#anyways now i'm in fucking panic mode so that's fun haha

[mew-ya]

UGGH Maren maren I'm so excited to read this let me tell you. Going to give my play-by-play commentary.

So first off, I know I already gave some feedback on this cus I saw it in its early stages, but I just love this whole setup/vibe for young Maren. It feels very in-character for him to be the giant pokey dude with no one around him.

PUTTING OUT YOUR CIGARETTE ON HIM IS SO FUNNY OMFG and you know he'd be kinda in to that anyway from someone he's attracted to. also very fitting for him to be excited about a terrible pretzel, then get three of them.

"slightly garbled by his full mouth, which he does not hesitate to speak through" oh my god why is this so hot Maren I hate you. Also him insulting a band but also having a patch of it on his vest HES LITERALLY SO RELATABLE.

The lighter scene made me go OOHHH the SIZE DIFFERENCE I'm hooting and hollering. I hate/love how much I can relate to this reader lmao, I was the same way when I was in college--unable to do anything even if my mom couldn't even see it but desperately wishing I could just be myself. I wasn't as rebellious as them though, but god I wish I could've been.

The visual of sitting on Maren's flexed arm during a concert is truly adorable. Absolutely some shit he'd pull--if was sweatin he would never admit it haha. I enjoyed the bits of them enjoying the concert together, time spent together at a concert really feels like a different breed. Wish I'd been able to go to more when I was younger! The mosh scene was great too, reader kind of half trying to impress Maren but also just being genuinely curious and wanting to do it!!

Loved the detail of Maren finding perfect holes in reader's argument and them just being like WAIT. HES RIGHT? FUCK. Very Maren lmao, like I'd want to talk to him about my problems but I also think he'd make me cry (in a good way)

Him spreading the information about the band is so DGKHDFG tiny lil Maren and then the entire crowd rioting cus reader set them off is such a fun idea!! I can't help but go into panic mode in my own brain because I know how often this sort of thing leads to deaths by trample but I liek to think that the bigger guys here were very conscious of where they were walking. And LMAO of course Maren would've stolen a guitar, what a story it'd have now. I haven't really come up with any stories for where he got his banjo or guitar, this is makin me wanna cook up some ideas. Just like "Where'd you get that black guitar?" "Stole it" what." "From a pedo" "…what" "Stole it from a pedo" "…ok"

Oh good lord getting taught to play guitar IN HIS LAP IM SCREAMING thats so good…

I ended up reading the next bits really fast because they're super hot lol the kiss…the thigh…the dry humping size difference stuff <3 My shit!! I love the "just let me sit on you and you can get smaller and we can figure out the size" and then the riding him and him being like "ok my turn" DFKGHDFG RARRGH you got him so good!! I loved every moment of this fic, genuinely thank you so much for taking your valuable time and spending it writing my boy. This was such a fun and hot read!

i also loved the final bits -- i think the bittersweetness of it is awfully fitting for him, and the obvious loneliness hes experiencing. hes someone who spent most of his life not really being a consistent part of others lives aside from his pirate crew. kata was such a change for him. i'm interested to think of how this reader might react to seeing his wanted poster...and probably how amused they'd be many years later to find that he ends up marrying Katakuri, a man who is similar to reader but Worse(tm)

it makes me want to make more work of young maren & his interactions with the world since his life didn't really revolve around Katakuri/WCI shenaningans until later. (he did technically meet Kata when he was 28 but his memory gets wiped so not counting it)

"The Fall of Ideals"

Character: Maren (young adult version)

Reader: AFAB

Word Count: 11.3k

CW: recreational drug use, explicit N.SFW content, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, size difference/size kink

Summary: Going to the Riptide Rock Festival instead of studying for your exam was one bad decision. A chance encounter with a stranger leads you to making several more.

Ao3 Link

[Happy Birthday @mewiyev! I swear I'm normal about Maren (hides word count) >.> In all seriousness, I truly adore this amazing character that you've created and I hope that shines through in this gift! Thank you for sharing him with the world!]

“This next song has never been heard before!” The lead singer of Violincense announces into the mic, prompting screams of excitement from the crowd. “We’re debuting it here at Riptide, the single for our next album–we present to you, Smokescream!”

The sound drifts from afar as you hurry back toward the crowd, having left to throw away your empty cup between songs. A rookie mistake, you soon realized, as the crowd closed up behind you, and now you were having trouble penetrating the throng of bodies. Had you any experience with these things, you would have just held onto the damn cup. Now you’re going to miss getting a good view of the band for what is possibly history in the making. You know Violincense was on the cusp of making it big, and here was your chance to watch it happen, front and center.

The crowd had formed itself into groups roughly based on size, with the tallest people closer to the back and sides. Some people of average height opted to stay close to their big friends, often sitting on their shoulders. One especially big man even wore some kind of shoulder-mounted table, carrying six of his friends. You can't help but feel a little jealous as you squeeze past them. You’re here alone, after all.

“S’cuse me…” you mumble, feeling out of place. Everyone else was dressed in band shirts and worn jackets, spiked bracelets and collars and chokers. In comparison, you look plain, but even if the trip to this venue hadn’t been last minute, you would’ve had nothing to wear anyway. It wasn’t your wisest choice to abandon studying for your big upcoming exam and blow all your food money on tickets, travel, and board for a rock festival. But now that you're here, that all seems like minor worries, a drop in the bucket of life. Who knows when you would get to do something like this again?

The Riptide Rock Fest was one of the biggest rock festivals on the Grand Line. Sporting multiple stages across the grounds and a myriad of different tents, it was a three-day haven to all fans of rock music genres. Each day had one big headliner show in the evening, with lesser-known bands filling the side stages throughout the day. It was currently the second day of the festival, and Violincense was one of the small bands you had been especially excited for, so you were eager to get back to a good spot before they started.

Alas, you were still stuck behind a wall of taller folk, unable to see the stage. The sound of drumsticks striking each other sounded as the band counted off, before a heavy guitar riff started the song. You paused to take it in, then shook your head and kept anxiously making your way along the perimeter of bodies, unable to find your way in and too polite to push through.

Finally, you spot an opening: closer to the middle and slightly off to the side, there's a little bit of space. The only person there is one of the big people, some guy that has to be at least fifteen feet tall. For some reason, he's being given a wide berth by those around him, but you don’t give it any thought as you dart for that spot before it gets taken. 

As you get closer, you see the potential reason people are leaving him be: rows of large, menacing spines stick out of his back through his clothes. However, those spines are far too high up to be a danger to you, so you step into place next to him and are at last able to get a decent view of the stage. Up close, the man is even more massive–not just tall, but thick-bodied and muscular, his burly arms alone bigger than you are. You decide to just avoid eye contact and return your focus to the show.

Smokescream, like all of Violincense’s music, sucks you right in from the start. Hearing the band live is a completely different experience. Sure, a studio recording could let a band trim off the imperfections in the sound, but it isn’t the same. This was how music was meant to be heard, you think. The fast-paced, harmonic chords strike you personally, heavy drums feeling like they’re replacing your heartbeat. Swept up in the music,  you’re so invested you don’t notice that the huge man is staring at you until halfway through the song, when you glance and accidentally meet his eye.

You stare back for a moment, stunned. He’s astonishingly handsome, if not a bit intimidating; a broad jaw and strong nose that balanced his features well, long, reddish brown hair that matches the color of his spines, a simple goatee, and gauged ears. He's wearing a black leather vest covered in various patches, but no shirt, showing off his husky build, a pair of faded green cargo shorts, and platform boots adorned in belts. His light skin sports a fair share of bruises and he's a bit scuffed up, likely from a mosh pit. Unlike you, he looks entirely in his element. 

The man watched you with a sour, unimpressed look, eyes slightly narrowed. Suddenly self-conscious, you look away, distracting yourself by pulling out one of the spliffs you had rolled earlier from your pocket and lighting it. After a few hits, you’re able to relax a little more, turning your focus back to the stage. You don’t think about the man until the next song comes to a close, the crowd cheering on the tail end of the final notes, when he leans over slightly in your direction.

