#all flesh must be eaten

[prokopetz]

I was wondering, do you know of any systems that are Zombie-themed? I was about to home-brew a one-shot, but then I thought of you and I figured it was worth at least consulting the oracle to see if maybe you already knew of one.

Asking "are there any zombie-themed tabletop RPGs" is kind of like asking "are there any tabletop RPGs with elves in them" – it's one of the more popular subject matters, outside of direct D&D clones (and fairly popular even within the sphere of D&D clones, for that matter).

Without further guidance beyond "zombie-themed", it's too broad a question to give targeted recommendations, so I'm going to go with the classics: check out All Flesh Must Be Eaten. It's not the most modern system out there in terms of its design sensibilities, but it's reasonably approachable for players whose prior experience is mostly with D&D, and it's got loads and loads of add-on sourcebooks if you want to fine-tune your zombie experience: cowboy zombies, pirate zombies, kung fu zombies, transhuman cyborg zombies – even zombie professional wrestlers, if for some reason that's a thing you want!

[haveyouplayedthisttrpg]

Have you played ALL FLESH MUST BE EATEN ?

By Al Bruno III; CJ Carella; Richard Dakan; Jack Emmert; M. Alexander Jurkat

You are a survivor in a zombie apocalypse scenario (or one of several other genres with zombies added. E.g., kung fu or western)

[stoelting]

Find me at #Origins on Saturday and you can have a free copy of “Tainted Blood”. I wrote this adventure for #ElfLairGames and their #NightShift Veterans of the Supernatural Wars. If you don’t catch me before I run out, you can get it for free at DriveThruRPG

Hint: I wont be in this shirt

[chuthulhu-reads]

[ID: Two panels from Dungeon Meshi. The first scows Senshi clutching his face as tears start to spill out of his eyes, saying, "I've always... always wanted to have this soup one more time." He's not wearing his helmet in this panel, so his face is unusually visible, detailed and vulnerable. The second panel shows himself as a youngster, surrounded by his old mining team, all smiling at each other, one of them rubbing Senshi's head. Modern-day Senshi continues, "Thank you. All of you. Thank you." End ID.]

Holy shit. I anticipated some tragic backstory from the "I must feed the young ones" panels, but what I'd guessed was that Senshi might have become so devoted to cooking and eating literally whatever because he'd previously survived a famine and had seen children starve to death. I did not expect him to have been the child who was the sole survivor of a doomed travel party, one of whom was determined to feed Senshi first because he was the youngest, and that Senshi has lived with the fear of having inadvertently committed cannibalism by eating stew that he'd never quite known the contents of. I'm happy for him that Laios deduced and confirmed for him that it was griffin meat, that he was able to taste the meal that saved his life once more and remember the friends he lost. Seriously, I'm crying, and also earnestly relieved that while his backstory is pretty dark, it's not the type of fucked up I'd been preparing myself mentally for.

[whoresforhorror]

media literacy (and why it's so hard to be a horror fan in 2024)

a lot of my friends are really into Mouthwashing right now and when I asked if I'd like it, a few people immediately told me there's really heavy themes of rape and that might be upsetting for me. But then I found out there was cannibalism which is a surefire way to get me into a piece of media and that made me consider getting into it again. Ultimately after reading a plot summary I decided not to play Mouthwashing, and it's weird to be waxing so much meta about a game I haven't played and don't plan to, but in having the conversation I thought a little bit more about that difference. How it's weird that I'm willing to consume a piece of media if people eat human flesh in it, but get so uncomfortable with rape due to personal boundaries and like

Is cannibalism worse than rape? isn't it kind of the same thing? What's the difference between consuming someone's body for sustenance and using someone's body for pleasure? And with media, is it possible to use something terrible for good purposes? To me the answer to the last question is obviously yes; I'm strongly of the opinion that there's no subject too dark to discuss in a story. But most people could agree that there's a "right" and "Wrong" way to tell a story. If you make a movie that lingers on long unnecessary shots of women's bodies, that's probably navel-gazey and weird, and viewers may rightfully side-eye you a little bit. But if you make a movie about the exploitation of women's bodies - say something like the X trilogy where most characters are pornstars - it becomes almost necessary to have boobs and butts left and right or else your story won't be realistic.

It's weird to live in a time of more dark media than ever, contrasted with less media literacy than ever. Horror and dark litfic are extremely popular genres, but a lot of their audience seems unwilling to engage with those genres past a surface level analysis of "thing bad"/"thing problematic" or "you can write about thing, but not like that." If you write about a Bad Thing, you have to make sure that the text explicitly condemns it. If you have a point of view character who wouldn't condemn it, you need to make sure that character dies at the end so that the audience comes away from your story with the proper moral lesson. All fairy tales need to have a moral at the end; all horror stories need to as well, or at least, that's what fandom would have you believe.

But where do we draw the line, right? Is it okay to talk about cannibalism because that's not something that really happens in the modern world (assuming you're a sheltered westerner that is), but not okay to talk about rape because that's still something that happens everywhere to the point that almost everyone knows a rape survivor? Is it okay for someone who has never experienced rape and/or SA to write about it? Do we need to necessitate pain as a prerequisite to examine it's aftermath? have my meds kicked back in yet or should I up my dosage again?

And asking again because I'm curious what people think: is cannibalism worse than rape?

[brainstirfry]

REACTION SPEED [Heroic: failure] - a single ravioli, damp from the water, still pleasantly steaming, lands with a defeated slap, on the linoleum floor. You see it happen, watch it flip through the air, like an Olympic bronze off the high-dive, or a suicidal veteran of war. you feel yourself shout a "No!", but it is too late. there, the ravioli, impossibly, lays limp. FORSAKEN RAVIOLI - Why, it thinks, why me? For all the time I was grown and processed then crafted and for all the time I have waited for the only purpose which I was made for. To be cast so suddenly, so errantly, into the realm of the beyond? Beyond savior. DRAMA - And here you stand, clad like a captain with your wooden spoon, watching as an honorable soldier, nay, a man, lies without your hand to aid him, on the kitchen floor.

VOLITION - you must act, now! first it must be picked up, then its fate can be decided. COMPOSURE - Its fate is the trash. AUTHORITY - Its fate is the trash. YOU - You pick up the ravioli, it is hot, nearly still boiling, gushing steam and hot pasta blood down your hand. It hurts, but standing here, there is nowhere else for it. PERCEPTION - It looks fine... LOGIC - Don't do this. SHIVERS [Heroic: Success] - Somewhere southeast of here, perhaps hundreds of miles, grain sprouts in a field, rich wheat, and butternut squash, only an acre over. The wind whistles through the fields, running like gleeful children through the tiny, green plants. Some will be eaten by birds, worms, or moles, but some will reach high into the sky, where they will be plucked and ground into pasta dough. You have seen the birthplace of this soldier. It is humble, a beautiful childhood, and so, so long ago. An entire pasta-lifetime, now. FORSAKEN RAVIOLI - I thought I had finally made it. And with my brethren... YOU - You look at the bowl, the rest of the ravioli, steaming in mournful, pyrrhic celebration. My company... EMPATHY - This ravioli could be you. You can't give up on it now. Not because of your own mistake. AUTHORITY - This is not what a dignified man would do. send him off and mourn, perhaps, but do not spend one moment more considering his limp, cooling corpse. DRAMA - Where has your heart gone, O Honorable One? Authority - … EMPATHY - the greatest service you could do for this little soldier, and for all those beyond you that forged him, is to eat him. What else is rightfully to be done? VISUAL CALCULUS - It was on the floor for less than 4.7 whole seconds. ENCYLOPEDIA - most forms of bacterium are able to jump, especially to wet materials, in about 1.2- PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - any residue on your kitchen floor may well be material which was once already in your stomach. CONCEPTUALIZATION - if you think about it, that means you've already kind of eaten the ravioli.

INLAND EMPIRE - From the Floor, Of the Floor, To the Floor. To be, or not to be, one with this eternal cycle? ENDURANCE - Anything the floor could not contain, you could digest. (with VOLITION) We are iron. HALF LIGHT - Bite into its soft, warm flesh. EMPATHY - Give it peace. ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Eat the floor-violi, pasta slut! YOU - weeping, bring the ravioli to your lips, and then, impossibly, with infinite mercy, love, bring it into you. It tastes fantastic. You would have never know it was on the floor at all. You can feel the hum of satisfaction, the glory of it in your lungs, swelling to fill you more than even a pasta-feast could. This is the mercy you wish your God could cast on you, when you fall. KIM KITSURAGI - "Harry,"

[fishyfishyfishtimes]

Daily fish fact #6 444 205

Fish!

The fish like to have a little drink :) Sadly as they drink the water around them they also drink their own pee, and that is the curse that they will have to live with for the rest of their life

#fish #fishfact #fish facts #fishblr #biology #zoology

( 2 notes )

🪼 clovergonads follow

Tasseled wobbegong women >>>>>>>>>>>

🐸 i-eat-skin follow

bitch those are goosefish

( 27,196 notes )

🐚 seashell-on-the-seashore follow

Say what you want about fishblr updates, but I think this format for reblubs is a wonderful improvement over the previous one. One of the only times staff did good.

🐚 seashell-on-the-seashore

@featherstar53 If reblub chains got too long, new reblubs would start appearing as darker and darker until you couldnt see the text anymore. It mimicked how light disappears as you go deeper in the ocean but the sunken code this webbedsite runs on never set a cap for how dark it gets, so eventually you would have to copy ad paste the text on the reblubs onto somewhere to read them.

🐍 swamplamprey follow

It sounds fake but it's true! You can still find some older fishblr post screenshots with this effect:

This even went for full abyssal mode users! In their case, the text would slowly turn from white to dark blue, effectively making it impossible to read against the black background.

🦞 fastest-claw-in-the-west follow

I think it would be super funny if they brought this back but for individual posts. Like the reblubs stay the same colour but the posts themselves get gradually and gradually darker until you can't see them anymore lol. It would be disastrous but also funny and it might finally stop some of you frys from being so addicted to this webbedsite

#im all for a bit of chaos lol #treasure trove: talking tag

( 730 notes )

🌿 invertlike-behaviour follow

Okay for the record. My eyes are Red because I'm a COMMON ROACH! RUTILUS RUTILUS! It's not because I smoke seaweed!

🌿 invertlike-behaviour

Okay Yes I smoke seaweed all day. But the specific reason my eyes are red is Not That

( 104 notes )

🦈 spiritually-placoderm follow

🫧 surgeonsturgeon follow

OP you forgot brackish water and the option for inhabiting both

🦈 spiritually-placoderm

Shut your inferior ass mouth up

🫧 surgeonsturgeon

#(i couldnt find the actual gif i wanted to use but this weird tiger shark will have to do) #(not sure why his fins look like that)

( 1,020 notes )

☀️ slenderfish follow

"ocean sunfish have over 40 parasite species" factoid actualy just statistical error. average ocean sunfish is infected with only one or two parasites. Parasites Georg, the mola who suffers from every ailment known to fish and has over 1 000 000 000 parasite species infesting his flesh and organs, is an outlier adn should not have been counted

( 193,239 notes)

🪷 trout-about-you follow

Selfieeeee :3 (ignore the two sea lampreys attached to my flesh)

🪲 toebiter follow

how did you take the picture you aren't holding your phone

🪷 trout-about-you

The sea lamprey on the left took it for me

( 58 notes )

🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated

FISH USED TO MIGRATE THOUSANDS OF MILES TO BREED. WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!!!!

IN MY DAY PUSSFISH LIKE THIS WOULD GET EATEN ALIVE BY REAL RIVER MONSTERS FOR BREAKFAST.

🐟 darting-action follow

these are Siamese fighting fish bruh.... They don't have migration as part of their life cycle lmao

🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated

OF COURSE THE YOUTH CAN'T PUNCTUATE THEIR SENTENCES PROPERLY. I SHOULDN'T EXPECT SO MUCH FROM THE SOFT FRY THEY ARE. ALWAYS GETTING RILED UP!

🔲 skip-hopper-deactivated

Ignore this guy, @darting-action. He's well known for saying offensive nonsense like this, I think he's bait and trying to get someone to bite.

🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated

YOU MUST BE ONE OF THOSE INBRED DOMESTIC SCUM OR HATCHED YESTERDAY SINCE YOU ENTIRELY LACK THICK SCALES. I SPEAK THE TRUTH AND ONLY THE TRUTH. IF YOU GET TRIGGERED THEN THAT'S NATURAL SELECTION, SON. YOU SHOULD FIGHT ME IN REAL LIFE.

🔲 walrus-tits-in-my-mouth-deactivated

You really dont know a thing about natural selection, do you? Bettas have flashy fins because they have to seem threatening to possible competitors. They don't migrate so they aren't built for that. They're built for living in ponds and marshes, low oxygen environments, and by cod, they are built for fighting territorial battles! You shouldn't underestimate a fish literally called fighting fish. They're very tough and hardy fish and can even send larger fish fleeing!

🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated

SIAMESE FLAILING PUSSFISH HAVE LADY FINS BECAUSE THEY'RE WEAK AND SOFT AND HAD HUMANS DECIDE WHO THEY BREED WITH FOR THEM. THEIR QUOTE UNQUOTE "FIGHTING PROWESS" SURE DIDN'T SAVE THEM FROM BEING PRISSY LITTLE PRINCESS FISHIES FOR LITTLE KIDS DID IT? THE INDUBIDABLE FACT IS THAT THEY'RE MUSKIE FOOD.

🔲 iknowthecrabbypattysecretformula-deactivated

Wait a minute... I recongize that picture on the right! That's from @betta-than-this 's OnlyFins! How did you get that picutre hmmm? Salmonidae? How on Ocean did you gain access huh?

🐠 betta-than-this follow

"Indubidable" is a pretty specific word to use. This you @salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated?

🔲 iknowthecrabbypattysecretformula-deactivated

LMAOOOOOO GOTTEMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

🔲 aquarium-life-deactivated

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

🐟 darting-action

woag i never saw this entire chain before until it hit me on my dashboard. Why does this have so many notes

Thanks fishblr user walrus tits in my mouth for biology info i didn't know

🫖 burgle-the-turts follow

Woah woah woah we're just gonna ignore this guy using p*ssfish as an insult!!???? THE CATFISH SLUR????????? No one is going to bring this up!!!!!???????

🔲 tilapia11128-deactivated

does anyone in this thread smoke seaweed

🌊 herringageposts follow

date of origin: 28th of august, 2017

( 392,229 notes )

🟧 sponsored

Suffering all alone, handsome?

No need to anymore.

👄 pollywannacracker follow

Reblub with your favorite snack in the tags! I’ll go first: coral polyps! :}

🚬 shark-noir follow

@ninjalantern-999

#as for me #my fave is definitely my lower set of teeth when they shed #crumchy :D

( 295 notes )

🩸 must-lunge follow

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA STUPID HUMAN DROPPED ITS ELECTRONIC CAMERA IN THE LAKE!!!!!!!! NEVER GETTING THAT BACK BUB!!!!!! I'M TELLING ALL MY ISOPOD AND MUSSEL FRIENDS AND THEY'RE GONNA LIVE INSIDE IT!!!!!

🧑 official-human-posts follow

ofishal human post

#ofishal human post #this post contains humans

( 891 notes )

🦦 hellofromtheotterslide follow

Wait, how come this site is called fishblr and not something like oceanblr or aquablr? Wouldn't that be more inclusive?

👑 goldielocks follow

I believe the name "fishblr" pays homage to the meaning of the word where just about everything in the water was considered a fish. It's why we have words like "shellfish", "whalefish", "jellyfish", "starfish".

Personally aquablr would work really well, too. There's a sizeable amphibious userbase on here.

🦐 worldwideshrimp follow

You forgot whale shark! Those arent fish either but are called fish

👑 goldielocks

....Whale sharks are fish. They are sharks. It's in the name.

🦎 eye-of-newt follow

But I thought it was a whale named after sharks? WHALE shark! Why else would they put whale up first?

👑 goldielocks

A whale named after a shark would be called a shark whale. You can take one look at a whale shark and see that, with its gills and fish tail, it is a shark.

⚪️ number1-seacucumber-ass-enjoyer-77 follow

Wait, then what about baby whales? Are those whales named after babies?

👑 goldielocks

If you're talking about the actual whale babies, then yeah. If you mean the mormyrids, small aquatic animals that can sense electricity, then no, those are fish. Sometimes names are inaccurate to what the animal really is.

🌌 themanta1234 follow

If you think about it, fishblr is also inclusive to aquatic tetrapods since they are lobe-fins, and therefore fish :D It's a term that can include everyone on here, the perfect catchall!

🦑 abyssal-gigantism follow

Ewwww fuck that definition. If mammals hear about them being fish on some sort of """"technicality"""" then this webbedsite is gonna get flooded with those self-important idiots! "OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOOOOO LoOk At MeEeEeEeEEE i'M a MaMmAL!!11!!! I TAKE CARE of mah BAAABIEEEES!1111 I'm SUCH a good MAMAAA!!! All those OTHER STUPID HEARTLESS ANIMALS could NEVER do as I DO!!! I LOVE sweating into my BAABIEEEES' MOUTH1!1!1!111!!! I'm FLUFFY and AWSUM and ERRYBODDY LUUUVSSSSS MEE!!!!!!!!!!111!!!!!!! You should all LUV me TOO!!!!"

Is THAT how you want every fishblr post to look!!!!??????

