#assuming I can get it somewhere for cheap

[tarn-ati0n]

Ah shit I'm becoming a Fire Emblem guy aren't I.

[snekdood]

idk who needs to hear this but growing native plants is not hard at all, at all

[kiwisoap]

How to Make Your Own Binder that Fits Well and Looks Good

A while back I was in need of some new binders and thought hey, I bet I can make one way cheaper than buying it from somewhere (especially cus some of the ones I’ve bought in the past didn’t really fit right). Except when I started looking for a binder patterns online, I was very surprised that I really… couldn’t find many that looked very nice lol. Most of them had really wrinkled necklines, or didn't bind well, or just overall looked weird. A lot of the patterns also required a serger, which I don't have.

So I just said fuck it and made my own pattern! And it ended up being relatively easy! And the binders fit REALLY WELL and are comfortable to wear, even for long periods. The neckline doesn't show under shirts with loose collars, and the bottom hem doesn't gap or stick out. Here's me wearing one:

(plus I was able to make myself 5 of them for a total of like ~$50.)

So I figured I could throw together a guide to help out anyone else who wanted to make their own binder but was dissatisfied with the patterns available!

Disclaimer: This tutorial is going to assume a baseline level of sewing experience, and also will require access to a sewing machine. It is not a complicated pattern, but it will most likely require some tweaking and adjustments after you make the first one. Don’t be afraid to make alterations to make it fit better!

This tutorial is for a gc2b-style half-tank binder. It could be altered to be a full-tank binder, but all instructions will be for the half-tank design.

Materials needed:

Stretchy fabric, probably listed as 'athletic fabric' (I use this kind from Joann’s. Most athletic stretch fabrics should work, look for around 80% nylon/20% spandex blends)

Stiff fabric (I use this shirting cotton because I like how lightweight it is. If you want something a little stiffer with more structure, you can use a cotton or cotton/poly blend twill like this. gc2b binders use twill for theirs.)

Lightweight fusible interfacing (I use this kind) (get FUSIBLE not sew-in)

Fusible webbing like Pellon Wonder-Web (this is technically optional but it WILL make your life easier when you’re sewing - just make sure to get the kind with the paper backing!!!)

“But kiwisoap thats 4 whole kinds of materials, surely I don’t need that many!” Ok sure, you can probably get by without the fusible web and interfacing, but consider: they are both dirt cheap (im talking like $1-2/yard), they will make it much easier to sew the final product, and will give you an overall better-looking result. This tutorial is written with the assumption that you’ll use them.

"How much fabric will I need?" Measure the circumference of your chest below your armpits. Add 6 inches just to be safe. This is the yardage of stretch fabric you’ll need, and should give you enough material to make at least 3 binders without much excess left over. You will need around half as much stiff fabric.

Other supplies:

Big Paper (for drawing the pattern)

Flexible measuring tape

Sewing machine

Iron

Pins

Step 1: Measuring

You will need 4 main measurements for this pattern.

A) Measure the circumference of your chest just below your armpits, then divide the number in half. This will be the widest part of the pattern.

B) Measure from the top of your shoulder down to where you want the binder to end. For most folks, this will usually be around the natural waist (narrowest part of the torso), about 3-6 inches above the belly button. This will be the overall height of the pattern.

C) Measure the distance from below your armpit to where you want the binder to end. This will determine where the arm hole starts.

D) Measure the circumference of your waist where you want the binder to end, then divide the number in half.

So for example, after dividing A and D in half, my measurements are 17", 15", 7", and 14.5".

Next:

Subtract one inch from measurement A - This will help provide some compression. You might need to take it in even further depending on how it fits, but one inch is a safe starting point. I take mine in around 1.5 inches.

Subtract half an inch from measurement D. This will help prevent the bottom edge of the binder from gapping. Again, you may need to take it in more or less, depending on your own body.

Add 1.5 inches to measurement B and one inch to measurement C. This is to account for the hems and armhole placement.

This makes my final measurements

A = 16"

B = 16.5"

C = 8"

D = 13.5"

From here on out, we are only going to be working with the measurements that we have added/subtracted to, NOT the ones we initially took.

Step 2: Drawing the Pattern

You will need a piece of paper large enough to accommodate the entire pattern. This may involve taping multiple pieces together, or using a piece of newsprint, etc.

I recommend folding the paper in half to ensure that you get a symmetrical pattern. However, this means you will need to divide measurements A and D in half again, or else you’ll end up with a pattern that’s twice as wide as it should be!

Also note: the pattern is drawn with the seam allowance built in! You don’t need to add any seam allowance.

To draw the pattern:

Begin with your folded paper. Measure and mark B and C on the paper, and draw a line extending across the paper. These will be your guidelines.

Measure and mark A and D along the middle and bottom guidelines, respectively. Remember, the paper is folded, so you only use half of the measurement for A and D.

Draw a loose curve connecting the endpoints of A and D. If needed, you can also just draw a straight line between the two.

Mark the opening for the neck hole. Depending on your size, it will measure around 6-8 inches across at the top (remember to divide this in half for the folded paper) and about 5-6.5 inches deep. (mine is 6.5" across and 5.5" deep) Draw a curve to connect the two points. This part will take some tweaking and adjusting to get it to look right lol.

Measure the width of the strap - this should be somewhere between 2.5 - 4 inches wide. They will end up about 1/2” to 3/4” narrower once you sew them. Draw the line at a slight angle, as shown.

Connect the endpoint of the strap to the endpoint of line A with a curve like in the diagram.

This will be the pattern for the front piece.

To make the back piece, trace the front pattern, but make a very shallow curve for the neckline instead of a steep one, as shown:

The last piece is the stiff front panel. This is what provides the flattening effect of the binder. To make the pattern, trace the front pattern again. Trim 3/8” in on the sleeves and neckline, and 3/4” to 1” along the bottom. This gives a flatter hem. Then trim the straps shorter by a few inches. This helps the binder lay flatter along the shoulders.

When you're done, you should have 3 pattern pieces that look approximately like this (stiff panel shown overlaid on the stretch fabric to show how it fits together).

NOTE: If you want more compression or just want to make it a bit sturdier, you can add a second panel of stretch fabric to the back piece. Just use the bottom half of the back pattern (from the widest part down to the bottom hem) to cut out another piece of stretch fabric. Attach it to the back piece with a strip of fusible webbing and a zig-zag stitch along the top.

Step 3: Putting It All Together

Once you’ve made the patterns and cut out the pieces of fabric, you should have something that looks like this:

The next step is adding interfacing and fusible webbing. Use your pattern to cut out 3/8" strips to fit on the top of the straps for both pieces, and to the neckline, sleeves, and bottom hem of the back piece, as shown:

If you want to add it to the bottom hem of the front piece, it will help keep that hem flat when sewing it down later, but it's not essential.

If you choose to also use fusible webbing (WHICH I RECOMMEND), you will apply it to the stiff front panel similarly to how the interfacing was applied, ~3/8” strips along the neckline, sleeves, and top of the straps. Cut out two strips for the neckline and sleeves, because we'll use those later too.

Iron the strips onto the front panel as shown:

Once it's on, just peel off the paper, position it webbing-side down on the stretch fabric, and iron it to fuse the two pieces together so everything stays in place while you sew. THIS MAKES IT WAY EASIER TO SEW.

After the stiff front panel is fused to the stretch fabric, you’ll sew the straps of the front and back pieces together, then join the pieces along the sides. Pin the hell out of it to keep everything in place -this type of material is VERY prone to puckering.

When sewing, USE A ZIGZAG STITCH. A straight stitch will NOT WORK for stretch fabric. I adjust mine to 1.3mm long and 3.5mm wide which has worked well. If your machine doesn’t let you adjust stitch length or width, well. That sucks, I don’t really have any advice.

After you sew the front and back pieces together, you can add more fusible webbing to the front panel to help hold the hem down flat and prevent it from puckering while you sew it. Just add the strip, peel the paper off, then fold the hem over and iron it down. This part isn’t really necessary, but it does make the hems look nicer. If nothing else, I would recommend adding it to the neckline.

After that, you just fold & pin all the hems and sew them up with a zigzag stitch, then go over the raw edge at the top of the stiff panel (where we cut the straps shorter).

And that’s it! You’re done! And now you can make your own binders whenever you want!

And hey! If you used this tutorial and wanna throw me a dollar or two on ko-fi, I wouldn't complain.

[venusandsaturnsrings]

★彡 better off as lovers (not the other way around).

synopsis: your favourite band isn’t exactly mainstream when you first get into them, which leads to a series of encounters with the bassist and singer. partially sidelined as they skyrocket to fame, you’re forced to grind your heels into the dirt against his whirlwind lifestyle to decipher what exactly you are.

contains: 9.1k words of modern band au with singer/bassist mydei, fem/afab reader, strangers to groupie and musician to lovers LMAO, reader is kinda a loser but he's into that, slightly ooc mydei, oral, pinv, creampie, slight angst, death before i give up FOB references, and annoying Phainon.

You’re sniffling through the tail end of allergy season when you first stumble upon ‘ICHOR’, a small band, through a random autoplay slew of songs as you're groggily cleaning up the nest you made while sick. It’s some sort of unpolished grungy post-hardcore pop rock amalgamation you can’t quite put your finger on but it's good; really good. You end up replaying it once or twice before just putting it on loop and spending the next half hour of cleaning listening to those same three minutes over and over again. The singer has a strong voice and the instrumentals come in with a depth that scratches your brain just right.

Once the space is tolerably clean, you begin your research into this band and slide through their whole discography before you know it. You come to know a couple of things. Firstly, the most popular song they’ve released has barely grazed a thousand streams and you’re at least ten of them. Secondly, they're from a town only about an hour away. Lastly, heavens above the leading man, who you’ve learned is named Mydei, is hot. Dangerously so. The kind of hot that you’d risk it all for. Finding his social media is nearly effortless and he’s got just under two hundred followers and many, many, many photos of himself and the other band members practicing. It’s unfortunate phone cameras haven’t developed far enough to catch individual hairs and beads of sweat from four metres away because you’re squinting and focused on the small shadow below his navel. It’s painfully enticing. Shame be damned, you hit the follow button and go back to finding all the information you possibly can on the group.

Just shy of an hour later you’re piecing together a plan to head over to one of their shows. Naturally your best friend is coming along despite their bewilderment at your sudden interest. A hotel room for the night is cheap and tickets are even cheaper. Their set starts at eleven in the evening two days from now and you’re vibrating with barely contained excitement. Even if it's a weird brief infatuation with a guy from a little band, you’re sure it’ll be fun anyways and the music is supposed to be good if it’s anything like what they’ve put out online. With plans settled you slide back to giggle and kick your feet at his pictures again, as any normal person does, and nearly choke to death at the little notification telling you he followed you back.

Sure, it’s a small band. Sure, he doesn’t have many followers. Sure, only your best pictures are posted but the endorphins are working overtime to let you know he really did return the follow. He’s seen your face. Maybe he thinks you’re pretty? Or, the more reasonable assumption, he’s assuming he must know you from somewhere. Not that it really matters why, it matters that he did. Oh man are you going to be annoying about this to everyone you know for the foreseeable future.

Regardless, you’re following common stalking courtesy and not liking all of his pictures and instead just looking and going to every single photo he's tagged in and every single one of the people he follows. It’s there that you find his other band members and thank whatever higher being there is for fellow bandmate Phainon because he posts Mydei more often than he does himself and knows all of the angles. Half of you wonders if maybe they’re already a thing but there's a caption under a shirtless picture of Mydei he’s posted that says ‘ladies! look no further than @ mydeim0s if ur in need of a husband and professional cook ;p’ and the man himself has commented ‘Keep my name out of your mouth unless you’d like to get in the ring again, @ best_deliverer.’ You find his attitude charming and can’t help but giggle as if you actually know the two of them but the proof of him being single makes you unreasonably happy and you continue your perusal of his pictures. Birthday posts, practice pictures, off-guard secret snaps, and the occasional video focused on his fingers traversing the strings of his bass; it’s all going straight to your guts and the pretend romance you’ve already started writing in your head. 

You sift from Phainon’s page to another member, Cipher. She’s pretty, often dressed up in things that show off her legs and you're torn between being jealous and in love but Mydei has already snatched your heart so it's imperative you don’t stray from your goal. There’s a couple photos where you can spot him in the background but nothing more and you wrinkle your nose before moving onto the next. Castorice’s page yields no results as she's got it private and you cry a bit internally. What if she's got the best ones? But you don’t dare to request to follow her, that would be weird. Having some morals, no matter how small, is important.

You think waiting until the show to really see him will be hell.