“Do you need something?” he asks, sounding annoyed.

It wasn’t just his spines that kept others away. You’re abruptly aware of the prickly energy he’s giving off, his tone as guarded as his body language. Still, you have no idea what he’s talking about, so you just give him a look of confusion in response.

“What are you doing here?” he presses.

You look over at the band, then back up at him. “...Is that a trick question?”

“I mean here, in this spot.” He points at the ground. “Do you normally make a habit of approaching strange men?”

“You talked to me first,” you point out, pulling the cig from your mouth.

“Everyone else got the damn hint,” he says gruffly.

“I’m too short to care about the spines,” you say, wondering what his problem is. “And anyway, I wasn’t aware you owned this section.”

He leans forward a bit more, towering over your space. “It ain’t the spines you gotta worry about, small fry.”

“What are you gonna do? Bite me?”

“That’s right.” He smiles, showing off pointed teeth. It's not a friendly smile, but it looks good on him anyway, though it makes you uncertain–he really is enormous, easily a threat to someone your size.

Maybe it’s because you’re in a new place, already out of your comfort zone. Maybe it’s the few beers already in you at that point. But instead of giving him space like a sane person would, you instead respond, “don’t threaten me with a good time.”

That makes him smile even wider, leaning forward just a bit more. “I’m part Fish-man, you know. My teeth are razor sharp.”

“Even better.”

He laughs, his face lighting up in his amusement. You feel your face get warm and quickly stick the cig back in your mouth before you say something else embarrassing. He has a nice laugh.

The band announces that they are playing their last song of the set. Neither you nor your neighbor speak for the entirety of it. Either he likes the music too much to bother you, or he decided you were alright after all; regardless, he leaves you alone until the song is over. After the cheering of the crowd dies down, he turns back to you.

“I gotta say, I didn’t expect that coming from you.”

You rub the back of your neck, distinctly aware how plain you look. “I know I’m not dressed for a concert. I don’t really own any band shirts.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not allowed.”

“Not allowed?” He suddenly looks uncomfortable. “Are you a teenager?”

“Nope. Just a college student with a ruthlessly strict mother.”

“She sounds like a bitch.”

“Don’t call my mom a bitch,” you snap, all playfulness gone.

He isn’t thwarted even slightly, lip curling into a sneer. Reaching out with one giant hand, he pokes you in the chest, easily making you stumble back and imposing the difference in your strength. “What are you gonna do about it, small fry?”

Maybe it’s just your imagination, but you could have sworn he had gotten bigger. You falter for a second, shocked that he would get physical and a bit intimidated. Then you get mad. If he’s going to be a cunt, you would be a cunt right back.

You stub out your spliff on his finger, hearing it sizzle. The man jerks his hand back with a yelp. “Ow! Fuck!”

“I'm not gonna let you push me around,” you bluff, pretending to be braver than you are. Jerks usually prefer easy targets, but there's still a chance he might get aggressive. You bare your teeth and pray he's all talk. “We're surrounded by people. Try me.”

“Are you stupid?” he growls, cradling his burned hand. “You could get seriously hurt, messing with guys like me. Sheesh…and you still haven’t taken the hint.” He grumbles, sticking his finger into his mouth, but he does not do anything else, and you deflate a little in relief.

Violincense announces that they're playing an encore, and the crowd roars as they launch into a familiar track–one of their most popular songs, Nightingales.

Attempting to ignore your surly neighbor, you close your eyes to really take in your favorite part of the song. Then you stare at the stage intensely, trying to burn the image of the band playing it into your memory. As it comes to a close, you glance at the huge man again. He’s closed his eyes, too, a serene look on his face as he listens. Right then, you feel bad for him–he just wants to enjoy the music in peace, like you. Maybe you overreacted.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him once the music stops.

“Whatever,” he spits, then mumbles, “you must be lonely, talking to me.”

“Yeah, I am,” you shrug. “But I’d bet you are, too. I mean, have you heard these lyrics?”

He looks surprised that you’d admit it so casually. Then he huffs, looking away. “I know em’ by heart.”

The crowd starts to move around you as the band packs up their things. You stick your hands in your pockets, feeling awkward. “Hey, uh, look… I’m sorry I did that. Really. I’ll make it up to you,” you said. “Want a pretzel or something? I’ll buy.”

The man visibly perks up, giving you another look of surprise. He’s kind of cute like this…

“They’re stale and oversalted,” you say enticingly, offering a hesitant smile. “But the cheese dip is…well, it also sucks, but at least it’s hot.”

“Fuck yeah,” the man grins from ear to ear. “I won’t say no to free food.”

You both head to the food tents, introducing yourselves on the way. You learned his name was Maren–“just Maren,” as he said after you gave him your last name. A lot of the patches on his vest were of bands you liked, so you were able to find some common ground despite the rough start.

You ended up buying Maren three soft pretzel sticks, just because he was so much larger–it only seemed fair. His attitude did a complete 360 at that, thrilled at the gesture.

“Thanks,” he says, and you nod, pulling out a program flier to see where the next band you wanted to watch would play. Maren peers over your shoulder as he shoves a cheese-slathered pretzel stick into his mouth. “Where ya headed next?”

“South stage,” you replied. “Shitty Kitties is playing soon.”

“Hm,” his voice is slightly garbled by his full mouth, which he does not hesitate to speak through, “Shitty Kitties? Kinda gimmicky, don’t ya think?”

“They're cool! The lead singer is a puma zoan. He transforms his vocal chords to do these crazy growls.”

“Exactly. A gimmick, not real skill.”

“Who cares how he does it, so long as it sounds good?”

“He leans on it too much. He can’t sing for shit, small fry.”

“Small fry,” you echoe, “is that a Fish-man thing?”

“Because of your shirt,” Maren points. You’re wearing a graphic tee that has cartoon french fries and tater tots, engaged in a shootout and bleeding ketchup.

“This my favorite shirt,” you say defensively.

“You have dorky taste.”

“Why do you think I’m talking to you?”

Maren grins. “Watch yourself, sweetheart. I haven’t decided if I’m going to eat you yet.” Despite his words, he’s less intimidating with a bit of cheese sauce smeared on his mouth.

“There you go again, threatening me with a good time,” you joke.

He smiles back, and your stomach does a weird little flip. For being kind of a jerk, he really is good-looking. Still, it’s probably in your best interests to wish him well and part ways here.

“Wanna go to the south stage together?” Maren asks.

“Yes,” you immediately reply.

You only made it to the Riptide Rock Fest by doing what you weren’t supposed to–what was one more bad decision?

Maren stuffs the rest of the food into his face, finishing it in two huge bites, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. You stare as he licks the sauce off his hand, following the trailing of his tongue. He meets your eyes as he does, grinning to himself when you break eye contact to look away and clear your throat.

“What is it, sweetheart? See something you like?” he teases.

“No–I wasn’t–you’re just messy,” you stammer, failing to save face. Trying to distract him, you point up at his vest. “Hey, isn’t that a Shitty Kitties patch? What gives?”

Maren looks a bit embarrassed. “That was from years ago. I’ve had this jacket for a long time–hey, don’t change the subject, now.”

Caught red-handed and losing your buzz, you start to walk away, feeling your usual shyness resurfacing now that the intoxication is wearing off. Maren follows you, hooking his thumbs into his pockets and chatting as you walk. He has no trouble making conversation, and picks up the slack where you falter. You find it easy to talk to him, and the more you talk, the more you want to know more about him. However, he dodges questions relating to himself, either outright ignoring them or just deflecting with more questions. By the time you make it to the south stage, you feel like you're talking about yourself too much, but he seems to prefer it that way.

“So where are your friends at?” Maren asks, as if it would be unthinkable for you to have come by yourself.

“Where are yours?” you try.

“Came alone.” It was the only direct answer from him in the last twenty minutes.

“Me too.”

“What, your friends don’t like rock?”

