#anyway please consume one piece

[4ragon]

whats a media you didnt like at first but grew to love?

Picture this. JJ 4ragon LastName, ten years old. She's about to enter the fifth grade. She has finally graduated from Pokemon and Yugioh to the late-night Toonami block (8pm). Now she's watching Naruto, and a little bit of Full Metal Alchemist. She feels so adult, since these shows are rated for teen and up. She watches anime because her 13-year-old brother watches anime, and it's cool to watch anime like her big brother.

And then she sees some of this dumb 4Kids pirate show called One Piece.

This is for babies, she tells herself. This is stupid. Naruto is way better. Naruto is cool, and it's got blood and swears. Not like this weird little pirate show.

Later, when her family goes to Borders to purchase books, they decide to buy the One Piece manga for her little brother.

Except...wait, the manga version of One Piece was actually...kind of good? That was strange. She'd stopped watching the One Piece show already, but hadn't the show been...goofier? Oh well, it still wasn't as good as Naruto, so Naruto was where she put all her time.

Cue time laps. JJ goes to high school. JJ goes to college. JJ finishes Naruto, and Full Metal Alchemist, and Mob Psycho and Yuri on Ice and hey wait, is that One Piece manga still happening? And people are saying it's good? That doesn't sound right. Because sure, she remembers One Piece fondly now, but it wasn't, y'know, groundbreaking right? She remembers getting to some sort of desert island, but that's kind of where her memories fade. And yet, people just keep talking about it. But still, it's also like 1000 chapters long. A little too late to get into now, right...?

Smash cut. August 2021. JJ has been living with a roommate for a year. She's been watching some TotallyNotMark videos, and some of them are about One Piece, and huh. This sounds more interesting than she remembers. Out of nowhere, at the same time, her roommate says, "Hey, you remember that One Piece show? Do you want to start marathoning it together?"

Now friends. Compatriots. Companions. I wish to ask you.

What do you think happened next?

[cimicherrychanga]

btw u guys have to promise to not be mad at me for becoming ur turtle mutual. please

[arminsumi]

Hi! Could i request Sukuna with CHERRY + STRAWBERRY SYRUP + WHIPPED CREAM pls

🧎‍♀️ 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

Filming on shoot with your co-star Sukuna Ryomen, you totally go off-script and work overtime 'cause he fucks you a little too good.

ㅤ★ promptlist

ㅤ★ cws; strictly NOT for under 18s — please consume content online responsibly, explicit smut, Sukuna & reader are both 🌽⭐ being filmed on set, breeding kink, multiple orgasms/creampies

ㅤ★ an; if any piece of smut is gonna lock me out of heaven it's gonna be this one i think (ok, that's an exaggeration lol) anyways enjoyyy!! 🎀💗

"Nn!! Gimmie me your babies!!"

"Huh?"

Pornstar!Sukuna's hips stutter, his pierced cock almost coming to a still inside of you as you totally give away your breeding kink.

This isn't part of the script, is it? He's wondering if he missed something — he's always been a bit of a lazy reader. And today he just kinda jumped into it 'cause he was too excited to fuck a tiny thing like you on the arm of a couch.

He pays a glance to the camera crew, then lets out a chuckle, "Am I fuckin' ya so good you forgot the script?"

You give him a blissed-out, drooly face that honestly makes his heart lurch. But he's gotta keep it together — he's at the height of his career and he refuses to develop a crush on a coworker.

"I'm sorry, it just feels so good!"

Sukuna's taken aback for a solid minute, then he snaps-to and sees the potential title shining in his mind; "Petite Slut YN LN Goes Dumb on Sukuna Ryomen's Cock — Begs for a Creampie!!"

"Shit... alright... perk that ass up 'n 'lemme give it to ya then."

With that, he's helping you reposition on the stark-white couch and quickly stuffing his cock back inside you, starting back up his relentless thrusting into your weeping pussy.

Giving it to you just how you like, nice and hard with little breaks in between, Sukuna fucks you like he's actually gonna get you knocked up — like your birth control ain't gonna work for shit against his thick, gooey cumload that comes pouring out his cock five minutes later.

Mister "Unbeatable Stamina" who rivalled Gojo Satoru, your favorite co-star before today, cums so quickly as you leg-lock him for a babymaking creampie, 'till he he shoots blanks and groans, draining his heavy balls deep inside you.

"Fuck, look at how clingy you are..." he chuckles, "Leg-locking me like I'm your lover... are we making porn or a French movie?" he murmurs now coming down to kiss all over your shoulders and neck, hungry for your skin against his lips. His cock's stilled as deep inside you as possible, and you're reactively grabbing at his tattooed muscles and whimpering.

"Nng, oh my god... I'm so full..." you mewl, clawing at him, "Ahhfuck, fuck me again, 'Kuna! Let me have it!"

"Ya sure about that...?"

"Mhm!!" you nod, eyes full of lust.

"Insatiable lil' slut..." he mutters under his breath, drawing his cock back out until it's just the tip keeping all his warm cum plugged up inside you.

You start babbling like crazy, begging him to fuck you again, and he's reading your body's cues to make sure your poor pussy could handle your lustful request — Gojo told him that you kinda liked to bite off more than you could chew. Seeing your lust and raw passion, Sukuna starts pounding into you again, hitting your gummy sweet spot 'till you see stars and babble out obscenities and a million yesses.

He's fucking you through your (third? fourth?) orgasm while grunting and looking down at the sight of your gushing hole, feeling it milk him for all he's worth. You're so beautiful right then, he wonders if a sleazy guy like him could get a woman like you.

Something unprofessionally romantic sparkles in Sukuna's eyes as he watches you cum again, legs held back and eyes rolling hard. He hides it quickly, but not quickly enough — the two of you've already made that burning eye contact.

"... one more!" you request breathlessly, shaking from the aftershock of your orgasm. "I can go one more round!"

He rings out with this laughter that makes your tummy tighten 'n your pussy clamp down on his way too thick cock, squeezing some of his leftover cum out.

"Shit, you're crazy. Might needa take ya out after this."

Humping you like an animal, getting balls deep at last (gold star for you, honestly. What an achievement), you can't even reply to his oddly cute offer for a date; he's got you moaning out like a bitch in heat, taking all of his pierced cock, arching your back just like he's been dying to see ever since he saw your first video — oh god let's not mention how jealous he was of Gojo Satoru.

His jealousy is the whole reason he's here right now.

Sukuna's flown out to fuck you better than anybody you've had previously on set — and he wasn't even late to the shoot, which he's been notorious for. No, he was on-time. Got there, saw you in the make-up room, gave you a greeting hug, you looked up at him with heart eyes and asked him flirtatiously how he slept and he eyed your tits which sloppily spilled out your dressing gown, and — well, had you on his cock within minutes of meeting you.

Sloppy, open-mouthed kissing — literally engulfing your lips with his, Sukuna ruined your hair and makeup within a few minutes of meeting you. Hardly had time for small talk. It had you giggling. The camera crew had to snap-to, because Sukuna had you bent into lewd positions and poised on his tattooed cock before they even started rolling.

"... look at that lil' beauty, huh? You gonna be my little goddess today? Good." he growled into your mouth — 'n that was really the first thing you remember him saying to you before sliding past your soft folds and making you moan out at his size.

That was all when you two were only fifteen minutes in. One hour into it, you now have started begging for his babies as the camera crew circles around the two of you.

You're looking down at the small bump that his cock makes each time he thrusts in 'n feeling your lower tummy shudder. His creampies are leaking out, smeared all over your pussy as he keeps up his relentless thrusts into that pussy he's now totally addicted to. All the cream getting whipped up makes his head spin and for a long few minutes, and now Sukuna's hardly fucking you like a pornstar anymore; nah, he's going at it like he's your man.

"Oh my god... oh my god! Ahhh!! Yes!! Yesyesyes, f-fuck me just like thaaaaat!!" you smile in total bliss, and damn he just can't believe that you still look just like the same goddess he met an hour ago, even in your exhausted state with ruined hair and makeup.

"Fuck, you're gonna make me cum inside you again..."

"Yeahhh, do it!"

"... uhh, guys, we have to wrap up the shoot in like ten minutes..."

Oh, you were on set? Oops. Sukuna grunts at the camera crew that they're just gonna have to work overtime today and deal with it.

But eventually, the scene ends, and everyone's muttering thank god's and finally's under their breath, readying to go. Sukuna saunters on over to you, dressed in his silk robe, face still sweaty and tired, and he pays you this devilish smirk.

" 'gimmie your babiess' huh? Don't think I ever heard that one before... at least not in a professional setting." he teases you.

You bite your lip back to him, "I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me."

He chuckles, "Don't be sorry, y' made me cum harder than I have in a while. It was a great scene."

He winks, grabbing a handful of your ass as you come to meet him for a sloppy goodbye kiss, "Thanks for making me feel good." you whisper on his lips.

"Uh-huh..." he hums, making a show of prying your arms off his neck despite loving how mad you are for him. "Okay okay... don't get too clingy... anyways, about that date..."

[lustlovehart]

You Gotta Kiss The One

A/n: This isn’t my usually writing, so this is more short scenario rather than actual story, so sorry if it isn’t my best. Anyways, I was in need of some fluff for the twst men so here we are. (This came out a bit cheesy honestly) Also, unfortunately no Jamil because i went through 7 drafts for his part and hated absolutely all of them.

Pairing: Riddle, Leona, Azul, Vil, Idia, Malleus, Rollo x Reader

Summary: [Fluff] In a turn of events, it seems you’ve lost your voice, and it’s up to the one you love to give out the cure, a kiss from their lips to yours.

Warnings: Cheesy Fluff, Reader wasn’t meant to be Yuu but they’re friends with Grim so, 50% Yuu.

Unfortunately, making potions with Grim never goes right. One moment, you’re carefully adding in the newt that assists in projecting a beautiful singing voice to its recipient, and in the next your head gets shoved in the concoction. When you finally emerge, your throat attempts to sound out your criticisms of Grim's recklessness. But, your lips are the only thing that moves in motion, your voice not even croaking out a word.

���Why ain’t yah talkin'?” Your hands quickly grab onto the recipe book pointing at the bold disclaimer at the bottom of the page.

If the potion is consumed before the newt is added, it will have the opposite effects.

Before you can read the rest of the text, your companion snatches the book from your hands, reading the rest of it on his own. When Grim reads out the instructions, your eyes narrow when you hear a slight chuckle escape from him when he tells you your only solutions. It’s either never talk again or...

Of course, never talking again has its pros, but, if you don’t have your voice, however will you tell… Him, about your feelings…? Of course, you could just write your confession, but that doesn’t have quite the kick words spoken from your chest do—

"Uhh... seems you gotta kiss your little crush [Name]!"

…

"What."

Before you're allowed to interject, Grim is already reaching his paw up and taking you by the hand, not even allowing you to tell Crewel about your situation. You’re quite sure if you had just told him you could’ve avoided the whole dilemma. Alas, Grim’s very eager in bathing in your embarrassment.

—————

Riddle is fuming at Grim's carelessness, it’s already bad enough that you have no magic in this faraway land, but to be subjected to a potion that doesn’t have a real cure? That’s even worse. He most definitely beheads the feline after he hears about the situation, immediately sending him onto a time-off corner, prattling on about how he should’ve been listening to the rules and acting accordingly in class.

His lecture is cut short at the sound of scribbling, his head turning to look at you furiously writing down on a piece of paper. Your lips are straight-lined as you lift the words to his face.

“Grim said the cure is a kiss.”

Oh… his mouth opens to question you more about this so-called cure, though the heart shape you form with your hands, however, is all the information he needs. It’s unfortunate that it only works if you kiss whoever it is you “love”, he could’ve gotten away with kissing you under the guise of helping if it was just anyone who could kiss you—

Who’s he kidding his face is close to turning red at such a thought. Of course the cure is something so basic, true love. Ah, no not true love, just simply a crush. Yes, a crush.

A crush that can’t be him.

He stays composed externally but internally he can’t deny he’s a little disappointed, it doesn’t matter however, he’ll help you get this kiss from your mystery student, even if it hurts a little to watch. The sound of flipping paper attracts his attention once again.

“So kiss me. Please.”

… What…? What…?! What?!

His eyes widen at the words, his mouth agape at the statement, his skin quickly flushing at the thought. You. Him. You and him. Him and you.

He’s essentially frozen in place. But, the extremely quiet sound of a broken up “okay” signals to you his permission. The feeling of soft lips being placed on his own snapped him out of his trance. He blinks a few times at your face, a smile invading your mouth.

“Thanks Riddle.”

—————

Your hands are furiously shaking Leona's shoulders, despite your relentless attempts at awakening him from his slumber, he doesn't even tell you to stop.

He didn’t even show any signal of stirring when Grim practically shouts to you about getting that kiss from him to “fix yah up”. Didn’t show any sign when you threw one of his shoes at the cat either.

He might be dead, he’s pretty still, like a corpse… Nah, he’s just being a douche.

Carefully, you drop down to his level, your face smooshed into his mattress as you look at his sleeping face. He looks a lot more peaceful in his sleep, his face is less serious and a bit more softer. He does look like a prince from a fairytale when he’s asleep, actually, maybe more of a princess with how pretty he is.

If you had your voice, you’re sure there would be hushed chuckles leaving your throat as you take out your phone. Your fingers are quick to swipe open your camera, lifting the device to Leona's face. Your joy doesn’t last long though, as when you’re just about to take a picture, the sight of Leona stares back at you on your screen, the subdued expression he previously held replaced with his usual face.

“What do you think you’re doin?”

…He’s awake! You’re quick to open the notes app, ready to explain the whole thing to him, along with indirectly confessing your feelings, unfortunately. But, he seems to think differently, as your phone is swiftly snatched from your palms and placed on his nightstand. When you reach over to grab it, his arm pulls you back down, your head buried into his chest, essentially being used as a secondary pillow for him.

“That typing’s loud, i’m tryna sleep.” … and I’m trying to get my voice back.

No matter how much you struggle, he doesn’t let you go. After a few minutes of trying to get your phone back, you give up, becoming his human-sized plushie in your defeat. Maybe he’ll be in the mood when he’s awake. So, your eyes gradually shut themself, sleep taking you over as you wrap your arms around the lion next to you.

…

“Hey, quit talking in your sleep.”

“Hmm…? Oh sorry— Wait what…?!” His palm flies of your mouth as words get muffled in his skin.

Appears you missed the Leona Kingscholar, kissing you. That’s unfortunate.

—————

“Hmm…? You need my help yes? Well then just sign here and I’ll get you that kiss you need!” Azul slips the golden contract across the table, the con man smiling as you read through the fine print.

In the corner, you notice the extremely tiny text saying how you’ll be obligated to stand by his side for the next month and do whatever tasks he needed to be done from you.

You swiftly slide the paper back to him as your head vigorously shakes a firm “No”.

“Oh? Do my terms not satisfy you? Your situation sounds very similar to our princess from the Coral Sea, having to kiss her prince for her voice back. I wonder how you’ll get that princely kiss…” he shrugs his shoulders before sighing, grabbing a stack of papers along with a pen, waving you off before looking at the sales revenue from this week. “No matter, if you don’t need my help please exit, I am a busy man—“

Your hand slams on the surface of his desk, his pupils widening at the sudden outburst. He stays silent for a moment, the glimmer of his glasses covering your view of his eyes. If you had, you would’ve seen the slightest hint of longing in him.

“A very determined soul you are… I'll change your conditions if you want your voice back so bad.” His fingers snap, the old contract disintegrating as a new one forms in his hands. “No fine print, I’ll help you get your kiss, and you work for the Monstro lounge for 2 weeks. Just 2 weeks. Is that a deal?” You squint, looking to make sure there really is no fine print. When you’re assured there really is none, you take a pen from his gloved palm, writing your signature on the line.

“It’s a deal it seems, now, tell me who it is you have affections for, and I’ll make sure you get that kiss—-“The sudden pull of his collar stops him mid-sentence, your lips connecting to his own before pulling away.

He’s extremely flustered, his cheeks blushed, his hat lopsided, eyes the widest you've ever seen them. He did agree to get you that kiss, but… he truly wasn’t expecting you to kiss him…! Of all possible candidates at the school…

“Wha… I’m… Huh…!?”

You straighten your posture before rolling your sleeves up, “So when do I start Azul?”

—————

Your eyes watch Vil meticulously crush, stir, and drop different ingredients into the cauldron, each one changing the color of the liquid inside. To be honest, you’re a little disappointed he knows a cure, you’ll have to wait another time before really confessing to him. His well manicured fingers take the ladle into his hand, carefully pouring the bright drink into a bowl, handing it to you as his eyes await for you to drink it up.

When you do, you set the bowl down, ready to speak, but no sound comes out. Your eyes stare into his, confusion set in your irises.

“I thought you had a dry throat?” Oh, you shake your head, your index finger pointing toward the cauldron and signaling poorly acted-out explosions and screams. “So it was a failed potion?” You pause for a moment before remembering what unit you were on in class. “It was that singing potion wasn’t it?” He contemplates for a moment before grabbing a small vile on the shelf, a potion the was already premade.

He pops it open, ready to pour it down your throat, but before he does, he pulls it back, quickly replacing the concoction with his extremely soft lips the taste of something good invading your taste buds, you assume it to be his chapstick. He stills for a moment, letting your lips lock and exchange touches. When he releases, he doesn’t give you the chance to interject, making you chug the drink down your throat, some of it escaping the corner of your lips, his gloved thumb wiping it off your chin.

“Vi… Vil…? Why’d you do that…?”

“How did Grim tell you to lift it?” He backs away from you, putting the empty glass in the sink.

“He said I… Had to kiss someone I liked. Why?”

“That’s what he said? Huh, I see.” He takes out his own brand of chapstick, reapplying it to his lips. You stay leant on the shelf of the rooms, watching as Vil’s silhouette moves towards the door. “No reason. Now, I have to get back to filming. Take better care of your lips, [Name].” He’s already out the door by the time you work up the courage to say anything else.

As he walks in the hallway, the leather of his gloves clench. It seems Grim did correctly tell you the cure. It doesn’t matter though, whether it was his kiss or that potion that worked, all he cared about was getting you fixed. He’s an actor, he’s keen to notice the presentations of people around him. He was sure you liked him, and even Rook fed into such a delusion. But, there was always a gnawing feeling of not being fair enough to you. So just in case, if you never really did like him, he won’t know.

He’s a good actor, but even actors can’t lie to themself. He really hopes it was his lips that cured you and not that potion.

…

The next day, when Vil finishes applying his makeup, the door to his room is knocked on, albeit very quickly. By the time he finally opens it, nobody is found, only a gift basket filled with fruits and low-grade beauty care, well low grade to him. If his suspicions about who this came from are correct, he can’t blame them for not having enough money to afford proper skin care.

When he looks in, all he sees is a card with a small smiley face and a heart. But he already knows who his secret sender truly is.

—————

Your knocking on Idias door gets harder and harder with every strike. You know he’s in there, but chances are he’s too absorbed in a game to notice your frantic hits. You’re about to hit the wood one more time before the door swings open and your fist is only an inch away from his nose.

“I… I only heard you just now…”

You’ve been out there for 10 minutes.

“You didn’t text me beforehand like usual… Is… Is there something you need…?” He steps to the side allowing you in his room, immediately having you sit on his bed before shutting the entrance. You look around a moment before handing him the note you had pre-written on your phone.

“No voice. Cure is a kiss from person I like. I like you, Idia. Please kiss me.”

It isn’t exactly the confession you wished to give him, but by the time you were typing it, you had deleted so much of the text you originally had from embarrassment, and by the time you looked up, you were already at his door… and Ortho was beaming in excitement behind you, you couldn’t possibly disappoint him by just walking away again.

He essentially shortcircuits the moment he reads the words off the screen.

He doesn’t speak, not even a panicked screech. The only sign of embarrassment he shows you is the sight of his hair turning pink.

“Wha… Wha… What…?”

You expected that, so you lifted your finger, signaling him to scroll down.

“You don’t need to like me back, just kiss me and i’ll leave.”

“No no, If we were in like… like a game… that type of game… you would have… ughhh…. You would have my… affection bar… filled— not filled maybe like 110%… up…” he struggled to get the words out he didn’t even make eye contact with you once in his speech. But, you understand what he’s trying to say to you. “Nevermind, forget it…! Just find someone… someone else… you deserve like a prince of something…”

His posture is hunched over, and he’s quick to turn away from you. You’re sure if he was closer to the wall he would curl into the corner and attempt to hide from you.

You’re pretty sure he’s about to do just that, he’s already slowly making his way to the corner. He’s only narrowly stopped when he feels you tug on his sleeve, pulling his face into your own.

His mouth was slightly open from shock, so his razor sharp teeth poked you, but even then it was still a nice feeling. When you part, he stares at you for an entire minute. His hair was already pink, but somehow it must’ve gotten even pinker.

“You… You won the game…”

“Did I…? What does that mean…?”

“Forget I said that. I’m gonna die now”

—————

It’s been at least half an hour since you’ve met up with Malleus, and he seems to not have noticed you don’t have a voice to reply. But at the same time, it’s nice listening to him ramble on and on about his Gargoyle studies—

“You have not spoken.” Your head is quick to turn, your body slightly jolting at the sight of Malleus’s face mere inches away from your own. Sometimes, you forget he doesn’t have any sense of space. This point is further proven when he moves his face away but your shoulders are still in contact. “Why is that?”

Your hand reaches down to your side attempting to take out your phone, but, it only grasps air. You look back down into your pocket, not noticing any holes for it to fall out of.

What? Did… Did I loose it or something?!

“This thing…” your head flips back to the man in front of you, his gloved fingers turning the phone with narrowed eyes. “I don’t understand, why not just talk to me? Would you rather use this phone than converse with me…?” You can spot early signs of Malleus’s emotional turmoils. It doesn’t take long for you to see the hint of disappointment in his eyes at the mere notion of you not even wanting to talk to him.

Along with that, clouds are beggining to form in the sky

You immediately shake your head at him, your fingers pointing to your throat while forming an x. Though your movements are so quick from the sheer panic of lightning striking, he doesn’t understand what you’re doing until you slow down.

“Ah, you did talk about that potion unit didn’t you.” You nod your head, ready to perform a collection of poorly acted-out charades to showcase your cure. You only got as far as the heart in your hands before he interrupts. “If I remember correctly, the fix to that is a kiss from the one who holds your affections… is it not?” The boom of thunder increases at an incredible rate, and even the pout Malleus holds on his face gets more obvious. “Have you come here to ask for my aide?” You can tell, it’s very obvious he’s trying to hide his dispiritedness beside a veneer of support. “Then… I will help a dear… friend.”

At his words, you shake your head the hardest you’ve probably ever shaken it to disagree with someone. You’re sure you must’ve swayed your brain too hard, by the time you stop you honestly feel a little dizzy.

“Ah, do you not want my help?” The lightning in the air starts fading, but in exchange, it’s like the clouds have gotten darker. “Am I, not allowed the see the object of your desire?” You wish you just had your phone out from the beginning, it would’ve made things so much easier. You bring your arm up, pointing at him.

Malleus is smart, he needs it if he will be Briar Valley’s ruler. Yet, he’s a bit dense in terms of human emotions and relationships.

“I thought you didn’t want my help…?” You’re sure if you could make any sound, pure screams of frustration would’ve left you. “I’m left in confusion as to how it is I can help you. I want to assist you Child of man but, I don’t wish to see you kiss anyone else—“Your hands immediately take him by the tie, dragging him into you as your lips practically smash together. If anyone saw you, such a scene would be quite the scandal for the heir. Minutes go by when you finally release him, and when you look up, the sky is the clearest it's been for the past month. “So it was me.” The look in his eyes is fond, it’s a warm sight.

“Yeah, I can’t believe you didn’t notice sooner, I didn’t hide it…”

“You didn’t?”

“I confessed to you twice before this Malleus…”

—————

(This is self indulgent cuz i’m unfortunately a Rollo fan…)

Considering how far away Noble Bell is from Night Raven, you have no doubt you’d be stuck voiceless for quite awhile before you get to see Rollo again. Grim is just left to watch you sulk as your head falls in disappointment. You honestly don’t know how to tell Rollo about your situation either, you could always text him, but how do you even tell him you need to kiss him as your cure? Along with that… over text? That’s just pathetic. He’d probably shame you for being so ungraceful with your feeling towards him.

“Quit moppin’ and tell him already! I’m gettin' depressed just watchin’ ya…” with your head buried into your arms you can feel Grim practically shaking you out of your ball of shame with his tiny paws. “Come… on…! You’re not gonna get your voice back doin' nothin’!” He’s… unfortunately, completely correct.

With a soundless groan, you reach for your phone and open your contacts, drafting the text you’ll send to Rollo.

Rollo, I need to tell you something… your fingers continuing to vigorously type your paragraph.

Three knocks disperse your attention.

“[Name] are you there?” The familiar voice immediately strikes panic in your body as you accidentally throw your phone into the air, pathetically catching it as you stumble towards the door with a loud thud. On the other side, the door can be seen harshly shaking at an impact from within the room, Rollo glancing to each side of him in confusion. “Are you okay?” The lack of a reply makes worry bubble inside of him.

Before he’s given the chance to open the entrance himself, the door swings inward, allowing him to peak in through the crevice. He looks inside with initial confusion before hurriedly shuffling towards the room, the sight of your body on the floor making him even more puzzled with every passing second.

He lifts your upper body, having you sit face to face with him in such close proximity. Your eyes are dazed, looking directly into his eyes before looking around as if you didn’t even notice this was the genuine Rollo Flamme and not just a product of your imagination.

Damn you Grim… Leaving me as soon as you opened the door…

“Your room… is very disorderly [Name].” I was on the floor and you’re focused on how messy my room is? “I did tell you about how messy it was last time I was here too didn’t I?” I get it, I’m messy, so stop rubbing it in… A moment of silence passes before he quirks up an eyebrow, suspicions of his growing by the minute. “No witty comeback this time? Have you finally decided to start listening to me?” Your lack of reply Honestly worries him. Your eyes take a glance at your phone, making his tired face look over as well.

When he moves to grab it, he pauses his hand frozen in place. Your text is still displayed on your screen, as well as the current predicament you find yourself in. Realization hits you in waves as you quickly crawl over to snatch your phone from his palm. When you tried, his hand moves away in time to avoid your reach.

“It’s quite distasteful to admit such a thing through text.” I knew it… your head leans down, once more, in defeat. But, that's quickly changed when his nimble fingers take your face and lead them to his own. Honestly, it felt as if it lasted for eternity when in reality, the exchange only lasted for a couple of seconds. It was as if, Rollo finally felt the need to indulge himself in a little sin, only a little. When you finally separate, you're both left on the floor of your room, awkwardly glancing at the material.

“So… why’d you come here, Rollo? I thought after everything that happened at Fleur City you wouldn’t wanna come here again…”

“I do. I still don’t wanna be here.”

“Then why are you—“

“There’s a holiday at Noble Bell, we have a day off. I came to spend it with you.”

A/n: If anyone has like, any thoughts for the twst characters pls share them!! I may not be doing requests right now but I might write something short of you send in an ask!! Honestly, I just really enjoy when people ramble in my inbox. Also, I’m not too familar with writing Idia and Leona so i’m sorry if they weren’t written good!

[slashmagpie]

Break Like an Artist

My fic for @hermitadaymay's Solstice Social Collaborative Fanwork Event! I was paired up with the wonderful @eydilily to create something spooky, dramatic and contemplative featuring Gem and Pearl, and it's been an absolute blast putting this together. Please go check out Eydi's art for this AU, it's absolutely gorgeous. CWs: description of a corpse, dismemberment, loss of awareness, fire/flooding/destruction, and depiction of a panic attack. Wordcount: 5.8k

There is a plague sweeping Pearl's hometown.

One by one, she watches as her friends fall to the infection, the colour and life drained out of them and leaving hollow, apathetic husks behind. Even with the devastating loss of her friends, her village, and her regular life, the worst part of this situation is not the infection.

It's that Pearl knows that Gem is the one spreading it.

[Read on AO3]

It’s a grey day in the fishing village that Pearl calls her home. Not that it’s ever not a grey day, at least not anymore. She stares out of her window at the thick encompassing fog that’s claimed the bay, at the desaturated buildings that dot the shore, and she twirls her paintbrush in her fingers. 

The canvas is blank, of course. She doesn’t remember the last time she sat down to paint and didn’t end up with a blank canvas. It must have been—months ago, at least. Back when the last monster from the depths had attacked, and not a single person had had the heart to fight back. When Tango’s house had been shattered in two, and Tango with it.

(He seems to be dealing well with the loss of his arm, at least. Or, as well as you can deal with anything, when the only things inside of you are all-consuming numbness and apathy. Pearl feels it in her chest, the yawning emptiness, and thinks that if she were to lose her arm right here and now, she also wouldn’t be able to summon the energy to care.)

She’d painted after that, though. She remembers it vividly, waking from a nightmare and running to her studio to capture lashing tentacles and inky waters and splatters of crimson blood. It’s a frenzied piece, a disturbing piece, and the moment she’d finished it she’d been filled with so much dread that she’d turned it around to face the wall and refused to look at it since.

The dread’s gone now. Along with the anxiety, and the uncertainty, and the fear. It’s all gone, and Pearl’s left sitting here, paints drying on the palette as she stares at an empty canvas.

Across the house, she hears her front door swing open and closed. A familiar voice shouts, “Pearl? Pearl, where are you?”

“Studio,” Pearl calls back, her voice flat. She continues to twirl the paintbrush as she waits for Gem to trek her way across the house to find her.

“Studio,” Gem echoes as she pushes open the door. “Oh, Pearl, are you painting again? Oh, I’m so happy for—oh.” The joy in her voice vanishes as she takes in Pearl, sitting on her stool, paintbrush raised and canvas empty. “Oh, Pearl…” 

Sympathy. Pity. Concern. Pearl can pick apart the emotions in Gem’s voice, even if she can’t feel them herself. She stares back blankly, because she can’t find it in herself to care about either aspect of the situation, whether it be her own inability to paint or the way that Gem’s looking at her like she’s a wounded animal.

