler aptly notes, the game is to remove from the political agenda something that’s both true and politically damaging to Trump: that he actually does threaten all those things.

Worse, Trump advisers plainly want journalists to accept the premise in his tweet-rant: that the real threat to national stability is the continued effort to hold Trump and his movement accountable for their crimes against democracy; that moving past all these crimes—which Trump would do by voiding all of them, including his own—is itself the true precondition for achieving national healing.

There are signs this scam may have some success. First, some media coverage is already slipping into a subtle fallacy. The GOP argument right now is that Democrats are depicting Trump as an existential threat to the country and this inspired the shooting. It’s not lost on news organizations that Trump too constantly depicts Democrats in similar terms: He regularly says that electing them will mean “we won’t have a country” and that a Democratic victory will only be achieved via illegitimate means. News accounts have been pointing out that both sides offer a version of this message about the other.

But these accounts often don’t make it clear that in making this charge, only one side—the Democrats—is doing so while remaining broadly faithful to what the facts actually do dictate. Indeed, Democrats are remaining faithful to what Trump and his allies are saying in their own words. Trump has not just vowed to pardon the insurrectionists and treat ongoing prosecutions of himself as a dead letter but also has refused to say he’ll accept the results of the election and has vowed to prosecute his opponents without cause, even as his allies promise to ferociously unleash the state on designated enemies of MAGA.

News accounts should make it clear that it actually is not beyond the pale for Democrats to charge that Trump poses a foundational threat to republican governance. Nor is it beyond the pale to charge that MAGA is the only major faction in American life that valorizes political violence and sees its utilization in service of Trump and his goals as good. After all, this is precisely what it means to vow to pardon the January 6 rioters and to perpetually hail them as patriots and heroes. A media failure to clarify all this will help him pose as a post-shooting unifier.

What’s more, as the Axios story suggests, the idea that Trump is pivoting to “unity” will be very hard for some media figures to resist. Taking note of this temptation, Tim Miller joked: “Can we wait to actually see some evidence before declaring him Mandela now?”

I propose we go further, by insisting on the following: No calling Trump a “unifier” until he renounces plans to pardon the January 6 rioters and prosecute his opponents, stops casting the application of the law to himself and his movement as inherently corrupt, repudiates his threat to terminate parts of the Constitution, unequivocally commits to accepting the election results, and tells his allies to stop planning to treat any election loss as illegitimate in advance. And that’s just a start.

As Trump’s new rant makes clear, he has no intention of doing any such thing. If and when he doesn’t, the idea of Trump as unifying figure will again be unmasked as what it’s always been, every time such “pivots” are promised: a sick joke that merits nothing but mockery, derision, and contempt.

[bellamer]

Why I want to collect dolls-

The first time I lost my dolls, which was about 30 or 40 something dolls, a gigantic dollhouse, and a Barbie RV camper, my parents made me put them in a storage unit because my mom and dad split up and they put everything in there until they could figure out their divorce and we could find somewhere to live, why they wouldn’t let me at least take my dolls, I don’t know, but my dad was in charge of paying that storage unit and I don’t know why my mom foolishly let that man do it because we eventually lost the storage unit a year later because he didn’t pay it, instead deciding to use all his money to support his girlfriend and her kids and we lost everything. All of me and my siblings baby photos, our furniture, everything and I lost all of my dolls and we can’t ever get anything we lost back and his dumbass refused to tell my mom the storage unit place which I don’t know why my mom didn’t go with him to see where all our stuff went and why she didn’t take the baby pictures and stuff, but I was more crushed to have lost my dolls because there were dolls that weren’t even made anymore like LIV dolls, the dolls that had interchangeable wigs and a collector’s Angel Barbie that was never supposed to leave the box. My mom promised to get me replacements but Bratz dolls were out of stock, LIV dolls were discontinued and I was never getting that Angel Barbie back. So I had to settle for dollar store Barbie’s that didn’t feel the same.

- The second time I lost my dolls was when I was really into Monster High and all I wanted was Monster High dolls for Christmas, like they were all I wanted for like 3 christmases straight and I even printed out photos of which specific ones I wanted. I had Frankie, Clawdeen, Ghoulia, Jackson, Gil, Clawd, Deuce, Draculara, Cleo, Operetta and maybe more but I don’t remember all who I had but I just don’t remember having a Lagoona. So my aunts and cousins moved into my grandmas house and my cousins who were like 4 or 5 wanted to play with my dolls and I always told them not to touch them because I was very protective of my dolls since I had lost my previous ones. My aunts and my grandma yelled at me that I needed to share and that if I didn’t share that they were going to throw the dolls, MY DOLLS that my mom got me, away so no one could play with them and I was forced to share. Shortly after that, my dolls arms and legs were broken off and their hair was cut short and their clothes were missing and it upset me to the point of tears but I got blamed for it because “They’re little kids ! What did you expect ! You shouldn’t have let them do that !” when I was threatened with my dolls getting thrown away if I didn’t share. After that, I wasn’t allowed to get Monster High dolls anymore because I was “too old” yet my cousins got every new monster high doll for every occasion after that. Again, my mom promised to replace those dolls but she couldnt find any of the male ones since they sold out quick, and she couldn’t find anymore of the original design ones I had. They also destroyed my collection of 2011 Thundercats toys that my dad got me to try to make amends for what he did and Thundercats was the few things we bonded over and those can’t ever be replaced. A lot of things of mine got destroyed in that house.

So yeah if I start collecting dolls and it spirals out of control then like… I don’t know. I’d let let it spiral because I’d finally have dolls that I know I can keep safe.

[laneybishop89]

WIP Wednesday!

Thank you for the tag @pimento-playing-hopscotch, @anewkindofme, and @the-flaming-nightmare! 🥰🥰🥰

This is part of an upcoming chapter of Find Another Guiding Light!

Carlos pulled up to his parents’ house and sat in the driver’s seat for too many beats to be normal. He had agreed to watch their house for them while they went on a long weekend vacation to Galveston mostly because it meant he didn’t have to pay for another three nights in a hotel. Not to mention his mami was sure to have plenty of leftovers stocked up in the fridge that he would be able to gorge himself on, which would be a nice break from cereal. He was starting to get sick of the off-brand Cheerios he had this time, but for less than two dollars, it was the perfect food for him to buy. Tonight maybe he’d have tamales made with love and stuck in the freezer for a later date or, if there were no tamales, he could make do with rice and beans or other leftovers from throughout the week. Carlos knew his mami had a hard time cooking for just her and his dad, their fridge always full of leftovers.

The first thing he did when he got inside was put his bag away in his childhood bedroom. Carlos had moved out at nineteen and the room was very much a shrine to his past self. There were no poster’s on the walls because Carlos had never cared enough to tack anything up unlike his sister’s, both of whom had been yelled at by Gabriel on more than one occasion for putting too many holes in the wall. Instead, he had one family photo hung up near his desk and a crucified Jesus hanging over his bedroom door, placed their long ago by his mother. Even in his darkest days, Carlos hadn’t dared tried to take him down. If Jesus didn’t strike him down for the act, his mother sure would have, his father right after. The bedroom could have been a spare one, put together for just guests with the green comforter that he’d adored; even now, nearly ten years after it was purchased, it was just as soft as it always had been. Part of him wanted to curl up right then and there and sleep until morning. A bigger part of him craved food.

He stripped out of his day clothes and pulled on a pair of pajamas that had seen better days. Despite being new to his wardrobe (thank you to the fire for burning every article of clothing he’d had), they were old and threadbare, purchased on clearance at a thrift store; not to mention he’d been wearing them every night for over a week and hadn’t washed them once. Getting to do laundry was a luxury and, having forgotten to add them to the laundry bag to take the laundromat on the last laundry day, he had to wait to do his clothes again. Maybe he could do a load while he was here. He made a mental note to remember to ask his mami if he could when he talked to her tomorrow and moved to the kitchen.

Open tag for anyone who wants to participate ♥

[rise-my-angel]

Because I love salt, what do you find to be the most annoying lines of so-called evidence or foreshadowing for ships you hate? For me it’s hard to pick just one but Jon saying Sansa looked radiant is up there for me because the idea that Jon had a crush on Sansa in the first book or before is so much worse than the thought of them meeting again and then developing feelings (which I still hate, but it’s just not as bad). It’s super normal for people to think their siblings look nice. Arya’s POV chapters also remark that Sansa is beautiful. Ashford theory is annoying because it was originally about the hound and Sansa (also hate this ship but the fans are a million times more tolerable). I also roll my eyes when fans insist that the bride of fire line foreshadows Dany marrying Jon (and I even LIKE that ship but only in an AU in my head where Lyanna is Jon’s mom but Rhaegar is NOT the father)

"Because I love salt"

You have come to the right place as this is an accurate real life photo of me running this blog:

Thats a good one I hate though, multiple siblings and family members in this series all compliment one another. Even characters with bad relationships compliment each other. In the books, Arya recalls that her father calls her pretty, which only Jon ever also called her. Does that mean Ned had romantic feelings for Arya? Or Lyanna for that matter? No of course not. Thinking someone in terms of beauty is zero indicator of attraction in any way.

Also its even funnier with Jonsas because Sansa herself notes that Arya looks just like Jon, and then on multiple occasions notes that she thinks Arya is ugly. So, its even less compelling.

In the show Tyrion compliments Cersei's beauty all the time and we know there is nothing to it. It's reading into something that isn't there beacuse if they ignore the way beauty is used in this series as a common compliment towards other highborns, then its a really simple box to check on really stock symptoms of attraction. (I also dont really enjoy Sansan but it is funny how they just stay in their circle and mind their business like they somehow are winning based on being not fucking annoying alone).

I'm gonna rapid fire for Jon here because pretty much every single ship he has is backed by the worst evidence known to man.

The idea that Jon never thinks about Sansa because he loves her the most is dumb and not how we know Jon works. He holds back what he says not what he thinks. He thinks of Sansa the least because despite being his sister, she treated him like shit because she looks down on him for being a bastard. Jon cares about her, but not anywhere near how he cares about his other siblings who have clearly shown him love and respect.

The worst of Jon and Arya is a very very old outline that grrm scrapped. Its an outline that wasnt used and most of it isnt canon so it is literally a piece of non evidence for a ship that is disgusting. (Both Jonsa and Jonrya make Jons good older brother behavior towards his sisters look predatory and the shippers are all literally too blind to realize it)

Jon and Dany have literally nothing to back that up, because they are staged as moral oppositions to one another, dont know the other exists, and the idea that the motif of ice and fire will be about the coming together of romance is antithetical to everything grrm has established about the themes of his story. They are so far from being a ship that literally the ONLY thing they have to support it is the show and thats an absolute joke (see my every post that got me blocked by jonerys stans for more detail)

Ygritte is a rapist, so I accept literally zero "evidence" on that ones validity.

I also hate the "the actors have chemistry" argument to support really bad ships, because some actors having chemistry doesnt equal good romance, it equals good on screen dynamics in its own unique way. Like Tywin and Arya in season 2 have GREAT chemistry, but I don't need to explain why shipping that is creepy. Catelyn and Jaime have great chemistry, but it doesn't mean anything was actually there which could've worked.

Like shipping is fine, but so many people just INSIST it is canon or meant to be instead of something fun to think about. I joke ship about Stannis and Davos because its fun but I'm not over here arguing that people who don't ship it are "ignoring the text in front of them deliberately".

Also honestly, its really funny to me that you had to specify you'd only like that ship if they weren't related. Big oof on that one. Jonerys stans hate the idea they couldn't be related because they somehow think Dany being his AUNT isn't at all creepy. Like, Dany is related to Jon the way Jon thinks hes related to his MOTHER. There is no capability of romance or attraction there, that's crazy.

People who are biologically related but don't know it, 99% of the time are in fact, still not accidentally attracted to each other because that's biological survival instinct. Anti inbreeding protocol. But they think because DANY was raised to think her families blood superiority driven incest is fine, that somehow means JON would think its fine. Jonsas have no argument for that they just have to pray desperately that Jon would want to fuck his little sister despite how much it makes him look like a predator.

I'm sorry, I hope you have water on hand to wash down all this goddamn salt I just threw at you all at once.

Really, it isn't individual lines that irk me, its the overall tendencies of these ships to put more emphasis on things that don't even exist to justify something they don't even realize WHY people think it's creepy. I don't hate a lot of ships, just...all pro incest ones, and ones that promote predatory/rapist behaviors. Which is why I don't ship much in this series.

We're probably not meant to ship many people in this series if I in any way understand even a modicum of why grrm writes the lack of romance the way he does.

[gggoldfinch]

Hatchetknife

Richard B. Riddick x OFC (or reader)

(disclaimer: photo found on pinterest ^ )

A/N: I’ve been gripped by the most manic and inexplicable riddick brainrot ever and needed to get this out of my system or I’d deadass explode ‼️I usually don't write oneshots like this so it was a nice breath of fresh air actually. Hopefully now this sexy bald bitch will leave my poor brain alone so I can do something else other than binge watching vin diesel movies

warnings: original female character (descriptions vague enough to be reader insert), possibly a little ooc, very brief discussion of SA (in a non-threatening manner), minor violence & injury, explicit language, forced proximity, only one bed, explicit sexual content, smut, oral sex, praise kink, scent kink, size kink, light choking, biting, pet names. MINORS DNI

word count: 12,114

{AO3 Link}

summary: A low-profile merc masquerading as a man has her ship (and life) invaded by an unlikely guest. She gets found out, and things progress interestingly.

***

There's a ship that's been sitting idle in the upper-east Storage B-Port for weeks now; Riddick knows this. He also knows he hasn't been this incapacitated in a while. It's a hard thing to admit to himself, but he can feel the exhaustion creeping in. He hasn't slept in over 72 hours, and has been fighting and running for most of that time. He's out of his element— stuck in the heart of a congested city-planet rather than out in the wilderness of some uninhabited backwater planet. He's bleeding from somewhere— his side, maybe. His nose is broken, too, and there must be some sort of nerve damage too, because he can't scent who's coming after him anymore. He lost his goggles somewhere during this most recent scuffle, too, so all the neon signs are like miniature suns searing his retinas.

There's an idle ship gathering dust in Storage B-Port. He recalls it looking like a good model, some custom parts. It'll be easy to hijack. It'll be easy to leave this planet and his merc pursuers in the dust.