Crunched up in the passenger seat, you’re sipping on some sort of energy drink your friend handed you as soon as you flopped into the car. You’ve taken to playing all of the band's songs to them over the slightly busted and worn sound system the vehicle has. The windows are rolled down and your sunglasses are threatening to slide all the way off your face as you leisurely drink and pull at your shoelaces. Your friend had insisted on leaving at nine in the morning so you could enjoy walking around the city before the show and, while you’re positive it’ll be fun, you’re still not fully awake. That’s your fault for staying up to ogle at Mydei again. Sleepiness aside, the excitement still hasn’t slipped away and you’re praying for some sort of hot and heavy eye contact at the least at the concert, more than would be welcome.

The drive is uneventful and checking into the hotel even moreso. Beds assigned and bags thrown to the floor, you agree on coming back to the hotel prior to the show to freshen up before heading out.

It’s not a huge city by any means but it’s bigger than your hometown and that's enough to make it feel like a different dimension. The downtown area has a slew of shops pressed up tightly against each other and all the tiny trinkets are hurting your already small wallet but how could you ever pass up the tiny plush seal that practically begged you to take it home with its big soggy boba eyes? You’re not heartless but you are drinkless when you go face first into the chest of someone as you cradle the small creature maternally. The can falls to the pavement loudly and you can feel the sticky drink seep into your clothes as you fumble for an appropriate apology to the person you’re avoiding eye contact with. Silence greets you so you dare to look towards their face and almost join your drink dead on the ground. Of course. You just had to soak the man you’d definitely not been weird about, Mydei. He’s not frowning or visibly angry, but he’s staring at you and suddenly you understand what it must be like to be a fish in a tank. 

His eyes are golden like the sun above your head or the wedding jewelry your mum never let you touch and your heart almost stops in your chest. He’s even more handsome in person, now stained shirt and all. When your brain finally kicks back into gear you clear your throat to get out a more cohesive apology.

“I uh… I wasn’t looking where I was going… Sorry. Do you,” you pause unsure of what help you could possibly offer as the only thing your brain is coming up with is licking him clean, “can I help at all? I’ve probably got napkins somewhere in my bag.” You busy yourself to search for them as he stays silent and part of you thinks he might just snap your neck and be over with it but his voice, low and slightly gravely, cuts through your thoughts.

“It’s fine,” you look up in time to catch him licking his lips, “I wasn’t looking either, a mutual fault.” You nod in response, still feeling like you should be lashed for your sins. “Cute seal,” it takes you a moment to process what you think is a compliment of sorts and your heart sings even if it wasn’t actually about you. The seal is close enough.

“Oh! Thanks it’s uh… Yeah, I thought it was cute too. Obviously. I bought it,” your hands are sweating and your mouth is dry, “hasn’t got a name yet. Would letting you pick work as an apology?” It’s not exactly a joke but you hope it’ll lighten what you feel like is a gratingly awkward encounter. His small chuckle and the sight of his lips quirking up makes him even more handsome, you think. He laughs subtly, it sounds the way coffee smells and marshmallows taste. You notice his eyes turn into little crescents when he smiles. It’s painfully cute and you feel like you’ve stepped into the orbit of something truly special. Mydei hums thoughtfully.

“It would. How about,” his eyes cast back down to the plush in your arms. If it had a voice you think it would be crying for the love of its new father. “Pebble?” You almost swoon. It’s a silly name and everything you could want as you nod vigorously which earns you another perfect laugh from him. You’re looking more at the necklace he’s wearing than his face but you can still feel the way his gaze presses into you without faltering. “Are you from here?” The question catches you a bit off guard but you shake your head.

“No, just visiting,” you tell him your actual town with a slight grimace, “small getaway trip I suppose. Nothing fancy.” Mydei nods along with his eyes still fixed on you.

“Any particular reason,” he prods, “for the trip, I mean.” You’ve been found out, you think. He knows you’re a freak. He looked at your face long enough to remember which would be nice if he wasn’t prompting you like a cop. You think about joining your drink on the ground for the nth time but manage to force out a stiff laugh that definitely sounds forced.

You run through a litany of excuses but the truth is valuable in the situation. No need to dig your grave deeper than the already allotted and shoveled six feet. “Oh, yeah, I guess,” the words come out a bit too breathless for your liking, “wanted to check out this music thing.” It would be a nonchalant answer if you didn’t know that he knew that you knew. Maybe the can will swallow you itself.

“Figured,” you can hear the amusement in his voice so you look up again in hopes that at least you can appreciate his smile again before you die, “see you tonight, then.” You catch the slightest hint of his cologne as he walks away and you’re left to figure out if that's a good thing or bad thing.

The evening rolls in and your friend is still giggling occasionally across the hotel room. They had watched the whole scene between you and Mydei unfold, much to your horror, and thought it was apparently the pinnacle of both comedy and romance. You thought otherwise but his smile and laugh haunted each crevice of your mind; it was all you could think about.

It wasn’t as if you were getting dolled up, the show was supposed to be in some half underground dingy bar, but you needed to not be sticky and the hot shower was helping with that and working to clear your mind. Logically you knew your run in was a one time encounter and he likely wouldn’t even remember you amongst all the other people in the crowd but the sliver of hope that maybe he would made you want to curl up into a ball on the bathroom floor.

Clean, dry, and in not soda soaked clothes, you put on your shoes with a sigh and repeated the mantra of ‘phone, wallet, keys,’ until you were positive there was no chance you’d leave anything behind. Scrappy tickets in your pocket, you finally left with the soundtrack of laughter and nerves.

The venue is dark and the floors don’t even resemble wood anymore. You’re stood to the side idly chatting with some cheap liquor in a plastic cup. It stings like rubbing alcohol and the taste isn’t much better, barely covered with a flavour you can only liken to indistinguishable fruit. It’s sweet and burns, settles warm in your chest and stomach, but it gives you something to focus your senses on that isn’t noise.

You take note of the crowd, mostly young men, and cringe a little bit at all the looks you’re obviously getting. Trying to look as unapproachable as possible, you duck your head a bit lower and check your phone which reads ten-fifty-five. A sigh of relief passes your lips knowing skeevy eyes will be off you soon enough. As if on cue, everyone turns to the stage as a snare rings across the room. Front and center stands Mydei.

He’s giving the microphone an irritatingly intimate groping as he adjusts it slightly and the bass slung across his front makes you jealous but you remember, although awkward and unintentional, you’ve also been that close to him. It gives you a weird sense of pride. He’s outfitted, rather not outfitted, in nothing more than a pair of low-rise pants and some jewelry. On any other musician you’d find it tacky but he makes it work. His gaze is searing when he looks up and takes in the crowd that’s cheering for his band. The small tilt of his mouth into a smirk is more intoxicating than your shitty drink. You skim over the rest of the band who are all more clothed than Mydei is. They look good, just not as good as him. His voice is just as nice when he addresses the room.

“Nice evening, isn’t it?” He sounds casual and a conglomerate of agreements sound out that has his smirk grow a touch wider. “We appreciate the turnout. Best we’ve had so far,” his head tips to one side and his hair looks like the softest thing in the world, “hopefully we don’t disappoint.” You don’t think anything could let you down now.

The music is just as good in person as it is through your phone. It’s better in person, honestly, and you’re still stuck to the wall humming and swaying lightly. The throngs of people are dancing and hollering but you can appreciate the view more from your stationary spot. From one song to the next, you think Mydei must have been a siren of sorts in a past life; he has the voice of one. His eyes slide across the crowd with every line and change in expression. Some are powerful, some are cocky, and some are deeply emotional. He smiles at all the people and you wish you could bottle it up and keep it forever. It’s when his gaze finally finds you that your heart beats out of your chest.

His eyes linger on you, not moving, and you think he smiles a bit wider than he has all night. The lyrics slide past his lips with ease, “you’re a canary, I’m a coal mine,” and you wish it was written about you but his sight doesn’t let up. What you thought would be maybe a brief glance stretches into a dozen seconds and you probably look dumbstruck but he’s staring and so are you. It’s nice.

When the music sadly lets up and the band says their thanks and goodbyes, you sigh out in disappointment but promise yourself you can always go to another show. Turning to your friend who looks ready to explode from the earlier look shared between you and Mydei, you’re ready to leave with a sad look when a hand hits your shoulder. You jerk away in shock and whip around to see a man. Irritation almost turns into a sharp question on your part but the mint haired man says Mydei wants to see you. This guy is the band's manager and Mydei asked for you. Your friend shoos you off with the promise of seeing you later and you let the man lead you back past the security to the green room.

The green room is bright with laughter as the band winds down from the show and shares the joys of performing. You feel like an intruder as you step in after the manager and all of their eyes land on you. Their smiles remain, though, and Phainon shoots a knowing look of sorts to Mydei who gestures for you to now follow him and you end up in a cramped space outside the building but away from any prying eyes, band members or others. He doesn’t speak up yet, opting to pull out a cigarette and lighter. Two inhales later his focus turns to you fully.

“Wasn’t sure you’d show up after this afternoon,” he breathes out with the smoke, “thought you might’ve been too mortified.” You laugh dryly and his smile is easy and relaxed.

“I’m not a coward. I’m just,” an unusually bold urge came over you and you plucked the cigarette from his lips to place it between your own, “not exactly confident at the best or worst of times.” The smoke is cool, menthols, and you think it suits him. His eyes follow to your lips and he leans in to steal it back. His nose grazes yours teasingly and he’s still smiling as his lips almost touch the corner of yours. Mydei pulls back for another lung full and is polite enough to exhale away from your face before he leans back in and takes in your face. He hums a tune you don’t recognize while his eyes travel from each detail to the next even as he turns away to take in the last of the cigarette but rather than blowing the smoke away, his other hand comes up to part your lips with his thumb and the smoke travels from his mouth to yours. It’s intimate and you love it. You wish he’d just kiss you but he doesn’t and straightens back up to his full height while he crushes the butt under his heel and moves a stray hair from your face.

“No one’s always confident,” it almost feels like patronizing advice but you don’t mind if it’s from him. “You should be more, though,” he hums another few notes as you finally have the strength to let your eyes wander down his still sweat sheened and muscular chest. “You’re pretty,” it seems natural coming from his mouth, “got an unforgettable face.” You let it go straight to your head and guts with a shaky but overjoyed smile.

That night ends with you in his metaphorical bed, it’s his car, and brimming with barely contained happiness.

It’s just shy of a week later that you get a message from him. You hadn’t wanted to send one first in fear that he’d air you but the little notification sends your heart into overdrive.

It’s not a long one, but it feels good. ‘Got a show near you tomorrow. Come by and I’ll give you a free ticket.’ The offer is beyond enticing and you feel blessed that you just so happen to be free. It takes everything in you not to send back some sort of Shakespearean love confession but you play it cool with ‘say less. i’ll be there :) look forward to seeing you again’ and take a chance with a follow up. ‘give me an even better performance than last time and i’ll have a reward prepared.’ It’s teasing and you doubt he’ll take it seriously but he promises to blow it out of the water.

This time you’re alone as you get to the venue. Mydei had offered a single ticket and you were too embarrassed to ask for another plus you didn’t want to burden your friend knowing you’d likely make them leave alone again. He’d instructed you to head to the backdoor at ten and that same manager would be there to let you in. True to his words, he was there and held the door open for you with a sigh. You said your thanks and were led backstage where you’d get to watch up close from the comfort of behind the curtains and, despite his clear disinterest in you, his manager spoke.

“Don’t be a distraction,” you think it’s supposed to be scolding but it registers closer to flattery. Mydei had found himself distracted by you? You’d twirl your hair if you weren’t in public.

The back view of him as he walked on stage was delightful and the side view you got as he performed was just as good as the front. You noticed he had a habit of leaning back, letting the bass rest angled against his hips in a way that made your stomach flip. He casted you a sidelong glance at least once each song and you grinned back the whole time. You wish he’d never stop looking at you as each lyric went in your ears like a drug.

“You’re the only place that feels like home.”

“Robbing lips and kissing banks under this moon.”

“Better off as lovers.”

Not a single line goes unappreciated by you. Some of the lyrics made you fumble over your own lips but that didn’t matter when his voice kept you on track. Every syllable felt perfect and every strum of his bass was like heaven. If you weren’t excited for some more personal time, you’d never want him to even think of stepping out of the spotlight.

He walked away from the stage smiling at you and shining with sweat and adrenaline. You had to admit this show was better than the last somehow and you weren’t sure if it was because it really was a bigger effort or if it was due to the impending post show romp you’d get to star in yourself. Either option was good and either option made you feel special. He slides the instrument slightly to the side to slot one hip against you as he leans down to talk straight in your ear over the clamoring of the crowd and his band mates.

“Do I deserve that reward?” He doesn’t need to ask but he does and it’s paired with a self assured smile fueled by lingering laughter. You nod with a grin of your own and let your lips brush across his chest; a taste of what’s to come. Mydei grabs your hand in his and leads you away to pack up his guitar and throw it at Phainon with instructions to take it home and a threat to be careful with it. You’d feel bad if Phainon himself didn’t laugh and mock salute in response as Mydei tugged you away again.