You shift from foot to foot, unsure how to respond in a way that doesn’t make you sound like a complete loser. “I don’t, uh… I don’t have any friends,” you admit. “Not where I live, anyway. After I graduated high school, mom moved us halfway around the world. Relocated to the best college she could find. I haven’t made any new friends since. Most students at that university are the entitled, wealthy type.”

“And you’re not?” Maren teases lightly.

You wrinkle your nose. “I got a full ride through scholarships.”

“Sure, sure,” he grins when you make a face at him, enjoying riling you up, “so you’re the nerdy type of smart! I knew it.” 

You doubt he really knew it, and are starting to wonder if he’s flirting with you. He seems to like your company, anyway. Oh, shit, is he flirting with you? 

Suddenly uncertain, you went for the only distraction you could think of, digging into your pocket for another pre-rolled spliff. “If I was actually smart,” you say, “I wouldn’t be here. I should be studying for this huge exam, but…” you trail off.

“But…?” Maren prompts.

“I felt like if I looked at one more book, I’d completely lose it.” You pat your pocket to search for your lighter. “All I ever do is study. I’m sick of it! I had to do something else or I’d snap. And I’ve always wanted to go to a concert–ugh, where the fuck is my lighter?”

Maren pulls a lighter from one of the many pockets on his shorts. “Here,” he says, crouching down low in front of you. You reach to accept the lighter from him, but he gently bats your hand away and instead holds the lighter up to your mouth. His hands are so large compared to the tiny spliff that he has to lean in close and focus, his tongue sticking out slightly. Carefully, he lights the spliff, his face filling your vision, and you find yourself staring again. The warmth from the lighter’s flame almost doesn’t register over your own heated cheeks.

“There we go,” he says, eyes darting up from the lighter to meet your own gaze. You glance away, the eye contact a bit much for you sober, and when you look back, he’s still leaning close, now smiling big. “Something wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” you reply quickly. “You, uh, want a drag?”

“Depends. What’s in it?”

“Just weed and tobacco.”

“Hell yeah, hand it over.” 

You hand him the spliff, and he takes a deep drag, nodding to himself in approval. “This is good shit. You’re not as straight-laced as you seem, huh? Guess momma doesn’t know about this.”

“I have special hiding places for it,” you say. “No matter how much she digs through my shit, she won’t find it.”

“Sounds like you need to live on campus.” Maren passes the spliff back.

“I do,” you say bluntly, taking a drag and exhaling in a sigh. “She searches my things when she visits.”

“Yeesh. Why do you defend her?”

It’s not as simple as Maren makes it sound, and you aren’t sure how to put that into words. Luckily, before you can think of an answer, a familiar, high-pitched snarl echoes over the speakers. You look to the stage as the crowd cheers, but the view is completely obscured by other concert goers closer to Maren’s size. If you want to actually see Shitty Kitties, you’ll have to part ways and head up further to the “smalls” section of the crowd.

“Aw, hell. I guess I gotta go,” you say reluctantly.

“Wait!” Maren shouts to be heard over the lead singer’s introduction. “You can sit on my shoulder!”

“You’re full of spikes!” you shout back.

Maren pauses, thinking for a second. “No big deal! Here, sit on my arm!” He flexes one burly arm, patting it. “No spines and a perfect view of the stage! Deluxe seating, compliments of Maren. Whaddaya say?”

You blink, flattered at the offer but not wanting to impose. “But…won’t you get tired?”

“Nope!” Maren flexes his arm further, showing off his impressive muscles and grinning proudly.

He doesn't want you to leave, you realize. The thought gives you butterflies in your stomach that the spliff doesn't help to calm. Maren is roguishly attractive and good company, and he wants you around–why not accept?

“Alright,” you nod. “How do I get up theRE–!”

The moment you consent, Maren picks you up, wrapping his hands around your hips and hoisting you onto his upper arm as your words turn into a cry of surprise. Suddenly fourteen feet off the ground, you grip the fabric of his vest tightly, tucking your legs under his arm to hold on.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall,” Maren says cheerfully, patting your shoulder with his upheld hand.

You giggle nervously. From up here, you can see above the heads of the taller people and have an excellent view of the stage. Just in time, too, as the lead singer of Shitty Kitties finishes hyping up the crowd and begins counting down to their first song of the set.

“One, two, three!” The lead singer yells, then snarls into the mic.

“Oh! Oh!!” you exclaim. “This is Blightmare!”

Maren grins at your excitement. He nods along to the music, careful not to move you too much, and you pass the spliff back and forth as you enjoy the song. Blightmare was an old cult classic, one of your favorites. Once it hits the main verse, you're far too enthralled to not scream out the lyrics–hell, everyone else is.

“ROWR! I’m the wrong kinda crowd / I’m the devil in the day / and I’m no good for you / but you like it that way!”

You glance at Maren to see that he’s singing along, too. You can’t hear him, much less yourself, but you both grin at each other as you sing. The high of the spliff compounds the intoxicating feeling of the music, until you wrap one arm around Maren’s upheld one so you can steady yourself while headbanging.

“Fuck yeah!” Maren shouts, throwing devil horns up with his free hand. The both of you get swallowed up by the energy of your surroundings, screaming along song lyrics and pumping your fists for every song that plays. The set concludes what feels like far too early, and people begin to move around the two of you as they make their way to other stages.

“That was amazing!” you laugh, exhilarated. 

“It was pretty cute, hearing you try to growl like the lead singer,” Maren says.

Your chest tightens in a good way, and you giggle nervously, shaking your head. “My vocal chords will regret that tomorrow. But fuck it, right?”

“That’s right!”

“I didn’t know this would be so much fun! I’m so glad I came!”

“Is this your first time?” Maren asks, crouching down so he can let you off him.

“Yep. First concert ever.” You land and get your bearings, patting down your jeans. “There are lots of things I’ve missed out on because all my time was spent studying. Morning drills before class, prep school after, then homework in the evening.”

“Why don’t you just quit?” Maren asks like it’s obvious, and you balk at him.

“What? I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. It sucks, you clearly don’t like it. So quit.”

“You don’t understand,” you explain. “Mom gave up everything to get me here. We were dirt poor. She would even skip meals to make sure I was fed. She worked hard to give me this opportunity! I can’t just throw that away.”

Maren doesn't look convinced, but he doesn’t argue, either, merely shrugging. “Well, alright. Where ya wanna go next?”

You look down to hide your smile, thrilled that he wants to keep hanging out with you. Pulling out the flier, you squint at it. “A band called ‘M-K’ is going to play on this stage. What’s ‘M-K?’”

“Monochrome Kaleidoscope.”

“Oh. Well, they’re up next. And on the east stage, there’s Taka Tora Batta… and BB Thunder on the north. They should all finish around the same time, right before the headliner plays on the center stage.”

The headliner for the second day was Preyer, a band with a self-described “carnivore gothic” theme that was rapidly growing in popularity. Maren hadn’t brought them up at all yet, which was surprising–they seemed to be right up his alley, considering his taste in other bands.

“I don’t have a preference either way–I’m good with whatever,” he says.

“Me too. Why don’t we stay here, then?” you suggest. “We can move up closer and get a better spot in the crowd. If we go stand right at the border between the large and small section, you won’t have to hold me up the whole time.”

“I don’t mind,” Maren winks, making you flush warm, “but alright. Sounds like a plan.”

You feel far more at ease walking through the crowds with Maren at your side. Concerts are supposed to be a group event in the first place, and with such an open venue, you had some concerns about being by yourself. But even other big people would think twice before starting a fight with Maren, which was all the more reason you should have never gambled on ticking him off earlier. A stupid risk, but in a weird way, the action seemed to gain his respect–and now that you had each other to hang out with, you’d never been happier in making such a string of poor decisions.

You and Maren find the good spot you had mentioned earlier, the people behind you all larger like him, and the people in front of you average-sized. Maren opts to sit down, as he’s still tall enough from there to see over the “shorties,” as he calls them. You, on the other hand, can't sit without losing sight of the stage, so you lean against him instead, mindful of the spikes.

