#and then they’d have this toxic obsessed dynamic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

charleslee-valentine · 5 months ago

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Cats in The Cradle

Characters: Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair (no ships)

Word Count: ~6,000

Warnings: Abuse, cyclical abuse, toxic dynamics, Bo has complications from the surgery (missing cerebellum) and obsessive compulsive disorder, mental breakdowns, gun violence, delusions, religious trauma, implied sexual abuse, murder and the wax figures, Bo being mean to Vincent, blood and injury, vomiting, medical irresponsibility, paranoia, trauma bond.

~~~~~~~

Every day in Ambrose is the same. It’s when there’s change the trouble comes along.

Makes Lester world-weary. Got to run off on his little rot-filled road trips for some air. Though he stays tethered to the house, even if only at the end of the night, when he’s got to wander home for normalcy. It ain’t about the protection, he’s got a slugger under the seat for that, and it ain’t the occasional cooking his brothers get up to and burn each time either. He’s grown enough get shit done, even if it’s the ass crack of dawn outside and he ain’t eaten in a whole day, he’ll whip somethin’ up.

That’s the argument anyhow. That he can take well enough good care of himself to be allowed to roam some. Don’t make sense that he’d be the first, bein’ the youngest and all, but the antsier he got, the messier he got with the huntin’, and suddenly his big brothers had to leave Ambrose to track some fella that got out through the trees Lester was s’posed to be watchin’.

Thought that would get him strung up himself. A perfect wax Lester placed inside Trudy’s pride and joy tendin’ to little, pure wax, babies. Maybe down the pet store with Jonsey’s pups that never come to be, or shovelin’ shit out in the cemetery. That’d be like them, to leave him outside to melt and wither away.

Never come though. Got him a reprimandin’ sure, but he left it with a smile anyhow knowin’ big brother wasn’t gonna use his own bowie to slit his throat. And then again when Vinny told him he could leave on the condition he started tendin’ to himself and his chores without help from either brother, and come home every night.

Really if it were up to Vincent, they’d all get the same freedoms, but it weren’t. Never was going to be, when Mama kept him firm in her shadow. Bo’d kill ‘em all if he caught wind of Lester’s thinkin’ it, but fact is he figures Bo just replaced Mama when she keeled over.

Trudy was out her mind the last few years of it. Never went to no homes, despite what Bo likes to tell folks. They stayed and fixed Mama up. Ambrose got empty and miss Trudy got needy. It was every day pickin’ up shifts the tradesmen was droppin’, leavin’ the schoolhouse forever. Old fashioned as it was, s’not like they was learnin’ anything in a one-room, all-grades schoolhouse anyhow.

Still woulda been nice to have a shot at normal. Coulda left with the rush and forgot about highchairs and smelly wax. Nope.

Now Bo’s jus’ as mean as Trudy, enforcin’ his rule with the same flat palm. ‘Cept’n the part where his is rung around with scars.

Different, ‘cause Trudy’s off burnin’ in hell, not missed by a soul, but they stick close with Bo. Know it ain’t really his fault.

The Doc called it compulsions. Some kinda disorder come from havin’ to lose a piece or two of the lowest part of his brain in the surgery. Lester never gonna forget bein’ tiny as can be, sat on the table cause Trudy put him down and forgot him there, while Bo, who seemed so much older back then when the six years made a difference, was strapped down. They’d use the highchair still if they could, but he was too big and awful by then.

Shove him in a standard dining chair and tape his arms underneath. Let him cry and try to kick and pull and bare his teeth. Lester was just learnin’ to speak, and he’d asked what was happening’, curious about all the shouting and pain.

Bo told a little lie turns out. Same thing with the surgery, his mind would wander back then, forgetting what made reality real and made the stuff in his head not. He carved up some critter and left it in the art studio. Said Trudy gave him permission. Well she didn’t. Little Vinny was her artist, and notably, nowhere to be seen in this memory, autonomous enough to stay away, but never going far.

Must’ve hurt him too, listenin’ to Bo losin’ his mind now and again. Knowin’ it was him that leeched off the back of his head and absorbed that one important little piece out his skull. Payback for the whole, not having a tongue, thing.

Nowadays Bo’s a little better, but Ambrose still got to be pretty particular to not send him right back to the pale, polished arms of the hallucinations. Those belong in the casket down the road.

Lester blames Trudy. Even when he goes with to honor her when Bo needs to do it. Every Sunday is when he’s down there, so ‘less he’s got a job Lester’ll come down to see. Vincent’s usually there too, if nobody been through in a while.

They take off their hats and masks, bow their heads, and pray. They pretend they don’t notice Bo’s hips and knees splayed wide in an arc and struggling to walk straight when that metaphorical mask of the Doc’s training wares off. His hands shake. His words don’t come out right. Sometime’s Lester’s the only one in the house usin’ words, while the twins do their motioning about.

Really should’ve gotten more interested in those sign language books he’d been given way back when. It was funny, a lady on the TV could use sign ‘cause she couldn’t hear words and that meant she couldn’t make ‘em. Trudy saw it and was livid. Banned them all from 123 Sesame Street and whooped Bo for even turning it on. Like it was bad to communicate.

If Vincent knew how to make his signs back then, maybe he’d have told the papers the truth. After all it was Mama that did the talking. Givin’ him words gave him the chance to say no. To bein’ her little protege and heir. Like hell she’d ever let that happen. Had to teach it to himself in secret. Bo picked it up from watchin’ and snatchin’ up Vinny’s books and papers to tease.

Lester wishes he were that smart. Hell, Doc even said it himself, sometimes seemed like he was born with even less brain than Beauregard. ‘Cept he had a different name for Bo all the boys promised never to repeat. They’d get nasty, but none of that usin’ Mama and Papa against each other.

Prolly why they’s too scared to tell Bo he’s becomin’ like Trudy. Stumblin’, shakin’, pissed at everything.

Ambrose falls well into his liking. Bo got it all down to memory.

Bodies he don’t like don’t even go on display. Vincent could work his big ass off on a statue for weeks, but if Bo couldn’t squeeze it into however he’d categorized the town in imaginary gridlines, they’d be put on reserve. The wax house held the rejects, mostly. Once upon a time Vincent left Lester a note tellin’ him he sometimes dressed the statues up funny and messed up their makeup if they were his favorites, so Bo would reject them, and he’d get to keep ‘em. Worked every time too.

Be nice if they could laugh about things like that anymore. ‘Specially with Bo.

A new batch come through back in the early spring, just a couple months shy of a year or so ago then, and filled up lots of the empty space. Mostly went to the theater. Baby Jane and sister Blanche didn’t used to be lightin’ the place up with their sad story, they just tossed an old closed sign up ‘til the bodies rolled in.

It pissed Bo off when Lester was helpin’ him and wanted to put his statues in a line. Made sense, like they was all friends together! But Bo had it all mapped in his head, talkin’ who’s clothes matched who, color in their hair matchin’ with the number on their seats. That was more confusin’ than his fits.

Most of the time in Ambrose his workday was tidying, checkin’ on rat traps and the like. But sometimes when Lester could slip in a lunch break or two off patrol he’d see Bo pacin’. Drawin’ lines in the sky with his hands, mutterin’, kickin’ things. Like inside the theater but on the whole town.

Funny thing is they do gotta crown a new Miss Ambrose once in a while.

The silky bright colors of a beauty queen dress stand out far too much against the pale, sunfaded town they live in. Her smile too white, the makeup too sparkly. Bo tears the bodies to bits and takes them back to Vinny, like a child with his broken toy.

There’s nothin’ he can do, and they both know it, but Bo is different from Trudy in that he will admit regret. Not directly, he’d sooner swallow a gator in one bite, but showin’ the broken pieces is still better than tyin’ ‘em down to hide.

At least most of the time it ain’t like that. One thing he’s always picky about is the lights. Town gotta come to life some time, but Bo’s got a tradition. Generators don’t kick on ‘til he flips the switch manually, else he’ll block the sky with the burning neons of mom’s and pop’s updating with the times, and firey orange street lights. Bo insists they don’t got color. Just a disgusting haze that makes it hard to see. Lester takes the accusation of him being wrong, even though he knows it’s Bo’s head.

And he’s gotta see the sky. Star light, star bright, first star and all that- it’s his one shot at a wish. Not even his brother’s knows what he wishes for each night, peekin’ his head out the window ‘fore callin’ down to Vincent to flip the switch.

Maybe to make Ambrose perfect the way he sees it in his head, so he can stop runnin’ around town tryin’ to adjust it all. Finding those little pockets of feelings and digging in until anythin’ that stands out has to go.

Way back when, Lester kinda hoped Bo would set him free by thinkin’ he didn’t match. Not like he was part of the squirming mass his brother’s was born as. Nobody remembered Lester. Not for bein’ quiet and shy or for bein’ devilish.

Longer he stays though, he knows it’s not really Bo takin’ real care of Ambrose. His head needs it perfect, destroyin’ progress for somethin’ only he can reach and grasp and toss about like it means anything as a scolding hot weapon. Perfection burns hotter, stings worse than wax, and Trudy Sinclair wanted both from her boys.

Trudy might’ve been sick physically, but it come along long before that. Only a matter of time before Bo’s head gets angry ‘bout the dank environment up there and tries to plug it’s missing bits with the same cancer that took Mama the rest of the way to hell.

She had to’ve been there before she died. Else she wouldn’t have done what she did on her way out. Her last words. “Beauregard. Bo.. Promise me you’ll keep Ambrose tidy. You were Mama’s boy. Kept things in line. Don’t let it got to chaos, to hell.”

It was bullshit. If she weren’t already gasping for life Lester might’ve grabbed her throat then and there. Vince knew it too, cause he stepped in front of Les and went to Bo. Chest to back, the way they was conjoined, he’d tried to force his whispers with his half of a tongue, getting at least his twin’s attention to start gesturing.

“Don’t listen.”

“Mama is a liar.”

“You know how you are. You know how she is. Don’t.”

It was hopeless.

That word again. The Doc said compulsions, well sometimes he also said obsessions. Same disorder, different symptom. Neither one Bo could escape. Even if he’d been listenin’ to his brother, which he wasn’t.

All he heard was Hell and that was enough. Bo was terrified of the spiritual. They all oughta remember the way he’d been in church, even when it was full, bawlin’ his head off, havin’ those fits ‘cause he thought he was goin’ to face demons and hellfire for breakin’ rules. The panic meant he kept breakin’ rules, and he kept gettin’ scared, and so on.

It was a trap to scare kids into bein’ good, nothin’ worth anythin’ in adult life, but those Sunday mornin’s Bo kneels at Trudy’s coffin and prays for real, not just at her but at any God that will listen and spare him and his brothers. If Ambrose can be a haven, when it reaches that state of perfection, they’ll be guaranteed eternal life away from screamin’ babies and burning wrists and “please Mama I was doin’ my best-“

The script Bo operates on never ceases. Pretty girls get their mouths glued shut so they have to follow it. Lester drives the same route to catch the same folks and scrape the same families of deer off the roads. Hell it ain’t official, if it were he couldn’t keep the little trinkets and bones he does. Or the meat. But it covers well and no government gonna complain about free labor from a guy like him.

With the girls, they’re just like the deer. Bo takes their pictures and calls them sweet things, but he’s on repeat. Same task, get the restraints, tune out the noise or find a way to stop it, stay sickly sweet with ‘em all the while. Throw in some affection so they don’t fight so much.

Just. Like. Mama.

Lester don’t much like toyin’ with the art. Feels like goin’ in a museum and draggin’ your fingers all over the paint. Which actually is somethin’ Bo would probably do, if it wasn’t up to his standard, takin’ the whole frame and just tossin’ it right out. But they stay neat and displayed on his cellar walls, in scattered checkerboard rows that Bo thinks are straight across.

Thing that always stumps Lester, and Vincent actually, is when he catches Bo slicing little knicks under his fingertips. His palms. Adding newer scars to the thick band around each of his wrists. Always says the girls died too soon. Broke the script, the rules. Now he’s gotta make up for the pain that would be cast into the realm of Ambrose if it weren’t for the failure of another little miss coulda been the one. As if.

They ain’t for keeps. Nothin’ is. Ambrose changes, and changes, and changes. Still every day is the same.

Wake up at a certain time, make the rounds, play pretend, sit itchin’ by the one landline behind a locked door that works, waitin’ for Lester’s call home. If it don’t come in a few minutes, it’s down to make his rounds countin’ heads. Move a few things this way and that on the store shelves. Hang up a picture or two cut out meticulously (as shaky hands can be) from books and magazines, a mimic of the ranging advertisements on display in the bigger cities.

Not a mimic. A replication. Nothin’ bad, nothin’ wrong- that thing is not my baby!