———————————————————————

Everyone has their own way of surviving in this nightmare of a universe. Some kill, some are killed. That's just something each and every person has to come to terms with while they draw breath. While not exactly thriving, this one particular individual has found their own way to survive. Some may call her a mercenary, and they wouldn't necessarily be wrong— but she prefers to call herself a mere gun for hire. It's easy to make a living when you have a thick head and nothing to lose, going from one job to another with little in the way of possessions and even less in the way of social relationships. She goes where the proverbial wind takes her, planet-hopping and working odd jobs. Sometimes the jobs entail hunting dangerous quarry, but more often than not she's hired for non-violent jobs running security for personnel protection or transport. Honestly, the only jobs she turns down outright are those having anything remotely to do with the Necromongers. Sure it isn't ideal, but it's better than living in the slums of the over-crowded metroplanet where she'd grown up.

It's a risky job, no doubt, made no less difficult by her deliberate choice to fly solo. Solo is safe. Solo, she don't have to worry about crewmates stealing or betraying her, or worse, taking advantage of her. Barely an adult when she'd begun her life hopping between merc crews, she'd learned early that being on her own is better, safer. No— she keeps to herself with nothing but the ship's computer system for company. And, when the occasion rises where she does have to venture out into civilization again—to find a job or stock up on supplies—she takes heavy precautions.

Strong from years of fighting and labor, her body can shoulder the burdensome weight of armor; broad shoulders and sturdy bones make her intimidating and capable. Years worth of mismatched armor plates make up her regular uniform, both metal alloys and plastic prints. Some pieces were taken off fallen quarry—or former crewmates—some purchased responsibly. Each plate has a little story she can recall, fondly or not. When worn all together, her form is virtually unrecognizable, and more importantly, masculine. The crown mantle is her helmet: sturdy, sleek, black, with a visor capable of internal screen display. The vocal distorter programmed into it deepens her voice to a disguised pitch. The suit of armor isn't entirely comfortable, but it's a requirement for her safety.

"Hatchet!"

She swivels her helmeted head, looking in the direction from which she hears her codename. She hadn't been calling herself anything when she'd assumed this masculine persona. Her various employers just began calling her a shortened version of her ship's name—the Hatchetknife—and it just ended up sticking within the merc circle she floats in. No one knows her true identity, as far as she's aware. If they do, no problems have arisen from it yet.

A man approaches her, stocky and shorter than her. He's been her employer for the past several weeks, paying her to be a glorified bodyguard for his uppity son, on probation for yatta yatta yatta. She'd tuned out the rest once she'd heard the price of the paycheck. 350 thousand units just to  babysit an alcoholic man-child for a month while he's on probation. She couldn't pass it up.

Her employer holds out a datapad, the blue screen alight with money transfer information. She's about to receive her payment and get the fuck off this stuffed metroplanet. Maybe she can finally replace some of the older parts on the Hatchetknife with this payment.

"Don't be a stranger, now," the man says amicably once the digital paperwork has been filled. She receives a notification ping on the screen of her visor, indicating the payment has gone through successfully.  

She inclines her concealed head, thanks him for the business, and turns tail to leg it back to the ship. The thing has been docked in storage for nearly a full month cycle now— long enough for the ticket expense to be a bit of a blow to her newly acquired units. It doesn't matter; this planet will be long behind her in only a matter of a few short hours. She's been idle, been on this polluted and overpopulated planet for too long.

And she'll be damned if a little blood on the exterior hatchpad of her ship is going to deter her from getting out of dodge in a timely manner. It's a handprint, maybe a couple, smeared all along the white panelling of the cargo bay door's control console. The cargo bay door is locked up tight though, so she's not particularly worried that any ne'er-do-wells have tried breaking into her sturdy old ship. It's a good model, she tells herself. It has a security system that would alert her of suspicious activity through the link between her helmet and the ship's mainframe. Sure, someone clearly tried to get in, but there's no sign the bay door had been opened recently.

She pays her exorbitantly priced docking ticket and opens the bay door herself. She remains completely oblivious to the other trail of blood, smeared up the side of the ship and leading to the secondary hatch. She doesn't notice the cut wires either, spraying pathetic little sparks instead of warning signals to her security system. To be fair, she doesn't notice much of anything—doesn't even remove her armor or helmet—in her haste to take off. She just charges through the cargo bay, vaults the ladder to the upper deck, and wedges herself behind the control console.

It feels like home, being behind the console. More of a home than she's ever really had, at least. She exhales against the interior of her helmet. Her reflection gleams in the bare windshield, the sleek black glass and metal of her high-tech helmet staring back. Gloved fingers press buttons and flip switches, igniting holoscreens and a rainbow of lights. Meters and regulators all seem to be in check despite the ship's extended idleness, and the hyperdrive kickstarts with a comforting purr. She has to take the ship up and out of the atmosphere before kicking it into warp speed, lest the planet's nasty police force pick a fight with her. Fog and flames lick the nose of the Hatchetknife as it accelerates upward, breaking through the upper atmosphere at a smooth 15 kilometers per second, and an even 75 degree angle. Only then does she crank the hyperdrive and watch as the countless stars warp around the nose of the ship.

She plots an aimless course, avoiding setting a firm destination until she can get her hands on another potential job lead. Upon throwing it into autopilot, the ship's automated computer system welcomes her back on board. Hatchet, it calls her. Not even her own ship uses her true name anymore.

Her boots are heavy as they tramp out of the cockpit. Reinforced steel and acid-resistant soles, these boots are. They're her favorites. They make a robust thump thump as she walks into the narrow hallway of the Hatchetknife. Here resides her bunk, and across from that is the kitchenette and table where she eats and works and sometimes sleeps. It's barely wide enough to fit two people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. She's used to close-quarters; it's almost comforting, like a womb. The hatch and ladder down to the cargo bay gapes at the end of the hall, and this is what she beelines for once acclimating herself with the interior of her ship again. Her bunk looks awfully inviting, but first on the agenda is to shuck off all the armor.

Boots bracketed on either side of the ladder and gloved hands holding tight to the side-rails, she slides down until landing on the grate panels of the cargo bay floor. This area is vastly larger than her living quarters— it has to be, in the event she has to transport sizable goods or heavy machinery. A armory case for her weapons and uniform sits bolted against the side wall, its grate doors barely revealing the contents. She opens the thing up, removing the machine gun strapped to her back to place it on its rightful hooks.

She hooks her thumbs under the seal of her helmet and disables the suctioned airlock. Just as she's preparing to lift the burdensome thing from her head, something collides with her right side, knocking her clean off her feet. It takes only a few frantic moments to realize it's a human being— a male attacker. Her deactivated helmet collides with the metal flooring at an odd angle, instantly disabling the visor's screen as a result of some internal damage. The force of the tackle and impact against the floor has the breath drawn from her lungs in a violent, rattling wheeze. The muscles over her ribs convulse and tighten, sending a shock of panic and pain and adrenaline through her system. With little time to think, no weapon handy, and no opportunity to scan the stranger, she starts thrashing. Amidst the scuffle and blow to her head, she can't quite see clearly, only able to make out a blur of squirting blood. The blood isn't her own— she's sure she would feel it if she'd been shanked in any of her armor's vulnerable spots.

She thrusts a gauntleted arm upwards in the direction she thinks the intruder's head is. Her metal-sheathed wrist collides with something and the oppressive weight above her slumps over to the side.

Hatchet scrambles up to her knees and tears the nearest gun from off the rack. She spins, points the weapon at the stranger's head, and... doesn't shoot.

Sprawled on the cold metal floor is a man. A large man. Bald-headed and covered in blood she knows she hadn't drawn from him herself. It's old blood, old wounds— maybe hours, maybe days. Despite the vaguely stunned look about him from being hit in the head, he wears a wry little smile upon his full mouth, lips and nose bloody from what looks like a previous beating. His eyes glint in a peculiar fashion, almost like feline eyeshine, silvery and shifting.

He holds his hands out by his head placatingly, palms facing upward. Then, he grins. "Okay, okay. You got me." His voice is deep and smooth like rolling thunder. It's almost startlingly in its intensity.

"Who the fuck are you? What are you doing on my ship!? What do you want?" she barks into the voice modulator, keeping the hardy submachine gun trained on him.

"Got a pretty nice ship here, don't you think?" he rumbles out.

"Fuck you!"

He chuckles at that, although the action looks like it pains him. The blood, she realizes, is oozing from a substantial stab wound on his left flank, just below the contour of his shapely pectoral muscle. She swallows thickly, choking down the apprehensive lump in her throat. Still a little off-kilter from the blow to her helmet, she shakily rises to her feet, steady finger not leaving the trigger once. The man clenches his silvery eyes shut, sucking in a substantial breath only to groan it all out again. One broad, tan hand shifts to press against the wound on his side, the other remaining innocently idle.  

Without prompting, Hatchet's line of sight raises to the secondary hatch within the cargo hold. There it is: a smear of blood and sparking wires. That's where he'd gotten in. Must be a determined fella—let alone smart—to have hacked the ship's security system to override the locking mechanism and find which wires would send out a warning signal before they even had the chance to. She looks back to him, curiously tilting her head to the side in observation of him.

"What the fuck do you think is supposed to happen now?" she grits out. The voice modulator gives it an extra bit of bite.

The man laughs, blood staining his straight teeth. "I dunno. Thought you might hand over your ship."

"Hand over my— Do you have a fucking head injury?"

He laughs again and she kicks his calf roughly.

"What about this is funny? Please, illuminate it for me. Because all I see some fucking stowaway who has a gun to his head and a nasty stab in his side. You're not getting my ship, pal. You'll be lucky if I let you see tomorrow."

"Bad timing," he murmurs, voice thick with strain and sardonic amusement. His expression slackens, the crease between his thin brows flattening out gradually.

"What?"

She kicks his leg again; he's unresponsive. Unconscious, actually, judging by the sudden lack of tension in his face and limbs. She drops the gun-wielding hand to her side and lets out a high-pitched wail of frustration.

She's not a cold blooded murderer. Sure, she's had to take a life or two throughout her days, but then again, who hasn't in this line of work. Those times were different— kill or be killed. This is... this is an injured, apparently unarmed guy on her cargo bay floor. Yes, he'd broken in, but maybe he has a valid excuse. She's had to break into places to survive before, it's really not that unusual. And despite all the shit she's been through, deep down Hatchet has a bleeding heart. She'd be pressed to admit it, of course. The sight of the stranger, wounded and unconscious, male as he may be, pulls at her tender and guarded heartstrings.

Fucking hell. She can only hope that someday in the future, if she's ever in time of need, that some stranger will treat her with kindness.

The man is heavy. Not deceptively so, as his height and build imply a great amount of mass, but hell if she's not winded by the time she drags him over to the cargo lift. The small elevator is usually for objects and not people, but it's the only way she can get his dead-weight ass to the upper level where the only cot and good light source are. She hasn't taken her armor off, and at this point she doesn't think she's going to. Certainly not with a strange man aboard, unconscious or not.

Upon both arriving at the upper level, it takes a great amount of effort to haul the man over to the bunk. The space is barely big enough to comfortably hold Hatchet, and she's nowhere near the size of this beast of a man. The cot creaks as she lowers him onto it, his boots scraping the wall as she crams him into the broom closet sized space. Flicking on the overhead light, it illuminates him with white fluorescence. It's only then does she realize he's not entirely unconscious; somewhere in there, he's aware enough to wince at the light coming on. She squints at him for a long moment, scrutinizing the situation. He doesn't show any other sign of cognizance besides for that averse reaction to the bright light beating down on his eyelids. When she decides it had only been some sort of odd reflex, she goes to retrieve the medical supplies from an aptly labeled storage cabinet.

Modesty be damned, she has to remove his shirt. It's barely holding itself together, anyway, and she has replacements to dress him in after she's patched him up. She feels hot under all her armor and layers, nervous as she stares down at the stranger's bare chest. Christ, he's build like a tank. It's intimidating, actually, once she chokes down the insidious feeling of attraction that prickles her skin and bubbles in her abdomen. Anyway—  upon closer inspection, the wound on his side is largely superficial. The extensive bruising along his ribs, however, indicates some unknown level of internal damage. It may only be deep-tissue bruising, or his ribs could be broken. She can't be too sure either way, and makes sure to properly bandage up his torso regardless, though only after disinfecting and stitching up the gash.

His nose is broken, that much is obvious. However, it looks as though it's already been set, so all she has to do is clean the blood, disinfect the small cut on the bridge, and properly bandage it. He has a nice face, apart from the bandaged nose. She can't really describe his features. Harsh, but soft at the same time. She huffs against the interior of the helmet at the thought, crossing her arms and leaning back.

She has stationed herself at the table across from the bunk, cautiously watching over the stranger through the deactivated visor of her mask. Hot and stuffy and heavy as the armor may be, she won't risk taking it off just yet. She doesn't quite have a plan yet as to how this is going to unfold. She'd chosen to spare his life, yes, but that isn't to say she won't protect herself to the nth degree if the need arises going forward. She doesn't want him out of her sight—especially considering her unprofessional lack of manacles—which means she can't program a route into the ship right now. The task would've been made simple if he hadn't gone and broken the screen display mechanism in her helmet. She can't even scan him in this state, to gather his identity or vitals status. She hadn't realized how dependent she'd grown on the visor display until now, having worn the damn thing for weeks straight at this point.

It takes a couple of hours by her count for the stranger to rouse again. He's disoriented at first, but soon grows aware of her shielded gaze burning into him from the other side of the narrow living area. He shifts in the cot, turning onto his wounded side to better assess the situation. He doesn't seem threatened—or particularly threatening—at the moment.

"Rise and shine," Hatchet speaks into the voice modulator.

She kicks a boot up onto the edge of the cot from where she sits barely three feet away. She tells herself it's a show of dominance, to plant her boot right beside the stranger's head, but in reality she probably just looks stupid. The man just looks at her with those silvery eyes, squinting under the bright overhead light. She doesn't shut it off.

"Now here's the deal—"

"How many people you got on this ship?" He cuts her off, tone both aloof and detached despite the situation. He breaks into an odd little grin, then twists his head to scent the pillow. "You hiding a lady somewhere? Fella like you sure wouldn't smell this sweet."