🦛 drippohippo follow

😨

🪄 magicmanatee45 follow

DD:

🎼 humpbacked-musician-offishal follow

:'''((((

🐋 blainvilles-bitch follow

🕶️ egg-laying-mammal-of-action follow

:///////////

🐢 greenXD follow

i think jellyfish shouldn't be classified as fish because they're clearly living spaghetti

🌜 foolish-idol follow

Great fucking post everyone. Hit the air bubblers

( 60,376 notes )

🟩 ultrahyva-heihoi follow

Guys what the fuck kind of sponsors does fishblr have I just saw an ad for having parasites housed in me who are they advertising to 😭💀💀

#i swear the quality of this site keeps going down and down #if you see ads for parasites then report the shit out of em #fuck em my friend got early onset cataracts due to parasites

( 4 notes )

😃 doweopenandcloseourmouthtoday follow

Yes! :) :O :) :O :) :O :) :O

[darby-rowe]

ᯓ today, I feel like pleasing you.

KINKTOBER 1ST. DAD'S BEST FRIEND!LOGAN HOWLETT X BUB!READER.

18+ | nsfw | mdni wc. 1.2k+ cw/tags. FAUXCEST, age gap (r is 21+), brief cunnilingus & blowjob, first time, p in v, usage of the phrase "little girl", unprotected sex, creampie, not proofread notes. happy kinktober 1st you freaks! here's the smutty installment in the dbf!logan x bub universe. sorry if you don't like it. title is taken from Today by Jefferson Airplane.

The first kiss was troublesome.

Locked away in the far corner of your queen-sized bed, his hands gently guiding itself up your leg, then it happened.

There was so much alcohol in his breath you swore you yourself must have gotten drunk off the way he breathed life into you. Yet the supposed life that found itself nesting in your lungs was something you’ve never felt before.

Taboo. Horribly, horribly wrong.

The kiss made your stomach feel queasy every time it entered your mind after the fact, however it made you feel like you were walking on air as well. Your dirty little secret, safely carried in the arms of you and Logan Howlett.

Your father would drop dead.

Things progressed after the kiss. He became more bold, touching you in more forbidden places that no man has ever touched before. It was all so new. Exciting. There was a rush that clouded your brain every time the older man gave you attention.

“Let your uncle take care of you,” he’d whisper to you.

Every single time.

Oh, it was dirty. So fucking dirty how the tone of his voice had you knowing he meant it. Your “uncle”. His “niece”. His pretty, young, smart, and bright niece who was so fucking ripe and ready to be eaten. The noises he made as his tongue swirled your already swollen clit, locking your fingers into his thick hair, wanting to grind against his hot tongue but ultimately being locked down by his strong arms.

Your hand slapped itself across your mouth each time you had to make a noise, desperately muffling the sounds of dirty dancing happening in your own bed. Your other hand kept jumping from fisting the sheets to fisting Logan’s hair to squeezing your own breast. In this state of being stimulated far beyond your own comprehension, you just didn’t know how to handle your body.

“Fuck,” you squeaked, feeling his nails unintentionally dig into your flesh, your thighs shaking as you grow closer and closer to making a mess of his beard.

It wasn’t planned, the sob that left your mouth when Logan pulled away just as you were about to see god.

“Why did you—”

“Legs up, bub,” Logan cut you off, making you gasp as he threw your legs back, completely spread open to him and any curious being who could walk in at any moment. You instinctually go to close your legs and cover your face, but he’s just so strong. So determined to watch as he takes you for the first time ever.

“Look at me, pretty girl,” he whispered, taking your hands off your face. You laid bare to him, like you had never laid bare to anyone before. Vulnerable and wet just for him.

The look on his face as he scanned you up and down in the position you were basically forced into will never leave your mind.

“Gonna make you feel good, ‘kay, bub?”

You just nodded, mind racing with how many possible roads this could go down. Everything felt like a blur as Logan unzipped his jeans, fishing out his rock-hard cock and began to stroke it in front of you. He was leaking at the tip, balls so full and swollen you could only imagine how long ago it was since he last jerked off.

He asked if you wanted a taste, and it took you a moment to consider. You’ve only ever fellated fake cocks in silicone form, and even so they were tiny in comparison to the monster hiding in Logan’s pants.

You nodded again, opening your mouth as he slipped in his cock inside past your lips. He fucking groaned upon first contact with your tongue, being careful to not shove his whole cock down your throat.

But you could tell that he really, really wanted to.

You felt your jaw begin to ache while keeping it open for his size. If you closed your eyes, you could concentrate on the subtle throb of his shaft, and the way your saliva accumulated around him. You were slicking him up just for you — to make the process easier.

He pulled out of your mouth right when you were beginning to memorize his taste, and it slightly disappointed you as you were enjoying your oral fixation being satiated. Your lips, parted slightly and drenched in your own spit, and Logan’s cock making its way to your swollen, soaked pussy.

He made sure to warn you just before sliding himself in. You couldn’t lie, it was a stretch, and it was an odd feeling to situate yourself in. You wanted to say that it hurt but that was untrue.

Just odd. Foreign. But not painful at all.

In fact, Logan was even surprised when you told him you were okay. Before you knew it, he was effortlessly sliding his dick in and out of you until it turned into him pounding into your pussy, arms wrapped around you as he held you close.

You had reason to believe this is when Logan fell apart.

You bit down hard on your bottom lip, keeping in all the lewd and pornographic noises that wanted to escape you, but some whimpers and small moans escaped.

“‘S good, bub?” Logan grunted in your ear, eliciting a shaky yes from you, digging your nails into his back and wrapped your legs around his waist. Your eyes screwed shut, concentrating on that familiar throb you felt in your mouth just moments ago.

If someone came up to you and asked you how it felt to get fucked like this, you wouldn’t know how to answer. It was just good. Fucking great, even. You wanted to sob, cry, wail out to Logan how good he was making you feel.

“Oh my little girl. My fucking little girl,”

He was like an animal in your ear: grunting and growling as he pounded you with little regard. He was getting louder, nastier. Treating you like a pocket pussy he had a forbidden affair with.

However, the way his arms locked around you as he buried his face in your neck made you feel a type of intimacy you had never felt before. Something so primal yet affectionate, making dirty noises in your ear as he fucked you. Taking your sweet virginity that he so desperately chased after for months.

“Tell me how good uncle Logan is fucking you,” he panted into your neck.

It was hard to form words. Your mouth opened and tiny choked sobs managed to crawl out of your throat, but no words.

“You gotta tell me, baby,” he panted again. But this time, there was a tinge of desperation edging his plea, like he could fucking tear up at any moment. Begging. “Tell me how good your uncle is fucking his little girl,”

Your virgin pussy throbbed, clenching around his cock.

“‘S good, uncle Logan. Fuck me. Fuck me, please…”

It took you by surprise how fast Logan emptied himself inside you, feeling his seed pump deep, knowing his balls were pulsating as they shot out cum. That knowledge was enough to make you cream around his dick, biting down on his shoulder to keep yourself quiet.

The moments after were uncomfortably quiet, with him still holding you with his cock softening inside you.

Your breath steadies. Your mind clears. And your body cools.

Your dad would murder Logan if he found out about this.

[stevieschrodinger]

This is not how Steve wanted to spend his afternoon.

Actually, he’s found himself doing a lot of things he hasn't wanted to since Starcourt burned down but, honestly, this is probably right up there.

God it’s disgusting.

But he had to try. All the kids had looked at him with their stupid hang dog faces, so he said he’d try. Which is why he’s at lovers lake, freezing his ass off in the water and nipple deep into the shrubbery, ripping slimy crappy weeds and grass out of the muddy lake bed.

At least Robin got in with him. She’s shivering in her bathing suit, but she’s gamely holding onto the cooler as it floats in the water, so at least there’s that.

The bin full Upside Down vines next to the tank hadn't made much sense at the time, but it became apparent pretty fucking fast when the fish creature in Steve’s pool hadn’t eaten for forty eight hours, and Steve was now, finally, sober enough and not concussed enough to put two and two together.

Hopefully this works though; all the kids have, obviously, become immediately like, fucking pack bonded with the thing. Man. Fish Man.

El and Max keep insisting he’s a mermaid – Merman? Merdude? - like he’s something out of a fairy tail and is all magical and shit.

Steve takes a breath and ducks down again, having felt something hairy and frond like with his exploring toes.

“You think this is enough? Like as a fair test?” Robin rocks the half full cooler forward and Steve peeks in.

And alright, Steve just doesn’t want to fucking be here at all, so he says, “yep, looks good,” as they share a lightly guilty look.

It might not work at all, of course, so their wanting to give up is legitimate. They can always come back when it’s warmer if the fish man does eat this shit.

He certainly isn’t interested in the raw fish the kids have been trying to feed him – Steve’s going to be eating fish for a fucking month with what’s in his freezer now, and don’t those reprobates realize the price of fucking prawns??

The fish man wasn’t interested in meat either, not raw, not cooked – even though Dustin insisted that because of his ‘forward facing eyes’, ‘claws,’ and ‘slightly pointed teeth,’ he must be a predator Steve! The vines must have just been for, in his tank, or whatever, Steve!

Whatever.

Steve’s here to prove them wrong, and Robin’s backing him up.

The kids have gone home when they get back, which is a fucking relief. Even with the heaters in the car on full, Steve still feels cold in his bones. His skin warm and tingly, but the shivers still locked inside; him and Robin head for separate bathrooms without even really talking about it, fishboy has survived this long, he can do another twenty minutes.

Steve finds the biggest sting of kelpy weedy seaweedy stuff from the lake, and drags the tip of it in the pool. It’s dark out, the light from in the house reflecting on the surface of the pool, making it impossible to see where the creature might be hiding; until he disturbs the surface, a few seconds later.

Steve splashes the end in the water, “here fishy fishy fishy.”

“Steve,” Robin elbows him.

“What, it’s not like he has a name,” Steve doesn’t look at her though, he’s watching that strange pair of eyes come closer. They reflect the light strangely, like a wild animal in the headlights. His dark hair is plastered to the top of his head, being wet, and everything else is submerged.

Steve knows he can breathe fine for at least an hour out of the water though; that’s how long the rescue took. And then the bathtub; he was fine in there for a day while they drained the pool of chlorinated water and refilled it with fresh. And it was easy enough to get him in there; if he was human, Steve would say that fish dude was starving to death. Concave stomach, all his ribs clearly visible, pale flesh pulled too tight over the knobs of his spine. Steve had lifted him easily, the sad curl of his dull black tail hardly adding any weight to him. He felt frail, breakable; like a bird.

If there’s any lingering chemical in there, it doesn’t seemed to have hurt fishguy, but then a creature from the upside down must be tolerant to plenty, Steve thinks, imagining the constant fall of ashy dust from the dark sky.

The creature cautiously approaches, and when he’s near enough, there’s a gentle tug on the weed, like the most cautious of bites on a line. Steve lets go, and both fish guy and weed disappear under the water.

“Do you think it worked?” Robin whispers, like they’re viewing a skittish wild animal. Which, they kind of are.

“Don’t know,” Steve whispers back, unable to stop himself. There’s just something about someone whispering to you that’s irresistible; it’s like an unavoidable instinct to follow suit.

“How will we know if it’s worked?”

“Dunno. Try another? See if he takes it?” Steve’s just about to break open the cooler again when the head pops up. All of it, this time.

He has dark hair. So dark it looks black; thick and ropey, it kind of reminds Steve of the vines of the upside down. His face is...pretty much human; just very pale. When he’s got his mouth shut, hiding the slight point of those teeth, nothing would give him away.

He lifts a hand out of the water, offering something to Steve who, gingerly but reflexively, takes it.

It’s the stalk of the weed. The leaves are gone, and the fleshy green of the outside has been carefully stripped off; use for those pointy teeth. Steve guesses all the plant material of the upside down is actually probably quite sturdy and quite hard to eat. It probably also has the nutritional value of wet cardboard.

Steve offers another weed, and the fish dude doesn’t leave this time. Steve watches as he eats; quick, practiced movements, trimming leaves with his claws, rolling them, eating them, then just as Steve suspected, using his sharp teeth to strip the outer stalk of all it’s fleshy wet goodness.

Steve doesn’t shudder at the thought of the mud at the bottom of Lovers Lake.

“Steve one, Henderson zero,” Robin says quietly, the fish man tipping his head to the side, as if he’s listening. Steve’s seen it a lot, the amount that the kids chatter at him, but the fish guy tends to stay at the other end of the pool to them. Watching. Nervous, and frightened, if Steve had to put a label on it.

But then, wouldn’t anyone be? Stolen from your world by unrecognizable creatures in hazmat suits. Shoved in a tank. Probably experimented on.

The whole thing sounds shitty.

Steve offers another weed, and the fish guy repeats the process, floating closer still, “Robin, humor me, go and see what’s in the crisper drawer.”

She follows his logic immediately, “on it.”

Steve watches the creature, the fish man, and the fish man watches Robin warily, moving away from the edge again a little, but coming back when Steve offers another frond.

He takes it, strips it, hands it back.

“We need a name for you man, I can’t just keep calling you ‘fish dude’ and ‘creature’ in my head.”

Steve looks over at the house, figuring he has another minute before Robin comes back, he taps the middle of his chest, fishguys strangely gimlet eyes tracking to movement from his too thin face, “Steve.”

Nothing. He tries again, pointing to himself and tapping, “Steve,” and then pointing to the creature, trying to get him to understand.

Fish guy swims a little closer, raising a hand out of the water. Steve sees the stubby but pointy black claws, like little ovals on the end of his fingers. His webbed fingers, Steve sees next, webbing stretched between them up to the first knuckle. He hesitates for a moment, but Steve doesn’t move, wanting to see where this is going.

Fish guy points cautiously at the center of Steve’s chest, close but not touching, lifting far enough out of the water to reveal protruding collar bones. He opens his mouth, and Steve watches with baited breath, fish guy frowning like he’s concentrating, such a human emotion on his face.

Footsteps, then, and he drops back into the water, backing away into the middle of the pool, sinking down so only his eyes are visible. Steve remembers to breathe; he’s not imagining it, something was about to happen. But he can try again tomorrow, once Robin has gone.

“I got some lettuce and some frozen peas,” she whisper hisses at him as she sits again, handing them over.

“Gimme the lettuce,” that seems like the next nearest thing to Steve.

Part two

[vapekingg]

“You know I like my girls a little bit older.” — Your Love by The Outfield

February 14th, 1986

Eddie knows exactly how you want to spend your first Valentine’s Day together — in the back of his van with the windows steamed up.

A takeout pizza sits half-eaten and torn apart in the box near a makeshift pallet that you’ve gotten somewhat used to over the past few months. A single floodlight that shines into the front windshield is the only light, and it’s just enough. Just enough to cast Eddie in this dim orange-gold glow that shimmers off of the sweat dripping down his stomach.

He always gets worked over pretty quickly when you’re on top, and tonight you needed it. That control, that stress relief.

You’d told your boss at the record shop that Valentine’s Day would be a banger. It has been since you’d started there at sixteen. But what would you know? He’d scheduled you open to close, all by yourself, no question as to whether or not you might want to spend today with your boyfriend.

“Motherfucker,” Eddie’s moan wavers as his head lulls back against the inner wall of his van.

He’s all soft when it’s like this. All praise and devotion. Eddie’s palms swirl around the globes of your ass gently as you lift your hips up and down. He’s holding you close, your beasts against the warmth of his chest, your clit grinding against the coarse hair beneath his waist, his little grunts and cries and whimpers dying along the column of your throat. They inch up your neck and tickle your ear, urging you to keep going despite the burn in your thighs.

“It’s okay, baby. Just take what you need,” Eddie says between labored breaths when he notices the tremble in your hips.

But what you need is him deeper.

You adjust yourself above him, leaning back on your palms so that he slips further inside of you, the base of his cock widening to stretch you open.

There it is.

“Fuck!” You rasp, your hips jerking forward from sudden sensitivity.

Every rut drives you closer to the edge. Every stroke drags the veins of his thick cock against the walls of your dripping cunt. Sweat slicked palms trace up the curve of your thighs to keep you balanced while you ride, and each inch of your skin grazed is ignited like wildfire.

“That’s it, angel. Look at you,” he grits between clenched teeth. “Thought about this all fucking day…”

It must be killing him, holding back like this.

If it were up to him — and it usually is — you would be bent over the front seat right now. You wouldn’t know your own goddamn name, let alone care.

But you like how he looks when he lets you take control. His eyes half lidded and mouth slightly parted, sweat clinging to the hair framing his pretty face. It made the trembling thighs worth it.

“Did you?” You ask him, not caring so much if he responds but knowing that Eddie just likes to hear you when he’s like this.

“Ffffuck, yeah I did…” he moans, his grip tightening on your hips.

Another rut of your hips and his upward thrust meets yours.

"Eddie—" You cry out.

But he doesn't stop. With every stroke of your waist against his, Eddie is there to meet your ministrations. He's watching you. You can feel his eyes tracing over your flesh even with yours closed. The bounce of your breasts, the ripple of your pillowy stomach, Eddie takes in it all.

"That's right. Say my name, baby." The pink of his tongue lashes out to dart over his thumb before he drags the digit down your center.

The second he starts — the quick, gentle motion of his thumb soon growing frantic — it's the beginning of the end.

The swollen tip of his cock nudges its way to that spot deep inside of you that shuts your brain right off. Only he knows how to find it, and he's so fucking good at finding it. Once there, a salacious grin spreads across Eddie's face.

"Right fucking there, baby." He praises you, hands heavy on your hips, weighing you down so you can't move.

You're stuffed full of him, spread open around his thick length and dripping down the base. The receptors in your brain are firing at all cylinders and you've never felt this fucking euphoric before.

Until he grinds up into you.

Your orgasm hits you all at once, without warning. It washes over your entirety and has you begging him for both more and less simultaneously. And Eddie has never been one to give you less.