Bo spirals a lot. When he’s on his own. Part of why he’s got to dig his hands so deep into Ambrose. There’s shame in it he tries to squash down with mixtures of somethin’ too strong for a normal day. Mixin’ rum and brandy in a big bottle of orange juice. Vodka in his morning coffee.

Drunk Bo is more coordinated than sober. That little cocktail comes to work with him, and he makes do. Let it be known he isn’t the twin to come away with an issue. Can’t be. He’s mama’s boy, remember?

Lester is sickened by it. Watchin’ his trances like that, knowin’ it’s all ‘cause of Trudy in her final moments.

Shit they didn’t even need to do the killin’, ‘f Bo coulda got his head screwed on a right way. Too late now ‘course. They’re hundreds of innocent lives deep in this thing. Got themselves a dog outta killin’ her owner. Another responsibility, a life to keep up.

Jonsey herself stresses Bo out to no end. Her wagging tail, her happy jumpin’ when she recognizes her dearest friends. When she barks at creaky staircases settlin’ at night, his jaw sets so tight his teeth creak audibly. If he got a cut, he won’t touch the dog. Says it’ll kill him to get any of her in with his blood. Seems silly to Lester, by Bo’s designation the one that plays in guts and bone splinters all day, gettin’ plenty of that himself.

Sometimes a storm’ll roll through in rain season and bring some nasty wind with it, scarin’ the life outta the poor puppy dog. She starts to shake and drool all over. It makes Bo so nauseous to watch he has to leave the room or hack up that nasty concoction he drinks that shouldn’t be stayin’ down anyhow.

Vince stays, always stays, ‘cause someone’s got to. Bo’s a flight risk and Lester just don’t much like bein’ the trapped one. So it’s a system set in stone, or carved in blood and bone more like. Breathed in like the ashes of Bo’s more or less wasted cigarettes.

Way Lester sees it, just like the papery stubs, the routine gotta but extinguished ‘fore they all choke to death on it.

But he hadn’t meant for things to get so different.

Like even thinkin’ it cursed the place, he sends one scrawny group their way and suddenly Bo’s bleedin’ all over the kitchen tiles. Wouldn’t even know it if Vincent hadn’t dialed his bother’s number and left the phone in Bo’s pocket. Keepin’ tabs on his pain so Lester can hear it all and know somethin’s up.

The arrow in his chest stays right there, until Lester pulls up. Somethin’ about knowing Vince called in backup is sign enough to take it serious. Insists on doing it himself though.

Lester says they oughta snip the arrow where it lies and take him to emergency later on. Bo says he’d rather die now than leave a vulnerable spot stickin’ six inches out his chest. Yanks it ‘til his knees buckle and he damn near smacks his teeth off the linoleum. Then vomits stinking alcohol everywhere.

Vincent can see it ain’t gonna happen that way, and locks eyes with Lester. Tells him mentally to pass on an apology for what he’s about to do. Which is, he grabs the arrow by just under the fletchings and yanks the damn thing out before Bo can lose his shit over splinters and weakness and all that.

Well, he loses his shit anyhow, screamin’ bloody murder that he’s gonna kill Vincent for that. Only for a moment before he blacks the hell out from the pain. Prob’ly won’t even remember callin’ Vince a freak.

The hunt goes on without ‘im, without what would’ve been -though Lester never likes admitting when his big brother is right- a weak point for the shifty ass kids to stick their fingers into. End up gettin’ a pretty good knock on ‘em too.

Just like before the girly made it out almost to the roads, but Lester’s a better shot than Bo. Don’t got those phantom shakes and all. Though Vinny would hafta to pick all that bullet scrap out if they was to use her as a figure.

The next time Bo’s conscious, he’s demanding to see what Vincent gonna do with the statues. And it’s a damn good thing they didn’t set out on digging up the shrapnel, ‘cause Bo’s pissed about the arrows, and the shop windows, and the church goers, and the house. It’s all messed up, that safety cushion gone and deflated in one night.

Can’t make art outta enemies. This particukar chase weren’t fun or even close to it. No bright side to it.

Bo wants them destroyed. All of ‘em at first, but Vincent won’t ‘llow that. Threatens to hop in the yellow truck again and take off just like last time knowing damn well it pissed Bo off and was the reason he took two still bleeding blows.

They gets rid of the twins, the girl and the boy ‘ gave ‘em the most trouble. Let Bo decide what he wants done with ‘em.

Could shred ‘em up, sink ‘em to the bottom of the road kill pit, though Lester’s hesitant to do so knowin’ the same group was already thinkin’ he hid bodies in it ‘stead of jus’ Trudy’s old model mannequins. There’s always the marshland they’d rot away in nicely, unnoticed.

He wants ‘em gone though. Not buried and rotting, not waxed over into someone new, gone.

Burn the bodies. Peel the flesh. Boil the bones. Smash ‘em into dust. Mix it in with Vincent’s pigments. Their crystallized, powdered remains make for some perfect shiny makeup on the blonde’s eyelids, and extra sparkle in her wax-cast jewelry.

Felt fitting, to adorn another member of the group in those two’s particular sins. It was them two that got the rest killed so brutally after all.

Speaking of sin.

Bo slept in the church for a few nights, sprawled painfully over a dusty pew, nothing but a jacket as cushion against the solid wood. Ambrose was different now. The order had been broken and he needed to hide from the wrath that would bring.

Mama’s empty husk of a corpse wouldn’t help him. He just hoped the proximity to the altar would get some divine figure’s eyes on him, even if not her. At least send down a quick recovery so he can fucking fix the mess those kids left behind.

The pain, he can swallow, but some part of his system got fucked over right into overdrive and now he’s got no control of his shakes. His legs are as bowed as they’ve ever been, limpin’ and draggin’ himself all this way to the church was humiliating enough. No way he’s installing fresh window panes and rearranging statues to his heart’s content like this.

The dog comes and gets Bo first in the morning. Sunlight pourin’ in through the stained windows, Bo feels like he’s burnin’ up in hellfire instead of kissed by heavenly rays. Or the sticky tongue of a staffordshire terrier. Pitbull mix. Whatever the fuck the mutt is.

Jonesy is always a sign Vincent is close, ‘nd Bo cannot, will not let either of his brotherd see he’s all but given up. Their ignorant little asses are s’pose to be none the wiser he even left the house last night.

The ramblings of a man happens to be clueless that they both watched his sorry ass limp on down there, fallin’ to his knees once and skid down the hill. Anyone alive in Ambrose could’ve heard him cry out when he jammed his busted up shoulder tryin’ to catch himself and struggled for a few minutes to throw weight into his legs and stand. His gait was fucked but so were his patterns, zig-zagging from one side of the road to the next and never knowin’ it.

Really he’d blacked out in the first empty pew, taking no time to get comfortable. It wasn’t about comfort, it was necessity. A shield around his already wounded heart. His brother’s checked on him every few hours.

Bo’s blood stains the church now, far beyond a dried raisin of a corpse in the center of the holy building. Trudy’s eternal wake seems more and more pointless. Her soul can’t be saved for the life she inflicted on her trio of tragic babes. But her son can. Even the devil on earth can be shown God’s graces if he could just fucking stand up and-

He’s humbled by Jonesy. She was his chance to get his ass up and find whichever one of his asshole brothers sicked the bitch on him. The way she curls up next to his boot, singular, that he managed to get off but not back on is her final brag. ‘You lost. Now my caretakers ‘re yours too.’

As expected, right on cue, Vincent creeps in the church then, forever stomping in too heavy boots, settling into the pew in front of Bo. Silent. Back turn so signs won’t work.

“Fuck you.” Is the first thing out of his mouth. Bo repeats it ‘til he vomits a pathetic tiny cough of spit and stomach acid onto the ruined floors.

Vincent doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react to being screamed at. He’s not the one with open wounds. Never fucking has been.

“I’m talking to you, freak!”

That word again. Bo doesn’t know why he keeps saying it. Got him choked up last night, rambling about his promises. Because that should be more important. Vincent’s face don’t mean shit when it comes to Ambrose. Hell, he’d probably be capable if the surgery took his arms too. That talent is unstoppable.

Like the silence.

“Don’t make me say it, Vincent. Fucking.. I ain’t here for your damn power trip, alright? You ain’t savin’ shit.”

Nary a fuckin’ glance. From behind, all inky hair and broad shoulders, it’s hard to pick out Vincent’s feelings. That frustrates Bo. Just like with victims, his brothers got a script too. He’s supposed to be in the know, in charge. Vincent can’t keep secrets from him. Secrets get brothers shot inches away from vital organs and arteries.

“Vincent. Vinny. Help your brother out..”

It reminds him of being younger. The highchair. Pleading with Vincent to cut the tape and let him go because Mama and the Doc never listened. His one little eye would shed enough tears Bo could see ‘em across the room. Stuck in place, while Vincent could come and go as he pleased, but still chose distance. And he never did free Bo from the restraints.

“C’mon, now. Gotta get this fuckin’ shit show on the road. Need a hand, Vinny..”

Begging for help out of the pew, it takes ‘em both back there. Bo hopes Trudy is the one stuck now, held down by ugly demons in that coffin of hers, watching her boys get along enough.

Well, Vincent listens anyhow when he’s talked to softly like that. Gets right up and takes Bo by his palms, never his wrists, and heaves him up. Even doesn’t make a comment when Bo’s ankle twists under itself for some godforsaken cranial reason and he stumbles straight into his brother’s shoulder.

Face first in a grimy sweater, he sort of understands what it’s like to be in Vinny’s place. At least in the conjoinment. Bo hates the pictures, of their little bodies all twisted up and stuck. The weight of Vincent is suffocating like that, not comforting like the feeling of warm cashmere. Makes him want to crawl right out of his skin.

Bo scratches at the bands of scar tissue on his arms, never a day in his life since they formed without drawing blood from a raised line of the itchiest goddamn feeling. Only way to describe it is like mosquitos stakin’ their claim on every last blood cell in the area. Poison in his blood, from his highchair days on.

Gotta push away from bein’ stuck in Vincent’s careful proximity. Can’t get comfortable, vulnerable, like a silent, squirming little bastard child.

Bo can’t do this. This switching places thing. If he’s gonna be the weaker twin, Vincent better fuckin’ do his part. One way or another. Provoking him is the easy part.

“Heard you kept the pretty blonde. Took some video to remember her, huh. You got the hots for some wax bitch, Vin?”

Nothing. He physically pushes Vincent, uncoordinated enough to miss his chest and thump into his shoulder instead.

“Look I don’t got much interest in your creepy fuckin’ Quasimodo dungeon, but I gotta know. D’you fuck her? Get up reeeeal close in that wax pussy?”

Bo swallows down more acrid bile. Forces a tight, painful laugh.

“Of course she’s special. Tiny. Blonde. Just your type yeah? Just like your whore mommy-“

There we go. Vincent shoves him back, both of them knowing damn well that’s enough to take Bo down right now. And it does alright. Knocks some ribs pretty good against the back of the pew on his way down, forcing out a painful puff of air.

While he’s down, Vincent takes a second swing with his boot this time, pinning Bo on down to the floor. Pretty sure he cracked his head when he got forced down. Or maybe just put too much strain on the arrow wounds, ‘cause damn is he seein’ little stars and Angels dancin’ in his narrow vision.

If he wanted to win, Vince would press down with that boot and put his twin out of both of their misery, crackin’ ribs into bits and stabbin’ his heart. That’s not his goal though, never had been. It’s to knock some damn sense into Bo that he’s injured and needs to forget about his spastic bullshit.

Pisses him off. Bo fights back by jabbing his fingers in the back of Vincent’s knee, bringing him down to kneeling on pure instinct. Now Bo can reach the straps of his apron, pull himself back up to Vincent’s level in this fight for his spot.

“You think you get to boss me ‘round jus’ ‘cause I’m fucked up.. Well you’re fuckin’ mistaken, boy! I am in charge ‘round here. Not you. Not Lester.”

Vincent just stares. Tears apart Bo’s attitude with just that familiar glare. Fuck him.

“Look at you, fightin’ your sick brother. Think ‘at makes you better’n me?” Bo feels like he’s suffocating, even without the pressure holding him down. He licks across his lips and ignores the taste, “Guess you oughta put a fuckin’ cap in me. ‘Member? I killed the bitch when she got too fucked up. Two for her and one for the Doc.”

Vincent’s eye contact wavers, drifting over towards the plush coffin, like he’s considering it. So Bo doesn’t shut up, doesn’t even know if he can, “Leaves three more in the chamber. Could take us all out. One for baby Les. One for you. One for me. I’d do it if you left me for last. Don’t got nothin’ without-“

His intense staring finally processes in his brain, noticing the off details about Vincent’s face. The mask, the good one, was ruined in the hunt. There was a smaller one that would make do but wasn’t comfortable. Bo examines it, eyes flitting around, confusion in his bunched brows.