Hatchet's face crumples under the cover of secrecy. She has to school her perturbed reaction for the sake of her anonymity. What the hell kind of guy is she dealing with here, exactly? Not only must she refrain from showing any physical reaction, she shouldn't verbally address it, either.

"Now here's the deal," she repeats. "I spared you once— even did you the favor of patching you up. But, it's not gonna happen again if you try something funny."

The man tucks his chin to his chest to look down at the bandaged wounds, holding a curious hand to his side. She can't quite interpret his expression perfectly, but she thinks he seems vaguely impressed by her medical treatment of him.

"I'm going to take you to the nearest inhabited planet and dump your freeloading ass off at the first dock I come across. You aren't going to resist or complain. I'm doing you this favor— clearly you were on the run from someone dangerous, and I got you out of dodge. I don't expect payment, but I'd be mighty grateful if you didn't do anything violent or stupid." Hatchet kicks the bunk when his eyes slip shut again. "Hey! Are you listening to me?"

He does appear to fall unconscious again, but she can't be totally sure he isn't just fucking with her. Irritated, she sucks her teeth and curses him out, kicking off the bunk to stomp off into the cockpit. Forget keeping him in sight, he can suffocate for all she cares. There's a shotgun under the control console, anyway.

She seals the cockpit door shut behind her. Only then does she feel safe to remove her helmet. Once again she's greeted by her reflection in the windshield, though this time it's her own face that stares back. It's a tired and sweaty face, with hair matted flat to the scalp from the tight interior of the helmet. She needs a nice long shower—that much is obvious—but now isn't the time. Finally breathing fresh, unfiltered air again, she gulps it down greedily and deposits herself in the pilot's seat. The autopilot had taken itself out of hyperdrive some time ago, and now the Hatchetknife careens at a steady pace through open space. The stars are magnificent, as always. The endless, unfathomable sight almost makes her forget her burdensome stowaway.

Hatchet pulls coordinates for the nearest inhabited planet. She expands the view on the holoscreen projected across the console. The information, illuminated in a fluorescent blue, scrawls across the screen just fast enough for her to barely be able to read it in time. Her eagerness to be rid of the stowaway slowly melts into a nauseating apprehension. Apparently, according to the data, the nearest planet for several lightyears just happens to be crawling with Necromongers. Fucking Necromongers. If there's anything Hatchet hates, it's violent religious cults that double as armies. She avoids well-paying jobs on the off-chance that those psychos might catch a whiff of her— she's sure as hell not landing her ship in a hive of those wasps.

"Fucking shit!" She kicks the console.

There goes the plan to drop this motherfucker off. It'll take days at the very least to make it to the next viable planet. She tosses her head back and groans loud, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes until they come away leaving splotches in her vision. Venting her frustration, she kicks her heel against the console twice more.

———————————————————————

If Hatchet learns anything during her time in close proximity with the man, it's that, 1. he's a shockingly fast healer; 2. he doesn't like bright lights; and 3. he's quite sharp-witted despite the meathead look about him. In the few days that follow the unexpected detour, she avoids him as best she can in such cramped quarters. They only interact on the occasions when she checks up on his wounds or gives him MRE meals throughout the day—  always outfitted in her armor, of course. He only takes power-naps, never a full sleep, and reacts tensely to loud and sudden noises. He's smug and facetious when he speaks, and brooding when he doesn't. He's like a storm in every aspect of the description: thunderous voice, eyes like lightning, and a stormy personality to match. Despite Hatchet's aloofness, the man has found a way to wheedle himself under her skin. Once he was stable enough to stand on his own, nothing could stop him from getting up and wandering around the ship, hiding in the shadowed areas like a predator stalking its prey, much to Hatchet's chagrin. He makes little quips and witty comments in that deep voice when she's least prepared for them, and he stares at her with those glimmering eyes like he can see right through her disguise. Sometimes, she worries he does. He's like a fucking ghost the way he soundlessly moves around the small ship. That's more unnerving than his appearance, she thinks.

It's all getting rather frustrating. At first she'd been pissed that a man had the audacity to impose himself upon her time, energy, and ship. Now, she can't help but feel a strange tug of loneliness when they aren't in the same room. It's upsetting how the mind perceives human connection. She doesn't even know his name, yet the thought of being on her own again seems... well, lonely.

It does help that he's easy on the eyes, too. She finds herself locked away in the cockpit more and more frequently, brooding long and hard over the increasingly frequent thoughts of how fucking fine the man is. That soft yet masculine face, those thick arms and sturdy torso. The deep, intense tenor of his voice alone is enough to make her weak in the knees. And those eerie, glowing eyes, which watch her every movement like a hawk. Oh, for fucksake...

Hell, in all honesty she might as well be swimming in her armor with the way she sweats when he stands close and talks real smooth. She's afraid she's making it a little too obvious, actually. That carefully crafted persona is slipping through her fingers and all because she's a little hot under the collar about this stowaway she'd sworn to dump like a box of rocks come first chance. It came to a point approximately three simulated days into their time together when she couldn't stand the sight of him shirtless anymore; she ended up handing over one of her spare XL tanks, which still managed to look small on his burly frame. There's a sort of undeniable animal magnetism about him which is almost a little distressing in its intensity. What a fickle thing her trust in others is— and how tragically simple it was for her to get comfortable with the situation.

She doesn't insist on taking her bunk back from the healing man. While he rests his battered body on the cot, she kicks back at the well-worn table every night cycle, sprawled across the bench seat with a flimsy pillow beneath her helmeted head. This way she can keep the stowaway within her line of sight. Once his intimidating nature is overlooked, he is surprisingly amicable and seems rather appreciative of all her efforts. He hasn't tried to attack her, or otherwise threaten her person, which she takes as a sign he'd heard and accepted her deal before passing out on that very first day. In fact, he only ever deliberately menaces her when standing over her shoulder, or appearing out of nowhere. Or when he belligerently thumps his fist over wall panels to deactivate overhead lights he finds irksome.

Hatchet, though she herself is nameless to an extent, finds his lack of proffered identity a little frazzling. Though she's come to accept his presence as a whole, it would make her a lot more comfortable if she had a name and background to put to the face. Which brings her to the locked cockpit, wherein she works tediously to repair the screen and scanning mechanism in her helmet. With her tongue poked out from between her lips and one boot up on the console, she takes the helm apart and repairs it with a notable proficiency, then puts it all back together again. The screen automatically powers on when she activates the airlock seal, illuminating her field of view with digital notifications and vital statuses.

She catches him unaware, aiming her visor at him for long enough to scan his facial features and biometrics. Identification data scrawls across the screen before her eyes, her blood pressure spikes. Under the guise of piloting the ship, she locks herself in the cockpit again and feverishly scrolls through mugshots and bounty reward data.

Holy shit. She's been harboring the infamous convict Richard B. Riddick.

Her jaw clenches, muscle twitching against the interior padding of the helmet as she absorbs the newfound information. She should've known. She should have known. Those eyes— she'd heard the merc legends about those eyes.

But fuck... for a guy who'd spent half his life in the slam, he's certainly been affable within these restrictive quarters, mingling with a complete stranger, no less. It's hard to reconcile what she reads on the screen with the man she's been interacting with for the past few artificial cycles. She yanks the helmet from over her head, roughly scrubbing her palms over her face.

When she returns from the cockpit, nerves gathered to the extent they can be, she finds the man halfway through shaving his tan scalp. She stands at the mouth of the living area, the girth of her armor nearly taking up the entire doorframe. Richard B. Riddick, her reserved and shockingly mannered stowaway, sits at the metal table with a compact mirror and razor— a feeble weapon which she now knows could be used against her in all sorts of ways if she were to get on his bad side. Does he even have a good side to be on? She hopes he does, and hopes she's on it. Largely without thinking, one of her hands flutters up to her touch throat as images of it being brutally slit flicker through her mind.

She sits down across from him, folding her hands on the tabletop. He doesn't pause his grooming, doesn't even glance up. His eyeshine remains trained on the little mirror as he meticulously scrapes the stubble from his head with help from what looks like motor gel, no doubt nicked from the cargo bay below. Hatchet purses her mouth into a nervous line beneath the safety of her helm. She can't help but silently observe the flex of his muscles as he moves, every innocuous gesture striking a flustered chord within her. She swallows against the tightness constricting her throat.

"How are you feeling?" She hopes the modulator eliminates the shakiness she feels in her voice.

Logically, she has nothing to be afraid of. Unless this guy is prone to switching demeanor on a dime—which she has no reason to believe he does, based on what she's seen so far—why wouldn't this passive companionship continue? If anything, Hatchet is more afraid of how he will react to knowing she knows his identity now. Either he's been assuming she has known this entire time and just doesn't care, or knows she's been blissfully ignorant and has taken advantage of the anonymity.

He finally spares a glance at her across the table. His jaw visibly twitches, then one corner of his mouth quirks upward. He returns to shaving his head.

"Better. Thanks." He sniffs, sounding indifferent.

"You... uh. Want anything to eat?"

"Naw."

Hatchet exhales, both relieved and oddly disappointed. The storage compartment for the MREs is right beside him, meaning she would've had to stand right over him to retrieve anything.

"You got any goggles laying around?" His deep voice brings her out of her mind. "Been looking but..." he sucks his teeth.

Her brows raise confoundedly. "Goggles?"

"Yeah, you know. Goggles."

Fuck, he must think she's an idiot. She fumbles for words. "Uh. I'm not sure, probably not. I usually just wear the helmet when I need to shield my eyes. Why do you need them?"

He snaps the compact mirror shut and sets down the razor, using the bloody tank he's arrived in to wipe the remaining gel from his scalp. It looks like he'd shaved his beard recently, too, if the dark shadow on his jaw has anything to say about it. Setting the tank down, no more than a scrap rag at this point, he inhales deeply and briefly sinks his teeth into his plump lower lip. Hatchet bites her cheek hard enough for it to hurt, deliberately keeping her gaze from his mouth.

"I wouldn't need them if you didn't keep turning on all the lights," he replies. A hint of dry amusement hides within his flat tone.

"I wouldn't have to turn on the lights if you didn't hide in the shadows all the time," she retaliates. Riddick chuckles like deep, rolling thunder. Hatchet's pulse jumps; fear, arousal. "I'll keep it in mind not to turn them all on. I know your eyes are sensitive to light," she continues.

He suddenly pins her with a suspicious, scrupulous glare. She realizes her mistake and backtracks, sweating bullets beneath her armor.

"I mean, you squint a lot. And you make your way around in the dark better than in the light. I shouldn't have assumed." She's babbling. She can't keep a lid on it.

If he suspects what she knows, he doesn't let on. He cocks his head to the side, eyes glimmering as they trace the contours of her hefty armor. His gaze stops on her visor, right where her eyes should be. Somehow, she feels like they're making direct eye contact.

A questioning smile graces his handsome face. "Do you ever take that damn helmet off? Or do you live in the thing."

Hatchet's face falls beneath the shield of the visor. Her pulse thumps in her throat; a part of her thinks he can sense it. Her demeanor becomes prickly, unchecked. "Why do you care? You're a stowaway on my ship— what is it your business how I eat, sleep, shit—"

"Fuck?" He raises a thin brow, tickled by his own addendum. Meanwhile, Hatchet flushes a fiery shade of red beneath the helm in question. Then, he huffs a short little laugh— more a harsh exhale than anything. "I have to say, your little getup had me convinced at first. But, I know you ain't a man."

Hatchet's heart skips a beat. She disguises her anxiety with derision. "Disappointed?"

"Not in the slightest, sweetheart." A white canine glints when he flashes that oddly charming smile.

That combination—a quaint pet name and that devastating smile—has her feeling lightheaded and confined within her suit. Her hands slip from the tabletop to clench into fists in her lap. He appears upsettingly smug about his little revelation.

"How'd you figure it out?"

His nostrils flare; he takes a deep breath. "Thought I smelled a woman my first night in the bunk. My nose was all fucked up, but... eventually I figured out that sweet smell was coming from you and not some phantom scent hanging around. I give you credit, you had me going for a little while."

Her brow twinges. What a strange man.

She's faced with an internal conflict. She could deny the accusation, but something tells her that won't work in the slightest. She could keep the helmet  and armor on until they part ways, but really what's the point, seeing as he already knows she's a woman; he looks strong enough to pry the armor right off her body anyway. The most logical choice she can make is to take the discovery in stride and go back to living comfortably, with the addition of a slightly threatening guest who does one-armed push-ups in the hallway and lurks around dark corners. The jig is up. He's just that good. Her choice is practically made up for her.

Hatchet's hands raise, slow and tentative, and she maintains what feels a lot like eye contact with Riddick. Her gloved thumbs hook up under the seal, disabling the airlock and visor screen. Air hisses out from the seam at her throat, loosening the helmet's grip on her head. Somewhat dubiously, she lifts the burdensome metal and glass dome from over her head. It comes to rest in her lap as she shakes out her sweat-dampened hair and takes a deep breath of fresh air.

They look at each other's faces for the first time, unencumbered. The visor distorts perception a tiny bit, so it's almost like seeing him for the first time. A permeable scent of sweat and metal lingers between the both of them, despite both having showered recently in the ship's minuscule wash room. She can also smell the motor gel he'd used to shave his head (so strange— must be a leftover trick from the slam, she thinks). The woman is overcome with a bout of anxiety and shyness upon revealing her true face, and flushes under his heavy gaze. She resists the submissive urge to tuck her chin to her chest and avert real eye contact.

"Well... I guess you know who I am, now." She clears her throat; she hasn't heard her unfiltered voice in ages. Her jig may be up— but she still has something of a trump card on him, too. Sure, he might kill her for it, but this entire conversation is toeing the line of life-threatening risk to begin with. She musters courage to utter her next words; "Just like... how I know who you are now, Richard B. Riddick. Thought I wouldn't do a facial recognition scan?"

Hatchet squares her shoulders and raises her chin by a fraction, feigning confidence. He can probably smell her fear. The man inclines his head, brows raised as a chuckle rolls in like a storm. He almost looks impressed with her mediocre detective work.

He smiles that wolfish smile, showing teeth and smile lines. "So, you think you know who I am now, huh? You afraid of the big bad monster now?"

One corner of Hatchet's mouth quirks downward. "Should I be?"

"If you're smart you would be." He levels her stare with that inhuman eyeshine.