He feeds you his cock, thrusting up into your sopping cunt now, the van around you shaking in time with your depravity. It's all happening in passing, at the very back of your mind. All you can focus on is the constellations exploding in your vision as Eddie's pathetic little grunts morph into wanton moans of satisfaction.

A few spent moments later, you can feel your joint release leaking out of you. Eddie lays back on the floor of his van with his hands above his head, skin shimmering with the reflection of drying sweat off of yellow floodlights.

It truly is the perfect Valentine's Day. Now that you can think clearly, maybe your shift wasn't all that bad.

With his eyes still closed, Eddie reaches for the joint he'd left in his pants pocket for safekeeping. He lights it while on his back and takes two deep hits before passing it to you. The radio near the back door plays quietly in the background. You don't know what song is on. Boss had you playing Hounds of Love by Kate Bush all day on repeat.

But Eddie seems to know the tune.

He jerks up in his seat, hand wrapping quickly behind your back so that you aren't knocked off of him.

"Hey!" You shout, trying to keep the ruby red tip of the joint away from his beautiful hair.

"Shush," he slaps the volume dial on the radio, knocking it up more than enough notches. "This song is about us!"

Josie's on a vacation far away, come around and talk it over. So many things that I wanna say.

Eddie strums an air guitar behind your back and his eyes pop open wide as he sing-screams the next lyrics.

"YOU KNOW I LIKE MY GIRLS A LITTLE BIT OLDER!"

Your eyes roll back as you exhale the smoke from your lungs.

He'll never let those six months you were alive before him go.

[missaengg]

Servicing Lord Sukuna

Day 31 of Kinktober: Visions of Temptation hosted by @xxsycamore found here Featuring: Jujutsu Kaisen | Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader Tags: mdni, smut, pwp, Lord Sukuna, servant reader, Sukuna has two cocks, p in v sex, anal sex Prompts: Non-human characters/traits A/N: Part 2 to Massaging Lord Sukuna found here! ao3 link here.

“I won’t be done with you until morning.” 

You freeze, Lord Sukuna’s hand still gripped around your arm, the feeling of his breath still hot on your ear. His eyes bore into you, pinning you in place with their sheer intensity, and he grins dangerously. You swallow thickly. His expression is reminiscent of a predator who’s cornered its prey, and there’s no mistaking the ravenous hunger darkening his gaze. He is the hungry predator, and you are his helpless prey.

You’ve heard Lord Sukuna eats humans as all Curses did, but surely the King of Curses wouldn’t eat his own servants? Would he?

It isn’t fair. You’ve pleased your Lord. He’s praised your efforts, but he’s staring at you as if he wants to devour you whole, and while some of the servants under his rule have disappeared without a trace, it can’t possibly be because he’s eaten them… Can it?

“M–m–my lord?!” you sputter.

“Tell me, little one. You’ve never been with a man before, have you?”

What does having been with a man matter when it comes to how you’ll taste? Unless…

“No– No, my Lord.” You throw your shaking body to the ground because maybe… maybe if you remain compliant, he’ll spare your life.

Sukuna hooks a finger under your chin and tilts your head up to look at him. You can’t help the tears that spring to your eyes, and before you can stop them, they’re spilling down your cheeks.

“Plea— Please don’t eat me, my Lord,” you plead. “I’ll do– do better– I’ll work twi– twice as hard– I’ll–”

You’re babbling, begging him to reconsider because you know you can be an asset to your Lord if he’ll just give you a second chance, if he’ll just allow you to prove your worth.

“Hm?” Sukuna frowns and then breaks into raucous laughter as if he’s amused by your frantic prostrating. “Oh, I plan to devour you, brat. But not in the way you think.”

You gape at your Lord. You don’t understand what he’s saying. Is there more than one way to devour a human being?

“Your clothes have gotten quite soiled, little one. So unfitting for your King,” he purrs, his voice low and silky.

Lord Sukuna traces the outline of where your yukata parts, his long, sharp nails lightly scratching the skin underneath – his nails are so deadly, it would be more appropriate to call them claws. You should feel frightened by how they’re one whim away from gouging your delicate human flesh, but instead you shiver, the sparks flying in their wake confounding, yet thrilling. 

“Be a good girl and strip,” he commands.

Oh, he doesn’t mean devour as in food, but devour as in…

Your cheeks burn, the meaning of his words finally dawning on you. You’re relieved you won’t be losing your life, but also embarrassed because how naive and silly Lord Sukuna must think you are… 

“Forgive me, my Lord.” You scramble to remove your clothing, peeling off your drenched yukata as well as your underclothes and kneel before him as bare as the day you were born.

“Good girl.” Lord Sukuna gestures for you to join him. “Come here.”

You crawl to where Lord Sukuna lounges upon his futon following his beckoning hand until you’re seated on his lap. Something firm is nestled beneath you, and you realize with a start that it’s Lord Sukuna’s erection, still solid despite bringing him to climax just moments ago.

“Do you still wish to please your Lord?” he coos into your ear.

“Yes, my Lord,” you whisper.

“Good.”

His arm snakes around your waist, pressing you close into his impressive chest, and before you can process what’s happening, his searing lips are brutally crushing yours with a demanding ferocity. You gasp in surprise, and as your lips part, his tongue darts in, entwining harshly with your tongue, almost as if he’s trying to swallow you whole.

There’s nothing gentle about his kiss. You always assumed your first kiss would be tender, yet passionate like in the stories, but his bruising lips feel even better than any kiss you’ve previously imagined. 

He holds you so tightly you can barely breathe, what little air you can suck in being stolen by his greedy inhales, and you burn in his embrace. His body is scorching, and you find yourself lost in his blistering heat, ravaged by the flickering flames.

His hand squeezes your breast, his fingers pinching your pert nipple, and you jolt, sparks tingling from where he’s pinching and prodding your heaving chest. You barely notice his lips leaving yours and moving down your neck so consumed by the delicious ministrations of his hands, you’re shocked when he bites down without warning. 

You yelp. It stings where his teeth have viciously sunk in, but you find yourself relishing the pain, growing even more feverish from the radiating pain. Lord Sukuna soothes the mark with his tongue only to bite down again, leaving yet another blemish on the canvas of your skin.

He repeats himself, biting and soothing, locking you in a cycle of pain and pleasure. While you’ve never been one to associate one with the other, the combination has you losing your mind, and you pathetically whimper, putty in his roaming hands.

Lord Sukuna chuckles, the throaty vibrations sultry and smooth rumbling through his broad chest and rippling through your flushed body. “You like being marked by your Lord?”

“Y–yes,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders.

You’ve lost count of how many times your Lord has sunk his teeth into your flesh, the swirl of affliction and bliss melding together until you can’t decipher one from the other.

Something swells beneath you, the hard tip of which pokes between your cheeks, and an involuntary gasp leaves your lips because it can only be one thing. Lord Sukuna’s… member is already so big, it can’t possibly get any bigger! You can’t imagine how he’d fit as it is!

“M–my Lord?”

Lord Sukuna pauses from biting your shoulder, noting the questioning fear wavering in your eyes. He smirks diabolically, clearly entertained. “Did you not know I had a second cock?”

His second…? You gasp again, your mouth hanging open and your eyes wide. What does he mean two? You barely know what to do with the one!

Lord Sukuna shifts, hauling you off his lap until the tips of both his monstrous cocks are positioned by both of your entrances. “Such a good brat, so wet for your Lord.” He’s sneering at you, delighting in your innocent distress.

You look straight into his devilish eyes, taking a deep breath to steel yourself. He’s so massive you’re certain he’ll break you in two when he enters, but you know you have to try. You have to try for your Lord.

“I will do whatever it takes to please you, my Lord,” you say in a shaky whisper.

Lord Sukuna hums in satisfaction, and both his appendages are pushing into you before you can blink. You almost faint, tears welling in your eyes. A strangled cry rips from your throat.

While your cunt sucks him in, your ass struggles to reject him, the muscles clenching securely together around the head. Lord Sukuna hisses, but he savagely drives in, bullying his thick second cock through the puckered opening until both of his cocks are nestled deep in your abdomen.

You cry – fat, heavy tears rolling down your spluttering cheeks and splashing on your Lord’s torso. You feel as though you’re being ripped apart, stretched to your absolute limits. You’re fluttering around both of his shafts, and you hear your Lord groan, his grip on your hips digging in until his nails have drawn blood.

“Tight… so fucking tight…”

You barely register the ragged agony of his hoarse grunts. You struggle to adjust to the sensation of feeling stuffed, the feeling of your organs rearranging themselves to fit both his cocks. The pain subsides, and it’s replaced by a thrumming ecstasy humming through your veins. Lord Sukuna has yet to move, but you’re already moaning, lightly rocking your hips back and forth on his lap.

“Be still, brat,” Lord Sukuna snarls.

You can’t stop. You can feel his shafts pressing together between your thin walls, and the friction of them sliding together, sliding against you is unbearable. You need to feel more.

You rock harder. Electricity buzzes through your bothered body, and you’re swept up in the irresistible lust of exhilarating ecstasy. The other ladies have always made being with a man sound so sinfully pleasant, but this… You let out a long, drawn-out groan. This is just heavenly.

“Lord Sukuna…” you lewdly moan. “Please…”

You’re barely moving on his lap, and you’re aching for more…

Lord Sukuna growls as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, the heady pain intermingling with the juddering electric tingles careening through your center. He re-positions his hands so he’s grasping your ass, and then he thrusts sharply bouncing you up and down on his lap.

He slams into you fiercely, and you see stars, overwhelmed by the white-hot heat sizzling up and down your spine, desperately mewling your Lord’s name.

“Lord Sukuna… Ngh… my Lord,” you cry out.

His hips are bucking into you at an inhuman speed, and you’re keening, practically frothing at the mouth, drool leaking from the corners of your lips.

You’ve never felt rapture like this before in your life.

“Fuck,” Lord Sukuna rasps, each word tumbling out of his mouth laced with a bite. “Such a good… fucking… brat.”

All the sensations… the sound of Lord Sukuna’s guttural grunts, the feel of his blistering body, the woody scent of his musk, the heat of his cocks… builds into an all-consuming, overpowering pressure.

Lord Sukuna’s teeth sink into you again, and as if a pin has poked a bursting balloon, you explode. You’re blinded by a vicious white light, violent tremors shuddering through your taut body.

One of your hands curls in his hair, yanking the strands wound in between your fingers, and your back arches, your breasts pressing into his firm chest, your closed eyes rising to the ceiling.

“Sukuna… Sukuna… Sukuna,” you passionately scream your Lord’s name so overcome you forget to add his title to his name, a crime punishable by death, but neither you nor your Lord realize the indecency of how you’re calling out his name.

Your screams throw Lord Sukuna into a frenzy, rutting into you even faster than his frightening pace before. 

“Goddamn… brat…”

You’re clamping down on him uncontrollably, and then you feel it… You feel his body tense under yours, and you feel spurt after spurt of his cum flooding into you, spraying your insides white and coating you with his seed. Relentless waves of his release fill every crevice and ridge, and with nowhere else to go, it spills out the sides, puddling beneath you in a torrential, sticky mess.

You slump forward, supporting yourself against his built shoulders, weakly shaking from the violence of your euphoric climax. You don’t have to see yourself to know your eyes are glazed over, your mind a muddled daze. 

Lord Sukuna gently lifts you from his lap and lays your worn out form on his futon in a manner uncharacteristic of his usual gruff demeanor. Your cloudy eyes droop half-closed. Your limp limbs quiver. You almost don’t notice him covering you with a light blanket or calling for Uraume because you’re far from lucid, so drained and spent you're barely clinging to the last shred of consciousness.

You don’t hear Uraume enter. You don’t move when Uraume lifts you in their arms. 

You’re quickly fading.

You close your eyes, surrendering to your exhaustion, but before the cloying tendrils of sleep can steal you away, Lord Sukuna’s command floats into your foggy mind. Your last thought before you drift away completely.

“Get her cleaned up and settled in the adjoining room. I think I’m going to enjoy this one.”

[wroteclassicaly]

18+

You’ve never had head, Eddie’s never given head, and Steve… he’s got a whole lot of hair and experience.

No one really sugar coated anything. It was a simple gathering of three friends at Eddie’s newly purchased trailer (also know as, the one to the left of Wayne’s). Everyone else in the group had plans, so Steve drove you to Eddie’s, all the while knowing something was bothering you. It ended up being Eddie to tease it out of you.

“Never had a guy eat my pussy before.” Your lips wrapped around the neck of your bottle.

Eddie sputtered on his, Steve’s brows rose in surprise.

“But you’ve had sex, right? I thought you said —“ Steve tried, only for you to cut him off.

“Yes, I’ve had sex a few times, but they’ve never eaten me out. I mean, do you guys even like doing that? My date said I was too slimey.” You’re embarrassed to even admit.

Steve scoffed as Eddie wiped the beer off his chin. “I’m surprised the jerk-off was even able to get you that wet.”

You pick at the label of the dark glass. Steve runs a massive hand through his hair, his voice gentle, protective. “Is that what’s been bothering you all night?”

To which, you nod. You both turn towards Eddie as he clears his throat, adding in his two cents. He tucks a set of loose strands behind his freshly pierced ear, that circular charm dangling. “Uh, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve never eaten a girl out before. But I’m all for slime time. That’s a good thing, right?”

Steve marveled, briefly entertained at how backward the two of you looked. He wasn’t stupid, you’d been flirting with one another (the three of you) off and on for a while now. Bringing this up, it would be a wasted opportunity to be with his two favorite people. And the idea, it struggles to keep up with the swelling between Steve’s legs. That weirdly in synch look that you shared, Steve knew it was the correct decision.

“Let me show you guys?”

You found yourself less awkward to be naked around your two best-friends, guys you thought about constantly, in ways you probably shouldn’t have. Still, when it came time to step out of your panties, and the wet spot clung from your cunt to the crotch of the fabric — you let some nerves show. Eddie was frozen, in his boxers, hard as a rock, both men observing your body in a way that had everyone holding their breaths, appreciating scars and marks alike. And Steve, he took suave control in his own tight briefs, that monster on display. His hands found your shoulders, rubbing up and down your flesh.

His voice sounded jagged, honey-hot, pouring out across his tongue as he licked his bottom lip and bent down to kiss you on your shoulder. “You wanna get on the bed, honey?”

“Should I… towel?” You’re giving them another chance, afraid of how soaked you are.

Eddie immediately said no, making Steve chuckle. “It’s okay. You’ll let us know if it’s not, right?”

You were all too eager to slide onto Eddie’s king sized mattress, arousal webbed from you, dripping onto the sheets. Eddie reminds himself not to do the laundry for another day. Both men joined you - Eddie on the right, Steve to the left. It’s basics, mechanics, foreplay from there.

If Steve Harrington has to pick a sight to remember when dying — this would be it. Seeing Eddie Munson grind himself into the bed as you ride his face, pulling so hard on his hair, that Steve’s cock kicks up imagining how Munson’s scalp must feel. Your tits bounce with every thrusting movement, eyes glossed over with tears and looking up at the ceiling. You’re panting with exertion, breaths getting choppier. And the second that Steve says “Fingers” for Eddie to remember - you’re literally screaming, uncaring.

“I’m gonna cum,” you suddenly shout, teetering dangerously close. The only things you can see are vivid shapes, eyes darting around rapidly to find your boys through the haze. How your heart is full for them, how you’re trembling.

Eddie pauses and lifts, his face covered and shiny. He’s misty eyed, panting, overwhelmed. But your cream covered curls, your essence on his fingers that are tightening around him, Steve’s blown pupils as he looks over at him — he wants to keep you two here.

“Why did you…?” You’re whining, tilting, trying to fuck yourself onto his fingers.

“Dude, why’d you stop?” Steve is looking incredulous, inching closer, his hard cock pressing at your hip. You blindly reach for him, working yourself up, legs swaying. Steve slides up fast and presses his palm over your thigh to flatten it.

“You okay?” He checks in with Eddie, which makes you also do the same. You tell them you’re fine, Eddie answers next.

“I’m… yeah, man. Just wanted to make sure I was doing fine.”

“Well a girl tells you she’s gonna cum, that means you’re doing great, bud.” Steve can’t help but to look at his (friend?) fondly. He reaches out to pushes along Eddie’s sweat slick curls.

Once you see that things are okay, you feel yourself relaxing back into things, Eddie’s finger still inside. Steve hears you shakily exhale. He folds, tilting his head as he leans back down, Eddie resuming his position. “Come here, honey. We’re gonna let you come, I promise you. You’re doing so good. You feeling good?” You give a nod. “Yeah?”

You smile lazily.

“Steve?”

He switches his gaze from the curly haired rocker between your thighs. “Hmm?”

“Will you put a finger inside of me too?”

Eddie moans, a sound so deep that it has him raising his face to stare Harrington down, pleading with him to do it. Steve has never been so eager, wiggling his digit towards you, watching you accept it with a swirl, licking like you’re on a mission. You really don’t need it, but Steve does it anyways, letting his arm elongate to give you what you ask for — his cock dribbling into his boxers the second that his thick finger slides into your overly wet walls, right beside Munson’s. Everyone moves in unison, Eddie eating like a starved man, Steve working that spot to the point where he knows what’s gonna happen before you or Eddie do. It’s a fun surprise watching your eyes widen and automatically find Steve’s as it happens, Eddie literally rutting maniacally into the bed as your squirt soaks his face, the sheets, Steve’s arm, even his leg.

Watching the two of you come, sends Steve grinding into your thigh, spare hand cupping the nape of your neck, face hiding in your breasts, as he releases heavily into his briefs. The aftermath is slow, beating hearts, lines crossed. There’s disbelief, nervous wonder. You asking them if they’re alright is what brings them back to earth, each guy taking a place beside you, mingled breathing patterns trying to reset. It’s an unspoken agreement, a must provide, when Steve is kissing you softly, reaching for Eddie like he doesn’t care what people would say anymore, meeting his mouth. This is what he wants, it’s what you all need.