Monochrome Kaleidoscope was a band that seems to be a mix of electronic and jam rock subgenres. They switch off between playing songs from their newest album, Shatterstatic, and having jam sessions right there on stage, improvising for five minute segments. The drums and synth players decide on a beat and background, and the rest of the musicians jump in with their instruments one at a time. You've never seen anything like it before, and let Maren know as much in between songs.

“Oh, yeah, M-K’s great.” He gives you a lazy grin. “I need to see if their merch table is selling patches later. Don’t have theirs yet.”

“If you hold our spot, I’ll go look for you,” you offer.

“Alright! Thanks, sweetheart.”

You flush warm and quickly excuse yourself before your flustering becomes obvious. As you weave through the “smalls” section, you couldn’t stop smiling to yourself. Maren is the last person you’d ever expect yourself to crush on. A small voice in the back of your mind tells you not to get too smitten, to keep your wits about you. You have only known Maren for a few hours, and he didn’t want to talk about himself. Maybe there was a reason for that, and that reason could have been a dangerous one. But he liked your company. And you craved the attention, truth be told. You never realized how starved you’d been for it.

The merch table was an assortment of stickers, buttons, patches, guitar picks, vinyls, and even some pricey tone dials. All of them had black-and-white designs around the band’s logo. Your hand hovered above the patches. For a moment, you considered getting two. But you didn’t have anything to put it on, and if your mother found it, she would likely throw a fit. The thought brought you out of your high somewhat  After tomorrow, you’d go back to your regular life. Back to the mundane rigors of academia and arithmetic.

There was no doubt this was the only time you’d get to hang with Maren. He’d eventually go back to whatever island he was from–hell, he might have even been a pirate (a scary thought,) in which case there was a slim chance you would ever see him again. You clenched your fists as you decided, right then and there: this weekend was your only chance to try something new. So what if he was literally rough around the edges? So what if you’d regret it later? You were far more afraid of the regret you’d feel if you didn’t take advantage of this opportunity.

Maren might only be your friend for a day, but that was one day more than you had in years. With that in mind, you went ahead and purchased a patch for him, and a guitar pick for yourself. You didn’t know how to play guitar, but the pick would be an easy-to-hide memento. 

When you returned, two songs had passed, and Maren was standing, looking far more scuffed up than when you’d left him, his hair all messy and a new rip in his pants.

“Woah, are you okay?” you ask, reaching up to touch his forearm, where a fresh bruise is forming.

“Yep. A mosh pit formed behind me, so I joined in,” he replies, letting you examine his arm. “So did they sell patches over there?”

“Yeah! Here,” you take the patch out of your bag and hold it out to him.

Maren’s eyes go wide. “You–you didn’t have to buy me one.”

You shrug. “I, uh…I wanted to. No big deal.”

He looks genuinely taken aback, a faint dusting of pink contrasting with his freckles. Then he smiles big. “Aw, thanks, babe. That’s real sweet of you.”

You’re already flustered from the pet name, so when he reaches up to brush your cheek affectionately, your brain nearly short-circuits. Face burning, you deftly avoid his gaze, staring at his arm and changing the subject.

“That looks painful,” you say, tracing the edge of the bruise.

“Nah, it’s nothing. It was fun. You should try it!”

“Moshing?” you blink at him, incredulous. “No way. I mean, me?”

“Why not? You can start one up in the ‘smalls’ section. I know you shrimps need to get out your terrier energy.”

“Wha–hey!” you laugh, making Maren grin.

“I’m serious. You said this is your first concert, right? Trying new things is good for you.”

You’re not sure what part of knocking into other people is good for you, but for some reason, you feel yourself drawn to the idea. You shouldn’t be, but what if this was the only concert you’d ever get to attend? And what is it about Maren that makes him so convincing? He’s not even pressuring you, not really. You just want to look cool in front of him, despite the fact he probably thinks you're a total dork. You want him to like you so bad, but clearly he already does, so why are you considering this?

Maren sees you looking out over the crowd hesitantly, and raises a thick finger to point. “See those people down by the southwest row? The ones jumping up and down? They look primed for it. All you have to do is scurry over there and give them a little push.”

You bite your lip. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he nods. “Don’t shove people who look like they don’t want to be involved, and don’t use brute force on anyone smaller than you. Help up anyone you see on the ground. Other than that, go nuts.”

You take a deep breath. “Okay…”

Maren salutes you as you head forth. You walk a little quicker, gradually picking up your pace. When you reach the aforementioned group, you're at a brisk jog, and, feeling a bit nuts, you shove into the most energetic looking guy there. 

He stumbles slightly, looking surprised. You freeze.

Suddenly you're shoved from the side by a random girl. She shouts something at the group as you recover, and then the man you shoved comes back and pushes into her. There's more yelling from the group, and then four of them start throwing themselves into the crowd around them. Pulse racing, you collect yourself and join in, running at the nearest person.

The lead singer shouts and points at your section of the crowd. The guitarist jumps in, shredding an improvised solo like a crazy man. Suddenly the area around you seems to erupt, your small group becoming a massive, frenzied pit of at least 30 people. You get jabbed with elbows and shoved into bodies, never knowing where the next impact is going to come from, but your adrenaline is pumping like crazy and you don't want to stop. 

A particularly hard shove sends you off your feet. You hit the ground and tense, expecting to get trampled, but multiple hands come out of nowhere, lifting you back onto your feet. You pause, get bumped into, and resume throwing yourself into the swarm. 

You get knocked down several more times, but every time, hands reach out from the crowd like magic and pull you back up. It's only after you're out of breath and hurting that you decide to call it quits, making your way to the edge of the mosh pit, through the crowd, and back to Maren.

“Ahh!” you inform him, overcome with adrenaline. It feels like you just got off a roller coaster. “I–I did it!”

“You were like a little tornado,” Maren chuckles. “How was it?”

“Fun!” you shout. Your body hurts in various places, and you're banged up and bruised, but grinning like a maniac.

“Attagirl!” He holds out his fist to you, and you punch it.

It takes you a bit to catch your breath. You lean against Maren in the meantime, trying not to smile when he loops his arm around your hips.

“It looks like they have so much fun playing,” you say after MK finishes their last song. “I’ve always wanted to learn to play the guitar.”

“Why don’t you–wait, let me guess: you’re not allowed?” Maren raises both brows pityingly, and you lightly punch his arm.

“I just haven’t had the free time.”

“I could teach you, if I had a guitar,” he says, then pretends like he’s thinking hard, rubbing his goatee. “Tell you what. You sneak backstage and steal a guitar, and I’ll teach you to play a song.”

For a moment, you find yourself seriously considering it. Then you laugh at yourself. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A straight-laced person like me, committing theft.”

Maren laughs too. “I think breaking the rules would do you some good.”

“That’s not the kind of person I am.”

“It could be.”

“It’s not, and I’m okay with that.”

“Boooring.” Maren sticks out his tongue.

“That’s okay, too.”

He regards you for a moment. “You seem to have it all figured out.”

“I have to,” you say simply. “I mean, my own mother doesn’t know me. If I don’t know who I am, then no one does.”

“…”

“Anyway, if I get caught and jailed. I’d be kicked out of college, and then I’d lose everything. So no theft for me.”

“Would that really be so bad?” Maren says suddenly.

“Wha–of course. Everything my mom did…”

“Okay, but it doesn’t make sense to me.” Maren looks at you seriously. “What’s the point of all that sacrifice if you aren’t happy?”

You open your mouth, but can’t find a response. The words sink in slowly, slowly, and you try and wrap your mind around them. He…He's right. This punk you've known all of several hours is completely and totally right, and you have no idea what to say.

“Uh,” you say. “Um. Wow. Okay. I mean, yeah. Yeah, you have a point there.”

“Don’t sweat it too much, sweetheart.”

Easier said than done–you’re mulling over what he said for the rest of the set, only breaking out of the trance when it finishes and the crowd starts to move. You and Maren get up and follow the flow of the crowd. Everyone’s headed in the same direction–the side shows are all done, and it’s time for the headliner at the center stage.