“Come on,” Gem says softly, crossing the room and gently prying the brush from Pearl’s fingers. Pearl lets her. She’s not really painting, anyway. “Let’s get you to bed, shall we? A nap will do you some good.”

Pearl lets Gem help her up, lets Gem allow Pearl to lean on her for support as they make their way back to Pearl’s bedroom. It’s not like Pearl has any difficulty walking. She’s not sick, she’s not injured, she’s just…

Cold. Empty. Not quite lifeless, not in the way Mumbo had been when she’d last seen him, skin and eyes and hair all the same shade of grey-white-nothingness as he’d stared into the distance, completely unresponsive. Listless, maybe, is the better word. She’s halfway to a fate worse than death and she cannot find it in her to care at all.

She feels colder where Gem touches her. She looks down, and she’s not sure if it’s her eyes playing tricks on her, or if her skin is more desaturated where it brushes against Gem’s. She lets Gem help her into bed, lets Gem fluff the pillows and fuss around her, lets Gem sit next to her as she hands Pearl a bowl of soup (“Your favourite!”) and watches her to make sure she eats.

If Pearl were more herself, she would care about what Gem’s doing to her. Care enough to stop it, maybe. Care enough to—no, not to confront her. Every time she’d tried, the words had gotten stuck in her throat. Because she’s known for a long time who’s been behind all of this, behind the corruption leeching all colour from their village, their home, their friends—

And she’d never said anything. Too worried about Gem’s feelings. Too worried about their friendship.

…Pearl realises, as Gem goes to take the empty bowl and brushes her hands against Pearl’s, that she’s not worried anymore.

She waits quietly as Gem washes the bowl in her kitchen, chattering to fill the silence as she does, updating Pearl on their friends’ conditions. Her tone is bright and optimistic, even as her words are dour. Scar seems to be doing the same. Grian’s getting worse. Joel’s down to communicating only in broken phrases—but he should be fine. It definitely won’t be like Mumbo, or Cub, or…

Gem returns to Pearl’s room, regarding her for a long moment before bending down to give her a hug. “Get better soon, okay?” she says into Pearl’s ear. “It’s not the same doing my rounds without you.”

Pearl knows that she’s not getting better. So does Gem, so Pearl doesn’t bother pointing it out. She just nods, lets Gem withdraw, lets Gem run one last hand through her hair.

“You should rest, Pearl,” Gem says, stepping away from Pearl’s bedside. “I’m going to go check on Impy now—”

Pearl’s moving before she’s even properly registered it, grabbing onto Gem’s wrist with force, holding her in place. Gem freezes. Pearl looks up at her through strands of greasy, greying hair.

“Gem,” she says, and it’s the first thing she’s said in days, and her voice is hoarse and her throat sore from the strain.

“...Pearl?” Gem replies, and she sounds almost scared.

“Gem,” Pearl repeats, getting used to the sound of her own voice in her mouth again. “I know.”

Gem laughs. It’s a nervous, tittering sound, the laugh Pearl remembers from when they’d gotten into trouble together as kids. “Know what?” she asks, voice strained. 

“That it’s you,” Pearl says flatly. 

Gem stares at her.

Pearl stares back.

Gem swallows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “Pearl—”

“I know you’re the one doing this to us,” Pearl says, more specific this time, choosing her words carefully, and Gem—

Gem tries to pull away.

Pearl tightens her grip. 

“Pearl,” Gem whines, eyes wide, tugging. “Let me go—”

“Why?” Pearl croaks, and Gem snaps her mouth shut.

---

Pearl’s in the midst of mixing a particularly tricky shade of green when there’s a loud, frantic knock on her front door. She sighs, setting down her brush to rest, and gets to her feet. “I’m coming, I’m coming, hold on!” she calls as the knocks continue, echoing through the house.

She pulls the door open and Tango’s there, a nervous ball of energy, just about ready to bolt. “Pearl!” he calls. “Pearl, come on, we gotta go—” 

He grabs her by the arm and drags her off. Pearl just barely manages to close her front door behind her.

“Wha—? Where are we going? What’s going on?”

“Something washed up on shore,” Tango explains. “The whole town’s there, c’mon.”

Accepting that she’s not going to get an explanation out of him, and now deeply curious about this something, she lets Tango lead her down to the shore by the lighthouse. Sure enough, the whole town is there, a chattering crowd gathered around a spot on the shore that Pearl can’t quite see. Impulse is standing on the edge of the crowd and catches sight of them, raising his arm in a wave. Tango makes a beeline towards him, ducking under the crowd, and Pearl follows behind, apologising to False and Keralis as she bumps into them.

“Did you decide what to do with it yet?” Tango asks as he comes to a halt and finally lets Pearl go.

Impulse shakes his head. “We’ve decided it’s Gem’s call,” he says. “After all, she’s the—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence as the crowd suddenly goes silent and parts for Gem, her hair wild and eyes wide behind her thick-rimmed glasses. She’s got her lab coat pulled on over her day clothes, clearly not prepared for this in the slightest. She reaches the front of the crowd and stops dead still, staring at the thing that has washed up on the shore.

Pearl follows her friend’s gaze, and sees it for the first time.

It’s a body. Of course it is. A corpse, taken by the sea and ravaged by the waves and washed ashore by the brutal bay currents. The body’s clothes are torn and sodden, the skin beneath so pale that it could practically be paper. Pearl is stricken, for a moment, with the mental image of her taking a brush to this canvas, filling it back in with colour, painting contours back into its skin, breathing life back into the body.

She shakes her head violently, banishing the thought. Where did that come from? This isn’t a canvas, it’s—

It’s a person. A person who was alive, and is now dead, washed up on the beach like a dead whale and just as much of a spectacle. His eyes are open but rolled back, only the whites showing, and his hair is white too, just as pale as his skin. It stands as sharp contrast against the dark fabric of his torn clothes, a mask wrapped around the bottom half of his face.

Pearl swallows hard and averts her gaze back to Gem, who looks just as disturbed by the body as Pearl feels. It takes Gem longer to pull her eyes away, to glance around the crowd. “I’ll—I’ll take it back to my lab,” she says. “Investigate, and—and give him a proper burial.”

The words reassure the crowd, a low chatter beginning up again. 

“Skizz, will you help me carry him?” Gem calls.

Skizz does, stepping forward from the crowd and helping Gem maneuver the bloated corpse. Pearl finds herself looking at it again, noticing dark striations in the skin, caught in glimpses between the tears in the clothing as it’s moved. 

She shakes her head again, forces herself to look away as the body is carried out and the crowd disperses. The image of the body lingers in her mind. Something settles uncomfortably in her stomach, and she wishes that she’d never opened the door.

---

Things go back to normal after that. Or, well, as normal as they get in the village, at least. False monitors the currents and warns of any incoming floods or monster attacks. Impulse and Tango work maintenance on the fishing boats that Grian and Skizz and Keralis take out into the bay. Mumbo runs the fish market. Cub and Scar come and go along the trading routes. Joel maintains security, or at least the illusion of it.

Gem hides away in her lab running experiments she never explains, and Pearl paints.

She tries to return to her usual fare, brightly-coloured landscapes with fantastical features, but something about her paintings rings hollow when she looks at them. She decides she needs a change, to switch things up and just relax, so she pulls out her paints and a blank canvas and begins with no intentions. Her movements are fluid and free and thoughtless and she falls into a flow state that lasts hours, until she blinks her eyes and awakes to find a portrait before her, a colourless face in full saturation.

The corpse’s visage, so alive she can’t believe it’s not breathing, stares back at her from her easel, and Pearl flinches like she’s been burned.

She hides that painting away, face turned towards the wall, and returns to painting landscapes. They come easier now, and for a time Pearl feels normal, as long as she ignores the canvas in the corner.

It’s Impulse who notices that there’s something wrong first. It’s not surprising that he’d be the first to pick up on it, really. Skizz is his best friend, after all. Of course he’d notice when Skizz stopped laughing, stopped joking, stopped drumming out tunes with his fingers on the side of his boat. And when Pearl sees him, she notices changes too—his skin paler, like he’s spent several weeks locked inside a basement instead of out in the summer sun, his eyes no longer their regular bright blue.

“Hey, Skizzly,” she greets brightly, trying to play at normal, throwing him a bone to grab onto.

Skizz just glances at her before responding with a flat, “Oh, hey Pearl.”

Pearl’s smile falters. “How are you feeling? Impulse told me you’re a little under the weather.”

Skizz shrugs. “Fine, I guess. Did you need something?”

Pearl swallows, something cold sinking in her guts. “No, no, just checking in on you.”

“Gem already checked on me,” Skizz says. “She said I’m not sick.”

“Gem’s not that type of doctor,” Pearl reminds him with a weak smile.

Skizz shrugs again. “She’s the only doctor we’ve got.”

Pearl tries her best not to let that unsettle her.

---

It’s not just Skizz.

It starts with him, but it doesn’t end there. Keralis is next, and then Grian. Mumbo gets sickest the quickest, going from his anxious, affable self to a nearly-unresponsive husk within a week. That scares them all, because even Skizz is still responding when spoken to, still moving when instructed to, even after nearly a month of being infected with… whatever it is that’s going around.

False gets sick without anyone noticing, sequestered away in her lighthouse until she comes into town for groceries looking like a photograph that’s been left in the sun for too long, and that’s when people really start to panic.

And that’s when Gem declares, with all the authority that being a doctor of anthropology afforded her in a tiny town with no real doctor, that she’s putting everyone into quarantine until they can determine the source of the illness. 

“I’m not sick,” Pearl tells Gem when her friend knocks on her door, dressed in full lab gear, her hair out of its usual ponytail and falling forward around her face. She’s pretty sure she isn’t, at least, having hyper-analysed the shade of blue in her eyes in the mirror every morning for the past month. 

“I know,” Gem says. “I want to—I need to—can I come in?”

“Yeah,” Pearl says, stepping aside. “Of course.”

Gem enters, heading down the stairs into Pearl’s living space and staring at the paintings on the wall. Pearl watches her for a moment before stepping closer, resting a reassuring hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“What’s eating you?” she asks.

Gem snorts out a laugh at that. “I’m not a real doctor, Pearl,” she says.

“I know that.”

“They all need me to be a real doctor for them. I—” She breaks off, runs an anxious hand through her hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I need help.”

Pearl raises her eyebrows. “I don’t know how I can help,” she says. “I’m even less of a doctor than you are.”

“I know,” Gem says. “But you’re my friend, and I trust you, and I need—please?”

She stares at Pearl, bright green eyes magnified through thick glasses lenses. Pearl has never been able to say no to those eyes.

“Okay,” she agrees, letting out an uncertain breath. “Okay. What do you need me to do, Dr. Tay?”

Gem laughs again, high-pitched and anxious, and Pearl feels hot and cold all at once.

---

They do house calls. Once a day, Gem and Pearl, and sometimes Impulse, will make a round of the village, checking in on everyone. Gem brings some of her lab equipment and a notebook, where she scribbles down all the readings she takes from her instruments and any observations she makes. After the first week or so, Pearl also takes to bringing a sketchbook and a small travel painting kit, attempting to record the desaturation rate in her friends’ colours. 

It doesn’t matter which way they look at it—the situation is bad, and rapidly getting worse. Most of the town is infected now, and Skizz is approaching Mumbo’s level of deterioration. Cub fell ill two weeks ago, and Tango—

Well, he’s not quite grey yet, but he looks washed out where he sits at his table, especially next to Gem, all bright copper and ocean blue and forest green. His voice is flat, all of the emotion in it gone, and while he responds in full sentences to Gem’s questions as Pearl attempts to capture the moulded-straw colour of his hair, none of his words sound like him. 

Gem wraps up her check-in, and Pearl follows her out, paints packed away in her bag and sketchbook held carefully so as not to smudge the paint. Impulse is waiting for them outside, staring out into the bay, where a low-lying fog has been hanging for days. 

He glances over at them, voice shaking as he asks, “How is he?”

Gem hesitates. “About the same?” she offers. 

Pearl shakes her head. “Worse,” she says, offering her sketchbook to Impulse, pointing out the differences in values between the colours she’d sampled from Tango two days ago to the ones she’d taken today. 

Impulse’s hands are trembling as he hands the sketchbook back to her. “What do we do?” he asks. “They just keep getting worse—Gem, what do we do?”

Gem’s eyes are fixed somewhere out at sea. Her expression is so scarily blank that Pearl would worry she was infected if not for how bright and vibrant she looks against the backdrop of the village. (Are the houses getting greyer? Surely not—surely it’s just the fog, and the fact that the sky has been overcast for a fortnight now—surely—)

“We look after them best we can,” Gem says. “I’m trying—every night I’m working on a cure.”

“And do you think it’ll work?” Impulse pushes.

“I have to,” Gem replies. “It has to.” 

Pearl swallows, and does not voice what all three of them are thinking: what if it doesn’t?

---

Impulse turns up one morning a shade dimmer than he had been the day before. Pearl notices immediately, her stomach lurching at the sight of him. He offers her a smile that’s smaller than his usual ones, a greeting that’s a little flatter than it would usually be. Pearl’s not sure if Gem even notices.

But Pearl notices, and her eyes sting, and she throws herself at him in a way that catches all three of them off-guard.

“Uh, Pearl?” Impulse says, stiff and uncomfortable beneath her. “You okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Pearl mumbles against his ear.

“Pearl?” There’s a peak of distress in his voice but it’s not enough. Gem hears it, too.

“Oh no,” she breathes.

“Okay, guys, seriously,” Impulse says, pushing Pearl away. “What’s going on?”

They just stare at him.

Realisation dawns across Impulse’s face. “No.” 

“Maybe…” Gem sucks in a breath. She reaches out to take his hand and squeezes it. “Maybe you should go home, Impy. Get some rest.”

“I’m fine,” Impulse protests. “I’m…” His protest crumbles under their gazes. He slumps, and Pearl knows that he would normally never crumble like that. He’d protest and fight back and keep working until he passed out on the docks and had to be carried back to bed.

“C’mon,” she says softly. “I’ll help you home.”

Impulse doesn’t protest that either. He knows, as well as the two of them do, how this ends. He knows that there’s no fighting this.

Pearl, very valiantly, does not cry about it.

---

With everyone except the two of them infected, Pearl manages to convince Gem to split the rounds, with her taking half of the houses, and Gem taking the other half, swapping halves every couple of days. Gem is reluctant, but she has no good argument against Pearl’s that this is more practical, and so she agrees.

And that’s when Pearl notices.

She thinks she’s imagining it at first, but the colour swatches in her sketchbook back up her suspicions, damning evidence she can’t ignore.

When she visits her rounds, she finds that the people she’s visiting appear to have stabilised, at least for a couple days, no greyer today than they were when she saw them the day before. And then she swaps with Gem, and notices that Gem’s half of the rotation are far paler, far less responsive, than they had been the last time Pearl had seen them. They stabilise for a couple days, and then they switch, and Pearl’s original rotation have deteriorated massively in the several days since. 

There’s really only one conclusion she can draw from that, and she doesn’t want to draw it. She doesn’t want to believe that the one responsible for this is—

The fog is a permanent fixture of the village now, blanketing the bay in a thick blanket of quiet. Pearl finds it hard to sleep, even the familiar sound of waves muffled by the mist. Kept awake into the early hours of the morning, she finds herself in the studio, a brush in hand, letting the paint take her where it will.

And where it takes her is familiar: the village, desaturated and coated in fog, dark looming shapes in the mist beyond, rising out of the ocean. And there, in the midst of the painting, a bright spot in all the gloom, is Gem, so vibrant she practically lifts off the page.

Pearl stares at it for a long, long time, and then places it face against the wall and tries her best to forget about it.

---

In all the dread, they’d forgotten something important.

The sea isn’t safe. It never has been. Growing up in the bay you learn how to weather the storms, to predict the tides, to flee from floods. You learn how to build barriers, and you learn how to rebuild once the ocean drags them down. 

Pearl knows that her village can handle the sea: she’s seen them do it time and time again over the years. Together, they move as a well-oiled machine, responding to threats from the depths with weathered ease. That’s why she doesn’t expect it, she thinks. 

There’s never been a monster attack that False didn’t warn them about.

But False isn’t capable of doing much of anything at the moment.

And so when the tentacles rise from the waves, there isn’t a warning.

Just a deafening krk-crash that wakes Pearl from a dead sleep with a bolt of adrenaline that’s nearly nauseating. She scrambles from her blankets, still in her pajamas, and rushes up the stairs to throw on her boots. It’s edging towards winter now, the weather much milder than the summer months, and though it’s not cold by any stretch of the imagination the chill of the air still makes her shiver. She grits her teeth, racing from her front door to the village proper, and there—

There’s a sea monster, dark purple tentacles reaching out to the shore, destroying everything in its wake. The fish market is half gone, and it’s awful, but it’s a relief, in a way, because nobody lives there.

“Gem!” Pearl screams into the night.

“Pearl!” she hears echo back, followed by distant footsteps, growing ever-closer. 

Gem’s face is flushed, her hair wild, her eyes wide. She’s also in her pyjamas, her lab coat that’s been ever-present for months now gone, and Pearl finds her eyes drawn to dark striations in her skin. They look like—

“Pearl,” Gem says again. “We need to get everyone out, away from the shore, up to the research centre—”

Pearl nods. “Got it,” she says. She points towards the docks and says, “I’ll head over there.”

Gem nods. “Be safe,” she says, and then she’s off again, pelting in the direction of the lighthouse.

Pearl doesn’t bother knocking as she throws Impulse’s door open. He’s still lucid enough that he’s been startled awake by the noise, though it hasn’t driven him to do much more than put his shoes on and stare out of the window at the dark shapes rearing up out of the fog.

“Impulse!” Pearl cries.

“Pearl?” Impulse says, glancing at her with dull eyes.

“We need to get people out,” she says.

There’s an extended pause, then, “Okay.”

“Can you get Skizz?” she asks. “Tango, too, maybe? I need to go to the beach, help everyone down there.”

Another extended pause, then a nod. “I can do that,” Impulse says. He moves too slowly, not driven by the same panic flooding Pearl’s veins, but it’s good enough. It has to be. Pearl doesn’t have time to consider the alternative.

She goes racing off for the beach. She throws open Keralis’ door first, relieved that he is, at least, wearing underwear when she drags him from his bed and into the night. She leaves him there while she grabs Grian from his hut, and then takes them both by the wrists, pulling them along behind her while she races for the cliffside.

It feels like hours that she races back and forth, grabbing her friends from their homes and dragging them in various states of comprehension to the safety of the cliff before running back into the danger zone. Grian’s hut is gone, and so is a large portion of the road. The tentacles have taken a chunk out of the farms further up the coast. Gem’s been taking the people she rescues a different route up to the research facility, the path that Pearl’s taking cut off to her by debris.

Once she’s got everyone on her side of town, she collapses panting on the grass, her lungs aching with the strain. There’s a fire somewhere down on the shore, someone’s lantern knocked astray by swinging tentacles. Her eyes burn just from looking at it.

A voice says, “I got him.”

Pearl looks up.

It’s Impulse, manhandling a colourless, greyscale Skizz.

Pearl goes cold.

“Where’s Tango?” she asks.

Impulse blinks. Slowly. Too slowly.

“Oh,” he says. “I’ll go get him.”

Pearl shakes her head, rocketed up to her feet by panic once again. “No, I’ll go,” she gasps. “You stay here.”

And then she’s off running again, beelining for Tango’s house, praying to any higher power that will listen that she’s not too late. Her lungs ache. Her legs burn. She can’t quite catch her breath. She’s shaking.

And then she’s knocking down Tango’s door, grabbing him from his bed against the far wall, dragging him away—

The roof coming down sounds like thunder, like the sky split open and gutted for parts. Pearl goes down hard, stars bursting behind her eyes, her breath coming out empty and then as a whine. She blinks, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark, for her ears to stop ringing, and that’s when she hears it.

It’s—not a scream. More of a whimper, or a wail, stretched out and awful and pained and punctuated by short, desperate gasps. It goes straight to her stomach, straight to making her sick, and she doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to move.

But, god, she has to, doesn’t she?

She wiggles her fingers, her toes, and lets out a deep groan as she pushes herself up onto her hands and knees. The world has narrowed in on itself, the open air of Tango’s house reduced to a crawlspace, and she shuffles down it, rubble and debris tearing her skin open and leaving bloody red marks on desaturated wood. It is a far cry from the blood she finds, practically brown with how much colour has been leeched from it. 

“Oh, my god,” she chokes. “Tango…”

Tango just moans in response. She can’t tell if he’s pale from blood loss or pale from the infection, but either way it has the effect of making him look half dead. He’s half buried beneath the rubble, body jerking with what she can only assume is pain, barely felt beneath the weight of numb apathy.

“I gotta get you out of here.” The words taste acrid against her tongue. Or maybe that’s the smoke. She can’t tell. “I’ve got you.” She grabs Tango by his good arm and grimaces. “It’s gonna be okay.”

It’s not a reassurance for him. Not really. Pearl’s familiar enough with his condition by now to know that he can’t really care about being okay at this point.

It’s more for her as she does her best to get leverage in the small space and pulls. 

When Tango screams, she knows it’s completely involuntary, an animal howl of agony that stops her short. Pearl gasps, tears on her cheeks, head spinning. “Please, no,” she begs, and she doesn’t know if she’s talking to him or the higher power that’s been ignoring her for weeks. “No, no, I gotta—I—”

“Pearl?”

“Gem!” Pearl cries. “Gem, please, I need—it’s Tango—he’s—”

“I’ve got you,” says Gem’s voice, familiar and close as footsteps pound across rubble. There’s a series of grunts and clunks as rubble shifts, and then there’s light pouring into the crawlspace, which is no longer so much of a crawlspace. Gem stares at the two of them, Pearl in tears on her knees and Tango half buried and lying in his own dull blood. 

“Okay,” she gasps out, and she sounds terrified. “Okay,” she repeats, steadier this time. 

Pearl wants to be relieved, but she’s just on the other side of hysterical. Gem’s holding an axe, which she must have used to clear the rubble, and she steps forward with it held between white knuckles.

“Hold him still,” she tells Pearl.

Pearl swallows. “Gem?” she whispers.

“Please.”

Gem glances down at Pearl, and god, she never has been able to say no to that, has she?

She shuffles forward, puts her weight against Tango, holds him still. Squeezes her eyes shut.

It doesn’t make it any better.

It doesn’t stop her from hearing the sick crunch of the axe cutting through bone or the blood-curdling scream Tango lets out.

It doesn’t stop her from feeling the sudden lack of resistance as she pulls Tango’s bleeding body away from the rubble, leaving his arm behind.

---

Pearl manages to hold it together until they’re able to get Tango safe and stable. Once the wound has been cauterised and disinfected and bandaged, and he’s left sitting with a mostly-unresponsive Skizz and an Impulse who’s just aware enough to be awkward about how little he feels for his friend, she walks away from the town’s refugees on the hillside until she can no longer hear them, and they can no longer hear her. She stands for a moment, surveying the damage below, the sun rising over the sea and the flooded streets and destroyed buildings, and she sucks in a breath that knocks her to her knees.

The panic attack comes in quick half-breaths and waterlogged wails, her hands gripping at her hair and pulling it hard enough to hurt. The world blurs around her as she chokes on saltwater and bile, her ears ringing with screams and funeral bells. When the hands settle on her shoulders she barely feels them—only feels them when they rise to her wrists and untangle her fingers from her hair.

“—earl? Pearl. Look at me. Come on, I know you can do it.”

“Ge-em,” Pearl chokes out. “I can’t—I—”

“I’ve got you,” Gem soothes. She takes Pearl’s hands in hers, squeezes them tight, real and grounding. “See, come on, that’s it. Breathe with me.”

Pearl blinks tears from her eyes as she tries to time her breathing to Gem’s. She’s not very good at it, her heart too quick and Gem’s too slow, but it helps, dragging her down from the high of panic. 

“That’s it,” Gem breathes. She lets go of Pearl’s hand, reaching up to push the hair out of Pearl’s face, cupping her cheeks in her palms. “See? Nice and calm. Everything’s fine, see?”

“Yeah,” Pearl agrees, and the words feel hollow. Her panic feels hollow, somewhere above her body, her soul sunken to somewhere below her knees. She sucks in a breath, lets Gem wipe tears from her eyes with her thumbs.

Gem is so bright. A searchlight in a storm, a ray of rising sun through the dark. The world seems to grey around her. 

Pearl reaches out, splaying her hand against Gem’s cheek, a clumsy echo of Gem’s own reassuring, grounding touch. Gem is still so bright, vivid enough that Pearl doesn’t think any paint could capture it. 

And Pearl, held in comparison, is grey and dull. A shade, drained of life.

She swallows. Lets out a shaking breath. Looks up into Gem’s green eyes, sees the fear and regret in them, and can barely summon her own panic or hurt in return.

“Oh,” she says, and the word falls like a stone, plunging into the depths.

---

Pearl lets out a breath. “It was the body, wasn’t it?” she asks, loosening her grip. “The one that washed up. It did something to you.”

Gem swallows. She pulls away, holding onto her own wrist where Pearl had dropped it, clutching it to her chest. “I’m so hungry, Pearl,” she whispers. “I fade so fast now. I need… I need…”

“You’re going to kill us.” Gem flinches at the words. “You know that, don’t you, Gem? You’re going to kill us. You are killing us.”

“I just need your colours,” Gem replies, a whine in her voice. “I just…”

“What happens when we’re gone, Gem? What happens when you’ve taken all the colours? What happens then?”

Gem stares at her. There are tears in her eyes. They don’t quite fall, but Pearl can feel them drip into her hollow heart. There’s an ocean between them now and Pearl doesn’t have the wits to cross it. She doesn’t care enough to cross it, and she doesn’t feel enough to care about that. 

“I have to go and check on Impy,” Gem repeats, her voice thick. “I’ll see you later, Pearl.”

“You won’t,” Pearl calls after her as Gem hurries for the door.

Gem doesn’t reply, just slamming the door shut in response.

Pearl sits in bed for a long time, staring at the wall with hazy vision. Her thoughts are muffled under the thick fog that chokes the village, and so when she finally stands, she’s not entirely sure why. She lets her body carry her back to her studio, picks up a canvas from against the wall, and places it on her easel. She sits down in front of it and stares.

Gem’s face stares back at her, the only alive thing in a dead and colourless world.

[yandere-wishes]

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡Acolyte⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

𐙚Yandere! Qimir/The Master x Reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Plot: Your loneliness is suffocating, engulfing. Qimir is the only one who seems to subdue the pain. But every forbidden fruit has its price.

⁀➷Warnings: Yandere behavior, gore, angst (at the end), author having an anxiety attack over this fic  

🪐Note: Why is the longest thing I've ever written for a fandom that barely exists? Anyway, here's the long-awaited Qimir piece!

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺ : Disturbia - Rihanna, Dark Vacay & Motion Picture Soundtrack - CAS

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆🍓⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Your master's anger is tangible. You harbour it stubbornly on your tongue. Relishing in the frustration. You aren't sure how many times you've cut out your soul to place at a master's feet. Gnawing on perfect lips to keep quiet during another scolding. Your new master's disappointment reverberates through the room. Thick and oozing like an infected wound.

You messed up again.

"We do not injure other padawans during training. We do not lash out and attack, especially when your training partner has fallen. How have you trained for so long without comprehending these basics?"

The rage that boils inside you is not Jedi in nature. It's something else, a bizarre second, something ancient, ghoulish. An all-consuming fire that burns inside your veins. It shouldn't feel so welcoming, so familiar.

You roll your eyes.

"With all due respect master. How is one to win, if they do not strick when given the opportunity? That too should be a basic notion, no?"

You see the anger snake across your master's face. A defeated, disgruntled, glance that you've become a bit too acquainted with. This is the look that all your previous masters give you. And yet none have yet to master its eeriness quite as well as your first master. Master Sol.

Your master sighs, a piercing noise, deflating every ounce of his willpower. You are exhausting to be around, his annoyance is becoming discernible. "Master Sol is coming by the temple to check your...progress. He's requested a few items to take back with him. Please go fetch them from the apothecary."

Progress is a gentle word and Jedi love using gentle words. It's easier to say than the full truth. Sugar-coated things always taste better.

But the sugar refuses to stick to you.

It burns away in your bitterness.

Coruscant is a distant memory, it was never your home to begin with. But the high bustling volume is something that is hard to forget. Here things are quiet, you slip through the bazaar undetected. Small basket clutched tightly. You wonder what's dragging your former master halfway across the galaxy. You wonder if it's really just to see you.

You gaze blankly at the holographic list. A few rare herbs and some medical roots. This planet grows them in abundance, and the local apothecary carries more than its fair share.

The apothecary is an old, disheveled thing. The older Jedi say that its presence is as old as the temple itself. Odd how some things have a will of iron. You gently rap at the worn metal door, waiting for an invitation to enter. The hinges cry as the door opens ever so slightly. You squeeze in, surveying the cluttered den. Careful to avoid the half-empty bottles and neon puddles scattered across the floor.

"Excuse me" your voice holds an urgent annoyance. Where is the pharmacist? What kind of store owner abandons their shop in the midday? You run your fingers across the strange bottles, letting your nails pick at the murky glass. The colors flash, begging to be freed, strange space pinks, and summer oranges all trapped inside square prisons. Baby poisons dying to taste the world, burning it if they must, but experiencing it nonetheless, tasting their own form of freedom. Funny, they almost remind you of yourself.

Trapped and fatal.

"Hello?", the voice behind you is languid, dozy. Mirroring a late afternoon nap. When the man next speaks you notice a lyrical lint "What brings you here little lady?". You turn to see it, the voice, or rather the man harboring the voice. He's loosely robed and shaggy in the way that only the most spirited vagabonds are. He smiles tenderly upon seeing your face, strange red fruit caught between his teeth. "I um...I" you click your tongue anxiously against the roof of your mouth. Feeling around for those pesky words, in the end, you just shove the hologram holder forward, hoping he'll understand.