"I only fear true monsters. Men who kill for pleasure and nothing more. I read the files on you. You don't kill unarmed women— children. You don't rape them."

It isn't phrased as a question, but he replies regardless; "Naw."

It's actually kind of relieving that he looks a bit offended by the idea. "Then you aren't a true monster. You do what you have to to survive. We all do out here. I can't fault you for killing people trying to kill you. I won't fault you for anything you had to do in the slam."

There's more she would like to say—to tell him he'd been dealt a really shitty hand—but that feels too intrusive for the context of their relationship. She doesn't want to risk angering him by coming off as pitying.

Riddick narrows his naturally suspicious gaze at the woman. He doesn't touch her previous soapbox comment. "So... that mean you're gonna try to turn me in for a payday?"

"Fucking— Jesus, dude," she guffaws incredulously. "Why the fuck would I turn you in after I did so much to save your ass? You're worth more dead than alive, you know. If I wanted to, I could've."

The big man shrugs. "Who knows. Every other merc would."

"Well I'm not every other merc, am I?" She leans back, crossing her arms over her chestplate.

"Naw, definitely not."

If she'd been any less observant, she may have missed the glimmer of flirtation in his tone and demeanor— in his eyeshine. Stifling heat rises like a kettle boiling, tinting her face a noticeable hue. She can only hope she looks disheveled and sweaty enough for it to pass as an exacerbated flush. Abruptly, she stands from the table, wringing her hands in an uncontrollable combination of nerves and bashfulness. The helmet is dumped onto the tabletop, rolling towards the seated man.

"I'll uh—" Her voice cracks; she clears her throat. "I'll look for those goggles for you."

"Good talk," he calls after her as she hastily turns on her heel.

She pauses her stride, mind running a mile a minute to find a way to gain some sort of traction and authority amidst this interaction. She shifts halfway to turn back and face him.

"Hm. Yes, good talk... Richard."

His uproarious laughter follows her down into the cargo bay where she quickly disappears.

———————————————————————

Riddick is both a complicated human and a very simple man. On one hand, a selfish part of him wants nothing more than to take control of this cramped little vessel and fly it fuck-knows where. It's clear to him that this ship and its pilot are a package deal, which brings him to a sort of moral crossroads. On the other hand, this woman—this merc—has been undeservingly kind to him, more so than anyone he can remember. She has a point, too. He'd been dangerously incapacitated for a short while, in which time she could have easily gone and ghosted him or handed him over to some other scummy mercs. But she hadn't. This lone woman, mistrustful enough of others to go so far as to masquerade as a man, had saved his hide and given him shelter and transport, all out of the kindness of her heart. She isn't threatening or outwardly malicious; he doesn't know how the hell she's survived this long out here. Perhaps her assumed persona has gotten her this far after all, amongst the masses less perceptive than himself.

Fuck. Merc or not, he can't just ghost her now.

And besides— he's a man, and she's a woman. Simple as that.

Even suited up to the jaw in armor and reeking of sweat, her newly revealed face stirs something all-too familiar within him. Hell, her scent alone is enough to get him off. Riddick doesn't even have to know what the rest of her looks like to know he wants to fuck her. And she doesn't seem all too averse to the idea of him, either, based on the subtle changes observable in her posture and scent. His senses are too keen to miss the physical and vocal cues she tries so hard to hide with that modulator and beneath the suit of armor. He knows hot and bothered when he sees it; and it's a fucking ego-boost.

After their little conversation, she'd grown more comfortable— if that's the appropriate word for the scenario. He'd revealed her identity and she responded by completely forgoing the suit of armor. Not that he's curious or anything, but he finds himself asking more about her. She shares that she is called "Hatchet," which he thinks is a little entertaining given her rather docile nature. He also learns that she's been in the mercenary business since her early teenage years, which almost always spells trouble for young women— hence why she'd taken up the persona of a more masculine, faceless merc, rather than be perceived as lesser-than by her professional peers. She's funny too, he pleasantly discovers, when not restrained by that helmet.

He's surprised when she comes up to him a few cycles following their conversation. She's dressed in a tank like his (which he realizes is hers) and a mechanic's jumpsuit, the top of which rests tied around her supple hips. He eyes up her body with a brashness that usually intimidates even the most battle hardened of men. She doesn't even flinch— she grows shy, instead. He stands by his previous statement in which he'd wanted to fuck her without knowing what her body looked like, but he's certainly not complaining now in getting to see her without the bully armor to conceal her curves and soft shape. Even the light musculature of her arms and width of her shoulders is hot.

She holds something as she approaches from the cargo bay ladder, and he quickly deduces it is non-threatening. She sidles up to the table where he has been parking himself at more frequently lately. She wears a sweet expression halfway between anticipatory and nervous— not much different than usual.

"Hey, dollface," Riddick greets.

He cocks his head to the side as he looks up at her, observing her through the purplish hue of his shine-job eyes. He quickly discovered that playfully teasing the young woman almost always earns a flurry of entertaining responses; namely flustered yammering and a red flush which trails all the way down to her full breasts. The pet names come easily, oddly enough. She blushes as expected and leans a hip against the table edge. While toying with the object in her hands, she glances between it and him.

"I uh. I found a pair of goggles, since you'd been asking."

She holds her flat palm out towards him, displaying a set of simple black welding goggles. They're essentially like the pairs he usually sports: midsized circular lenses, held in place by a thick plastic compound. Riddick takes the proffered eyewear and tests the weight in his own palm. The strap is a fabric material rather than a continuation of the flexible plastic, but still appears sturdy. He pulls them over his head, lowering the lenses over his eyes. They block out the Iight sufficiently, subduing the vibrant hue of his altered vision.

He scans the woman through the shades, smiling appreciatively. "Thanks, sweetheart. You're a real peach."

Hatchet releases a breathy chuckle. "Yeah, sure. No problem... Richard."

She doesn't use fluffy little names on him like he's begun doing for her. When she does refer to him, she only calls him by his first name. Which, given the fact virtually no one else does, feels like a more powerful naming. It's humanization in its rawest form. She shifts to sit down across from him. Neither of them can ignore the way their ankles tangle together beneath the table, hefty boots knocking into one another. Riddick watches her throat bob as she swallows. He raises the goggles and leaves them perched on his knit brow.

"Okay, so, I've been thinking," she begins, somewhat hesitantly. "Here's the deal— I'll take you wherever you want to go, so long as you don't, you know, kill me in my sleep and steal my ride or something. I think that's only fair since I didn't do the same to you when you were incapacitated. Also, I guess it goes without saying that I'm not gonna tell anyone about this encounter or your whereabouts. If you don't trust my good will, just think how negatively it would affect my life if it got out among the wrong crowd that I've been in cahoots with an escaped convict."

Riddick barks out an abrupt laugh. "In cahoots, huh?"

Hatchet blanches, her jaw opening and shutting several times before she gathers her words. "W-Well, I'm willingly harboring a fugitive, aren't I? I haven't booted you out the airlock yet— so yes, we're in cahoots."

The man's laughter tapers into a light chuckle. He perches his chin on his fist in a way that makes Hatchet tense with bashfulness. A muscle in his thick forearm flexes, drawing her curious eye. Lately, she's been daydreaming about those strapping arms. She's been catching herself daydreaming about the rest of him, as well.

Her eyes dart back to his silvery ones, clearing her throat. "Well, what do you think of my deal?"

Riddick tilts his head, unable to resist smiling. "Sounds good."

The woman blinks at him, big doe eyes wide as she picks apart his reaction. "Ah... uh. Okay, cool." She drums the tabletop with both hands, fidgeting under his heavy stare.

She pushes to her feet suddenly, and Riddick launches up after her. Instantly he crowds her in the tight space, his large frame taking up a majority of her vision. She startles, automatically pressing her hands flat to his built chest. This draws a rumbling chuckle from him as he gazes down at the flustered woman.

Hatchet's heart rate quickens, the muscle thumping wildly in her chest. That pulse begins its mortifying throb between her thighs, too— a desperate, hot desire which boils up without her expressed permission. It's not an entirely unwelcome feeling, but it's certainly indicative of her poor self-control given the situation. She has no clue if this dangerous convict is about to crush her head like a clump of dirt, or if he's going to make a move on her. Those are the only two explanations for his startling proximity to her.

Nervously, her eyes raise to meet his. She finds his head bowed towards her.

"Uh."

"Why don't you ever sleep in your bunk?" he asks, derailing her frazzled train of thought. "Don't you need your beauty rest, sweetheart?"

"O-Oh? Where are you supposed to go if I take back my bunk?"

He hums and sways his shaven head. "We can share."

Brain unable to catch up with what he's offering, she defaults to thinking in a blunt, literal sense. "W-We can't both fit. It's too narrow."

He steps forward and she steps back, only to realize he's effectively backed her against a wall. One of his beefy arms rises, forearm and fist resting on the wall beside her head. He leans further into her space, smiling as he takes a deep breath of her scent. Fuzzy butterflies explode in her abdomen; she goes weak in the knees.

"Oh really? 'Cuz I got a few positions in mind that we can fit into," he purrs. Hatchet lets out a surprised little noise and he ducks closer. "Aw, don't get all shy on me now, babygirl."

"I'm— I—" she stammers.

Her eyes flick between his own and his lips. That now-familiar eyeshine glimmers with heated desire as he carefully observes her. He leans in real slow— torturously slow. The tip of his nose brushes against hers and she shudders. Riddick's breath is hot as is fans across her face. She finds herself panting heavy through parted lips, her chest rising and falling rapidly against his steady one. Her chin ducks low, shyly averting his advance to where he has to chase her lips.

His full lips are shockingly soft when they do finally graze hers— his mouth gentle and curious at first while he tentatively pecks her. The few kisses he lavishes upon her lips are short and teasing, serving only to rile her up further. The heartbeat at her core prompts her thighs to clench; the action doesn't go unnoticed. One of his broad hands clamps over her upper arm, effectively pinning her in place against the wall. The shared kiss grows more frenetic with each passing second. His other hand slides rather possessively up the length of her back, coming to tangle in the hair at the base of her skull. He uses it as leverage to tilt her head back— a move which earns a quiet gasp and unintentional whimper through her parted lips. With a small self-satisfied grin, Riddick takes the invitation to claim her open mouth, exploring teeth and tongue with his own.  

Hatchet can barely catch her breath— especially not when Riddick slips his tongue past her lips. The pulse between her thighs grows increasingly unbearable and she squirms desperately in his tight hold. That hand holding her arm in a vise grip shifts instead to press against her shoulder blade, pinning her to his broad chest. Her own hands find the courage to come up, fingers taking liberty to slip beneath the hem of his borrowed shirt. His tanned skin is warm and pulled taut over an ample amount of muscle. Her hands are cold—they always are while in space—which results in a string of tangible shivers as she drags her fingers up his sides. The thin fabric of the grey tank bunches up around her wrists as her hands continue their exploration upward. Her right hand is careful to avoid irritating the stitched wound over his left-side ribs. Instead it glides to his smooth chest, squeezing a generous handful of his pec.

He chuckles into her mouth and she swallows the deep noise with fervor. Without warning, he crouches and drops his large hands to her ass, hoisting her up with ease. Her legs clamp around his waist on instinct, canting her hips to shamelessly grind her throbbing core against his hard stomach. Her hands continue to grope his muscled chest and arms, appreciative of his powerful physique. All the while, mouths slot together in feverish kisses.

Riddick pivots on his heel and effortlessly pitches forward at the waist, dropping the woman clinging to him down onto the cot. There's little give to the canvas fabric bunk, but it's certainly more comfortable than a metal tabletop. Not that Riddick particularly cares; he's already swimming in visions of bending her over the table, anyway. Only when he deposits her on the bunk and crouches over her does Hatchet release him from her clinging grasp. Her hands barely leave his chest long enough to yank the tank up over his head, relying on his aptitude to fully rid himself of the thing while she continues her impromptu anatomy lesson. While she latches her mouth onto the pulse point of his throat, he plucks the goggles from his brow and flings them aside. They clatter down somewhere unimportant.

Wordlessly, there lingers between them a mutual agreement that this is consensual. This is needed. This has been building up for a while now.

Riddick's broad hands engulf Hatchet's soft waist, squeezing her affectionately. His fingers push upward, skirting along the hem of her own shirt. She parts her mouth from his neck only long enough to allow him to tug the garment up over her head, hastily followed by the discarding of her sports bra, too. His palms are rough with calluses against her sensitive flesh, and unrelenting when they come up to squeeze her bared breasts. The topless woman licks up the column of his throat to just below his right ear, tasting sweat and skin as she suckles the sweet spot. Her fingers dig into his biceps, keeping him in place as she straddles him. She smiles against his hot skin when he groans. His weathered hands explore her torso, sliding from her chest to her back, then down to grasp her waist tightly.

"Fuck, come on," Riddick grunts into her hair. His hands slip lower to her ass, yanking impatiently at the fabric of her jumpsuit bottoms. "Pants."

It takes no effort for him to lift and flip her onto her back again, taking pride in the surprised expression she wears. Her limbs and eyelids feel heavy as she undoes the tied sleeves around her hips, helping him shuffle off her slate grey jumpsuit. She doesn't even realize he's also slipped off her underwear until she feels the cool air of the ship against her bare core. Fuck, all her constant worrying over her appearance, and in the moment she isn't even concerned. She just needs to feel good with him.

Despite this minor revelation, Hatchet briefly feels a tad in over her head as the burly man holds her down by the hips and leans over her. He eclipses the dim overhead light, his eyes shining magnificently. Those nocturnal eyes are growing on her at a frightening rate.

"Richard," she whispers. One hand reaches up to touch his face, petting his cheek before skating over the stubbly crown of his head. "Fuck, Rich."

He drops his head and growls against her hot, bare skin. The sound rumbles beneath her palm where it presses over his heart. That's a new one— Rich. He's never been called that before. He doesn’t dislike it, mainly because it comes from her.

Riddick leaves a trail of hot, wet kisses down her neck and across her chest. His fingers press into her supple flesh of her hips hard enough for it to dimple under the force. He continues downward, laving his hot tongue over her pebbled nipples, teasing his teeth against her delicate skin. With her head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, she remains ignorant to the garland of lovebites he leaves across her skin, decorating her chest with the constellations of the open universe. His lips follow the line of fine hair down the middle of her stomach, until finally stopping just above the curly thatch at her mons. He shifts his attention, choosing to nip at the skin of her inner thighs. He kneels on the floor and roughly yanks her to the end of the cot for better leverage, earning a surprised yelp from the woman. In the same moment, he tucks his thumbs around the underside of her knees and hoists her legs over his broad shoulders. Her ankles automatically lock overtop his shoulder blades.