The air has a bite when you step out of the building and you don’t share any words until you’re both tucked into the backseat of his car. It’s some old model but it’s pristinely clean so you have no complaints. He’s parked himself behind the building with the back end against a dumpster; the peak of privacy. What a gentleman.

It feels natural and instinctual when you slide yourself onto his lap. Your hands land on his shoulders, still bare, and you take a moment to massage them lightly with a lazy smile and growing arousal. He sighs out at the touch and his own hands find purchase on your hips. He’s gentle in how he handles you, gripping hard enough to ground you but not enough to hurt. You’re admiring his tattoos when he shifts to pull your lips against his own. They slide and lock together like puzzle pieces. You feel his nose against your own and his tongue slide languidly into your mouth. It’s wet and slow and God it feels good. Briefly, you think he’s like a cat in how he’s kneading at your body but when he lets out a sigh that tapers off to a groan into your mouth you’re brought back to how his hips are pressing up.

One of your hands slides down to palm over him generously as he pants against your mouth and moves himself to grope at your chest and push up your skirt. His large hand cups your heat and the heel of his hand grinds into you which pulls an embarrassing whine from your throat but he smiles against you so it can’t be that bad.

Mydei has a distinct style, and yes you love it, but you’d never really realized how much of a pain it is to undo the three different belts, four buttons, and two zippers on his current pants until now. It doesn’t help that you’re on top of him as you blindly fumble at the array of closures. Your brows furrow and he laughs at your struggle before pulling his mouth back from yours, unfortunately, to lend his professional assistance. It looks effortless when he gets them all taken care of and it feels good the way his hips buck up to slide his pants and boxers down but you pray that you get really good at belts and buttons fast before the next time.

His hands pull you upwards to slide your own shorts and panties off harshly and you have half the mind to ask for thanks for your super considerate and definitely deliberate choice in easy to remove clothes but then his mouth is on yours again and his calloused fingers are running along your slit. A shaky moan fans across his face and his lips curve into a smile while the tips of his fingers swirl around your bud.

“Please,” you don’t even process it before it leaves your mouth and you’re not even sure what you’re begging for but he lets out a huffed ‘aww’ before pulling you flush against him to rub his tip back and forth to gather your slick. You’re impatient and clearly so is Mydei as he helps you slide down on him. It’s not an easy fit but his thumb is smoothing over your clit nicely and his lips are on your neck; an efficient distraction. A couple more beats of your whines pass before you bottom out. His teeth graze your neck and you feel him swallow at the full contact finally being reached.

You brace your hands firmly on his shoulders as you start slowly, rocking your hips against him. It’s a warm up of sorts before you rise upwards and drop back down. The feeling causes your back to bow and a shudder to race along your spine. Mydei’s thumb stills for a moment against you at the sensation and the deep moan he lets out against your damp skin is addictive. You repeat the motion until you’ve built up a steady pace. Wet skin smacking together again and again, your own cries of pleasure, and his reverberating groans fill the car. Your positive the vehicle is shaking and you can see the windows fogging up in the back of your vision but your eyes are too focused on him.

His hair is thoroughly tousled, you feel his earring against your neck, and the red ink extending down his back compliments the small indents your nails are leaving along his shoulders. Mydeimos is beautiful and right now he’s all yours. You almost wish you could feel his face but if his body was separate from being flush to yours for even a second you fear you’d float away; he’s keeping you grounded. Imagination is a wonderful thing so you think about the way his mouth is parted, how his eyes are certainly squeezed shut, how drool must be sliding down his chin, how he must be thinking of nothing but you as well. It's enough to have you moving with renewed vigor, coming down onto him heavier and basking in his sharp intake of air.

Mydei grabs onto your hips even harder, finally leaning back and confirming all of your suspicions of his expressions in favour of being able to push himself up into you. He matches the pace you’ve set with ease, his hips clapping harshly against yours. The muscles of his arms and stomach flex deliciously with the effort he puts into the motions. He’s hissing through his teeth, head tipping back further practically begging you to put your mouth along the skin. So you do. You lean down and press wet kisses along the flesh, stopping along the sides to suck pretty bruises into him. Ones that you hope will last, that he won’t cover up in the following days. The blooming of mottled purple and blue eases a possessive urge you hadn’t even taken note of over the pleasure building inside you. Mydei pushes his hips upward at a slightly different angle that knocks the wind out of you, your vision blurs slightly and an embarrassingly loud cry is ripped from your throat. You barely register the smirk that splits open on his face past your own shock as he continues at that same angle, putting pressure exactly where you need it. His continued assault has you fumbling for purchase on his shoulders, a slew of ‘please’ and ‘close’ leaving your lips. The only response he seems capable of himself is something akin to ‘yeah’ with a raspy uptick as he doesn’t slow down in the slightest.

A particularly harsh thrust is what pushes you over that edge. You vaguely register tears dripping past your lashes while your vision dances with stars, none brighter than him, and watery moans stream endlessly from your mouth. His own climax follows soon after. He grunts low and from his chest as his hips press and shake into you, a distinct wetness growing and spilling out. There's no tact in how he moves one hand to better admire the way he's stuffed inside of you, fingers playing with your sensitive folds to see just where you’re connected. He pulls and plays with the soft flesh, humming as he does until he finally helps you off but his fingers don't stray for too long in favour of pushing what he spilled back inside of you with slow and through movements. It’s almost romantic.

You begin talking regularly. He asks for your number that night before dropping you off at home and you’re thrilled to hand it over. 

Most of your texts are trivial and silly things. You spend lots of time interrogating each other to get closer, he likes sending you photos of his cooking, and you like telling him about the books you’re reading. He promises to check out each of them and you promise to test all of his recipes. 

It becomes a routine of sorts. You spend all your spare time texting and calling, at least once a month you get raunchy after going to one of his bands shows, and it feels good. It’s easy and it’s comfortable but you can’t ease that weird gnawing of wondering what exactly is this relationship you’ve developed? You think it’s obvious you like him beyond a friend or fuck buddy but his feelings are hard to read and asking is like a humiliation ritual. Your brain worries over what could or couldn’t be but ultimately you decide it’s best to wait everything out a little bit longer in hopes you can suddenly develop some courage to voice your thoughts. Besides, maybe Mydei is in the same predicament. Or maybe he isn’t but imagining he is makes it a bit easier for you to cope with all the things that make you want to scream and thrash around.

It’s that exact train of thought that gets interrupted by a notification from the man himself. He’s asking if you’d like to come stay with him for the weekend and it’s paired with some sort of fancy dessert as if you’d need further convincing; just him was enough. You’ve never really spent time together in person but there’s a first for everything and maybe you’ll be greeted with an elaborate love confession and the cutest blushing Mydei the world has ever known. Pipedreams are funny things.

He picks you up Friday morning in that same car you’ve gotten busy in numerous times but now you get to sit in the passenger seat. His radio and sound system might be even worse than your friends but you mind significantly less as he’s telling you about the history of each and every song that comes over the speakers. By the time he’s finished explaining one, you’re already three songs later and occasionally he makes you go back to one that he’d talked over because you just can’t miss it. It’s charming how he seems determined to share all these little pieces of knowledge he’s accumulated and you’re down horrendously hanging off every word. It’s an hour long drive but it feels like only seconds when you get to stare at him and you’re only broken out of your reverie when it’s time to get out.

Your first thought is that this certainly isn’t a house or apartment building. Mydei parked his car around the back of some place that, when he unlocks the back door with a bent key he has to force in, you realize is a restaurant of some kind. The air is warm and scented like bread, coffee, and syrup. It’s not some huge establishment but it’s clearly well loved. He shuffles in behind you with a slightly strained smile across his face before explaining.

“I, or we, live upstairs,” he pauses to shout some sort of response to someone's question, “my family runs and owns this place. Breakfast type thing. Closes at one.” A lightbulb suddenly goes on over your head. All of his cooking being so professional suddenly makes sense. He’s been doing this his whole life and, by the sounds of it, gets nervous about people knowing. But he’s not only telling but showing you. 

Mydei grabs your hand in his and gently tugs you along up some stairs and down some hallways. He has to pause to open a door occasionally with those same bent keys and you feel unbelievably special. 

Finally, you arrive at what's his room. It’s not huge by any means but you can tell it really belongs to him. It smells like cinnamon, sage, and musk with that same syrupy sweetness seeping in. There’s a corner dedicated to his instruments; his favourite bass front and center with two different amps. A couple more sit on the walls alongside some framed pieces of memorabilia. Setlists, posters, and other bits you can’t quite recognize. His desk is against a different wall, tidy and neat with only a few papers unceremoniously on top and next to is a television with a large collection of movies underneath. Some are DVD’s others are VHS. Evidently, it's another collection of sorts you feel lucky to see. Across is his bed and it feels weirdly scandalous to see but it’s nicely made and you mentally sob a bit seeing that he actually has not only a bed frame and sheets but a duvet and four pillows. Four of them. Mydei once again has proved himself to far surpass any other man on the face of this planet and probably beyond. You note other uninteresting things, his closet, and a rug until your eyes land on the shelf above his bed. There’s a water bottle and a pair of glasses but who cares about that when there's a stack of books, all of them ones you’d recommended. You’re smiling like you’ve won a million dollars and you see Mydei turn away with red creeping up his ears. You can’t help yourself but tease. “Seems we’ve got a similar taste in literature,” you step closer to him as he concentrates really hard on setting your bag down, the one he insisted on carrying for you, “I’m flattered, really.” Your voice softens out as to not too badly embarrass him despite how much you’d love to see that same rouge crawl down his neck and chest. He grumbles out some sort of reply about how he means what he says and you do, in fact, have fantastic taste. You giggle and barely suppress the urge to poke his cheek in favour of throwing yourself into the chair with a sigh. He visibly relaxes at that and leaves saying he’ll grab something for you both to eat and drink.

You come to learn his family, parents as he’s an only child, are gone for the weekend. They were invited to some sort of event he didn’t really bother to remember the details of but he figured it would be the best time to have you over. He stumbles over his words to explain it’s not because he just wants to sleep with you but because his parents would grill him for more information on you. Apparently, he’s never had a girl over in his life that wasn’t Castorice or Cipher and he doesn’t want you to be tortured with whatever childhood stories they’d be eager to share. You’re a touch disappointed you won’t be privy to baby Mydei yet but the world isn’t ending tomorrow so there’s still time. Before your inevitable wedding, of course.

He pulls out some cheap liquor and you think if not a brunch place, then he should be behind a bar because you don’t taste a drop of alcohol and you’re on the brink of shitfaced with him. Some sort of slasher is on the TV and you’re in a weird pile of limbs on his bed with him laughing about something you don’t really remember. He’s warm and one arm is around your middle as you giggle like kids. You changed clothes after spilling some of your drink down your front and Mydei insisted you wear one of his shirts instead of another of yours in the name of comfort. The graphic on the front is worn out but it's soft and he’s had it on countless times. You feel dizzy with happiness.

At some point he ends up on top of you with his lips on your neck. You don’t remember what led up to it but he’s laughing into your skin and leaving a trail of bruises and bite marks as you play with his hair and sigh with each press of his mouth. He says you both shouldn’t go further while drunk. You almost whine but know he’s right so you settle to have him lather you with kisses before returning the favour.

You wake up the next day with a headache but nothing more besides the bruises covering your neck as evidence of your drinking. Mydei makes pancakes and it’s painfully domestic as you watch from the table. You’ll have to get him a new apron for his birthday as the one he’s wearing has at least a dozen holes in it and is just plain black. He needs something cuter most definitely.

Eating together is nice and you’re leaning over his shoulder as he mulls over what he should post next for the band. His eyebrows are furrowed and he's pressing a bunch of different buttons when you bring up the concept of video content. He throws you a hesitant look so you explain further. Algorithms and people love video content. They love getting to see things in action and, as a band, showing off what they actually make should be paramount. Mydei nods along and moves to his camera roll where he actually does have a variety of videos saved of the band. Some are serious performances, some are practices, and some are Phainon throwing drumsticks straight into his eyes. You huff out a laugh.

It takes some time and by the time but you eventually piece together a pretty cute video that sort of acts like an introduction to the band. By the time you’re done Mydei’s coffee is cold but you’re both proud of the fruits of your shared labour. He sends it to the bands group chat for approval before posting it a couple different places as per your suggestion before throwing his phone on the table and standing to collect the dishes.

You help him wash them up and only whip him with a towel once. The soap he flicked into your eyes was worth it for his expression when the towel cracked against his ass and you swear he smiled just hearing you laugh. It’s all stupidly domestic.

You’re sad when you have to take off his shirt to get dressed for the day. With a tearful dramatic parting, you switch into your own clothes but Mydei promises he’s got more shirts and you’re already coming up with a plan to make his whole wardrobe yours. He’s wearing some sleeveless shirt and, for once, jeans with no extra bits and a pair of sunglasses is shoved onto his head. He’s promised to take you out to his favourite spot to write songs so he holds your hand out to his car, the other one keeping his acoustic on his shoulder. You think he likes holding hands, you hope he never lets go and he doesn’t; at least until you have to get out of the car again.