"Oh, I see, out here doing some chores?" You nod, mind preoccupied with the otherwordly fruit. "what's that?" you ask, schoolgirl curiosity lacing your voice. "What, this?" he asks holding the freckled thing between his fingers, it's only in the mild light that you notice the shimmering gold scattered across its red skin. The stranger laughs, walking closer, he places the hologram base on the black table, clicking it on as he studies the list. "They're called strawberries. They're from the forest planets, not many grow here in the mid-rims." He's nimble as he packs the herbs and roots, fumbling with the straw ties. "care for a bite" he asks, handing you the bitten fruit.

Hesitantly you bite.

Letting the sweetness erupt on your tongue.

"Thank you" you mumble trying not to moan at the foreign taste. The stranger laughs, it's a cheery noise like birds chirping in first bloom tress. "you're a Jedi, aren't you?" he asks stepping around the table, eyebrows furrowed, caught in a dream he doesn't seem to understand. You choke on the rogue static as he steps closer, eyes half-lidded dreaming of nothing. "Here..."

"Wha-" your voice catches in your throat, it's getting harder to breathe.

"Your supplies" He hands you the brown paper bag, motion a little too phlegmatic to be right.

"Oh, right...thanks" You anxiously shove the bag into your basket and scurry out of the shop. Holding your breath.

"Come back soon." the voice chirps behind you.

Your old master arrives by spaceship, a newer, albeit worn model. The landing pad ejects to reveal a small escort.

Master,

Knight,

Padwan,

Apostate,

You stand still watching as they descend. Bits of envy bubble in your throat watching your former master and his band of little heroes. You wish you had their belonging. Forgoing the loneliness to find kinsmanship with your coterie. You swallow down the bitter thoughts as they finally approach you.

Master Sol's smile reaches his eyes. Gentle and wise. The true epidemy of a Jedi in every sense of the word. Funny how he now has two failures under his belt. None of which are capable of scratching his shining repute.

His hands are on your shoulders, bright smile. "My padawan, it's been too long." You try to bow, awkwardly and stiffly. "Mater Sol, I'm grateful you've come to asses my progress". If he hears your doubt he doesn't show it. Instead, he reintroduces you to Yord, Jacki, Osha.

You try to be polite. Gulp down the awkwardness

You imagine the taste of strawberries on your tongue.

Remember their stiff sweetness and prickly tasteless freckles.

You smile. Easier this time.

They'll stay here for some time. Hunting assassins and documenting progress in their free time. Jacki seems more invested in your training than you are, trying to teach you everything she knows. At least she doesn't mind the rough play, the violent strikes, and sloppy prideful defenses. She speaks in pointers and parries. She's the one to drag you along these assassin hunts. Welcoming you...or at least trying to.

But there is something else at play. Darker, broader, Sol and Jecki welcome you into the fray. Yet you still feel your old master's hesitance, he's still wary of you. Worried about your anger, your defiance.

The distance grows, some icy void.

Sol used to tell you fairytales. This was back when you'd been young and bright-eyed. Freshly welcomed into the order and still overflowing with artless hope for a colorful future.

But even back then, he had known there was something wrong with you.

Looking back it was evident.

Every story started and ended the same. Little princess against the big bad world. Holding out until her prince came along. Only problem was the morals never registered right in your little messed-up brain.

Why didn't the princess fall for the dragon, the wolf, the tyrant king with a crown of bones? Why didn't she swoon and sigh over someone rousing, compelling? A paradox wrapped in black ember? Why settle for a sun-painted prince, with no complexities, no mysteries to unravel?

You would have married the dragon, or the wolf, or the tyrant king with a crown of bones.

Even back then, it was evident something was wrong.

The temple's roof isn't restricted per se.

It's rather abandoned as opposed to forbidden.

Maybe that's why you find solace here. The abandonment feels familiar, similar. The chipped cement kisses the soles of your feet, you imagine it's something like walking upon the rough terrain of a star.

You breathe in the night air deeply.

Expecting the fragile scents of moonshine and star glitter.

Instead, you choke on heavy mist and blood-drenched air.

The thing standing in front of you isn't human. It can't be human. It's created from the blackness, ebony in all the ways a living thing shouldn't be. For a second you think you're staring at a black hole. No doubt this creature crawled out of one.

What sheer willpower one must need to drag themselves out of endless nothingness?

"Little Jedi should not brave the night alone."

It speaks

"There are far too many monsters roaming in the dark"

Its face never moves, statue in all the ways the figures towering over the entrance aren't. This statue is something else, a lost page to some forgotten epic. Carved from gems born in darkness. Evil and rotten.

"What are you?" your voice susurrate, quivering in this surreal scene. The air is thicker now, overflowing with raw static.

Your fingers itch for your saber. Only when the cold metal kisses your palm do you regain some semblance of reality.

The hiss, the green light.

The figure chuckles.

Its voice bouncing from every direction. Everywhere all at once. When it speaks the air cackles, raining as if it were a frightened child.

"I am something akin to you, another child of the force" His voice comes out distorted, uneven in tone. "I am what's birthed when one learns of the true strength of the force."

Your body moves on its own, feet kicking the ground sprinting faster and faster before the final leap. You aim for the helmet, for the morbid toothy grin permanently etched within steel. In a flash the word stills, floating around you like fluorescent bubbles, the rain tumbles around you, curving and diving for the wet ground. It dares not land on something within his grasp.

You feel the slithering across your body. They start from the ground, summed from the unknown depths. Clinging firmly to your ankles before inching up your knees, your hips, your neck.

long, slipper tendrils curling around your body. The figure watches, bare arm outstretched. You should probably be focused on how the unseen things are inching closer to your mouth. Not on the toned muscles and limber fingers of the monster. Not on how, for a fraction of a heartbeat, his smile appears genuine, caring, aimed straight at you.

Only You

They finally reach your lips, prying your teeth ajar and flooding your mouth. Sinking deeper and deeper into your soul, your mind, you.

The smile grows.

In a blink you're suspended in the space between worlds, dark damning thing cradling your body.

"The dark side once belonged to the Jedi, yet they chose to discard it. Deeming it malignant, ungovernable."

Your weightlessness unnerves you. You're malleable in this void.

"Those few who embraced its calling were dubbed Sith." He says the word with such fervent pride. Devoted to it's weight and all it carries. You try to roll the word off your own tongue only for it to burn the roof of your mouth.

The stranger stalks closer, lethal and lithe.

The void vibrates, the darkness bends to his will.

He reaches down to cup your face. His fingers feel warm, welcoming. You nuzzle into his palm, fighting the urge to kiss each finger and suck on the dark force they emit. "You..." he starts, his voice shakes you to the core. Its horror amplifies with the proximity. You wonder if it'll cut through steel, armor, flesh.

your flesh.

"You aren't like the other temple dwellers. You have potential."

His thumb presses your lower lip, demanding entrancing. You comply, needing to feel something solid.

Something you've been denied your whole life.

"They keep you locked away. Trading you between craven masters. Seeing who can tame you first."

He nicks his thumb on your teeth,

Pressing bone into dentin.

His essence drips into you.

He tastes of power.

Of dark, dreadful things you can not name.

"They do not know how to train you. How to use your power..."

The world crumbles, ebony midnights giving way to reality. You feel yourself fall, plunging through the air like a comet bent on destruction.

"They only break you further"

Your knees collide with the harsh ground. Skin splintering in the aftermath giving way to bruises and bloodmarks.

The ground feels too solid beneath you.

A poly, a ruse.

You all but expect to melt through it. Slipping and falling into the vacuum, into him, once more.

He hovers above. Absolute in his strength. You're beginning to believe that blackholes birth divinity. Eyes shimmering with fanatic fidelity, staring up at the holy creature commanding the storm.

"Teach me..."

You've never begged for anything so terribly in your life.

But you need this.

this power

this control.

him.

Sol never told just how the princess met the villain.

He never said it wasn't love at first fright.

Sol insists that the local apothecary knows the truth behind the Jedi-killer. Definite that the unseemly man can tell you something important. He sends Osha inside to play Mea. To get the man to talk.

You crowd around the communicator urging back giggles. Yord's chin is placed upon your shoulder and Jecki's cheek rests against yours. Their touches come so early. And yet they are utterly alien.

"He will be so pleased." No sooner have the words chime from the corroded speakers that Sol is ushering you all towards the small metal hut.

Yord entwines his fingers with you as he runs.

Jacki wraps around your arm.

You feel at times they are trying to tame you.

Befriend the feral puppy they found in the backyard.

The apothecary's face is utterly stunned. He's stammering over his words fear glistening in his eyes as he stares at Sol. "Please, please don't wipe my memories. Or whatever it is you Jedi do." A rosy blush colors your cheeks, at his terror. It's terribly amusing seeing someone so carless, anxiously list off everything he knows. You almost feel bad for the poor scared man.

There isn't anything important here. But Sol decides that you will all return at midnight. The Jedi-killer will be back. Apparently, Qimir -that's his name, that the strawberry-eating, disheveled pharmacist's name- is holding something of value for her.

There's a tug on your wrist as you go to follow the others. Gentle and firm as he pulls you to his chest. "Come by tonight. I'll have some strawberries waiting for you." why does he feel too genuine? When you turn to look at him, he's painted in his usual sweet carefree smile that tugs at your heart.

He looks so innocent...

Starlight really brings out his eyes. He's laughing with a nervous smile,

School-boy crush on full display. You're licking strawberry juice from your hands as you listen to him talk. Backs pressed against the rusty wall and bodies half sprawled in the dirt. He's telling you about the first time the Hutts made him retrieve a plushie for their son from another solar system.

Qimir's voice feels like rose peddles melting into your skin. Sweet, jejeune, free. You offer him a berry from your pile. Watching tentatively as he submerges the red fruit into his mouth. Missing your fingers by an inch. He's laughing after the fact, head thrown back as if he's about to engulf the stars. You decide to laugh too.  

"Are you really that lonely," he says in a voice that's almost not his own. You're not expecting the invasive question, although you guess he means well. The words still cut deep. Piercing through the laughter, stunning you for a breath too long. "No...I'm a Jedi, we do not-"

"Form personal connection. I know...But you just look so lonely." He shuffles closer, the dirt particles almost look celestial in this light. Your fingers pitch a civil war. Pinching and clawing at each other. "No, yes. I don't really get along with the others." He rolls his eyes, bored and amused in the same breath. "Yeah, no wonder your money." He's picking at another strawberry, letting the crunch fill up the silence. You're beginning to think he just likes having something to chew on. Gulping down the anxiety with something toothsome.

He's a little closer now, fingers gingerly tucking back your hair. His fingerprints reverberate across the shell of your ear. Lips gliding against yours. You swallow as his lips fall across yours, pushing sweet stars past parted lips. He tastes of odd things, whimsy things. Everything you'll never come to understand. Xeno fruits and asteroid fields. His fingers glide up your arms, leaving moondust in their wake. He slowly parts, holding you softly with his soulful dark eyes

"You taste so sweet"

Strawberry, Starberry, You kiss him a little too deeply.

Maybe your new master is right.

Maybe there are other ways of being a Jedi.

The movie playing is doused in shades of rose and lilac. Gentle in all the ways. Everyway. The twi'lek girl is in love with the zabrak boy and their families do not approve. You think you remember Sol telling you a similar tale.  

The makeshift auditorium is cozy. Brown couch housing the three of you and your armada of blankets and popcorn buckets. Jacki's head is in your lap, you're playing with the end of her braid imagining the hair to be the lace of a Love-sick girl's ballgown. Yord's arm traverses the length of your arm, absentminded as he studies the motion picture, poking holes in the lose rose-tainted plot. Your head rests against his broad shoulder taking in his new cologne.

Maybe you really did miss them.

Jacki reaches for the popcorn, offering you some before shoving a handful into her mouth. You think the little symmetry-less kernels would taste better with a strawberry glaze. Qimir flashes across your mind, smiling sweetly as he tilts his head.

You think you're a little too similar to the star on screen.

Pinning after forbidden love,

Forbidden power.

Master Sol is growing acutely aware of your drastic improvements. He's noticed the betterment in your offense, your defense. To the way, you wield your saber, your techniques, and yourself. There is esteem in the way he smiles. In the words of praise, you've longed to hear. But you notice the lingering glances, the undertone of skepticism and worry when he asks about practice. He doesn't need to know of the black-glad creature that trains you in the unholy hours.

He doesn't need to know how beautifully your new master sculpts your rage into lessons. Teaching you how to wrangle the force and control it. How to use it to make the world bow.

These things will remain secret. For you fear Sol and the others will strip them of you. Strip them of the new master you've come to worship.

"Do you think people glow when they fall in love?" Jacki's voice is filled with sleep. Eyes closed as she murmurs remnants of movie memory. "No, I don't believe they do" you answer. "too...bad" There was a yawn there darling and vigorous like the rests of her. She looks so sweet like this, infantile in all the ways she can't be. Little girl dreaming of something impossible. You wonder if Sol's told her the fairytales too. You kiss the crown of her head, your baby sister you think. And big brother Yord, snoring with his head thrown back.

Maybe you should test her theory. rising softly from the couch you make your way to the door. Throwing one final glance at your sleeping siblings. Before going to find Qimir.

His lips ghost over yours, spilling star-clad secrets between each kiss. The apothecary has never been so dark, so secret, so secluded. Qimir's lips glided across your neck biting the flesh and licking the little diamond droplets of blood. Your nails rack across his spine, the wool of his throw-over itching the backs of your hands. "So precious" he mumbles, voice ridden with want, need. it's criminal how desperately he needs to feel you. You writhe under him, "Qimir, kiss." you whine. His lips feel like a lifeline, something keeping you sain. He pushes fireflies and lava pearls inside you, carving you open and enjoying you

He always enjoys you.

It's foggy outside when his tongue clashes against yours. A thick unsettling mist banging against the darkened window. "You're custom-made for me" Qimir mumbles against your lips. "Custome tailored" you boldly correct. "ummm, sure" his hands pinch at your hips, clawing mindlessly and leaving tails to your thighs. But the sensations are growing distant, you hear the heavy hum of saber activation. You psyche cracks

The world is dark,

He alone is absolute.

Your master's mask flashes dangerously across your mind. "Master Sol would be disappointed". You've heard that line a million times. Still, the words cut a little too deep coming from your demiurger. "Gullible" you don't understand, what have you done to earn his rage? He's gone, leaving you in the emptiness, you taste the charcoal from the landscape under your tongue.

Still, you long to call after him.

"Master"

The darkness subsides with the feeling of softness across your muscles. A breeze stirs you from the clutches of slumber. "Good morning" Qimir chirps, soft smile greeting you as you open your eyes. "Qimir, when did I?" he laughs, it's such a pretty sound this early in the morning. Sweet like caramel tea. He kisses your forehead. His quietude is commendable, he tries to calm you with feather-light kisses. You laugh pushing the covers away and still. Frozen.

What's this

The nightgown is lacy and short. It drapes expensively against your skin. Marring it with its tenderness. "Qimir, what's this!" he chuckles, "I couldn't let you sleep in those robes, they looked uncomfortable." You want to argue, to scream, and be angry. But the rage boils down slowly as you notice something dangling around your wrist. A bangle, and an anklet you notice later, black and gold entwined in patterns mirroring lighting stricks. "They're from Korriban, I had some relatives there." oh, why does that planet sound so familiar? "Thanks, but ask me next time before you go playing dress-up doll with my sleeping body" He pouts and can't help but trail a string of mouthy kisses across his neck. Qimir shuffles pulling you onto his lap. Pushing his nose under your chin. His eyes are honey-deo, adoring and scheming. "But you're mine." The possessive ness that flesh across his face is alarming. So is how tightly he grips your waist. It's only in this state of half-undressed that you begin to notice the taut muscles of his arms.

During your most recent lesson, your master gifts you a ripe juicy strawberry. He says it'll focus you, replenish your wither strength. You eat it a little too quickly, forgetting to savor the pink blush within. You believe too ferociously in everything your master says.

He can never be wrong.

You love the way your new master splatters blood across your sleeves. Be it yours or his enemies. He's started taking you out on his kills, having you watch as he hacks and mauls. His enemies must die, no one who doubts such marvels should be granted the privilege of life.

He's only ever spoken in half-riddles.

"Unfortunately legacy is a fickle thing. Tenacious, fervent, yet frail and erratic. No matter how hematological, we all read our bones differently."

The rain falls to your ragged heartbeat. Fast one minute and slow the next. You stick out your tongue desperate for a few drops. Your body is on fire, every muscle pushed to its limit. But the Force is screaming inside you, thumping dangerously between your fingers. You're ready for the next round. Saber ready and only half mesmerized as your master pulls out another blood-red saber. You charge, rage pumping deliciously through your body.

You forget to ask him where he got the berry from.

The next Jedi to die will be Kelnacca. That's why Sol is dragging all of you to the forest planet of Khofar. You think the name is utterly hilarious, the others don't understand the mirth.

Between briefings and Jacki and Yords packing quarrels. You sneak out to say goodbye to Qimir. Scribbling a half eligible not to leave for your master. But the apothecary is deserted upon your arrival, only a taped note on a half-full mortar.

'Gone to get more Strawberries.

Be back soon.'

You wonder if Khofar has strawberries.

Strawberry, Starberry, you're falling between the cracks of so many.

The Sun on Khofar is red, barely breaching the thick canopy. Maybe it's for the best. This scene is not one to remember, but how can you make yourself forget?

Death looms.

Permanent, Eternal

The fighting began in twilight.

The sky has grown two shades darker since.

He had floated in from the high reaches. You'd almost called out to him, 'master', the words die bitterly on your tongue. His saber ignites in the carnage, light growing redder after each kill. The bodies fall haphazardly stirring the quiet night.

Your saber falls onto the woodchip ground. No sound. He has followed you here. Yet it is not you, he seeks. Your master mask is haunting, in the dark the silver mouth glows bright white. Even against a massacre

the smile never relents.

He twirls the red saber with lethal accuracy, red arc severing another life. 'Take the right!' Jacki screams through the force, her eager voice bouncing inside your cranium. 'Don't' you scream but she's already attacked.

Saber sings saber.

Golden light flickers.

Forward. Backward. Lunge. Parry. Flunge.

Just like you practiced. Back in the quiet of the training room. Is it too late to return to the matted ground and wooden swords? Too late for safe comfort?

You won't take it for granted this time you swear.

Your master attacks with vicious zeal, cutting through the light. His black robes bleeding into the night. Jacki, scurries backward, trying to block with every ounce of strength. In one swift move, she spins freeing herself and assaulting his head with the metal of her weapon.

The mask clutters to the ground.

You scream.

He looks every bit the villain here. Blood drenched, water drenched. Smiling like the wolf in a child's picture book. Qimir's face stares back at you, hair matted to his forehead. He's panting, spent. You've never seen him toil. Dreaming him incapable of harm.

Yet he stands above the corpses. Wolf's teeth bared as he slices through the little girl.

It's been years since Master Sol tucked you into bed. Years since he's read you a story and listened to your baseless questions about romances.

You've finally gotten your answer. Painted in a shade of red indistinguishable from black.

Because the villain is too vile to be loved.

You run, catching the limp corpse before it joins the rest, you cradle her close. Tears landing on the orange of her face. There are no strawberry romances here. No sweet forbidden fruits. Just pain, hollow, empty, rotten. "Jacki" your voice muffles into her robes, rain-soaked, tear-soaked.

"Was that its name?" his voice doesn't sound right. No cheerful hellos or drowsy laughs. It's all menacing now, grating and hollow lilt. "Qimir" you wail, sob half caught in your throat. "It can't be you." He shakes his head, smile crooked and maniacal. "I'm afraid so, little one." The force pushed you up, pulling you to him. Qimirs head tilts, his fingers dancing around your throat. Squeezing squeezing squzing. Your glossy eyes take in his unruly appearance. Even now your master looks utterly perfect. Muscles relaxed as he steals your breath. "Master" you whine, your heart shouldn't be hammering like this, leaping through beats like something lovesick.

"(Y/n)" golden light fills the clearing. Yord runs, Prince Charming in every way you should have loved.

Qimir releases you, only to nestle your neck in the crook of his arm. "Don't worry darling. I'm almost done." He blocks the first attack.

Second, third. Yord scrambles to pull you away, missing each time. "Let her go" The urgency in his voice rattles you. He did love you.

Little sister, little princess.

Why is only starting to make sense now?

There's a crack, so loud it echoes across the woods.

"NO"

Yord's body joins the rest.

no no no

"Where were we?" Qimir is every bit the villain.

The dragon, the wolf, the tyrant king with a crown of bones.

"You lied to me, you killed them. Why, why would you do this."

"Because the Jedi say I can not exist." Sith, right those things were supposed to be evil. Hailing from Koriiban, the evil Jedi forced to flee. And here you were having so readily given yourself to the enemy.

The blood flows free in the rain. Dozens of bodies drained.

There's a river of blood. You kneel by the holy thing, dipping your cupped hands into the crimson. You drink deeply from the massacre thinking it'll taste sweet. Qimir pulls you in holding your throat as he submerges you.

Baptized in blood

The world flashes red.

It feels so free here. Floating weightless, letting everything be. The rage can not find you in these depths. Free like an adrift astromech. Free to float amongst the stars.

When you emerge again. The world has grown brighter. You see the wide-eyed bodies, even Sol is among the dead, you swear you see disappointment in his lifeless orbs. You gulp, swallowing the euphoric faint. You see your new master before you. Swimming to him carefully, following the gentle tug of the force. Prey meets predator. Qimir chuckles, the water is shallow by the banks. He sits awaiting, on his makeshift throne.

There is no sympathy here you should know better

"You took adorable" Qimir rasps. Hot breath fanning your ear. "Master Qimir" you mumble shifting as he pulls you onto his lap. He laughs this is submission, a breath away from grasping his desire. He cups your cheeks, drifting his hands to your shoulders. Pulling you closer, bodies melting into one.

His kisses still taste like strawberries. Sweet and metallic. All possession and domination. Biting lips and tongue and flesh. Spilling fresh poison with each snip of your neck. He licks the blood from your fingers with feral pleasure. Swirling his tongue around each digit and pulling it further down his hungry mouth. You swallow the darkness from his tongue, letting him snuff out the little embers of light. The stars are burning away bit by bit. He pushes you under again.

Mornings on Khofar are dark, caught in a perpetual twilight. Qimir wraps his robes around you letting the midnight sink into your bones. "The ships a bit of a walk. But we should be there before noon." You paddle after him. Fingers lashing awkwardly at his hand. He turns and offers you that tilted smile once more, mask bouncing in his free hand.

"Master qimir" you confess, it feels so light on your tongue. Like clutching dying white-dwarf-stars behind your teeth. He chuckles, snapping a berry from a nearby bush. His smile sings of triumph, victory, earned in blood. He places the fruit amongst your teeth. You, his little war prize.

"My little acolyte"

ᯓ♡ : @feedmestraycats @moonlovefairy  @wicked0clouds @phoenixes-and-wizards @peridedarling @morax-on-my-mind @magikmaik @lov4gor3 @manchuria @bucksdonkey @embersofimagination @hauntedhedgehogs @peter-laufeyson @papitas-con-sal @f0odie @boredtone @bluechissbrain @yourfilthydevil @n0t-skywalker @xsister-serpent @gabriqllas @zionysuss @i-love-my-babygirls @pagingoswin @jxp1ter @faebirdie @deezhutts565 @thesithdiaries @pagingoswin @hauntingwolf @scentedbanditlampwobbler @uwingdispatch @mask-knife-is-buggys-girl @lunarsvertigo @scintilla-morningstar @carpinchootaku

[mulloey]

unwelcome • pt 2

read part one here

stepdad!mingyu x fem!reader

words: 3.8k

warnings: this is pretty fucked up. stepfather relationship, infidelity, mingyu n u are not good people rly, brat/brat tamer dynamics, mean hard dom!mingyu, daddy kink, dirty talk, punishment, pussy slapping, gyu refers to you as ‘daughter’ and himself as ‘father’ in a sexual context a couple times, not really dubcon but there’s certainly a power imbalance, breeding, pregnancy mention, heavy degradation, choking etc. this is pretty intense.

you’ve been appropriately warned of the content of this fic and are solely responsible for what you consume. don’t like, don’t read. hate is blocked.

-

it’s been a week since the incident in the kitchen— since mingyu had finally snapped, since you felt his firm hands and long fingers restraining and touching you as he pleased. since the event that you thought would have changed everything with your stepfather. except it hasn’t.

mingyu has said nothing about what transpired that day, and neither have you. you tried to, once, but a hand around your neck and whispered warning that “that wasn’t what you thought it was” had shut you down quickly. he’s still strict, but it’s from a distance now— he doesn’t scold or reprimand you, but nor does he praise or really interact with you in any way. you never thought you would, but you miss it. you miss him.

your mother is gone, again. she seems to have picked up on the energy shift in the house over the past week and, like you, doesn’t seem to know what to do with it. so she’s chosen to stay away, assuming that whatever’s going on will resolve itself as it always does. you had hoped it would too— except mingyu won’t let you get near him.

today you’ve been mulling it over; holed up in your room with your blanket around your shoulders. you’d gone down earlier to grab a piece of toast; you’d felt your stepfather’s eyes on you the whole time you were in the kitchen, but you paid him no mind, grabbing your toast and quickly retreating back upstairs without a word. you wish you hadn’t heard his sigh of relief when you walked away.

you can’t live like this anymore, you know that. whatever thick, immobilizing tension is separating you two, pulling at one and pushing at the other, needs to break. and you will break it, even if just to have back the annoying, obnoxious man you used to hate. it’s better than… whatever this is.

you discuss it at length with your best friend, pearl, over drinks at your favourite bar downtown. she’s the only one you could turn to with something like this— the only one you can trust not to judge you. not that you don’t deserve to be judged; you’ve done an awful thing, after all. you’ve allowed your mother’s husband to touch and finger you. you’ve not just helped him to betray your mother, but you’ve betrayed her yourself.

you’re past that now, though. you’ll make it up to her later. and if mingyu’s willing to do that to his own step daughter then clearly he’s not the right man for your mom anyway. it doesn’t make you feel a whole lot better.

but pearl doesn’t judge you; she never does. you’ve known each other since you were babies, for one, but more importantly, she has (to your annoyance), been saying from the start how utterly delectable your new stepfather is. if anything, she’s probably annoyed she didn’t get to fuck him first.

she listens silently and thoughtfully as you run her through the events of last week, tapping her manicured nails against the wood of the table. by the time you finish, a sly, knowing smile has reached her face.

“isn’t it obvious?” she asks.

you hesitate, confused. “isn’t what obvious?”

“what you need to do,” she says. “to fix this.”

“not to me,” you say. “i mean, i need to fuck him, i think. but i can’t do that when he barely even talks to me now.”

she shrugs, twirling the little cocktail umbrella between her fingers. “so make him jealous.”

“what?”

“piss him off, y/n,” she says. “bring someone home and let him see that you’re moving on. i guarantee you he won’t like it.”

you slump back in your seat, thinking for a moment. it’s a good plan— if it goes right. if it goes wrong, well… you doubt anything could be worse than this. “okay,” you say. “i’ll do that.”

it takes two more days to find the nerve to bring home a boy from your campus. you were careful to choose someone you wouldn’t have to interact with after today if it all went catastrophically wrong, which means the TA in your thesis group who makes eyes at you from across the room is off the table (sorry, wonwoo), but who you’ve seen and interacted with enough that it won’t seem weird when you invite them home with you.

you have no real intentions with joshua, but he’s nice enough, around your age and very horny, so you figure he’ll do fine; indeed, he can barely keep his hands off you as you walk into the house and accidentally-on-purpose make your presence known with a loud laugh. his wandering hands only leave you when your stepfather rounds the corner into the lobby.

he’s dressed in his pyjamas still, and he looks tired and irritated until he spots the boy next to you— and the non-existent, certainly non-platonic gap between you. in an instant he’s awake and the irritation is gone, replaced with anger. his palms twitch at his side, desperate to break the calm demeanor that he’s hanging onto by a thread. little slut.

“what’s going on here?” he asks. he tries to keep his voice cool and leveled but the resulting sound is low and dangerous, like a predator about to strike.

joshua swallows and you feel him tensing up nervously beside you. whether it’s to calm him down or to provoke mingyu further, you're not sure, but you grab his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. joshua relaxes slightly, and mingyu’s eyes narrow.

“hi,” joshua finally says. “i’m jo–”

“i don’t give a rat's ass who you are,” mingyu says sharply. “tell me what you’re doing here and what your hands are doing on my daughter, now.”

joshua’s eyes widen and he seems to shrink further into himself, wishing he was anywhere else. “look, man,” he says, “i don’t want any trouble. we were just gonna hang out.”

“yeah?” mingyu asks. “not anymore. plans changed, i’m afraid. we’re busy this evening.”

“oh yeah?” you challenge. “busy with what?”

mingyu says nothing, just raises a cool eyebrow at you with a blank expression. you feel joshua’s gaze flicker between the two of you in confusion and discomfort.

clearly, he wants nothing to do with this. you don’t blame him; and he’s served his purpose anyway. you’ll make it up to him another day. buy him a coffee or something. doesn’t really matter right now.

“i’m just gonna go,” he mutters. he catches your eye as he walks past, face contorted half in sympathy and half in fear— fear for you, it seems. if only he knew that you’re halfway to getting exactly what you wanted.

“see you around, josh,” you say, but your eyes are already locked with your stepfather.

the door slams shut and he’s on you instantly, hand on your neck as you’re shoved harshly against the wall. the impact is so sharp and sudden that it sends the small painting hung up next to you crashing down, but neither of you notice; not when you’re looking at him with such lust and he’s looking at you with such ire. you could cut the tension between you with a knife, but even then, you’re not sure if it would break. the tiny gap between his face and yours and the heavy breathing as he looks you up and down is electrifying like nothing you’ve ever felt before.