[realisticpregerotica]

Ripe Fruit

18+ MDNI, 5400 words +, First Person Male POV

Contains: Pregnant sex, Lactation, Orgasmic birthing, Oral sex during birth, Size difference, Aphrodisiacs

“5 silver for the camel feed. Ask again and that price is going up!”

I groaned at the underwhelming result of my bartering as I coughed up the coins. If I wanted any transportation out in the desert I needed to feed my camel. Parting from the stand I counted my coins and calculated that between an inn and a meal, I could only afford one. And it was looking to be a cold night in the desert town. 

My stomach rumbled as I approached the camel pen outside of the inn. A wooden cart with display cases of the largest fruit I had ever seen in my life. I wasn’t sure if my eyes deceived me. It must have been months since I had seen fresh produce, but the fruit was beautiful. They could have been their weight in gold. Grapes like clusters of smooth amethyst, apples that glistened like rubies, every individual specimen in each crate made my mouth water 

“Good afternoon, traveler, has something caught your eye?” a smooth voice glided from above my head. My neck craned in order to find the source of the voice

As I looked up I caught the eyes of a woman with a dark tan hidden under the shade of the wooden cart. She casted a shadow over me. Her features were sharp. Her eyes, her lashes, her nose took to me with her undivided attention. All while she towered over my head. The window opened up space for her body, namely, a round, full stomach that rested heavily against her lap.

She rested against the counter, the dried fibers of a half eaten date between her fingers, and providing a perch for her body was the round of a greatly pregnant belly that poked through the window of her cart. I couldn’t imagine the inside of the cart to be incredibly spacious, I wondered how it was possible for such a woman to be inside of the cart

I hadn't realized how close I had gotten to her while observing her products, and right before me was her chest. Her gigantic breasts sat against either side of her belly, casually covered by loose purple fabric that drew their full teardrop shape closely.

“Um… Ah… Melons.” I spit out. A cringe crept around the corner of my lips.

The woman chuckled, amused watching the movements of my face. “Melons? I have a few” She replied without any ounce of offense taken. She set her date down, and held her belly in place as she huffed, pulling a variety in a wooden bin from behind her. Her eyes dropped as she found a crate of fruit behind her, 

“The rain's have been plentiful. These may be overripe…” Her fingers drew closer across the wooden counter towards the reptile-like skin of the cantaloupe between us. Even as she brought them out I could smell the fruit from within. They shined among every other product on display. 

“That shouldn’t be a problem. What’s wrong with overripe melons?”

“These plants bore their fruit too soon. Pollinators are scared away by the burgeoning melons that grow on the vine, hiding away the other flowers on the plant.” Her eyes drifted from the fruit. A hand subconsciously drew across the stretched fabric of her dress. She grounded herself to the touch against her unborn child.

“They grew much further than the capacity of their skin. The flesh is taut, the flesh may be juicy, but at a cost of the fruit's body. It's more than that poor skin can contain. How much  more could that fruit take… Nobody can tell for sure…”

The merchant shrugged, the gaze from her sharp eyes narrowed onto me, watching with intention. Her fingers seemed to barely hover over the loose clothes covering her heavily distended midsection. Her tone hid feelings of longing melancholy, one that felt especially unusual for an expecting mother.  Whatever her background was I knew she wasn't just talking about fruit. 

A flick of her fingernail sent a crevice snapping throughout the entire rind of the melon, loud enough to make me flinch. 

“Pop.” She cooed playfully. The flesh parted on the inside was engorged freshness, juices dripping onto the table in front of us. She gestured towards the exposed section of fruit before me. “Have a taste.”

My emaciated body could not hold back any longer. The crisp flesh yielded under the most bare pressure of my tongue. I was slurping the fruit down voraciously. The flesh was sweet and nourishing. The cart owner looked down at me with curiosity and stroked her stomach gently, watching with enough intent to make me self conscious. 

“Please forgive me. I’ve never had anything like this before.” The merchant not only. Id  ever thought twice about the concept of pregnancy, it had felt so far from me. Her fertility was right in front of me on full display. The way her clothing hugged her growing body, how she had to maneuver around her large bump only intrigued me more. Surrounded by the bounties of nature, the shop owner, carrying her own. 

“I can’t imagine I’d have anything like this again.” 

“I’m glad you’re satisfied.” She nodded. 

“How much for the melon?” I asked, attempting to hide these overwhelming emotions behind my coin shack. She waved her hand. “Take as much as you’d like. I’m not sure if I’ll find somebody with your perspective.” The space between our words was palpable. I felt regret, witnessing such an ephemeral beauty pass me by in real time.

“Thank you, miss. I hope I can repay you soon. May I know your name?” 

“Isme.” she extended a hand. It was natural for a merchant and a customer to exchange a handshake. But as mine were embraced by her especially large hands there was a line that was crossed. Our hands lingered a second longer, interrupted by another shopper that lined up behind me. 

“May we be reacquainted soon.” She pointed towards the field on the outskirts of town in their magnificent display of the entire spectrum of colors. The sun started to go down as I brought my arm full of fruit to the inn. The air was looking to be much warmer than anticipated with a subtle scent of flowers beginning to waft through the air. 

~

Night fell as I rested in front of the long day ahead of me. My stomach is as full as it could be. I rolled in my bed with the thoughts of Isme clouding my mind. The scent of cherry blossoms began to waft into my room even stronger now. I had a moment of peace before the commotion came in. The lobby filled up immediately, not one person had come in alone and their partners for the night were draped over each other’s arms. 

On the first floor the scent of sweet pollen hit me like a tsunami, the experience dazed me to lose my footing under me as the embers of desire began to ignite within me. My heart began to race, I felt needy for attention, the touch of another human being. But none of the people who had filled into the lobby could satiate the craving I had developed in the day.

The sound of pollinators buzzing through the skyline with their gentle symbiosis. Not a fig wasp nor moth moved with any aggression. The smell of nectar wafted intensely into the air. Lines wrapped around the pubs and brothels alike. The silhouette of opened windows behind curtains echoed passionate sounds of pleasure where couples were clearly making love. Strangers would seemingly pass each other in the street and disappear into the inns and alleyways only to emerge from them minutes later. 

The scent of nectar was overwhelming now. Into my sinuses and directly into my brain that felt like it was melting. My heart began to race. It was as if my peripherals were highlighted in a pink hue. There was something in the air, literally and metaphorically. In the sweet miasma there was a lust catalyzing hysteria, and I was also a victim.

“Haa… Haa…” my lust was verbal now. It was even hard to control my motor function. Even the rubbing from my underwear was overwhelming. My erection was twitching in my pants. From our short interaction she was the only thing on my mind. Nobody had ever left an impression on me as she did. I retraced my steps into the dark inn where people were attached to their lovers along the walls. The sounds of pleasure echoed further into the alleyway as I pursued the location of the fruit cart. 

The cart was gone, and in my lust driven daze I felt deep regret as I saw the fruit cart gone from its morning location. I had missed my opportunity, and I may never see a woman like Isme again. How long would it be before I devolved into a horny monkey.

“You made it, traveler.” 

The sight before me filled me with a primal sense of purpose. She dawned the same color violet fabrics, though far less draped over her bronze skin. Two pieces of clothing were held together by a  couple of thin gold bands supported by her dramatically distended stomach at the center of her torso that were at my eye level.  Her stomach distended far past her hips than my arms could ever wrap around. My head only reached the bottom of her ribs. I noted the strength of her backside to carry such a weight in preparation to birth her child. As she came to a stop her exposed skin rippled. Though heavy with a child in her womb she was still a flower in full bloom

The apt description of her ripe melons were hers alone now. The exposed skin let me marvel at the miracle of her life giving body. “Isme…” I uttered in relief, my cheeks lit aflame for her to see me in such a state, but as we got closer I realized we were under the same condition.

Her chest rose and fell, also under the spell of the night breeze. Under her translucent veil I could see the redness on her dark cheeks. One knee pointed inwards “You must be feeling it as well. You were just in time for the mass pollinator migration.” She took my hands into hers, picking up exactly where we had left off in the afternoon. 

“I… apologize for being so… Mmh… forward…” I looked her in the eyes. The desire against either of our touches answered it so clearly that the verbal agreement was only a formality. “May… May we have sex?” 

With the same haze in my eyes, Isme nodded with enthusiasm. She guided my to the hidden corner of the alleyway where her cart rested and her stalls of fruit were hidden, a little closet of space where the moonlight shined into the room.

Hinges unlocked and the bottom of the cart flew open. An entire wall had to come down in order to fit the pregnant woman who followed behind me. Her arms rested on my shoulders, guiding me to a bed that made up the majority of the cart's space. Her cart was illuminated by the moonlight. Her sheets were fuchsia under the azure moonlight. 

I felt the warmth of her breasts and belly, our bodies pressed together, as we craved touch immediately. She turned me around and set me gently against her bed to see her from underneath and recognize the scale of our size difference. 

“Was it melons that caught your eye earlier?”

She unclasped the top of her bra, freeing her heavy breasts that dropped heavily with their engorged fullness. Her amber droplets rolled readily against her dark breasts leaving behind a wet trail to her nipples. “Don’t be shy. There will be more than enough for my child. Drink.” My body desperately gave into her instruction. Her heavy breasts required physical labor from both hands to guide her into my mouth. Every touch caused her nipple to leak, down my chin beofre her heavy supple flesh filled my mouth.

Her body rocked back and fourth as she sucked air sharply to the sensations of lactation. Her milk filled my mouth with every suckle, nourishing me as she did before as I was indulged in a way only a mother can indulge me.. I was on fire. Her hands stripped me until my bare skin exposed itself to the night breeze before she explored my body. Her fingers slowly familiarized her with the shape and size of my body, it was as if she was evaluating how much I could take. Whatever she assumed, I wished that she would give it to me twofold. Last of which to be touched was my erection that had been growing against her body. 

“Keep suckling. Let me feed you.” Her large hand enveloped most of my shaft. The bottom of her thumb rolled against my most sensitive spot at the bottom of the head. She began to stroke. Firm pumps gave the stimulation that my body crazed under the humid haze of aphrodisiacal pollen in the air.

My moans were muffled into her breast as she bit her lip to my sounds. Her touch directed the fire igniting all over my body. Nursing on her leaking teat became second nature. My airways were surrounded by her breasts, her scent, and the taste of her milk. My brain was overwhelmed by Isme. My hands began to explore, finding any foothold to reach Isme closer as she continued to work me agonizingly slowly. 

My hands sunk into her flesh. The new grooves of a pregnant woman's body. The sensations of her body against my fingertips. The softness of her sides, her wide hip bones, and finally, the firmness of her belly parked up against my side as she leaned forward to nurse me. She pressed her midsection into me, allowing myself to enjoy the part of Isme’s body that truly caught my eye.

A pound, almost like a muffled thump. I would have thought to look at the entrance if it hadn't been for Isme's reaction.I looked down to find her belly contorted to sharm angles as limbs poked through her drum tight skin. My eyes could deceive me into seeing the details of a toe through The surface of her skin. 

“Your nursing is making me have contractions.”

Her white stretch marks decorated her body like those on the burgeoning melons from before. They only looked more stunning while highlighted by the yellowish metal that draped over her maternal frame. She huffed. Her sheer size was too much to handle. Anxiety grew on her face, like she was watching a fleeting moment pass by. She took her hand off of my cock, leaving me to sigh in sexual frustration. She wore no bottom to cover her sex. 

“Will you have me, traveler?”. She arranged every massive pillow on her bed to support her body. Her heavy, milk laden breasts were parted by the massive dome of her midsection, the undercarriage spread twice the width of my shoulders. She spread each of her tree trunk thighs to invite me into her. I was drawn to her belly as proof of her stunning fertility.

Her pussy was glistening in ways that I never thought imaginable. The entrance of the especially large woman was proportional. I couldn’t forget her tangent from earlier in the day. She was every bit the ripe fruit that she spoke about, and under the spell of the night  I felt like if we didn’t have sex, I would die. 

My whole body needed to accommodate her to take form to the love we’d make. As my hips pushed into the plush padding of her crotch my body parked against her firm midsection. There was a baby in here, one that had been growing inside of Isme for 10 long months.

I had to lift her heavy malleable belly to access her sex. I felt the weight of her child shift as she was relieved from the heaviness of her womb. She sighed, satisfied and exposed while my hands carried no less than half my body’s worth of weight. 

With her child in hand, I finally thrusted. “Mnnnhhhhgggg.” came from my throat as her warm sex enveloped my body, sending a chill down my spine. Her insides were warm, nearly hot and full as they pushed against me in every direction with softness to give. Every angle of every thrust parted her walls in new exciting ways that made her moan and shutter in excitement. There was so much woman to make love to, and I only had one night to do it.

Her walls began to collapse around me. She gasped as she was forced to address the cramping that took hold of her abdomen. A contraction took hold around me and her uterus that went solid under my hands. Wetter, together, I felt every ridge around me as Isme's body tightened to ready herself to begin labor. She winced in pain as her fingers began to dig into the mountain of pillows behind her

Her pussy, pulsing and contracting. Her breaths steadied as I moved. Isme's stomach began to tighten, receding inside my arms. Her firm belly hardened around the shape of her uterus and refused to yield.

“Hooooooo…” left her lips. Her chin pointed towards the sky as she took in a deep breath and let a long exhale groan from her relaxed jaw. She stroked her stomach, quelling the movements that bobbed against her stomach between us.

“Please keep moving…” She begged to keep taking her as the contraction. Her walls pulsed and contracted with every thrust. I felt like I was interrupting her body as it labored, but I was privileged to feel Isme’s most intimate process. Every thrust was a fight as her body clung onto me as I pulled out, but hungrily took me back into her. Our moans blended together,  releasing the feeling of her contractions against our sex.

Isme’s hands held my body, stroking my back and hips with idle lust as the powerful contraction came to an end. The area  around her popped naval was red under the tension and the rest of her body grew hot. There was an intoxicated look in her eyes before she lifted her hips from between her legs.

Effortlessly she dragged into the pile of body size pillows. While she rotated her cumbersome body around me, her gold chains jingled against her stomach and before I knew it one of her soft, heavy thighs straddled my hips and swallowed me into the soft ocean of her warm body. 

The weight of her round dominated my torso and pushed my breath out of me. “Mnnha-” I sighed, a breath was forced out of me as the weight of her hips and her belly sat against my torso. In an unprecedented erotic peril I realized that the pregnant merchant was going to use me.

“Forgive me traveler. We don't have much time.” She slurred as she maneuvered my cock against her entrance. I gasped, feeling the size of her entrance that was going to swallow my throbbing member whole. Isme’s soft, wet sex was intimidating to the sheer size of the pregnant woman on top of me. I flinched at the feeling of her wet juices subconsciously dripping from her wet hole like nectar from a flower begging to be fertilized. Her lust only made the developed young she carried in her uterus only more alluring. “I understand. Your body as it is… Haa… Is the greatest privilege.” 

She took a deep sigh with a softened gaze to my comment. With the overwhelming anticipation of sex Isme plunged into me. “Mnnnnhhhh!” was forced out of my crushed lungs as my body sunk into the pile of pillows as I was swallowed into  her gravid body. She groaned with heavy satisfaction as her body buckled forward. Her baby thrashed against me. The pressure of her womb was tangible as I felt the healthy life inside of her body.

It wasn’t enough for either of us. She maneuvered her large body over me, and slammed down all of her weight against my disproportionate member again. The sounds of our bodies filled the room as we collided onto her massive mattress. The bedframe groaned under the power of her pregnant body.

She couldn't hold all of her weight, causing all of the weight of her baby laden belly directly onto my shaft. My hips were crushed by each one of her heavy pumps. Her back arched as she threw her weight into me for her pleasure. Her body rippled with the effort, her breasts leaked a trail of milk that rained over my face and stained her bump.   I could feel my body bruising and I didn't care. No price was  too great for a lover her size

I could feel the pressure building in her hips as she rode. One hand sat atop her belly, steding her and digging into my body more and more. She held my hands against her mattress as we indulged. Her stomach began to tighten from over me this time. Her stomach receded back into her body

“Annnhhh~” I groaned, feeling the weight of her womb as it descended into her birth canal. With the mother in control she continued to ride through her labor pains. Her folds contorted around my cock, her gel-like juices stained my cock and ensured I could glide against her contracting vagina.

“Hnnggh!” She cried sharply as I felt a hard, muscular lip at the tip of my penis. With a quick inhale she moved again. “I-mmnnh-can-haaaa… Feel you against the baby.” she moaned through clenched teeth  We climbed, further and further amidst her pains.

Her hips dominated me, her ass crashed into my pelvis with recoil sending vibrations to her dilating uterus. “Oh fuck…” I groaned. “Your baby is so low…” My comment drew a smile on her face. Her hands lifted and supported her belly at the height of the contraction. From below her I took control, thrusting into her heavy body as best I could as her face contorted in the characteristic features of sexual pleasure. “Nhha~ Yes-Yes!” she cried as her whole body tightened.

She felt every one of my thrusts sending vibrations to her womb as I hit her harder and faster. I prodded her dilated cervix until finally her hips gave in and sunk into my body. My cock jabbed into a thin, rubbery layer before releasing my seed into her exposed uterus. My ejaculation released a pent up sensation from within her that had been building for 10 long months. 