Hatchet shudders with delicious anticipation. Her big eyes shoot open and head cranes, meeting his silver gaze from where he has positioned himself between her thick thighs. Without much civility or warning, the man stuffs his shaven head into the tight crevice of her thighs. She is suddenly relieved that he'd taken the bandage off his nose almost immediately after gathering his bearings all those days ago, because now he puts the prominent feature to good use against her swollen clit.

A wanton moan claws out from Hatchet's throat as she throws her head back against the rigid cot. Riddick's breath is hot against her cunt, tongue skilled as he works it into her most sensitive area. Two fingers pry her labia apart to get at a more effective angle. Her hands dart to clamp down on either side of his head, her nails digging crescents into his nude scalp. Panting and squirming, she uses her iron grip on his head to grind up against his big nose. He groans low against her core, the vibrations on his tongue adding to her pleasure. Her thighs squeeze against his flushed ears, and for a moment the thought she may suffocate him flashes through her mind. That worry is ejected out into space when his tanned hands come around to grip her where her thighs meet her hips, dragging her even more securely against him.

Her eyes roll back, body wracked with uncontrollable spasms as Riddick brings her increasingly closer to her peak. His nose is replaced by a skillful thumb, rubbing firm circles around her clit. He continues lapping at her cunt, groaning and taking intermittent gasps for air. Just as she feels that hot coil tightening in her lower abdomen, sees white light flickering beneath her lids, he does the unthinkable. He pulls away. Hatchet whines at the sudden neglect and desperately claws at his head in an attempt for him to continue, leaving red stripes on his stubbly scalp.

"I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?" he asks lowly, smugness dripping from his tongue. That isn't the only thing dripping from his tongue; his nose, mouth, and chin are coated in her arousal.

Hatchet laughs breathlessly. "Fuck off."

She welcomes him with open arms when he crawls up over her again, accepting his lips as he presses down to kiss her. She can taste her own wetness on his mouth, but is largely distracted by his hips slotting between hers and grinding down.

He pulls back for a moment, leveling her with an entertained but mildly miffed eyebrow raise. "You got protection?"

Hatchet has to take a moment to catch her breath in order to answer. "Don't worry, I got that fancy implant. Unless you're riddled with some horrible penitentiary disease?" She smiles brightly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with playfulness.

Her hands cup his face when he returns a dazzling smile. "Me? Who do you take me for? A convict?"

She curls against him when he ducks his face to the crook of her neck, warm and blushing as they both laugh. Unabashed, laughing together. It feels bizarrely intimate, and so completely foreign to the both of them. When the brief chuckles taper off and the weight of the scenario sinks back in, Hatchet wriggles her hips against his, attempting to stimulate some friction. The rough fabric of his cargo pants sparks a little something, but nothing spectacular. Catching on to her renewed desperation, Riddick presses weight against her hips, teasing her with his clothed erection. She mewls softly, grinding up against him.

A calloused hand slides up the length of her body to her neck, first two fingers and thumb pressing lightly against either pulse-point. He squeezes just hard enough for her to squirm with an intoxicating faintness, but light enough for it not to harm her. She swallows hard, feeling the pressure of his palm against her larynx. It would be child's play for him to fully wrap his hand around her throat and squeeze the life out of her. This flirtation with death is not only exhilarating, but it's something she'd never considered as enjoyable before now.

She's too busy with panting against the hand around her throat to realize he'd slipped his other one down towards the apex of her thighs. That is, not until there comes a delicious and unexpected pressure against her swollen clit. She jolts from the sudden stimulation. The moan that slips unbidden from her lips is loud and breathy, and she arches up into his devilish touch. His thumb rubs concentrated circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves, the middle finger sliding lower to tease her slit. Meanwhile, he drops his head to press against her temple, lips leaving sloppy kisses on her cheek.

Riddick groans, rutting against her soft thigh. He drags his lips against her cheek, bottom teeth scraping her skin. A tingly shudder ripples through her body.

"You want it, babygirl?" he growls in her ear. "Tell me you want it."

Hatchet whines when his thick finger breaches her entrance, sliding in easily with the wetness of her arousal. Her toes curl and back arches when that searching finger strokes that hidden sweet spot, her entire body overcome with a delicious shudder.

"Fuck," she pants, "Please. I want it."

The hand at her throat inches upward to clasp her jaw, angling her head for him to effectively whisper in her ear. "Want what, sweetheart? Use your words."

Another finger is stuffed into her pussy; she pants and squeezes around them. An embarrassed flush heats her chest and face at being made to speak her desire aloud. In some little act of defiance, she merely continues huffing and rutting against his hand. Punishment for her disobedience comes swift however, arriving in the form of the ceased stimulation. Riddick sucks his teeth and shakes his head in mock disappointment.

"So stubborn," he tsks.

Fuck— that rich, buttery voice sends a desperate throb straight to her neglected clit. She sobs out a pathetic whine, making a futile attempt to force his hand to continue its work.

"Please. Okay, okay. Please, please. I want you, I need you. Fuck me, please, Richard," she begs, voice coming out ragged.

He brings his lips to the corner of her mouth and smiles into the kiss he places there. "Good girl," he purrs.

Hatchet squirms under him, clit pulsing with an immediate flush of blood at the praise. "Say that again," she pants, sliding her hand over the back of his thick neck. "Please, please, Rich. Say that again. I'm— Hah."

She can feel the fond chuckle under her palm as it rumbles in his chest. He wrestles with the button and zipper of his cargo pants while keeping himself aloft with one arm. "My girl. Good girl."

Each kiss steals her breath away, dizzying her with butterflies and anticipation. It takes a hurried moment of effort, but Riddick manages to shuck his trousers and boxers, leaving them in a pile on the floor with the rest of their discarded clothes. Perched on his knees between the woman's spread thighs, he greedily admires the sight of her laid out before him. There's something particularly special about this woman. She's managed to weasel her way into his frigid heart, and he can't find it in himself to complain. She's sweet, and kind, and sure fucking hot. She too watches him greedily as muscles flex in his arms. He plants his hands on her bent knees, dragging them down the length of her soft thighs. Fingers sink into the fat of her hips, dragging her closer.

One glance at his proud erection is enough to draw a flustered whimper from Hatchet's lips; his dick is thick, befitting of the rest of him. She thrusts an arm up over her face, if only to hide the embarrassed blush which splotches her skin. The big man lowers himself over her once more and gently pushes her arm away, murmuring about her shyness. The weight of his cock resting on her belly makes her squirm, which he seems to enjoy greatly, much to her impatient desperation. He slots his plush lips with hers while his left hand slips around her right thigh, encouraging it up. Her knee brushes the bruised wound over his ribs, but he doesn't seem to care all that much as he pins the long limb tightly against him.

In the space between them, he fists his dick and pumps once, twice. He holds Hatchet's lidded gaze with those intense eyes of his, drinking in the dazed sight of her. He drags the cockhead through the wetness of her arousal, teasing her swollen clit before aligning himself properly. His throaty groan mingles with her gasped noises as he slowly presses into her, sheathing himself within her hot cunt. It's a snug fit, lax as she may be. He bottoms out painfully slow, taking his sweet time in stuffing her full of himself. That hand returns to her throat and gently squeezes while he holds himself aloft with the other arm.

Hatchet sucks her teeth against the slight sting of his size. The discomfort quickly fades into a satisfyingly tense pressure once Riddick gets a steady rhythm going. With her leg hiked up over his side, he continually pulls out almost all the way before plunging back into her, driving her down into the stiff cot with each powerful thrust. She shudders with each drag of his thick cock against her inner walls— with every gentle squeeze of his broad hand around her throat.

"Fuck, babygirl. You feel good," he grunts out. "Such a good girl for me. Real pretty." Riddick groans through clenched teeth when her cunt spasms particularly hard around him. His words are like a match to her gasoline.

The hand at her throat shifts away in an attempt to touch as much of her skin as possible— caressing her breast, tangling in her hair, touching her lips, squeezing her waist and hip. It's almost like a compulsion to feel every part of her warm body, to get lost in her skin and pretty noises. Hatchet's hands perform their own exploration; she can't get enough of wrapping her fingers around his biceps and broad shoulders, her breath panting hard against his collarbones as she clings to him. The middle two fingers of his wandering hand come down on her clit again, sparking electric spasms throughout her writhing body. Those fingers rub circles against her sensitive bud, and every so often slip lower to stroke around the spot where they join together.

An especially rough drag and thrust has the tip of cock kissing that sweet spot within her. She cries out and he repeats the motion with an exact precision. He continues hammering into her at that perfect angle, grunting and shuddering with each of her clenches and moans. Light blooms beneath Hatchet's eyelids, that hot pressure coiling up in her belly once more. The combination of internal and external stimulation is enough for her to see stars and arch into the man like her life depends on it.

Nearly animalistic in his frenzy, Riddick can't control himself when his teeth sink into the woman's shoulder. It feels right.

Hatchet cries out at the sharp feeling of his bite, shock mixing with odd delight. He doesn't use enough force to break the skin, but his teeth leave a sting nonetheless. In retaliation, her nails sink into his muscular back and drag downward to his sides, leaving crisscrossing stripes across his tan skin. Somewhere in the back of her mind she recognizes that she may have torn one of his stitches, but he doesn't make any indication of it bothering him. That delicious tension deep in her belly increases almost unbearably; she bucks up into his fingers on her clit, grinding against the hilt of his cock stuffed in her. His mouth latches onto the slope of her neck and bites again, licking the minimal damage each time he retracts his pearly teeth.

Her orgasm comes suddenly, like fireworks. She spasms around him as she comes, back arching up against his hard front as she cries out. Riddick continues pounding into her— continues rubbing her clit through her shuddering orgasm. The sounds of their sex seem awfully loud in the quiet confines of her small ship.

"There we go. Good girl," he murmurs into her throat.

He pushes up on his supporting arm, putting a bit of space between himself and the spent woman. She twitches and pants beneath him, cunt contracting around his continued thrusts. Her nails haven't yet retracted from his sides, clinging as though grasping for purchase. Riddick sits upright with her legs slung around his hips. One hand wipes over his head to clear away beads of sweat, before both come down to clutch her hips.

"Fuck... Where do you want it, sweetheart?" He punctuates with a harsh snap of his hips, plunging deep into her.

Hatchet's wrists demurely cross above her head. Her breaths come in short, exhausted puffs as she wriggles against him. Overstimulation is beginning to fray at her edges, but the feeling of being so full of him overrides the discomfort. She can barely think straight enough to give him a proper response— fucked thoroughly out of her mind.

"Richard—" She groans low in her throat. He's practically rearranging her guts. Tears prick at her eyes. "Fuck. Inside. Please, just— ugh, inside."

He makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. "Sounds good to me, baby." She doesn't have to open her eyes to know the smug, cocky, sexy bastard is grinning. "Nngh, fuck."

Riddick's head tilts back, shuddering violently. He groans loud and holds her steady with his fingers dug into her hips. She feels his hot release spill into her, coating her insides as he ceases his relentless pounding. She's overly sensitive from the intensity of her own orgasm, so his sudden stillness comes as a relief for her tender parts. His chest heaves, fingers twitching.

After an extended moment of basking in the bliss of his finish, Riddick slumps forward. While he's careful not to crush the woman, he does rest a bit of his weight atop her. Sweat-slicked skin meets sweat-slicked skin as they recover together, lounging in the afterglow. He remains partially sheathed within her, allowing a minimal amount of his seed to trickle out around his length.

Amidst tenderly petting Riddick's back, Hatchet nearly gets lost to the grips of sleep. That is, at least until his rumbling voice stirs her again.

"I think you needed that." He noses her throat, inhaling deeply. She cants her hips without thinking, then grunts softly at the feeling of him still buried within her.

"Oh?" she chuckles quietly, "Is that right?"

She smoothes her palm over the back of his head, then traces her fingertips up and down his neck and shoulders. He hums against her clammy, flushed skin. Sentimentally isn't even remotely his forte, but this intimacy feels surprisingly good. Odd and unfamiliar, but pleasant. He feels safe to relax in her hold, resting a little bit more of his weight against her capable form.

"Yep. You're a little uptight."

Briefly pressing his lips to the bite-shaped bruises on her shoulder, he lifts his head. She cracks an eye open to peer at him, then sighs wistfully. He really does have a beautiful face. She caresses his cheek.

"And hey, would you look at that. We fit." He grins wide and smug and raises a brow, referring back to the conversation which started this whole affair.

Hatchet drops her head to the cot and closes her eyes again, laughing heartily. "Fuck you, Richard."

[littlegodzilla]

This is all because this photo and @minervadashwood fault (thank you, i love you my friend) always have the best ideas when I'm in my dirty mood 🤣

So here it goes.

Hope you all like it!!

Enjoy!!

**************

Saint or Evil.

Norman Reedus x Shy Plus Size!Reder.

One shot. Request(?)

Warnings: we have a naughty Norman Reedus. A lot of dirty talk and thoughts. Vibrator Bluetooth devise. Smut. Fluff.

Words: 6000 aprox.

Summary: Sunday dinner with your super religious family with a naughty boyfriend who will make the whole situation anything but decent.

Taglist: @phoenixblack89 @browneyes528 @lilythemadqueen @darylsgarden @thefemininemystiquee @green-eyedladywrites @hail-yourselves @ruinedbythehobbit @xxtinasxxblog @ravenwings73 @spenciepoo338 @b-tchymoon @minervadashwood @darylssluttt @let-love-bleeds-red @ravendixon @livingdeadblondequeen @bringinsexybackk69

***********

"Church..." He says, lying on the bed, on his side, one hand resting on his head. "Are you serious?" A chuckle escapes his mouth.

"Of course I'm serious, Norman." You scold him, pacing back and forth across the room, looking for the clothes you're going to wear. "You know how my family is." You sigh sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling your dark stockings up your short, thick legs.