“The fuck happened to your face?”

‘You did.’ Vincent thinks, but he doesn’t tell him that. Instead he shrugs, hopes he won’t press the issue. Redirecting ain’t as easy when Bo’s still askin’ more questions.

And Bo is furious now, “We could fuckin’ quit it, you know. Got no right touchin’ your fuckin’ face. Fuck ‘em, Vinny. Can’t believe they’d fuckin’ lay a hand on you, I’ll kill them all!”

He must know they’re already dead in truth, because he goes silent for a while. When he comes back, he’s talking about their other conversation. The one with the pistol that killed Mama and the Doc in their beds, years and years apart.

Dangerously close to being honest, Bo hisses and acts like he’s adjusting his aching shoulder, but really, the pain is nothing compared to what’s going on in his head.

“Can’t do it on my own. One of us dies, we all die. You fuckin’ promise me that?”

Bo seems to think he’s ill. His eyes blur over and it’s not tears, just a pounding in his head. He’s dehydrated from vomiting so much, delirious from the blood loss, but he thinks he knows better. The tumor. Come for him this time. That’s what he convinces himself.

“You’d do it, Vinny, wouldn’t ya, if I couldn’t?” His nose is running from the humidity, the pain, his body forcing a fever to fight for himself. In his mind’s eye, it’s blood pouring from his nose. Just like Daddy after his skull popped.

Fuck. He’s already dead.

“Vincent. Vincent you can’t let go of me!” He clutches that sweater like his life fucking depends on it, glancing at the ground and back up at his brother, over and over, like it might fall away any second.

His brother tilts his head in confusion, but Vincent obliges his ramblings, holding onto Bo around one arm, the other hand balled in his trashed uniform shirt.

“You let go of me ‘n I’m a goner, y’hear? Don’t you fuckin’ let me go. Hell ain’t ready for me. I’m not- My soul got business here and you ain’t fucking gonna turn me into wax, goddamn it. I ain’t the monstrosity here. Fuckin’.. You aren’t either Vincent. That bitch- That fuckin’ demon in Mama’s coffin, don’t let it take me-“

His rambling goes on like that ‘til he passes out again. Under Vincent’s ill-fitting mask, his best one ruined in the hunt, tears are running down the left side of his face. Finding meaning in this fit, knowing full well Bo won’t remember it tomorrow, is idiotic. But he does it anyhow. Lets himself take it to heart that he’s necessary, and loved, and nothing at all like Miss mama Trudy.

He’s right though, Bo doesn’t remember a thing. Vincent carried him home and Bo woke up on the couch, had a plate of eggs like nothin’ happened. Across from him, he nodded to Lester, “You spot a single soul out there, you let us know ‘n we’ll be by. Not too much work today.”

Lester scowls and nods his head, dumbstruck by how much he forgot this time, “Yeh, alright. Got nothin’ better t’ do myself.”

There ain’t gonna be a hunt for a long while, and just as likely he ain’t gonna leave Ambrose. Too many repairs to leave to Bo in this state, all fucked in the head by his disorder. It’s like that sometimes in cycles, but they ain’t seen it get this bad before.

Routine is routine. Bo’s disorder robs him of his sense, his brain defects makin’ him weak. His brother’s fix everythin’ up ‘til his brain gets all better, and he gets bored of doin’ the small stuff. Thinks Ambrose is always the same, nothin’ ever happenin’ to disrupt his perfect plan.

Make Mama proud. Make Bo calm. Same goddamn difference.

Lester looks at Vincent across the table, and he nods, the signal to keep lying to Bo. “Saw a group campin’ in the woods. Two girls, ‘bout four boys. Teenagers, I could get ‘em back and Vinny can take ‘em.”

They’re already dead. The keepers of the group already a part of Ambrose. Dead men walking.

“You sit tight, rest that arm up. Show you the new figures in the mornin’.”

It’s gettin’ too easy to lie through his teeth, but harder to keep Bo inside.

Neither knows what the stiff nod from Bo means, ‘til he says, “Have your fun. Jus’ be fuckin’ careful. You fuck up my town, I’ll fuck up somethin’ of yours.”

‘Uh-huh, we know, asshole.’ Lester thinks, tension in his jaw pushing it forward. There’s all kinds of words just dancin’ on his tongue, but he swallows them back, if only ‘cause Vince puts his hand on his shoulder.

Instead, he manages to choke out a simple, “Yessir.”

#house of wax 2005 #how fanfic #bo sinclair #lester sinclair #vincent sinclair #trudy sinclair #my writing #check warnings and stay safe y’all #fic inspired by my experiences with ocd and seeing that in Bo

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brotherhoodoftheblade · 1 year ago

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So finally I read Voyager (by that I mean, I actually read the whole thing this time, and not just John and Jamie’s chapters lol) for the first time in five or six years and I’d been meaning to jot down my impressions of it (while I still have them somewhat fresh to mind) but, typically, I’ve kept forgetting and getting distracted by other stuff. (I actually finished it nearly a month ago, but again, my mind forever is fluff on the wind it seems. *sigh*)

Since I really don’t want to end up writing another another long-winded essay about the book I’ll attempt to keep it brief. lol

Rereading Voyager once again made clear why Jamie/Claire has always been much more easily shippable for me than Jamie/John. (Even though my shipping of J/C is low-key to negligible tbh.) It’s not because the latter doesn’t have a very interesting (if ultimately too toxic for me) dynamic (even if the fascinating quality of their relationship is sometimes akin to being unable to tear your eyes away from a car crash). And it’s not because I’m too much of a puritanical pearl-clutcher to appreciate to the dark allure of a so-called toxic ship (trust me, I have far more f*cked up ships than J/J lmao).

The main reason Jamie and Claire work for me, despite the fact that they can often be pretty batshit in their dynamic, is because they’re the SAME KIND of batshit...about EACH OTHER...EQUALLY. 😂

Jamie/John just don’t have that. The batshit obsessiveness is way too one-sided. I mean, if they’re not equally in unhinged, all-consuming love with each other then what’s even the point? lol Such an unbalanced nature in a toxic ship just doesn’t sail far with me, and after a while just has me looking at the undervalued party wishing they’d locate their self-respect, get a grip, and get a damn life already! (And, yes, I’m looking at you, John. *weary sigh*)

Also, rereading the infamous “take your hand off me or I’ll kill you” scene between John and Jamie at Ardsmuir reaffirmed my initial impression of it back when I’d first read it years ago (and let’s be honest, between ADHD and depression brainfog, I don’t really begin to fully trust my own memory of books until I’ve read them a few times). That it’s wholly unethical for the governor of a prison to proposition any of his prisoners is indisputable to me, but even putting that aside, the whole exchange still came off pretty questionably to me just on its own.

Jamie did nothing whatsoever to indicate that he might be receptive to that sort of attention from John. It’s like when you find yourself suddenly hit on apropos of nothing, despite having given no sign of encouragement whatsoever -- and at an inappropriate time to boot. I mean, seriously, how did John think propositioning Jamie in the wake the revelation of his grief over the loss of the love of his life was a remotely considerate time to be doing that? (If someone had tried to take advance of me in such a vulnerable moment after I’d shared something so personal with them, I’d have been bloody annoyed!)

Their exchange of shared grief was the first moment of genuine trust extended between them, a gift really, especially on Jamie’s part, and John thought that was a good time to make a move on him? And more importantly, where’s the logic in it?

Jamie had just been talking about how much he loved his wife - a woman - while having never done anything to give the impression that he was remotely attracted to John (in fact, the impression given was much the opposite most of the time), so how then did it make the remotest sense for John to risk exposing himself like that?? Especially when John’s always emphasizing how crucial it was for men like himself to be careful around other men and not make any dangerous assumptions. Extreme caution is always the order of the day when it comes to situations like this, so wouldn’t it at least have made more sense to wait until he felt more certain of the lay of the land?

Except with Jamie he already knew perfectly well he had no need to practice the same kind of caution he would’ve with any other gentleman. Jamie was a convicted Jacobite with no standing whatsoever. He couldn’t have spoken out about John even if he’d wanted to -- his word was worthless against him. (And of course, it’s in much the same tone of imbalanced power that John carried forward their strained friendship under duress during Jamie’s years at Helwater.)

Of course, despite John’s awareness of the disproportionate amount of power he held over Jamie, his intentions, at heart, weren’t remotely malicious. (He’s certainly no Black Jack Randall!) Yet, it’s still the appearance of impropriety that stands with him. Mainly because intellectually he knows better than to do half the stuff he does, but he just gets caught up in the intensity of his feelings in the moment and ends up doing impulsively reckless shit. It’s the story of his life at this point. :/ (I mean, just think how often his “brave” impulsivity or his injudicious tongue has ended up landing him straight into hot water, while instances where cravenness stilled his tongue could’ve changed the course of his life for the better if he’d only had the courage to speak from his heart.)

Another thing that stood out to me was the characterization of Frank Randall in the book in comparison to the general attitudes of animosity he receives in the fandom.

Now I can’t say I strongly ship either Jamie/Claire or Frank/Claire (though I’ve certainly found both interesting and likeable at times), so I’m pretty neutral when it comes to any shipping biases on their parts. I do feel that it’s stanning Jamie and Claire so much that’s garnered Frank so much unwarranted hatred. I mean, he’s not a saint (none of them are lol) but he also couldn’t be farther from the devil. The worst thing charge I can legitimately lay at his feet is being a racist (though it’s unfortunately pretty understandable given his age and the time period - after all, only the people who were rarely ahead of their time could legitimately have been said to have not been racist at all during a time when it was the cultural norm). 💀

But aside from the racism, Frank was a far better man than most. How many men would’ve taken Claire back after she turned up three years later, pregnant with another man’s child, whom she had married and fallen in love with even though she was already married to Frank??? And not only that, loved that child as much as if she’d been his own biological daughter? Despite the fact that just the sight of Brianna was a constant flesh and blood reminder that Claire had betrayed him? And that Claire was still in love with Jamie despite having returned to Frank. (And he even supported her going to medical school - something a lot of husbands in that time wouldn’t have done.)

And yeah, I know he cheated on her - and that’s what so many rake him over the coals for - but under the circumstances I find it kind of hard to blame him. Did Frank not deserve to be with someone who actually loved him? Unlike Claire, who only ever came back to him in body but not in spirit, and certainly not in heart! She spent all those years being emotionally unfaithful to him first, even though he was the one who’d chosen to do the honourable thing by standing by her and raising a child that wasn’t even his. It takes two people to ruin a marriage, and the efforts of both in concert to make things work. And Claire couldn’t have made it clearer that her heart was no longer in their relationship -- and that wasn’t Frank’s fault.

And the final thing that really stood out to me: the rampant fatphobia in Outlander. I mean, I’d noticed it here and there but hadn’t paid it a great deal of attention because it mostly seemed like isolated occurrences scattered throughout the books (and as I’ve said before, I haven’t fully read all of the OL books from cover to cover yet - mostly the parts with John, Percy, or others closely related to them).

But reading the whole of Voyager brought back to me how often I’d noticed similar fatphobic sentiments expressed at other times, and just how frequently, in particular, DG uses fatness to emphasize the repulsiveness of villainous characters (like with Geillis when her character is reintroduced in Jamaica). And, it’s such a common sentiment even just in passing conversation that you’ve probably already noticed it (or if you somehow haven’t, I bet you’ll start noticing it a lot more now).

Even in her parting advice to Brianna, Claire goes, “Try not to get fat”, and I was like ‘WHATTT?? She’s abandoning her daughter (who’s also lost her father and has no other relatives) and you may never see her again, and THAT’S the parting motherly life advice you have for the poor girl??? ‘Try not to get fat’?!?!” Seriously? 🙄

DG can shove her fatphobia up her arse with the rest of her toxic predilections, for all I care.😐

#my random ramblings #Jamie Fraser #Claire Beauchamp #Lord John Grey #Frank Randall #anti diana gabaldon #cw racism #cw fatphobia

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squirrelno2 · 1 year ago

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the emphasis on shipping in fandom culture is so wild to me to consider because like. there are certain things in jatp that I ship very emphatically, but I literally wrote myself into shipping them. when I was writing my first fics in the fandom, I didn’t plan for julie/luke/reggie or flarrie. I expected willex, because the show gave us that and gave me plenty of vibes to go “ok they like each other and would work together in the long term”. but especially with noncanon ships I always find myself stumbling into them as I plan or write a fic. I do sometimes set out to write a romance, but that’s usually when I’ve been in a fandom for a while and know “ok I like these dynamics and have had thoughts about shipping them in previous works, let’s dig into that.” and then I’m always writing like it’s a persuasive essay! like there are people reading who aren’t convinced about the ship, and I have to show my work.