“GUUUUUOOOOOOOAAAAH!” Isme cried. Her hips spasmed as she grinded over me. Her pussy twitched wildly to accept every drop of semen her pussy demanded from me. Her fingers ran through her scalp as she gyrated her nude body over mine. We panted, our sensitive sexes riding the sensations. My hands drew across her engorged womb between us, worshipping her virile round  under its weight. As my palms contacted the surface of her red, taut skin the thin layer separating my penis from her baby ruptured.

Isme took a sharp gasp as the protective layer within her audibly popped from within her. Immediately a bathtub of warm waters erupted onto my waist, leaving myself and a majority of the pillows under me drenched. We took heavy breaths in disbelief against her stained sheets. 

“Your… Waters…” I said, half in observation, half in question. Isme nodded with a look of shock and disbelief on her face. 

“You… You popped me, traveler. It looks like you picked another overripe specimen” She joked. Her smile disappeared quickly with a wince of her labor pains. “A-ahhh~” she cried, the pains forcing her to keel over my body.She held onto my body, vulnerable and afraid on top of me as intense labor pains reduced her to tense, shaky breaths. 

“Stay with me, traveler?” she asked, as if leaving my lover of the night to labor alone was an option. “Of course.” I reassured her. I assisted her as best I could onto her side where she rubbed the bottom of her stomach in the new, overwhelming pain. 

“Mmmnhhhh-” she groaned, pressing our foreheads into each other once more. “Ah~ Ah~” her knee swayed side to side as the effort of childbirth and adrenaline coursed through her veins. I wanted to relieve her

I pressed my forehead against hers. Slightly, she let go of some tension she carried in her face. She took deeper breaths and allowed the contraction to do the work of sending her child downwards. We both watched as her belly changed shape at the end of the contraction. The gravity of the moment was palpable. Isme was giving birth and I was watching her. 

Between contractions we heard the moans and sounds of sex around us. Sweet pollen still lingered in the air. Our warm bodies still craved more.Her sounds blended in with the sounds of the lovers around us, filling in the air with erotic sensual background noise. The atmosphere was not lost on us

Our lips met and we began to touch. Through kisses her jaw released the tension she held. She opened her mouth, her tongue explored the inside of my mouth, leaving us longing for more. “Can you feel my baby, traveler?” She requested.

“From inside?” I asked.  She nodded. My hand followed her hot, red midsection down to between her legs. My fingers led a journey across her gigantic body before I found her outside lips from under her belly. Isme let out a sigh at the contact. She spread her legs further, making it easier to find her labia, and deeper, her entrance. 

“Mnnnhhhh~” She moaned as my fingers parted her delicate folds and pushed into her. Her chest rose as she softly thrusted against my fingers. My fingers grazed a warm, round mass. “Haaaa-nnnghhh!” Isme groaned suddenly. Her thighs began to shake as the walls of her vagina began to close around my fingers. I watched her stomach crunch itself again. From within her I moved my fingers 

The lip of her cervix hugged the head as it descended. I held my breath, watching the large, round head of her child separate the lips I had passionately thrusted into just minutes before. As she let go of her push the head receded back into her slightly. Tired, childbirth was every ounce the endeavor I understood it to be. My fingers slowly exited her body with the effort of her pushes. “You’re making such good progress.” 

Through deep breaths she smiled and nodded, her face lighting up with pride. Isme demanded more kisses by leaning her face closer to which I obliged. Between her contractions she pressed her forehead to mine and we kissed under the illumination of the moonlight. Sweat stained my forehead as she whimpered into my body. Her tender noises of sex, she ended her contraction with a smile.

Her face tightened in the middle of our kiss. “A-annghhh!!!” She groaned against my lips. She sucked air in sharply and bore down with power, My fingers were forced out of her as the head occupied her entrance and spread her labia open. “Mnnnghhhh!” Isme moaned before she moved with the contraction again. The head spread her open, the round shape stayed as she pushed but as soon as she let go the head receded back into her slightly. 

“Oh goodness, it burns.” She groaned. “That must be what the head feels like.” I communicated. The update seemed to stun Isme who looked at me with a glint in her eyes.

“Would you like to feel?” I offered. She nodded and I slowly guided her hand across her large body. Isme gasped, her hand patted the little head between her legs with relief. We felt the delicate little orb that was slowly being born through Isme’s grueling effort. Her crotch was still sensitive as we felt her body accommodating her baby’s head. Slowly, I drew circles around her stretched skin.

“Touch me, I’m having another contraction-ohhhhhhh.” There was a head engaged between her legs. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as I drew my fingers in a circle around the head. 

“Unnnnghhhhhh!” Her pushes came directly from her base. Every graze against her sensitive clit got Isme to take a deep breath and relax to feel all of the sensations of the crowning head, the pleasure and the pain. “Nnnnghhhh!” Through the steady stimulation her breasts began to leak again. The droplets were whiter now. Her body must have known that her baby was almost here. The head stretched her vulva even more. I could feel the head underneath my fingers as it passed through their mother’s opening. 

Between isme’s legs was the size of a cantaloupe. Her clit poked above that head. With one finger placed upon her sensitive nub I massaged her outer lips as they stretched around the orb. Her eyelids fluttered  as she moaned, exposing more of the child's head. “You're making me so wet…” 

The crown was a beautiful sight, a provocative, indulgent sight that I needed to savor every moment of. Isme’s laboring pussy was every bit the flower that attracted her mate. She gasped as she saw that I was headed between her legs as she readied herself for the next intense feeling to claim her partially born head and her trembling clit teased me to pleasure her more. 

To indulge every one of my ambitions I buried my face between her gigantic legs. “Mnnnnhaaaa~” she gasped as her pitch raised. Her folds were saturated in juices, making my tongue slick against her most sensitive areas. 

The sensations made her tremble as her sharp moan elevated into a high pitch squeal. “I didn’t know a laboring mother, mnnhhfff, could feel so much pleasure!” Isme cried. Her hands found the back of my head and held me in place against her pussy as she labored.

“Ohhhhh… Fuuuuuuckkkk!” She chortled as she suffocated into the throws of cunnilingus and labor. “I’m going to cum, you’re going to make me cum while giving birth to my child.” Isme squealed as her toes curled against the sheets of her bed. 

“Push, Isme.” I instructed. “Deliver your baby.”

“Mnnhhh.” My attention towards her erogenous point lightened for her to build the energy for a decisive push. “Nhhhh-haaaaa-hooo-hooo-hooooo.” 

Isme's fingers dug into the sheets. Her calf began to rise over my head, its size blocked the moonlight above me. The leverage focussed more energy on the mother. The cavern created by her massive thighs tremble around me. She hummed, low and powerful, her voice peaked, growing as her body’s tremors climbed into an earthquake of pleasure. She held her thighs open for her child and my tongue. The weight of her belly sat directly on my forehead, and the mass was only going down 

“MnnnnnhhhaaAAAAA!!!!”

She lifted her hips and thrusted against my face. A shoulder popped free from her first violent jerk. “GUAAAAAAAOOOOOHHH!!” The second shoulder followed. 

But the heavy child still sat in her birth canal. The rest of the body needed their mother’s effort to be born. 

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! Her vocal chords rang until they grew hoarse as she exploded into a shrill scream that silenced the entire block as her orgasm shot the rest of her child's body onto the bed. Isme’s body spasmed as they returned to her laid down position. Her child was heavy as I took the slippery, squirming newborn into my arms and onto the mother’s chest for her to witness the first breaths of her child. 

With relief she embraced her young with her arms as I got to witness a new milestone of life, the very moment a woman became a mother. In a pool of her own fluids, covered in sweat, with her child still attached to her body, Isme was beautiful.

The first moment Isme could let her head rest against her pillow she did. She looked at me. “I never asked you for your name, traveler. I want to know the name of the man who gave me this pleasure.”

“Rayn…” I answered. She panted, cradling her newborn son in her arms. “What a wonderful name. Perhaps next season we will make a child that has that name.”

I blushed. “They may have that name as long as I have the privilege to watch their mother as she bears that fruit.” 

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

the five stages | f. odair

masterlist

summary: a journey back to a golden period of time of polaroid pictures, white knitted sweaters, and lively sea-green eyes. why? because in the present, those same pair of eyes are ruthlessly unrelenting and you have no other chance of their escape.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: heavy angst, vomiting, implied smut, depression, maggots, hallucinations, relieving fluff, mild horror. I don’t want to spoil the story too much, so I won’t be adding any more warnings, sorry y’all. this could be very triggering so please read at your own discretion. some descriptions are quite graphic!

notes: I’m super proud of this one—it’s sorta based off “little talks” by of monsters and men and “on the nature of daylight” by max richer. this fic probably won’t get many views, so I’ll be incredibly grateful for any—if any at all—type of engagement! <33

word count: 8k

The bedroom was cold; dark; empty. Empty even though I still resided in it.

My alarm had gone off two hours ago, yet I hadn’t moved an inch. When I finally turned my head to the side, I found that the space beside me was vacant. Cold; dark; empty—I reached out my hand anyway.

Thirty minutes passed before I wrestled myself out of bed and started making breakfast downstairs. The otherwise warm and flavourful plate of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast left my mouth feeling dry and my throat lodged.

It used to be one of my favourite meals. At least, when he was around.

Dishes were piled in the sink, dirty and untouched. I sat on the couch, pondering whether today was the day I would finally get to cleaning them. It wasn’t. I couldn’t. We always did that together. I wondered—if I left them in the sink long enough, would he return? Even just for five minutes to help me put them away? One month and seventeen days had passed, and yet I still entertained this thought religiously.

I wasted an hour running circles round the same contemplations before deciding fresh air, as cliché as it was, might do me some good.

Grey clouds concealed the sun’s warm golden light when I stepped outside, but that was fine—I didn’t like anything golden anymore. But he would want me to leave the house at least once a day, so that’s what I would do. I would go down to the beach beside our—my house and feel the sand collect between my toes as I walked to the water’s edge.

But wasn’t that where he was when it happened? Wasn’t he in water? Didn’t those things pile on top of him? Didn’t they sink their fangs into his neck and tear at his flesh until he was blown to…

Bits of egg, yoghurt and stomach bile sat at my feet. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the ground in a sandy, tear-stricken heap. Since my lower body had refused to cooperate any longer, it took me until midday to crawl back up the dune and to my front doorstep.

Fuck. I needed to rest.

“I need you to rest, sweetheart.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” I whined. “I’m not sick.”

Finnick placed a bucket on the ground beside the bed. The room smelled of lemon disinfectant—a joy I often found in being sick… That is, if I were sick, which I was not. I must have drunk spoiled milk or eaten something bad during breakfast. Nevertheless, Finnick was not having it.

“You’re throwing up everything you manage to get down, and you’re shivering like it’s the middle of winter,” he said adamantly, tucking the comforter up to my chest. “It’s summer, and you’re very much not fine.”

I sat up, ready to heatedly debate the subject, but the room began swirling, and my ears were hissing like a staticky television channel without a signal. A quiet whimper buzzed in my throat as I hunched forward. Damn him, I was sick.

The mattress dipped as Finnick sat beside me. His hand was on my back, rubbing it soothingly as he used his other hand to tuck away the curtain of hair concealing my face. I huffed, half in annoyance, half in an attempt to suppress the nausea rising in my throat, and then sunk back against the pillows.

“Not sick, she says,” he jested, smiling down at me. I rolled my eyes, though unable to hide the weak, betraying smile creeping across my lips. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he said, a gentle command. “I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

The wooden flooring welcomed me with hard, cold arms as I hauled my sandy body through the front door. Images of fangs, bloody flesh, and panicked sea-green eyes flooded my mind.

More breakfast, more bile. No lemon disinfectant.

My knees were folded beneath my body; my body was hunched over my knees. I was sobbing now, so hard that I threw up again (was there even anything left in my stomach at this point?), creating a thick puddle of vomit and tears beneath me. Cries and gasps for air bounced around the house. To call me a mess would be an understatement. I was a disaster. A disaster wrapped up in an unmendable tragedy with a ragged, threadbare ribbon barely holding me together.

And in case I wasn’t aware of this fact, the floorboards were so shiny that they mirrored a reflection of myself. My hair was a being of its own, all wild and unkempt, and my face was another story entirely—a red, blotchy thing I wasn’t too interested in delving into.

But the most unsettling aspect had nothing to do with me, it was that there was someone else in the reflection. Two green balls of light were glowing above my head.

Dishevelled golden hair…

Dimpled cheeks…

My forehead was pressed to the floor as I screamed.

“I don’t want to make you sick as well,” I said, contrarily enjoying the feeling of Finnick’s skin warm against mine, hot blood flowing through his veins.

A day had passed since I first became unwell, and the sickness had continued to wreak havoc inside me.

We were both under the thick covers, our limbs tangled together as he held me atop his chest. (my body didn’t register the scorching summer temperatures. I actually felt as though my core temperature was a few degrees below freezing. Meanwhile, Finnick was characteristically toasty warm. It was perfect for me, but not so much for him, evident in the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. Nevertheless, he made no complaints).

My body rose and fell with each breath he took. I was trying to inhale whenever he exhaled in a weak attempt to prevent the festering sickness in my body from entering his, and though it was a futile gesture, I did it anyway.

“In sickness and health, remember?” he said.

I smiled. “We’re not even married.”

“Yet, you mean,” he countered. “I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, sweetheart. You know that.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of spending an entire lifetime with him—waking up in each other’s embrace each morning, the warm sunlight peeking through the blinds of our bedroom; Finnick calling me “Mrs. Odair” or “My wife” at every opportunity because doing so made us both giggle like two moronic, love-struck teenagers; and being unable to prevent the deep smile lines on both our cheeks as we age, a constant display of our perpetual happiness.

“Sixty more years of having and holding you,” he continued with a gentle musing in his tone. “For better or for worse... For richer or for poorer.” He then stroked the side of my face and brushed away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to my forehead. “In sickness and in health…”

“…Until death do us part,” I finished, my voice slow with fatigue.

Two fingers sat beneath my chin and tilted my head upward. My eyes connected with Finnick’s. They were soft. Heartfelt.

“Not even then. I’ll love you beyond the grave,” he murmured. Then his lips were slowly curving into a pensive smile. “When we’re both ghosts and haunting the next owners of this house.”

I was now smiling, too. “I’d hoped you would say something like that.”

How could he lie like that? There was no we. There were no next owners. There was only me, alive and alone in a comatose house. And mind you, I was sane enough to know that it wasn’t actually his ghost haunting me, though I wish I weren’t because having that knowledge was even worse. It meant he was truly erased from existence.

“Go away,” I whispered to the reflection on the floor.

He didn’t. His vacant green eyes kept staring down at my crumpled figure.

I shot off the floor and spun around, hot tears streaming down my face. “Go away!” His face remained expressionless. He looked like himself, only colder. “You said sixty more years! You said we’d be together!” I mindlessly picked up and flung a small picture frame at him, only for it to pass through his body and shatter on the floor behind him. “Why did you lie to me?!” My voice was frayed with fury, though underlined with grief.

He said nothing, did nothing. All he did was watch.

My legs buckled, and I was on the floor again. I was whispering, half-sobbing, the same question over and over until the words slurred together. “Why’d you lie? Why’d y’lie?” The only time I stopped was when my tongue grew too heavy to move anymore.

To my surprise, he eventually came and sat beside me, remaining cold and silent—as I too had become.

Glass fragments from the picture frame were scattered across the floorboards. The photo within had fallen out and, ironically, drifted towards me. I didn’t bother acknowledging him as I moved onto my hands and knees and began crawling forward—my palms slicing open and blood seeping out—until the photo was in my hands. My shins had granules of glass pricking into them, but I couldn’t feel the pain; all I could do was stare at the memory in my hands.

The picture had been taken in District Thirteen, a day before he signed up for… the mission.

I was drifting in and out of sleep when a sudden bright flash lit up my eyelids.

“Oops.”

Heavy eyes fluttering open, I was met with a small camera pointing down at me, which was being held up by a lengthy muscular arm, which was connected to an even more muscular and broad shoulder, which was connected to—okay, sorry, I think you get it.

“Finnick!” I shrieked, pulling the covers over my naked figure.

He laughed, the vibrations rumbling deep within his chest, beneath my ear. A soft whirring sound accompanied the polaroid sliding out of the camera, its black film hiding the doubtless embarrassing picture beneath. He placed the film on the sheets beside him, letting the photo develop in darkness.

“I was supposed to cover the flash,” he said, still chuckling.

I rubbed my eyes, which were twinkling with little sparkles of light. “I think you blinded me.”

“Lucky you,” he jested. “You’re finally free from my repulsive exterior.”

I started to reach for the picture beside him—“You’re an idiot”—but then he was rolling us over until his arms were pillared on either side of my head and he was hovering above me.

His hair was a mess, a testament to the night before (and very early hours of the morning), and he was sporting a beautiful, lazy grin. “Yeah? Well, you’re engaged to an idiot,” he said, tilting his head in an arrogant manner. “So what does that make you?”

The sea-glass ring hugging my finger gleamed in the lamp’s dull light as I reached out to touch his face, my fingertips brushing along the edges of his pronounced jawline. Tangled strands of hair and a beaming smile were reflecting back at me in his eyes. No one had ever loved anyone as much as I loved Finnick—disregarding the one exception that was staring down at me.

“Blinded by love,” I whispered.

Brief yet poignant emotion trickled through his features, his eyes. Then, like a flick of a switch, he covered it up and lowered his face into my neck, groaning the words, “So corny.”

My fingers were tangled in his hair, holding him close to me. “Liar,” I laughed. “You loved it.”

“I love you, which is why I put up with your corniness,” he murmured into my skin.

Even after all this time, my heart still leapt whenever he said those three words, even when he was being a jerk about it. I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, too.”