Norman follows your every move, his eyes roaming your body, his teeth clawing at the tip of his tongue, holding back the desire to rip your clothes off again and force you to stay in bed with him. He loves watching the tight garment hold back your full thighs, those he loves to lose himself between, devouring your tight, secret core, feeling you imprison him there, choking him with your delicious scent, getting him to cum without touching him. He growls low crawling across the bed until he reaches you, his mouth starting to run down the back of your neck, towards your ear, licking its contours, biting your lobe.

"Norman..." You whisper wanting to push him away.

"Come on... you know staying here is more fun." He speaks softly against your ear.

"I-it's my church...I have to go..." You try to sound responsible and hear him laugh.

"If only your church could hear all those naughty little noises and moans you make when you have my cock inside you..." He says in his dark voice and you feel a shiver as your face lights up red.

"Norman, please, d-don't talk like that..." You ask him and stand up quickly knowing that if you stand there one more second you will succumb to his sinful desires.

He is not offended, nor is he angry, his gaze still has that dark, lust-filled gleam. You are shy. You're still shy despite the time you've been together. Norman likes that innocence that never quite leaves you, those nerves that invade you every time he touches you, how you melt in his arms and how you beg for more even though sometimes you're not able to look him in the eye.

"Okay, I'll walk you out." He says at last and you smile gratefully. "But first I need to take a cold shower." He rises from the bed and uncovers his hard cock. You squeeze your thighs together and swallow nervously, your eyes sparkle hungrily and he smiles. "Believe me I'd love to ruin that pretty lipstick of yours, honey, but we don't have time."

Norman scores a point in his favor as he walks to the bathroom, leaving you in the room red-faced with embarrassment, trembling from your own arousal.

**

You and Norman have been neighbors all your lives, growing up, his mother went to the same church as your family, they weren't very devout, but they always participated when they could. You knew your parents didn't like to have too much to do with them, after all Norman's mother was a divorced woman, without a man to help her take care of her son, forcing her to work late into the night 'God only knows what that woman does when she's not at home' you had heard your mother say on more than one occasion. However, that didn't stop you and Norman from becoming friends. The scandal was huge in your house, how could you be friends with him? He was hanging out with friends that were not going to do you any good, you knew that, you were sure Norman had tried drugs stronger than alcohol and even tobacco, but he never forced you to follow in his footsteps, your friendship was decent in your parents' eyes, he took care of you and you, most of the time, helped him with his studies.

Norman was the typical handsome boy at school, the one all the girls wanted to get his attention, athletic and good at sports, though always too lazy to take it seriously. With his blond hair and blue eyes he made all the girls pine for him. In high school things didn't change much, his hair darkened to an ashy blond, almost brownish tone, but far from being a problem, his attractiveness increased. It never escaped your notice that Norman was popular, there was always a new girl or two clinging to his arm when he started a new course or even term, but one day you were unable to curb your curiosity.

It happened after an accident in high school. You were looking for one of your teachers to discuss some terms about the work he had given you when you opened the door to the empty classroom. Norman was there, leaning against the bookshelf at the end of the room, his head thrown back as his hand was lost in the long locks of hair of a classmate who was kneeling between his legs, sucking his...

"Oh God!" an exclamation of surprise escaped you. Norman lifted his head like a spring.

"Oh shit!" he shouted in response pushing the girl away from himself.

"Oh God, I'm sorry!" You screamed again, your eyes falling to his crotch as he tried to hide it in his pants. "Oh God!" You closed your eyes and covered your face with the folder in your hands.

"Wait!" He called out to you, but you had already closed the door and ran out of there, feeling your whole body burning.

It had always been different for you. Whatever experience your friend might have had with girls, you were nil with reference to men. Your body had never conformed to the canons of beauty that society considered 'correct', short, rounded face, thick arms and legs, wide hips and a soft and plump stomach, you always tried to have a regulated diet, being careful with what you ate, but your complexion was like that and you were never going to get the body of those girls that Norman liked so much.

Still, when Norman showed up at your house to apologize for what you had seen, you shook your head and clenched your hands, nervous.

"Did it feel good?" you plucked up the courage to ask him and he looked at you in surprise.

"What?"

"W-what that girl was doing... W-when she had your c-cock in her... mouth..." You finished the sentence between sighs, your face red and your hands sweating copiously.

"Fuck..." Norman was a teenager, and like the vast majority of them, he was able to control his spontaneous erections. "S-sorry..." He apologized as he saw your gaze fall on his crotch. "I-I just didn't think you were capable of saying 'cock'" He said sincerely and you both laughed in embarrassment at the whole situation.

"So?" you insisted and he nodded.

"Yes, it did feel good..."

"D-do you think I could do it too? M-make some guy feel g-good..." You finished the sentence and Norman was breathing heavily through his nose.

Despite your embarrassment and shyness, he could see the curiosity and desire in your gaze, in the way you'd licked your lips as you finished the sentence. All of that made him want you right then and there.

"Do you want to try it?" He asked you in a husky voice, his hand took yours and placed it on his hard crotch.

After that time, there were others, never anything important, nothing serious, something sporadic, an unspoken agreement between you. Norman taught you to explore your body, which could possibly seem ironic, but you had never touched yourself, never explored your body in that way, you had always felt it as something that was wrong, a mistake, in your parents' words 'something sinful' but he showed you how wrong you were.

"Knowing and loving yourself is no sin." He told you one day that your tears had betrayed you. "And you know what, I love being the one to prove it to you."

Regardless of how you might feel after that, the confidence you managed to acquire was sometimes destroyed in one crushing blow. Often by your own parents. You knew they loved you, that they wanted the best for you, but sometimes their words were like daggers.

"You should watch what you eat." Your mother once said when you were having dinner with Norman and his mother. Despite all the previous inconveniences, in the end the two women had become friends. "If you keep this up no one is going to love you."

You paused, sitting in your seat, eyes filling with tears, feeling your breathing quicken with extreme violence. You were being overcome by an anxiety attack that you knew you were going to be unable to control.

But...

"That's silly." You heard Norman's voice next to you. "I love the way she is. She's the perfect girlfriend."

It wasn't his words that cut your breath, but his hand squeezing yours, silently conveying his support and strength, keeping you from crumbling in front of them, your mother from winning with her cruel words.

Norman's mother congratulated you, but when they left your house, scandal soon followed. Your father couldn't believe that you had let a man like Norman lay a hand on you, your mother kept praying and pacing back and forth believing that something evil had possessed you, you assured them a thousand times that Norman was a good boy, that he respected you and made you feel safe and protected.

"If he laid a hand on you...!" Started your father threateningly.

"Dad I swear to God he's never touched me!"

Well, it wasn't the first time you swore in vain either.

**********

Years have passed after all that, you were not a couple all that time, college was your parents' priority and you had to accept the destiny and the future they wanted for you, but you could not refuse, Norman for his part followed his free spirit, photography is his passion since he was a child, how many pictures he took while you were together, all saved and protected with infinite affection, so his future was destined to the whole world, going from there to here, discovering every corner, every new and perfect place.

However, when your lives coincided again, everything went back to where it started, you resumed your relationship and you have never been separated again.

You sigh. It's been four years and you're happy.

"Are you okay?" Norman asks you, driving beside you, one of his hands letting go of the steering wheel and holding yours.

"Y-yeah, just... rambling between memories." You shake your head and smile.

"I hope good ones... with me on top of you, mostly." He jokes and you chuckle softly.

"And why not me on top of you?" you dare to reply and even he looks surprised.

"Oh, girl, don't go there or we won't get to that stupid church ever."

"Norman!" You scold him but can't stop laughing.

When you stop the car in the parking lot, your parents are already waiting for you at the church door. Norman kisses your cheek with incredible affection, you get out of the car and walk to your parents whom you hug and kiss as you greet.

"You showed up with the hippie..." Growls your father and you roll your eyes.

"Good to see you, sir." He ignores his words, Norman, maybe he wears his hair longer than your father would like, but he never responds to your father's criticisms. "Mom, beautiful as ever." He says to your mother and kisses her lovingly on the cheek.

"Hello, Norman." She greets him, blushing a little. They may not like the way he looks, but your mother is no fool and knows how attractive he is. "It's good to see you around."

"I had work, but she said she had to come and I wanted to tag along, so I could see you guys." He lies so naturally that you almost believe him too. For a second you wonder if he won't spontaneously combust as soon as he walks through the church doors.

"Always so attentive..." Smiles your mother and you bite back an incredulous laugh.

"Let's go inside or start the mass without us." Admonishes your father, cutting off the conversation.

Norman walks to the door, holding it to let you through first. Before your parents' eyes his movements are calculated in detail. Always one step away from you, his hands behind his back, always giving you your space, never touching you under any circumstances and of course, the kisses on the cheek when your father is near.

As you enter the church, Norman takes off his sunglasses and leaves them hanging from the collar of his shirt. Your parents sit in one of the pews, you next to them and Norman next to you. You look at him again, his blue eyes riveted straight ahead, down the aisle, he nibbles his lip, scratching at his skin, his hands are tangled between his legs, he has a relaxed, calm posture. Mentally you thank him once again for being there, because you know he is doing it only for you.

He is not interested in these things.

An hour and a half. A long and boring hour and a half has lasted the mass, even you have been bored and normally you endure the whole sermon without looking away, but this time even for you it has been too much. You look at Norman beside you, his jaw has tightened a little, his relaxed and loose arms are now crossed over his chest, his fists clenched, impatient to get out of there, the nervous nibble on his lip has turned into a grimace of utter boredom with cheeks puffed out with restrained air. You regret taking him with you, he wasn't obligated, you could have insisted that he wait for you at his house, but you wanted to go with him that your parents would see that you were still very happy.

"You can go in peace." Ends the priest his sermon.

"Praise the Lord." You recite in response and Norman makes a relieved gesture.

You rise from your seats and leave the church after saying goodbye to the reverend, walk to the parking lot where you have the cars parked and say goodbye to your parents with a hug, again Norman remains in the background, one step removed, squeezes your father's hand in farewell and kisses your mother's cheek.

"Are you coming home for lunch?"

"We can't, we're meeting friends." Norman says apologetically to your mother.

"I hope the party doesn't go on too long." Your father then speaks. "We're having family dinner tonight, like we do every Sunday." He reminds him and Norman nods.

"Of course." He smiles wryly. "We'll be there, sir." He looks at you with a soft smile. "We should get going now."

"Yeah, sure. See you tonight." You say goodbye again and walk to your car.

"The most boring hour and a half of my life." You hear him say as you walk away.

"I'm sorry, Norman..." You apologize sincerely.

"Next time I plan to fuck you right there to add excitement to the fucking sermon." He finishes saying and your skin crawls with goose bumps.

"Norman..."

"I'm serious." He hisses getting into the car. "And don't even think you're off the hook." He tells you as you sit down next to him.

"Me?"

"Oh yes, honey, I plan to punish you for making me waste an hour and a half of my life when we could have been at home having so much more fun." He assures you and you two drive away from the parking lot.

*********

You trust him completely, so when he talks about "punishing you" you know he's not going to hurt you, that it's not a real punishment, however, this time you almost prefer that he yelled at you or even threatened you to this. You hold onto the edge of the dressing table feeling your legs tremble as Norman's fingers very slowly leave you. His mouth kisses your neck and bites the hollow of your shoulder making you sigh.

"How are you feeling?" he asks and you turn to look at him.

"F-fine..."

"No. You know what I mean, how does it feel?"

"Fine." You repeat, nodding your head. "It's strange, b-but it's no different than when..." Your cheeks take on a reddish hue again. "W-when I use a tampon."

"Good." He smiles and kisses you very slowly, caressing your cheeks. "You're going to be a good girl for me, aren't you?" you swallow nervously and nod.

"Y-you won't do anything crazy, w-won't you, Norman?" you almost plead with him and you see how he smiles mischievously and you know you're not going to get out of it.

"Don't provoke me, sweetheart, you're going to be my little slut tonight." He kisses you again and brushes your lips with his thumb. "Come on, your parents are waiting us for dinner."

You close your eyes when, as you move, you feel the device inside you vibrate and gasp holding tightly to the dresser. Norman smiles at the sight of you and lifts up his cell phone, on it is an app that keeps the vibrator connected and moving. You look at him fearfully and he puts the cell phone in his pocket.

"Norman, please..."

But he doesn't say anything, he holds you by the waist and the two of you walk out of your apartment without letting go of the feeling of that thing vibrating very slowly inside you.

***********

On the way to your parents' house, Norman tests the different speeds of the device inside you. There is a scale of 1 to 5 intensity, at 1 you feel nothing extraordinary and 5 has made you scream in pain, so loud that Norman has had to stop the car to make sure you are okay, that he hasn't hurt you. He may want to torture you a little, make you spend an awkward evening with your parents as revenge for that morning at mass, but he would never go to the extreme of you getting hurt, one way or another.

Still Norman is surprised that your tolerance level is 3, it's pretty high and even though your legs won't stop shaking, you do your best to make sure no sound comes out of your mouth. Norman is proud of you and a little proud of himself, he knows he can't call himself a hero but in a way he freed you from the future your parents wanted for you, there was nothing wrong with being a submissive and quiet housewife mother, but he always knew you could have so much more and although in the earthly you had followed your parents' study plans, in the mental and spiritual, Norman always tried to set you free.

"You still have it inside?" He asks with a husky voice.

"You didn't let me pull it out." You protest.

"Good girl, now smile at your father, my little slut" He says putting his hand in your low back, coming inside your parents' house.

You leave your coats in the hallway as you let your parents know you have arrived. Your father's voice sounds from the living room, you want to go over there, but Norman stops you before you can move.

"Wait honey, one more thing." He whispers in your ear. "If you cum with the vibrator on...I'll tell your father that his beloved daughter is a little slut." He looks at you with intensity and again your body trembles, but not from the device. "I promise I will reward you, my little..."

"Watch where you put your hands, kiddo." You hear your father's voice and separate from Norman quickly.

"Good evening, sir." He is greeted by your boyfriend and smiles in a carefree manner.

"Hi, honey go to the kitchen; your mother needs you." He commends you, you nod and head there, on the short walk you feel the device speed up inside you and stumble over your own feet. "Hey, are you okay?" your father looks at you worriedly and you quickly nod your head.

"Y-yeah, I-I tripped." You shake your head and then walk away until you are lost in the kitchen.