even working with ocs it’s like, “ok I made this guy to be a friend for this character, but also I think that this particular dynamic would probably lead to romance and/or sex” (this thought brought to you by me knowing I haven’t touched my Jesse Lives au in forever) - actually I would say with ocs it’s most important because holy hell nobody is going to be automatically invested in your oc’s romantic or sexual life but you. you have to do a lot of legwork on that one unless your only intent is more of a reader insert vibe where ppl can imagine intimacy with their favourite character, which means they don’t care about your oc so much as they care about being able to project anyway. they already know why they’d be into this canon character. you don’t need to do anything there (which to be clear you do you, that just holds very little appeal for me for various reasons. live your dreams my friends)

and it’s just weird to me that people will write things where. it’s characters who don’t interact much. and then they don’t put any effort into making the reader ship it? they jump straight to “both characters are yearning and have been since they met” because they ship it, and they don’t require buildup, and I’m like “but how did you get here. why does it matter that they’re doing these things for each other.” and a lot of it tends to be a lack of deep characterisation, so it could be any two guys being gay (or. any ship. i’m maybe thinking about Certain Popular Gay Ships in fandom but also calling out baby me’s destiel obsession specifically. it’s fine no judgment but also fandom has a white gay man problem and that is a different post entirely) - and a lot of it also seems to be like. allosexual people (I assume from uhhh sexytime context clues) and definitely alloromantic people thinking that attraction alone is the legwork. like there’s nothing else to prove about a relationship. they like each other, boom, romance.

when you’re writing a romance, you don’t just have to have the characters woo each other (which. as a reader of both fic romance and original, published romances, let me tell you a lot of writers don’t even do that) - you have to make the ship woo the readers. draw us in. prove to us in word and action that these two care, make each other better (or worse, I write some toxic codependent shit too), that there is some reason to want them together and not settle for whatever preexisting dynamic they have. why does it matter that these people are in love? why are these obstacles worth overcoming? what does it add to a non-romance story to have this ship in it?

I would like romances that romance me, damn it

#i was very mad the other day because i was reading a cassandra clare i hadn't read before and ended up like.#actually invested in the fucking love triangle? obscene. she is cruel to me. but that's how you DO it!#like. she showed me the dynamics and reasons why both guys would be good with the girl. i made my choice based on personal preference but #i'm also tense about it because maybe the mc has different preferences than me! that's how you woo a reader!#anyway no it's not infernal devices bc that was clearly a polyamorous relationship where jem and will are qpps. next question #god i said i wouldn't ever shadowhunterpost again sorry about these tags folks #anyway thank you for coming to my tedtalk i'm right. i'll fucking ship anything (...ish) if you write it right #(i think you can fill in the ish for yourselves bc my hangups are common hangups)

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pliskin · 2 years ago

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It’s really hard for me to like larry and geeta pairings besides each other bc I love (the theory of) them being childhood friends so much so their whole lives were centred around the other, so them breaking up and seeing other ppl is like idk I still think they’d be hung up on the other too much to move on. Their familiarity is basically canon so I feel like I’ll always approach any shipping dynamic as them being separated or friends that drifted apart and no other pairing really comes close to that, even tho I like tulip being a toxic lesbian and rika having a crush on geeta (<- that’s how I see those ships) but for geeta I only see her being interested in larry smh…… and I also really like larry ->->-> geeta also he seems a bit. Obsessive from how many times he’ll mention her… they really just feel like The ship for each other

#being annoying

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igbylicious · 3 months ago

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ack i feel you, posting things is scary! you’re sharing a piece of yourself; it’s vulnerable, it makes sense to be nervous, but it is never smth to be embarrassed abt!!! ♡ asdkjadskj i wish i had some sage advice on how to magically make it easier, but honestly i still feel like i’m trust-falling right into the void almost every time i post ^^;; hwaiting!!! (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

(vampire ramblings under the cut again!)

haha with the way Seonghwa’s character is taking shape in my head, i’d say he’s actually the most likely to turn her! he’s the only one not obsessed w/ her human blood, and he enjoys collecting things that are pretty & interesting… and reader is very interesting indeed ( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)

but if San or Yunho turned her, i think it’d be out of petty spite or possessiveness; SO averse to the idea that others might feed from her, that they’d rather take the option off the table entirely ^^;; (or maybe a “if i can’t have her (blood), no one can” type of deal)

as for thoughts on her afterwards;

i think Yunho would have an easier time putting the whole thing behind him. he was not obsessed w/ her blood for very long before Seonghwa got involved, so she simply had less of an impact on him (and he on her.)

like, he wouldn’t feel good abt himself and how he acted! but Yunho can rationalise it better than San bc he just wasn’t in as deep for as long, which helps w/ processing. his thoughts might wander back to her from time to time, but mostly bc of San tbh

bc San…

San would struggle a LOT more w/ guilt

he does see humans as inferior to vampires, but he has no deep disdain for them. he enjoys humans! he’s indulgent towards them in a slightly condescending way lol. he likes playing w/ his food — and he likes it when they enjoy it too (.❛ ᴗ ❛.) (that’s a bit of his ego talking there lol)

anyway the point is; once San comes back to himself and fully realises how far he took things with her?

oof

yeah it’s a good thing vampires are immortal bc San will need more than a hot sec to unpack all of that ;;;; he doesn’t think lowly enough of humans to just be ‘whatever’ abt it!

(he would be too nervous to feed alone for a loooooong time, needing others of the coven to come w/ him and check that he doesn’t go out of control again ;;)

-> ok but this got more thoughts churning so brace yourself for more rambles;

there could actually be a story here if Hwa DID turn reader into a vampire

bc then she and San would have to grapple w/ co-existing in the same coven now, and since vampires live on such different timelines, she could easily spend the first 100 years fuming in angry bitterness before she’s even willing to stand in the same room as San

meanwhile, for San it would be harder to move on if she remains alive. if she dies (either killed by a vampire or an eventual natural death of old age/disease/etc), then her memory fades and that gives a chance for San’s thoughts like ‘i didn’t mean for any of this to happen, i wasn’t in control’ to replace those memories. when she’s alive, that keeps San’s guilt alive as well, a constant reminder of what happened

but as enough centuries pass, she is slowly forced to acknowledge that San literally had no control over himself through any of it. and that hurts! it hurts that she can’t fully blame him anymore!! her anger is an important coping mechanism!!! — but again, decades pass by, and perhaps it might tilt over into a strange, uneasy comfort that she wasn’t the only ‘victim’ through that ordeal

it def wouldn’t lead to a wholesome romance, but she and San could potentially develop an incredibly complicated dynamic of ‘we both went through the same thing in completely different ways, but both of us came out wounded by it’

they are, in a twisted way, bonded

(not romantic, not platonic, but a secret third, more messed up and potentially toxic thing)

would she ever forgive San? i don’t know. maybe if enough centuries pass by. would San ever fully forgive himself? who knows. maybe if she provides him w/ absolution

(…okay, i have now loaded up these rambles into a wip doc welp. no idea if anything will come of it, esp bc these are real complicated and loaded themes to write abt, but… ack. i’m kinda invested now asdkjadskj +_+ )

consumed [san x reader]

pairing: vampire ! San x f reader

rating: 18+

genre: smut, angst, vampire au, darkfic

summary: After getting a taste of your blood, San dedicates himself entirely to you — whether you want him to or not.

wc: 5.6k

general warnings: non-con elements, pheromone-induced ‘consent’ but reader resists at first, blood drinking, reader’s blood literally drives San crazy, he is delusional and obsessed and thinks it’s love, abduction, mention of San killing a nameless stranger to feed on

smut warnings: somnophilia, praise kink, body worship, vaginal fingering / sex, creampie, spanking, cum feeding, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, biting, scratching, petnames for reader (darling, sweet girl, angel, love)

a/n: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!!! reader is afab & she/her pronouns are used

“You’re not supposed to keep them around this long, San.”

Yunho does not speak the words unkindly, though his disapproval is plain to hear.

“She’s different,” San says quietly, shaking his head. He doesn’t understand why Yunho can’t see that.

They’re standing in the wide, spacious living room of San’s penthouse; decorated in an elegant, bare minimalism that leaves no doubt over the many digits in his bank account’s credit balance. Yunho hangs back by the exit to the foyer, like he already knows he’ll outstay his welcome with this topic of conversation.

San is not looking at him, staring out the floor-length window with his forearm leaned against the glass, tinted with a special filter for his safety during daylight. But the sun has not risen yet, though the city is already bustling with activity in the early morning. From this height, San can barely make out the specks of people on the sidewalks and in their cars; their minute size reflecting their significance.

No one else in this city matters. Only you.

“She’s already growing immune, isn’t she?” Yunho remarks, annoyingly astute.

The corner of San’s lips twitches.

Yunho’s objections are irrelevant, he tells himself, deafening his ears to the truth in that question. He has to, if the alternative is to give you up. He can’t.

Ever since San found you, a chance meeting at a hotel bar, he has been enamoured by you. Your tinkling laugh, the sway of your hips, that wicked glint in your eyes when you realised his interest. You made him work for it, to persuade you up to his room, but not too hard. Just a little game, both of you pretending that you hadn’t decided to fuck yourself senseless on his cock from the moment you laid eyes on him.

Yes, he’d been taken with you from the start — but it wasn’t until the elevator ride up to his hotel room that San realised you were more than just a simple, if particularly delectable, meal.

There San had gotten a proper whiff of you, undiluted by the smells of food and drinks and other patrons.

You’d moaned when he pressed his nose into the crook of your neck, nerves creeping into the edge of your voice. You had also finally realised that San was more than just a simple, if particularly delectable, one-night stand; some primal part of your brain warned you of danger.

It hadn’t mattered at that point. You mumbled something about having left your phone down at the bar, trying to untangle yourself from San’s grip — but all he had to do was grab your waist tighter, yanking you back against his body as he testingly lapped at your jugular. San’s hunger was growing, and you had been powerless against the instinctive push of pheromones dousing your susceptible human brain. From then on, you were a willing banquet for him to feast on.

(Still, San was generous. He still let you fuck yourself senseless on his cock.)

The longer he’d fed on you, the more he was dizzied by your scent; like he was breathing in oxygen for the first time in over six-hundred years. Your voice, sweet in your cries, pleading for him like he was the only lifeline still binding you to this mortal coil. Your taste… San never tasted anyone like you before.

Like you are his lifeline, your blood hot in his gut, saturating his veins with essential nutrition. Liquid sunlight, warming him from the inside. No one else tastes like this. No one else feels like this.

All of his plans were thrown out the window; to wipe the questionable details from your mind and abandon you before morning light. Instead he had taken you with him, given you a home, devoted himself to you with every fibre of his being.

His dedication never wavered, even when you began to resist the haze of his subjugation; when you no longer understood that everything San does, he does out of love for you.

But it’s not your fault — and San is not so fickle as to abandon you now. His loyalty is stronger than your blindness to it.

So how dare Yunho tell him it’s time to let you go?

“For fuck’s sake, at least turn her if you’re so attached to your little toy,” Yunho continues, and San’s face twitches at the blatant disrespect of you. A toy? “It’d be a kindness, and not only to her. Sannie, I’m worried about you.”

“It’s time for you to go home, Yunho. The sun is about to rise,” San says coolly, not even taking his eyes off the city skyline to see his oldest friend off.

Yunho lets out a frustrated sigh, but concedes to San’s stubbornness — for now. “This isn’t the last we’ve spoken of this,” he warns, and with that, Yunho turns away and leaves. He does not take San’s bad mood with him though; he leaves that behind to fester in San’s cold, deficient blood like a rot.

San stands alone in his luxurious penthouse, resisting a sharp urge to put his fist through the filtered glass of his window. He settles for digging his nails into his palms, a low growl escaping past his gritted teeth.

He needs you. Now more than ever.

The thought is all-consuming, hunger blazing through him. But right now, his devotion is tainted by rage, and he cannot risk to have you touched by it. San did that once, mercilessly rough as he took you; not even to feed, just to know you are his. He still has not forgiven himself for it. He never will.

But Yunho’s incessant meddling is not the only thing that has soured San’s mood — and it only makes his need worse.

San knows he has to be mindful of your health, allowing you time to recover between feedings. And so he hunted fresh prey, just a few days ago. It had been a brutish affair, sloppy and violent. San had almost gagged on the young man’s blood, a vile and repugnant liquor compared to yours, and left a scene of savage destruction behind.

(Hongjoong had arranged a clean-up afterwards, for which he’d heatedly told San off. Come to think of it, Hongjoong probably sent Yunho today too. He needs to stop fucking coddling San just because he is a few centuries younger. San could’ve handled it himself.)