“min—”

“shut up,” he says. “i’ve had it with you.” his voice is almost shaking with rage and he stares at you for a moment before his large hand impacts the side of your face. you shriek in pain and surprise, reaching to clutch your stinging cheek but he grabs your wrist with the hand that had just slapped you, holding it firmly above your head.

“fucking slut,” he says. “parading your little boy toy through my house as if i wouldn’t know what you’re doing. debasing yourself like a cheap whore. is that what you thought i wanted?”

your mouth opens and closes, lost for words. you both know the answer but you don’t want to say it. he shakes his head, chuckling dryly.

“no, it’s not,” he says. “because you never cared or even thought about what i might want. only ever thought about yourself, didn’t you?”

you feel yourself shrink under his gaze and the venom of his words and he smiles briefly. his eyes roam your body, lingering on your chest that rises and falls with your heavy, panicked breathing. fuck, he’s practically drunk on the power he has over you right now.

his grip on your neck tightens momentarily— just enough to remind you of how small and breakable you are under his grip. “too fucking cock drunk to think about anything else,” he says lowly. “fuck. i should‘ve made your friend stay so i could fuck you in front of him, shouldn’t i? teach you both a lesson.”

his words hit you in the stomach, knots of arousal twisting in your gut. you know he sees the way your thighs clench together at the image. “i…” you trail off; you have nothing to say. he knows it too. he lifts his hand from your neck to stroke your cheek with a surprising tenderness.

“pretty thing,” he mutters. “my little girl.” he’s silent for a moment, eyes raking over your face, so small and fragile in his strong hands. his grip tightens, squeezing your jaw. “apologise,” he says.

you frown, confused. “for what?”

he snorts like it’s obvious. “provoking me, for one,” he says. “using that poor boy to get a rise out of me. and being a rude, bratty little girl simply because i wasn’t giving you enough attention.”

you roll your eyes before you can think it through and he’s quick to react, his hand slapping you again before returning to your neck. “no respect,” he mutters. “you obviously need an attitude adjustment. and that’s exactly what daddy’s gonna give you.”

you bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning at the name he’s given himself, but it’s no use. your stepfather is far too tuned in, far too in control, to let anything slip past him. his lips curl into a thin, sneering smile. “liked that, did you?” he asks. “you like being fucked by your fucking father?”

“mingyu,” you whine. your face burns at the humiliation of not just his words, but the truth of them— mingyu is your stepfather. he’s married to your mother. and you’d do anything to have your hands on his dick right now.

“no,” he says. “you don’t get to call me that. if you could act like a mature fucking adult then maybe i’d let you but you can’t, can you? you’ve been a little fucking brat since i met you and it’s about time i treated you like one.”

there’s a fire in his eyes you haven’t seen since that day in the kitchen, only now it burns both brighter and darker than before. as he finally releases his grip of you against the wall, only to drag you by the hair through to the living room, you get the feeling you’re about to see mingyu in a way even the episode in the kitchen couldn’t have clued you into.

he shoves you down, watching you stumble to the floor with a surprised shriek. you sit yourself up, leaning on your hands as you stare up at him where he towers above you— tall, imposing, and terrifying.

he’s silent, watching you closely before he sighs and walks over to sit himself down on the couch. “come here.”

your legs are shaking as you struggle to pull yourself up from the floor. his jaw twitches, fists clenching. you’ve never looked so pathetic, never felt so humiliated and you still have all your clothes on. he reaches out to pull you towards him and you stumble forwards until you land on his lap— over his lap. you feel your short skirt flip up over your ass from the sudden motion, exposing your black lace panties. he chuckles, grabbing one of your ass cheeks and squeezing it firmly. your breath hitches.

“mm,” hums appreciatively. “this is how i like to see you, daughter mine. bent over and ready to submit.”

you squirm, thighs clenching at the low timbre of his voice; the deepening of it as he calls you his daughter. jesus. this is so fucked up.

his finger trails the inside of your thigh, stopping just short of your pussy. he fingers at the hem of your panties, right next to your pussy, watching the way you react to his touch as he teases the edge of your underwear like he’s inspecting it. he sees the wetness seeping through the black fabric and chuckles. “that desperate, baby?” he asks.

you say nothing, still processing the situation you find yourself in and he slaps your ass harshly, making you jolt. “answer,” he says darkly. “or i’ll just spank you and send you to bed without release. is that what you want, little girl?”

“no,” you gasp, shaking your head fervently. you won’t deny it; the idea of being spanked by mingyu, not for sex, not for foreplay, but solely for punishment, is embarrassingly tantalising. but you’ve been waiting too long to have him touch you like this again and if you don’t get to feel his dick inside you tonight you might actually go insane. “no, i don’t,” you say.

he laughs, pinching the sensitive skin of your thigh and rubbing the red mark soothingly. “look at you,” he chuckles. “so bratty and disrespectful but so quick to submit once i use a bit of force. can’t believe i wasted my time on your mother when i had this little kitten here waiting for me.”

his words are like cold water as they wash over you— your mother. this isn’t just your stepfather— this is your mother’s husband. this is the man she loves and relies on, who swore to be hers for the rest of his life. and you’re bent over his lap and trying desperately not to grind against his thick, strong thigh. you’re the worst daughter ever.

and if you weren’t before, you certainly are when you mewl out a desperate, “please, daddy, fuck me.”

“hm,” he says. “such good manners, i’m almost tempted.” his finger trails along your panties before finally sliding over your covered pussy. you gasp, squirming again when he ghosts over your clit. he presses down a little, enough to make you pulse slightly, then lets go. “what a shame you had to be such a brat.”

you make a noise of confusion, craning your head around to see mingyu sliding your panties down to your ankles, exposing you fully to him with your skirt by now halfway up your back. you catch his gaze and he raises an eyebrow. “turn around,” he says. “i’m gonna teach you how to fucking act around me.”

swallowing, you obey, turning around to bury your head in the pillows of the couch. you feel him raise the thigh you’re bent over, giving him easier access. you close your eyes, bracing for the first hit against your ass. you’re ready for it, you think— what you’re not ready for, is for him to suddenly tilt you forwards and start slapping your pussy instead.

the first strike makes you shriek and he gives you no time to recover before continuing. your pussy is far more sensitive than your ass, not to mention dripping, but he hits you with the same brute strength he’d used on your ass and face. the pain is white hot and searing and you hear the impact of each slap; and the wet, squelching sound of his hand against fluid gushing from you. strings of cream are connecting to his hand, following it each time he pulls away to wind up for another hit. you feel him hardening beneath you and adjust yourself a little without realising, trying to grind against his cock subconsciously. he grabs your waist to tug you back into place and delivers an extra hard swat right on your clit.

it’s so painful and so arousing that you don’t even notice when it’s over. not until he’s pulled you off his lap and pressed his leaking cock against his entrance do you finally realise what’s happening. he’s going to fuck you. finally.

he leans over where you’ve found yourself on all fours on the couch, lips pressing against your ear. “ask me to fuck you, baby,” he whispers. you gasp as he rubs himself against you and he chuckles. “c’mon, filthy girl. ask me nicely.”

“p-please,” you stutter. all your nerves are on fire and pushing against your skin, senses heightened as he slowly starts to push into you. “more,” he groans.

“daddy,” you gasp. his hands are on your waist as he guides himself into you, moaning at the way you sob his name. “fuck,” he grunts.

when he finally gets in all the way it’s overwhelming; mingyu is huge, beyond huge, and you’ve never been this full before. you feel him pressing against your cervix even without moving yet there’s none of the pain or discomfort that someone of his size would usually bring. it feels right. like you were made to take him and he was made to take you.

he starts moving without a word; slow thrusts that get faster and harder until he’s completely pounding you, fucking into you desperately like a wild animal. he sounds like one, too; you both do, yelling and grunting as you pushing yourselves deeper into the other. his grip on your waist is bruising but comfortable and you sink into it, lost in pleasure.

you chant his name on repeat — “daddy, daddy, daddy” — the only word that comes to you as he fucks you open. he leans over you, pressing his face into the back of your neck and kissing down the top of your back before straightening up again, angling himself to go deeper.

“you love this, don’t you?” he spits. “love being whored out by your stepfather. is that why you moved back home? to make yourself available to me?”

you groan at his words, clenching around him. you both know that’s not true, but it may as well be— you certainly won’t be moving back out again anytime soon now. you want to stay with him, be available for him— a waiting hole for him to use. fuck, you're depraved, but so is he; he groans when you say it out loud, thrusting harder. “that’s right,” he grunts. “just a hole f’me. just a fuck toy for your daddy, yeah?”

you choke, crying out when he slams into you again. you reach your arms back, trying to touch him and he grabs them, folding them against your back and holding you down.

“i knew it,” he laughs. “knew from the moment i met you that you just needed some dick. knew it had to be mine, fuck.”

“yes,” you gasp. “yours, yours, gyu, has to be yours.” you’re babbling and delirious now and he’s fucking high on it. he presses more of his weight onto you, trapping you beneath him— as if you’d ever want to get away.

“good girl,” he whispers. “i’m gonna fuck you every fucking day. every time that bitch leaves the house you’re gonna come and fucking present yourself to me, understand? gonna come offer up your holes to daddy.”

“yes,” you whine. “always, daddy.”

“i’m never fucking your mother again,” he says. “i’ve got this perfect little pussy now instead and it’s all mine.”

by now the sensations of his dick slamming into you have become a constant rhythm, allowing you to cling to it as you go dumber and dumber on his cock. you could stay like this forever; split open and abused while he spits filth into your ear; but you can tell from the clenching of your pussy and the throbbing of his cock that you’re both close to the edge. he grunts, grabbing your hair to pull your head backwards and pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. “good girl,” he says, movements speeding up. “i’m gonna cum in you. gonna put a fucking kid in you. you want that?”

you know mingyu knows you’re on birth control; he’s seen the pills you keep in the medicine cabinet and heard you discuss your prescription with your mother. but fuck, the idea of him getting you pregnant, your own stepfather knocking you up, is so twisted and exhilarating that it propels you towards your orgasm. you feel yourself releasing over his dick, drenching the couch and he makes a noise of delight. “didn’t know you squirted, baby,” he moans. “that’s so fucking perfect, god.”

“daddy,” you moan. “mingyu.” you’ve gone limp on his dick now, fucked out and exhausted but you’re smart enough to recognise that this stops when he’s finished. he’s almost there, though, you can tell; his grip on your tightens, moans getting louder until he spits out a “clench, slut,” and releases into you the moment you obey.

he collapses on top of you once he’s done, face pressed into your back. you’re both filthy; covered in sweat and cum and drool but you don’t care. you’ve never felt so satisfied in your fucking life.

mingyu pulls you into his arms and you relax into his hold, breathing deeply against his chest. it’s perfect peace, utter bliss— while it lasts. minutes later he jumps up, looking panicked.

you stare up at him in confusion. “mingyu?”

“your mother’s coming back,” he says. your stomach drops. “in 30 fucking minutes.”

panic takes over and you force yourself to your feet; it’s dizzying and disorients you for a moment, but mingyu is quick to catch you when you stumble, helping you steady yourself before he releases you. mercifully, most of the mess is on the two of you; the couch is pretty much clean. mingyu orders you into the shower and you obey, scrubbing away all the evidence of what you’ve just done. you hear him run past your room a few minutes later, and when you emerge, you’re both clean and in your pyjama. only the way he looks at you as you walk downstairs together gives away what’s happened.

your mother looks tired when she walks through the door, but smiles sweetly when she spots her husband and daughter waiting in the kitchen for her. she plants a long, wet kiss on mingyu’s lips and you feel your stomach twist in envy. looking away, you turn back to see his eyes on you, dark and scrutinising as your mother sits down at the table.

“how are my loves?” she asks. you smile weakly at her, wracked with guilt but at the same time wishing she would just get the fuck out so you can fuck her husband again.

mingyu puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it fondly, but his eyes never leave you as he speaks.

“we’re perfect.”

-

requests open! feedback, reblogs and comments are appreciated. love🖤🖤🖤

taglist open!

[berryhobii]

Baby Mama Drama(jjk x reader)

Pairing: BabyDaddy!Jeon Jungkook x BabyMama!Female!Reader

Word Count: 3.2K+

Warnings: reader and Jungkook coparent, they have a daughter who is mentioned but doesn’t appear in the story, reader and Jungkook technically aren’t together but they still love each other and fool around🥴, reader irritates the hell out of JK but he can’t stay mad at them, reader is definitely a little toxic, Smut(18+ but I don’t control what you consume), oral(m and f receiving), 69 position, the sloppiest of top, face riding, fingering, reverse cowgirl, reader rides like a pro, missionary, reader has a tattoo🤭, reader is also dragging that wagon, reader also also has that certified WAP, reader is flexible, squirting, unprotected s*x(don’t do this and then turn into this couple), creampie, dirty talk, one face slap, multiple ass slaps like seriously JK is obsessed with reader’s badonk a donk, a little degradation and a dash of dumbification

A/N: I’M BACK EVERYONE!🥳for anyone who didn’t read my last post, my tumblr was suspended for a little while so that’s why I wasn’t posting. Anyway, it’s over so I’m back to work. This is a piece inspired by @joonberriess and their Sleazy!JK storyline. Shoutout to them. I love everything about the way they write JK and reader so definitely check them out if you haven’t already! Their stories make me want a sleazy baby daddy who can’t leave me the hell alone but I know I’ll never be able to handle that in real life so fictional is good enough for me!🤣this fic is just kind of a reverse of theirs where I made reader a sleazy and jealous baby mama. I know this kind of behavior is a stereotype among the black community but I am in no way condoning it. It’s just fiction and meant to be entertaining. Anyway, please let me know what you guys think as I am always open to criticism and please look forward to my upcoming posts! Much love and thanks for reading 🤎🤎🤎

~

“So, do you have any kids?”

Taking a sip of his drink, Jungkook nodded. “Yeah, one. A daughter. You?”

“Two. Their father is an absolute nightmare though. Thank goodness we have a court order. I can’t even be in the same room as him without wanting to pull all my hair out.” She bitterly laughed with a shake off her head, tossing the rest of her drink back. “What about you? Is your child’s mother a monster?”

Jungkook titled his head, a strained chuckle leaving him. “Um, well she’s…..something.”

The woman hummed. “I get it. A real bitch, huh? I hate women like that. Ones who can’t let their baby daddy’s go and are somehow always around. So annoying. Like don’t you have something better to do?”

“Yeah and I do it 4 times a week in my Queen sized bed.”

Jungkook stiffened at the sound of that familiar voice. There was only one person he knew that spoke that crassly to strangers.

The scent of your perfume and the smell of the mousse you used on your braids invaded his space and solidified that shit was about to go downhill.

The woman, who’s name he don’t think he ever caught, made a noise of surprise once you appeared before her. Your body stood right between her and Jungkook, forcing her to step back a little. Arms crossed over your chest and hip cocked out to the side, your eyes roamed up and down this woman’s body in a scrutinizing manner.

“And who are you?”

Leaning back a little, you plopped yourself right on Jungkook’s lap.

Looking her up and down once more, you answered simply with a big smile, “I’m unimpressed. Nice to meet you.”

Ignoring you for a moment, the woman looked around you to make eye contact with Jungkook who was shooting her a look that screamed, “please walk away!” She didn’t really understand what was going on. Who were you and why did you walk into their conversation on 10 like that? It was one thing to interrupt a conversation but to be that disrespectful to someone you didn’t even know? That didn’t go down well in her book.

Copying your previous stance, the woman replied, “Well I’m unimpressed with your attitude. Didn’t your mother ever teach you any manners?”

“No but she taught me to how to wrap a bitch’s hair around my wrist and keep swinging until my arm gets tired.” Your smile was sugary sweet but your words cut deep like knives. The woman was stunned. No one has ever spoken to her this way and it was a rude awakening. She didn’t even know how to respond.

Not wanting to see you demonstrate your mother’s teachings, Jungkook quickly stood to his feet. “Well, we should really be going. It was nice meeting you. Let’s go.” He grabbed your arms to start pushing you away from the woman.

“No it wasn’t!” You called out, both of you leaving the shocked woman by herself.

Once you two had made it outside, Jungkook’s frustration boiled over.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Why is it everytime I meet someone, you show up and scare them off? We aren’t together anymore. Is it not getting through your head? Like what the hell-“

His rant was flying right over your head because all you could focus on was how unbelievably sexy he looked today. How dare he walk outside like that? And he was going to waste all of that on some random stranger in a bar? Yeah right. Not as long as you had a say about it.

Your greedy eyes trailed from the top of his head to those bulging veins in his neck and down to his soft cock that was pressing against his jeans. Whew, just imaging that monster had your panties sticking to you. It was so big and warm and when he was giving you back shots…..

“Are you listening to me?”

You blinked a few times, your eyes slowing raising until they met the searing glare of your baby daddy.

“Uh yeah. Something about airline prices. So what are you doing tonight?”

Jungkook couldn’t fucking believe you. God you pissed him off to no end but he always had a way of letting off some steam.

“Let’s go. Now.”

“Yes sir.” You purred with that mischievous glint in your eye. Jungkook’s own eye twitched at the implications behind your tone but he decided to ignore it in favor of turning around to begin walking to his car, you hot on his heels and a Cheshire like grin on your face because you were getting what you wanted.

The drive back to his place was quiet, as was the ride up the elevator and the living room as he moved to sit down. He didn’t even raise his eyes to look at you once since you got in the car. Although you could see right through his petty act.

Flopping down on the couch next to him, your head leaning against your hand, you said, “come on, baby. You’re not still mad at me, are you? I said I’m sorry.”

No answer.

Moving closer to him, your hand trailed over his chest and up to his face to turn his head to face you, lips just centimeters apart. This wouldn’t be the first time you were on the receiving end of his heated glare and it certainly wouldn’t be the last but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on.

“What do I have to say for you to forgive me? I hate when you’re mad at me, baby.”

“Then stop doing shit that pisses me off and I won’t be.” He fired back, that low tone of his sending shocks down your spine.

“I’m sorry. Now let me make it up to you.” He could pick up on that sultry voice anywhere and those bedroom eyes you were currently shooting him was a dead giveaway as well.

He rolled his eyes. “You need to stop expecting dick everytime you come over here. It’s not gonna fix anything.”

Gasping dramatically, you moved back a little to hold a hand to your chest in faux offense. “You wound me, tater tot. I came here with pure intentions to apologize to you. Can a woman not apologize to her baby daddy without him thinking she has an ulterior motive?”

An unimpressed look crossed Jungkook’s face from your dramatics and from that stupid pet name you gave him all those years ago.

“Whatever.” He mumbled. “Fine. I accept your apology. Just don’t do it again.” A warning that fell on deaf ears because yeah, you’d definitely do it again if needed but for now, you’d bask in his forgiveness.

“Thank you, baby. You know I only want to make you happy.”

“You do,” he whispered, those doe eyes lifting to connect with yours.

Your lips met, your hands pushing Jungkook back against the arm of the couch to climb into his lap. He went willingly, melting into your touch and the feeling of your plump lips. His own hands traveled up your thighs to squeeze at the plushness of your ass, his grip forcing your covered cunt to rub against his growing erection.

His grunts mixed with your low hum of pleasure as you grinded against one another but Jungkook could only tolerate about a minute of that before he started getting impatient.

Groaning against your lips, he struggled out a, “fuck. Sit it on already.”

The sounds of your giggles made him pause, eyes cracking open and his eyebrow raising because what the hell was so funny?

“Oh nothing.” You said as if reading his mind. “I just remember a very certain someone saying not to expect dick everytime I come here yet that same person is telling me to sit on his dick. How the tables have turned.”

Rolling his eyes yet again, Jungkook suddenly heaved himself up, forcing you backwards. Your giggles increased, the contagion of your amusement finally breaking him and stretching a full blown smile across his face.

“You’re so goofy.”

“Then do something about it, Mickey.”

In a show of strength that turned your panties from a pool into a water park, Jungkook heaved you over his shoulder, hand coming down on the fat of your ass.

“I’ll do something about it alright.”

Once you made it to the bedroom, Jungkook tossed you down onto the bed and was about to climb on top of you but you were a little quicker. Grabbing his arm, you pulled him down until he was flat on his back with you straddling his waist—his hard cock pressed right against your clothed cunt, just waiting to be released.

Leaning down, you captured him in another kiss while he captured your ass in his grip.

“Damn I love this ass….” He murmured into your lip lock which made you giggle.

After deeming him throughly kissed, you sat up to take in his flushed face and reddened lips. Perfect.

“Forgive me yet?”

He hummed, fingers playing with the hem of your top. “Maybe after you take this off.”

Ever so compliant, you gripped both sides of your shirt and pulled it over your head to reveal your bare breasts to Jungkook. His eyes could have popped out of his head, the groan he let out a mixture of arousal and slight irritation.

“You’re not wearing a bra?”

Shrugging one shoulder, you simply answered, “I knew I was coming here. What’s the point? Do you want to know if I’m wearing underwear?” That cheeky smile answered the question for him and it only sunk him further into the already unhealthy infatuation he had with you.

Gripping your ass, he roughly grinded your cunt down on his erection. The friction made both of you gasp, the air starting to feel electric as desperation began eating at both of you.

It didn’t take long for both of you to undress each other. Jungkook helped you wiggle out of those tiny shorts you wore, letting out a curse as a little drip of sticky arousal snapped back against your inner thigh. Sitting up, he grabbed the back of his shirt to pull it over his head and toss it somewhere in the room. Now you could feast your eyes on the hard planes of his body and trace your fingers those intricate tattoos that marked up his skin.

Leaning down once again, you trailed kisses from that sweet spot on his neck, down his chest and over his abs until you reached your destination. Your eyes never left his as you began your descent, hands tugging at the waistband of his jeans to pull them down and Jungkook helped kick them off. You licked your lips at the sight of Jungkook’s hard cock slapping against his abs once you freed it from the confines of his pants . He could see that hungry look in your eye, smirking as he took hold of his erection and began lightly pumping it; a motion that drove you fucking crazy was watching him stroke himself. It just did something to you.

“You want it, bug?” He teased to which you nodded frantically.

“Yes, baby. Give it to me.” Opening your mouth, you held your tongue out to lick at it, Jungkook hissing at the contact. He slapped it against your wet muscle a few times before letting the tip slip in your mouth. You immediately wrapped your lips around it, suckling at it like a desperate whore. Which you were but only for him. No one else could make you act like this.

You replaced his hand with your own, licking and spitting all over his cock to lubricate it. Taking him down your throat, you began bobbing your head up and down, making sure to twist your wrist just the way he liked it.

Jungkook let out a series of low moans, curses, and the tiniest of whines everytime you went down. One hand gripped at the ponytail you put your braids up in and one hand behind his head, he let you take the lead. You knew just how he liked it, just the way to flick your wrist and tighten your throat to throw him over the edge in minutes.

Coming off him with a wet cough, you continued to stroke his cock, your spit soaking your own hand but that only helped the glide. Your hazy and hungry eyes stared right into his, your chin and mouth soaked in saliva. “I love this cock so fucking much.” You gasped before taking it back down your throat and bobbing your head.

Tossing his head back, Jungkook let out a strangled moan, forcing your head down. You let him, of course, relaxing your throat so he could fuck up into your mouth.

“Come sit on my face, baby. Right fucking now.” He demanded.

Pulling off him a little, you maneuvered your body until your pussy was right over his face—69 style. He gripped both of your ass cheeks in his palms, pulling you down until he could suck your neglected clit into his mouth.

You let out a sharp gasp around his cock, finally getting some type of relief. Sucking his cock made you a different type of horny and he could see that with the way your cunt was dripping.

His mouth and tongue started going crazy, ravenous as he alternated between sucking and licking, making sure to dip his tongue in your opening every once in a while. His hands continued to slap and grip at your ass, one wandering sometimes to pull your slippery lips apart so he could really get in there.

His hand trailed down from your ass to your tight opening, squeezing a finger into your spasming walls. He located that sweet spot with practiced ease, slipping in another finger in beside it and stretching your snug cunt open. The squelching of your walls was like music to his ears, adding to the salacious ‘gluck gluck’ noises your throat was making as you swallowed his cock.

Since you were horny on your way here, it didn’t take long for that feeling to start burning hot in your belly.

You pulled off his cock but continued to stroke him, your cheek resting against his thigh as high pitched moans left your lips.

Jungkook flattened his tongue, his grip on your ass guiding you to rut against his face. The fat of your ass almost suffocated him but Jungkook couldn’t imagine going out any other way. He hooked his fingers right into your gspot, your eyes rolling back and head hanging low as you used him for your pleasure.

“Oh yes! Oh yes, daddy! You’re gonna make me cum!” Lifting your head, you took his cock back into your mouth, burying it all the way to the hilt in your throat. Jungkook’s hips jumped, him groaning against your clit, the vibrations sending shocks right through you.

A few swallows around his cock and a few more jabs to that spot inside of you and both of you were cumming. Your body tensed, hips rutting faster against his face to ride it out. He thrusted his hips up once, twice, three times before letting out a drawn out moan as he pumped his release down your waiting throat. Your body shivered as buzzing pleasure raced down your back and to your toes. You don’t think you’ve had an orgasm like that since…….three days ago when Jungkook ate you out in his car after he had to pick you up because you forgot to get gas.

Amazing car head aside, the party wasn’t over yet.

“Sit on it, bug. Hurry.” Jungkook rushed you, tapping your ass a few times, his breath labored and tone dripping with desperation.

Good thing you were just as eager because you crawled forward on your weak knees until he was lined up with your entrance. Reaching between your legs, you held his wet cock steady as you slid down on it. Jungkook’s hands held your ass cheeks apart to watch, eyes blurring slightly as your hot, tight, and gushing walls wrapped around him. You weren’t faring much better, your head knocking back as his thick cock stretched you to your limits. It didn’t matter how many times you had taken his cock, the pure g i r t h always knocked the breath out of you. This is why you couldn’t leave him alone, his cock was just too fucking good. You’d be damned if you ever let someone else take it from you.

Once you were settled to the hilt, your body leaned all the way forward to rest between his legs and you began bouncing your ass on his cock.

Jungkook was mesmerized by how your fat ass rippled and moved against his pelvis. At this moment, he didn’t give a damn how many women you threatened or how much you pissed him off; just the sight of your ass and the feeling of your juicy cunt wrapped around him was enough to make him remember another reason why he couldn’t let you the hell go. He loved your pussy too much. And if that wasn’t enough, the sight of that tiny ‘♡JK’ tatted on your left ass cheek certainly let him know.

Jungkook’s hands came down to slap repeatedly on your bouncing ass. “Faster baby. Fuck, this ass is so good!” The seat of your ass was wet from a combination of spit and cum, the wet slapping noises filling the space. Your moans were in competition with the clapping of your ass, your cheek pressed against the sheets and your nails digging into his calves.

“Ahhh! This cock is so b-big,” you whine, “love it so much…..right there….! Oohhhh-ohhhh fuck!”

Lifting up a little and adjusting your knees to a better position, you began throwing yourself down on his cock, the head brushing against every spot you had and sending you reeling. You’d come all the way up until just the tip was inside before slamming back down, the bed shaking underneath the force. Jungkook’s toes curled, your cunt gripping him tighter than a vice.

He was about 98% sure his soul left his body, eyes rolling and head knocking back against the pillows as his lungs struggled for air.

Not able to hold it anymore, Jungkook was quickly flipping your positions. Now it was your turn to be on your back, your legs spread in a wide V shape, his cologne invading your senses and his lips covering yours. He was everywhere, all over you. Your skin was on fire from his touch, sweat soaking your back and air becoming sparse as he kissed away what little oxygen you had left. You were obsessed with him. He was yours as you were his. Nothing would ever change that.

His cock buried itself back into your walls, a deep moan of pleasure getting caught in your throat once he began jackhammering into you. Your hands gripped the bottom of your feet, keeping them apart so he could continue to plow into your soft spot. His hips moved like a well oiled machine, making noisy contact with your ass with every thrust.

Your mouth dropped open, “oh my…..fffucking g-god…!” Tears welled up in your eyes as blinding pleasure spread over every nerve in your body.

Jungkook grunted, his own pleasure peaking at the sight of your fucked out face.

“Yeah? You about to cum? Are you gonna what the fuck I say and stop acting so fucking jealous? Huh?” Drool dripped down the sides of your mouth as you tried to form sentences but hurried ‘yes yes yes’ were the only words you could manage. “How many times do I have to fuck you before you get that through your thick head? I only want you. Fuck you push my fucking buttons but I know it’s just because you want me to fill up this tight cunt, isn’t that right?” A slap came across your cheek, orgasm crashing into your body without warning from the sudden strike.

Jungkook could feel wetness soaking his pelvis and cock, jaw tightening as he began moving even harder—the headboard knocking into the wall so hard that he doesn’t think he’ll get his security deposit back for this place.

“Juicy fucking cunt squirting all over me. Mhmmmm….I’m gonna fill this pussy up. You want that? Want me to send you home with my cum running down your legs?”

Your ears were ringing, his dirty talk propelling you right into another endless orgasm, your toes curling in the air as blissful overstimulation began to take over.

Jungkook wasn’t far behind, a few more thrusts and he was burying himself deep in your sopping cunt. His cock throbbed inside you, the thickness pressing right into your abused gspot. Your hands released your feet to scramble against his back, sharp acrylics digging into his skin and making him hiss in slight pain.

“Ohhhhhh shittttttt….fuck baby,” He groaned out as he pumped creamy ropes inside your clenching pussy, your spasming walls sucking him in and milking him for everything he was worth.

Both of you collapsed from exhaustion, Jungkook’s face planting itself in your breasts and your legs falling weakly to the bed with a light thump. Only the sounds of your heavy breathing filled the room, both of your hearts beating wildly as you two came down.

~

“So am I forgiven?” You asked as you two soaked in the tub, the scent of an apple scented bath bomb wafting around the room.

Jungkook was behind you, head leaned back against the wall as he tried not to fall asleep. “I guess so. Just stop doing that, okay? It’s so embarrassing.”

“Deal.”

A beat of silence washed over the room, just the sound of water lapping against the sides of the tub filling the space.

“One more time.” You suddenly said.