The excitement at seeing Preyer live cheers you up a bit. You like several of their songs, and you’ve heard they have a great stage presence. Some of the people around you even have signs, though they don’t look nearly as happy to be there as you would think someone who went to the trouble of making signs would be.

Come to think of it, Maren doesn’t seem all that enthusiastic, either. His grin is entirely absent, like it was when you first met him earlier in the day. After you both find a good spot to stand at the center stage, you decide to bring it up.

“I guess you don’t like Preyer?” you ask.

“They sound alright, but the bandmates themselves are douchebags,” is his reply. “I’m not about to hold up a sign over it, but I’m not going to cheer them on, either.”

The comment strikes you as weird, and you follow Maren’s gaze to get a proper look at one of the signs someone’s holding. Rather than a message of endearment, like you expected, there is bold, bright red letters reading out:

‘PREYER OF CHILDREN!!!’

The other signs read similarly, and you frown. “What's with those signs?”

“You haven't heard?” Maren says.

“No… Did something happen?”

“You could say that.” He narrows his eyes. “The lead singer of Preyer likes to hook up with underage fans.”

“What?!”

“Yep. Several teenagers have come forward about it. Apparently drugs were involved. But there wasn't any hard evidence, so nothing’s been done.” 

“Oh! That’s awful!”

“Sorry you had to find out like this.” He pats your shoulder, resting his giant hand there. “I know it kinda ruins the vibes of the festival.”

“It's not ruined,” you say quickly. “I mean, maybe this particular concert is, but I'd rather have known.”

Maren nods. “That bastard let down every single person who came out here. Everyone who looked up to him.” His grip on your shoulder tightens, his smile tense. “He doesn't deserve to be the headlining show. He doesn't deserve to play at all.”

You shake your head in agreement. When you next glance up at Maren, he has a sly gleam in his eye, his grin stretching like he just thought of something funny. 

“Maren?”

“I'm gonna head to the restroom. Wait for me, sweetheart.”

You both already made pit stops before coming to the center stage. He might just need to go again, but even having only known him a few hours, you get the distinct feeling that he's up to something. Before you can say anything, though, he pushes through the crowd behind you and disappears.

You wait for him. The time passes, and several minutes turn to half an hour with no sign of Maren. Just as you really start to get concerned, you realize that the crowd has grown unusually tense. It's not the excited kind of tension, either, not an eagerness for the show to start. Rather, every few minutes you look around for Maren and see more and more people looking restless, even angry. People are starting to turn to their neighbors and talk. 

Something is definitely going on. You focus, trying to pick out individual conversations.

“... serious! He slept with a minor, and…”

“...gave alcohol to a kid…”

“... can't be true! He's a good guy...”

“...she was my daughter's age…”

The rumors of what the lead singer did are spreading like wildfire, it seems. You've never seen anything like it. You're not sure how it's happening–there are some protesters, but not enough to cause this–until you see a shock of familiar, burnt-orange hair a ways down the crowd.

But, wait. That can't be Maren. He’s 15 feet tall, and those guys over there are only about 7. You squint, confused to see that yes, it's definitely Maren, albeit shorter somehow. He's got his hand cupped to someone's ear, their face changing from neutral to shocked to angry in quick succession. Maren pulls away and works his way to another section of the crowd, and you suddenly know exactly what's going on.

Maren’s making sure not a single concert-goer hasn't heard about what's happened! You're in shock. He didn’t strike you as the type to care that much. That, or he just wants to start trouble. You're reminded again that you really don't know him that well, but you can't bring yourself to look down on what he's doing, either. 

You lose sight of him as he disappears into the crowd again, and don't see him until the band has finished setting up, when he seemingly materializes next to you.

“Those pretzel sticks didn't agree with you, huh?” you joke. “Looks like the crowd does, though.”

“Imagine that,” he grins. 

The lead singer starts speaking into the mic, only for the crowd to erupt into a cacophony of boos. You glance at Maren, who’s joined them in full force, then at the crowd. You can't help it– you join in too.

The lead singer tries to pacify the crowd to no avail. He can't get a single word in. He grows more frustrated with each attempt, until he finally screams, “Fuck you! We are Preyer, and we're going to rock your world! Five, six, seven, eight!”

The band launches into their first song. It's a shame–the music itself is good, but you can't enjoy it the same, especially not with the undercurrent of jeering. You figure the best option at this point would be to just leave, but Maren has other ideas.

“Charge! The! Stage!” he starts chanting, and your eyes get huge. Before you know it, the people around you pick up the chant. It's barely audible over the music, but steadily, more and more people start joining in, and it grows louder, and louder.

Maren notices your alarm and crouches down next to you, shouting so you can hear him over all the noise. “All good, babe?”

“All good? You're starting a riot!”

“Fuck yeah, I am!” He holds his hand out to you. “Are you with me?”

You stare at his hand for a moment, wondering how you got to this point. You knew, you just knew hanging out with him was a bad idea. He was everything you weren't! Everything you were taught not to be, brash and opportunistic and self-concerned. He would only make you worse, you were sure. But…god help you, you wanted to be like him. You wanted just a piece of that energetic confidence, to feel the warmth of the fire that burned within him. 

Even if you would get burned.

You swing your arm and clasp Maren's hand tightly. “Yeah!”

The crowd festers, the chant spreading like a plague, madder and louder until even avid fans are screaming it. The dissent is close to bursting, but it isn't quite enough. It needs something to push it over that edge. You look around. The larger fans toward the back seem eager to go, but people your size at the front, while angered, are still in place. Those at the back can't move forward until the ones up front do, not without trampling the smaller concert-goers.

You suddenly have a really, really bad idea. It's so, so unlike you, but, hell. If you want to be different… Maybe not at home, but here, maybe you can be…

What's the point of all that sacrifice if you aren't happy?

Fine, then. You'll make the change for yourself, if you have to.

Without warning, you start pushing through the crowd. Maren shouts after you, but you don't stop, and his voice is swallowed up by the chorus of rage. Heart pounding, you elbow and shoulder your way past the throng of people, row after screaming row, the stage getting closer and closer, the music so loud it's deafening. You can't hear the crowd anymore, nor your own crazed, panicky breathing. Only adrenaline keeps you going. Up at the front now, you can see a line of several security guards dotting the space before the stage. You break through the last line of people, charge forward, vault over the divider, and leap for the stage. 

Somehow you make it. You scrabble up and on. A security guard grabs you by the foot, but you yank your leg, your shoe coming off in his hand. The band keeps playing, but the lead singer stops. You charge him, and he scrambles back. But you're not going for him, much as he deserves it.

You grab the mic and scream one word with all your lungs:

“RIOT!”

All hell breaks loose.

The crowd roars, surging forward like a busted dam. The band stops playing. The security guards who followed you onstage are swiftly overwhelmed. One grabs you, but is pulled off you by three other people. The stage is quickly overrun, shouting and chaos all around. You get pushed and jostled by the rush of bodies. Equipment is being thrown, instruments trashed, wires torn. You can't see anything past the bodies and can't gain enough footing to move in any direction of your own choosing. When the larger people from the back reach the stage, you start to worry about getting trampled. Your fear is quickly realized as you're knocked hard onto the ground.

Out of nowhere, a large hand grabs you and pulls you high up–Maren, lifting you into one burly arm.

“You alright?” he shouts.

“Yes!” you half shout, half laugh. 

He grins wide. “Cops are coming. Hold on!”

Maren runs away from the stage. You cling to his vest, but his hold on you is secure. The people around you are going every which direction, some still charging for the stage, some making a break for it like you are. Policemen start cutting into the crowd, rushing to protect the band.

“Where are you going?” you ask him once you've gained some distance from the crowd.

“No clue,” he says, glancing over his shoulder.

“Let’s go to the Saltwater Inn! I have a room there.”

“Where's that?”

“Head south.”

After you're a safe distance from the chaos, Maren slows to a stop and sets you down, catching his breath. You're panting, too, mostly from adrenaline.

“That…that was…” you pant.

“That was insane! You're amazing!” Maren yells.