The view lets you see all the way down to where forest meets beach meets water. You’re admiring the tops of trees and sparkling water as Mydei folds down the back seats so you can both spread out. He keeps the back open as the two of you lay in comfortable silence. He’s picking at chords and humming along, you’re thinking of how any sound he makes could be the soundtrack to your life right now and you’d die happy. Something about ‘love’ and ‘no one else’ passes his lips and maybe it’s about you.

You groan waking up the next morning but someone’s shaking you hard so dozing back off is impossible. The someone in question being a very bewildered looking Mydei who isn’t phased at all by you trying to swat him away while grumbling. Instead, he shoves his phone into your face. It would be annoying if you didn’t see all of the dots and notifications lighting up his screen. You blink dumbly a couple times while opening and closing your mouth like a fish. He mentions ‘the video’ and you realize that this is the response. People have seen it, lots of them, and liked it. You smile and laugh and he’s got the traces of a grin but is clearly too shocked to fully commit. Sitting up, you pluck the phone from his hands and look through all of the comments and influx of followers and likes. You remember the names of some of the bands he likes and a couple of members have given the video their approval so you show Mydei and he almost passes out. There’s far too many comments thirsting after him for your liking so you definitely one hundred percent don’t delete the ones you see.

He’s pacing the room and running both his hands through his hair when you look up again. Clearly, processing this is a lot and you can’t blame him. At this point hundreds of thousands of people have seen his band. It’s a huge deal. There’s a gross feeling in your chest that says he won’t be just yours anymore but you stuff it down; it’s irrational and unfair to feel like that. Instead, you placate him with some reassurances, kisses all over his face, and a promise to make sure only good photos are posted by paparazzi. He wrinkles his nose at the last part but he’s really smiling finally so it’s a win.

You’re busy making him swear not to forget you when he’s famous when his phone starts ringing. Mydei doesn’t seem eager to answer it and tilts the screen to show you; it’s his manager. You can only give a sympathetic smile as he puts it to his ear with a grimace. He’s obviously expecting yelling based on his expression but is pleasantly surprised and pulls the phone away to put it on speaker for you to listen in on.

“You’re stupendously lucky. I’ve had about three different labels bombarding my email with questions and requests and I loathe to think how there’s soon to be more,” you hear a deep sigh, “I’ll have to go through them all then create a more concise list of what they’re offering and asking before sending it for you and the other fools to look over. I can tell you already, there’s some very good looking things here.” You decode he’s talking about record deals. Part of you is surprised they’re already getting offers but the other part knows being early to these things makes labels the most money. Mydei nods along before saying goodbye and looking at you again with his jaw slack.

You’re reminded of how you felt when you first met once more. You’re most definitely in the orbit of something special.

After that weekend Mydei isn’t texting you as much. He isn’t calling and no more new shows have been lined up with how busy the band is signing contracts so you don’t see him then either. It feels weird not to have him so prominently in your life but all you can do is brush off your worries and convince yourself he’ll be back and apologize for his absence soon enough. He’ll tell you all about how he gets to make music in a real studio and how the whole band is excited for what’s next. But one week of radio silence turns into two. Then three. Then a month and you’re pretty sure he’s overwritten you in favour of his new life as a rockstar.

You’ve kept up on his posts as well as the rest of the bands and they’re pulling in thousands of likes and comments. You see them practicing somewhere much nicer and, evidently, their manager doesn’t mind keeping all of the horny comments about Mydei up. Jealousy is nasty and it’s all you feel. You spent the better part of a year siphoning all of your support into him and sacrificing your desire for a real relationship and now he’s airing you like it’s second nature. You’re absolutely green. But it really hits when you check on Phainon’s post and see him joking with fans about how Mydei is ‘painfully single’ and ‘in need of love’. Did you ever agree on a label? No, do you still feel betrayed? Yes, very. All you can do is sigh and put your phone down.

Mydei is smacking Phainon on the back of the head for his comments where they’re sitting in the new studio. Is it embarrassing knowing that he’s been to nervous to confess his feelings to the girl he started fucking that he knew because she was a fan of his? Terribly so, but Phainon taking advantage of his feelings to egg him on into actually telling you made it all even worse. He knew you’d see them and he knew he’d been accidentally ignoring you in favour of other things but now he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place. The rock being his inability to confess and the hard place being Phainon. Mydei dragged his hands down his face with a heavy sigh, knowing he had to do something before you blocked him out of your life altogether.

It’s four in the morning and two months since you last spoke to Mydei when you hear something at your window. It’s an uneven tapping sound and, as someone who’d be first to die in a horror movie, you pull yourself out of bed to go look. Lo and behold, the man himself stands there with a handful of pebbles. You blink a couple times before sighing and making some sort of gesture you hope reads as ‘give me a second’ and turn to head out to see what he could possibly want after ghosting you then showing up at such an ungodly hour. If you were a pettier person you’d have flipped him off and gone back to bed but some feelings never die and Mydei has your heart under lock and key even if you’re pissed.

He looks unusually uncomfortable when you stumble out the door to stand in front of him but softens a bit as he looks at your shirt. It’s then you realize it’s actually one of his shirts you’d stolen.

“Oh. Do you want it back,” you ask with a yawn while rubbing the remaining sleep from your eyes. You hope it sounds nonchalant but you’re very chalant about all of this. “I forgot it was yours, sorry. I’ve got a couple others I can grab to give back.” He shakes his head hard and fast.

“No no God no, keep them all,” he pauses for a moment, “You can have more even if you want. As many as I have.” He sounds out of breath as he speaks, “I’m sorry,” it comes out strained and you fear he might cry, “for all of it. I never meant to ignore you and Phainon does nothing but spout stupid shit.” The confession hurts your chest.

“Right, I figured out the Phainon part a long time ago but ignoring me? Leaving me to try and figure out if I ever meant anything to you? If I really was just some stupid groupie who thought maybe you liked me? If it was just some massive ruse to get your dick wet,” you take a deep breath, “Mydei, I’m tired and angry so I’m going to be terribly honest; I really have felt things, love, for you. And having it all shoved down the drain? Hurt. Badly.” Tears sting your eyes but getting it out had to happen eventually and your exhausted brain and heart couldn’t hold the dam anymore. Embarrassment be damned, you hope he feels bad. He nods along to your words and throws the rocks to the ground. His hands land one on your waist and the other on your face before his lips meet yours. It’s fast but surprisingly gentle and you wish you had the strength to deny him this but your face is now wet with tears and your lips are trembling against his. So, you melt against him. You soften completely and let yourself be warmed by his body until he pulls back to stare at you. The hand on your face swipes away each teardrop and his lips follow, kissing the tracks left behind.

“I’m… bad with words but it meant something to me. You mean something to me,” it’s whispered against your cheeks, “I need you. With me. Always, Like a dog needs a bone and a story needs an ending.” You click your tongue.

“…I’m a bone now?”

“The only one I want to chew on.” It’s strangely romantic but then you’re tugging him inside and he’s pushing on his shirt you’re wearing and his shirt he’s wearing. You let him.

You tug him to your room and expect him to shuck off your panties and his pants but instead he pushes you onto your back before settling between your legs. Your face flushes and you turn away but he reaches up to pull your gaze back to him. His eyes are filled with a deep yearning as he drops his head to kiss along your thighs. He’s slow and tender as he plants his lips with purpose, every peck an attempt to translate his feelings and burn them into your skin until you both die.

When his lips finally meet where you need him most you cry out louder than you had intended. It’s so much and not enough at the same time. He licks up and down slowly, pulling out all the slick he can with a deep groan before sucking harshly on the pearl he loves so much. His hands keep you spread open while his mouth works perfectly. He rotates between sweet kitten licks and languid sucks on you before he deems you ready for his fingers. One hand moves away from your thighs to gently poke and prod before sliding inside you slowly. He’s soft with how he opens you up, scissoring the pair of fingers before beginning to push them in and out. The tips massage your insides perfectly as his mouth continues to eat at you with greed. His eyes never leave your face and you can’t do anything but focus on how his mouth and throat bob with each movement; it’s mesmerizing.

Mydei only picks up his pace when he feels you push your hips up into him. He starts fingering you faster while his mouth suckles and licks with renewed vigor. He’s groaning into you loudly and your panting and whining with pleas for him to never stop. Never stop touching you and never stop loving you. If he wasn’t busy with the task at hand he’d promise over and over that he wouldn’t.

It’s sudden when the pleasure overtakes your whole body. A shiver races up your back and you sob at the feeling. You’re gushing all over his face and he’s drinking every last drop like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted and maybe it is. His mouth doesn’t stop moving but it slows as he draws out your climax as long as he can without overstimulating you too much. He pulls away with a sigh as if he can’t bear to part from between your legs. His chin rests against your stomach while he appreciates just how beautiful you are in the afterglow. Neither of you speak for a couple minutes until you break the silence.

“I’m still mad at you,” but it comes out mumbled and slurred with elation and he chuckles.

“I know, but I’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to you. Every single second.”

And he kisses you like it’s better than air.

[snail-day]

Anxiety

Inspired by Doechii’s song - I just love the vibe.

Yandere! Insert x Reader

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Online Predation/Stalking, Manipulation, Drugging, Noncon/Dubcon, Somnophilia, Horror themes.

WC: 2.2k

Omegle is one of those sleepover staples - the kind of reckless, giddy indulgence that thrives on a mix of boredom and cheap rosé. A laptop perched on someone’s lap, the glow of the screen painting your faces in artificial blue light. The click of the Next button, over and over, sifting through a sea of faceless strangers, dodging the inevitable perverts with their hands sloppily buried beneath their waists.

Mindless fun. Harmless, even.

Until the screen loads him.

A figure bathed in dim, crimson light. A red room. The air around him is thick, suffocating, pressing against the grainy pixels. You can’t quite make out his face - just the vague shape of a man, shadowed and distant, yet present in a way that sets your teeth on edge.

Then he speaks.

"What are you lovely ladies up to tonight?" a voice that is rich in velvet, curling through the speakers like slow-burning embers. It’s the kind of voice that doesn’t just speak but pulls, ensnaring something primal deep in your chest, forming heat on your cheeks. It drags down your spine, coiling in the pit of your stomach. Your friends giggle, but a strange unease presses into your ribs, spreading like ink. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the heat creeping up your neck because, even through the distortion, you can almost see the sharp angles of a handsome face.

"Ever hear of the dark web?"

Your body tenses instinctively. Of course, you have. Who hasn’t? The dark web is whispered about in internet horror stories, in late-night Reddit threads meant to keep thrill-seekers up at night. It isn’t illegal to access, only the things that happen there are. But the way he says it, a slow purr, a drawl of sorts as if you're all children listening to horror stories at the camp fire and he's trying to see who squirms first. The conversation shifts, turning into something colder, heavier. He begins to explain what a red room really is. A place where live torture is broadcasted. A digital coliseum where faceless crowds pay to watch strangers suffer. A world where death is nothing more than entertainment, where pain is a currency traded in cryptocurrency.

His voice, still smooth as honey, lingers too long on every word- Indulgent. Like he’s savoring the explanation, rolling it over his tongue like a delicacy. Your skin prickles with something beyond fear,

"I think we should skip this one," you murmur to your friends, barely moving your lips. "He’s giving me the creeps."

They laugh. Call you paranoid. Say it’s just a spooky story. That it's hard to get a hot guy like him on Omegle. Even he agrees, though there’s something almost teasing in the way he exhales, voice lowering into something impossibly gentle.

"You scared, little dove?"

The nickname sinks into you, far too intimate for your anxiety.

Hours pass.

Somewhere in the blur of the night, one of your friends - drunk on wine and adrenaline - got his number. Sent him a text.

No response.

You assume that’s the end of it.

The party dwindles, sleep creeping in, and you sink into the stiff, lumpy embrace of your friend’s broken couch. A stuffy apartment, filled with the residual warmth of too many bodies and the distant hum of the fridge kicking on in the kitchen. Your eyelids droop, but the unease remains, needling at the edges of your consciousness.

He had a red room.

But morning comes, and the sun filters in through the blinds, scattering gold across the floor. You wake up. Your heart is still beating. Your skin is still unbroken. You suppose it really was just a spooky story. You suppose he really was harmless.

Keeping your head down as you walk home, the rain slicking your hair to your forehead, turning the pavement into a mirrored sheen of distorted streetlights. Each step feels heavier than the last, a slow, dragging weight pressing against your spine. Maybe it’s the hangover. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. Or maybe it’s the echo of his voice still curling in the back of your mind, like smoke refusing to dissipate.

"You scared, little dove?"