We laid like this for a short while longer—Finnick keeping his face buried in the warmth of my neck, his arms curled beneath my body; me playing with the golden waves of his hair that were somehow softer than my own. He was so heavy on top of me that it was starting to become difficult to breathe, but in no universe would I ever tell him to get off. It was a blissful sort of suffocation.

A sort anyone would snap a picture of just to keep as a reminder of how beautiful it feels to be smothered with love. With that being said, the picture that lay awaiting beside me was brought back to mind.

“Oh no,” I moaned, picking it up and taking a short glance at the developed photo. I covered my face with my hands, repeating the words, “Oh no.”

The photo was plucked from my fingers, and Finnick began humming contentedly to himself.

In the photo, my face had been nuzzled into his bare, muscular chest, eyes closed in sleep-drunken serenity, hair thrown over my shoulder and spilling across the pillow. My hand rested on his contoured stomach with just enough of my upper arm and low light to conceal my breasts. Finnick had a delicate hand draped over my waist. He was gazing down at me with a smile that was just… full of pure love.

I had to admit—it was a beautiful picture. Despite my initial disapproval.

“Beautiful,” I heard him echo my thoughts, his eyes still scanning the photo. Then his brows furrowed, and his head slightly inched forward as though he had just noticed something peculiar in the picture. “Oh, and you are too, I guess.”

My head tilted back against the pillow with an abrupt laugh. I shook my head, looking back at him. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he said, leaning in closer.

His lips were on mine for what must have been the millionth time in the past few hours. The bedside clock announced that breakfast was soon approaching, though it was clear neither of us would make an appearance within the next hour (or two).

“You love me,” he whispered as he slid inside me.

And I did.

I really did.

The muscles in my cheeks were straining due to how hard I was smiling.

It wasn’t my idea to keep a picture of us half-naked in the entryway of our home. He always was a bit unusual like that. Completely unashamed of who he was and how he acted. Sometimes a little too boisterously, but that’s what I loved so much about him—how confident he was in his love for me, so much so that nothing else mattered, no one else’s opinion.

God, I love him so much.

Love…?

Wait.

That’s not right.

Shouldn’t it be “loved”?

And why was I smiling? I didn’t have anything to smile about anymore. He was gone. Our wedding never occurred. Our faces never wrinkled with smile lines. Our clasped hands never weathered with age. He was gone.

The polaroid slipped from between my fingers. My hands were covered in glass and blood, blood that had painted a dark red splotch in the middle of the shiny film. Figures.

After a short while of staring blankly at the scattered debris decorating the floor, I finally found it in myself to start climbing back onto my feet. My straightened legs wobbled and ached beneath me with the little energy I had. That’s what happens when you can barely stomach food anymore: no energy, always sleeping, always swamped by nightmares or bittersweet memories—at this point, they were one and the same.

Not a strand of gold or a fleck of green was in sight when I glanced over my shoulder. For now, at least. He liked making an appearance once or twice a day.

Pieces of glass crunched beneath my bare, stinging feet as I made for the stairwell. A mess for another day, I reasoned. Just like the dishes. Sticky red footprints stamped each wooden step I ascended, growing less prominent as I reached the second floor.

After taking a right down a short hallway, the encompassing walls littered with magnificent seashells and dried ocean flora, I turned the knob to the furthest room and entered. The floor was landscaped with mountains of clothes which drenched the room in a familiar, all-consuming smell. The scent kind of reminded me of receiving a warm hug, albeit from someone you know you should let go of in more ways than one.

His hair, golden and tousled, caught my eye as I passed the wall of string-hung polaroids in our… sorry, my bedroom. His smile was all dimpled and brilliant, and he had his tanned arms wrapped around my middle. Just moments after the picture was taken, he had tackled me into the water and rightfully earned a smack on the back of the head. In turn, he did it again.

But before that, we were both looking into the camera with the most joyful expressions—huge grins, bright eyes. Frozen in time.

I never let myself look too long at that picture anymore. And I never, ever looked into his eyes. Green used to be my favourite colour. I didn’t have a favourite colour anymore. It was safe to say I didn’t have a favourite anything anymore; everything favourable was a reminder of him.

I picked up a white knitted sweater off the ground and tugged it over my head, staining it with splotches of dark red. Knowing him, he would wear it regardless—whatever was mine, was also his, and was equally the same in reverse, even things as grotesque as blood.

Well, he would have worn it, I should have said.

The sweater had been specifically tailored for him. I remembered how the soft sleeves hugged his arms so well that every fluid curve of his biceps was visible, similar to a building wave before it crested. On me, the sleeves swallowed my arms whole, which I liked to think in their own unique way had also been unintentionally tailored for me, like someone out there knew one day I would need some way to drown in him when he was gone.

Finnick’s fingers tugged at the silk ribbons, unwrapping the opulent gift box that sat on our dining table. Capitol devotees would send extravagant parcels weekly, turning up in abundance on our doorstep. Sometimes Finnick didn’t even bother opening them; sometimes we opened them together just to get a good laugh out of whatever ridiculous item was inside.

He never, though, opened the perfume-scented letters marked with lipstick stains.

“Oh,” I said in surprise as he lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of fabric, knitted and cream-white and intricate, though still simple. It was soft to the touch; thick enough to retain warmth. I held it up with two hands, admiring the hand-sewed threads of cotton. Whoever’s handiwork this was, it was nothing to laugh at.

Holding it up to Finnick’s torso, I smiled and said, “Try it on.”

“What?” He shook his head and smiled quizzically. “No.”

“Yes. I think it will look good on you.” I pressed it further against him with conviction. “Try it on.”

He tilted his head and exhaled deeply through his nose, giving me a begrudging, squinty-eyed look. From that, I already knew I had won him over, and watched as he snatched the sweater from my grasp and tugged his shirt off with one hand. I averted my eyes, feeling the tips of my ears flush with heat—we’d been together for over a year now; you would think I’d have grown accustomed to seeing him shirtless.

His head slipped through the neckline and he pulled the sweater down his body. I was right. It looked really good on him. Perfect, actually. The measurements were so precise that the fabric sloped off his shoulders like a compact mountain of snow. The thick-knitted collar dipped into a deep, uneven neckline that partly revealed his chest and made his neck look like a strong, contoured pillar. He looked at me expectantly, as though to ask, “Well?”

“It makes your neck and shoulders look really nice,” I blurted out, instantly cringing inside.

His expression contorted into something of amusement and surprise as he took a slow step towards me. “My neck and shoulders, huh?” he said, grinning devilishly. Oh, now I’d done it. Leave it to me to rocket Finnick Odair’s already atmospheric ego. “Anything else?”

I began backing away, but his prowling strides were so long that the space between us only shortened. When my backside hit the edge of the dining table, I knew I was done for.

“You know,” I began, avoiding his unrelenting stare. “I think it was just a momentary lapse of judgement.” He was closing in now, placing his hands on either side of my body to trap me in place. “It—It actually looks terrible on you,” I said, feigning sincerity and adding a little nod to help further my case.

His eyelids drooped as he gazed down at me, lips curving into that seductive smirk he had mastered long ago. “No takebacks,” he purred, voice low and gravelly. Dear God, I could only pray I wasn’t going to melt into a puddle on the floor. He always did this—took every opportunity to flirt and render me a stuttering, bashful mess. It was his favourite game to play. “This is now my new favourite shirt. All thanks to you, sweetheart.”

But, given the right timing and ever-wavering amount of confidence, I liked to play too.

I inhaled deeply, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray me. “Maybe you should take it off then,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “So you don’t ruin it.”

His mischievous expression revealed his next words before he even spoke them. “Maybe I will,” he said, and then he was tugging his sweater over his head, and I was tearing off my own. As his hands slipped beneath my thighs and lifted me onto our dining table, I prayed the wooden legs wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our next actions.

My fingertips ran over the soft, rippling patterns on the knitted sleeves, my arms crossed in a self-soothing manner. After that day, the sweater had become a sort of good luck charm—or so we agreed upon as we lay panting on the tabletop. He started wearing it to a multitude of events and parties in the Capitol (basically any place in which he needed a pick-me-up, a reminder of what he had to come home to, who he had to come home to).

He even wore it the day we got engaged.

So many happy memories were associated with this one white sweater. So many times, those cloud-soft sleeves were wrapped around my body, suffocating me in the scent of him—if nothing else, at least that remained.

The last time he had worn it was the day of the Reaping for the Quarter Quell; the last time our lives were ever semi-normal. I had fought tooth and nail to reach him before he was escorted onto the train, despite being ordered, “No goodbyes,” by one of the Peacekeepers. In modest terms, I had significantly decreased his chances of reproduction.

When I reached Finnick, he had brought me into a kiss so harsh and fervent that my lips were bruised the next day. He then yanked off his sweater, leaving his upper body completely exposed to everyone around us in complete disregard for his trauma-induced fear of doing so, and shoved it into my hands.

I had just stood there frozen in bewilderment, watching as he called out, “I love you, sweetheart!” Two Peacekeepers were forcing him onto the train, but he too fought for the last word. “Don’t forget—I’m always with you!”

That statement had never been truer than it was now. For better or for worse.

My vision unblurred as I returned to reality. Dismal, grey light was peeking through the shutters that formed the balcony doors, the daylight hours seeming to tick away at a snail’s pace. I used to wish for the days to be longer, for time to move slower, so I could savour the moments I had of happiness and sunlight which used to be plentiful.

Why do wishes only come true when you grow to desire nothing but the opposite?

Slothfully, I crawled onto the unmade king-size bed, my limbs crumpling and balling to my chest as the side of my head hit the pillow. The imprint on the mattress beneath my body didn’t match my own. It was much larger and broader. How long would it take for the springs to forget his body weight and recoil back into place as though he never existed at all?

I inhaled the sweater’s scent with every breath I took (and I tried not to wonder how long it would take for his scent to disappear as well) and hugged my arms around my waist. No pain was worse than the fleeting moments I forgot the embrace was my own and not his.

Hours passed, and so did the evening. A beautiful orange sunset hadn’t slipped through the shutter’s cracks because the clouds never dissipated. Night-time brought no consolation either. Not even the stars or moon made an appearance. Everything that once gave me a shred of optimism was hidden behind a veil of gloom.

I knew tomorrow wouldn’t be any different—the weather, my mood, his absence. Because the end of autumn was closing in, and the days were becoming bleaker. Trees would start shedding their leaves; the leaves would start to die.

I hoped I would too.

I was still curled up on my side, my body aching with stiffness, when my face began scrunching into this ugly, twisted mess of despair. My tears were slow yet heavy, synonymous with the day I had incurred.

But then something strange happened.

Someone called my name.

No. That couldn’t be right. I was the only one who occupied a house in the Victor’s Village; the others had either relocated after the war or were… dead.

But there it was again—my name, distant and eerie, yet spoken with a tone people often used to beckon over and aid a frightened, injured animal. My vision blurred, both from tears and concentration on the voice.

“Hey.”

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment my surroundings transformed into a kitchen, just that they had and that I was no longer in my bed but standing upright.

Ahead of me, in the distance, the sun was beating down on the crystalline water, and white frothy waves were cresting on the smooth, golden sand. It was a perfect day; not a cloud was in sight. The only blemish that smeared the blue sky was the reflection staring back at me from the window I gazed out of.

In my hands was a soup bowl and a damp dishrag.

“Sweetheart?” That once distant voice, concerned and beckoning, was standing right beside me.

Blinking, I snapped out of my daze and turned away from the window.

He stood tall beside me, despite being half hunched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing the last of the few dirty dishes stacked neatly on the bench top. His head was turned towards me, his enamoured sea-green eyes peering into my own as though he was searching behind them for what troubled me.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, standing up straight. His touch was warm and gentle as he reached for my hand, leaving soapy bubbles on my palm and fingers. “Where’d you go?”

Three odd things seemed to occur at once: first, I flinched away from his touch, overwhelmed by its paradoxical unfamiliar familiarity; second, I felt an inexpressible relief from seeing him standing before me, seeing his cheeks painted with a soft pink hue as though blood-red roses were hidden just beneath his skin.

The third was an onset of disorientation. I couldn’t tell you why I felt disorientated standing in my own kitchen with the love of my life, just, simply, that I did. There was an answer—it was close by, right under my nose, yet unreachable. We did this every day, didn’t we? We would eat meals together and then wash up together. So, why did I feel so unsettled?

I shook my head, dispelling the confusion that muddled my brain. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what happened.” I laughed uneasily, without a hint of mirth.

He laughed too, not to poke fun or because he found my obvious turmoil amusing, but rather to comfort me, so I would feel less alone in my unease. “It’s alright,” he said gently.

Neither of us addressed what had happened; we simply resumed our routine of washing and drying in domestic silence. And as seconds turned to minutes, and as the sky remained sunny, I found myself smiling. All that mattered was that he was standing beside me and that the sun was beaming in the sky. So, I kept smiling.

After I finished drying the last dish, we began placing the plates, bowls, and an abundance of cutlery in their assigned drawers and cupboards, weaving past each other and giggling anytime we got in one another’s path. I was carrying a stack of white plates, eyeing the high cupboard they needed to go in, but before I could even attempt straining onto my toes, the plates were out of my hands and taken into another much larger pair.

The smell of sea salt and expensive cologne wafted from behind me as he towered over my shorter frame and placed the plates in the cupboard.

“I could have done that,” I said, smiling as I turned around to face him.

He had a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah, right. What are you, like, four feet tall?” he joked.

It was an extreme exaggeration since I was no way near that height, but I suppose everyone was miniature in comparison to him, being over six feet tall and all. I feigned open-mouthed offence, to which he gave the side of my head a quick, playful kiss of apology.

He then leaned against the counter with crossed arms. “Plus, when was the last time you actually put these dishes away? I’m surprised you even remember where they go.” He was grinning at me in a teasing manner, but every ounce of humour had drained from my body.

My eyes drifted to the floor.

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it—when was the last time I put the dishes away?

I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember what had happened this morning or the day before. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what we were doing before the dishes.

To be standing in a room, in a place you call home, and have a sense that nothing is in its right place, even though that is where everything has always been, is a disconcerting feeling beyond belief. To be perplexed by your own state of being—your existence—is even worse. I could almost describe it as a nauseating bout of vertigo.

My hands found the counter’s edge behind me, and I exhaled a shaky breath.

He stepped in front of me, one large and gentle hand reaching up to cup my jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling with shallow worry lines as he inspected my face. I hated that. I hated that I worried him so much. Sure, partners were supposed to lean on each other for support in a relationship (as he too did with me when needed), but I always felt so guilty doing so. Hadn’t he already suffered enough… pain in his lifetime? Who was I to cause him any more?

A sunbeam suffused the room, oozing across his face. The illumination lightened his eyes into a refreshing mint green, though, in contradiction, unearthed a pain that had been previously been concealed. Pain from what, I wasn’t sure. From concern regarding my unusual behaviour? Maybe a thought that was troubling him? Or perhaps he too was enduring a spell of confusion and had an inexplicable feeling that he was out of place.

Whatever his pain regarded, seeing it had rattled the deepest structures in which held my mind together.

It was then that I suddenly realised I hadn’t answered his question, so I gave him a wan “I’m-not-too-sure-myself” smile and then began slinking back to the sink window.

He followed behind me. I could feel him staring into the back of my head, could feel his brows draw together and his lips pull into a tight line, patiently waiting for a further explanation, though I wasn’t sure I could offer him one.

I hadn’t noticed before, but on the windowsill was a small picture frame containing a polaroid picture of us in bed—I was lying on his chest, half-naked and asleep, and he was looking down at me, smiling fondly yet with a sort of mischievous knowability. Running down the middle of the protective glass was a small, jagged crack.

I plucked the frame from the windowsill, inspecting the picture in my two hands. It seemed to uncover a place in my mind—once clouded by disorientation—I’d forgotten. Whether this place was real or imaginary was beyond me, but the fear I felt upon its recollection was incandescently genuine.

“Do you think,” I spoke tentatively, “people can have nightmares while they’re wide awake?” My thumb ran over the crack.

I might have heard him inhale a quiet, sharp breath, but it also could have just been the waves breaking on the distant shore. “Like a flashback?” he asked, an unidentifiable unease in his tone.

“No, not exactly.” I searched my brain for the right words, the right way to tell him how I was feeling, but it was difficult when I could only conjure vague fragments. And it was all I could do to tell it to him elliptically, as I knew saying the words in any other manner would shatter my heart.

“I had this vision,” I began, my words apprehensively staccato, “where I was somewhere else.” My eyes flickered over the picture. “Somewhere… bad. Everything was grey and heavy, and I was alone. Sometimes you were there, but you—you weren’t really you anymore.” I paused and looked up to find him staring at me in the reflection of the window. He looked pained; it was then suddenly hard to recollect a time when he didn’t. My throat started to constrict. “You were gone and…” my voice quietened to a broken wisp of wind, “you were haunting me.”

The room was silent.

He said nothing in response

The transparency of his reflection in the glass was so familiar—so haunting—and it was like another forgotten matter had been dredged from the depths of my mind. Stinging tears brimmed my waterline, and, due to my inability to bear the sight of his translucent appearance, I forced myself to turn around.

I glanced up at him, smiling weakly as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head as if my need to apologise was nonsensical (even I was unsure of what I was apologising for), and he then pulled me into a tight embrace. His chin rested atop my head; my face was buried in his chest, and his arms held me like I was some dilapidated structure that relied on his support to remain upright. Part of me knew this sentiment was correct.

I expected his next words to be ones of consolation or reassurance, maybe an “I’m right here, sweetheart” or an “I’ll never leave you”. Instead, I felt his head turn and heard him say, “Think it’s going to storm?”