“Huh?”

“You asked me how many times do you have to fuck me before I get it through my thick head to stop being jealous. I think one more will do the trick.”

Jungkook let out a chuckle, opening his eyes only to find your beautiful irises staring back at him with that playful and lustful glint.

“You’re impossible.” He scoffed with an endearing shake of his head.

“But you love me.”

“Yeah, I do.”

[1800titz]

ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ — ʟᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ/ᴍᴀꜱᴋ ᴋɪɴᴋ

KISS ME | Stalker!Harry x Reader, purge au

You left him with a taste of you lingering between his teeth, after the first time. With his appetite, it’s only fair he comes back for seconds.

★18+

I don't know what possesses me to write a psycho sicko every time the pumpkins start rolling out onto the doorsteps (see Hitchhikerry) but there is simply something in the air, I fear. This is ᴋɪꜱꜱ ᴍᴇ for the KINKTOBER projects.

PLEASE read the warnings, and please put yourself and your comfort first and foremost. Consume only what you’re comfortable consuming. This one is not intended to be read as a love story, and has sensitive topics, dark themes, and *dubious consent.

If you enjoy this, consider checking out my patreon masterlist, constantly being updated, with loads of exclusive content. If you would like to see the other KINKTOBER projects and join the taglist for upcoming projects, do so here.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: dubcon. stalking. sexual assault. coping with sexual assault. under negotiated kink. unsafe sex (no use of condom, no negotiation prior). manipulation. mask kink. leather kink. daddy kink. breeding kink. p-in-v. oral (m to f). general manhandling.

WC: 12.3K

As always, Harry is just a faceclaim.

Spring is bleeding out onto the tarmac. 

Gold and liserian and bluebonnet. Midnight and cherry-red massacre, seeping into the gutter grate with the sky glowing like a peachring. 

Spring is bleeding out onto the tarmac. It’s unstilted, and smells like rust, and kerosene, and Summer feels a hundred miles away. A thousand, like sunrise on the twenty-second, milliseconds seeping like sand through a clogged hourglass. Like someone wedged their sticky fingers in through the top and stuck a piece of gum to the narrowed opening.

The miasma, even days later, when waste management hordes the lily-white cadavers into semi’s and street sweepers come out to pressure wash the asphalt, burns your nose like you’re huffing acid. 

And it feels like God cupping his hands around the continent and squeezing every ugly, brutish thing out. You wonder if the blood seeping between the asphalt slates sticks to the grooves of his palms. His fingerprints, casting massacre into the pitch sky, smudging asterisms together. You’re supposed to feel the holy spirit. 

(Feel it— don’t you feel it?) 

At the back of your tongue, in every empty room, like a nebulous haze of goodwill and unconditional love. When you were a kid, you wondered why feeling God didn’t make your skin itchy. It would, right? If the body of Christ stalled at your nape, looming over your shoulder. You were raised catholic, so it still lingers and sticks to the nook of your periphery like an oilslick, no matter how hard you knuckle at your eyes. 

You wonder if it’s that same holy spirit they’re tasting in the heme when they cough, supine on the sidewalk. If it’s God’s liquid love, righteous across every capillary, with the swing of a sword. A forefinger on a trigger. 

That’s what they say, anyways. Last Tuesday the blonde lady on Fox news said it was always God in our veins on the night of the holy purge— feel God (transubstantiation like a distant, muffled folklore ringing in your ears) cleanse your soul. Fox news always starts to lean on epistemic justification in Spring, and you wonder if people believe God is scrubbing them from the inside with a bathbrush. You wonder if they really even believe in God, anyways, when it’s all just a mangled apparatus for population control. 

(But God wants them to kill the poor people, right?)

Last spring, a man broke into your apartment. 

Charcoal bulk. Tapered obsidian. Wide shoulders, wide arms, wide, herculean thighs, in all black. Slate denim. Battered leather jacket. Those massive hands, coated in pure-nightfall leather. You remember them well, because you thought they resembled the thick, sheepskin gloves your grandfather would wear out in the snow—

Nothing besides black on him, besides the cruel arsenic white of a plastic doll mask stretched over his balaclava. Like those ugly, inexpressive porcelain things you’d find stacked up in antique stores. Your gaze lingered on the delirious scripture across the forehead. Kiss me.

He slunk in while you were in the bathroom. Cracked in your front door. You discovered a crater in the shape of his kneecap, days later, when you replaced the broken locks.

You found him on your couch like a stygian king, thighs split, like he belonged in your tiny living room in all his ominous, leathery heft, and for a second, you just stalled at the threshold with your heart at the base of your throat. Eyes wide. In stagnant impasse with this absurdly nonchalant intruder. Between a beleaguered rock and a hard place. He’d cocked his head at you. Dead silent, and your hindbrain prickled with parity of a slasher film clip— the kind you’d peep over your blanket, folded up to your nose with shaking hands, after bedtime. You weren’t allowed to watch the movie, at the time. But you always remembered that scene where the indifference rolled off the killer in lapping, tidal waves before he’d strike and carve a character open. 

Something scratched at your hindbrain. Some hysterical thread, clinging to the falsehood that this was a rancid illusion. A nightmare, limned in butter-yellow off the lamp on the side table. His dirty boots kicked up on your coffee table. Inkblots in the plastic cut-outs of the eye sockets, glimmering like hungry nightfall. Because it was the purge, sure, but it wasn’t you. 

Never you. It couldn’t happen to you.

Hindsight humbles the untouchable, crooked complex you wore on your shoulders. Your head, with your chin held high, behind the glowing string-lights tucked across your blinds and the bleeding street under your balcony.

(You remember you thought God prickled at your nape that night. May God be with you— that’s what they say.)

(God was cold, and it made your skin itch. Maybe he would have been warm, and kind, and you would’ve felt the goodwill and unconditional love if you didn’t ask so many stupid questions in kidhood during bible camp. If you didn’t bury your bible into the bottom of your nightstand when you realized they were justifying their gnarled agenda with the pages.)

You felt sick—

And he told you he didn’t have any interest in killing you. A purr, muffled by layers of stitched cotton and plastic. No interest in all that. Wouldn’t wanna hurt a pretty thing like you. 

Like a sarky paradox to all the formidable space he was taking up, in all his horrifying gear. 

Kiss me.

An irony to the ichor thumb-smudge across his forehead. An irony, you thought, to God with a bathbrush, and the date, and the time, and the uncomfortable, imperfect squeeze of you into the bracket of wrong-place-wrong-time. In your own apartment.

Aren’t you gonna thank me, he hummed, on his feet now, from across the room. Stalemate. Rotten stasis. Deadlock, at his discretion, with you, shaking like a leaf under the archway. 

For protecting you? That’s what he said. 

(If you weren’t frozen in place with the leftovers you had for dinner curdling in your belly— eye to eye with a facsimile of the reaper— you would have snorted. It was just so absurdly ironic that it nearly made your ribs ache.) 

He was so big, you thought, when his shoulders climbed and his chest swelled, under the animal skin. So rigid. You wondered if he was all bulk like that, under the layers, or if the loose coat, and the gloves, and the daunting mien of a predator just made him seem that much larger. You’re not a small thing, but he made you feel as much. Like a dolly. A maquette— a perfect marionette to toss around between his hands on the perfect night, the perfect date on the calendar. 

Lotta bad men around, tonight.

The floorboard creaked under his weight. One step forward. The carpet bristled under your heel. 

Aren’t you gonna thank me for protecting you? 

(Kiss me.)

You remember how you went along. Easy. Didn’t say no.

And you could chalk it up to survival— pure, self-preservational instinct— and the gunfire looming outside your window. No. You remember the swell of panic, the riptide of adrenaline tearing you into a deluge of auto-pilot. Something seeped into the hairline fracture across the line between saving yourself— and your dignity, your pride. 

(Something ugly, and wrong, and so out of place. So warm in a room so bone-chilling.)

You thought you were broken. The two choices, unequivocally, were always fight or flight. 

(So which synapse misfired, that night, that kicked your gears into neither?)

You remember ugly things from that night. It felt like your ribs were being pried open, and he was picking you apart, pinching some raw and deep to pluck it out between leather fingers, until you were squirming in a pool of your own spilled volition. Like milk knocked over on the counter. Left to rot. Curdle.  

Because it didn’t hurt. He didn’t hurt you. 

And maybe that was worse. Because you were supposed to kick, and fight, and scream, and you— 

Didn’t. 

And maybe at first, it was a form of endurance. Survival sense— shutdown, like a generator on its last limb, preserving its own continuance. Just go along, just survive, just—

It’s easier, you think, in retrospect, to justify that. 

What’s harder is that you remember you thought you were broken because part of you, eventually, didn’t want to kick, or fight, or scream. 

(Go for the eyes— that’s what they say— and where would you go, in those inky craters, under the shadows? Like polynyas brimful of tar. You’d drown.) 

You remember the way he called himself daddy— come sit on Daddy’s cock, tell Daddy how good he feels— and you remember the visceral burgeon of disgust swelling in your belly. 

The way it made you revolted, and shuddery, and white-hot. 

Wanting. Slick. 

Because he’s not your daddy. Wasn’t. Isn’t.

You knew it for what it was. A gross game. Meant to debase your conation. This scary man in his scary mask on this, scary night, in your home, here to take something for himself. A flinder of your rib— a cracked piece of bone, here to tuck it into the inside of his coat. To watch your face crease with the juxtaposing blend of repulsion and want, rolling down your spine like rainwater off a downspout, as your cunt fluttered. 

He fucked you stupid on his cock again, and again, and again, until the sun was scraping at the land with its hot fingers, and the corners of your room were white and blue. Took what he wanted, because he decided he could. 

And that’s the game. The brutal nature of humanity crumbling under the weight of anarchy, and unrestricted autonomy, even if only for a night. Bereft morals. Selfish whims.

(And you took it. Just took it. Didn’t put up a fight, not when terror started lagging behind pleasure.)

He ate your cunt, too, just the way you liked. For hours, with the plastic mask tucked up like the balaclava, to the tip of his nose. The hard edge, and the cotton, pressing into your mons when he rolled your clit with his tongue, pressed the flats of his white teeth against it. You remember that. 

His nice, clean white teeth, and his pink lips. 

He must’ve been a pretty man under all the unnerving guise.

By the time the siren screeched at seven, you were strewn on your sheets like puddy across the sidewalk. All worn, and tired, and malleable, which he seemed to like. Panting, sweaty, tacky. Covered in him. The sticky, pearlescent mimesis, like memorabilia. Your pink underwear dangling out of his pocket like a perverted token to pin up onto his wall like a poster, after. His hard, leather fingerprints, blooming across your soft love handles, where he held your bones in place (but you didn’t need him to— not when you were so willing to placate and assuage and give). The chiaroscuro made your ribs rattle when you breathed deep. 

You stared at the popcorn ceiling when his belt buckle clinked. Slotted himself back together, into unobtainable nightfall against the backdrop of daytime. 

There’s a lot of things that stuck with you from that night. He didn’t hurt you, and your skin stayed sealed, but according to everyone, a part of you maybe-died, or that’s how you should feel, anyway. So, you wondered if that gangrenous part of you was severed off, bleeding out onto the carpet. Between the floorboards, staining the ceiling of the apartment on the floor under yours. A nebula of rust red across plaster.

(You thought it was severed, because at first you didn’t feel it. Anything. Nothing. Numb. Pinpricks across your psyche like your hand when you slept on it the wrong way. Maybe he cut it loose when you weren’t looking— when your lashes fluttered, smogged in the haze of yellow string lights, when your cheek kissed the mattress, and sex.)

You remember a lot of things that make your chest feel tight, like cotton unspooling in the crevices of your lungs, and your head feel waterlogged, and your knees brittle. But you remember he told you, before he left, that he’ll see you next year. 

I’ll see you next year, sweetheart.

Like a portent. It should’ve been. In a way, it felt like a reassurance, and you hate that pulpy part of yourself. 

And what can you do? 

You’re a statistic. 

The label feels wrong. Permanent. Like a bumper sticker stamped onto your forehead with gorilla glue. You’re lucky, they tell you, after. What a close call, when you swallow preventive abortion pills and shiver at your own reflection passing in the mirror. You think, maybe, your guardian angel blinked, somnolence searing at the backs of its eyes. Because, maybe, angels sleep, too. You don’t know. They didn’t teach that in church. 

You go to therapy. The woman in the big, sable chair gives you this look. Crinkled countenance pinched in pity. How pitiful, you’re reminded, and how lucky you are to only be scratched by a freight train. You’re not smattered pulp on the railroad tracks, but in the cruel cosm, you feel like jam dripping down God’s hands. 

You ask her if it’s fucked up that it felt good. 

She tells you it’s not. 

But then, you ask if it’s fucked up that a crackled fragment of you, maybe-sort-of-in-a-way, wouldn’t mind if it happened again.  

That’s a different question. 

Because you’ve been mulling that thought over between your teeth, in the hollow gaps between mortified, pale-faced solaces, I’m sorry’s, I’m-sorry-that-happened-to-you’s. It’s been festering, and feels like a chunk of you rotting under the sun. But maybe, if someone tells you that it’s okay—

If you had to do it over— you put it that way, like emphasizing a crease in a sheet of paper, and she gives you another, long, reticent look this time, instead of a response. 

(Because, maybe, putting it that way makes the insatiable itch in your arteries more relatable. Easier to swallow. Easier to tolerate. Maybe you sound like less of a freak, with the tumult.) 

Guilt for feeling pleasure is, apparently, very common, as indicated by the PDF she emails you that night to look over. Rape Victims and the False Sense of Guilt. 

Rape. The word rape, across the screen, makes you flinch. It’s such a small word in the sea of the text, only four Lilliputian letters. Teeny-tiny. But it feels big. Like a big deal— rape, that’s a big word. It’s razor sharp when it echoes behind your skull. It’s ugly, and it ends on a blunt, hard sound. No elasticity. No give. This unyielding, little word that shatters around you in its hideous, mangled phonetics— is that what happened to you?

You’re lucky. What a close call. I’m sorry that happened to you.

Pleasure is a natural, physical reaction. A bodily reaction. That’s what it says.

You can cope with that. Comprehend that. The rest is— loaded. Like an assault rifle, in spring. You don’t know how to peel the pieces apart. You never learned how to take apart a gun.

You know what a bodily reaction is. 

But nothing explains the chimera you chase after— the fantasy, when you’re plugged around two of your own fingers, weeks, months later, chasing the phantom ache. 

Liking masks is okay, but liking masks is only okay if there’s something preliminary about them. Liking to feel small and scared is okay, but only if there’s a safety net, and safewords, and you trust the other person, and know them like the pores across the back of your hand. A stranger isn’t allowed to make you feel this way. 

But liking this— thinking about this, with your head fuzzy and your skin simmering— is wrong. Bad. 

It’s okay, but you need to heal. Something bad happened to you, and you need to sweep your pieces into the dustpan before you start to put them back together. That’s what you read between the lines. It feels accusatory.

(Only, you don’t think you could mold them into the same form, if you tried. Stick them back into their rifted crevasses, when they’re jagged and misshapen.)

The things you feel are, by all definitions— according to the internet, and everyone around you— wrong. Ugly. Sick. You shouldn’t feel anything but nausea scraping at the back of your throat, pooling briny under your tongue, when you think about that night. About him. That’s what you find in the vats of their eyes when you tell people what happened, the stricken shape of their faces. Like you’re broken. Because you are broken. 

Some part of you has a big indigo bruise stretched across it, smarting something awful. Some part of you is fractured ceramic. 

You’re a statistic. A number. A sliver on a bar graph. It feels like throwing yourself headfirst over a rock face. Into a yawning abyss. You splinter upon contact with the water, but it doesn’t ripple around you. Just lets your dissevered pieces wade and buoy.

You don’t go back to therapy after the third time, and you spend all summer burying your esoteric predilections at the back of the shelf. Let them gather dust, because they’re shattered anyways, and you don’t know how to make any sense of the smashed fragmentations. They’re so jagged, they’ll cut the soft skin on your palms up if you cup them too close.

You move when your lease ends in the summer. Not really by choice, but the decision has the weight of all those ruckled, condolatory looks. Those I’m-sorry-that-happened-to-you’s, like flour-sacks across your shoulders. Your apartment still reeks like him. It’s a phantom musk, whispering along your lungs. Cigarettes, and leather, and tangy sweat (it almost feels like it belongs— not unpleasant, like the brine across Poseidon’s abdomen). It’s uncomfortable. You long for it. You’re imagining it, you know that. 

Your new apartment is clean. It smells like bleach, and it has all different locks, and the promise spills in cobwebs behind your skull. You try not to get tangled in them.

And everything tells you it’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong— everything. A churning, gut feeling, when you sign the new lease, when you roll around your sheets in the middle of the night with your hand between your tacky thighs. 

You feel like you’re breaking an unspoken rule. You’re supposed to heal. This isn’t healing.

You consider booking that out-of-country trip in March. Week-long, just to stifle the premonition under the heel of your palm. The omen, that was still dripping heady, clotting the air alongside the stifling sound of the zipper closing its teeth together. Crinkling leather when he buckled his belt.

Your mom gives you a call. Tells you to come out to Maine for the weekend. You shrug the invitation off with your phone cradled between your cheek and your shoulder, and your laundry between your fingers. I’m fine, mom. I’m—

Fine. Cataclysmically. Okay. Bleeding out onto the tarmac with every step, like the incipient springtide. 

You cup a posy of daffodils between your hands with wistfulness speckling across your chest. 

You used to love spring. In kidhood, before the heavy, inordinate burden of purge-nights spanned across your shoulders, spring had the delicacy of a flower. The warmth of sunshine beading across your skin. The naivety of pastels. A callow touch of rose-tint.

You always knew living alone had its risks. In an apartment, no less, flimsy and unsheltered by security shutters and the bulwarks of a standalone. A danger, like a yellow warning sign. It’s the same precarious footing that warrants your mother’s calls back to your hometown every spring. 

(The same reason she called you last year. And you— stupid, stupid— didn’t go.)

You don’t know how to excuse yourself this year. Lack of self-preservation? Stupid, callow hope? You don’t know what you’re hoping for. 

(What you’re feeding.)

Maybe it’s the way you’ve been dusting the shattered shards on the shelf. 

Anybody else in your position would be halfway across the continent, and you’re shutting down your flower shop and turning in for the night. Pretending (that you’re pretending) you’re inviolable, like that headspace didn’t get crushed under his thumb last year. The clock ticks on the wall. 

The man who comes up to the register has a bouquet in his hand. A sprig of carmine carnations that crinkles when he lays it flat onto the countertop. He’s tall. Broad. Pretty— the first thing you think of, upon impression, mapping out the ridges of his face, the even slope of his nose, the burnt umber curl that spills over his forehead. Wordless. He stares at you. 

Just stares. Not quite boring into you, but lingering, inkpools fixed. Indescribably. Unremitting.

There’s a familiarity in his gaze. Something that weaves across you in unspooling, crepuscular cobwebs, something that prickles. And eye-contact feels like a stalemate. A competition; who will give first? Your mettle splinters in hairline fractures. 

“Is this,” your smile is flimsy. Brittle. Eyes dipping to the flowers he’s laid out. “…all for you today?” 

He smells expensive. Like amber musk, but something sticks to his scent like an afterthought. A note, in undertow. 

Smoke.

Like he washed his hands, brushed his teeth, but couldn’t kick the odor off his clothes, lingering in the stitches.  

Emotions dredge up from the pit of your psyche like his presence is the metal head of a shovel. Cold leather. A hot touch. Things you’ve left numb for too long, oozing, electric, alive. Your fingers flex on the stems, and the plastic clicks under your hand when you stare down at it. You can’t look. 

“Mm.”

You feel flayed. Raw. Like you’re going to come apart into tatters in the middle of the store. In front of a customer. You cast your gaze up. He isn’t looking at you anymore. Hands buried in his pockets, eyes listing across the melange of flower assortments you’ve got on display behind the counter. And you feel—

Embarrassed. Silly. Your cheeks heat, your heart thundering at your throat. It’s silly. 

“Oh,” you breathe as you roll the bouquet between your hands. Key in the numerical series to the system, “I like these. They’re very pretty. …Looks like today, it’s going to be… twenty-six.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Nothing at all, doesn’t make any motion towards procuring a payment method, and that nagging sense of worry spirals between your brows when you cast your inkpools up to find him staring again. Under your hands. There’s a judder to them. You watch his hand reach into the front-pocket of his jeans, and cull a cashfold. He licks his fingers before he separates the cash, and hands it to you. 

Your fingers brush. You swallow. 

You hand his change over with your fingers twitching. 

“Happy purge,” he tells you. Suddenly.

Your smile wobbles. Creases. Curls back up into a proxy of a cheery mien you have the resolve to upkeep. “Happy purge.”

His fingertips drum across the counter. “And may our souls be cleansed.”

It sounds droll. Wry. Like he’s making a mockery of every piece of propaganda the news channel paints across your screen, a week-long affair in snippets before commencement. You swallow. 

“Up for anything tonight?”

The question shouldn’t nick between your ribs. Scrape into the soft place— you’ll get loads of customers that ask. That participate, affluent folk. Young people, with grease smeared across their smiles when they tell you that they’re excited to exercise their God-given right. 

You shake your head. “No— no. I don’t… partake.”

The silence that congeals between you is suffocating. Heavy. You feel your poise withering. Shrinking back into you, under the weight of his gaze. It’s an eerie stagnancy, and you feel like you’re sinking to the depths. 

“You’re,” you tell him, trying to smile, but it doesn’t meet your eyes this time, “…all set.”

His eyes roam. Openly. Lash across you in bounds, slow, detail-oriented. It’s odd. Makes you feel strange. Finally, they fix on your face. No doubt, creased with discomfort. 

“Stay safe tonight,” he tells you, before he turns, bouquet in hand. 

“Right. You— stay safe,” you rock forward on your heels. The bell over the door jingles. 

You’re broken, but you’re not stupid. You twist the locks when you get home. Double-check every window. Turn off every light that you aren’t using. 

The announcement comes across the TV when you’re in the shower, and by the time you come out, the emergency broadcast has morphed off into a rerun of Friends. You don’t know what to do with yourself. Tuck your knees to your chest and stare at the clock? Roll into the fetal position and pray? 

May God be with you. 

The gunfire outside begins during the credits. You can’t stomach the harrowing scream that seeps across from the street below, so you plug your ears with your headphones, and you blast music until you feel like your ears are bleeding. Hole up in your bedroom.

You can’t discern the feeling that clots in your chest when you come out to your living room, eventually, to find him on your couch. In eerie stillness. Terror? Relief? 

He notices you. Swells when he breathes, all heft, just like you remember. The burgeon of fear that prickles at your nape, making your hair stand on end, you find, clots beside something you’re unable to dissect. For a long second, the both of you just breathe. Observe. 

He breaks the silence. 

“…Come tell Daddy hello.”

Daddy. Daddy— the titular moniker makes you bristle, startling you out of your stupor like whiplash. What are you doing? What are you doing?

You stall by the bathroom door. This game of cat and mouse is precarious. You’ll lose— that fact is brassbound. Undeniable. You don’t know what you were expecting. Why you stayed. You’ve got the short end of the stick, always. And still, you contemplate, lingering with your hand on the doorknob. The stagnancy in biding your time feels like staring at a snake coiling beside your feet. Waiting for it to lash forward. 

You take a slow step forward. Another. He doesn’t make any moves towards you, doesn’t give any indication that he’s keen to sit up. Content with the view of your dread snowballing. Mushrooming. Hands resting across his lap, his tree-trunk thighs split apart. 

Waiting. Watching. 

You don’t expect it when he sits up, grunting, to wrap his hand across your forearm. Lug you forward, into the alcove between his thighs. The brush of leather across your bare skin makes chills erupt across your skin. Manhandling you, like puddy between his hands. You’re supposed to fight, you’re supposed to kick, you’re supposed to—

Scream. You exhale when he twists you and forces you to sit on his knee. You’re stupid. What you’re chasing isn’t healthy.

You think he’s going to ask why you moved. Silly girl. Didn’t think I’d find you?

He doesn’t. 

“Been a good girl?” he drawls, instead, chest swelling in your periphery. It feels mocking, despite the casualness of his tone— unsanded around the edges. The irony of the position has your teeth set, like you’re a child on Santa’s lap, and not a grown woman on his. A petrifying— 

Half-stranger. Almost.

The revelation is uncanny to the way you’re searing under your skin. And there’s a thin line, you think, between coercion, and the way your heart batters a little faster, the way you clench your fingers together to avoid squeezing your thighs.

You don’t say anything. It’s rhetoric, because he isn't finished. He cups your knee under his palm, the dark leather, and says, “Kept your pussy to yourself, mm?”

Not your hands. Not your hands. 

Your pussy. 

The undiluted vulgarity trickles down your nape, makes you flinch, and you fist your hands a little harder, until the crescents dig into your palms. It’s still just as nonchalant, even-toned. But it’s crude, and it makes your face hot. 

Like he owns that. Like you belong to him, in some way.

(And maybe, in some way, some part of you does. That piece of your rib he still has tucked into his pocket from last spring.)

Your heart is in your throat. You turn your cheek. Away. Just enough, but the hand that was on your knee presses against the side of your face. Two fingers, gloved, that pry your attention back onto him. It’s almost effortless. Feels like he’s using hardly any strength at all, has your chin snapping back, and the weight of two fingers, against that groove under your cheekbone, has an ache radiating up into your temple. He’s feeling the ridges of your teeth through your soft flesh. Wrenching his fingertips into the hollow rift between the two rows, and your breath ebs your lungs in soft pants, free falling the gap between your lips. The slick, gummy inside of your cheek twinges under the pressure.

You stare back, and—

You don’t know what you find. What you’re looking for. There’s a hunger in the plastic cut outs, glimmering in the tenebrose, like a predator shimmering in the distance of the thicket. One that’s spent all winter hibernating.

He digs his fingers in a little harder. Makes your head tilt with an ease that makes your head spin. The sound that leaks out of you is embarrassing. So unlike you. So small, and vulnerable, and raw. 

It reminds you of feeling like you were being carved open, like you were having those pieces pulled out of you. Those fragments that you’ve buried deep behind your ribs, all yours. Delicate chattels between his fingers like a thread that he’ll tug to unspool you to the core.

His thumb grazes the corner of your mouth. Your lower lip. Rests there, all leather. It smells like charred tobacco. Tar. 

“Yes,” you breathe. Appease. The word comes out tangled with a frantic note, an exhale, and sounds garbled off your liquified, molasses-heavy tongue. 

Maintaining eye contact is difficult. Intense. Feels like wading a knee-deep morass with how treacly it makes your head feel, but it’s impossible to look away. With the angle he has your head, you feel snared into an unspoken standoff. Feels like you’re caught in a springe he’s laid out. You, with your rabbiting heart, and your ankle caught in a noose. And him—

Those deep-seated inkpools glimmer from the underbrush. 

“Is that right?”

It’s like a car crash, you think, stuck in limbo. A beatific maelstrom of metal scraping on metal. The beautiful, horrifying view, in the split-second of collision. Time in stasis. Slow motion.

You can’t look away.

He stops pressing to rap the pads against your cheekbone, instead, and the thump that echoes in your skull almost sounds hollow. Loud in your ears. The pang lingers in your jaw, like a dull ache, across your upper teeth, the inside of your cheek. 

There’s a split second there, where that bilious feeling slinks into your stomach and coils up, stretching between your lungs. That sick you find, buried under the galvanized cobwebs spooling your sense of self-preservation, like a haze of little, electric gossamers across your synapses. The incipience of a wave of nausea, softly lapping, at the thought that all of this, everything, is premeditated, and the gnarled root of it all sinks so much deeper than you’d ever expect. 

That he’ll know— knows— that you brought another man home last fall. 

It was stupid. A one off, scraped off a bar stool on a Saturday night after one too many whiskey sours, and the sex wasn’t even any good. You don’t remember it. 

But your head feels syrupy. You don’t know what’s worse: this burgeoning fear that you’ve disappointed him with— what? Free will? Autonomy? 

Or the slick ooze of the bone-juddering revelation that settles; he’s probably been watching you. Keeping tabs. 

(How else did he know where you moved? How to pin you under the pad of his thumb with such startling ease? You’re a thumbtack on a paper map, and a petrified part of you wonders if he’s got it— a chart of your whereabouts, your existence snared into a creased sheet— dangling next to the panties from last spring.)

If he knows about your liaison, he doesn’t indicate it. Opting to, instead, graze the shape of your lips with his thumb again, and push in to scrape the flats of your teeth with the leather. It’s gross. Feels strange— leather against the smooth inside of your lips, and when you breathe around it, you feel like you’re spinning out, headfirst, hurtling toward the ground. Something you don’t want to acknowledge rolls over, white-hot, in the pit of your tummy. 

“That’s good,” he settles on, and palms your breast so abruptly that it makes your lungs squeeze. Your throat clicks when you swallow. 

It feels so mechanical. Calculating. Collected. Nonchalantly purposeful— nothing gradual, no build up— like he’s here to reap and take, intent on what he’s looking for. But it’s all a startling, unnatural paradox, considering you were left so overly-satiated last spring, that you almost felt like a mindless shell of yourself. Entirely sapped. The enigma left your head clogged up and heavy for days. Weeks. Months. Your lashes flutter, dusting unfitting bliss across your cheeks like the speckling heat. Like pleasure is bulky, and rounded, and doesn’t fit into the jagged slot your anticipation has chiseled. 

He squeezes the doughy flesh in his hand, and scuffs your pebbling nipple with a side-swipe of his thumb. Then, the other. Long, thick fingers spanning, and coasting across your diaphragm, climbing your waist, the chiseled, swelling rungs of your ribcage, cupping under one of your tits again. He only stops at the soft sound that crawls out of your windpipe. Eyes flickering at the reedy, wanton whine that gushes through the seal of your teeth. The self-awareness makes you wither into yourself. Shrinking. Ecstasy feels like an agrestal parasite, mushrooming between your nerves. Budding in that slope under your navel.