Days later, the taste of inferior blood still lingers on San’s tongue, streams through his veins, and his craving for you becomes too powerful to withstand. He yearns for a sustenance and a comfort only you can provide; his previous feeding has proved as much.

No, San cannot go back to an existence without you.

Restlessly he paces across his home, through the spacious living room past the gallery and the master bedroom, all the way to a wide terrace that looks over the bay. Sometimes he takes you there, at night when the stars are bright, but the sun is already out. San ignores the terrace, heading to a relatively modest bedroom tucked into the corner of the penthouse.

A small, delicate silver key hangs on an equally delicate silver chain around his neck, resting on his chest. He takes off the necklace and uses the key to unlock the door to your room.

With his hand resting on the doorknob, San takes a deep, grounding breath. Already he can smell you through the white-painted wood, and just a faint whiff is enough to blunt the edges of his frustrations, while sharpening his hunger.

He opens the door.

Inside, he finds you laying motionless on a large mahogany bed underneath a wide, open skylight. Your nude body is sprawled over the velvet sheets, bathed in the warmth of the morning sun. At peace in your sleep. There is a golden cuff fastened around your ankle, with a long narrow chain to the wall; sometimes your confused mind beckons you to flee, to make some misguided escape attempt, but the chain protects you from making such mistakes.

San closes the door behind him as quietly as he can, careful not to wake you. Reverently, he watches your sleeping form, drinking in the sight of your steady breathing, how your skin glows in the unfiltered sunlight. Light that is deadly to him, but nurturing to you.

His eyes find the three scabbed-over bite marks on your naked body; on your neck, your inner thigh, and your wrist. San is partial to your thigh, mingling the sweet flavours of arousal and blood as he feeds, but every single one of them sings to him right now — angelic temptation.

Still, he resists a moment longer. He likes watching you sleep; the slow rhythm of your chest as you draw breath, your steady heartbeat thumping through peaceful dreams. He hates watching you sleep; to see you in a state of blissful serenity that only the oblivion of unconsciousness brings. He tries to give you that same peace in the waking world, tries so hard, but you struggle against it more and more.

He yearns to touch you, to remind you of true bliss, but even a mere step forward would make him burn in the sun’s light.

Some days he wants to. Wants to burn for you. Perhaps if you saw the true depths of his devotion, you would finally stop forgetting.

“She’s already growing immune, isn’t she?”

Yunho’s words echo through him, mockingly. Now that Yunho is gone, San can begrudgingly admit their truth. Your body is instinctively building a harmful resistance to his pheromones, like a dangerous bacterial strain resisting antibiotics. All San wants to do is cure your hurts, but your own physiology is cruelly sabotaging your happiness.

San’s fingers itch as he gets antsy. He’ll fix it. He’ll fix you. He will find a way.

He flicks a switch on the wall and the solar blinds go down. You stir at the faint whirring noise, whimper instinctively when shade encroaches on your naked body. You do not wake. Not yet.

Soon the room is engulfed in darkness, but San sees you clearly. Still, for your sake he lights a few candles, bathing the room in a different warm glow. Then he slowly shucks his clothes, dark eyes pinned on your slumbering figure.

The mattress dips as San joins you, the sheets still warmed by the sun. It makes San’s skin itch, but all discomfort fades when he turns you onto your side and curls up behind you, finding refuge in your body heat. San groans as you envelop his senses, and he noses at the bite mark on your neck.

You belong to him. It’s time to remind you of that.

Peaceful dreams still have you in their clutches, so you do nothing except sigh softly when San runs his palm over your plush thigh, then hooks your leg over his to open you up for him. A sigh becomes a moan when his fingers part your lower lips; sleep renders you almost as pliant as San’s subjugation does — even if it does not taste as sweet.

By now, San has mapped out your body’s every pleasure-point through his thorough explorations. Knows exactly how to press down against your clit to have your muscles twitching under his insistent touch. He hums in satisfaction at how easily his devoted fingers coax forth the slick between your thighs. It gives him hope.

San’s breath picks up at your heightened arousal, his otherwise useless blood rushing down to his cock. How wonderful would it be, if you are already brought under his spell once you awaken? He groans at the thought, muffling his sounds with an open-mouthed kiss against your neck. You squirm against him; your body is starting to wake, even if your mind is not quite there yet.

He suckles at the precious scab on your neck, canines elongating as he grinds against your backside. His razor-sharp teeth scrape against the scar that he has reopened over and over again — but San hisses, somehow finding the strength to pull back.

He mustn’t feed on you, not yet. Only when you want him to.

Two of his thick fingers have moved down, now buried knuckle-deep into your sopping heat. The faint squelch of it threatens to drive San mad just as much as your scent does, his every sense overwhelmed by the existence of you. He whines, barely able to keep himself from rutting into you when your hips jerk involuntarily against his fingers.

San knows immediately when you wake.

He senses the jolt in your heartbeat, hears the sharp catch of breath, feels how you stiffen in his arms. A muted shock rushes through your body as your mind tries to process what is happening to it.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” San shushes immediately, pressing a soft kiss against your temple. “It’s just me. You’re safe with me.”

But San’s dreams that you would awaken safely under his influence are shattered when you let out a pained whimper. You weakly shake your head, trembling as awareness of your current situation swiftly dawns on you. Feeble hands push at his arms.

“No,” you croak out, voice hoarse from sleep. “Hm, n-no— hmm, hmgh—“

You gasp as San’s fingers return to your clit, rubbing slow circles intended to soothe. “Yes,” he purrs. “Just let it happen, my love.”

He grunts as your nails claw at his wrist, some strength flowing back into your body as your consciousness comes back to you. Your other hand reaches to push at his face — but San’s sharp teeth nip at your fingers in warning when you almost scratch at his eyes, and you flinch away to yank at his hair instead.

Irritation and heartache pang through San’s chest at your incomprehension, and he helplessly listens to your babbled, futile protests. Soon. It will all be better soon.

“Please, stop—”

You break on the word with a wretched sob, a tear escaping your lashes. San’s heart wrenches at the sight. He does not like to see you cry, not when it’s like this. “No no no, darling,” he murmurs gently, the glide of his fingers easy through your sodden folds. “It’s okay, it will be okay… Don’t cry, you feel good — aren’t I making you feel good?”

You merely sob again, twisting against his hold, but San has you pulled too tightly against his chest. He feels your body tense, smells the unwanted pleasure buzzing through your veins. You gnaw at your bottom lip to bite down the moans rising from your lungs, but San will not allow you to fight it. He leans over your shoulders, licking into your mouth until your jaw slackens and your moans spill free. (You dare not bite his tongue. That’s a lesson you did not forget.)

“That’s it, that’s my sweet girl,” San praises. “Let me hear you.”

Your protests have died down to nothing but hitched breaths and hiccups, unable to back away from the inevitable precipice that San pushes you towards. All your instincts contradict one another, wanting to escape, wanting to chase this bright, fiery thread of pleasure until you are unravelled into nothing but pure rapture.

You choke back a throttled cry, grinding back against San’s cock. He whines at the friction, but stays focused on you; you come first. You always do. It won’t be much longer now.

He can tell by the way your thighs tremble, how your legs try to lock around his fingers. Your scent is overwhelming now; dizzying San’s mind with no thoughts of anything but to shatter your existence into bite-sized pieces. Still you try to resist, but San overwhelms you in turn, mouthing at your neck and working your puffy clit. The pitch of your moans rise, chest heaving with shuddering gasps, until you seize up with a strangled sob. Fresh slick gushes onto his fingers and San does not stop, thrusting three glistening fingers inside you to fuck you through your unwilling release.

“Please, please stop,” you sob, mewling with every aftershock that jolts through you. You beg him endlessly, convulsing in his arms — but then your scent changes, and the nature of your pleas shifts into something else entirely. “S-Sannie… please…”

The fear and nausea in your scent make way for your natural sweetness, embracing San in warm welcome as you finally call his name. He whimpers in relief.

You’re here. You’ve come back to him.

“What is it, darling?” he hums, nosing at your cheek. “Tell me, what do you need?”

“San, please, n-need…” You grasp at his wrist again, keeping him firmly in place as you falter for words. Your brain is in a haze. What do you need? Why can’t you think? One moment, everything was all wrong, panic searing through your aching nerves, and now… now…

San.

You need San.

You turn your head to look at him with tearful eyes, and smile dazedly at the fondness in his gaze, filled with heated affection. The flickering candles cast a halo of light around his face, shadows dancing over his high cheekbones and chiselled jaw.

“You… Need you closer,” you whine, aching as he smiles at you with crinkled eyes and a faint dimple. “Inside, p-please, want you inside me, San…”

The desperate yet demure request pleases him, a low noise of approval rumbling in his chest. He presses a tender kiss on your cheek, then takes out his fingers and pulls away from you.

You let out a pained moan at San’s sudden absence; to be without him hurts, the mere thought bringing about an excruciating burn inside your head. There is a strange pressure inside your skull, like a deeply buried thought tries to claw to the surface. But the pain is replaced by equal heights of bliss when San gathers you into his arms again, wrapping around you like a protective blanket.

He only moved to sit up against the headboard, now guiding you into his lap. You come willingly, eagerly, sighing in relief as his hands run over your feverish skin.

“There you go, my angel,” San rasps, restlessly grabbing at your waist to rock you into his hard cock. “So sweet, so good to me. Come, take what you want. I’m all yours, love.”

You whine at his offer and San’s lips spread into a slow, satisfied smile at your neediness. This is how it is supposed to be.

His eyes are drawn downward to your hands, and he grunts as you stroke him slowly, as though testing the warmth and thickness of him in your palm. Already he is leaking from the tip, a primal frenzy nudging at the back of his skull. Hunger.

Thankfully, you don’t make him wait long before you lift your hips and finally sink down on him. San throws back his head with a low growl, the pulsing wet heat of your cunt threatening to tear his self-control to shreds. His fangs have protracted fully, itching to seek out your veins.

Not yet, he reminds himself again, straining against his own impatience. But he needs to watch as you ride him; to see you use him for your own pleasure. To know his all-encompassing desire for you is returned in kind.

You provide him exactly what he craves.

Within mere moments, the candle-lit room is filled with your unabashed whines and the lewd slap of skin-on-skin as you bury San’s thick cock in your tight heat over and over again. Your pace is frantic, shameless in your desperation as you cling onto San’s wide shoulders, your nails close to drawing blood. The irony of that is not lost on him.

San’s head has fallen back, his jaw slack as he draws heavy breaths, utterly entranced by your depravity.

He lovingly admires the glow of sweat on your skin, beads trickling down the valley of your breasts that bounce with every snap of your hips. San is of half a mind to add a fourth bite to his collection on your body, draining you right over your heart. He licks his lips, groaning tightly when you grab his hand and move it from your hip to your backside.

San gives it an appreciative squeeze, but you shake your head and whine loudly.

Ah… message received.

You don’t flinch when San’s lips spread into a wide grin, his fangs on full display. He loves you for that.

He also loves the way your entire body jolts when his palm sharply lands on your ass. Your rhythm falters when he strikes again, your arms trembling as you struggle to remain upright.

“Want more, my love?” San croons, and draws his tongue across his deadly canines. A hot wire thrums through him when you mewl in confirmation, though he can tell you are getting tired. Stamina is not your greatest strength, not with your necessary confinement — but you always give him everything, wearing yourself out on his thick cock until your muscles give in.

Every smack of San’s hand against your rear is received with your loud keening, eyes squeezing shut. Tears streak down your cheeks, and San’s cock twitches inside your throbbing cunt. The shimmering wetness on your skin is a thing of beauty to him now; so overwhelmed by pleasure that your body seeks release anywhere, even in your tears.

San bucks up at the same time that his hand connects with your ass again, and you wail at the impact, crumpling against his chest. Weakly you cling onto his shoulders, moaning pitifully when San continues to roll his hips.

“Good, feels so good… Sannie…” you babble against his collarbone, the words tripping over your clumsy tongue. “Want… want…”

Your tongue darts out against his neck and without further warning, your teeth sink into his skin.

San grunts in surprise at the sudden sting, but then he chuckles breathlessly at your precious attempt to bite him. Your canines are uselessly blunt compared to his, only capable of breaking skin with the greatest effort — and you are already far too fucked out for that.

“Oh darling,” he coos, tipping up your chin. “Is that what you want? Then show me, my love.”

You snivel adorably, tilting your head to offer up the mark on your neck to San’s hungry mouth. Your quiet submission sears through his body, down to his crotch and his stomach, and San presses his nose against the old bite, breathing in deeply.

You whimper as he drags the flat of his tongue over the half-healed scab. Just a faint scrape of his teeth first, not enough to break skin, only to revel in the anticipation. Your heartbeat quickens, blood pulsing under his lips. San can wait no longer.