With a sniffle, I turned my head towards the window. The arms wrapped around my body tightened as if he somehow knew I would need the extra support. Because when I saw the wall of dark, opaque clouds rolling through the sky towards us, an unshakeable dread zapped through my heart.

My hands clung to the fabric of his cream-white sweater, which then brought to my attention that an inexplicable tingling sensation was spreading down the fingers of my right hand, numbing them.

Lightning flashed on the horizon, and the once serene waves began cresting violently on the shoreline. The dread grew.

Before my attention could drift too far, my name was called again.

I looked up to find those green eyes gazing down at me, swelling with tears. He was crying. Why was he crying? And why was his hair wet? His usually golden strands had darkened to a deep brown and were drenched with cold water that dripped onto my cheeks, and his hair was swept haphazardly across his forehead, a reflection of someone who had just endured an intense storm or had just been fighting for his life against a swarm of—of—

No.

My own eyes began to burn.

“It’s killing me to see you this way,” he spoke, every second word breaking and wavering in volume.

The world seemed to tilt on an axis. Return did the disorientation, ravaging my mind more violently now. “What do you”—My chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths—“What? What do you mean?” My lower lip was quivering, and my eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion. His words replayed in my head: It’s killing me to see you this way.

It’s killing me.

His hair was dripping—no longer with water, but with a thick, red substance that both dripped down and clotted on his skin. He didn’t look pained anymore; he looked like he was in pain.

It’s killing me.

But that can’t be right, can it?

It’s killing me.

Why?

It’s killing me.

Becausemy Finnickwas already dead.

I staggered backwards and out of his, no, this imposter’s arms. He stared at me as blood streamed down his forehead, pouring over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. I was going to be sick. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a newly invented punishment from Snow. But that wasn’t right either: Snow was dead too.

“F…Fi…” I tried saying his name, my top teeth prodding the inside of my bottom lip, but I couldn’t make a sound.

He took a step towards me, and I almost stumbled onto the floor. “Remember what I told you?” he asked, though it sounded more like an urge.

I frantically shook my head. No, I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember anything.

Something dark and mountainous appeared in my peripheral vision, and an odious smell singed my nostrils. My head snapped to the left. Stacks upon stacks of plates and bowls mounded the kitchen sink, each crawling with maggots that were falling to the floor in white, wriggling heaps.

Nausea boiled in my stomach; horror brimmed my eyes.

I quickly turned away, my eyes meeting green again. His face was no longer stained with blood, and his hair was dry, shiny, and golden with life. I was as speechless as my face was drained of blood.

He took one more step toward me, but this time I didn’t back away, either frozen with fear or desperation for one last experience of closeness with him. My heart thrummed as he reached out to cup my face. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him, I repeated madly in my head. Oh, but it felt so much like him when his warm hand met my skin.

“I told you I’m always with you, sweetheart,” he murmured. And I knew engaging with him, in whatever form he took, affirmed my mental unwellness, but I couldn’t stop from leaning into his touch anyway. “Remember that.”

My cheeks were wet with tears. “I love—”

A bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder boomed throughout the house.

I was back in my bed.

My eyelids were heavy with sleep as they fluttered open. I felt detached, destabilised, and unsure of my existence in the world for I wasn’t sure which of the twoI was currently in. Real or fake?

A few minutes went by before I managed to get a grip on reality, which, in fact, was the real one. The Somewhere Bad. I pinched the corners of my eyes, not only finding them damp with fresh tears but also realising that my right hand—previously tucked beneath my head—was numb.

None of it had been real…

The entire time, my body was trying to alert me, to save me from the inescapable heartache I would feel upon waking. He hadn’t held me in his arms. He hadn’t cupped my cheek nor helped me wash the dishes. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere (not even in his own marked grave because there was nothing left of him to be buried).

Even despite seeing the familiar tall outline standing in the doorway, his features illuminated with each flash of lightning, I knew it wasn’t really him.

Rain was pummelling the roof, almost loud enough to subdue the perpetual rumbling of thunder (apart from the one sky-splitting thunderclap that had woken me). In another time, I would’ve been scared—of the raging storm, of my phantom lover who was watching from the shadows of our bedroom. But not now.

In recent months, I had found that no emotion, not even fear, surpassed the soul-crushing realisation that you have irretrievably lost the one thing you lived for.

On a defeated whim, and for the first time since his death, I let the singular, weighted word breeze past my lips.

“Finnick.”

It was a trembling plea, a desperate beckon.

And he indulged.

His footsteps were silent as he walked towards the bed. I couldn’t see his legs from my position, prompting me to wonder if he even had legs at all. Or did he only have legs when I could see them? That would then insinuate that if I couldn’t see him at all, he didn’t exist.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? In my case, the answer was simple: no, it didn’t.

It wasn’t really Finnick. It wasn’t even his ghost. It was my mind.

He reached the bed’s edge, and I scooted over to my side of the mattress, allowing him enough space to lie down on his. His weight neither dipped nor shook the bed as he laid down and turned on his side to face me. His eyes were sad, and I’m sure mine were too. We stared at each other for a long, long time, long enough for my fatigued body to start playing tricks on me.

If I focused hard enough, I thought I could hear the sound of his breathing (the wind was picking up outside), feel the warmth of his skin spreading onto the sheets (the remnants of my own body heat were left behind each time I moved), and smell the musky scent of cologne and sea-salted hair (the sleeves of his sweater were tucked beneath my nose).

Maybe for a moment—just one sickly, self-indulgent moment—I could pretend it was really him.

I inhaled deeply through my nose. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you would haunt the next owner of this house,” I whispered as light-heartedly as I could, my voice obscured by the heavy rain pouring onto the roof.

He smiled, and it was one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful things I had ever seen. I think I might have given him one in return, though I couldn’t be too sure because the concept of smiling had become so foreign. The last time I was truly happy was… the last night we spent together. In each other’s arms, safe and warm and together.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Cressida, whom I had only spoken to once in Thirteen when the war ended, was the one to tell me how it happened. Katniss was too personal, too close to him; Peeta’s instability rendered conversation futile. So, I had asked Cressida to tell me every detail—every expression on his face, every word he screamed. I don’t know why. Maybe it was so I could cling onto those last few minutes where he was still alive and breathing, despite dying and bleeding; or so I could replay the moment over and over in my head, as if somehow, someway, I could change his fate.

“He talked about you all the time,” she had told me. “Actually, I don’t think he ever spoke of anything but you. No one minded, though. While we were out there, no one ever really smiled, but every time your name was mentioned, Finnick would get this great big grin on his face, and it was impossible not to look at him and start smiling as well.

So, we all started asking questions about you: ‘What colour is her hair? Her eyes? Where did you meet? What are her hobbies?’—just to see him smile… A week passed, and it was like we all knew you inside out. It was all we could do to hang on to some shred of happiness, even if it meant talking about a girl who, to all of us, was a stranger.”

I was inconsolable after that.

She kept talking, but my sobs had drowned out most of her words, so much that I had asked her to retell me everything later in the day, despite inducing the same outcome. So, she told it to me again, just as she did the day after that and the day after that and so on until I returned home to District Four.

“He also spoke about how you never felt comfortable living in the Victors Village. He had this idea that the two of you would move somewhere far away, outside the borders of District Four­, though he emphasised remaining by the sea was very important—something about how you looked while swimming during sunset and the water was all sparkly around you.”

At this point, she had been holding my hand, knowing full well how debilitating it was for me to hear. Then she had spoken with a quiet incredulity and a facial expression to match, as though she’d never encountered a love like ours before. “He wanted to build a house for you…”

He wanted to build a house for you.

And now he never would. Our love was too ephemeral for that to happen; destined to remain history; to be a memory.

Finnick's eyes stared into mine, the green hue now a dark grey from the overshadowing dimness of the room.

“I would’ve gone anywhere with you,” I whispered to him, placing my hand on the sheets between us. “I would’ve travelled thousands of miles away from this place. Would’ve lived in solitary, just the two of us, for the rest of our lives.” A warm tear tickled the bridge of my nose. His eyebrows scrunched together in shared anguish. “God, Finn, I miss you,” my voice broke. “I miss you so much.”

I contemplated crying, sobbing, screaming, or begging for him to come back, but I was just too tired. All my energy had been spent on grievance throughout the following day, and my eyes were growing heavier by the second as my body was sinking further into a state of relaxation.

Between slow blinks, I watched Finnick’s large hand move to rest atop my own, and at that point, I knew sleep would soon catch me because I swear I could feel his warm touch.

Images flashed through my mind—incomprehensible and melting together, yet somehow still graspable.

Sky blue water rippling with calm waves, the surface glittering in the setting sun. A white stonewall cottage fronted by soft, white sand and tall palm trees. Two plates of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast. Three pairs of footprints in the sand, one larger, one smaller, and another between them so delicately tiny I could fit them into the palm of my hand.

Sea-green eyes above me. Golden hair tangled between my fingers. Finnick standing in the wooden doorway of our white stonewall cottage wearing a cream-white sweater and rolled-up slacks. Finnick grinning deeply and then throwing his head back with laughter. Finnick standing in front of our bed, taking my hand in his and guiding me towards him. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

Finnick holding our child.

I was between worlds now, both indistinguishable from the other. My eyelids were drooping, and I was quickly growing insensate. Just before my eyes closed completely, I saw Finnick’s—he who wasn’t really my Finnick—lips move. It wasn’t in my bleak reality in which I heard him speak, but rather in my mind, and God, did his words offer the sweetest relief.

“I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

[possamble]

What I love about Dungeon Meshi is that it says “eat, or be eaten,” but not as in “survival of the fittest.” “Eat, or be eaten,” because there is no third choice—every day of your life, one or the other will happen. If you choose not to eat, you will be eaten. Eating is a mandatory part of being alive. The failure to acknowledge this makes you weak, guarantees that you will fail—as seen with Shuro, as seen with Thistle.

“Eat, or be eaten,” because “living things take other lives as sustenance, and no one is exempt.” If you eat—if you are a living thing—you will be eaten one day. Whether it's to literally be killed and eaten for your flesh, or decomposed down to the bone—violently or painlessly, quickly or slowly, you will be eaten and turned into sustenance for other living things. A dead body is always consumed as food, and there is no meaningful distinction between the two. The only way to avoid it is to have never been born at all.

“Eat, or be eaten,” because “eating is a privilege of the living.” And isn’t that incredible? To be a living thing is to have the privilege of eating. To have the ability to eat is a boon, an honour, a birthright. It is the unique, universe-given gift and right of all living things. It is synonymous with being alive—to live is to eat. To eat is to be eaten. We are eaten because we eat, we die because we were born, and the privilege of eating is earned through the inevitability of our deaths. The two cannot be separated. 

“Eat, or be eaten,” because “eating is a privilege of the living” and the reason why a mortal man could topple the personification of infinity—it cannot die, therefore it is not alive, yet it chose to eat. But to eat at all is to become a thing that can be eaten—choosing to take means you will have things taken from you in the same manner. The moment that Laios accepted this—after killing his sister with his own hands—was the moment the Winged Lion had already lost.

Dungeon Meshi is far from the first story to say, “memento mori.” But it takes the inevitability of death—a concept too distant and philosophical to grip the average person—and reframes it within the act of eating. Makes it visceral by using a universal part of daily life, a routine that every living thing is intimately familiar with. 

“Remember that you will die,” it says, but furthermore, “remember that your future death is a prerequisite for the food you are able to eat now—remember that other things die so that you can eat, remember that you will die to feed something else, and that there is no other alternative. There is no way to stop this. To take is to have things taken from you. To eat is to be eaten one day. There is nothing kind or cruel about this—it just is, and you must be the one to understand it and bring meaning to your own existence.

In light of all this, why wouldn't you choose to live as deliciously as possible?”

[corazondebeskar-reads]

of rage and ruin - chapter six

of rage and ruin series

chapter six

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 4.8k

summary: you burn, and joel burns with you.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), body horror, viewer discretion is advised, dub-con due to heat, heat/rut, unprotected p in v, cum play, scenting, oral, angst, rut!joel has a filthy mouth, gratuitous use of petnames

for bonus angst pls listen to this 🖤

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Something in Joel aches in a way it hasn’t for over fifteen goddamn years. Something that knew you were too soft, too weak, too goddamn good for him. He didn’t know you. Wouldn’t know you. Couldn’t know you.

But he didn’t need to. He didn’t have to ask to know you’d never felt a life bleed out under your fingertips, never felt flesh give way to a knife, never known the kickback of a gun, the twin reverberation as its bullet tore through a person. 

He hadn’t felt this clearheaded in years. No, he wouldn’t do you the disrespect of hiding behind the wolf. If he were to do this, to violate you like this, he’d have to live with it as the man. As Joel. 

As the real monster. 

It was the wolf’s nature, the wolf’s instinct. An undeniable pull. But the man?

He’d stomach this because he had to, but he’d brand it into the twinings of his soul. Another terrible thing, another debt racked up against him. 

He looks at where you lay against his chest and presses another kiss to the top of your head even though it hurts, oh, it hurts him to be soft. He flays himself for you because he must. 

Because it’s his fault you’re here, his fault you’re enduring this.

And because you’re his. 

He knows he’s wicked and damned for it, but you are his. His omega. It’s been you and him, slowly drowning by the cement blocks of the bond, ever since they shoved that cloth to your nose in the wreckage and saw the way your pupils dilated, the way your body recognized him as a potential mate. 

And he’s been fucked since the first time your sweet apple cider and oat scent permeated his cell. 

You’re his. Ain’t nothin’ in this godforsaken world can change that. Nothin’ but you, of course.

And he knows, he fucking knows, it’s about to be too late for you. Neither of you will come out of this whole. Neither of you will come out of this separate.

Joel’s been a monster for far longer than he’s been a beast, and he knows. You’re his penance. You’re the punishment. 

He’s doomed to bleed you over and over until you’re gone. 

He never wanted an omega. 

Not since Laura-of-the-Woods, Laura-of-the-dead-husband, Laura-of-the-unfailing-kindness when she should have shot them for doing exactly that to the only person she’d had left in this world who understood what they were. 

Not since she explained that her husband hadn’t lost his mind in the change and eaten her because, well, he’d almost tried. But instead, a wicked instinct, something stronger than hunger and violence, had sunk its teeth into the curve of her shoulder and made a place for himself. 

He’d marked her, claimed her, in that tense, fate-changing instance, his love for her beyond all reason heightened by his newfound nature. 

She’d turned omega, and he’d turned her his. 

And Joel had vowed to himself to never become the kind of beast that bound someone to the likes of him for all eternity. 

He thinks he understands it, though. The allure. This soft, precious thing in his lap, this needy, whimpering omega, begging for him. Like he’s the only one in the world that can help her. Help you. 

And he is. 

You’re not of the right mind to consider yourself, or him, for that matter. You’re burning, melting, aching. 

And he’s not touching you. 

Joel’s lucky. He can switch, Can hide, Can bury himself in his other mind. He can blame the wolf or blame the man and live knowing it was never really up to him one way or another. 

Not you, though. You don’t get to change. You don’t get to shed your skin and guilt and pain. You don’t get to sink your claws and teeth into soft flesh and then simply shift and shrug it into the shadows. 

You have no choice. You must live with your choice. You will wake from this haze and remember, be forced to reckon with the way you rub your needy cunt against his thick thigh, the wiry hair slicked down as you soak him. The way you whine and whimper, these feral, nonverbal pleas for his hands, his tongue, his cock. 

The way you keened as he broke and gave in, his entirely human fingers slipping into you without another torturous moment. Two at once, a groan falling from his lips at the way your warm body makes room for him. 

It’s almost too much and it’s still not enough. Your hips meet his knuckles, a violent union, but even that ache doesn’t come close to the way your body craves his. 

One of you is a human and one of you is a monster, one of you can still form words and one of you can only cry out. One of you is moving slow and steady, calm and calculated. One of you is sharp nails and tight grasps, teeth in flesh and fists in hair. 

And it’s not the fucking werewolf. 

You should have never wished for more. Should have never wanted to change, to be allowed to be the beast. 

You will be, in your own way. But you don’t know that yet. All you know now is hunger. 

His fingers work double-time, a calloused thumb coming to rub at your clit. He thinks maybe, maybe, if he takes the edge off, he can have one more semi-coherent conversation. 

You cling to him, still sprawled there in his lap. Your body is clenched, not just around his thick, pistoning fingers, but at the waist, your core rumpled, bowed upward to him. Hands grasp his bicep and forearm, fingers digging little dashes into his skin. They’ll fade quickly, but he’ll remember. He’ll remember the way you needed him, how his little omega wrapped her body to his and whined so prettily. How your eyes fluttered shut only to fly back open with a gasp when he hit a new sweet spot and coaxed more liquid pleasure from your dripping cunt. 

The first orgasm takes you over quickly and doesn’t last, doesn’t linger. It’s like the time you and your friends did a Polar Plunge for the local women’s shelter back in the Girl Scouts, when everything was still pigtails and Claire’s BOGO clip-on earrings and mismatched tiger stripes and leopard print. 

It’s also nothing like that at all. 

It’s a shockwave, a heated blanket, a sharp slap, a warm embrace. It’s the most intense orgasm you’ve had in your life, and it’s over in a flash. 

And there’s Joel, whose hand still drips with your slick, shaking you by the shoulders as he forces you to sit. 

“C’mon, darlin’,” he husks, eyes dark and sharp. “Answer me.”

“Wha?” You mumble stupidly, though you think you’re entitled to be a little stupid. He just reached up your pussy and pulled out your brain, after all. 

“I said, you ain’t a virgin, right?” He seems to be begging. Praying to no one for the answer he wants. 

Luckily, it’s the truth. “Nope,” you say. “Not in a long time.”

His shoulders slump on a sigh. “Look,” he says as two curled fingers lift your chin. 