(Wrong, wrong, wrong— a broken mechanism, misfiring. Grinding. Your eroded mettle squealing under the pressure.)

You can hear him breathing. He sounds like an animal. A panting beast. Feral. Untamed, wild, huffs stifled by ribbed cotton and matte plastic. He notches a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and pinches it. Tugs. A gust of your desperate breath escapes through that barren dearth between your teeth when he palms you by the front of your neck and pushes you against the back of the couch. 

It’s sloppy. Clumsy, an awkward angle from where you were on his lap— your limbs flail before you topple, and it requires more core strength on your part than you anticipate to sink back, but it isn’t violent. Aggressive. The coarse denim on his thigh abrades your naked skin when he twists to hover over you. Cushion denting under the weight of his knee. Your neck cranes back as he pins you to the back of the couch by the column of your throat. Head tipped back, nearly dangling over, neck straining. He looms over you.

Just—

Staring. Staring. You stare back and wonder if he feels your pulse hammering with the layer of the leather barricade between skin kissing skin. Like this, the mask is limned in shadows from the slant, and the crepuscular orifices under the plastic are even harder to make out. Harder to gauge. You want to gauge. You want to see—

You won’t have the upper hand. You know that, but prying for the threadbare margin of a hint, a motive, a reaction, feels like digging your fingers in for a last-ditch lifeline. 

His eyes are half-mast. Dark lashes spanned over the glint in pitch, mounted in white. You can’t see what he’s thinking. Can’t—

He reels forward, back hunched, leather jacket crinkling, and you feel the plastic mask tucked to your cheekbone. Your temple. Your hair. He reeks like santalum. Petrichor— the first rain spilling onto the pavement, scrubbing the bloodshed off into the grates— and the overwhelming scent of leather that clots in your nose. His mask scrapes your ear. He sniffs.

And you think, a little hysterically, that he’s smelling you. The recognition prickles in your skull, and climbs up your nape in a shiver. And it feels so— 

Animalistic. Primal. Indelicate. Like any sense of decorum flaking off and shedding like desquamate feathers, and it makes you feel so small. A frisson rides the ledges of your spine. Something shudders across his shoulders. Rattles them— you clock it in your periphery, stunned into subservience with your fingers twisting into the couch cushion. 

He sighs. Hums. Like he’s vibrating over you, buzzing, and the thought has that skein across your lungs tightening. The sound that seeps out of him is brassy. Low. Hungry. And the likeness that scrapes at your hindbrain, through the plume of reluctance and crushing desire, nearly makes you feel delirious— it almost sounds like a dog whining. Like he’s been holding himself back, and your scent is too much, chips an integral shard out of his flinty resolve. 

You don’t know why, but it makes you squirm. Makes your chest roll under him, hips shifting. Your eyes oscillate. Stutter from the ceiling fan to the corner of the room, because he’s smelling you and sounds like he’s falling apart. 

Your throat jumps under his hand. He drums his fingertip under your jaw, and it feels like the tick of a clock. He reels back. Slowly. Tipped over you, huffing with his head cocked. Almost panting. This harrowing monster, quivering in his skin, in all his heft, like he wants to eat you alive. Swallow you whole. His eyes slip. The feather-dust of his lashes kisses the pink-rimmed seam of his lower lashline, and he takes a deep breath, intumescent across the breadth of his shoulders. 

You swallow again, your throat still under his hand. The heel of his palm glued to your trachea. Your jaw arched back, under the press of his fingers. His eyes list. Stall across the apex of your denuded thighs, and the brief blip of pressure across your jaw, your throat, the fleeting restriction on your airway when he levels his weight and resituates, has your irises lolling and tainted gossamers stretching in sticky netting behind your skull. His freehand skates your abdomen. Prods your diaphragm, leather fingers grazing your belly button, the hem of your sleep shirt. Rucking it up. 

The boundary between arm-twisting and downright craving is negligible. It’s a foundation, under you— a poor excuse of a half-wall— crackled in fissures. When your hips hitch at the way he circles your navel, in a way, it feels like crumbled free will. Your own autonomy worn down and corroded by the chemistry spuming your veins (you tell yourself it’s artificial. A lethal injection of dopamine and melanocortin), because it feels like the hunger is pried out of you. Pulled out, tangled on his crooking fingertips. 

(And what do you have to say for yourself, when you need him like you need to eat.)

Your hips cant when he strokes his fingers over your waistband, across the sensitive, soft stretch of skin over your mons. You can still hear him breathing over the bloodrush, like spindrift, across the little, vibrating bones, deep in your ear. He sniffs, gaze pinned to the shape of your quivering thighs (juddering knees, swelling tummy)—

He knocks your legs apart with his thigh, until the plush of them spills around the shape of him. All broad, all muscle, all denim against your smooth skin, and he wrenches one of your thighs up with his fingers under your knee. Presses you back by the shin, with your sole planted on the couch cushion, and—

Like this, he has the perfect view. The perfect shape of your cunt, through your panties. They’re white this year. So unassuming, just a plain bikini-cut in ivory, but you wonder if he’s weighing the way they’ll look beside the other pair, like a sordid tchotchke. 

His eyes linger on it. You can’t see his inkpools, but they feel molten. Heady. Predatorial, and the shockwave riding the slanting arches of your ribcage makes it harder to take in a full breath. Lagoons spilling heat. They surge the soft shapes of your body like lavascapes, melting across your skin. 

You’re wet. You know that— feel the damp heat like you feel the want droning across your bones, lacing your muscles. And the sloppy, saturated shape of your dribbling pussy, behind the thin veil of a gusset, is no exception. You curl your toes. Dig them into the couch cushion. The carpet. Dangling onto the fragility of your self-possession (unraveling), and then he probes, with the tip of his index, right where your clit sits. A meager tap.

Your arousal is a tangible wad in your gut, and he plays with it between his fingers.

Desperation climbs to the base of your throat at an alarming rate. Echoes in your jugular as a thrum when his eyes sway between your face and the shape of your cunt. The shape of it under the entirety of his palm, swallowing you whole, between your legs, when he pastes his hand there. And he can’t feel the way it’s soaking, can’t feel how slick you are, but you wonder if the sheer heat leaches through the layers. 

If he can feel how hot and wanting you are, through the glove. 

He purrs like he can. Trails two fingers along the splitting fjord, your puffy lips. His thumb crooks into one end of your gusset just to let it snap back and watch the shiver roll up through your shoulders, huffing around a thick, rumbly noise that sounds amused. Drenched in humiliating mirth. A crater forms around his knee cap when he presses it onto the cushion. Between your split legs, thigh pressed flush to your cunt. Tight. 

“Gonna be a good girl,” he murmurs, face dangling over yours, and the words sound masticated. Starved. “—and let me eat that slutty cunt?”

There’s a fine line, you remind yourself, between being forced, and whatever the— you don’t want to admit it, won’t admit it, stuff it down— rapacious froth inside of you means.

He splits your lips with his fingers. Pries them apart like a butterfly to pin up and frame.  

Mental snapshots to encase on a shelf, mounted beside your underwear and a pushpin map with your face smattered in uneven, sawtooth cut-outs. All raw, and sloppy, and wet. Gushing down to the cleft of your ass— he can see everything, and his eyes rove like he’s mapping every bit of you to memory, your underwear balled and tucked into the pocket of his coat. Drinking in every delicate detail, your pebbled clit twitching under his thumb scuffing, and it’s so—

Humiliating. 

Embarrassing— shame clots in that interstice between your battering heart and your ribs, that soft spot it’s been dribbling into since he perched you on his lap like a little girl begging for a present. You screw your eyes, cup the heels of your palms over them. You can’t look— can’t—

He moans again. Gives you a heady hum, nearly as slick with want as you are between your thighs. Only, his is oil to your honey. Motor fluid to your syrup— a slippery smear of grease to sap. Rotten. Thick and coal-dark, like tar. Something gritty that catches like sand between his teeth when you try to close your knees. It’s a faulty maneuver, with your feet pried apart on his elbows, and you can only latch your knees, and—

It’s the wrong thing to do. 

A slipshod attempt to preserve your dignity, but what’s the use, when it’s porous enough for him to spew the virulent pollutant of longing for him? Noxious. Infectious. Enough to mill your pride from the inside into a powdered dust. Instead, he pries the folds of your cunt apart with one hand, on two fingers— an index and a thumb— and slaps the back of your thigh with the other. 

Your thighs quake. Plush flesh shaking upon impact, the searing heat wave that robs you of your ephemeral resistance— rolling the thought that this is gross, not what you want— and scorches it through to the core, until all that’s left for you to face is the overwhelming desire.

“Eyes on me,” he grunts. Dour. Unrelenting, until you peer through the spaces in your fingers like you’re watching a nightmare unfold, and let him wrest your knees back apart. “Yeah,” he tells you, hardly over the feather-light weight of a whisper, despite the way it feels like it’s crushing your skull from the inside when it swims your ears. “Just like that. On me, pretty girl.”

You can’t look away, so you chew on your fingers instead. Tuck them between your teeth, toes curling into the cushions. Your sleep shirt is in a discarded puddle of fabric on the floor, beside him. There’s something so uncomfortably potent in nakedness when he hasn’t even discarded his gloves. 

He won’t.

But an element of intrigue gets dredged up into the mist of your yearning when he sticks the pad of his thumb under the plastic chin of the mask to pry it to the bridge of his nose. Speckling the nebula, that clouds you, like stardust. Worse, yet, when he pries the balaclava to the same, angular slope, to show his bare chin, his full, pink mouth, his cupid’s bow. 

His nice, clean white teeth. 

His tongue, slinking out to smear across his lips. Like this, the cut outs aren’t over his eyes, and the pools of hunger are shrouded behind the plasticated layer. He feels with his fingers. Spreads your pussy apart, grazes his thumb pad across your throbbing clit, slick with your own sticky wetness, and you watch him purse his lips before a tacky, wet glob lands across your hood. Drool, dripping down, coagulating at your drenched hole. 

You shudder. Can’t look away— it’s—

Gross. It’s wet, and it’s rancid, and the feeling of it being smeared across your cunt, the feeling of a finger prodding at your rim, uselessly clenching at the air, makes your face crease. Brows pinching. 

(So why, then, do you feel so dizzy from the spiraling wave of your own lust fizzing across your veins?) 

You mewl. He tucks his fingers into his mouth. The same ones that have been smudging the amalgam of your slick and his own saliva, still tucked in that leather glove, and the sound he makes at the taste— pure hedonism, dripping around the plug of his own fingers— has your thighs hinging apart wider. Straining. 

It sounds so— shattered. So desperate. Frenzied. A sound like that, out of him, feels so unco that it nearly wrenches your head back. He groans around his fingers, sloppy, and grunts when he takes them out to feel for your hole, tease a breach with the middle digit, not quite bursting the threshold— 

And God, when he eats, it’s like he’s a man starved. Famished. All animal between your thighs, suckling on your clit, dragging his tongue across your hole, like it’s pure sustenance and he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Slurping around you, bullying your clit between his teeth like he wants to chew you up to spit you out. Rinse and repeat. 

He drags his tongue across you, so obscenely, seam to hood, like he wants you to see. Wants you to watch— wants you to know that you’ve got this horrifying brute on his knees between your legs, kissing on your cunt. Wants that ugly revelation to stick to the inside of your skull like knotgrass spilling across your bones— a twisted thought you’ll never be able to tame out of fruition. You let this happen; let him take. 

(And worse yet, you liked it.)

“Sloppy, little pussy,” he grunts, the words muzzled against your sopping cunt, spilling against his mouth, dripping. Sticking in strings to his lower lip, the corner of his mouth— and he crooks his finger. Notches it against your rim. 

It feels wrong. Strange. Leather against your cunt, instead of skin, when he prods and—

Pops the tip in. Stretches your gummy walls to the first, gloved knuckle. The soft, wet heat of you pulsing around him like a heartbeat is lost on the leather, the barrier between your skin, but he’ll make up for it. He’ll make up for it, he’ll—

“God,” you mewl when he crooks the finger and stuffs it to the hilt, stroking the wet squeeze of your walls enveloping it. 

The brutal ugliness in the concept of this man prying you open, stretching you taut when he wedges his ring finger in beside the first, with a glove on, douses you in shame. Has a white-hot heat spewing, geyser-like, at your underbelly. 

The sounds, though, the wet-squelch of those leather-coated fingers fucking into you, spilling slick and shoving it back in, makes your eyes screw. Has a heat nipping at the apples of your cheeks the way it nips at your cunt when he grinds harsh circles around your clit. It’s too much. Nearly too much when he nicks the razor-sharp mantel of your nerve-endings and hones there upon the horrid, wheezing sound you make, the way your leg flexes out beside his head in jarred reflex. Like he’s punishing it. You. For congealing up in his teeth like an insatiable sweet-tooth he’ll never scrape off his enamel. 

You cry out. Knock the heel of your palm into his forehead. Into the edge of that eerie mask, the kiss me, unsmudged, but he’s unperturbed. Unruffled. Unyielding, the same way the brutal crash of pleasure spooling tight behind your navel, your burning, flexed core. 

He catches your wrists in his hand. Like two limbs of a lamb, ensnared. The most perfect, decadent feast to carry out on a charcuterie board, and the sound he makes against your cunt nearly sounds inhuman. Like a rabid, territorial animal at its mealtime, mouthing off at a hand that tries to intrude. Encroach. Take. The vibrations make your head spin. Dizzy— you’re so dizzy, and you don’t recognize that you’ve been holding your breath until the shuddery cry that tears its way out of your mouth is silent. A hiss of a breath that melts into a long, wet gasp. 

He tucks your hands to your tummy, and takes. And takes, and takes. It belongs to him, right? The garbled slur that slips through the negligible gaps between your teeth sounds fucked stupid, and he hasn’t even split you apart on his cock. 

Your fingers twitch, pressed to your mons. Try to reach— to pry— hips canting back, forward, away, into. Against his slippery chin, and his tongue, and his unrelenting mouth. 

And oh, how you unravel, under his jaw, like you belong there. Under his hands, and the tip of his nose tucked to your mons, and the flats of his teeth, grazing—

He doubles down when he feels the pop— the release— your pretty, little cunt fluttering around his fingers, sucking them back in on every twist out, like a vice.

It starts on a long, wilting mewl. A desperate note that laces across your vocal cords and seeps out, not by your own volition, and ends on a gasp. The cord snaps. Too taut. Too much. The ripples of the aftershocks, lapping at your core, red-hot, sloppy, and spent, and overly sensitive, crescendo into a horrible ache when he suckles over your clit. Draws a searing stripe across your nerve endings with the tip, stifling groans into your puffy sex. 

You squeak. Tremble, toes tensing. Flexing. Hips arching back, trying to scoot away. Off. 

“I— came,” you bluster, but it sounds hoarse. Distant, in the thundering thrum of your vertiginous headrush. “I—“ you try again, hips canting, and he swipes out with his tongue, catches something raw and smarting on the fleshy edge. 

You jolt. Spine twisting, distorting pleas between your teeth you’re swishing them across your gums. You wriggle your foot, wheedling it under the space where his mouth is flush with your cunt. “I— please—“

He wrenches your foot back into place so aggressively that all you can do is make a pitiful, helpless squeak. Lashes fluttering, writhing, gnawing into your lower lip when he rolls his tongue across your pulsing clit. The sound that rumbles across your core rattles you down to the marrow. It feels like he wants to chew you to the bone. 

And when he pops off, finally— finally— panting like he’s had his fill, sucking at one of your lips until it’s tender and kiss-bruised— satiated this quenchless thirst that riles in the apertures of his skeleton, humming in his musculature— you breathe. Just breathe. Catch it— snag it. A soft repose in recompense for the throb in your guts, between your legs. Crystalline beads hover, sprouted from the corners of your eyes, streaking across your lash line. Your gaze is lachrymal. Pools of an unspooled bliss, mottled overwhelming, shimmery and red-rimmed. 

And the breath you’ve been catching—

Is forced out from between your lips when his hand lurches. Pins you, supine, to the couch, fingers spanning your nape. Heel of his palm at your jugular. The abruptness of the motion has your heart lurching to your throat. It nearly kisses the shape of his hand.

(But you suppose, if that cracked bit of your rib belongs to him, then maybe a sliver of your lung does, too.)

Somewhere between the dazed stupor of you, panting like you’ve run a marathon, and laying you out on the couch, he’s fixed the mask back on. The balaclava. And the crass, dirty thought that his chin is still slick under the cotton, making it sodden, and hot, and tacky to his skin, seeps across you and cakes like cement. 

He stares down at you through the cut-outs. Your heart is a hummingbird behind the rungs, trying to break free, and you feel it in your pulse, where his thumb strokes. You wonder if he can feel it. You’re still in that balmy, soggy headspace with your muscles pliable, your head heavy. A pastiche of heaven in a come-down, roping its way across your bones and smogging your hypervigilance. 

You’re less unnerved to be stared down at like that— like you’re a meal for him to chew apart between his teeth, like he’s contemplating every possible scenario and picking through to find the prettiest position to put you in, how to grind out the prettiest sounds— with your head feeling like it’s liquified.

Your lashes flutter. You trace the seams on the ceiling, where it’s been repaired for water damage. Maybe someone bled out on the floor above, you think. 

But the warmth of the evanescent fog doesn’t curb the note of nervousness that paints its way into your respiration— like bleeding watercolor— when you hear his hands on his belt buckle. See the way he hovers over you, so large, and indomitable, eyes potent and intoxicant. Hungry. 

(He’s sated his appetite enough to hold him over, bar him from tearing you apart, but he’s still hungry.)

“Think it’s about time you start to give back, sweetheart,” he tells you. Dripping ichor-thick with want. Like blood melded with syrup. 

Even with apprehension dancing across your mind, you want him to fuck you. You want him to stretch you fucking dumb around his cock, just the way you remember he did—

But his next words make that reluctance buzz a little louder in your hindbrain. Alarms. The blood-curdling croon of the siren.

“What do you think, mm?” he mulls aloud, tracing the pad of his finger across one of your pebbled nipples, then the smooth, unmarred skin of your tummy, pausing over your belly button. “Should Daddy make you a mommy this time? Make it stick?”

Your gasp sticks to your throat. Tangles between your tonsils. Your nostrils flare when you try to take a deep breath as indemnification, and you blink up at him, you find nothing but firm resolve in those voids. Abysmal, and unrelenting. 

“I— can’t… have a baby,” you croak, a touch incredulous, but you sound alien in your own ears. Like you’re drowning. 

He cocks his head, tipped down at you, with that ugly, ivory mask. “Sure you can. That’s what you’re built for, isn’t it?”

And the degradation, being stripped down to the metal cogs, the tender technicalities of your biology, makes your cheeks blister. It’s demeaning. You hate it. Hate him, you hate him— something molten rolls in your underbelly. 

(Something hot lingers between your thighs.)

You feel your legs dipping when under the weight of his crowding closer, between your split thighs. Bent at the knee, feet planted. The couch creaks. And when the coarse brush of denim kisses your naked skin, you feel the heat from it like a furnace. 

“No,” you tell him, eyes carved into narrowed slits, and the demand in your own voice makes your bones tremble when you hear. You suck in a breath. 

He blinks. Something flickers, congeals, in his eyes, almost like you’ve stunned him with your gall. Your unrestrained defiance. And there’s something uncomfortably stifling in his gaze, searing down at you, when he tips his head. Almost like he’s contemplating your response. Rolling it between his fingers. His thumb draws a feather-light line over your mons, across the stretch of skin where your womb is buried under the soft layers of muscle and fatty tissue. 

“How do you think,” he kisses his teeth behind the layers— a muffled sound, but one you pick up on with your heartbeat in your ears, “it works out if I take you now, and they find you later? Keep you all to myself. Cancels out, doesn’t it?”

The indirect threat, framed as a hypothetical happenstance, makes something curdle in your blood like sour milk. The bile rolls in the pit of your tummy, and you feel your throat squeeze. Your exhale is a weak hiss. A wheeze, because you feel like the breath has been knocked out of you, alongside the foolish temerity.

The finger that’d traced a line across morphs into a hand, and he presses the breadth of it to your underbelly. Big. All leather, broad, your belly button peeking from the wedge between his digits. 

He sighs, and takes the hand away. Works it back over his belt buckle, until the tails are free-standing, bifurcated, and his fingers work over his zipper. It’s a huff that swells his shoulders, and you’re reminded just how big he is, over you. How massive. How staunch to his ideas— you wouldn’t stand a chance. 

“But maybe,” his head bows to watch where he’s working, and his tone is thoughtful. Menacing. Saturated with condescension, the same way you’re drenched with the remnants of your gushing slick, between your thighs. He meets your eye. “They wouldn’t look at all. Awful lotta people go missin’ altogether, tonight.”

You blink. Squirm. Thoughts of you, swollen and pregnant with his baby— chain-linked to his wrist, to a dreary, foreign bedroom like a dog to a doghouse in a backyard— makes you vitriolic. Angry. 

Horrified. 

(So why, then, does it make your head fuzzy? Kindles crackle at your underbelly, where he pressed his enormous palm.)

“No— no. I’ll be. You can—“ you shake your head. Try again. Placate. This is a gun, broken china on a back shelf. You can’t dissect it for what it means. Your ribcage shakes. “You can do— anything. Please.”

You imagine he’s sneering at you from behind the mask. Under the balaclava, lips crooked, when he tucks a thumb into his waistband and frees his cock. One hand squeezing at the root, stroking up. The motion has a slimy glob of precum blurting from the tip. It’s thick in his fist. Heavy. Mushroomed ridges vivid pink, long, fat. A little lopsided, skewed slightly to the left in his hold, arching towards you. 

He didn’t make you suck it last time, but you wonder if he will, tonight. Gag the bold subversion out with the subtle flex of his hips, your insolence— you, stupid, little thing, telling him no— with his cockhead spewing against the gummy wall at the back of your throat. 

The view makes you dizzy. Like you’re staring up to the summit of a mountainside with him looming over you. The peak that crawls over you, so tall, and makes you feel so insignificant. 

Those liquid gemstones have shed across your temples, but you don’t recognize it until his thumb swipes at the corner of your eye. A pillow-soft caress. It’s almost tender. Almost. Deliriously, you watch him smudge the same thumb, brandished in your tear, along his cockhead. The wet thumbprint coagulates with the slick there, weeping from his slit. 

“‘Course I can,” he tells you. 

There’s no gentleness in the way he manhandles you, then. Wrangling you, by the scruff of your neck, into a hover across his lap. Positioning you how he sees fit, with him seated back on the couch, and you dangling over his cock, angled up in the seal of his palm. Your knees split across either side of his lap. 

“But mum and dad,” he grunts, and when his cockhead prods against your seam, you gasp, flinching up. “should stick together. Don’t you think?” 

He drags it forward, smudging it against your spent core, and it catches on your clit, the overstimulated nerve endings there, enough to make you shiver. It wracks up your spine. 

There’s nothing romantic about the way he holds you. He doesn’t cradle you close with this sense of softhearted adoration— despite your vulnerability— only pulling you close by the nape when his slick cockhead slaps your clit, your mons, with a wet smack. You gnaw into your lower lip, muscles clenching. Seeking. He smears the tip back to your pulsating rim. 

“What’s’a’matter?” he coos, probably at the rucks between your brows, creasing across your forehead. Your eyes flicker up. “You don’t wanna be my sweet, little wife?”

(You do, you do— you—)

“Oh—“ 

The press of his tip wrenching you open, taut around him, knocks your head back. Makes your shoulders rigid, spine arching over him, and his chuckle to the gasp that clots in your trachea is dark. Rich. It fizzles into a husking growl, though, when he presses down on the tops of your thighs and sinks you over him. Against him. Stretching the wet, sopping heat around him that throbs like a heartbeat with every tight breath you take, every inch lower. Your knuckles scrabble. Notch into his leather jacket, crinkling, burrowing, balling. 

“There you go,” he hisses. Groans. You’re not looking, but you know he is. Feel the molten pools of his gaze fixed where he’s feeding his cock, unwavering. He nearly sounds awed— splintering apart— when he tells you, “Such a pretty pussy. Look at this slutty, little cunt. Swallowing me right up.”

It’s raw. Bare— skin on skin— as close as you can get, and the pang that smarts at your rim permeates all the way up to your head, until that too, feels plugged. Foggy. 

It’s too much. Too—

He flexes his hips up sharply when you stall, just enough to wedge in to the hilt, and it wrests a high sound of surprise out of you. Nearly pained. Liked a kicked animal. It snags on something deep with the motion, something you haven’t been able to reach with your own measly fingers, and you mewl. 

He gruffs a slur behind the mask, tethers it with a groan, a breath that sounds caught in his mouth, but you can’t make out what it is. Not over the thrum in your ears. The assault on your senses, the unstilted stretch that feels like it’s prying you apart. Splitting you down the middle. Your thighs tremble. A sting. A dull throb that spills in your underbelly, lapping at your sex in sweltering, warm waves. Your clit twitches. 

There is something so cataclysmic in the way he hollows you out. Carves himself deep, scoring you in a way that’ll leave you begging for a piece of him, after, when you’re empty. A piece of his rib in return. It’s wrong— you shouldn’t want this man, crave him like you crave sanctum and stability. Your frenzied desperation, panting over him, seated to the throbbing root, feels chock-full of a festering longing you’ve been burrowing down since last spring. Spilling over. It sprouts— and spring, you think, bitterly, is all about revival. Rebirth. Flowering— the yearning you’ve been hiding behind your teeth germinates across your shuddering shoulders. 

He makes you ride him. Grunting, spitting how he wants you to bounce on his cock like the good girl you are. Soft, sloppy, half-hearted grinds you can manage over him, until he takes over, hitched on a huff that sounds nearly exasperated, and ruts up into you with the leverage of his feet on the carpet. 

He fucks you like he’s sedulous to make good on his words. Hard, fast, bludgeoning your rationale until it feels like you need the tang of cigarettes and santalum in every wheezing breath you take, writhing over the shape of him. His thumbs on your nipples. His fingers under the weight of your bouncing tits. 

Every pummel up into you feels like it kisses the seal of your womb. Feels like it’s battering a little closer to fruitions, to threats, and omens, and promises. 

And you like it. Love it. Can’t get away, can’t get enough, pawing at his chest, and then his collarbones, and then his chin, fingers knocking the border of the plastic mask. Kiss me— you think it’s cruel. So cruel, that you can’t kiss him. Can’t make out the shape of his bared teeth, the glint of them with his lips snarling. You want to lick across them. Bite. Taste blood for doing this to you. For making you feel this way. You want to tear him apart. Catch his tongue against your incisors. 

The thought is a distant chimera. A daydream you can’t chase, snared in a limbo— just take, take, take. But over the crests of your cheekbones, your dewy gaze watches him. Watches him, the way he’s watched you. Unrelenting. It’s hazy at the borders. Your sight flecked with wetness, shuddering, like a camera in hands that can’t stay still, but you’re unremitting. 

“Spit on me,” he growls. It’s an abrupt request— command, brimful of authority. Perverse. Then again, when you don’t oblige, it spills as a rasping grunt, “Spit on me.”

It wheedles into your threadbare sense of logic, registers. Your brows weave. Pinch, face creasing when he delivers a sharp plunge up, into you, tip to root. It’s gross. Disgusting. Lecherous. You think about your saliva blooming across his face, the way his heavy balls will throb. 

You want to spit on him. You want to bite him, claw at him, hit him— you pucker your lips. 

It lands as a tacky glob stretching across the bridge of the nose on the mask. Seeping into the inner-corner of the eye cut-out. Glistening, slick. The sight is revolting. Nasty. Your lips curl down, your brows crinkle—

He groans. It’s loud. Suffocated on desire, hunger, want, akin to the noise he made sniffing at your hair like a monstrous hound. A fucking creep. 

One of his hands leaves your chest, his thumb wriggles under the plastic white mask. It gets discarded, tossed off onto the couch. 

The view of him in, only in a balaclava, is new. 

No less unnerving, but it’s different, and it makes your inhale tangle in your throat. Something clicks in your lungs. You hover over him, with his neck craned up at you, and his eyes are green. Two pools of epidote, eroding under the swell of his pupils. Hornblende inkblots. A long, winding wild forest. You could get lost in it. 

(And pitifully, part of you already has. Melting apart like gum under the sun, between his stupid, thick fingers.)

“Fuck. Again. Give me another,” he tells you. It rumbles, but it sounds like a plea. You feel it vibrating in his chest, under your fingers, first, then watch the divot of the balaclava wavering into his mouth when he takes in a breath between his teeth. The way the cotton is stretched, tucked, across the bridge of his nose. 

You spit where he breathes. Where he’s huffing with every brutal thrust of his hips. It speckles the ribbed cotton with shimmer, then melts into the black where his lips lay. You can’t see how it saturates the mask, but you watch the way it affects him. Watch him unravel— the way he breathes through his nose, long, deep, lashes fluttering and dusting along his cheeks as his irises loll, and you’re faced with the view of their pure ivory frames. The pink rim across his lower lash line. 

He hammers into you, mercilessly, with his leather fingertips against your clit. It’s too much. Too harsh. Pleasure and pain coagulate into a lagoon that sloshes your head, pulses between your thighs, under his incessant fingers. 

And when he comes apart, under you, you nearly tip over the precipice at the experience alone. He makes a ragged sound, a groan, hips stuttering, and spurts ribbon after ribbon of his cum against the spongy walls flexing around him. Into you. Against the seal of your womb— oh, God— you burrow your hot face into his shoulder, hips canting, and bite at the leather. 

“Fuck,” he slurs. Heaves— and you feel him melting under you. Thawing. 

Your spine ripples. The molten heat of his cum, sticking to you, plugged up by his throbbing cock, makes you feel feverish. Aching. Charred all over, from the inside. You take a deep breathe and taste his musk at the back of your throat. Lingering along your tongue.

It’s almost comforting. But the reminder of who this man is, and what he does (has done to you, is doing), crawls along the serenity of your haze like a poisonous treacle. You muster the strength in your core to rock up onto your knees, make to clamber off. 