The words slither through you, unbidden, curling around your ribs like thorny vines, pricking at your skin. You shake your head, as if you can physically dislodge the thought. It’s nothing. A stranger in a red-lit room. A stupid story. A glitchy connection that made him seem more ominous than he actually was. Still, you walk faster. By the time you reach your apartment, your clothes are damp, the cold pressing into your skin like a second layer. The key trembles slightly in your grasp as you shove it into the lock, twisting it with more force than necessary. The door swings open, the darkness of your empty space yawning before you. Safe.

Yet, as you step inside, a whisper of paranoia clings to you. The air is thick, too still, the silence too absolute. You don’t remember leaving the lights off, but the place is shrouded in shadow, the only illumination coming from the streetlamp outside, its glow filtering through your curtains.

You close the door. Lock it. Once. Twice.

The anxiety should ease, but it doesn’t. Must be the hangover. The questionable Chinese food. Perhaps you're just weak to horror.

You're fine.

With a breath, you move to your bedroom, peeling off your damp clothes and tossing them into the hamper. The exhaustion pulls at you, yet when you collapse onto the mattress, your body refuses to relax.

Your laptop sits on your desk, the black screen reflecting the dim light. The cursor blinks expectantly when you open it, your fingers hesitating over the keys.

Don’t be stupid. You should sleep. You should forget.

But your fingers move before you can stop them, typing Red Room Dark Web into the search bar. The results are predictable - articles debunking myths, forums filled with speculation, cautionary tales of users claiming they’ve seen one, claiming they’ve barely escaped.

A chill ripples down your spine. You shouldn’t be doing this. Yet, before you can convince yourself to stop, a notification pops up. A single, unread message.

Unknown: Still feeling ignorant, little dove?

Your pulse hammers, an erratic rhythm against your ribs. It’s a coincidence. It has to be. You must've just picked up a virus. Your friend works in tech, she must be messing with you.

You force a laugh, but it sounds weak, brittle.

Then another message.

Unknown: You looked so lovely in the rain. Wish you hadn’t walked home alone.

Ice floods your veins. Your head whips toward the window. The pale curtains are drawn, but you swear you feel something - a presence lingering just beyond the glass. Watching. Waiting. The rain drums against the glass in relentless, hollow beats.

That's silly, you're on the third floor. You're safe.

You do the only thing you can think of to cure your anxiety. Clear the browsing data, clear the weird messages, and turn off your laptop. And pray that ignorance truly is bliss.

Yet, after that night, your dreams shift - warped, sultry, laced with an undercurrent of something dark, something forbidden. They are not just lewd; they are visceral, consuming. Heat coils deep in your core, an unbearable, molten ache spreading through your limbs like liquid fire. A ghostly touch slithers over your thighs, fingers tracing invisible patterns against your fevered skin.

You dream of hands - strong, commanding, fingers digging into your flesh with an intimacy that feels earned. A hand muffles your moans, palm pressing against your parted lips, smothering the sweet, desperate sounds escaping your throat. The other hand - oh, the other - grips your hips, forcing you to take more, to stretch around something thick, something impossibly deep. The pleasure is suffocating, overwhelming, drowning you in wave after wave of raw sensation.

A voice - low, velvety, dripping with amusement - whispers against your ear.

"You take me so well, little dove."

The words reverberate through your bones, sinful and possessive, curling like smoke in your mind. Your body trembles, teeters on the edge. You wake with a sharp inhale, your sheets damp, your skin flushed and dewy with sweat. Your pulse flutters wildly beneath your ribs, your thighs still trembling with phantom pleasure. Yet, there is no trace of your dream lover, no proof of his touch - except for the unmistakable wet patch on your panties, sticky with your own arousal.

Your stomach clenches. This isn’t normal. You must be ovulating. That’s all it is. Just a silly little rut, a needy, desperate craving clawing its way through your veins. Nothing more. And what do silly, desperate college girls do when their bodies betray them?

They fix it.

So, with a flick of your thumb, you download Tinder.

The screen glows in the dimness of your bedroom as you scroll, eyes scanning profiles with detached efficiency. A few swipes. A few teasing messages. You’re not looking for love - just release. Just someone to fuck this unbearable heat out of your system.

And then - you find him. A man sculpted by the gods, as if chiseled from marble itself. Sharp jawline, piercing eye, a mature man. A man who promises a good fuck. That smirk of his dripping with sin, with promises of pleasure so deliciously depraved it makes something low in your stomach tighten. His confidence oozes through the screen, his words smooth, teasing, effortlessly seductive.

Perfect.

This should be easy. But as your gaze lingers on his face, on the sharpness of his cheekbones, the familiar curve of his lips - unease prickles at the base of your spine.

Why does he feel… familiar?

A strange déjà vu claws at the edges of your mind, elusive and taunting. No. You’re just anxious.

That man was probably dozens of miles away. You’re just horny - needy and restless with an ache you don’t care to analyze too deeply. Put on your big girl panties, send your location to a friend, and go get this insatiable heat fucked out of your system.

So you do.

His apartment is pristine, a blend of modern luxury and something deeper - something curated. The air is rich with the scent of leather and faint spice, like cologne that lingers long after someone leaves a room. Dim lighting, warm, casting golden shadows over his immaculate furniture.

He’s charming. Handsome. A man sculpted from sin, his presence intoxicating before he even lays a hand on you.

"Wine?" His voice is a soft purr, rolling over you like smoke. "I have this vintage red from my travels."

There’s a teasing lilt beneath the words, something indulgent, like he’s savoring this moment as much as he plans to savor you. Your legs press together as you sink onto his couch, fingers toying with the hem of your dress. A strange warmth spreads through your chest, an anxious energy you can’t quite place.

"You're a bit older than your profile," you murmur, watching his muscles as he pulls the cork from the bottle with an effortless twist. "You said you were twenty-one."

He hums, low and thoughtful.

"Just a few years older. That’s not a problem, is it?" He tilts the bottle, the wine slipping into a delicate crystal glass - deep red, almost black under the dim light. "Now, wine or no?"

Then, a chuckle - low, velvety, teasing.

"You’ll be tasting it on my lips anyway, little dove. I just thought it’d help calm your nerves."

Little dove.

The words curl around your throat like an unseen hand, a phantom touch pressing into your chest. Your fingers tighten slightly against your thigh, a cold sensation trickling down your spine despite the warmth of the room.

That name.

That exact name. Like an echo from another life, a thread connecting something unseen. It's just a coincidence. It's a common pet name. A common pet name older men use.

The glass is cool against your fingertips as you take it from him, willing the thought away, willing yourself to lean into the heat, the distraction. The first sip is unexpected - sickeningly sweet, cloying in a way vintage wine should never be. There’s a fizz on your tongue, fleeting but noticeable, dissolving into something warm that spreads slowly through your limbs.

It doesn’t matter.

Because the moment the glass leaves your lips, so do his.

His mouth claims yours - slow, intoxicating, coaxing rather than taking. His lips part against yours, the taste of wine mixing with something deeper, something familiar. Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling into the soft strands as he pulls you against him, large hands sliding down your spine, gripping, exploring as he pulls you onto his lap, a hardness pressing against your heat.

A breathless moan escapes you as he tugs- gently at first, then firmer - tilting your head, exposing your throat to him. His lips trace along your jaw, down your neck, a slow, teasing descent that sends shivers skittering through your body.

The room feels warmer.

No, hotter. The air thickens, viscous and cloying, pressing into your skin, sinking beneath it. Your mind wavers, distant like a detuned radio caught between stations, static buzzing at the edges of your thoughts.

A soft click.

The atmosphere shifts.

The golden glow of the room vanishes, swallowed whole, replaced by something darker.

A deep, pulsing red.

The breath stutters in your throat, as his tongue claims the struggled sound escaping your lips.

Red room.

Your body stiffens, muscles coiling tight, but the warmth laced through your limbs makes it slow, sluggish, like fighting through water. A slow dread bleeds into the haze of pleasure, creeping, insidious. Your heart pounds against your ribs, but your limbs feel heavy. His lips ghost over your ear, voice dipping into something silkier.

"We’re going to have a lot more fun, little dove."

A tremor ripples through you, a grotesque tangle of heat and dread, sinking deep. His grip tightens around your waist, his fingers sinking in deeper, bruising to the skin.

"Just couldn’t get you out of my mind, little dove. And now that I have you..." His breath is warm against your skin, the words a whisper, a promise, a noose tightening around your fate. "I don’t plan to let you go."

Characters: JJK: Geto, Toji, Sukuna, Kenjaku AOT: Zeke, Eren, Kenny HxH: Chrollo, Hisoka, Illumi

[lordprettyflackotara]

WhoGoesThere? || Eyeless Jack || Part two

tw: the tiniest bit of blood

Jack hadn’t seen you for a few days.

He tried to casually stalk the area you two had met, hoping you’d come back. Sometimes he’d even sleep in the trees, hoping that you’d wake him up. Yet that hadn’t happened, until tonight.

He could smell the liquor from a mile away, a mixture of your scent flooding his nostrils. He inhaled deeply, his ears twitching as he focused on the sounds of the forest. He could hear it. Your heartbeat. It sounded oddly slowed, but your blood sounded like it was working harder than usual to pump through your heart.

Jack ran towards it, not caring about how far away he was straying from his usual path. The deeper he sprinted away from Slender’s forest, the less protection he’d have. But he could hear you. He could smell you. The liquor. Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Jack feared the worst as he sprinted in your direction. Were you hurt and attending to a wound? He didn’t doubt your ability to heal yourself, but Jack had years of practice on the proxies. Who were literal people to practice on. He reached a different part of the forest, one he hadn’t been to before. The sun had freshly set, the moon just coming into view in the sky. His gaze landed on you, your small figure leaning against a tree for support. Jack rushed over to you, helping you stand upright.

“Hey? Are you alright?” He asked, his words rushed. Your mascara was smudged, your eyes glazed with a fresh layer of tears, and in your hand sat a bottle of vodka. “Jack..? What are you doing here?” You slurred. Jack curiously looked behind you, noticing what he assumed to be your college dorm was less than fifty feet away. Your small black dress was riding up your thighs, revealing cuts that covered your left hand and upper legs. “What happened to you?” He questioned. You practically fell onto him when you tried to stand up on your own. He grabbed you, his large hand cupping your waist. He ignored how flustered it made him feel, looking over his shoulder.

“Those fuckers made me drop my pink vodka. Now i’m left with this cheap shit,” You say bitterly. Jack noticed a few of the partiers were looking into the woods. Jack couldn’t risk being seen, nor could he risk you returning to a party in your condition. He hoped the shadows of the trees and nightfall had concealed him enough. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” Jack said calmly. You turned around, flipping off the party still in full swing. “Yeah! You hear that fuckers?! Jacks a real man!” You yelled. Jack could feel heat rushing to his cheeks. You were stumbling as he attempted to help you. He sighed, picking you up bridal style instead. You squirmed at first, the bottle of alcohol slipping out of your grasp.

“Hey! Thats mine!” You fussed. Your squirming didn’t affect Jacks grip on you at all. He continued to walk into the forest, concluding that bottle was the very last thing you needed. “We’ll come back for it later. We need to get you cleaned up,” He said softly. You drunkenly crossed your arms, sighing. “I’m gonna be a doctor I can take care of myself,” You muttered. Jack would’ve rolled his eyes if he had them. He continued to take you deeper into the woods, knowing the journey was going to be long. He needed to make it into Slender’s forest, a safe cabin planted right along the border.

It was designed as protection from The Rake, but was mostly used current day for creeps who needed somewhere to crash without questions. “Where are you taking me?” You murmured. Jack was thankful for his acute hearing, your words running together as you spoke. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere where you can’t trip over your own two feet,” Jack explained. You stuck out your legs, pointing at your heels. “I’ll have you know that these are Ralph Lauren heels! They’re worth every trip I take,” You argued. You were feeling groggy, your drunkenness weighing on your shoulders. “I stole them from my roommate, since I know you’re wondering how I could afford them,” You explained. That was in fact, not what Jack was thinking at all, but he decided not to intervene with your train of thought.

“Do you enjoy partaking in substances?” Jack asked. He stepped over an overgrown root of a tree, careful to not disturb you. “Doesnt every college student?” You said, your tone argumentative. Your eyebrows raised as you looked up at your masked friend. “How old are you anyways?” You questioned. Jack tried to not tense, swallowing as he trudged forward. The correct answer was unknown. Physically Jack had stopped aging at twenty five. The better question was, how long had Jack been twenty five? He had lost count of the years, the cycle of his routine repeating mercilessly without intervention. That was of course, until he met you.

“Isn’t it rude to ask someone their age?” Jack mused. He had heard that before, when Ben decided to ask Jane how old she was. “That only works on women bozo. As long as you aren’t like fifty this is fine,” You mumbled. Jack was puzzled. Something he thought he knew about human culture was wrong. Huh. He had a lot to learn from you. “I’m not fifty,” Jack chuckled. He wasn’t physically, anyways. He was the oldest of the creeps he had met. And they weren’t even demons. Only Slenderman was older than him. Jack sighed in relief as the cabin came into sight. “Good. I have daddy issues but not that bad,” You grumbled.