“I don't know why I did that!” you yell back. “I–I hope no one saw my face! Oh my god…”

He laughs, one hand on his hip. “I was wrong about you, sweetheart. That was pretty ballsy.”

Right then, you notice that Maren has a guitar in his other hand. “Where did you get that?”

“I stole it from backstage while everyone was distracted.”

“Maren!”

“What? You did far crazier back there.”

You should feel guilty, and normally you would, but his toothy grin just makes you break out into a matching smile.

“Okay, good point. But let's not stick around.” You tug on his free hand, and Maren lets you lead him toward the inn.“I saw something weird while you were in the ‘bathroom’,” you say while you walk. “I could have sworn I saw another, smaller you in the crowd.” You give him an accusatory look.

“Heh. Yeah, that was me. I can change my size, cuz I'm a porcupinefish type Fish-man.”

“This isn't your normal size?”

“Nah, but I prefer it.”

The two of you chat as you make it back to the nearby Saltwater Inn. You were lucky enough to reserve one of the last rooms available back when you impulsively decided to attend the festival. The bed was made for someone Maren's size, so you overpaid, but it was worth it to be within walking distance from the festival. You ask Maren where he was sleeping that night while you both remove your shoes, only for him to reply that he had been camping out. At that point you weren't surprised by his answer.

“Wellll…” you flopped back onto the oversized bed. “If you wanted to…you could, you know…stay here? With me?”

Maren flops back next to you, making you bounce and giggle.

“Wellll…” he mimics your tone. “If you're gonna twist my arm about it….” He flashes you his signature grin.

Faces inches from each other, looking into his sparkling eyes, you're suddenly and totally overwhelmed with the urge to kiss him. But you haven't kissed anyone in years, and he's so attractive, you don't even know how to begin to process that urge. Cheeks warming, you sit up abruptly and clear your throat.

“You said you could teach me to play if you had a guitar,” you say.

“That I did.” Maren sits up and picks the guitar up off the floor. It's huge, jet black and crimson and covered in stickers. He gently sets it in your arms. “It's a bit big for you, but you should still manage.”

Maren goes over the basics, then spends a few minutes trying to position your fingers. When you still struggle to mimic him, he changes strategies.

“Here,” he says, and picks you up by the hips, making you yelp in surprise. His large arms coming to rest over yours. Like this, it's easier for him to reposition your fingers on the frets. Your face quickly gets hot, but Maren is entirely focused on teaching, his grin more relaxed than it has been all day.

Despite everything you've gone through since meeting him, you don't think he's ever been as attractive as he is when he's guiding you through a song. The intent focus on his face, the warmth of his skin against yours, his low voice praising you as you do well–it all makes your head spin. He goes at a slow, steady pace, teaching you one section at a time, until it’s an hour later and you’re playing your very first song.

You’re brimming with excitement as you finish. It’s your first time playing music, and you think you’re in love. You look up at Maren with a sense of awe and wonder. You created music, almost by yourself. He seems genuinely thrilled to have shown you, too.

“Well done, sweetheart,” he says. “Did you like it?”

“Maren, I loved it! Thank you! Thank you so much!”

“It’s the least I could do,” he says.

You set the guitar aside and lean back against him, and he wraps his arms around your waist and holds you.

“I’m glad I met you, Maren,” you say.

“Me too.”

You crane your neck back to look up at him. He grins, but it’s not as intense as usual. It’s soft, in a weird way. That feeling of wanting to kiss him washes over you, and Maren acts like he can sense it, because he cups your cheek.

“Whatcha thinking about, sweetheart?” he almost whispers.

“I–I. Um, I.” You giggle nervously. “I think you’re really hot, and I want to kiss you.”

“Yeah?” He leans closer. “What’s stopping you?”

“Nerves, mostly.”

He chuckles. “Alright, then. How ‘bout I kiss you first?”

You nod, heart racing so fast you think it’ll bruise your sternum. Maren’s thumb strokes your cheek as he takes in your flustered expression. Then he leans in. You shut your eyes, and a moment later, feel the smoothness of his lips pressing to yours.

Tingling, burning warmth courses through your veins at the contact, a taste of his fire. You open your eyes just as he pulls away, his face flushed like yours.

“Fuck,” you say, surprising him into laughter.

“Good?”

“Yeah. Really good.”

“Again?”

“Please, yes–”

He leans in again, and you shift in his lap to straddle one of his giant thighs, lips slightly parted as he kisses you a second time. He guides your arms to wrap around his neck, and you stretch up to meet him so he doesn’t have to bend so much. The second kiss is longer, lighting up your entire body with its passion. He’s not as intense as you expected, almost hesitant in his kissing. You’re not sure you’re doing well, either, but he stays put, so you gain confidence, parting your lips slightly and humming in approval. His tongue probes out to trace your lips, and you gasp before sliding out your own to meet his.

At the touch, you feel the blood rush between your legs. It’s a bit ticklish and wet and so warm, and as Maren closes his mouth to suck on your lower lip, a soft moan trickles out of you before you can help it.

You want him badly, you want all of him. You can feel the desire pouring out of him, too, that inner flame blazing bright and consuming you. He seemed confident throughout the day, but you can’t help but sense that you’re both seeking a kind of solace in the other. It’s been so long since you’ve been close to someone, especially like this, and he’s working up a need in you that’s impossible to ignore.

Maren moves his hands down your back and to your ass, squeezing before tilting you back slightly so he can deepen the kiss, tongue filling your mouth. His kisses turn messy and you do your best to keep up with his heated, dizzying pace, a second moan breaking free when he moves to kiss your neck. You tilt your head to give him easier access, his head filling the space between as he starts to suck on the skin, making a jolt rush straight to your center. You can barely feel the scrape of his sharp teeth, but he doesn’t bite. Maybe it would be dangerous, but you can’t help but feel a bit disappointed.

“Ah…Maren,” you breathe, “Bite me, I–I want you to bite me.”

“Huh? Wait,” he pulls away, giving you both a chance to get your bearings. “I wasn’t kidding when I said my teeth are sharp.”

“Just a nibble?” you plead. “Small and shallow?”

“What are you, a masochist?” Your face burns, but he’s grinning. “Hah! Alright, but hold still, sweetheart. I’ll try not to make you bleed.”

“What are you, afraid of a little blood?” you challenge.

Instantly one of his hands is in your hair, gripping tight by the roots to keep your head still. You moan at the roughness, feeling his grin against the base of your neck before the razor points of his teeth rake your skin. You squirm, and his other hand comes up to grab your shoulder to keep you from moving. The anticipation rockets your arousal from a spark to a burning need, but thankfully he doesn’t make you wait.

There’s a slight, sweet blossoming of pain as his teeth barely sink in. You gasp, legs squeezing his thigh, your breath hitching again when his tongue follows, soothing the sting. He licks back and forth along the spot before slicking his way back to your neck to suck another bruise there, and you can’t help it, you start grinding on his thigh to grant yourself some much-needed relief.

“Fuck,” Maren curses in surprise, pulling back to watch you. The sight must make him impatient, though, because a moment later he grabs your wrist and puts your hand on his crotch. There’s a very large, very hard bulge there, far bigger than your hand. You don’t hesitate to stroke him–you have to work your whole arm to do so–and are rewarded with the beautiful sound of his first moan. His hips cant forward, pushing into your hand, and he’s panting slightly.

“Lie back,” you instruct, and Maren complies, lying back onto the bed. You reposition yourself between his legs so you can grind your crotch directly onto his bulge. He throws his head back and gasps at the same time as you do, his hands coming to grab your hips and pull you onto him harder.

Before you risked buying a small, discreet vibrator, you used to get off by grinding on stacked pillows. The sensation of grinding on Maren, however, was so much better that you found yourself whimpering. His bulge was large enough to provide a firm pressure against your entire vulva, and his breathy, restrained moans only fueled your need. After all the teasing of his kisses, you were already worked up, and it didn’t take you much longer before you were rapidly climbing up and over the peak, a soft cry as you cum.