His eyes roll back with an animalistic snarl as he descends, fangs piercing through skin with ease. He growls at the first pull of blood, metallic sweetness coating his lips and tongue as your essence floods his senses.

“Yes, yes— Ah, ah, ahhh…” You arch your back into him, slowly rolling your hips in time with San’s noisy, messy slurps. Your fingers tangle into his hair, holding him in place as he drinks deep.

Euphoria.

Pure euphoria.

Drowning in you, in the sublime intoxication. San can barely feel his body anymore, only distantly aware of you rutting tiredly into him, of how he humps upward with increasing force as he loses himself in your taste.

He does hear your cries of delirious ecstasy, right by his ear when his hand slides between your bodies to find your clit on pure instinct. With his cock and fangs buried inside you, you reach your zenith with violent force, convulsing underneath his blood-stained mouth.

San grabs tighter onto you as you writhe, forcing you to stay in place as he drinks unrelentingly. He groans at how you clench around his cock, hips stuttering as he finds release — but even that is drowned out by the frenzy of his feed, mindlessly fucking his seed deeper into your cunt while he sucks at your wound, trying not to spill any of your precious liquor.

Slowly your whines die down and you start to go limp in San’s arms, just as he grows lethargic in the aftermath of his indulgence, his hunger finally sated.

You let out a weak moan when his fangs retract with a wet sound, and for a moment San thinks you passed out; but your eyes flutter open when he pulls out and manoeuvres you onto your back. A weak rivulet of blood drips down your shoulder, but you smile up at him with glassy eyes. He must look monstrous, redness smeared across his lips and chin, but there is nothing but want in your gaze, and San thinks that perhaps his hunger is not completely sated after all.

“Did so well, my love,” he murmurs, running his fingers up your inner thigh to catch the trickle of cum leaking out. “Always taking such good care of me.”

He offers up his glistening fingers to you, and you accept with no hesitation. Tiredly, your tongue swirls around the sticky digits, taking all that San feeds you. It only seems fair to him; exchanging one bodily essence for another. He cannot give you his blood, cannot risk accidentally turning you, but at least he can give you this.

Soon his fingers are sucked clean, but you whine as San pulls his hand back, your mouth chasing after him. “N-no, San…” Your eyes glitter with unspoken pleas, and a fond pride swells inside him at your insatiable urges.

“My sweet girl needs more, does she?” San asks, bearing down on you with a pleased smile. He drapes himself over you, humming in approval when your legs reflexively part to make room for him.

You giggle when his nose brushes against yours, his sweaty hair tickling at your face. “San, you’re a mess,” you tease, running your thumb across his lips. It comes back red.

San just moans in contentment, pressing a bloodied kiss against your cheek as he slowly grinds against your cunt. Your giggles quickly turn to gasps, wiggling underneath his persistent hips. His cock is so sensitive the friction almost hurts, but it’s all worth it when you grab onto his shoulders to pull him into a kiss, heedless of his tainted lips.

Your tongue slides against his, and San laughs into your mouth when your nose scrunches up in discontent at the strong taste of blood. As insatiable as you may be, only one of you is a true vampire. Instead San kisses a trail across your jaw, down your neck. He laps at the dried blood, the wound already closed, then suckles at the surrounding skin once you are clean. His hands wander over your body, relishing your heightened responses to his touch as he slowly works you up again.

You sigh at the soft squeeze of your breasts, back arching when his thumbs play across your nipples. San luxuriates in the curves of your body, sliding down to envelop a hardened nipple in the wet heat of his mouth. He takes his time, clever but unhurried fingers teasing deftly between your thighs.

Breathy moans echo through the quiet bedroom, languid pleasure gradually shifting to something more urgent. You start grasping at his shoulders, tell him to fill you up already, and San has never been one to deny you.

He hisses as he gives his cock a few more strokes, but ignores all sensitivity to please you, to plunge his thick length back inside your sopping cunt, drenched with seed and arousal. San bottoms out in one smooth thrust, knocking the air out of your lungs. You gasp for breath as he starts a steady rhythm, careful to find the exact angle he knows will have you seeing stars behind your eyelids.

The lethargy of his feed forces San to take it slow, settling for deep, intense thrusts to have your toes curl into the sheets. He cages you between his elbows, pressing shallow kisses on your lips; but the taste of blood has faded enough that you can happily accept his mouth, tongues gliding against each other in a sloppy tangle.

You moan as San’s pace picks up, wrapping your legs around his waist. The cuff on your ankle presses against his lower back, and a tinge of bittersweetness invades San’s palate at the reminder that it’s is not always like this. But he shakes it off, choosing to stay submerged in pure sweetness for now. Enjoy the moment. Enjoy you.

The slow roll of his hips turns to powerful thrusts as his sluggishness fades, his strength now boosted by the fresh, invigorating effect of your blood. Soon the bed is rattling at the onslaught of his force — he is fucking bruises into your hips, he is sure of it, but still you beg for more, for him. He gives it all.

“So good, fucking me so well,” you keen, and San glows at your praise, spurring him on harder.

He does not slow down when you seize up around him; fucking you through your orgasm, through your body’s attempts to clamp down on him. He hisses at the tightness of your cunt but does not stop, does not relent until you’re sobbing underneath him, your hands clutching at his sweat-slicked back. His muscles ripple with every merciless thrust, low grunts escaping him as his own release draws near, but San pushes through with gritted teeth, fixated on the unrestrained pleasure that contorts your face.

Sweat drips from his hair onto your cheeks, your body jostled helplessly by the rough snap of his hips. Your voice fails you, moans catching soundlessly in your throat as you tense around his cock again. San reaches down a hand to find your swollen clit, groans when it barely takes a touch for you to release a choked up cry — and this time San can’t fight the way you clench around him. He buries his face in your shoulder as he whines, filling you up just as you’d begged him to. He grabs onto your hips to hold your squirming body still as he bucks into you a few more times, his cum leaking past his cock and mingling with your juices, smeared across your thighs and his pelvis.

With a final whine, San pulls out and collapses by your side, his legs tangled with yours.

He recovers slowly, gasping for breath, and his heart clenches when you curl up into him, wiggling yourself between his arms for his embrace.

San is not sure how long you lay there like that, with him gently patting your hair, your quiet breaths falling on his chest. Your heartbeat steadies slowly, and it pains San when he decides it is time to pull away.

As he predicted, you babble tired protests at once, weakly clutching at his arm as you beg him not to go. He allows himself a contented smile, but shakes his head at your pleas.

“You need to eat,” he points out, though he can’t help but shower you with kisses. He smothers you in affection until you’re breathless and whining — which is one way to silence your protests, he supposes — but San cannot be so selfish to stay and do it all over again. He needs to take care of you. “I’ll be right back with some breakfast, alright? You need to regain your strength,” he soothes. “After, we can take a bath together, how does that sound?”

San’s tender kisses have put a dopey smile on your face, and you nod sluggishly at his proposal. “That sounds perfect,” you admit. “Just… come back soon, okay?”

“I will,” he promises, raising your hand to his lips to press a last kiss to the scab on your wrist.

San puts on a comfortable robe that he keeps in your room for just this sort of occasion, then exits, locking the door behind him out of habit. He tries not to rush himself, but still he can’t help but hurry his steps as he picks up an already prepared breakfast from the kitchen. He does not want to return to find you have abandoned him again already.

An uneasy sense of foreboding fills him as he returns to your room. The waft of sex and blood still hangs heavily in the corridor, masking your scent as he unlocks the door again in frustrated impatience. San swallows thickly, praying his bad feeling is just that; a feeling.

But the door swings open, and San knows at once. He does not even need to smell you; your freshly tear-stained, puffy cheeks already tell him that it is too late, your heartbeat spiking harshly at his return. Your arms tremble as you inch back on the bed, subtly as though you do not want to anger him, but still putting as much distance between you and San as possible.

It takes everything for San not to recoil from your sudden rejection of his gift. His fingers clench around the breakfast tray, grief burning behind his eyes. He swears, it did not used to wear off this fast.

“She’s already growing immune, isn’t she?”

Shut the fuck up, Yunho.

San shakes his head, collecting himself. It’s no matter. He sets the tray down on a side-table, and gently approaches your shaking form on the bed. He will drag you back to him again, as many times as he has to.

#consumed #q #health and happiness to you too!!! (≧◡≦) ♡

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pathofemblems · 2 years ago

Note

Ship Bias for Louis and Pandreo? Henry too?

✶ anonymous › send ❛ ship bias ❜ & i will share up to 5 ships i have a bias for for my muse!

was the anon an accident? you don’t have to be anonymous for memes! 🥹

◦ pandreo ›

posted!

◦ louis ›

01.) zelkov — to be honest, i initially expected a goofy dynamic from them until i reached their a support, and then i fell down the angst rabbit hole… louis patiently waiting for zelkov’s walls to fall with no complaint hurts a little bit, but in a good way. zelkov deserves to be taken care of and find someone he can take care of in return.

02.) timerra — they don’t have supports together, but i feel like louis would be absolutely enchanted with how free-spirited and stunning timerra is. even if she’s trash at singing, he could listen to her all day. she’s, like… the worst siren ever, but she makes up for it with her strength, charm, and literally everything else. timerra might think he’s a little stuffy, but in a cute way. idk, IDK, i just think they’d work really well together.

03.) ivy — literally he made it his GOAL, his MISSION, to make ivy smile, and then she DID, and it was because of HIM. he made her LAUGH. screaming, crying, possibly throwing up, they’re perfect.

04.) amber — maybe i’m stupid, but i thought they had supports. it’s the mandela effect in action, or maybe i’ve just genuinely enjoyed my rp interactions because they felt a little natural to what in-game conversations would be like—to me, anyway. but yes, i find them very sweet and they’d fit the friends-to-lovers trope easily.

05.) alear — i mean, he bragged and gushed about alear to his brothers back home so much that they wanted to meet alear to see who louis was so infatuated with! and fun fact: the english voice actors for male alear and louis are married irl!

◦ henry ›

01.) tharja — it might be cliché, but it works so well, and the rivals-to-lovers dynamic is always a fun one. also, they’re both fucking toxic. tharja obsessed over her love interests and henry has complex abandonment issues, and mutually obsessing over each other is hot anyway.

02.) gaius — they’re like the couple who can never sit still and are always going on adventures. the life of the party. the idiots who do dangerous dares for fun and then go kiss each other’s booboos in private while making fun of each other. stupid.

03.) cherche — she took charge and forced him to open up properly, and their entire support chain’s cute. he takes care of her, loves her wyvern, and ultimately seems like one of the best husband options for cherche. that, and my gerome’s default father is henry, so… d=(´▽｀)=b

#✶ · ⊰ ooc ⊱ · answered #anonymous #// ty though anon! 💜#i appreciate you! //

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alyjojo · 2 years ago

Text

Love Reading 🎎 - February 2023 - Scorpio

Singles:

Overall energy: The Chariot rev

How you will meet: Queen of Swords

How they will treat you: 7 Cups

Long-term Potential: 7 Swords & The Fool

I hate to call you “lesser evolved”, but that’s the vibe I’m getting from this reading on your end. Young or inexperienced Scorpios are often SO eager for love, they’d fall in love with a tree stump if it would agree. No offense, truly 🙏 Because the point is you deserve better than this, and you put up with it because you just want to be with someone, but someone deserving of your affections is better. There’s no movement with either of these people, there are two. You meet Queen of Wands after a former lover leaves, off to search for “better” somewhere else, and you’re single. It’s probably no time before this other person comes in, but it feels like you’re the one chasing them, with Stalker coming up and all, you’ve probably had your eye on them for awhile. But they don’t choose you.

Either you’re stuck to something else, or they are, and the dynamic between you is one like they know you’re an option, and you’re bitter that they do nothing, but they don’t and they won’t. Long term is this person avoiding a new beginning with you like it’s the plague. They could even ghost you, or lie. It’s a feeling of they really like you but maybe not in the same way, though they aren’t outright saying that, or again they’re tied up with something else and aren’t interested in something new with you. If you’re stuck between two right now, it’s probably neither.

Messages -

Their side:

- I just don’t know what to say.

- I’ve never met anyone like you.