Jack couldn’t help but wonder about you and your life. Intoxication made you more honest and talkative. Maybe beyond a certain point of appropriateness, considering he had met you less than a week ago. But you didn’t care about any social construct of what you could or couldn’t discuss early on in a friendship. Jack liked that. He kicked open the old cabin door, noting the amount of dust. He brought you over to the kitchen counter, setting you down on the cool marble. “Where are you going?” You asked, confused. Jack made sure you could sit upfront before taking a step back. “I’m just grabbing a first aid kit,” He replied. He knew exactly where it was, having planted it there himself.

He was back in a flash, kneeling in front of you. He tried his hardest to ignore how short your dress was. “I could do this myself you know,” You protested weakly. Jack shook his head, forcing himself to look at the little cuts that stained your otherwise perfect skin. Jack didn’t know which was harder, ignoring the fresh blood that was prickling from your wounds or the fact your cunt was inches away from his face. Even with his mask on he could smell how delicious your scent was. Especially your blood. He grabbed a rubbing alcohol wipe, tearing the package open. “This may sting. You may want to grab onto something,” Jack advised cautiously. He was surprised when you leaned forward, putting your hand on his shoulder.

You grabbed a handful of his hoodie, your eyes screwed shut as if you feared the worst. He knew it was best to avert your attention from his work as he patched you up. “So, did you know anyone at that party?” He asked. He wiped the small cuts, a hiss escaping your lips. Jack held your leg still, wiping off the dirt and grim as well. “Sort of. I only went because of Ryan. He’s this fourth year psychics major,” You admitted. Jack set the dirty wipe aside, grabbing a clean one. “What’s Ryan to you?” Jack asked curiously. You flinched as Jack wiped your other leg, noticing a piece of glass peaking out of your skin. “A cute guy,” You answered honestly.

Cautiously Jack set the wipe aside, grabbing the tweezers. He had to word his next questions carefully, his blunt way of talking going to make you uneasy. “How is your pursuit going?” He asked. He firmly held your leg into place, grabbing the edge of the glass. He knew if he warned you that you’d freak out, especially with the alcohol clouding your senses. Instead he yanked it out steadily but quickly, causing you to yelp. “Fuck! What the fuck!” You screeched. Jack was sure The Rake might’ve been able to hear you with how loud your scream was. He set the piece of glass aside, bringing a damp towel to your now oozing wound.

“I’m sorry. You had glass stuck in there,” Jack apologized. You took deep breaths, your vision getting spotty. Jack could see the paleness in your face, your lips turning white along with it. He brought his hand to yours, giving it a squeeze. “Hey. Stay with me. How’s the pursuit of Ryan?” Jack asked, trying to keep you conscious. You swallowed, your mouth dry. “Terrible. It’s nerve racking every time I like a guy,” You admitted. Jack applied pressure to your wound, trying to ignore the smell of metal invading his nostrils. “Whys that?” He asked. He went to remove his hand, your small one pawing at his to stay in place.

“Because i’m a virgin,” You confessed. Jack was sure if it were possible he was blushing. The mere confession made him flustered, his eye sockets widening. “Don’t make it so obvious you’re judging me,” You grumbled. Jack cleared his throat, pulling his hand away and removing the damp towel. “Not judging, just surprised,” He admitted. You peeled open your eyes, looking down at him. You wished you could see his facial expression under his mask. “Whys that?” You asked. Jack could hear your heart slowing down. You weren’t losing too much blood, but you were definitely minutes away from being unconscious. “Here let’s get you laid down,” Jack suggested. He picked you up, laying you down on the kitchen floor. He pulled down your dress, adamant to not let his lust curve his intentions of taking care of you.

“Answer me. Why are you surprised?” You asked. Jack grabbed a few bandages, putting the first one on. “Because you’re absolutely beautiful. Any guy who doesn’t see that is blind,” Jack answered honestly. You felt your face flush pink, your eyes looking around the cabin to avoid looking at him. It was then you sat up, your vision getting spotty again. “I have an idea!” You announced. Jack went to guide you to lay down, his hands on your shoulders. You grabbed his wrist, giving him a big smile. “I really think you should lay down,” Jack insisted. You shook your head. “Wait wait. Hear me out. Why don’t I have sex with you?” You asked. Jacks heart skipped a beat, heat rushing to his cock.

He tried to ignore it, swallowing and focusing on the thumping of your heart. “Why me?” He asked. You felt yourself getting nervous, your eyes avoiding his gaze. “It saves me from losing my v card to some bozo. Besides, i’m sure you can teach me all sorts of things, right?” You asked, tilting your head to the side. Jack had an attractive aura, as odd as that sounded. His voice was deep and his hands were aesthetically pleasing. He carried you like you were as light as a feather. It only made you wonder how he could throw you around in the bedroom. “You’re drunk,” Jack said simply. He couldn’t believe you wanted that. Wanted him.

“Jackkkk i’m serious,” You protested. Jack wrapped your final wound, before picking you up once more. “So am I. If you remember this conversation we’ll discuss it tomorrow,” Jack said. He was trying his hardest to remain composed as he laid you down on the bed. He unzipped your heels, sliding them off of you and allowing them to fall to the floor. He helped you under the blanket, trying his hardest to ignore your dress riding up your thighs again. He went to stand and leave, turning his back to you. Your meek voice stopped him dead in his tracks, “Where are you going? Please don’t go.”

Jack felt pity, swallowing as he turned around. He grabbed a dusty old rocking chair, pulling up to the side of your bed. “It’s okay. Close your eyes. I’ll be here in the morning,” Jack said. You then allowed your head to fall against the foreign pillow, your eyes fluttering shut. Jack didn’t know what to make of you. Your life. Your confession. Your request. He didn’t know what to do with you. Yet you pulled at his heart strings, ones he didn’t even know existed. He shifted in his seat, watching you peacefully drift off to unconsciousness. Once he was sure your heart beat had slowed enough, he slid off his mask. He inhaled the cool night air deeply, the oxygen flowing much better through his system when his mask was lifted.

Jack inhaled deeply once more, making himself comfortable in his chair. He knew he’d be there for a while.

[zaceouiswriting]

The new guy next door (2)

Characters: Theo Raeken x male reader, Isaac x male reader (Mostly mentioned after the beginning)

Universe: Somewhere in Teen Wolf

Warnings: Possible death

It's been a few days since your new neighbor moved in, and he's been seemingly everywhere. He's been outside whenever you left the house to get your mail, worked in the yard, or simply relaxed by your pool, greeting you and occasionally even coming over to ask if he could use the pool. He stripped down to his underwear right in front of you before jumping into the warm water. More than once, you almost dropped your cold iced tea at his wonderful audacity, which was only made worse by him swimming over to you from the other end of the pool. Like a Greek god, he'd brace his hands on the side and push himself out in one fluid motion.

He grins confidently as he walks toward you and plops down on the sun lounger next to you, water drops glistening on his muscles under the scorching sun.

You watch him make himself comfortable and relax as if he owned the place.

"You know, if I were your husband, I wouldn't leave you alone for so long," Theo suddenly states. There was no malice in his voice, only genuine concern.

You feel uncomfortable playing with a bracelet Isaac gave you for your first wedding anniversary. "Some people have to work hard for their goals," you mutter, unconvinced yourself. 

You and Isaac have had many heated discussions about this, as he's been working these oddly long hours for some time now without getting the promotions he deserves. He even has an apartment near his work, as he says he works between twelve and sixteen hours a day, three weeks a month, even on weekends. Even though it sounds ridiculous, you had no reason to distrust him since he comes back once a month and adores you.

When you feel Theo’s gaze, all you can do is dig deeper into your book and hope he lets it go.

***

Theo hadn't come over to your house for a few days after that awkward moment at the pool, although you still brought him food because you'd seen him eating cheap grub one too many times. Aside from those brief food deliveries, you hadn't spoken much.

One day, you were gardening as you watched Theo get into his car and drive away. It hurt because you had hoped he would be a friend, but now there's just a strange vibe between you two.

Just minutes after he left, you heard something strange, almost as if something had broken. However, you couldn't see anything when you looked around the house and through the glass doors. Shaking your head, you assumed it was another one of those mind tricks. This isn't the first time you've experienced something like this, especially when Isaac isn't around, since you're almost constantly on adrenaline. Although you love the view and the house, the fact that you're so far away from other people unnerves you a little.

You continued gardening until you noticed the sun slowly setting. A heavy sigh escaped as you gazed at the still largely unfinished garden. It was so far from what you envisioned, even though you had lived there for years, but you always had so many other responsibilities.

When you finally went back inside, you opened the fridge, pulled out a cold, freshly squeezed orange juice, and almost downed several glasses in one sitting before your body felt somewhat normal again.

After a few minutes of cooling down, you started preparing food, or at least tried to. You groaned softly when you saw your fingers were dirty, even though you wore gloves. "The fucking gloves broke again," I curse quietly. When I look at them, I discover many small holes. "Isaac bought cheap ones again." Anger bubbled up inside you. You couldn't believe it, remembering the last argument about the cheap gloves he always bought, even though you had to take breaks for days because they always made your hands sore and bloody. But Isaac did it again, almost as if he didn't care what happened to you.

Groaning, you went upstairs, as you now had to wash and bandage your injured hands. All your medical supplies were in the master bathroom. However, when you opened the door to your bedroom, the wooden floor of the spacious room was about a fingertip deep in water. The feet of the large bed in the middle of the room pressed against a half-wall in front of a window niche, shimmering in the gently moving water.

It took a moment for the realization to sink in, but then panic immediately gripped you. Eyes wide open, you ran through the bedroom, your shoes wet, your socks soaked. You ran for your life, only to find the bathroom in complete chaos. Water was gushing from several parts of the wall. You knew the pipes had burst without actually seeing it.

With a foggy mind, you ran back downstairs, looking for something heavy enough to tear down the wall, but you couldn't find anything, even though you knew Isaac had bought several boxes of materials and tools for just about everything. 

But then you remembered Theo and his previous work as a handyman. Without even thinking about it for a second, you ran over and knocked frantically on his door, but no one answered. You banged on his door, rang the bell—everything, but no one answered.

So you left the porch and looked through the windows but still couldn't find him anywhere. You continued walking around his house until you'd made a complete loop, only to find his parking space empty. Suddenly, you remembered seeing him drive away earlier, something you'd forgotten in your panic.

"Shit!" you cursed again under your breath, your head spinning with stress. 

You ran back to your house, witnessing the water already flowing down the stairs. Having no other choice, you searched for something heavy and finally found an old lamp your grandmother had given you before she died. You pounded the base against the bathroom wall until it gave way. You could throw the lamp away now, but thanks to it and the walls weakened by the water, you could tear a hole in the wall that could easily be widened again with your hands.

Despite pain and exhaustion, you struggled against the wall but couldn't find the spot with the burst pipe. You slowly lost your mind and only noticed the tears streaming down your face when you tasted the salt on your tongue.

Frustrated, you just wanted to sit down and watch your house being destroyed. The sound of the rippling water almost drowned out everything else. But then, as if by divine intervention, you heard the sound of a pickup truck driving down the road.

Your eyes widen as you realize you've heard the noise before. Without hesitation, but with the resistance of the water, you trudge through it, your feet heavy from your now-soaked shoes and socks. You threw open the front door and waved to Theo, who had just gotten something out of the trunk of his car. He turned to you in surprise but waved back.

He stopped unloading and walked leisurely over. "Hey, (Y/N), I was in town to pick up a few things. I had to drive to several stores to—"

"I need your help!" You interrupted his story, even though you loved to listen to his voice. He looked stunned for a moment but then gazed at you expectantly. "One of my pipes burst, and my whole house is flooded!" I almost screamed.

He seemed alert and walked toward your house with long strides without saying a word. For a moment, he stood inside your front door, staring at the rising water level.

"Have you turned off the water yet?" he asked serenely, almost too calmly. It felt strange until I remembered he was a handyman.

“What do you mean?“

"The water valve..." He looks perplexed. "Don't tell me you didn't turn off the water immediately."

Now he seemed panicked, looking around frantically before taking off his shoes and socks, putting them aside, and going inside, only to walk right back out again.

"Can you turn off the power from outside or something?" he asked, worried. But that only confused you more.

“No,” you told him, “it’s in the basement, just like the water valve.”

Theo sighs in despair. "If I die of electrocution, you pay for the funeral!" His deep voice rumbled angrily, but he went back into the house anyway.

Concerned, you followed his moving figure, unsure of what he meant. Nevertheless, you followed him, hoping to help him somehow. At the very least, you could show him the way to the basement. But when you opened the door, water poured out. Devastated, you looked down into your completely flooded basement.