It’s not a smart move on his part, because that move might have done you in anyway, had you been two strangers flirting in a bar. It’s worse now that you’re, for lack of a better word, intoxicated by his hormones. The oaky musk has never been more alluring, and you just want to… you just want to…

You’re moving before you realize, going to bury your face in his chest, snuffling closer to your goal when he catches you by the chin and pulls you back. 

“Wait,” he scolds, and something about his tone of voice grates against your spine. 

You hold still, brows furrowed, something akin to anger beginning to boil. Wait? Wait?! 

His thumb strokes your cheek, and it’s as if the anger was never there at all. 

The whiplash has you dazed even more than his scent. “What’s wrong with me?” You ask him, eyes wide. 

His chest clenches. “M’sorry, darlin’. I told ya. It’s the heat. You ain’t… you ain’t gonna feel like yourself for a while. It’s okay, though. I’m gonna take good care of ya.”

There’s something pinched in the corner of your brain. Something tugging at it as you absorb his words. “Am I gonna die?” You ask softly, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

Joel’s face pulls tight, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “ No,” he snarls. “I told you, this is different. You’re mine .”

Instead of the shiver that should have run down your spine, there’s a burst of heat. 

Vaguely, you wish you had asked more about the other omega. The one… the one he killed. But the thoughts are fleeting, and his hands are holding you in place as you let them drift away.

There’s no room in your head for anything but him now.

“Joel,” you whisper, and he hears what you can’t say. 

“Hurts again already?” he mutters.

But you’re not listening. You’re back to burying your face in his bare chest, nuzzling the hair there, and snuffling over to push your face into the crook of his arm.

This time, he doesn’t have the strength to stop you. He growls, his hand cupping the back of your head and rubbing softly as he presses you in. A strangled moan escapes him as you nuzzle your face in his underarm, scenting yourself. Rubbing his sweat into your skin, bathing you both in each other. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, sliding his hand down to rub at your neck, traveling down your spine. “That’s a good girl.”

A shudder runs through you, a matching moan on your lips. You want him to say it again. Need to hear it. You whine, stretching and straining to wrap yourself around him like a starfish.

He catches you by the hips before you can grind your cunt against his cock. The thin cotton of your panties is sopping, his lip twitching. He lifts you, splaying you out on the mattress. You squirm a little, the feeling of the blanket he gave you against your crawling skin easing the itch. 

His mouth is on you before you’ve gotten your bearings, a single claw erupting to slice through your panties and make way for him. Hot palms push your thighs back as he feasts. He tries to control it, tries to stay human for you, but the wolf can no longer abide your request. 

He manages to stay the man— mostly. Not that you can tell, because all you can see is his morphing face, nothing visible beyond the bushy brows and ears. 

Your hand finds its way down and tugs on one pointy ear, dragging a groan from his elongated muzzle. His tongue, that wonderfully long, thick, sandpapery tongue, plunges into your cunt and devours the plentiful slick gathered there. 

The noises he makes are obscene. The room fills with sloppy, squishy slurps and heaving breaths. He snarls and moans, you gasp and whimper, each gripping onto the other with no chance of release. Both branding the other with bruising, aching fingerprints, though only his marks will linger.

Unlike the first, this orgasm grants you no relief. Instead, you ache. You begin to cry, pathetic sobs replacing the communal ecstasy. Tears burn your raw cheeks, and something inside Joel snaps.

As he pulls away, licking slick from his fingers, his face melts back. He wipes his glistening beard on the back of his hand.

“Alright, darlin’. No more teasin’. I’ll give you what you need.”

“Joel, alpha, please,” you cry. Your body is yarn on a loom, stretched taut, fibers straining. Your hand reaches for his, needing to weave him through to completion.

You don’t even notice that you’ve plunged four fingers up your cunt, hips bucking desperately, but it’s not enough. It’s not enough. Nothing is enough. Why is he denying you? Why is he doing this? Doesn’t he want you?

He snatches your wrist and wrenches it away, tongue clicking. “Naughty little omega,” he croons, “You can’t help yourself, huh? I’m bein’ so mean, tryin’ to get you ready, is that right?”

There’s some distant part of you that registers the way he’s setting up, that acknowledges his logic, but you just don’t fucking care. Fixing him with your most stubborn glare, you push your other hand to your leaking slit.

“If you’re not gonna help me,” you start, trying to sound as indignant as you feel. 

He brushes a thumb over your furrowed brow, gently guiding your hand away. His broad hand gathers both of your wrists above your head, his leg slinging over to pin you.

“Relax, sweet thing. I’m gonna give you what you need; I promise.” His free hand cradles your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

Your mouth parts for him, mind blissfully blank as your legs spread, wrapping around his body. He presses his thumb in, rubbing it over your tongue, which chases it. You wrap your lips around it, every part of you welcoming him in. He groans as you suckle on it, reluctantly pulling it away, trailed by your soft whine and a string of spit.

“None of that, now. As nice as your pretty mouth is, we’ll have time for that later,” he murmurs, lips brushing your forehead.

You keen, beyond words. There’s nothing in your head now; it’s all been burned away in the fever. He pulls his hand back to reach between your thighs and gather some of the slick pooled there, stroking it over his length. 

“Hold still, darlin’,” he says firmly, lining the bulbous head of his cock up. When you feel it brush against your cunt, your hips cant up.

He lets go of your wrists to pin you by the hip.

“What did I say, huh? You’re gonna hurt yourself. F’you want my knot, baby, you gotta be a good girl and listen.”

There’s that tone to his voice again. The one that makes you feel like your muscles all fell asleep and now you’re filled with pins and needles. You settle, looking up at him with a pout.

“Yes, alpha.”

“Good girl,” he croons, a pleased little tug to the corner of his mouth. 

You squirm, preening as his satisfaction bubbles up inside you.

He leans in, holding himself over you with one hand, the other still wrapped around his cock. Even completely human, you’re taken by his sheer size. A hulking mass, and though only a fraction of his weight presses on you, you’re at his mercy. It should scare you. He should scare you. He knows that, but you don’t seem to. 

He rubs the tip through your folds, from your asshole to your clit. You’re shaking by the time he brings it back to your cunt and slowly, agonizingly slowly, begins to push inside.

He was right to try to stretch you first, to loosen you up with orgasms. You’ll pay the price of your impatience later, but now? 

It’s nothing but bliss.

He’s girthy and long, and you’re so snug around him that you feel every vein, every throb, every twitch.

You’re aware of the sting where your body fails to accommodate him, but it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, because you flood around him, easing the way for him to overtake your limits and make a home for himself. Each inch has you seeing lights, closing your eyes against a kaleidoscope.

“No,” he grunts. “Keep your eyes on me.”

And you listen, of course. He’s glistening with the effort of holding himself back, muscles flexing. 

“Let me see you,” he says, gruff tone leaving no room for disobedience. 

You don’t move, though, staring up at him with your lips swollen and parted, eyes wide and rapt.

He shakes his head. “You that far gone, or my cock just got you speechless?” He snaps the strap of your sports bra. “If you wanna keep this, I suggest you take it off real quick.”

It’s over your head and lost somewhere on the floor before he’s finished speaking.

He groans, lunging forward to take a nipple into his mouth, suckling and flicking his tongue. As you lose yourself to the pleasure, he pushes the rest of the way inside.

Your hands fly up and grasp for him, burning themselves in the thick fur on his shoulders. The man is barely holding on, barely there as he buries himself, balls flush against your ass. 

“Sorry,” he slurs around his rapidly growing teeth. “Sorry, can’t—can’t stop it—”

You nod as his tongue unfurls to lick up your neck. “S’okay, I—” but whatever semblance of a clear thought you had breaks into a cry as he starts to move. 

You’re gone. You’ve been ground to dust and blown away. You’ve been left to sink slowly through a swamp. 

You’ve been chewed up and spit out, buried in compost, dissolved.

And so has he. 

As you move, clumsy at first, all bone and nail, as you begin to writhe and fall into a cresting cadence, there ceases to be a line of demarcation. 

There is wolf and flesh and violence. There is blood and hope and fear. 

He is not the man nor the wolf but something ubiquitous and all-encompassing. You absorb him into you, and so you are not a girl or an omega or a separate being. You are whole. You are held. 

You are found. 

And it’s not his cock that’s made you that way, just as it’s not your cunt that completes him.

No.

It’s teeth.

While his knot swells, your body splits for him, bleeds for him, lets him possess and fill and tear you apart. It’s okay. He’ll put you back together. You’re already patching him up, filling in the cracks. He’ll give you the same.

You wish you could say you were too lost. That you hadn’t begged him to do it. That he hadn’t begged the same.

But no, it was after. As he held you, a willing captive beneath him, as the fog of heat eased with each pulse of his cock, each load of his seed bloating you impossibly, that you blurted it out. 

Your mind was clear, and your instincts had never been stronger. You wanted it. Maybe you didn’t quite know what it was, or why, but it was the only thing you wanted. 

“Bite me,” you say, eyes wild.

He groans. “No, no, darlin’, I can’t. Don’t ask me that.” A beat. “Fuck. ”

He’s nearly the man again, his hazel eyes fixated on you, foreheads sticking together with sweat. He grinds, his knot securely locked inside your cunt, your overworked opening impossible to breach. His hips twitch at the same time as his lip.

“Alpha,” you whine.

“Stop,” he begs. “You don’t know what you’re askin’.”

His rejection hurts worse than the stretch. The image of him blurs with tears and he whimpers, wounded.

“Shh, darlin’, it’s alright,” he murmurs, stroking your head and cheek with tenderness in high contrast to the sharp claws so close to your delicate flesh. 

But you’re not scared. He’d never hurt you. You find that you know this, for certain, a deep knot in your gut. Well. In addition to the literal knot that certainly feels like it’s deep in your gut. 

“Alpha,” you whine, head tipping back. 

He groans. “Don’ do that, darlin’. I ain’t strong enough.”

He was wolf just moments ago. But he’s rolled back the change so that his teeth won’t rend your soft flesh to ribbons. 

No, it’s decidedly blunter teeth that shred you as he gives in, that sink so deep into the curve of your shoulder that you cry out, nails digging into his back. He holds on, growling, and you bring one hand up to card through his hair while he stays latched into your flesh. 

His eyes flutter shut, his face gone lax in a way you’ve never seen. It smooths out some of his wrinkles, the deep stress lines still there but a deeper peace taking over for just this one, beautiful moment. 

You squirm a little, writhing on his knot as it throbs and throbs and throbs in time with the wound on your shoulder. He draws away reluctantly, just enough to let the shift take back over so he can lap at the weeping mark with his rough tongue. 

As always, it soothes the burn, and you moan, trembling under his care. He nudges you with his snout, nuzzling against your cheek, and you wind your fingers through his fur just as you had his hair. 

His hips rock lazily, never drawing out but keeping the bulk of his knot rubbing against the deep parts of you normally unreachable, pushing something wild and untamable from you with each sick squelch. 

The wolf looks down at you with something intense that you don’t want to analyze. Not right now. Not when you feel “so good, alpha, so good.” So good, in fact, that you don’t even realize you’re babbling praises for his cock as he snuffles every bit of you he can reach, licking and nuzzling, bathing you in him. 

When his knot finally goes, you’re asleep. If he had feathers, he’d be ruffling his plumage in pride, but instead, he just shifts you so he can curl around you. Around his omega. His. 

More than either of you know. 

You float on the ocean, buoyed through a dreamless sleep. Later, you’ll tell him you think his cum is a sedative in the way his slobber is anesthetizing, and he’ll roll his big brown eyes and huff. Later, you’ll think about how his eyes change when he does, and you can’t choose a favorite. The wolf’s endless pools of bewitching brown or the soft green and gold flecks that herald the man. 

Either way, you’re adrift at sea when you wake to his very human fingers in your cunt. He wears the face of the man but the dark eyes of the wolf. At least, you think so, until he looks up and feasts on you with them, and you can see the darkness is just his pupils, blown large as he pushes his cum back inside you. 

“Y’took it so good, darlin’,” he murmurs. “Can’t let it go to waste now.” 

“Hmm?” You mumble sleepily, squirming as he frowns, using two fingers to scoop some off the blanket. He brings the fingers to your lips and you open obediently, floating in your haze as he feeds you your communion. 

You fall back asleep, fueling your sedative theory. He’ll roll his eyes later, but now? Now he hovers over you, cock rubbing against your hip impatiently, throbbing, aching, leaking. 

He fists it with the hand still sticky with spend, tugging mercilessly. His hips buck up into his hand as he grunts, biting his lip until it bleeds to keep from disturbing your dreams. With a harsh huff, his cum splatters across your body, but it doesn’t soothe the ache. He’s still hard as he spreads it across your breasts, rubbing it over your collarbone. 

There. He regards his art proudly, but it does nothing to quiet the way his heartbeat seems to have settled in his balls. He cups them, shifting them to settle on your thigh, nestled near the peak of your warmth, but it’s not enough. 

He nudges you, already thin patience fraying. 

You blink blearily at him, and look down at your chest. “Really?”

He blushes and scowls. “You smelled wrong,” he says, as if it’s something he can scold you over. 

It doesn’t matter, though. The combination of his scent and the way his cock is grinding against your pelvis has you squirming in place. He sits back on his haunches, lifting you up as you let out a surprised squeak. 

He sets you on his cock. There’s no preamble. He impales you on it and immediately begins rutting up as you scramble for purchase, grabbing his shoulders. He’s doing all the work, fucking himself with your tight, wet heat. 

Not that you’re complaining. It’s maybe the hottest thing anyone’s done. All you can do is hold on and thrill him with your breathy moans and gasps. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, holding you to him. “I know what you need. Just take it, yeah?”

You nod against his shoulder. “Yes, alpha.”

He moans at your easy compliance, bouncing you roughly on his cock. “Gonna take my knot again, baby,” he grunts. “You’re gonna take it and you’re gonna take my whole fuckin’ load.”

You can’t even respond, each thrust knocking the breath from you. Instead, you occupy yourself by licking and nipping at the strained tendon of his neck. 

“Bite, little omega,” he says in that tone, the one you can’t seem to resist. 

So you do. It’s what you really wanted, anyway. To feel his flesh give way for you the way you are for him. Your teeth aren’t sharp, but still, they sink into him like a fist grasping a stone from a riverbed. 

He hisses as he breaks under your tongue, moaning as you lap up the blood beneath. His knot swells, and you refuse to loosen your grip, jaw set around the strong line of muscle, and he wants to tuck you into the wound and keep you there. 

The days are a blur. You’re not even sure it’s days. You sleep, you fuck, you don’t separate from one another. You do, eventually, stop biting him, but you’re a mess of claws and nails and teeth and fangs and so much cum. He stuffs you with it until it leaks out and does it again. 

Until you wake up and find him on the other side of the room. He’s all man, dozing with his bare back against the chilly tile wall. 

“Joel,” you rasp, mouth thick with sleep. 

He cracks an eye and closes it again. “Go back to sleep. You need it.” 

“Come keep me warm,” you mumble. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The chill in his voice counteracts any good the blanket was doing. “Why?” You ask, cringing at how small your voice sounds. 

He grunts dismissively. 

“Don’t do this,” you snap. “Don’t you dare shut down.”

“Don’t worry,” he sneered. “You’ll still have the other one.”

“Don’t fuckin’ run from this. You bit me. Not the wolf.”

“Don’t talk about shit you don’t understand.”

Don’t. Don’t don’t don’t. It’s all either if you can say. There’s no room for any allowances here, only the bitter space growing between. 

You crack first. You’re allowed, you think, since you’re flayed open and raw while he gets to be untouchable. 

“Joel,” you whisper. 

His head snaps up to look at you, arms still guarding his heart. Your face must say more than you’d like, because he heaves a heavy sigh. 

“I’m the only alpha here,” he says. “You wouldn’t choose an old bastard like me out there.”

“I wouldn’t choose any of this,” you say, but it’s the wrong thing. 

“Goddamnit, darlin’, don’t you think I know that?” He stalks over, gripping your shoulders and leering down at you with a scowl. “I’m not a good man. Far from it. But before this,” he gestures at you vaguely, “that was a line I ain’t never crossed. Never put a hand on someone like that who didn’t want it.”

“Bullshit,” you say, softer than a whisper. 

“What’d you say?” He says, shadows brushing over the lines of his face as he looms over you. 

“Bullshit,” you grit louder. “I know you r-raped your last omega. The one you killed.”

He pulls away from you with a hiss, like the fever that still lingered on the edges of you had scalded him. “You know that, huh?” He growls. “S’that what you think?”

“Cheryl told me. She said you didn’t make it ten minutes without going after him.”

“Yeah,” Joel agreed. “We fought. I ain’t proud of it, but I did not rape him. Jesus Christ. S’that what you’ve thought of me this whole time?”

Despite the rage brewing in his eyes, you can see the hurt, too. More like you can feel it, and a whimper slips from your lips before you can stop it, cheeks burning as you realize your mistake. 

“I-I thought… I’m s-“

He cuts you off, cupping your cheek in one great, human paw. His thumb brushes over the dry skin there, unable to resist the pull to comfort you. That whimper damn near did him in and he can’t believe the power you have over him already. 

“Just… drop it,” he mutters, and pulls you in against his chest so you can bury your face and apologies there. His hand cups your head, a gentle stroking of his thumb on the back of your neck sending spidery shivers skittering, goosebumps bursting in their wake. 

“S’okay. I gotcha, darlin’,” he murmurs mindlessly, kissing the top of your head. 

He doesn’t need to say it, though. 

You know. 

next chapter

tysm for being patient during my hiatus. ily and i hope this lives up to your expectations i'm v nervous be niceys to me pls