Your side:

- Boujee 💅🏽

- Stalker 👀

Signs you may be dealing with:

Cancer, Aquarius, Aries & Virgo

Couples:

Overall energy: 6 Swords

Current: The Moon

Challenge: Strength

Potential: 2 Pentacles rev

There’s a lot of major arcana here, clearly this is a very important time in this relationship, which feels like a make or break decision. The pressure of that is killing you. You’re currently sitting in fear that any toxic cycles, addictions, obsessions on any level - maybe can’t be healed, can’t be fixed, not while things still stand as they are. If something triggers change, then so be it, but you’re less than hopeful that’s possible while you stay in this connection. The goal is to move away from drama and begin anew, whether with this person or not. The challenge is you holding yourself back, along with any frustrations you may have, because you don’t actually want to end things. The end hurts, it hurts this other person, you don’t want to do it. The potential is you being under SO much pressure having to juggle things, ideas, decisions, real life problems, you just can’t take it anymore. You don’t know if you want to keep trying, or fix a connection at all, or if you want to keep going in some other direction. There is no clear answer here, but a LOT of major arcana energy. That shows the situation itself is a big deal, meeting this person and whatever has transpired to put you here, even oracles nod towards past life connections - which could be what’s at play…karmic circumstances, BUT, the decision is ultimately yours. And the reading isn’t giving answers, showing different people choose different things. No choice is wrong. What is best for your life?

Messages -

Their side:

- Not ready…yet

- Darker Skin Tone

Your side:

- Follow My Lead

- Excellent Cook 🍱

Oracles -

Their side:

Be careful that negativity doesn’t lodge in your body. Visualize a green light around you for protection.

Identify yourself by your thoughts and feelings and not what you own.

Your side:

You can be a caregiver and rescuer, but be sure you’re own caregiver first.

Ask God to remove any negativity from you, even something that may have happened in a past life that is affecting this life.

Signs you may be dealing with:

Aquarius, Pisces, Capricorn & Libra

#scorpio tarot reading #love reading #singles reading #couples reading #february 2023 #Scorpio #tarot

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onsunnyside · 3 years ago

Text

✯⌎ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 | Major Crossover—dark alpha!fratboys!: Ari Levinson, Steve Rogers, Curtis Everett, Ransom Drysdale, Andy Barber x omega!reader [dark A/B/O college AU, one reader, HC Verse]

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 | DARK themes and elements, A/B/O dynamics, mean!cevans characters, DARK!cevans characters, manipulation, toxic behaviour, obsessive & possessive behaviour, soft!DARK, misogyny (within A/B/O designations), SMUT - minors DNI, NON-CON/DUB-CON, coercion, jealousy, competition, major power imbalance, heavy dom/sub undertones, size difference, daddy kink, size kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, object insertion (sex toys: anal plug, ‘carrot style’ dildo, vibrating ‘eggs’), dumbification, degradation, cum as lube, overstimulation, possible dehumanization, gangbang: “sharing is caring,” dacryphilia, unprotected sex (p in v, p in a), double penetration (v & a), anal sex, rough sex, squirting, oral (f), creampie, handjobs, pussy slapping, choking, voyeurism, filming sex, implied/mentions of: face fucking, somnophilia, chase kink, free use

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 | You celebrate Easter with your five alphas. Based on this ask from my sunny bunny party.

𝗪/𝗖 | 4.34K

𝗔/𝗡 | well i definitely feel like a whore, but what else is new, this may be the most filthy thing i’ve written as in the context. I don’t have much for this version of HCV, so we’ll see how it ends up. i never thought i’d write something like this. warning: i don’t know if it’s classified as subspace, but reader gets fucked stupid. this is a dark fic, the warnings have been given—if you don’t like it, don’t read.

˗ˏˋ𝐊𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐚 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭ˎˊ˗ ⋰˚ 𝐂.𝐄. & 𝐂𝐨. 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Your eyes bounce between the options on the printed page, and breaths leave your mouth in puffs. You can hear the birds through the opened window, and feel the cool breeze crawling up your spine.

“5-4-3-2—”

“Is it, uh,—A?”

“Nope.”

You gasp, your eyes falling shut in pleasure as the vibrations intensify and your walls pulse around the thick toy. Your toes curl in your knee-highs and your nails dig into the couch. “Oh, m-my…”

“Look at that.” Comes a Brooklyn drawl from behind you, “She’s so wet, it keeps slipping out…” Steve holds the dildo by the base and presses it to the hilt. He almost feels bad for you because he can feel the strong vibrations from the other toy also stuffed into you. After everything they’ve put you through, he’s surprised you’re still conscious.

Poor baby, but it was all your fault anyway.

"Oh, honey, you like history that much?” Ransom teases, shutting the book and fixing your crooked bunny ears. They aren’t as pretty anymore since he threw them to the ground to get a better grip on your head when he was fucking your face earlier. There’s still some cum on your chin, but he won’t say anything. He prefers watching you go about the day covered in him or his frat brothers.

Steve coos, “Want me to stop it, baby?” He spits on you, his saliva landing on your puckered hole stretched around a plug, still sore and puffy from his prep this morning. You were asleep and kept squirming until he held you down. When your eyes finally opened, his heart swelled and he had you up against the shower wall within minutes.

The other guys had tried to join when you were nearly finished, but Steve locked the door. And when it was broken, the both of you were in the bathtub, and you were cockdrunk in his arms, drifting away and letting him wash you.

They’d have to get the door fixed again, but it wasn’t like none of the other guys were completely innocent either. They each had their selfish streaks but compared to the beginning of your relationship, they’ve gotten far better at sharing.

“P-Please, stop it.” You sigh in relief when he pulls at the end hanging out and presses the power button, and the low humming comes to an end. You sag into the cushions, practically lifeless as Ransom caresses your face, inching closer to your gland.

Then, Steve turns it back on, this time on the highest setting.

“Steve!” You cry out, falling onto your belly as you shudder, and release around the toys. Your squirt drenches the couch and Steve’s lap, marking both with your scent. Your mind goes blank and your tummy hurts with the amount of pressure as the toy roughly thrusts in and out of you, jostling the vibrator and prolonging your high.

You don’t know how much time had passed, but you did feel someone cleaning between your legs and another hand trail up your back, “You okay, sweetie?”

“Mhm…” You trail off, your head sinking into the plush pillow before it’s pulled to a lap. A certain scent of smooth vanilla with a dash of cocoa flows up your nose, “Andy?”

“Yes, it’s me.” A soft sound makes your eyes open and you watch the basket get filled with a few more of those dreaded eggs that ruined you in the first place. You tuck away from it, whining at the soreness that blooms from your core.

“Had to find the rest and wash them for you.” Andy rubs your head softly, his gentle tone a sharp contrast to the growing tent in his pants, “Dumb little bunny couldn’t help but cum from what—four eggs? You didn’t even find all of them.”

“Sorry, alpha.” You sniffle, wishing to just go to sleep for the rest of the day, but according to the alphas, the festivities have just begun.

“You know what that means, right, honey?”

“It means she’s getting chased through the woods next time like a stupid little bunny. I wanted to do it—but no, it would’ve been too much.”

“Are you honey?”

Ransom shrugs, “Sometimes.”

Andy shakes his head, facing you again, “Talk to me, omega.”

“I tried…”

“You did, and maybe next time, you’ll do better.” He looks down at you, both eyebrows raised, “You’ll do what you’re supposed to, and not disappoint your alphas.”

That’s how you end up between Ari’s legs, his long hard cock against your back as Curtis stuffs you full with the vibrating ‘eggs.’ Your puffy folds are spread wide for the rest of the fraternity brothers to freely gaze at. Steve, Ransom and Andy sit in chairs, heavy cocks hanging out of their pants as drool dribbles down your chin.

“How many now?”

“The seventh keeps slipping out.” Curtis’ fingers prod at the little vibrating ball, he sucks his digits clean before reaching for another egg and easily adds it into your stuffed cunt, he groans lowly, “We’re at eight now, sweet girl. You’re doing so good.”

The towel is soaked underneath you. After squirting a handful of times, Steve and Andy’s cum act as lube for your tight hole, and their seed combined with your slick has made an embarrassing mess of your core.

At least they put the eggs on the lowest setting, you didn’t even want to think of having all of them on the highest.

“Fit another. If she gets nine, I’ll get that tight ass for the week.”

“In your dreams,” Steve scoffs, “It’s like you don’t even know our girl, she can barely take a few fingers and a cock at the same time in one hole. She’s had enough today and she’ll warm me for the next seven days.” He licks his lips at the thought. “What makes you think she’ll fit another?”

“She’ll do it for me. Right, omega?” Ransom asks you. “You’re going to try to take another for me.”

“I-I,” You blink away the tears and shake your head as Ransom sighs. “No, daddy—can’t.” You whine, unable to relax in Ari’s comforting hold, most of the time, his warmth keeps you grounded but right now, you feel like you’ll be flying in a few moments. “Too much, too full.”

“Are you sure this time?” Curtis asks, tattoos stretching along his shoulder as he sits up, chain dangling between his pecs. “You said that at five and started crying when Andy took the basket away.”

“Little whore couldn’t even decide if she was too full.” Ransom scoffs, jerking his cock slowly, “She gets fucked so often but is still too tight for two cocks in the same hole. One of these days, I won’t care and I’ll just shove in there, fucking tear her apart.”

“Bet she’ll love it.” Steve agrees, his mouth waters as one of the eggs slips out of you, covered in your cream and his cum. “When has she ever said no anyway?”

“Plenty of times,” Andy answers, moving next to Curtis for a closer look. Your cunt is so used, your clit is still rubbed raw from his beard earlier, and your ass is stuffed with a plug. “We just never listen.”

“We’ll listen this time.” The fraternity president’s hands fall below your tummy, tracing lower and pressing slightly. Another egg falls out, your hole clenches as the rest shift inside you, still softly vibrating against your pulsing walls. “We promised.”

“Promises are meant to be broken.” Curtis shrugs, eyes locked on your contorted face as he barely touches your clit making you jump, and he laughs cruelly. “Like when I promised I wouldn’t fuck her face when we went to the movies.”

“You ruined her makeup. I had to take her to dinner with smeared mascara.” Ransom starts fucking into his fist, head falling back as memories rush back, you clinging to his arm in the fancy establishment, all dolled up and cute, he loved showing you off. He also teased you under the table that day.

“You could’ve let her fix it.”

“I would have just messed it up again.”

“Hey, open those pretty eyes.” Your lashes flutter open, meeting Curtis’ clear blue gaze but the contact doesn’t last long because Ari applies pressure again, and two more eggs slip out. Joining the filthy mess. Curtis’ wet hand taps your cheek, “Look at me, are you done?”

You nod, blubbering as Steve’s fingers lightly tug at your nipples, you’re so sensitive and sore, you can barely tell left from right. Drunk on endless highs, and so many suffocating scents. But god, you loved and feared it at the same time.

“Oh, poor bunny, your little cunt is stuffed to the brim.” Ransom slides next to you, craning his neck to stare.

“Daddy… Don’t look…”

“Why not? You’re shy?” He chuckles darkly, “What if I get closer, huh? Spread your puffy folds, and get a really good look at your filthy pussy. I should bring you to the mirror and make you look at it. See what a slut you are for your alphas.”

You pout at him, shutting your legs. “You’re being mean…”

“Am I being mean?” He asks the rest of the men, and receives different replies; ‘yeah,’ ‘no way,’ ‘she’s just sensitive.’ “Whatever—how can I make it up to you, pet? I’ll be nice since it’s a holiday.”

Your eyes fall to his shirt, and he immediately knows what you want. He tugs off his t-shirt and hands it over. You take the fabric and bring it to your nose, rubbing your face into it and enveloping yourself in his scent.

“She’s chirping,” Steve smiles warmly, and his delicate touch travels up your leg. “Even after all the shit you’ve pulled, she still wants to be with you.”

“Shut up.” Ransom rolls his eyes. “Isn’t Steve being mean too, baby? Go on, tell him to fuck off.”

Your eyes widen, “No! Are you stupid—” Ari slaps your thigh harshly. “Ow!”

“Watch your mouth before I make you clean those eggs. Now open your legs, don’t make me ask twice.” His deep voice demands from behind you. His chest hair tickles your back, “Don’t forget who you are.”

An omega, it goes without being said. The power they hold over you both in designation, status and physical strength. They towered over you and you felt so small between them with the weight of their blue stares.

You slowly spread your thighs, covering your face in unease as the other alphas crowd around you. Ari forces them wider with his knees and moves you onto his lap, putting on a show for the rest of his frat brothers. Someone’s spit lands on your clit before the bundle is rubbed, sending streams of pleasure through your veins. They play with you for a bit, tracing your wet hole, and putting your combined juices back in only for it to drip out again. Suddenly, a thickness prods at your weepy hole.

Your eyes shoot open, shining up at the buzzcut-haired man sinking his cock into you. “Wait, the eggs—”

“I know.” Curtis cuts you off, “Ransom, turn up the setting. Wanna fuck her until she’s dumb.”

“She already is.” Steve moves your hand to his cock, your fingers can’t meet around his fat girth.

“See? Isn’t he mean, baby? Why don’t you tell him how mean he is.” Ransom grabs your other hand, spitting into your palm before fucking into your fist.