“Okay,” you breathe, “Okay—“

The thought of repose is a bittersweet mirage, though, sparkling in the distance, when he nudges his hips back up from beneath you. 

It knocks into something that makes your lungs seize. You feel his tacky spend coated across the undersides of your ass cheeks, spilling against the inside of your thighs. Pooling in the thicket of dark, wiry hair that nests around the root of his cock, dusting his balls. He grunts, and when he jostles you over his lap again, you have to catch your balance with your hands against his pecs. 

His eyes are shimmery when you blink up at them. Expressive enough for you to clock the derisive mirth that curdles, in shavings, along the chrysoberyl flecks in the tumultuous seas, when he hums. “You didn’t think I was done, did you?”   

He’s not done. Not for a good, long while. But you suppose, that a year of self-denial, precipitous self-restraint, is bound to spill over, eventually.

(It’s just too bad for you that you ended up in the path of the hurricane, front and center.)

He fucks you again over the arm of the couch, with your ribs smushed to the ledge and your knees on the cushion. Arms behind your back, head dangling, tits aching with the press of his weight, every drag against the fabric. Fingers in your mouth, straining the corners wide, riding the grooves of your clamped, slick teeth. Pawing at your ass, squeezing the flesh, prying your cheeks apart humiliatingly wide.

He makes you cum again. And again, until you’re sobbing. Legs hitched over his shoulders, chin twisted, gnawing into your own shoulder to stifle your mewls. 

“Tell me your name,” you slur under him. With his chin over tucked your shoulder, his hum ripples across your eardrum like a humid gust. Rolls between your shoulder blades. 

“Tell me your name,” you beg, again, mottled with frenzied desperation that climbs your throat. You know those eyes. You know that face— the one that lies underneath. The misty contours of it scratch across your skull in the smog of a memory. You know—

Your lower lip wobbles when he cups over your sternum, takes your breast in a doughy handful, squeezing around it, drowning you in every wet squelch, every slap of his hips against your ass. 

“Daddy.”

When you wake up, he’s not there. Ephemeral. The night nearly feels temporal, if not for the slick between your thighs, dewy at your cunt, where your seam is still aching. Crusting along the insides of your thighs. 

You feel like every bone is out of place. Like everything needs to crackle and slot back. Worn, tired, when you kick your feet over the edge of the mattress and stand. It pangs between your legs, first. And then across your chest. 

Your underwear is gone. You know you won’t find it. 

When you check the clock it’s midday. Late, too late to even be considered sleeping in. You’ve wasted the twenty-second off into somnolence. There’s still a haze across your head. This balmy, misty thing that keeps you sluggish. Tired. You’d chalk it up to oversleeping, but. 

It’s short-lived. Hollowed by the vacancy. Something stirs in the back of your head— you should probably send a life signal out to your family. Let them know you’re not splattered across the sidewalk, somewhere, or worse yet—

You think about his words. Keeping you all to himself. The thought makes your shoulders shudder. 

On the way to the bathroom, you find carmine carnations in your kitchen. Mounted in a vase that belongs to you, plucked out of the cabinet over your fridge. Beautiful, beautiful carnations.

kinktober masterlist here. | general masterlist here. | patreon here.

TAGLIST: @aprlmuse @babegoals @cinnamonone @flubblubbb @ivegotthecinema

@bxtchboy69 @iloveharrystyles04 @littlenatilda @witch-rry @watermelonsugarslut

[flamingpudding]

I love your writing so much but I'm here with a crack idea just imagine deage Dan is Klarion.

Dan was able to find out who he is outside of Danny then he was able to change his name Klarion Jackson Fenton/Nightingale he is still a little villain boy also now a mom boy.

Ghost King Danny is his mom young justice was so confused when Klarion you're the best gifts get your mom after not talking to him for a while to also begging them to pretend to be his friend . Justice League dark is panicking in the background about the electric being that just shows up.

Danny in full ghost king attire standing there with a plate of cookies ready to meet his son's new friends.

Thanks so much! I am glad you enjoy my writing!

Also thanks because I absolutely love this Idea/Prompt! Sooooo please enjoy this piece inspired by it! Also I haven't consumed a lot of DC material lately so i am basing this all on my memories. In other words.... I went with Tim's little team here.

Hope that's okay and that this won't disappoint.

-------------------

Dan, who was going by Klarion for some years now, had a massive problem. It was the huge kind of problem build on small bubbles of lies that then turned into this one giant bubble that was about to pop just because of one little question asked by his mom when his sister decided to throw him under the bus to deflect from herself and the fact that she was dating a demon. Don't get him wrong he still loves her, but man did he want to strangle Danielle right now.

"So Klarion, Ellie is right. When will I get to meet your friends you told me so much about?"

It was such an innocent question from his mom. And while his moms titles don't scare him, cause at some point in time they could have been his too, the happy dopey smile like nothing was wrong in the dimensions with little expectations directed at him was the scariest thing his mom could ever direct at him when he had asked THAT question.

So now Klarion was in need of a quick solution. When his mom had asked he had mumbled out a quick: "Next week maybe. We won't be busy with hero stuff then." He had started to form a plan. First of all, he needed to remember what all he had told his mom about his new and redeemed life on Earth 43 he had build for himself with the name Klarion Jackson Fenton-Nightingale.

Which fuck. There was a lot he had told his mom just so he wouldn't worry.

Cause now he also remembers that whenever he had gone out to cause some chaos he had made it seem to his mom like he was going out to bond with his new friend or help them with their hero duty. Well, in a way maybe his chaos causing could be seen as bonding. The ghostly kind, that is. And as for helping with the hero duty... he did give them work, something to do with their hero status. Anyway Klarion tried to remember all possible names he had dropped. Shit why did he also mention to his mom that he was working with heroes to make her proud? He should have name dropped some villains instead but nearly all of them were adults. He knew his mom would have frowned if he had only adult friends and no one around his age.

He was pacing his room in their castle. He need a plan, a good one at that. He knows he name dropped Robin, now Red Robin, Superboy and Impulse on a whim once. Superboy more so cause his mom had been interested in the Alien Heros of the Earth of the dimension he was partially living on now. He had mentioned Robin for the joke of knowing that there is a Dinner in an other Dimension with the same name. And because his Grandfather didn't like the Flash-clan which meant his mom didn't like them too much because of their messing with timelines either, he had mentioned being friends with Impulse on pure spite because of a punishment one day and to see their reactions. So he had to get these three on board anyway, and because for the heck of it he would get Wonder Girl involved too. It was never bad to have a girl in a friends group.

Klarion stopped his pacing. Turning towards his demonic ghost cat companion, kind of what Cujo was to his mom now. "Teekl, I think I have a plan. I will convince these Idiots, that shouldn't be a huge problem. Most of them are normale little flesh sacks." Teekl and him stared for some time at each other and after a moment Klarion huffed turning away with crossed arms. "It's a good plan don't be so sceptical, they are heroes right? They will not refuse my request!"

Well maybe Klarion should have planned this a bit better.

The next day Red Robin blinked at the witch boy up from the ground in the living room of what looked like to be an normal apartment. He had just been in Gotham, working on a case and now he was here? Looking to the left he also noticed that Superboy (the older), Impulse and Wonder Girl were also with him. They all looked stunned he observed and partially disoriented. Additionally they hadn't heard from Klarion since the last time they had foiled his plans on raging chaos upon the earth, that had been weeks ago.

"Kla-"

"I have summoned you heroes here. For the moment it is fruitless to try to leave because of the magic barrier." Okay rude to be cut of but that explained why he suddenly wasn't where he remembered to be last anymore. It was now Superboy who opened his mouth first but before he could even make a sound Klarion decided to speak over them again. "I have presents."

Four young heroes collectively blinked, confused, stunned and weirded out. As the which boy before them waved over to wards a table filled with boxes and packages. "I come in peace today, to proof that I brought these are presents, filled with various goods from different dimensions that should be to the liking of you all. Technologie, accessories, snacks, weapons, as well as clothing styles."

Red Robin shared a glance with his friends, a silent communication but before he once again could say anything Impulse was already by the table going through the stuff. They could here his 'oh's and 'ah's, which inevitably made them curious and they wandered over too. Klarion was not acting hostile at all yet but Red Robin did not trust that so he kept the which boy in clear view the entire time.

"Rob! You gotta see this! That actual futuristic Tech!"

"Look at these snacks."

"These accessories don't look to bad..."

His eye twitched when he noticed Klarion was sporting a smug look. Red Robin had to ask now, because this was not normal for the other. "Okay usually you would have started some big shot chaos plan by now. I don't buy this peace offering act and your way to formal talking. So what is going on?"

The other three, thankfully in Red Robins opinion, finally looked away from the tempting gifts and also turned their attention fully on Klarion. Who's smug smile falter as he let out a sigh and stared at them with what they could only describe as a frustrated look.

"My mom is planning to visit me."

"And?" Impulse asked between munching on three different bags of chips that where on the table.

"And he believes I am friends with you idiots."

They stared slack jawed. Impulse was pinching himself like he couldn't believe what they had just heard. Did one of their Villains, just informed them that their mom believes they were friends? Red Robin was starting to think he might be in a sleep deprived Hallucination.

"Why would she?" Wonder Girl questioned next to which Klarion glared at her with fire in his eyes.

"First of, my mom uses the pronouns he/Him. Be rude to my mom and I will find a way to make your life a permanent hell on earth." Wonder Girl blinked lifting her hands as in a sign of peace. "Second, my mom is under the believe that i work with heroes not against them. I do not have the heart to disappoint him after everything that happened in the past. So I embellished the truth a little."

"A little?" Superboy retorted sarcastically, to which they caught a light blush dusting the which boy's cheeks.

"Look my sister threw me under the bus and my mom wants to meet my friends now! So I need you idiots to play nice with me for when he visits!"

"And we will do that because?" Red Robin crossed his arms, watching their villain sceptically still not really buying this entire act. This was to strange of an behaviour change. Something was up, and he was going to get behind it.

Klarion on the other hand was starting to panic internally. His plan was not as he had hoped. The presents he had specifically gotten from other dimensions with what he believed was their interests did not work to make them simply accept his request. This was the last time he would listen to old man Vlad on how to bribe humans, he wasted his entire week on getting all that stuff. His mom was going to show up soon enough he need to have them act as his friends by then so he could remove the magic barrier. Or else his mom would notices he faked everything.

They left him no choice. He would have to throw his pride away for the sole reason to not disappoint his mom.

All four Young Justice Heroes blinked as Klarion suddenly threw himself on the ground before them into a pleading position.

"Please! I beg you, just for the time my mom is here. Please act like my friends!"

"I didn't think Klarion was a mama's boy...." Impulse whispered to the rest of them in pure disbelief as they stared stunned at the kneeling witch boy.

Cut to the heroes that noticed their teens were missing.....

"Where is he?" Batman growled at the Constantine who was sighing tiredly.

"Look mate, the way you and the other Spandex wearing friends explained it, made it sound like they got summoned by a being of the Infinit Realms." The blond man sighed lighting another cigarette eying the four heroes, Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman and Flash. Zatanna was behind him pouring over a book about the realms and trying to find a tracking spell to trace it back and to where they could have been summoned.

"Don't you have something like a tracker on your boy?" Batman only growled something under his breath to which the Brite couldn't help to arch and eyebrow. Constantine was going to say something sarcasting as Deadman suddenly appeared a panicked look on him. "The Ghost King has chosen to come to our dimension."

"Say bloody what now?" All attention that had been on the heroes and their problem of missing teenage heroes turned now to Deadman and the news he brought with him. "The ghost, shades and spirits talked, for the king has decided to visit our Dimension. They are in an uproar, no one knows of why our King is on his way."

"Bloody fucking hell!" Constantine cursed. "We are fucking screwed! Isn't that guy a fucking tyrannical eldrich war maniac?!"

Deadman nodded solemnly and Constantine uttered another hearty and colourful 'fuck'. While the heroes present exchanged worried glances, not only were their kids missing but now a, by the sounds of it, highly dangerous being decided to appear in their dimension? Batman couldn't help but think that there had to be a connection to the missing teens and this.

Meanwhile in the Infinite Realms the Ghost King Castle...

Danny smoothed out his fur trimmed cape and adjusted his crown so it was floating nicely and evenly on his head. Today was the day he would get to meet his sons friends. He needed to make a good first impression. That was why he had chosen to take on his Ghost King form for this. With the wave of his hand he made an ice mirror appear before him, checking how he was looking once again. Once satisfied he nodded to himself looking over towards Fright Knight who was holding the plate of cookies he had baked himself. It was the fifth batch, and the only one that didn't turn out burned. He had needed Jazz help for this one to turn out well. It was only proper if he brought some cookies for the kids. Also he would have loved to bring his families fudge but... the last time he had tried making them had turned into a disaster.

"Thanks Frighty. Do you think Klarion's friends will like these? Wait don't answer! If they don't like them I will just get something else to thank them for taking care of my boy." Danny rambled on as he glanced at the plate of cookies in his hands. Why was he so nervous? He was just going to get to meet his little boy's friends. Sure his boy had dropped some stories about them and his adventures with them here and there. But hearing stories and meeting the kids were two different things.

Shaking his head Danny put on his best smile as he summoned a portal to Klarions apartment in the 43th Dimension of Earth. It was time to visit his boy in the place he had made his second home and thank the people that looked after his kid.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Perfect Gift

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Bucky Barnes, older!reader (50s)

Summary: you remember Bucky's birthday but he wants more than you give him.

Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BUCKO.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

It's a bit silly. A bit of extra effort feels like a lot. You're almost embarrassed at the thought of it. You should just keep it to yourself. Give it to someone else. You probably won't even see him. 

You stand at the tall lab table, one elbow planted as you hover your pen over the report. There's not much going on that day but it's still special. For him. He must have plans, certainly with someone else. Forget it, do your work.  

No one needs any stitching up so you'll stick with the usual. You still can't figure out what that thick blue sludge is. A venom that sticks to the skin like tar. Despite running it through almost every piece of equipment available to you, it remains mysterious and it wouldn't be too unusual to find it isn't an earthly substance. 

Sigh. The icing's going to melt. You're stupid. And too old to be. 

You cringe behind your hand as you lean your forehead into your palm. The door slides open from the other side and you sit up, the stool wobbling beneath you dangerously. You latch onto the table and steady the feet. 

Oh, it's him. Shoot. Despite the work you put into the surprise, you suddenly wish he'd stayed away. That he kept to his actual friends. 

"Hey," Bucky marches up to the end of the table. "You figure out that gas?" 

"Gas... er, oh yes," you perk up. Work is easy to talk about. It's what you know. They only thing you've ever known. "I'm surprised it didn't knock you out. You brought me an empty canister." 

"Serum," he shrugs, his vibranium arm flexing as if reminding you of who he is. How can you forget that? 

"Right, uh, about that--" 

"No more needles, doc. I heard you got enough samples from Hydra," he crosses his arms. Despite his warning, humour dimples in his cheek. 

"No, I wasn't..." you shake your head. "I was just thinking you could do eight hours on a treadmill while I monitor your levels." 

"You are insane," he scoffs and unfolds his arms. He rounds the table, dragging his metal fingertips over it. 

"Anyway, er, about that gas," you hop off the stool before he can reach you. "It's designed to inhibit neural processing. I mean, the immediate effects are typical. Unconsciousness but after that, it sticks around." You look at him and squint, "how are you feeling?" 

"As good as I ever do," he levels his hand and wiggles it, "middling." 

"Right," you exhale and tap your toe nervously. "Even... on your birthday?" 

He pokes his tongue into his cheek and his eyes list away, "you remembered?" 

"I have a thing for dates." You say. 

"A historian and a doctor, wow," he utters. 

You look away, "sorry... if I overstepped. I know some people like that to keep that stuff private. You know, small celebrations." 

"Well, I haven't celebrated since 1941, so... yeah, not on the top of my list." 

His words hang in the air. Your heart races and he sighs. He slowly nears. 

"But..." he drags out the last consonant, "you did something." 

"Bucky..." 

"I can hear your heart. No use pretending. Oh, shit, please don't say it's a surprise party. I knew Sam was up to something," he growls. 

You laugh. It's nice of him to think you'd be included. You shake your head and back up. 

"It's... just from me. Nothing big," you go to your locker and reach into the cooler bag. "I hope you have a sweet tooth--" 

You turn back and find him right in front of you. You flinch. You gasp in surprise. He's fast. And silent. 

"It's er," you look past him, at where he just was, on the other side of the table, "a cupcake. Strawberry swirl with a shortcake crumple on top and cream cheese icing," you cradle the container daintily. 

"Wow, you did that? For me?" 

"I mean, it's a hobby. I always end up giving cookies out to the neighborhood kids," you shrug. "Really, it's small. Nothing big." 

His blue eyes focus on the clear top of the container. He blinks. His jaw tenses and his dimples deepen, the cleft in his chin tautens. You nearly wilt at the heat roiling from him; or that's just you and your stupid self. 

"I... thanks," he reaches to take it, his fingers brushing yours. "That's..." he exhales. "That's nice of you. It's... incredible." He turns it and examines your delicate work. "The last birthday cake I had didn't even have eggs." He looks you in the eye, "rationing." 

"Oh, right," you heave. You forget he's technically older than you. That serum has surely helped. "Well, I hope you enjoy it." 

"I'm sure I will. It's almost a shame to eat it. It's so nice," he says. "At least, it would be a shame to eat it al--" 

"There you are!" A voice calls from the doorway. "Did you forget?" 

You look over at Nat as she puts her hand on her perfectly curved hip. Even in street clothes, you can tell she has an hourglass figure. And she's stunning with her bold red hair and porcelain complexion. 

"I didn't forget," he rebuffs and sends you a goofy smile. "Girlfriends." 

"Ha, right," you sidle away awkwardly and go back to the lab table. He crosses to Nat as she stands by the door. 

"Whatever," she drawls. "Oh, what's that?" 

"Cake. My cake," he insists and holds the container out of her grasp. 

You peek up as he raises his hand and meet Nat's eyes. You blanch. She tilts her head slightly. You offer a weak smile. 

"Just see if you can keep it from me," she returns her attention to him with a snarl. "I mean, we were planning on wrestling anyway." 

She grabs the front of his tee shirt and pulls him to her. She stands on her toes and pushes her lips to his as he angles down to meet her. You quickly look at the forgotten report and search for your notes.  

Ugh, you are so lame. You really thought you'd outgrown crushes. Well, time heals everything, doesn't it? That man is all the proof you need of that. 

🧁

You look at the clock and sigh. You did it again. Time is your nemesis, always eluding you. You rub your eyes and stifle a yawn. If you head out now, you might actually get some sleep.  

You open your locker and slide the tablet into your burgundy leather bag. You wish you were as sophisticated as you seemed. From the outside, you have a degree, several, you splurge on labels, you always have good food...  

But you don't do anything. You don't go out with friends. You don't have friends. You have acquaintances.  

A subtle swish prickles your hackles. You peer over as the lab door opens. You fumble your bag at the figure there.  

Bucky cradles his face as he looks around with his uncovered eye. He winces as he sees you and enters, "thank god you're here, doc, think I need stitches."  

"Stitches?" You grimace and put your bag back on the shelf. "How on earth--"  

You hurry over to him as he chuckles, "yeah, I know. I always gotta ruin things."  

You tut and wave him over to the table. You open a drawer and take out a sanitizing wipe. "Let me see."  

He lowers his hand. His eye socket is already discoloured and there's a gash in his brow. Your eyes round.  

"What happened?" You reach to dab away the blood gently.  

He groans, "well, you know, Russians and their vodka."  

You look him in the eye curiously. You continue to wipe away the blood. You try not to ogle him. How many times have you patched him up? Don't be a fool.

"Natasha?" You wonder.  

"Mhm. Well, I mean, she gets rough just typically... in a different context," he laughs again and the insinuation makes you twitch.  "We were arguing..."  

"Arguing," you echo as you toss the wipe and examine the cut. "No stitches. I can glue it shut."  

"Right," he nods, leaning in to give you a better angle. "Anyway, we were kidding around and it got a bit serious. She gets jealous easy, ya know?"  

You uncap the bottle and place a hand gentle on his head, framing his brow. You're as careful as you can be. He hardly seems bothered. You apply the glue precisely.  

"Jealous?" You prompt.  

"Ha, yeah, funny thing," he clucks. "She's jealous of you."  

"Me?" You put the glue away and snort. You busy yourself as you tuck the kit away then go to wash your hands. You feel him watching.  

"That cake you made me. I might have been drooling over it," he says. "You're a hell of a baker. You got a degree in that too?"  

You roll your eyes then face him, once more startled to find him close. You steady yourself as you lean on the table behind you.  

"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it," you murmur, clearing your throat as it clenches. "You know, it's not my place but she did some nasty work on you."  

"Yeah, she did," he touches his brow and winces. "But you got me, doc. Like always."  

"Yep, well, you're all good, so..."  

You realise how close he is. It would be hard to slip by without brushing him. You freeze and stare at him, confused.  

"I think you forgot something," he says.  

Your brows knit and your lips downturn, "I did?"  

"Yeah," he runs his knuckles up your arm, "aren't you going to kiss it better?"  

You blink. Then you guffaw. Then you feel horribly dumb.  

"Don't be silly," you catch his hand as it crawls along your shoulder.  

He doesn't stop. He flicks your fingers away and tickles your neck. You gulp and lean away.  

"Not being silly," he grabs your chin, his grip firm. "I'm serious. I think it would help," he grins.  

"I don't... alright. I think it's late and I--"  

"Those lips have gotta be just as tender as those hands," he stretches his thumb up to touch your lips. You shiver.   

"Bucky," you say appeasingly. You have to be asleep at the table, dreaming again.  

"You think I can't hear your heart hitch every time I walk in? Hm?" He steps closer to loom over you, "think I can't smell it in your sweat? That I can't smell you getting wet--"  

"Stop! Stop, please," you try to pull away from his hand. "Bucky, that's... please."  

"A little kiss," he growls. "Just here."  

He lets you go and traces the cut. You quiver, blood surging, skin alight. You slowly hover closer and press your lips to his brow. He hums.  

He pulls away. He's too quick for you to elude. You have to no time to react as he takes you off your feet. 

His hands are on your hips. You wriggle. You’re overly conscious of the extra cushion there as his fingers curl into it. You yelp. 

“Please, Bucky,” you push on his hands.  

“I know you want me,” he snarls as he slides his fingers under your ass, groping you as he pushes between your knees. 

“Bucky, it’s just--” 

“It’s just...” he interjects as he leans in until his nose touches yours, “my birthday and I know exactly what I want.” 

[that-one-anxious-mango]

sweet negotiations

summary: terry finds himself in a series of negotiations and comforts with his wife after a key asset in their home is compromised.

pairing: terry richmond x black reader (Dallas)

content: fluff, allusions to nsfw acts, some mild crying (hormones)

a/n: hello there and welcome! after looking for some more fluffy terry fics and almost crashing out when I couldn't find them, I decided to just start writing some that will all take place in the same universe titled 'thunder and lighting’ which will follow you, terry, and the antics of domestic and kinky married life. this is the first of many to come. so enjoy, like, comment, and reblog :)

" I said no." Terry, his voice soft and tired, sounded off the freshly painted sage green walls of nursery, “ Now, stop pouting and hand me the second screwdriver on the chair, please.” 

But instead of moving to fulfil his request, you stay planted in your spot by the door, still pouting, possibly harder now as you looked down to inform your companion of the mistreatment.

“ You hear that, muffin? You hear how Daddy is being mean to us.” You playfully patted at your swollen stomach, while being sure to throw your husband an extra pouty expression—bottom lip puckered and all. “ Why won’t he be nice and feed us, huh?”

In this moment of time you were about five months pregnant with yours and Terry's third child. And while he absolutely adored seeing you like this, barefoot, in one of his old band shirts and low shorts, with a scarf on your head, and thick bifocals sitting neatly at the bridge of your nose as carried his baby. He could do without the sullen expression on your face as an accessory.

“ Baby, ain’t nobody being mean to you by telling you that you can’t have a half a pint of ice cream for breakfast.” Terry's eyes glance at you, before turning his attention back to the half done wooden crib he was working on. “ Now, if you want me to make you some eggs, toast, or oatmeal. I will. But you ain’t having that this early in the morning.” 

“ If at all today. Need to watch what you’re eating more carefully, Mama.” He reminded you. “ Remember what Dr. Kaltura said about watching excess sugar and salt intake. This is serious.”

Quickly the words of your OB flashed through your brain after it had been found that your blood sugar had been a tad higher than she’d liked, a fate that had carried on from your previous pregnancy with your twins into this one.

And of course the minute your husband had caught wind of this, he had come out of retirement from the sugar task force as he now micromanaged and policed every and all things you consumed for the foreseeable future.

“ But Terryyyy.” You whined, “ That’s what both of us want, Poppa.”

Still despite your efforts, he wouldn’t budge.

“No. She doesn’t want that. You do’.” He pointed out, getting up to grab his needed tool,“ Besides, there isn’t anymore anyway.”

“ Yes, he absolutely does. “ You slyly corrected your husband’s wishful thinking, “ And what do you mean there isn’t anymore? Did you throw out my ice cream, Richmond?! Cause I would absolutely hope that’s not what you’re insinuating.”

He sighed, noting the way your eyes turned wild at the thought of your husband touching your beloved sweet treat.

He knew better.

Cause that would be too far and he knew it.

“ No, ma’am.” He simply said, moving back to his work, “ Not this Richmond.” 

“ However, our dear Teensy Richmond may have eaten the rest of it last night after dinner for dessert when you went upstairs to take your bath.” He referred to one your soundly sleeping six year old daughters just down the hall. 

Immediately a frown found a home on your face as you said, “ Wha—I thought I left out pieces of the pecan pie for ya’ll to have. Why were there cute tiny little grubby hands on my ice cream, Poppa?!!”

You huffed, recalling how you had distinctively cut and plated three different pieces of a pecan pie, one large and two small, for your little family to consume after a delicious dinner of lamb chops and smothered potatoes with smoked asparagus.

“ You did.” He confirmed your thoughts , “ But our baby requested to have her pie…a la mode. Which meant a scoop of some of your rocky road was needed as that was the only ice cream left in the freezer.”

“ And as you know, our Tiny Richmond isn’t too fond of rocky road. So she had hers plain jane with glass of milk.” He furthered his explanation.

And although you wanted to be mad at your baby’s little sweet tooth, you couldn’t be, because she got it honest. Still you couldn’t shake off this strange and sudden feeling of…well sadness…that coursed through your body at the thought of the empty ice cream container sitting downstairs in the garbage.

“ Yeah, but if you only gave Teensy a scoop of it. And Tiny didn’t have any, there should be some left.” You tried rationalizing in the same manner of if Johnny had two apples…

Until it came to you, “ Unless…”  

You looked to him and as if he could really read your thoughts, he held a sheepish expression on his face, as he knew what was next to come, “Terrance seriously?!” You hadn’t meant to, but you stamped your feet lightly against the shiny hardwood floor. “ I can’t believe your big eared ass ate my ice cream.”

And just like that your brief moment of sadness has morphed into hormone filled rage.

To which your husband found oddly adorable doing his best to keep a smile off his face, remorse riddled in his tone when he said, “ I’m sorry, Precious. She didn’t wanna eat alone. And since Tiny wasn’t going to have any, I may have had a scoop…or two myself to help finish it off. But it’s okay. We can get more at the store later.” He reasoned, screwing in nut B to pole B. 

By now he was expecting his thunderous woman of a wife to do what she does best, which is make noise about the fact that the rest of her brood ate the ‘ one damn thing the baby allows her to keep down’, but instead he was surprised to look over and see you standing there silent—with tears collecting just at the edge of your waterline. Frown deep. Shoulders slumped.

“ Baby….” He called out in a knowing tone, looking at the way your mouth had slightly turned down and your arms had wrapped around your body, “ C’mon now, Precious. It’s alright. ”

But almost as if it was the release words for your tears, you quickly found your fingertips becoming increasingly wet from wiping the streams away from your cheeks as you began to head toward the door. Slightly embarrassed at your lactose driven waterworks.

Getting up with a sigh, he wasted no time making his way over to you, big hands coming to cup your waist and guide you over to the creme rocking chair, moving all the tools on it to the floor.

It didn’t take long for him to sit and guide you on his lap, an arm wrapped tight around your waist while a calloused hand came to rub against the damp soft apple of your cheek. 

“ C’mere, pretty baby.”  He pecked your lips, tasting the salt of your tears, “ You know I don’t like it when my woman is unhappy. Especially when you’re crying.” 

“ I just can’t help it.” You mutter, partially frustrated with your inability to get a hard grasp on your emotions. “ I just really wanted it. And I mean I know it’s not that serious enough for me to be crying over. And it may seem dramatic but- ” 

“ But it made you upset and that’s okay. You don’t have to explain or try and justify you wanting to cry to me, Baby. It’s fine.” He affirmed, a hand coming to rub at your belly, “ I know this one has those emotions a tad high, and I’m sure Teensy and I blowing up your ice cream stash ain’t helping.” 

A smile fainting at your lips, at the thought of your husband and daughters sitting at the dining room table, talking and laughing over their late night dessert. 

“ So once the twins wake up and we have breakfast we can all take a family trip to the store and grab some more, alright?” He said. 

“ Mmm. And some more Oreos? And Miss Vickie’s Jalapeño?” You rubbed your eyes before looking at him intently, a smirk playing on his face, “ Ya’ know for the pain and suffering caused.” 

“ Hmm. I see.” A hand traveling to your thigh, “ Well for your pain and suffering I am willing to offer you a pint…not a a half baby…but a full pint of rocky road, with a bag of the chips.”

“ Mmm. But what about my Oreos.” You mused. 

He shook his head, “ Nope. Not on the table, beloved. Too much sugar.”

“ Mmm. I dunno. Doesn’t sound fair. I mean I already was owed the ice cream. And while the chips are a good gesture of faith. I feel I deserve more for this indiscretion.” 