You help your mother with dinner, you talk about the day you spent with your friends, you have to make something up because you didn't meet anyone that morning, Norman had made it up, if only your mother really knew what you were doing for real... remembering it your insides tighten and the vibrations become more intense, forcing you to stay still until you can regain your composure. Norman has said you can't cum and you're going to do your best to obey.

Dinner goes as smoothly as can be considering that Norman keeps changing the speed of the device over and over again, making your legs shake. Every time the device moves, presses a different place inside you, it reminds you of the times Norman has made you tremble, you remember the times his fingers have lost themselves inside you, touching your insides, discovering how you like it, how you feel every time his fingers twist and touch that perfect spot that gets you to melt. It reminds you of his cock, always pushing you to the limit, teaching you new ways to make you moan.

"For the love of God..." You gasp unconsciously.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" your mother asks and you freeze.

"Y-yes, it's just..." You swallow trying to compose yourself, you feel Norman's intense gaze on you, as well as those of your parents. "Y-you have to teach me how to make this recipe, t-this is delicious." You lie, somewhat, but you see your mother relax and smile broadly.

"How silly, you scared me." She gets up from the table and gets lost in the kitchen.

Your father also takes the opportunity to go to the living room for a moment, leaving you alone at the table. You need to breathe several times when you feel your boyfriend's hand on yours.

"How wet are you?" he asks in a whisper.

"This is torture..." You tell him and he smiles broadly.

"Remember you can't cum." He warns you and you feel his hand lose itself between your thighs.

Your mouth opens in a muffled moan, you spread your legs apart and let him touch you, even your stockings are soaked. Norman hums approvingly and pulls his hand away holding you by the nape of your neck, he leans over you and kisses you on the temple.

"My good, good, little whore." He whispers in your ear.

"What had I said about your hands, kiddo?" You hear your father again and you throat clears trying to calm down, but Norman drags the chair a little more towards you, now his hand again on yours.

"About that... there's something I want to talk about."

"What is it Norman?" your mother asks worriedly.

"Do you hear that?" suddenly your father puts you on alert. "Don't you hear a buzzing sound?" he asks worriedly and you turn pale.

It's not possible, it's not possible that your father is listening to the vibrator you're wearing. You've always heard your mother say he has incredible hearing, but it can't be. You keep shaking, Norman keeps playing with your insides and your clit is so needy that you're sure you're going to explode at any moment. Suddenly, everything stops.

"I'm sorry." Norman speaks next to you and picks up the phone. "It was my cell phone, sorry."

"No phones allowed at the table while we're eating dinner, kiddo." Grunts your father and he nods.

"I know, sir, but something very important I had on my hands, I couldn't leave it."

"And you're done?"

"Yes, I'm done." He looks at you and smiles. "For now." Of course your parents don't detect that obscene gleam in his eye, but you do and gasp, releasing all the air you were holding in.

"What did you want to tell us, Norman?" your mother asks, bringing you back to reality and he smiles, his hand squeezing yours.

"I wanted to talk to you about something important." He looks at them intensely. "I wanted to make this official and, formally ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."

Your heart freezes, not from the vibrator in your pussy, but from his words. You stare at him with wide eyes, your parents are speechless, but Norman doesn't move an inch, his eyes are completely riveted on your father who seems to be challenging him with his own gaze. Your mother is the first to react, a scream escapes from her mouth raising her hands to the sky and she gets up to run to you and hug you. You are still in shock when you feel your mother's body against yours. Your father finally seems to give in and stands up too, holding Norman's hand. He stands up too and squeezes it tightly.

"I hope you make my little girl very happy, but I'm warning you, Reedus, if she comes, just once, crying home; you're a dead man." He assures him, Norman has to bite his tongue to keep from telling him how many different ways he has learned to make you happy, nods his head and releases his hand.

"I'll keep that in mind, sir. Thank you."

"Honey, we're finally going to have grandchildren." Your mother says jubilantly and Norman laughs softly.

Your mother releases you from her embrace and he holds your hand sliding a beautiful ring onto your finger.

"What do you say, beautiful, will you marry me?"

***********

Arriving at Norman's house becomes torture, the device may no longer move inside you, but your body is at its limit, you have endured all this time as Norman has asked you to, but now that you are home, you can't take it anymore.

Once the door closes, your bodies collide, you kiss each other intensely, Norman's hands hold your face, his fingers tangle in your hairstyle letting your hair dance free at last, his mouth devours you and you give him access to his tongue, you moan desperately and press yourself against him.

"Please... please... please..." You gasp in whispers. "I-I've been good, I-I've been a good s-slut, I haven't cum..." You remind him still shaking, clinging tightly to his arms.

"I know, I know..." He whispers too, shushing you, trying to calm you down. "You've done so well, you're such a good girl." He priases you, kissing you more slowly this time.

"Please, Norman, please..." You beg resting your forehead on his chest and he smiles stroking your hair.

"I told you I'd make it up to you, didn't I? Let me see how wet you are." He asks and reaches under your skirt.

It's a brush, barely exerting pressure on your stockings, the hard seam digging into your swollen, needy muscle. Your eyes roll into your eyelids and a huge spasm shakes your body as you moan desperately against his jacket, you collapse onto his body, your knees unable to hold you any longer. After so much waiting, you have cum with a single rub. Norman is surprised as he can feel his wet fingers through the fabric, he's never gotten you to squirt and now... he wants to do it again.

"I'm sorry..." He hears you say and again a smile comes across his face.

"No, you have nothing to apologize for, you did great." He pulls you away from him a little and kisses you. "You've put up with a lot, haven't you? Now I'm going to give you my prize, but I need you to undress for me, beautiful." He caresses your rounded cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear as you nod your head.

Norman settles onto the couch in his living room, unbuttons his shirt a little and leaves his blazer on a chair, he needs to be comfortable for what's to come. In a way, this also feels like a victory for himself. You've always felt uncomfortable in your own skin, kids can be very cruel at certain ages and your mother wasn't nice either. The first few times you started with all that, you wouldn't let Norman see you, light off, dimmed, or with clothes on, no matter how many times he tried, he could touch you and enjoy you touching him, but always with barriers. Until one day he got fed up and couldn't take it anymore.

It was at his house, when his mother was not home, he took you to his room and asked you to trust him, you had always done it, it was nothing new for you, but when his hands started to unbutton your pants the fears came back to you. Norman made love to you that day in front of a mirror, forcing you to look at yourself, forcing you to feel with every nook and cranny of your being. Whispering words in your ear.

"Look at you, you're beautiful." "You are perfect." "See how your body enjoys this." "Feel how your whole being takes me to the limit..." "Because fuck... you don't know how much it turns me on to see you..."

Maybe it wasn't instantly, maybe it wasn't a successful change right away, but every time you were together, Norman got you to strip a little more for him, without having to ask.

And now you're there, in front of him, without a single garment covering you, yes, it's still hard for you not to want to cover yourself, because he knows that this shyness and this way of thinking that your parents engraved in fire in you, will never disappear completely, but he admires, he adores how strong you are, how much you want to fight against it. Norman runs through your body with his gaze, you are trembling, not only because of the excitement that invades you, the device inside you moves again, very slowly, Norman has turned it on while you were taking off your clothes.

"Come here." He says in a hoarse voice feeling his pants squeeze painfully tight.

You walk slowly towards him, he takes your hand and makes you sit on his lap. His mouth kisses you, runs over your skin, the tip of his tongue tracing a small path to your nipples, licks, sucks, nibbles harmlessly and catches inside his mouth when he hears you moan. He takes his time, there is no hurry at all, there never has been, but today less than ever, he wants to run you through as you deserve, he wants to tear the presence of your parents from your mind with kisses, bites, whatever it takes. His mouth closes over your throat and kisses, sucks and licks your skin, a moan escapes your mouth, as he pulls away, a reddish mark begins to form and he smiles in satisfaction. Your gazes meet, your eyes are cloudy with pleasure, nervousness and desire overtaking you, his eyes are charged with lust and need.

"Tell me something, babe." He says, his lips sealing his touch against your chest again. "Now that we're engaged...I don't need Daddy's permission to fuck you senseless anymore, do I?"

"Norman!" you groan in protest and arousal as his fingers enter you without warning.

"Yeah, I thought so." He gasps and wraps his arm around your lower back to move you and lay you down on the couch.

You've always been amazed at how easily he can manipulate you at his whim, you know you're no lightweight, but he always manages to direct you smoothly.

Without removing his fingers, which he moves inside you, twists and spreads open, he leans over your body and his mouth catches your cruelly neglected clit. As he has done with your nipples; he licks, sucks and bites your tremendously sensitive button, his tongue running along your folds, his mouth filling with more than just drool. You arch up on the couch, his name escaping your mouth between moans, your hands clutching his head and tugging on his hair as you feel his mouth and fingers take you over the edge again.

"Norman! Norman!" you cry out desperately, the stream of pleasure so intense that your legs won't stop shaking, you squirt again.

This time the liquid falls into Norman's mouth, which causes his own arousal to increase, he grunts rolling his eyes, his mouth drinking directly from you, his fingers squeezing so hard into the soft flesh of your waist that it hurts, but you will only be aware of it the next day when you see the red marks on your skin.

His fingers move again feeling you contract against them, still spasming from your orgasm, but he is searching for something. He catches the vibrator string and pulls it out of you, very slowly hearing you sigh, your pussy contracting at the empty sensation. It won't be for long though.

"I'm going to fuck you so good, baby..." He whispers running his fingers through your wetness, watching your breathing quicken. "You heard your mother, she wants grandchildren." He teases, but at the same time waits for your own response.

"Then don't even think about pull it out." You reply, spreading your legs further apart.

"Fuck, girl..." He roars and gets up from the couch.

He throws his shoes nowhere and gets rid of his pants and boxers, strokes his cock in his hand, head red, spitting pre-cum, but still able to hold on to go to the bedroom and fuck you like you deserve. You sit on the couch, licking your lips and look at him intently, Norman reads your intentions and smiles half-sideways. He walks back up to you and holds your chin, brushes the tip of his cock against your lips and you open your mouth, leaving a wet kiss on it.

"Fuck... remember the first time you gave me a blowjob?" He asks between clenched teeth, squeezing the base of his cock, doing his best not to cum right there.

You shiver, stick out the tip of your tongue and lazily lick the cleft of his glans, collecting the leaking liquid. Norman hisses as your lips close over his tip and he ducks his head, he needs to see you, needs to see how your lips envelop him, how you hollow your cheeks and how you slowly engulf his length, resting your hands on his thighs that are also trembling with desire. Your head moves in a gentle pumping, up and down, your tongue flicks across him and your lips tighten once more as you reach his head, to slide back almost all the way down, your saliva dripping onto his balls.

"F-fuck..." He huffs in a raspy voice and holds you down to stop you. "Get up." He asks and holding you by the hand, leads you up to his room.

The kisses are again desperate, insane, Norman's hands run all over you and at the same time that lack of focus on himself manages to calm him down. He pushes your body against the door, holds you there as he devours your mouth, again and again, his tongue fucking your mouth. You tangle your hands in his hair, your leg goes up to his waist and he pushes his hips against you, not entering, just rubbing against your core. Again he guides you without much effort, you lie down on the bed and Norman has you position yourself on top of him.

"Come on, girl, fuck me." He grunts and his hand spanks you.

You gasp, but you settle on top of him, hold his cock and slowly sit, sliding inside you until you're sitting on top of him again. Norman closes his eyes and bites his lip, you sigh, rest your hands on his chest and rock your hips very slowly, accommodating yourself to his size, watching as he opens his mouth in a muffled moan and his hands claw at your thighs. There, watching him completely at your mercy, you suddenly feel powerful, important and loved. The ring glistens on your finger and for a few seconds your eyes fill with tears, but you pull yourself together, lean your body back, gripping his knees, Norman repositioning himself under you to make you more comfortable and you increase the speed of your hips.

"Oh fuck, that's..." He grunts under you, feeling his cock slide in and out, by the rhythm of your hips. "Shit, you feel so good..." His hands run up your legs, squeezing your wide hips and back down to your thighs, you moan, speeding up some more. "Yes, come on, milk me like only you know how, my little slut."

"Norman!" you moan again, bouncing on top of him. "H-help me." You ask feeling your arms start to go limp.

Norman grins beneath you, his fingers grip your waist, digs his heels into the mattress and begins to fuck you at an insane pace. You both moan and scream loudly, his cock ruining you every time he hits that precise spot, your head drowning in pleasure. Norman feels his legs shaking again and knows he's reaching his own limit. He stops and joins in, hugging your body, surrounding you with his whole being, moving your hips on his cock again, relentlessly until he finally explodes inside you, vibrating each time your pussy clenches and sends a new wave of pleasure to his balls, he embraces you, keeps you glued to his body, his face hidden in your neck, his hot, erratic breath gives you goosebumps, he feels your nails digging into the skin of his shoulders, it hurts, but he certainly isn't going to complain.

Slowly you both catch your breath, you separate a little to look at him and share a slow, tired kiss. Your eyes stay more closed than open and Norman smiles, pushing your hair away from your face again. How he loves to see you like this, wild, alive, free.

"Hold on a little, okay?" he asks you in whispers. "I'm going to run you a bath." He offers but you are only able to hum in a nod.

He smiles leaving a kiss on your forehead, carefully pulls out of you and lays you on the bed, you curl into a ball, hugging the pillow, sinking your nose into it. You love the Norman smell it gives off.

He gets out of bed and goes into the bathroom, regulates the temperature and puts the plug in so that it fills up, he also puts in one of those scented pills that you like so much, he doesn't like so much, he feels like a lollipop after getting out of the water, but that night he can make an exception. When the bathtub is full, he comes out to find you, you've fallen asleep, hugging his bed, he smiles, his heart hammering hard in his chest, he could spend his life admiring you and never get tired of it. His smile grows wider when he notices the ring on your finger.

A lifetime of admiring you. He could definitely do it now.

.

.

***********

The End.

******

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.

Okay!! I hope you liked it!!

See you in the next stories!!

[69misato69]

Prism (Alhaitham x Kaveh) ✦ smut, 2k

archive of our own ✦ twitter ✦ masterlist

kaveh decides to try on his pre-transition clothes before giving them away. both are trans men (he/him pronouns, afab genitals)

the dress that kaveh is wearing here is this one

cw: penetration (strap-on), light gender dysphoria

writer's note: explicit +18 content, please view at your own risk. thank you, have fun !