Ari kisses up the back of your neck, and all the touching, the sounds, and the feelings distract you enough for him to slip out the plug and replace it with his dick. You accidentally grip Steve and Ransom a little too tight, and the alphas groan in sync. Butterflies with glass wings flutter in your stomach, shattering against each other and fracturing you from the inside out.

“N-No, I can’t—please! Stop!”

“Shut up. Bunnies don’t speak.” Ari grunts into your ear, rough and raspy, “You know what they do?”

“They hop.” Curtis answers smugly, his dark eyes eating you up, “Better hop, sweetheart, before Ransom tries to slide in too.”

You start bouncing on their cocks. The oxygen feels so thin and you can barely sit up straight, stuffed to the brim as the eggs vibrate against your tender walls. Your moans are utterly indecent, the lewd noises of your actions fill the hot air and harmonize with the squeaking of the bed.

And that’s what Andy walks in on. You’re a fucking mess, covered in spit, cum and your slick, weakly riding two cocks at once and jerking off another two. Your poor cunt stretched so wide around Curtis’ length, your cream forms a ring around his base and dribbles down to Ari’s under you—Andy wishes he could see your ass, it’s probably so ruined too.

“What a good bunny, hopping on your alphas cocks like a whore—fucking—” Curtis’ hips stutter when you tighten, “You knot hungry slut, greedy little cunt keeps sucking me in. You love being split open on us?”

“Uh-huh, don’t, ah! Please don’t stop!” You moan, choking on your words. Your bunny ears go crooked as you look down at your used centre and Curtis’ thick cock spearing you open, every time he thrusts out, Ari slides in and they alternate on keeping you as full as possible. “S-So big, daddy, so big.”

“Yeah, your little cunt is so fucking stuffed, can feel those eggs against my cock.” He growls, tugging you to spit into your mouth, then he kisses you messily. “You feel them, baby? They feel good?”

You try to nod, the bunny ears slip further before someone else fixes them again. “My holes, daddy—”

“What about our holes? They don’t belong to you, dumb little bunny.” Ari’s head is thrown back with a deep groan and his abs flex, he can feel Curtis between the thin wall inside of you. There’s truly no more space for anyone else—but that won’t stop one of them from trying.

“Y-Your holes, so small, daddy…” Someone’s hand wraps around your throat, but you can’t tell who with all the fogginess in your head. Their grip tightens, “Your little holes… gonna never close—”

“Good.” It was Ransom judging from the voice by your ear, you feel a tongue drag up your cheek, licking up your tears. “We’ll do whatever we want to your slutty holes, and I will fuck your cunt when someone else is already using it.”

“What are you, baby?” Steve forces your face towards him, he’s red in the cheeks, and the colour spreads down his firm chest. “C’mon, tell your daddies.”

“I’m a—cumdump, your dumb baby, daddy.” Your head is tilted down, just in time to watch Curtis’ spit land where you meet. His salvia lands on your clit, dripping down to the veiny girth of his cock. “I’m yours.”

“That’s right, and don’t you ever forget.”

“Look at her, all cockdrunk. Dumb little omega, just a hole for us.” Ari sucks on your gland, his groans vibrating the patch, he remembers when you used to cry from just half his cock, and now look at you, taking him and Curtis to the hilt at the same time. You’ve come so far, and he’s so proud. “You like getting both your holes fucked at once, baby? Yeah, you do, look at that face.”

Steve groans, pulling away from your lips before you’re tugged towards Ransom’s mouth. “Not a fucking thought in that pretty head, it’s okay, you don’t need to think. Just need to take our cocks and knots, let us use you whenever we want. You want our babies in your pretty cunt, omega?”

Normally, you’d snap out of whatever trance and establish those stupid—in their opinions—boundaries about starting a family so early. Even though you were mated, you didn’t want to get pregnant halfway through your college career, but your alphas didn’t care. They’ve discussed the perfect time to switch out your pills, and darling you wouldn’t know the difference until you’re hunched over the toilet.

“She does, she’s so fucking tight.” Curtis’ fingers dig into your hips, “You finally gonna have our pups, pet? Let us pump this little cunt full, knot you to keep you plugged up. Use you as a personal cumdump.”

You only manage quiet gasps, letting your body be used from almost every end.

“Our little omega, so good for us, gonna carry all our babies.” Steve’s voice rings tauntingly and he slips a hand between your legs, his rough fingers strumming your swollen clit. “She’s fucking shaking, you still here with us, pet?” He slaps your button in quick succession, taking great pleasure in your convulses.

Your head lolls to the side as someone taps your temple, “Sounds empty in there—I think we’ve fucked her completely stupid.”

You’re a vision, moving between Steve and Ransom’s messy kisses as saliva falls down your chin to your bouncing breasts which are covered with lovebites.

Andy watches you cum, your whole body erupting in euphoria as you tremble in Ari’s lap. Curtis leans back, stroking his cock and squeezing the swelling base as the intensely vibrating eggs finally fall out, your squirt covers him from his thighs to his chest. Steve’s hand is shoved away by Ransom who swats your nub wetly, smearing your juices everywhere. Then he’s also pushed away by Curtis who leans down to greedily latch onto your cunt, all while Ari forcibly bounces you on his dick.

You scream, falling against the long-haired man’s chest, gasping for air as Curtis buries his face into your sensitive pussy, his rough beard scratching your folds. You flail, arms shooting out for something, anything, but Steve and Ransom aren’t done. They keep your grip locked on their angry lengths and fat knots, they come a few seconds apart, their thick seed spurting all over your hands.

“What a good girl, give Curtis your cream.” Ari rasps against your gland, the spot so tender from his mouth, he sucks in time with Curtis’ on your swollen clit.

The alpha drinks down your juices, growling like a starved man as you squirt again.

“That’s it, that’s it. Fucking dirty whore, you’re gonna take my cum in your ass, I want you to fucking cry like a dumb little pet.”

You hiccup, and as soon as Ransom releases your hand, you try to push Curtis away. Your centre is far too sensitive for even a gentle breath, let alone his mouth and facial hair. “N-No more! Please, I can’t!”

He leans back, your wetness covering half of his face, and evident in his beard. His chest heaves, “You do that again, and I’ll make you take all the eggs, got it?”

“Don’t be so mean now, Curtis, you're gonna make her cry even harder.” Ransom chuckles.

The blue-eyed man grabs your throat, bringing you close as your head bobs up and down, the bunny ears half off. “You hear me? Don’t you ever push me away.”

Ari hasn’t let up, still tearing apart your puckered hole. “Yes, yes—” You barely manage as tears flow freely and follow the trails of drool and saliva down your face. You sob and shudder through Ari’s rough thrusts, digging your nails into the bedsheets.

Ari turns your head and groans loudly, “So pretty when you cry—dirty girl, daddy’s gonna fill you up. You’re gonna take my fucking cum, whore, take it.” He ruthlessly pumps up and his knot pops in, his cum violently shooting against your walls, filling you so deeply, the thick swell keeps him pressed to the hilt, his heavy balls tensing with every spurt.

The feeling of being filled has you toppling over again. Your body eagerly grinds down against Ari’s twitching length, forcing him deeper and deeper. Lost in the electric shocks, you don’t notice a single thing going on around you. Teetering between worlds, you let them touch you all over, smearing your shared juices, rubbing their cum into your skin, and kissing or licking your tears.

It’s downright obscene, the exposed skin heaving breaths, and their soft murmurs.

“Good little pet, you did so good.”

“Fuck, we really used her cunt, huh? What a mess.”

“If she doesn’t close her mouth soon, I’m fucking her throat.”

“Barber, are you done over there?” Steve’s voice is slightly hushed.

“Yeah, I couldn't get all the angles but it’s good, the perfect little film of Arcadia Phi’s Pet.”

To your horror, Andy is holding a camera and the lens is pointed directly at you. He grins as he presses the button, and the red light switches off.

“Said y-you’d ask.. before.” You manage through shivers, both hypersensitive and numb as Ari runs his rough hands all over your body. You blink through blurry vision, “You lied.”

“I know, baby, but you were so out of it, why would I interrupt?” Andy tilts his head, “I wouldn’t want to ruin the show, because then we’d have to do it again. You want to use the eggs again?”

“N-No…” You trail off, it was true. It was more than overwhelming and you’ve only just begun, you can’t imagine what else is in store. With a rapid pacing of your heart, you reach for him, bottom lip trembling as you wonder why he’s so far away, as if he hadn’t betrayed you. “I want—kiss please?”

Andy smiles and crawls on the bed and cups your cheeks. He kisses you sweetly, taking control and massaging your tongue with his. His beard tickles your face, and you find yourself forgiving him in an instant.

It was the same story with all the other men. No matter what they did, you’d forgive them for it. Regardless if it was undeserving, you found it harder to hold a grudge, to be away from the alphas who made you feel like you were on top of the world.

That felt like more of a crime than their threats and overbearing tendencies like you were breaking an unofficial boundary every time you questioned their toxicity and controlling behaviours.

Whatever it was, they did this to you, and you aren’t angry at them for it.

The next one to meet your lips is Curtis, his cock still throbbing between his thighs as spit escapes from the corners of your lips, his deep groans filling your mouth. Then, it’s Ransom, he’s less messy than Curtis but far more demanding, you can’t do anything but follow his motions, letting him swallow the air from your throat. Steve is an even ground between them, although he spits into your mouth before capturing your lips, your teeth clash when he tilts his head and kisses you as if you’re all he’s ever wanted.

Which is the truth for all of them.

As he pulls away, that charming grin plays on his shiny lips. Ari shifts you around and his knot tugs at your rim. “Are you done being a cameraman?”

Andy sets down the camera, having recorded your exchanges with the rest of the men. “You up for it?”

“If it means I get to boss you all around,” Ari smirks, gently pulling out of your creamy hole, his seed dribbles out your ass, down your skin and onto the wrinkled towel below.

You let out a little sigh at the emptiness, trying to find a position that doesn’t make your soreness more evident, and gives your thoroughly fucked holes a rest.

“It isn’t any different considering you’re president,” Ransom remarks.

“Hey, if you want to have a re-election, and lose again, be my guest. I wouldn’t mind another victory celebration.” Ari snatches the device and moves off the bed. His cock is already hardening again and bobbing between his built legs. “Smile for the camera, sweet girl.” You sniffle and try to wipe your face, but Ari tsks. “Don’t do that, I want you to be as ruined as possible.”

“Always prettiest that way, huh, omega?” Andy hums.

You shudder as lips land on your gland, softly tonguing the spot. “Y-Yes, daddy… Alpha, should I—do I pose?”

You never would’ve thought you’d willingly participate in a sex tape or a series of them. It could be the dizziness in your head that pushes you right into their trap—but that’s what this whole thing was. In the beginning, you were naive enough to wander into their cage of stained glass, marveling at the wonders and affections, while right now, you were stupid enough to stay.

“Yeah, just smile and spread your legs, wanna see how used your holes are. Ah, look at that—the most perfect cumdump, yeah?” He brings the lens to your ruined cunt and ass, giving each a time to shine as your clit twitches, your puffy folds slick and messy, and your puckered hole dribbles with his cum. Then, he captures your shy smile. “There’s my pet, so beautiful.”

“Especially as a little bunny,” Curtis adds, fondly touching the ears.

“Look at you, the star of the show, Arcadia’s girl.” Ari grins sickeningly, “For this segment, you’ll be taking Andy in your mouth, and Steve and Ransom at the same time.” He moves back to your soppy holes, his cum getting a special appearance in this little home video once again.

“Okay, daddy.” Your mind fades in and out as Andy kisses up your chest, tasting your sweat before reaching your gland, his soft lips suckling the skin. You're taken under their control, limp against whoever is holding you up. “I’ll be good…”

“I’m glad, although, I should probably clarify they’ll both be in the same hole.”

The camera switches to your face to catch your terrified expression, you try to get up but you’re immediately pinned again, this time, flat on your back as Steve forces your legs open. Stroking his thick length, then slapping the bulbous tip on your puffy button.

Ari sits next to you, ready to get all the angles. “But don’t worry, we’ll still listen to you because you get to choose the hole.”

𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: and there we go !! I hope you all enjoyed that wild ride. I thought the first orgy i’d write would be with the dilfs in Cruel, but this sunny bunny party has been pure filth. Also, nickname spoiler: this reader is called Pet !!

𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞! Here's the masterlist for this au: 𝐊𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐚

I don’t have an update schedule. As always, I hope you all enjoyed this and I’d love to hear your thoughts/feedback !! <3 ☼ 𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐊𝐨-𝐟𝐢 ☼

I don’t do taglists anymore. Follow my library and turn on the notifications to you can see whenever I post: @onsunnysidelibrary.

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