He was silent, still smiling at the determination in your filled out cheeks when he said, “  Fine. Counter offer. Pint of the rocky road, bag of chips, and I’ll throw in a bubble bath and personal back massage from yours truly after dinner.” Your breath hitched, feeling a hand slip underneath your bottom to palm the bit of exposed skin you had peeking from under your night shorts. 

“ Just for the record. What kind of massage would this be? ” You coyly inquired, knowing full well what kind he meant.

He moved his mouth to your ear, “ One with a guaranteed happy ending. For us both it seems.”

And how could you deny that? 

“ Fine. I accept your counter offer with the added addition that oil will be used for my massage.”

“ Of course m’am. No other way I’d do it.” He assured, rubbing circles in your thighs. 

“ Good.” You said.

“ Great.” He one upped, “ Now, how should we close this deal? I say with a kiss.”

“ Mmm. “ You hummed, “ I dunno. I think I may need more than a kiss to seal it. And I also think we may need to try out and see how sturdy this chair is. Ya’ know for safety reasons.” 

“ And do you suggest we do that?” His voice low.

“ I dunno.” Your lips find his cheek then his ear, “ We’re already seeing how much weight it can hold, but I wonder how much…rocking or bouncing it can take.”

“ Right, safety reasons.” He mumbled across the skin of your neck, “ Well if that’s the case then—” 

“ Poppa? Mommy? ” The little voice called out from the hallway.

“ WHERE ARE YOU?!” Another yelled, ceasing both yours and Terry’s movements completely , and instead invoked laughter amongst the two of you as he helped you climb off of him and shuffle to the door to collect your late night little ice cream bandit and morning hallway screamer.

[takamimami]

Omg omg, could I request “Your hand feels so much better than mine.” For Benn Beckman please? I just need more smut of him 🥺💜 thank you so much!! ✨😊

Hello, lovely. Firstly, I want to apologize for how LONG it took me to get to this request and thank you for your patience :3 I said this in a previous request too, but I didn't want to just force myself to write something I wouldn't be proud of, so I needed to wait to find some inspiration for this (on top of being heavily distracted by my other vices lately >.>)

Anyway, this is the first ever piece I've written for Benn, so I hope I did him justice for you!! <3

Benn Beckman x F!Reader - NSFW - “Your hand feels so much better than mine.” STORY UNDER THE CUT - MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI 🔞 CW: SMUT; exhibitionism/public sex, sexual tension, benn's got a filthy mouth, fingering, benn calls you 'doll' and 'good girl' :3, shanks is a menace, why does the red force have trees on deck???, kinda cool but still ---word count 1.7k

Perched underneath one of the trees at the stern of the ship, you flipped through the pages of the newspaper you’d snagged from the vendor on the port town your crew had just left – noting the headline on the innermost page.  

‘Rockstar “Soul King” Joins Straw Hat Pirates – Claims Straw Hat Luffy Lives!’ 

You often found yourself in this same spot when you struggled to fall asleep, your brain running rampant and unrelenting to the exhaustion your body felt. 

“They’ll make anything a headline, these days,” a deep voice echoes over your shoulder, and you fight your initial reaction and do your best to appear unfazed at the frame that stops in front of you. 

Tonight had been the closest you’d come to giving into the game you and your vice-captain had been playing for weeks now. You knew he was giving you your space to sort through your feelings, but the sexual tension between the two of you only grew more intense the longer you tried to ignore it. 

You drop the newspaper down far enough to look up at the tall man, just in time to watch him lift his cigarette to his lips and pull a long drag from it. He lets the smoke flow slowly from his nostrils as he stares down at you, brow cocked as you hold his stare intently. 

“Soul King's not your style, Becks?” You muse, watching the smirk that curls up on his lips when you finally speak to him. 

“Didn’t say that,” he retorts, and you fold the newspaper in half to offer him your full attention. “I just think anyone who thought Straw Hat was dead could use a few extra brain cells.” 

You chuckle and stand from the spot you were leaning against the tree, shifting awkwardly as Benn takes a step toward you. 

“So, doll,” he drawls, “What’s got you awake this late?” 

The knowing smirk on his lips has a blush heating up your cheeks, mind racing back to the booth you two had been cozied up in at the tavern just last night. 

“Just... not tired,” you answer, keeping your words short in case your voice betrays you as you try to feign nonchalance. “You?” 

“Same,” he says flatly, flicking the butt of his cigarette into the dirt and stamping it out with his boot. “Can’t seem to stop thinking about this pretty little thing I was... chatting with tonight. She ran off on me and left me all by my lonesome.” 

Your blush only intensifies as he takes another step closer to you, chin dropping so he can crane over your smaller frame. 

“Starting to think she might be scared of me, or that she’s got someone else warming her bed.” 

You keep your eyes on his lips as he speaks, his voice dropping an octave and sending a surge of desire straight to your core. When he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip your eyes flick up to meet his, feeling his breath tickle your neck as he leans in closer. 

“I doubt it's either of those things,” you manage to form the words despite the tension threatening to consume both of you. “Maybe she just didn’t think you'd feel the same way about her.” 

Benn quirks his brow and you smirk as he offers one of his own, your shoulders relaxing slightly as he snakes a muscled arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him. 

“Well, that’s a shame,” he muses, lips just an inch from yours as he speaks, “If she would have opened her eyes a little wider, she might have been able to see just how much I feel for her.” He growls out the last of his sentence and the sound snaps a cord in your mind, your brain unable to control your body as it presses further into him.  

You connect your lips to his and he welcomes the kiss, letting you feel some semblance of control over the situation as you nip and bite at his lips. When he parts them for you, your tongue presses into his mouth fervently, tangling with his own as he grips your hips and guides you back toward the tree you had been leaning against previously.  

Once your back presses against the wood, you feel Benn’s rough hands slide down and grab at the back of your knees, lifting you up towards his chest and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist. You feel him growing hard under the pressure of your core against his, and you hiss into his mouth when he ruts his hips against you roughly, the movement full of need and desire as he takes command of the kiss. He pulls his lips from your mouth to pepper wet kisses along your jaw, slowly moving lower as he alternates between open-mouth kisses and gentle nips at your skin. 

A sound from the bow of the ship reminds you where you are, and how exposed the two of you are as you whip your head around, scanning the area for anyone who might be watching. 

“Everyone’s asleep, doll,” he groans against your neck, hips moving again between your legs and causing you to whimper under his touch. “No one’ll see.” 

His words do little to reassure you, so in order to pull your attention back to him, Benn reaches up and tugs at the hem of your top, pulling it down far enough to expose one of your breasts to him before dipping his head down and taking a nipple between his teeth teasingly. 

“Don’t know if I can wait any longer,” he growls, and again your mind melts as he sucks down on the sensitive bud in his mouth, his hand shifting to fumble with the button of your pants as you fist his grey hair. “I shouldn’t admit this, but... I came by your room earlier. Heard all those pretty sounds you were making.” 

Your eyes go wide at his admission, face flushing deeply as he tugs your pants down your legs. 

“Didn’t want to interrupt in case you weren’t alone, but now that I know that wasn’t the case... I gotta know,” his voice hitches as he traces the lace of your underwear, feeling the dampness of them as he strokes over your clothed cunt. 

“Were you thinking of me when you touched yourself, doll? Did you imagine they were my hands?” 

A nod is all you can manage as he tugs your underwear to the side, and a moan slips from your lips as he runs his fingers through your wet folds. 

“Good,” he croons, his face dipping down so that his mouth grazes your earlobe. “’Cause I’ve thought about having your tight cunt wrapped around my cock for ages. Thought about how good those pretty little hands would feel stroking me.” 

A sudden stretch has your eyes screwing shut and your head pressing back against the tree, his thick fingers curling against your walls as he presses two of them deep inside you. You bite your lip to keep quiet, but your moans still manage to slip through as Benn lifts his eyes from your soaking cunt. 

“That feel good, doll?” 

You nod and Benn presses his forehead against yours, commanding your attention as he continues his ministrations. 

“Huh-uh. Use your words.” 

You whimper at the command in his tone, eyes opening to look into his as he awaits your response. 

“Y-yes, Becks,” you whine, your eyes dropping to where he is touching you as another moan escapes you. “Your hands feel so much better than mine.” 

Benn’s eyes twitch and you grip his shoulders as he shifts to pull his erection from his pants, your eyes widening at the considerable size of him.  

“Hmm, I bet this will feel even better than, doll,” he growls as he pulls his fingers from you, using the same hand to stroke himself and lubricate his shaft with your arousal. 

After a few tantalizingly long moments he shifts you higher into his grasp, lining himself up at your entrance and pressing into you slowly as you feel all the air leave your lungs. 

“Fuuuuuck,” he hisses, and you dig your nails into his shoulders as he presses into your fully, giving you a moment to adjust to the stretch of him. 

When he starts moving again your mouth falls open, the drag of his cock along your walls pulling obscene sounds from you and your cunt as he quickens his pace. Your whole body hitches from the power of his thrusts, your back scraping against the bark of the tree with each movement.  

“You like that, doll?” He growls into your neck, sinking his teeth into your neck gently as he tries to muffle the sounds of his own moans. “You gonna sing me a pretty song while you come on my cock?” 

You manage to gasp out a feeble “Yes” as Benn brings his calloused finger to your clit, thumbing gentle circles around it as you feel yourself tighten around him. Unable to contain it any longer, you let your mouth fall open as his name falls from your lips, the pitch in your voice signaling your end as your body begins to shake with pleasure. 

“Good girl,” he croons in your ear, keeping his thrusts precise and sharp as he fucks you through your orgasm.  

Your voice breaks as your mouth goes dry, your labored breathing causing your chest to rise and fall against Benn's as his hips slowly come to a halt. He holds you close, letting his cloak fall over your exposed body. 

“D-did you...” 

“Good Gods, Beck!” You hear a familiar voice call out from the nearby staircase. “When I said ‘by any means necessary’, this is NOT what I had in mind.” 

Your body goes still as you feel all the color drain from your face, blood running cold as you realize that it is the voice of your captain. 

Benn, seemingly unfazed, simply holds you closer to him as he flips Shanks a middle finger, and much to your relief the sounds of laughing and footsteps grow further away as he pulls your pants back up your legs for you. 

“Don’t worry, doll,” he smirks mischievously, tugging you into his arms again and carrying you toward his quarters. “I’m not done with you, yet.” 

✨come say hai :3✨

[aklaustaleteller]

An Unofficial Date

Klaus has had a certain starry-eyed girl on his mind, so when he walks into a museum, not at all with the hope of finding her inside, he can't help but strike up a conversation, which might've just led to Y/n agreeing to see him again.

Warnings - none that I can think of!

Word Count - 1.6k

Masterlist | Please reblog the work to share!

Been writing something that has had me researching left, right, and center! So I thought that while I worked on that one, I'd write a quick little something to freshen up a tad. Hope you enjoy a giddy Klaus hahah!

On a random, foggy Tuesday morning, Klaus found himself taking a quick stroll to the new Art Museum that had appeared out of nowhere in Mystic Falls. Well, for him anyways, for he hadn't come across the building in the months that he had been existing in the small town.

But one couldn't fault him for that, seeing that he had been so busy messing with a group of teenagers, or rather – with a couple of centuries old vampires, a newborn werewolf, and even a newfound witch, should he say.

But what took up most of his time was this starry-eyed girl with whom his eyes always seemed to meet whenever they were in the same room. That was all he got, though. The chance to look into her eyes for a fleeting second before she was shifting her gaze onto something else, leaving him breathless and wanting for more.

He never caught her name, or even a smile. Each time he saw her, he had been in search for a muse. And each time, she succeeded in sending a surge of creativity flowing through his entire being that consumed him so fully that he would race home and embrace that rush of adrenaline until he needed more.

Then, he would go out to steal another glance at her. The problem was, he hadn't been seeing her around for a week now. And he was anxious that she might've left the town, for she was the type of person whose absence went unnoticed for all but those who'd even once shared her company.

So, he felt a bit hopeful since he hadn't heard of Damon or Bonnie complaining about their loss of time with her. But he was also dreadful, wanting nothing more than to meet with her again knowing that this time he wouldn’t miss the chance to speak to her.

If Klaus had to be honest, he'd confess that the sole reason he was even heading to the museum was because he had a feeling that this could be one of the places he'd find her.

On his walk, he came across wildflowers and rose bushes, a couple of pinecones and a odd looking lemon tree, that stood lonely in midst of all the fog that had settled around it. And Klaus wondered if she paid attention to such details, if he should pick out a rose in case he did come across her? But he settled on not doing that, since that would surely give him away instantly.

He strolled through the corridors, sparing each art piece a single glance because he couldn't feel the emotions of looking at them for the first time and the curiousity of trying to unwind the stories in them due to his ages old knowledge that proved the collection in this museum to be quite poor.

There were a few people inside, a few dreamers scattered throughout the place, either sitting on the floor, sketching out what they could see in the painting or standing as if trying to count the stars, their eyes set on complicated pieces that pretentiously twisted the wires of their brains.

His eyes were wandering, and he was people watching now, rather than looking at the art that hung in frames. Which is how, there was a stutter in the search of his eyes when he caught sight of someone sitting against a wall opposite a painting, dressed in something quite vintage with a bowl of blackberries in their lap. A smile threatened to slip on his mouth.

He suppressed it though, looking at the ground to wait-out the disappearance of his blush before he squared his shoulders.

"Hello there," Klaus smiled, looking down at her and nodding when he had her attention. "Think I've seen you around?"

She broke a smile then, a small frown settling between her brows. "Hi, and …think I’ve witnessed a couple instances myself!" She laughed, her palm twitching awkwardly as she battled whether she should continue to eat, offer him some or wipe her stained hands on her thrifted dress.

She offered him to sit beside her instead, and then offered him her snack.

"Why thank you," Klaus murmured, his heart racing inside his chest the moment he caught a whiff of her perfume.

"I'm Niklaus, by the way."

She looked at him intriguingly, swallowing as she nodded to herself. "That's a nice name," she admitted. "Any meaning behind it?"

Klaus looked away, pretending to look at the painting in front of them in order to hide the sudden blood-rush to his face.

"Yes, yes it does," he said. "It comes from a Greek word, um, Nikolaos, I think? Means victory of the people."

"Well, I'm Y/n," she extended her clean hand out and Klaus shook it, electricity coursing through his being.

He sighed and locked his arms around his knees.

"So, Y/n," he tasted her name on his tongue and right away, wanted more of it. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing special, been writing a thesis lately. Came here for a break and some change of scenery," she shrugged.

"A thesis?" Klaus asked, feeling intrigued and when she nodded nonchalantly, he felt baffled. "On what, if you don't mind me asking?"

She was smiling bashfully now, looking down at the remaining blackberries. "You'll laugh," she said.

"And why would that be?"

She clenched her eyes shut. "Because it's on hotels," she raced to say, peeking at him with one eye to see his reaction. He wasn't laughing so she looked at him properly, dumbfounded, noting that his expression was the same as before, if not more interested.

"Tell me more about it," Klaus asked, leaning his head on his knee to look at her.

She was blushing, and Klaus made a mental note to try and get the shade right on his canvas when he went back home.

"Well, it's going to be a tangent, so don't complain, okay?" She looked at him warily. He blinked softly, urging her on and she felt something shift between them.

"You asked for this," she sighed, and he chuckled, picking up another berry as she turned so that she was facing him, sitting cross-legged with a straight back.

She went on then, and Klaus was absorbing every single word that she was saying along with her wild hand-gestures that he felt like were going to hit him at some point. He noticed the sparkle in her eyes doubling-up as she talked about something she clearly felt passionate about.

Her cheeks had grown slightly red, and her mouth was stained by the blackberries. She mentioned how she had an even softer spot for haunted houses and hotels, making him grin with her.

It felt vulnerable for some reason, and Klaus' heart felt like it was growing inside of his chest.

She was spilling for him all of the research she had done so far, and it was admirable how well she was doing at explaining to him all of it. He wasn't sure if he was going to be able to look at the hotels the same way again, knowing now the way she looked at them.

And he knew that he was going to pester her again sometime and ask her about the gold chain that she wore, in the middle of which hung a glass globe that held something in the shape of a star preserved inside it. He had a feeling that everything that adorned her body held some meaning to it for her. 

"And I think that's all I've got on it, so far anyways," she finished with a deep breath, looking at him with a big grin on her face. She had lipstick on her bottom teeth, or maybe it was just the berrie’s stain; Klaus looked away.

"I think I have a newfound soft-spot for hotels now," Klaus sighed, straightening his back and leaning against the wall, craning his neck to look at her.

"I'm so very glad to hear that," she chuckled. "My apologies for talking your ear off, but hey, you asked for it!"

"I've got a feeling that I might ask for it again," he winked, and she looked away immediately, the corners of her mouth lifted up.

"Can't be now because I need to get going," she shrugged, checking her wristwatch whose leather band was beginning to wither off.

"Sure, think I wasted some of your time there," grinning sheepishly, Klaus rubbed the back of his neck.

But she laughed as she packed away her book and the empty container back into her bag. "No, Klaus, thank you for listening," she said, genuinely.

"Anytime," Klaus muttered shyly, watching as she got up and waved him goodbye.

Klaus waved back with a wistful smile, watching her walk away when he suddenly realised.

"When will I see you again?" He shouted, ignoring the incredulous looks he got from the strangers. He slipped his hands in his pockets and shrugged when she turned around to look at him with wide eyes.

"I love taking evening walks around the neighbourhood," she said at a normal volume, and Klaus heard her just right.

He was going to be delusional and tell him himself that today had been an unofficial date, maybe he'd ask her out for an official one when he saw her the next time.

He nodded at her, giving her a salute as he rolled on the toe and then the heels of his feet, grinning shamelessly as she laughed and walked away, sparing him one last glance before turning around the corner, out of his sight but not once out of his mind.

[taikeero-lecoredier]

RECENT UPDATES ON THE BAD INTERNET CALIFORNIA BILLS:

Sadly, both AB1949 and SB976 passed and are now on their way to the governors desk.

We need him to veto them so they dont become Law.

If you havent Heard of the danger of those bills for the Internet , this post explain it thoroughly :

- Post doing a deep explanation on those bills here

I CANNOT emphasize enough how these would have a global effect on the Internet given that most websites and apps originates from California and not all of them could afford either following those bills or moving states.

Now, as the bills are on their way to the governor, we need Californian citizens to voice their oppositions to those bills to the Governor Gavin Newsome HERE

(Non California peeps, we are urging you to share this as well!!! )

Please keep in mind that calling with phone is much,much more efficient.

You can also send faxes with Faxzero

Here are scripts you can use as arguments : (text/alt version below the read more )

Than you for reading. Even if youre not from California, please spread the word anyway ! Make posts,tweets,etc

REBLOGS ENCOURAGED

TEXT VERSION :

AB 1949

Hello, my name is (INSERT NAME HERE) and I'm one of the Senator's constituents from (INSERT CITY HERE). I'm calling to urge the Senator to vote NO on AB 1949, the amendment to the California Consumer Privacy Act of 2020. While this bill's intent is to prevent the sharing and sale of minor's information under the age of 18, the method it would intend to do so by is written far too broadly for it to be safely and reasonably implemented.

While this bill retains a safer standard of the business requiring actual knowledge of a consumer being under the age of 18 to be held liable for the sharing or sale of personal information, its wording is still too broad to exclude a default usage of age verification by online businesses in order to protect themselves from liability. Taking measures such as age verification, age assurance, or other data collection and analysis to determine the age of users. Even though measures like this have been proven to be vulnerable to data breaches no matter how secure they proclaim to be. Such as this year's largest discovered breach of AU10TIX, which supplies age verification to companies like TikTok, X, Uber, LinkedIn, Paypal, and many others.

As it stands, this bill is far too broad in its wording and enforcement of its age-specific measures to be considered a safe piece of legislation. Which is why I urge the Senator to vote in opposition to this measure.

Vote NO on AB 1949.

---------------------------

SB 976

Hello, my name is (INSERT NAME HERE) and I'm one of the Assembly member's constituents from (INSERT CITY HERE). I'm calling to urge the Assembly member to vote NO on SB 976, the Protecting Our Kids from Social Media Addiction Act. Although this bill has intent to protect the mental and emotional health of California's youth, the method this bill would intend to use could be counterproductive to that goal, or even endanger them further.

One of this bill's primary measures includes requiring verifiable parental consent to allow websites to display “addictive” feeds to minor users. However, the ways “verify” the identity and age of a responsible parent are often invasive and dangerous. Especially since these methods have proven repeatedly to be vulnerable to data breaches that can leak sensitive information to bad actors. Such as this year's largest discovered breach of AU10TIX, which supplies age verification to companies like TikTok, X, Uber, LinkedIn, Paypal, and many others. To determine if this is necessary at all would also require collecting even more data on minors and non-minors alike to determine who would even require these measures to be set in place. Especially when it would have control over someone's access to a website or application based on the time of day, as this bill would require in order to “reasonably determine” the user is not a minor.

The vagueness of this bill's text at all is dangerous as well. The broad-spectrum definition it gives of “addictive internet-based service or application” could cause an unintended censorship effect where minors and adults alike could be blocked from accessing information purely because some part of a website or application uses a “feed” which could arguably fit the bill's definition of “addictive”

With all of this in mind, I urge the Assembly member to vote in opposition of this measure to protect the privacy and safety of California's minors and adults alike.

Vote NO on SB 976.

[iwritefandomimagines]

MISTLETOE — JESS MARIANO

masterlist

pairing: jess mariano x reader

description: when lorelai gilmore insists on hosting a christmas party, you might just catch yourself under the mistletoe with the boy you, like, totally don’t have a crush on or anything.

warnings: swearing as usual. fluff & a tiny bit of angst. jess smoking and u having a tiny smoke.

author’s note: u asked for more festive jess, and i am hear to answer ur cries! jess mariano i adore you !!!

“Y/N! You’re here!”

Lorelai Gilmore had never looked quite so pleased to see you, her eyes twinkling as they scanned over the Christmas jumper you were (rather reluctantly) wearing.

“Hi, Lorelai,” you smiled, handing her the bottle of champagne you’d been given to bring as a party favour, to which she grinned, “Thanks sweetie, come on in.”

You followed her down the hall and were embarrassingly pleased when your eyes caught those of a miserable looking Jess Mariano.

The moment he saw you he seemed to perk up, and you couldn’t help but notice Lorelai’s smirk as she watched you immediately beeline for him.

“Hey Y/L/N,” he almost smiled, picking at a piece of bread he’d been toying with eating for a while, “You got roped into coming too then?”

You scoffed, “Like Lorelai was going to let anyone get out of the biggest event of the festive season?”

“Don’t let Taylor hear you say that, his 300 different pointless events will be crushed,” Jess laughed, and you couldn’t help but revel in the sound.

You couldn’t quite pinpoint when the joy at finding a friend with whom you had so much in common had become something more, but you didn’t like the way butterflies consumed your stomach when you were around him.

He was your friend, nothing more, and so — how cliche — you wouldn’t even really admit to yourself that you really liked him.

“Nice jumper,” he smirked, and suddenly you regretted adhering to Lorelai’s supposedly strict rule of no entry without a Christmas jumper, “Very festive.”

He was stifling a laugh, and you shook your head as your cheeks burned crimson under his intense gaze.

“Oh fuck off,” you looked down at where Rudolph and Santa were emblazoned on your chest, “I didn’t think I’d get away with no jumper and I didn’t have one, so it’s my mum’s.”

He chuckled now because he already knew that, having already seen your mother wearing the jumper the previous week, accompanied by the fact it was adorably oversized on you and he found it cute that it swamped your frame.

You’d tried tucking it into your jeans to minimise the bagginess, but to no avail.

“It’s cute,” he teased, swiping his tongue over his lips as you looked away, “But it looks warm. Like, crazy warm.”

“Oh, it is. I’m dying here. Anyway I didn’t think you’d actually come,” you shrugged, “If I’d known I wouldn’t have worn the jumper. One, there was no chance you were going to actually listen to Lorelai, and two, I could do without the teasing!”

Jess raised his eyebrows, “Hey, I’m not teasing,” he raised his hands up as if in defeat, “But you think I’d miss all this?”

The sarcasm in his tone as his eyes scanned the room made you giggle, “Of course. Nothing says Christmas like Taylor arguing with everyone and Lorelai running around being the fun enforcer.”

You both watched as Taylor seemed to be enthusiastically explaining something to a frustrated looking Sookie, and saw Lorelai still flitting around the room trying to ensure that everyone was having an at least somewhat pleasant time.

“I could do with some fresh air,” Jess’ eyes almost challenged you, because you knew he was going out to smoke and that Lorelai was inevitably going to have an issue with that, “Wanna join?”

You were well aware that it was in your best interest to not follow him around wherever he went, but you were so drawn to Jess that it was impossible not to.

“Yeah, sure,” you shrugged, gesturing for him to lead the way, “But you better not expect me to cover for you when Lorelai’s like a sniffer dog and finds you smoking.”

Jess just rolled his eyes, “Sure, officer.”

“Woah, woah, woah, where are you two going?” Lorelai asked, eyes immediately catching you both quickly exiting the room and widening in dismay.

“Y/N is wearing the clothing equivalent of a sauna over here, she just needs fresh air,” Jess crossed his arms over his chest as Lorelai’s eyes narrowed.

You smiled sheepishly, “We won’t be gone long, I promise.”

Lorelai didn’t appear convinced, but her expression suddenly lit up when she noticed where you were currently stood between rooms — directly under a doorframe adorned with mistletoe.

“Well, well, well,” Jess smirked, leaning an elbow on the doorframe as he watched you grow shy under his watchful eye, “Pucker up, princess.”

You shoved him slightly, and he almost toppled straight over, “Right, yeah. Like I’d kiss you.”

“Ouch,” Jess pouted, “You wound me.”

“I think your ego can take the hit, Jess,” you bit your lip, overwhelmed both by embarrassment at him joking about kissing you in front of the whole room and the urge to just say “fuck it!” and kiss him.

For a moment he looked genuinely hurt, but he soon resumed his usual nonchalant expression and continue his pursuit outside for a cigarette.

You followed him quickly, scurrying along behind him as he pulled a cigarette from its box and lit it without a moment’s thought once he’d passed the decking.

“Dude—slow down,” you huffed, “You invited me outside and then ran off like you didn’t want me here. What gives?”

Jess rolled his eyes, “Oh please, if you’re going to just question me then do me a favour and go back inside.”

“Woah,” you warned, taken aback by his sudden rude tone when he’d been joking around just minutes prior, “What the fuck is going on here? What have I done in the last 30 seconds that’s pissed you off this badly?”

Jess’ face seemed to drop, like he’d realised he shouldn’t be snapping at you like he was, “It doesn’t matter, Y/N. Just— just go back inside, alright? I’m sorry.”

You weren’t for even a moment going to accept that dismissal, instead sauntering to his side and snatching the cigarette from his fingers to take one single drag.

You didn’t smoke, made abundantly clear by the coughing that followed, so you weren’t sure why you’d so frantically taken it from him.

You shoved it back towards him and he accepted it with a laugh.

“Now you’re laughing? What is up with you?”

Jess rolled his eyes yet again, “I just don’t understand you, Y/L/N.”

You gulped, finally overcoming your coughing fit as your face was lit with confusion, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You came straight over to me when you got here. You giggled and you blushed and you smiled and,” he paused, like he was regretting opening his mouth, before he caved and continued, “And then when everyone’s watching you laugh at the idea of kissing me.”

You scoffed at that, “Says you Mr. ‘Pucker up princess’? Since when did you care if I want to kiss you under the stupid mistletoe or not?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t know… Since the countless fuckin’ weeks I’ve been flirting with you?” he was gesticulating wildly as he spoke, as though what he was saying had been obvious the whole time.

“You tease me, Jess, you don’t flirt with me,” you shrugged, breathing ragged as you pondered what it was he was really saying, “We’re friends and you know I—you just tease me about little things to wind me up. You’ve never ever made any suggestion that you like me.”

“God you’re so oblivious, man,” Jess shook his head, extinguishing his cigarette and tossing it out of sight to step closer to you.

Normally you’d hate the lingering smoke smell, but on Jess it was almost a comfort — though it did nothing to calm your racing heart in this moment.

“I’m hardly good with like, feelings, am I?” he leaned forward, so close you could feel his breath on your face, “I thought I was doing a good enough job at, like, I dunno— I mean I called you princess, for fucks sake. You think I’d do that if I didn’t like you?”

You sighed, “I just assumed you were joking around, trying to make me flustered to get a laugh out of it… I mean, princess? Really? That’s an awful choice and— I just don’t believe for a second that you like me.”

“And why not?”

“I—, well—,”

He didn’t let you fumble over your words any longer, dipping his head to press his lips firmly to yours and pulling you closer to his chest.

“I really do like you Y/N,” he exhaled as he pulled away, his voice quiet and low, “I should’ve made that clearer, and I just got annoyed that the mistletoe could’ve been my chance to kiss you and you blew it off like it was a hilarious idea.”

“Only because you joked like it was!”

“To protect my ego as you so kindly put it,” he quirked his brow, no longer mad and instead still giddy from the kiss, “But I got my kiss in the end, eh?”

You chuckled, “Don’t push your luck, sunshine.”

“You haven’t even told me you actually like me back yet, either,” Jess huffed, and you could detect the faintest pout on his lips as he paused, “This is going to be hard fucking work, isn’t it?”

You leaned in to peck the corner of his lips gently, a small smirk playing on your face, “Mhm. Get used to it, Mariano. ‘Cause I like you too. A whole fucking lot, in fact.”

“Good, now do you fancy going back in there and giving the mistletoe another try? I’m sure it’d spice the party right up.”

You shook your head, eyes rolling at the teasing look on his face, “Let’s just stay out here for now, huh Romeo?”

You were silent for a moment until he kissed you again, hands wrapping around your waist as yours found the back of his neck.

“Sounds good to me, princess.”

———

thanks for reading guys !!! this was a lil ooc but fun to write so i hope you enjoyed. please let me know what you think ! <3

here is my masterlist for more of my works :-)