Just by looking at it, you knew everything down there was destroyed, from family portraits to childhood belongings you wanted to give to your future adopted or surrogate children.

You felt empty, somehow broken. Theo grabbed your shoulders, his lips moving, but your thoughts were too far away; not even shaking could free you from this strange numbness. Suddenly, your head jerked to the side, but Theo pushed it back. You felt a burning sensation in your cheek, but it didn't truly hurt.

“Tell me where the valve and the electric lever are!” He orders sternly, but his voice is filled with compassion and desperation.

"The power lever is just behind the stairs, around the corner, in the wall. The valve is down the left corridor, behind the power lever to the end, and then the water thing is on the left again," I tell him, stammering.

Theo nodded, ripped almost all his clothes except his underwear off, and jumped into the water, gracefully diving over the railing. Just a moment later, all the lights in the house went out. You waited for Theo to come out. But you can't see anything. As you stepped closer, you hoped you'd simply lost track of time, but as another moment passed, fear gripped you. You wondered if you'd accidentally sent your new neighbor, that hot guy, to his death.

"Theo?" you cried, hoping he would magically resurface from the water, but nothing, only an eerie silence. Fear spread through your heart, and the pain that someone had died because you hadn't looked when you heard that strange noise earlier.

Your hands began to tremble. "Theo?" you called again, your voice shaking, uncertain, and lost in thought. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes as your lips twisted into a grimace of pain and realization.

Grief had never been your strong suit, but now that it was your fault, you felt despair for the first time. It was heavier than you had ever imagined. You almost fell back because of the weight it placed on your shoulders.

No longer able to watch the deep water that swallowed a good man like Theo, you turned away and let your emotions run wild, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Without this air bubble, I would probably have drowned!” a deep, chuckling voice suddenly echoes through the house.

You thought you'd just imagined the voice, like so many times before, and that's why you hadn't turned around because you didn't want to see something that wasn't there. Only when you felt a cold, clammy hand on your shoulder and a deep voice asking if everything was okay did you finally turn to the person behind you.

Eyes wide and tearful, you stared into Theo's proud face. For a moment, your gaze wandered over his muscles, over which drops of water cascaded like sensual waterfalls but quickly returned back to his face. To ensure he was real, you touched his cheek before bursting into sobs again and lunging at him, nearly sending you both into the deep water behind him.

"Wow, it's all good; I just needed a moment longer." Theo's chest growled, and another soft laugh made his wet, cold skin comfort my hot cheeks. "Whoever built this house was a genius," Theo gushed. "There's a drain hole next to the valve. It was jammed, so it took me a moment to pry it open."

When I realized he had all the time in the world but almost drowned because he just had to open the thing in one breath, my head almost went numb. I lightly slapped him a few times on the chest.

“I was afraid you died because of me!” you cried.

Theo stood there, stunned, his arrogant bravado crumbling into a gentle, sincere, caring expression. He took you in his arms and held you tightly.

When they separated, the water level in the basement had already dropped slightly.

"Let's get out of here. You can sleep in my house until yours is dry and repaired." Theo didn't offer but rather commanded. You didn't hear his tone, as you were too desperate, but you agreed anyway, knowing you couldn't stay there.

"But how do we get the water out of the second floor? If we leave it there, won't the wooden floor and furniture be destroyed?"

He ruffled your hair. "Don't worry, I have equipment at home that can do that for us. I run extension cords from my house, set up all my equipment, and even take the time to reposition them throughout the night."

“You don’t have to—” I try to interject.

But Theo puts his arm around your shoulders. "Don't even try, we're neighbors! Who would I be if I let you suffer when I could help you so easily?"

“But you can cook for me and help me with little things around the house if that makes you feel better,” Theo offers you, gently stroking your belly with his free hand.

All the touching made you dizzy. Since you were with Isaac and moved out of there, you weren't used to receiving so much attention. Your cheeks were flushed, and you couldn't look up. You fumbled with your fingers as Theo led you out, watching him smile brightly from the side.

But it wasn't a smile, but a triumphant grin that would send chills down the spine of anyone who saw it. There was also a strange glint in Theo's eyes; you couldn't see it.

[Masterlist]

[delopsia]

ride the lightning | rhett abbott x reader

Word Count: 7,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, slice of life, Rhett's shoulder injury, showering together, outdoor sex, unprotected sex, food, absolutely zero plot to this one. Brief Summary: What's more fun than a post-rodeo party? Running off and having your own personal rodeo right before the storm hits.  

"You've got to quit eyeing those cowboys," Autumn's already chiding you, her words distorted by the glass resting against her bottom lip. 

Hesitant, your gaze drifts back to her. Weren't quite done scanning the room, but if you don't stop now, then you'll lose the luxury of feigning stupidity. "What do you mean?" 

"You're not slick!" She pauses, taking a sip of the liquid gold that fills her cup, the taste so bitter that her nose wrinkles. "I see you looking over there." 

"Because I'm looking for someone," you chirp, your nail tapping against the table as you begin to look around again. 

There was no way that wasn't his truck out in the parking lot. You'd know that aftermarket lightbar anywhere. But you don't see him. Not by the jukebox or the pool table. Hell, he's not even with his buddy Archie over there beside the empty water trough. 

"It's that bull rider from the rodeo, ain't it." Autumn's hit the nail on the head, and she knows it. Swirling the ice in her glass, grin growing wider with every second that passes. "You sure have a type."

It's not as if you could ever defend yourself from that accusation, but you're leaning forward, voice low as you whisper. "Yeah, like you don't have a thing for blue-eyed blondes."

"Blue-eyed blondes with money." She tips her glass at you as if to further her correction. It's not until after she's downed another greedy gulp of beer that she opens her mouth again.  "At least we have the eye thing in common."

All the men in the world, and here you two have picked men that happen to be neighbors. Arch enemies at that. Classic, century-old feud stuff. At this point, they don't hate each other for a reason; they do it for tradition.

You reckon a family hobby would be healthier, but that's not your dog, and it's certainly not your fight.

...not yet, at least. 

"At what point are we obligated to hate each other?" Dipping a finger into your drink as you speak, mindlessly swirling the ice until it forms its own little whirlpool. It's pretty to look at. Blue in color, with a little cherry and framed in a dainty glass, but whoever mixed this gave you all tequila and no juice. 

She hums, looking at something behind your head. "Whenever someone coughs up a half-mil."

Your finger stops, feeling the alcohol keep spinning past your finger. The cherry stem scrapes your skin. "Our friendship is only worth half a million to you?" 

"No," her eyes finally dart back to you, glinting in the light, "but that's how much is in Luke's checking account."

You don't even want to know how or why someone would have that much money ready to spend at a moment's notice. Or, better yet, where the hell that money came from.

Whatever is behind you, Autumn seems pretty interested in it, and you've got a good enough guess that it's the face of a man you're not interested in seeing. If you make eye contact, he'll take that as an invitation. 

Music sparks to life, blaring from a pair of cheap speakers somewhere on your left. You vaguely recognize the start of the song, but you're too busy scanning the crowd to pay attention to the lyrics. There are so many cowboy hats that you can't even cling to your usual method of finding him. Fuck, and hardly anyone has taken off their rodeo chaps. How are you supposed to—

There he is, beside the coolers. Red solo cup in hand, full of what you can only assume is more cheap beer. 

He's already looking at you, the corner of his lip lifting as you meet his gaze. 

"Speaking of," Autumn's already beginning to get up, the plastic table jolting as her hip bumps into it. "I just found who I was looking for."

"Have fun," pausing to glance at who she's so focused on. You're not sure why you expected it to be anyone other than Luke. "Try not to show up on the Abbott ranch with another hangover."

"No promises!" And just like that, she's left you. 

If history is anything to go off of, she'll charm him into driving her around in one of those fancy sports cars again. You've got a feeling that she's gonna be up in Jackson before sunrise, nestled in a fancy hotel for the weekend. 

"'s this seat taken?" 

You recognize that voice.

You've got to tilt your head to see him. Towering over you like some kind of giant, all broad shoulders and scruffy as can be, rodeo dirt still decorating his unshaven jaw. He hasn't even bothered to change out of his flannel, the ripped upper sleeve falling open to reveal the thick bicep lurking underneath. The left one sits a little awkwardly. Higher. An old injury aggravated by tonight's ride.

You want to climb him like a damn tree. 

"Maybe it is." Coy.

"Oh really?" His head cocks off to the side, hair falling into his face. "Who's it for?"

You've already got an answer brewing, but you hold it on your tongue for a moment, feigning thought. "His name is Rhett."

He hums. "Never heard of him." 

Silence. 

And then—

Rhett's laugh twists through the air like a melody, the plastic chair squeaking as he all but falls into the poor thing. One of these days, he's gonna do that, and it'll snap in two, but today doesn't seem to be that day. 

His hand motions toward the lone drink resting on the table, with its obnoxious blue color and lone cherry still swirling from when you toyed with it. "What's that?"

"Something terrible," you're already lifting the glass, holding it out for him to take. 

It's strange seeing him sipping from a dainty cocktail glass. Looks so much smaller when it's in his hand. You're not even sure if he notices the severe lack of juice, entirely unphased by the tequila that greets him. The cherry slips between his parted lips, the stem catching between them. 

"I thought you didn't like cherries?" Your head tilts to the side, curious. 

"I don't." His brow furrows, all too focused on something that you can't see. "But I like doin' this." Before you can begin to process what he's just said, his mouth opens, a tied cherry stem resting on top of his tongue. 

And here you thought you'd seen it all from him. "Is this your new party trick?" 

"Somethin' like that," the stem falls, landing somewhere that you don't see. Maybe you would know if you weren't too busy watching him lean forward, eyes sparkling with something he has yet to share. "Hey, do y' wanna get outta here?" 

"Not having fun?" Your answer is yes, but you're not sharing that yet. 

"I am, but..." then, lowering his voice, as if there's a risk of someone hearing him over the booming music, "'s more fun when it's just us."

You don't know where he's planning to go after this, but you're sold.

"I still can't believe you!" The squeal of the passenger door nearly drowns out your giggles, plastic grocery bags rustling as you climb out of the truck. 

You haven't the slightest clue which bag has the popcorn and which contains the chips, but the weight of the drinks is painfully obvious, the plastic handles rubbing uncomfortably against your arms. Curse the cashier for cramming all the bottles into one bag.

"Yeah, like you ain't never distracted me so you could pay for somethin'." Rhett's still laughing, that big cocky grin plastered across his face.

"But I never pretended I lost my keys!" Raising your voice for added effect, rounding the back of the truck. 

He's already beaten you here, opening the beaten tailgate. "Maybe ya should've." Wink.

Your eyes roll so hard that it hurts. "I'll remember that for the next time we get snacks."

Rhett's shoulder nudges yours, pushing just hard enough to make you sway. "You'll forget." 

"I'll forget." Immediate acceptance. You've sung this tune so many times that even you know that you never follow through in the end. 

The back of his truck is a damn mess; square bales of hay, two empty gas cans, the shredded remnants of a flannel, a handsaw, and you think that's a bag of chicken feed over there in the back corner. The tailgate is the only open space for you to set the bags on, and it's only now that you realize how many snacks you've actually gotten.

"We probably should have gotten dinner at Odessa's instead," you find yourself saying as you poke through one of the bags. Where in the world are those candies you got?

He reaches past you, plucking a stray screwdriver out of the mess that is his truck bed. Something tells you that he's been looking for that. "What makes ya say that?" 

"Look at all the junk we got!" Opening up one of the bags for him to see, as if he wasn't there when you both picked out and bought these things. 

But Rhett just shrugs, "Don't see nothin' wrong with it."  

Hypothetically, it shouldn't take you that long to find your candy. There are only five bags, but even as you poke through them all, you don't see that brightly colored packaging anywhere. But you know they were rung up. They're on the damn receipt! So where the hell...did you miss them somehow?

By the time you find them sitting in the front seat, nestled up against Rhett's lost bag of sunflower seeds, he's already set up the blankets. Thick, old things layered on top of each other as a makeshift cushion, protecting you from the rocky ground lurking beneath the grass. One of the downsides of choosing a pasture to lounge in, you suppose. 

He's already sitting on the corner of his makeshift blanket nest, half-lidded eyes drinking you in as you settle down next to him, your knee clumsily knocking into his thigh. You'd pay attention to him if you weren't too focused on this box of candy, pushing your thumb under the thin cardboard edge, forcing it open. 

Weight appears on your shoulder. 

Those Western romances always talk about the allure of a stoic, gunslinging cowboy, weathered by the elements and the human definition of fearless. They always fail to mention the cowboys who blink up at you like a puppy, too shy to verbally beg for a piece of your snack. 

"Do you want something?" Dipping your fingers into the box, pulling out one of the candies.