Top Alhaitham x Bottom Kaveh

Kaveh crosses his arms in front of the mirror with a sigh. The bedroom is overtaken by piles of dresses, skirts and blouses of every color. 

Lace, cotton, velvet, leather.

Bows and gowns, summer dresses and stockings.

Kaveh’s past is laid out over the bed and along the floors. Mere pieces of fabric that witnessed every single day of his life. Dates, parties, graduation ceremonies, birthdays and funerals.

Days where he couldn’t collect himself off the floor and nights he spent drawing with aching eyes. 

Undergarments that were no longer useful to him. 

Reminders of the times he felt too broken to even figure out what was wrong with himself. 

Like flipping through a photo album, Kaveh can watch a confused child grow into one wreck of a teenager. 

It’s hard to spend your life pretending to be something you’re not. 

It’s even harder to find people that care for you along the way, fearing their rejection at every step. 

Fond memories that will always be shadowed, because no one even knew who you were on the inside. 

Kaveh studies his image in the mirror.

It doesn’t look wrong. 

It’s not how a man looks, but it is how this man looks. Kaveh is at peace with that. 

Still, it’s not something he can wear on a night out with Nilou, for instance. Not like he can wear it to an anniversary dinner with Alhaitham like he did the first time.

He remembers scouring every shop in Sumeru for this dress. 

“What’s the occasion, Miss?”

“Oh! First anniversary with my girlfriend, nothing extravagant. Something simple, though I’d still like to look stunning.”

“Ah, congratulations! I understand. Could I interest you in this velvet piece, maybe?”

Kaveh strokes the fabric, soft and fluid, it still hugs his body perfectly. Ruby red, just like his eyes, it sits on his shoulders and reveals his back in a V-shaped opening, all the way down to his waist. 

Kaveh remembers vividly how Alhaitham had palmed over his back when they had met for the date. A gentle kiss on his cheek before they walked to the restaurant, hand in hand. 

The necklace Alhaitham gifted to him on that date is the only thing he still uses among his old clothes and accessories.

It's a stunning piece, decorated with ruby stones as if Alhaitham had known what he was going to wear. 

He can’t help but smile, yet the look on his face turns to terror soon as he hears keys turning at the lock. He steps into the entrance and holds onto the door’s handle.

“Kaveh?” 

“Stay out!” he gasps.

Alhaitham doesn’t force the door to open and instead leaves it ajar, barely getting a glimpse of the hall. “Why?” he asks, puzzled.

“I’m—uh…” Kaveh struggles to come up with an excuse—

“Naked.”

“So?”

Kaveh scoffs, “Just—give me a minute!”

“Are you painting the walls without asking me again?” 

Alhaitham knows how comfortable he is when they’re alone, so when Kaveh wants him to keep out, usually he’s up to no good. 

Kaveh’s brows furrow, “No, that was a one time thing. But, I still think they would look better in—ugh—nevermind. Just... close the door and give me a minute.”

Alhaitham leans on the doorframe, “You know I can see you, right?”

A moment of silence passes as Kaveh notices. Half of Alhaitham’s face is reflecting on the small mirror that hangs in the entrance. 

He locks eyes with the scribe through the reflection, frozen in shock. Alhaitham can’t see below his neck, but it’s enough for him to recognize that this isn’t a part of Kaveh’s daily clothing. 

“What are you wearing?” 

The calmness of his voice contrasts the racing thoughts that corrupt Kaveh’s mind. 

He takes a deep breath and leans on the wall, “I’m trying on my old clothes before giving them away.” 

Alhaitham hums, his face disappears from the mirror as he steps back.

“I see. Call me when you’re done.”

Kaveh holds his breath, “You can come in.”

He makes his way into the bedroom again and stands by the dresser’s mirror. The door closes, footsteps follow him into the room. Kaveh places his hands on his waist nervously, refusing to turn around, “What do you think?”

Somehow, it’s easier to talk to Alhaitham through the mirror. It feels less real, like a dream he could wake up from if he wanted to. 

“It’s the one you wore on our first anniversary.” 

Alhaitham makes his way toward him until there is nothing but a mere inch between them. 

“There was a button hidden…” his fingers roam Kaveh’s waist until they stumble upon a hard object right above his ass, “...here.” 

It’s buried strategically under the fabric, blending in seamlessly. 

“I remember looking for it for 15 minutes since you were passed out.” 

Kaveh realizes he had forgotten about the other half of their night. Well, there wasn’t much to remember on his part anyways, nothing but faint glimpses of Alhaitham carrying him home and laying him on the bed, how he meddled with the dress and wiped off his make-up. 

The only thing that’s crystal clear among the hazy memories is what Alhaitham had said to him right before they fell asleep.

I hope we can celebrate it forever. 

Kaveh remembers, because he thinks about it often. He finds it odd. Alhaitham would never say forever. Forever was out of reach for mortals like them. It wasn’t attainable, and Alhaitham wasn’t one to attempt it anyways.

Whenever Kaveh feels like he could lose him, he remembers. 

He makes Alhaitham believe in forever. 

Kaveh chuckles, “Hey! It wasn’t my fault the cocktails had too much sugar.”

“Maybe it was because you had seven of them.” Alhaitham teases, smiling at him from the mirror.

Kaveh’s chuckle fades away.

“I’d like to keep this one but… it’s just going to rot away in the closet.”

Alhaitham’s hands grip him tighter, outlining his hips and waist, “You could keep wearing it.” 

Kaveh feels his heart skip a beat as the fabric crumples under his grasp.

“Would you?” he asks, genuinely curious. Alhaitham shakes his head to the sides, Kaveh can see how he examines the back of the dress diligently. 

“No. But that’s because I never liked dresses.” 

“People would be… confused.”

“Certainly.” Alhaitham raises his head to meet Kaveh’s gaze in the mirror, “Let them.” 

He finally pulls the blonde closer. Kaveh’s bare back meets his chest. He brushes the messy strands of hair to the side over Kaveh’s shoulder and presses a kiss on his nape. 

“You look as handsome as ever.” 

It’s strange yet beautiful, watching Alhaitham touch him. 

How his hands travel up to cup his breasts, fingers teasing his nipples over the fabric. 

Tender and loving, affection drips from his gaze. Alhaitham handles him with care as Kaveh’s breathing gets heavier. 

He feels blood rush to his cheeks, matching the color of the dress and his hairpins. Alhaitham kisses at his shoulders and his neck and eventually slips his hand inside the back window of the dress. 

Kaveh hisses at the cooling touch, a hand that lingers on his stomach, a bulge forming under the fabric. He watches from the mirror how the outline of Alhaitham’s fingers move up and down along his skin. 

He feels them on his hip bones and his ass, drawing circles on his torso and stroking his breasts gently. Though he’s slow and steady, Kaveh can already feel his underwear dampen, a flame bright enough to warm his thighs. 

He grows weaker with every drag of Alhaitham’s nails digging into his back, until he can’t help but moan—

“Haytham…”

His eyes peel away from Kaveh’s body, only then recognizing what a flushed mess his face is.

“Yes, dear?” he coos. 

“Could you—” 

Kaveh feels light-headed, he places his palms over the dresser and leans forward, bending at the waist slightly. His face falls forward, no longer within Alhaitham’s vision. 

Even though he can’t finish his sentence, Alhaitham’s hand travels downward to brush against his groin. 

“Is that it?” he unties the knot holding the two sides of the dress intact with his other hand. Kaveh nods. He shivers as the dress slides off his shoulders and exposes his upper body fully. 

Alhaitham hums, slipping his hand inside Kaveh’s underwear to find him soaking wet. A low groan vibrates over Kaveh’s back. He collapses even more over the dresser, practically bent over with his legs spread out.  

Alhaitham circles his hardening clit with gentle motions as he hisses. 

Kaveh can’t help but push his hips back, grinding in desperation. Alhaitham knows how to touch him, how to play with him just the way he likes it. Spreading his lips and sliding a digit inside, knowing that Kaveh yearns to be stretched out. 

Kaveh’s hips twitch, shaky at the intrusion. 

“M—my legs—” he pants in worry. 

Alhaitham wraps an arm around his waist, “I’ve got you.” 

Kaveh trusts his hold, it’s hard to focus on standing up when Alhaitham’s fingers roam his walls and curl up inside him. Every thrust elicits a squelch from Kaveh’s sopping wet cunt, warm and inviting.  

Alhaitham fixes Kaveh against the dresser with his own body and releases the arm wrapped around his waist. He holds the golden strands that fall onto his face and props his head up gently. They lock eyes, lust and slight embarrassment cloud Kaveh’s gaze. 

He wants to lower his head, and Alhaitham knows that he will do so no matter what. Even if he yanks on his hair, Kaveh will keep forcing his neck until he’s sobbing in pain. 

So, Alhaitham decides to let go.

Instead he leans over Kaveh, holding him even closer. 

“Why won’t you look at me?” he asks with a tone that lacks judgment. 

He wants to, he really does. But there is no way that Kaveh can watch their reflection for more than ten seconds without releasing on the spot. 

Watching what Alhaitham does to him, it flusters him even more than the act itself. Kaveh whimpers every time he catches a glimpse of his twitching hips and Alhaitham’s muscles that flex and release with every flick of his wrist. 

Kaveh finds himself beautiful on most days, but this is the first time he actually feels like he can get off by watching his own image. 

Regardless, he lacks the conviction and the steady breathing to articulate any of that. He attempts to look up but immediately squirms inside the strong arms that hold him in place, which confirms Alhaitham’s suspicion. 

“You like the mirror?” he asks, though it comes off as more of a statement.

Kaveh gasps, “Shut up.” 

Alhaitham can’t help but chuckle.

“I was planning on carrying you to the bed, but maybe you’d rather I fuck you right here?” 

Kaveh’s heart skips a beat. He looks up daringly—

“Do it.” 

Alhaitham’s brows raise, surprised at the sudden surge of confidence. He retracts his fingers and kneels down to the bottom drawer. 

The strap circles around his waist as he adjusts himself and lines up behind Kaveh.

Alhaitham looks exquisite, even better when he’s fucking him. Focused yet euphoric, the veins on his neck throbbing with the strain deliciously. 

And now, a different angle where Kaveh can watch his body from afar, drinking up the sight of his beloved. 

Alhaitham enters him with ease, pushing all the way into his wall with one smooth thrust as Kaveh lets out a deep moan. 

More slow thrusts follow, passionate, working him out slowly. Moans and grunts spill from Kaveh’s lips with each one.

Alhaitham slowly picks up the pace and attains a rhythm, nails digging into Kaveh’s hips. He feels overwhelmed by pleasure, failing to track his orgasms.

“Watch yourself. Look how well you’re taking it.” Alhaitham whispers against his neck.

He is. He looks mesmerizing, breasts swaying with every thrust, his back arched perfectly while his warm breath fogs up the mirror. Kaveh finally musters up the courage to look into his own eyes. 

It feels foreign and familiar at the same time. 

“Beautiful.” Alhaitham pulls him out of his thoughts and presses a kiss between his shoulder blades, “My sunshine.” 

Tears pool around Kaveh’s eyes. His gaze turns towards Alhaitham, thrusting into him rhythmically and gazing down in adoration.  

Alhaitham is just like him. Surely, built compared to himself, but he’s soft. Kaveh loves napping on his chest. He loves warming his hands inside Alhaitham’s shirt in the winter, he loves kissing up at his thighs and how Alhaitham squeezes his fingers tight deep within himself. 

All that he resented in his youth, he adores when it’s on Alhaitham. 

Femininity that has nothing to do with flesh. 

It manifests itself as sheer will and courage within him. Power and creation. Intelligence and beauty. Sharp edges that only smoothen out for Kaveh. 

He turns towards Alhaitham as he undoes the button on the back without looking. The dress slides off fully, pooling around Kaveh’s ankles while he holds onto Alhaitham’s shoulders.  

Kaveh is too mellowed out to even rise to his tiptoes.

“Kiss me.” he demands, and Alhaitham doesn’t waste another second before leaning down to claim his lips. 

[7grandmel]

Todays rip: 15/08/2023

A love letter to this wonderful community and my amazing friends

Season 4 Episode 1 Featured on: Now That's What I Call Quality! 2

Ripped by New Guy Visuals by Supahstar Clod, Harmony Friends

You're gonna have to excuse me if I get my timeline wrong here, but...New Guy was a known commenter before he was part of the SiIvaGunner team, right?

For those out of the know, sometime around early to mid Season 2 a perculiar youtube commenter made a very bold claim on a SiIvaGunner video. This person, named "New Guy" and sporting a stock photo of a red wagon as their profile picture, declared that he was going to watch EVERY SiIvaGunner rip yet uploaded and comment on each one. To my knowledge, this was before anyone beyond the Wiki had tried to actually categorize the rips in chronological order into a playlist or something to that knowledge. It became a bit of a spectacle to see unfold in the background, going to old rips on occasion to see if New Guy had made it there yet and Liking his comments in support of his endeavor. Eventually, New Guy DID catch up, he sent in a few rips of his own to the channel, was noticed by the internal SiIva team - one thing led to another, and now New Guy is part of the core SiIvaGunner creative team.

With all of that build-up, and all of that history, we move to the start of Season 4, and todays rip. Ripped by New Guy himself before he was made a full member of the team, A love letter to this wonderful community and my amazing friends had the absolute honor of being the debut rip of the season. Paired with the context and visuals, the song takes on an even more emotionally charged feeling than it already holds. It uses the somewhat-obscure EDM song Konpeito by Synthion as its base, and builds on it with a flurry of different sources iconic to the channel mashed up with it along the way. It feels like a real journey throughout the channel's three prior seasons, a celebration of every big moment - Smooth from Season 2, Mr. Rental from Season 1, Sean Kingston from Season 3, long-running staples like PSY, Space Jam and Grand Dad, and even referencing specific takeovers like "Whip and nae nae day" from Season 2.

Its a big, comfy blanket of a rip that continues to remind me of just everything I love about the channel - I would write more, but I don't think I'd be able to stop myself if I were to go through it piece by piece. All I'll say is that New Guy's story is one of the most fun pieces of SiIva history I know of, and the rip itself is such a perfect encapsulation of all the emotions felt at the start of Season 4.