The orgasm wracks your body, and you hump him desperately throughout it until it finally subsides. You go still, leaning against his belly and catching your breath.

“Why’d you stop?” Maren raises his head to look at you. His brows rise in realization. “Did you cum?”

“Y-Yeah,” you pant. His toothy smirk makes you feel tingly all over again, and you crawl up his body to kiss him some more.

You make out feverishly, all earlier hesitation gone, replaced by hot, needy kisses and nibbles. You pull away just long enough to take off your shirt, throwing it to the side before your bra follows. Maren’s hands are on your breasts in an instant, kneading the soft flesh and making you moan into his mouth. It turns to a sharp cry as his thumbs find your nipples.

“Ya like that?” he husks, and you nod quickly, going to kiss him again and whimpering against his lips when he continues to rub the sensitive nubs. He grants you a brief reprieve as his hands slide down your sides and hips, fingers hooking under the band of your pants, and you break away to remove them and your underwear.

Maren slides a finger between your lower lips, eyes widening at the amount of slick he feels. “Shit, you are so wet.”

“Maren, please–”

You don’t need to say anything more. He slides his middle finger through your folds, up and down, up and down, building up an anticipation that shatters as his finger sinks inside you.

“Ahh!” you cry out as he pushes it deeper, grabbing his forearm to stabilize yourself. His hands are so large, fingers so thick that he can reach all the way to your cervix without stretching. You clench down on the thick digit, dizzy at how easily just one fills you up.

Maren starts to pump his finger slowly, and pleasure shoots through you. The muscles of his forearm flex beneath your hand as he soon fingers you into a mess, your legs shaking as you grind into his palm. He’s biting his lip at the sight of you coming undone on just his hand.

“Kuh, keep going!” you pant desperately. “More, more!”

“More?” he pushes his ring finger at your entrance. “Like this?”

“Yes! Nnnh–!” Your back arches as he pushes the second finger inside you along with the first, the stretch persistent and pleasant and filling. The slick, wet squelch rings in your ears. You rub your clit desperately with one finger, eyes rolling back.

“Shit,” he curses. “Look at you, so needy. Who woulda thought under all that, you’re just a needy little slut?”

Maren slides his other hand up your side to flick at your nipple with his thumb, and his fingers curl abruptly inside you, making you cry out in surprise and delight, the mounting pleasure spiking in intensity. He rubs insistently at your g-spot, and this time, when your orgasm slams into you, he can feel it fluttering around his fingers.

“Ah, ahh–!” You curl forward, almost weak from the intensity, shivers going through you along with the throbbing of your clit. “Coming!”

“I know, sweetheart. I can feel you,” he says, kissing your forehead. “It’s cute how easily you cum.”

“I want my third one to be from you fucking me,” you state intently. His eyes go wide a moment before he laughs.

“Can’t get enough of me, huh?”

“That’s right. I want you to make me regret ever having run into you. I want to think about tonight for the rest of my life.”

Maren’s blush deepens, his tongue poking out to wet his lips before he grins. “You keep catching me off guard, you know that? Alright, then. You think you can take it, then I’ll give it to you.”

He pulls his fingers out of you and uses the slicked digits to tease your nipples. The stimulation is different with the new lubrication, but in a good way, a sigh falling from your lips as he works heat into your body anew. You take his hand, pulling it up to your mouth, and lick the sticky fluid from his fingers. His breath hitches as you surprise him once more, a tender moan coming out when you start to suck on his fingers, one at a time.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Maren groans, his other hand reaching down to undo his zipper. He hastily shoves his boxers down to pull out his cock, jerking himself to the sight and sensation of your little mouth on his fingers. “How–how do you want to do this? I don’t have a condom.”

You take his fingers out of your mouth with a pop. “I have the implant.” You glance over your shoulder and flush hot all over at the sight of his massive cock in his hand. Naturally he’s proportional, and there’s no way it’s going to fit as he is. “Um…you’re huge, Maren. I don’t think it’s gonna–wait, you can make yourself smaller, right?”

He looks conflicted at the idea. “How small are we talking?”

You weren’t sure what his aversion to being smaller was, but you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. Thinking for a moment, you offer, “what if I mount you, and you just shrink until it goes in? If you get to a point where you don’t want to keep going, you can stop and we’ll do something else.”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” Maren nods, seemingly put at ease.

You tug at his vest. He chuckles and removes it, then his pants and boxers. As soon as he’s naked, you throw your arms around his neck and start making out with him again.

“You know,” you say between kisses, “perk of you–being smaller–can kiss and fuck me–at the same time.”

He hums in response, not outright rejecting the idea. At his current height, riding him meant he couldn’t kiss you without breaking his spine. But at his current height, nothing was going to happen anyway.

Maren’s heated kisses work you back into a frenzy of need until you’re breaking away, licking the large scar on his left pectoral before kissing down his chest and belly, until your ass is pressed against his cock. It’s so big it touches your lower back, leaving a smear of precum on your skin.

“Okay,” you say, taking hold of his cock and positioning yourself over it. Maren sucks in a breath at the touch, and you follow suit as you press the blunt head against your vulva. It’s like trying to fuck an eggplant, it’s just not gonna happen, though the wet, smooth skin does feel good against you. “I’m ready.”

Maren nods and lets out a sigh. You feel a slight shift, not immediately realizing he’s changing, until a second later when you realize his head no longer reaches the pillow. He shrinks slowly, losing inch by inch, and you wiggle your hips a little to feel if he’s small enough yet.

You both gasp as he starts to penetrate you, but he can’t get further than the head.

“A-Almost,” you stammer. Another inch of height off, and you’re able to sink down onto him slowly. “There! Yes!”

Overall, Maren’s only lost about four feet of height. At 11 feet tall he’s still huge in comparison to you, and you’re a bit surprised at yourself. 

He must be, too, because he asks, “It’s not too much?” 

“I think–I can handle–nnng…” You lose focus as he bottoms out. His cock is still huge, bigger than anyone you’ve been with or any toy you’ve used, and the stretch hurts just a little bit. But he seemed so reluctant to get smaller, you don’t want to push him any more than he has. You just need some time to adjust, and you tell him as much.

“Ya sure, babe?”

“Yeah…It’s, it’s kind of good like this…” you hang your head down, looking at the point where your bodies are connected. There’s still several inches of him left out. He’s so thick that the broad head of him pushes firmly against your g-spot and doesn’t let you forget it’s there. You lift your hips experimentally, and the movement makes you both gasp again, a jolt of intertwined heat.

“Fuck, how are you taking so much? Little thing like you,” Maren’s hands rest on your hips as you start moving up and down. “You like big dick, huh, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yes, yes,” you pant as you start riding him in earnest. “Oh–oh, fuck, Maren…”

“You’re more wild than you let on. I think you’ve been waiting for something like this, huh? Waiting for someone like me.” His breath is heavy, his husky words encouraging. “So wound up when we first met–turns out all you needed was to let loose, hmm?”

He’s not even dirty talking, not really, but the way he speaks to you just makes you wetter. You’re able to keep going thanks to it, keeping the friction from getting uncomfortable. Panting, you roll your hips as you ride him, grinding him where you need him most.

“Tell me how it feels, tell me how that big dick feels,” Maren says.

“Good! Feels so good!”

He rewards you with a sudden, hard spank, and you gasp.

“You got tighter! You are a masochist.”

He smacks you again, making you cry out. “Maren!”

“That’s right, sweetheart, say my name!”

Smack!

“Maren-!”

Your pace slows as you tire–the festival has you drained–but Maren doesn’t hesitate to grab your hips, bracing his legs against the bed to thrust up into you. His tongue pokes out slightly as he pants, bouncing you on his cock, and you’re able to rub your clit now that he’s picked up the slack.

He moans, grip tightening on your hips as his pace picks up. Each thrust shoves you closer and closer to the edge until you crash over it with a strangled cry of his name, orgasm ripping through you.

“I got ya,” he pants, his hurried thrusts work you through your orgasm, head spinning at the feel of your walls spasming around him. “Gonna…ah, shit, I’m gonna cum…!”

He stops abruptly, pulling you down onto him so hard it hurts a little, head thrown back and moaning from deep in his gut. His cock throbs as he empties inside you, and then there’s no sound left but the both of you catching your breath.

He softens inside you, but is still so large he doesn’t fall out until you get off of him. You collapse next to his side, resting your head against him, a thick haze of relief and sated pleasure fogging up your brain.

Maren’s arm slings over your body, pulling you closer. You look up at him. He smiles when your gazes meet, that charming, devilish grin that got you here.

“You good, sweetheart?”

“Never been better.” You match his grin. “Next round, can you fuck me against the wall?”

“On the wall, on the table, on the floor…” he trails off, and you both giggle. “What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“One more day of the festival left.”

You cuddle into his side. “Will you spend it with me?”

Maren’s gaze softens. “Of course, sweetheart.”

It turns out that Maren has far more stamina than you do. He puts you through your paces, and you’re exhausted and sore the next day, leading him to practically carry you around. The final show is incredible, and when the day comes to a close and it’s time to part ways, you tear up a little. Maren’s as cheerful as ever, but you can see past the front he puts out just a little, now–you know he’s bummed, too.

“Keep your chin up, sweetheart. Maybe someday we’ll meet again.” He says, wiping at the corners of your eyes. “Promise me you won’t miss a guy like me too much?”

You smile and nod, even as you lie through your teeth. “I promise.”

[jackieshaunanat]

no one saw the rock dog post but several people saw the logic post

[steklir]

From Commander-in-Chief: “Gabby Blabby Abby? Grabby Hands? Dr. Crabbie Pants? Ugh. I’m so glad you ended it with her. She was too old for you, anyway.”“Just wait until you meet your future mother-in-law,” Anya sing-songs. “You’re in for a treat.” For the love of holy causes and effects, upon all that is good in this world, p l e a s e tell us how this meeting goes! *angel's choirs singing please* Like, what wins - Lexa's Heda composure or her awkward gay noodle bean-ness? I'm so curious

Haha, hmm… One question is who tells Lexa and whether Clarke actually finds out (wait, Clarke doesn’t know about her mom and Anya, right? Or was that her mom and Raven? omg need to pull out my venn diagram again! okay, it’s unclear. so just for fun, let’s say that Clarke doesn’t know about it either. bc what is that fic but crack and miscommunication?)

–

January 3rd, 2021

“Babe. Don’t freak out but—Lexa. Stop. It’s fine.”

President Woods takes a deep breath. “Of course it’s fine. I’m fine. Go on.”

“Are you going to need your panic room?”

“It is not ‘my panic room,’ Clarke. It’s not, like, therapeutic. It’s just called a panic room because it locks down.”

“Ummhmm. And it just so happens to be your bedroom. Where you do all your panicking.”

“I’m the President of the United States, Clarke. I don’t panic,” Lexa sulks, digging a pen into the surface of her desk before remembering it’s a priceless historical heirloom. “What were you saying?” she prods, furiously trying to buff away the scratch with her thumb.

“My mother—”

Lexa whips her head up. “Your mother?”

Clarke smirks and saunters over to the Oval Office desk, hopping up and crossing her legs. She’s wearing a skirt today, thin nude tights that might as well not be there, and Lexa’s mouth suddenly contains too much saliva. It won’t go away; Lexa Woods might be the first president of the United States to die at her desk, choked by her own drool. 

 “She’s—”

This time it’s a secret service agent who interrupts, knocking on the doorframe with an apologetic expression. “Heda, Dr. Abigail Griffin to see you.”

Lexa narrows her eyes. “I don’t have her on my schedule.”

“It’s a recent update, if you’ll refresh your tablet—”

Fuck. There she is. 2pm. 

Gabby Blabby Abby. 

Anya’s ex-girlfriend always did had a way of ruining Lexa’s day; it shouldn’t be a surprise she’s still capable of doing it, presidency and an army of bodyguards or not. The woman’s scarier than Anya, and that’s saying something.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Clarke, this might take awhile. The Director of the NIH is always after me for more funding, no matter how much I maximize out their budget. I’ll try to make it quick and meet you in the sitting room in twenty minutes or so? And then you can tell me more about your mother and why I shouldn’t be panicking.”

“Okay, maybe panic a little,” Clarke says, wide-eyed.

“Why?”

“Abby Griffin is my mother.”

What is it like to breathe? Lexa can’t remember. Why isn’t any air getting into her lungs? They’re certainly working hard enough—or is that her heart?

“Babe. It’s okay. She was happy to hear I was seeing someone. And I don’t think she’s here about the NIH today, if that helps.”

“Dr. Crabbie Pants is your mom?” Lexa squeaks. 

“Excuse me?” a low, dangerous voice growls from the door.

“My deepest apologies, I’m hearing over my headset there’s an emergency, please excuse us,” Lexa blurts out at double speed, grabbing Clarke’s hand and dragging her through the doors into the adjacent room. It’s not safe enough though, not safe enough by far, and she pulls them into the next room, too, slamming and locking the door behind her and then the front entrance, just to be on the safe side. 

“Clarke,” that terrifying voice reverberates through the bedroom doors and Lexa is happy to admit that she’s panicking right now. “Clarke, Lexa, get out here this instant.” 

The control panel—Lexa dashes over to the picture frame and tears it off the wall.

“Lex, sweetheart, it’s fine,” Clarke tries to soothe. “She’ll love you. She won’t tell anyone, either, don’t worry. I know you want things to settle down a bit before we announce anything.”

“Your mother is Dr. Abigail Griffin, I don’t think everything will ever be fine again, Clarke.”

“I mean…didn’t you make the connection between our last names?”

Lexa pauses. “I did not.”

“Babe…”

“Fuck, what is the code? She’s going to ram down those doors any second now.”

“I think you might be over-reacting.”

“Your mother once pointed a gun at me. Twice, actually. All because I came home early. Oh, god, I’ve seen your mother naked, Clarke. Naked.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Anya’s fault! She never locks her bedroom door, how was I to know she’d be—”

Clarke goes still and dangerously quiet, a look of murder in her eyes, and Lexa instinctively flinches and then wonders how she could have possibly missed the influence of Abby in Clarke’s mannerisms, the gleam of power and just a hint of wild in her eyes. The capacity to wield goodness or terror with the raise of an eyebrow.

Meanwhile, the pounding at the door grows louder, more…animalistic. 

“My mother fucked Anya?”

Lexa takes a step back, hands held up where Clarke can see them. “Um. You didn’t know? They dated. For about a year.”

Jumping aside as Clarke charges closer, Lexa watches her finger-mash every single key on the control panel until the lights start blinking and several clicking sounds are heard. 

Steel falls onto steel and the panic mode is fully activated.

“Clarke?”

“To be clear, this isn’t panicking,” Clarke notes, scary-calm. “This is for her own protection.”

Lexa believes it.

“Now. We’ve got a few hours to kill,” Clarke decides, still thrumming with electricity, enough that Lexa almost doesn’t want to touch her. (Almost—ha! Not even close. Lexa has a high pain tolerance and she’s never been so grateful) “Whatever shall we do with them?”

“Clarke, I love you but please don’t use words like ‘kill’ right now.”

“Get on the bed.  I’m going to make you scream loud enough my mother has to hear it. I love you, too.”

Lexa swallows. 

This probably isn’t the time to mention how similar Clarke is to her mother. 

Or to think about it.

At all. 

Oh, god, she’s taking off her tights. Oh god oh god.

“Oh and Lex?”

“Yes?”

“We’re pretending that wasn’t the first time we said I love you.” Her shirt is off now. The President mentally commits to tax breaks for every company that manufactures red lacy lingerie. 

“O—okay. Good. Yes. Fine. Superb.” 

“Lexa. Bed—now.”

“You know, I bet your mother would hate it even more if it was me making you scream,” Lexa attempts, already on top of the covers.

“Nice try, my messy little bottom. Hands on the post.”

All mental images of her sister doing the same under Clarke’s mother’s command go right out the window, thank god.