Rhett hums. Not quite a yes, but not quite a no, either. It's one of those sounds that you've heard enough times to know what it means, already lifting the first piece of candy to his lips. The scruff of his chin tickles your skin when he takes it.

Blind, your hand feels along his face, stealing away the overwhelming warmth residing there, drinking in the soft drag of his facial hair, finally at that perfect length where it no longer feels like sandpaper but has yet to begin looking like the beginnings of a beard. His tongue presses on the soft inside of his cheek, pushing against your fingers.

"Quit that!" You squeal, yanking your hand back.

"'s it really feel that weird?" His head tilts, and you don't need to look to know that he's peeking up at you.

"Yes!" And there might be more to add to that, but you're pushing one of the candies into your mouth, the sweetness effectively shutting you up. Remaining quiet even as he tilts his head to press a prickly kiss to the side of your neck, such a simple gesture that should not have your lower belly twisting with something familiar.

You've got to think about something else. Something that doesn't involve jumping on and biting him like a flea. Sucking hard on that little piece of candy, eyes scurrying for something to look at. But all you're finding is darkness and more darkness.

No lampposts or porch lights or flickering campfires, just the pale glow of the moon and the speckling of stars hanging in the sky. There are so many of them up there. Almost looks as if someone has dumped a bottle of glitter atop a roll of never-ending black velvet fabric, twinkling proudly against their backdrop of nothingness. 

The weight on your shoulder disappears. Leaves behind an absurd sense of coldness as he gets up to fetch something from the truck. Odd, how you never seem to realize how warm he is until after he's gone. 

Even the poor lighting can't hinder you from taking him in. The rodeo spurs clinging to his muddied boots. The leather chaps that hang low on his hips, with the thin little buckles in the back that squeeze the thick meat of his thighs. You know there's a reason for them to be there, but the irrational part of your brain reckons they exist solely to make you dizzy. 

"Are you ever going to take those chaps off?" You find yourself asking, after a moment, dragging your gaze away from his ass. 

Rhett freezes, his hand still wedged in the plastic bag as he looks down at his own two legs. "Eventually," he pauses, cracking open one of the cans. You haven't a doubt in your mind that it's one of those spiked lemonades he's recently discovered. "Whenever my shoulder loosens up enough t' let me mess with it."

"Need help?" Words firing off your tongue before you can process what they mean.

The black and yellow can lifts to his mouth, poorly concealing the upward turn of his lips. "I ain't never said no to you undressin' me, doll."

One little sentence, and you've forgotten about your candy entirely, letting it fall onto the blankets without any care for whether or not it spills. You've hardly got to move; settling onto your knees is more than enough. He steps forward, standing right on the edge of the blanket, that oversized buckle glimmering in the moonlight. Your fingertips brush over the edge of it, dented from the hoof of last week's bull.

"I thought the clasp broke on this?" Audibly tapping a nail against it as you make your way to the much smaller buckle hanging underneath. Not thin or frail by any means, but the contrasting sizes isn't doing it any favors. 

Your fingers hook beneath the belt, tugging on the tiny strip of leather until he gets the hint.

He grunts, boots shuffling as you drag him forward. "Nothin' a little weldin' couldn't fix." 

It's easier to see the awkward hang of his left shoulder from down here, tense and lifted higher than the right one, like someone's wound the muscle too tight. Maybe that dislocation would have healed correctly if he agreed to that hospital visit. But...here you are.

All you've got to do is pull the leather strap backward, and the prong pops out of the hole. For such tough-looking chaps, they sure come off easily. One weak tug is all it takes to have them falling down his legs, falling as quickly as you'll let them, hands gliding down the sides of his thighs and past his bony knees, eating up as much time as you can.

It's a shame that you don't need to undo the buckles around his thighs, too; you wouldn't mind the tedious process of helping him buckle them back up, either. But it's too late for that. You've already gotten the leather past one of his boots, working it over the other just as quickly. 

Even as you set those old chaps to the side, Rhett doesn't make much of an effort to move, standing idle as you fold them. Eyes locked with yours, transfixed by the simple image of you on your knees, right in front of him. You know what he's thinking. You're thinking it, too. Memories so prominent in your mind that you're already beginning to act on them.

Something booms in the distance. A deep noise that rolls through the pasture like a warning of something more to come. You think that's lightning, you see, flickering in the corner of your eye, but you're not paying attention. You can't. Not when your hands are moving on their own whims, gliding up the sides of his thighs. 

Rhett's hum echoes into his half-empty can. Seems to carry for miles. "Didn't realize we were gettin' another storm."

His breath hitches. Eyelashes fluttering. 

Your hand drifts across the tent in his jeans once more. Warm. Growing heavier with every passing second. "Think we have time?" You ask as if you don't already know the answer. As if there isn't a sudden heat flushing between your legs, the voice in your head impatiently demanding that you hurry up and pinch open his belt.

"'n here y' say I'm the one with a problem," but just like that, he's sinking to his knees. Face to face, all too quickly. 

"It's not my fault that you look like...that!"  Floundering for an escape from the situation you've created all by yourself. 

One side of his mouth quirks upward, that lopsided smile so bright that it ought to put the sun to shame. Wind rips past, nudging his hair out from behind his ear and into his face, but it does nothing to hide his pretty face. Scruffy as it may be.

It must be the breeze that nudges you forward because you don't feel yourself moving. But you're leaning forward, mouth blindly clashing with his. A little too far to the right at first, and then his hair is in the way, and...

oh.

You've missed this. 

It's hardly been a few hours since the last time, but your heart argues that it's been a lifetime and a half. One little chaste peck, and then another, and another, and another, until you cease to part ways altogether. Those big arms wind around you, his palm pressing into the small of your spine, drawing you up against him.

And you're melting into him like ice cream in the summer sun, any semblance of control vanishing alongside it. Hands roaming up the broad expanse of his chest, tickling against his neck, curling around his prickly jaw, tangling in the curls resting at his nape. Your touch is nothing special, and yet he groans into your kiss anyhow. 

Callouses catch on the soft skin of your lower back, his hands shamelessly wandering beneath your shirt. Pulling it off is tempting, but Rhett's lemonade-flavoured tongue is licking into your mouth, and the wind whispers that you don't have the time for that kind of luxury. Not if you don't want to get rained on by another one of Wabangs popup storms. 

But you do have time to reach for his flannel, dragging your finger through the buttons, audibly snapping apart at record speeds. He needs to wear pearl snap flannels more often.

"Shit," he's gasping against your lips, breaking apart for the slightest of seconds, "'s a lil cold."

The world spins around you. Back hitting the ground with all the grace and ease of a newborn deer. A bolt of lightning tears across the sky, set off by the burning hands that appear on your hips, tugging at your waistband. Your body lifts, and they're gone. You're not even sure what has become of your shoes. Don't recall feeling them come off, but your socked feet are sliding against the blanket, fighting for purchase. 

Rhett's eyes snap shut, squeezing so tight that his forehead wrinkles with the effort. 

"What hurts?" You already know that look. Already have a vague idea of what could be bugging him. 

"Shoulder," speaking through gritted teeth, not bothering to ease up, as if relaxing his jaw could bring on another wave of pain. "moved it too fast." Slower this time, he leans forward, hands falling onto either side of you, and—

"Shit." He's hissing under his breath. Sounds more like a snake than a man. There's no way that he's going to be able to put weight on that left arm, not with his shoulder visibly twitching, sent into an angry spasm. 

"This isn't gonna work," you whisper, chasing the dwindling hope that your words will reach his ears but not his already sore ego. 

Rhett hasn't even opened his eyes, but he's already shaking his head. Stubborn to the end. You know what he's going to say before it even leaves his mouth. "Hold on, if you give me a second..."

You've already got an idea. "Lay on your back." Your hands find his chest, gently pressing until he gets the message, limbs awkwardly tangling as you exchange positions. Straddling his plush thighs, settled a little bit lower than you'd intended.

It's not quite what you originally had in mind, but you've never been one to complain about riding a cowboy, already beginning to reach for his belt buckle. You don't know how you found this difficult when you first got together; all it takes is the slightest motion, and it pops open. Then comes his belt and the crooked zipper that struggles to run down the tracks.

His hips jerk, thighs smacking into your ass. "Not that I'm complainin', darlin'," there's a weakness to his voice that wasn't there a moment ago. Like he's run a marathon in the time it took you to blink. "'s there somethin' rilin' you up?"

"No." Then, smiling, "Just you."

Blue eyes dart away. Looking off to the side. "Oh."

If it were lighter outside, you think you'd catch a whisper of a blush coloring his cheeks, but your vision has been reduced to dark blobs of color. Can't even tell what color his boxers are, even when your hand dips through the front of them, blindly reaching until—

Rhett sucks in a breath. 

It's hardly been a few minutes, and yet he's already so damn heavy. Thick in your grasp, a bead of precum running down the underside of his tip. Your thumb swipes across it, dragging it back up to his plush cock head.

"You're already so wet, cowboy," you muse, lazily tracing circles around his slit. There's so much of it. Dripping like a damn faucet, so much precum that you can see the glisten of it in the darkness. 

Thunder rumbles to your left. Closer now. But you just can't help yourself. 

Your mouth finds the underside of his cock. Pressing kisses onto the vein that runs along there, working your way up from his base. Tongue lazily poking out to swirl around his head, so used to the saltiness of his precum that you hardly even notice it. One of those advantages that comes with knowing him like the back of your hand. 

Like how you know that the delicate scrape of your teeth will make him—

"Ah!" Sharp. Pitchy. The closest thing you'll get to a squeal, the kind of sound that has your thighs trying to squeeze together, suddenly warm. 

Something in your jaw pops as you take him into your mouth. Sucking lazily, like you're savoring a piece of candy, not even making an effort to stop the drool from slipping past your lips. The wetter the better. Because you're pretty sure you know the answer to the question you're about to ask.

"Condom?" Pulling off of him with a soft 'pop.' 

Rhett's head tilts toward the truck, brow furrowing, visibly thinking for a moment. Then, his lips flatten into a line. "'s in my jeans at home."

Thunder rumbles once more, urging your already racing thoughts to scramble even faster. Pulling out could be an option if not for the fact that it's never worked out for you in the past, always seeming to forget in your final moments. Riding in that bouncy passenger seat with his cum leaking out of you has never been the most comfortable thing. Cleaning up is the worst, but...

Fuck, you really can't seem to make yourself care about any of that.

Rhett's belly flexes with the effort to sit up, his right elbow bracing his weight. A familiar blob of black peeks out from beneath his open flannel, that old bucking bull tattoo. Under the thin veil of darkness, it's easy to convince yourself that it's brand new. That the poor-quality ink hasn't caused it to fade quicker than it should have. 

A kiss presses to your cheek. "What're ya thinkin'?" 

"A little mess never hurt anyone," you don't know if you're talking to him or yourself. Maybe both. 

You don't realize how close you are until your noses clash, knocking together as you squirm up to settle in his lap. His left hand finds its way to your hip, burning against your chilly skin. Doesn't do anything more than rest there, touching you for the sake of touching you. 

It's a bit crude, reaching down to pull your underwear to the side rather than pulling them off entirely. But then you're guiding him up, and his dripping tip is dragging through your folds, and you can't think about anything else. 

"You're just as bad as I am," Rhett's laugh is so much bigger than any of that distant thunder, rumbling through you in delicate waves. 

"Like this hasn't been a known fact for years," and for that statement of his alone, you're stringing this out even longer. Bringing him back up before he can begin to sink into you, selfishly rubbing him against your clit, sensitive from lack of attention.

Lightning flickers. Rhett's hips shift, slipping back down your cunt, stubbornly nudging against your entrance. Manages to lift himself enough to create a blooming pressure there, the very tip of him slipping inside. 

Fuck, you're still aching from the bit of fun you had before the rodeo. Tangled up on the couch, too wrapped up in each other to pay attention to the rapidly ticking clock. Or maybe the discomfort is from the severe lack of lube. Nothing but spit, precum, and your own wetness to soothe the drag of him as you begin to sink down on him.

"Mmph," Rhett's head tilts back, pale throat exposed. "How're you so—shit. How're you still so damn tight?"

On its own, something in your lower belly loosens, almost as if it didn't realize it was doing it in the first place. Allows you the fleeting courtesy of a breath of air before his tip fully slips into you. Heat jumps up your spine, swirling around in the back of your head. 

"I should ask you the same thing," your voice comes out weaker than what you anticipated, "why are you so damn big?"

And all that's done is make him laugh again. Nose nudging your cheek as he leans in to press another kiss to your lips, his smile too big for it to be anything more than a peck. But you want more, chasing after him as he tries to lean away, helpless to do anything but fall forward. 

Gravity quickens the glide of your body, his cock sinking further into you. The curve of him rubs into a set of nerves, never has taken very long for him to find them, thick length incessantly dragging against it. 

A heavy fist strikes the land to the west, the resounding boom washing over the surprised grunt that wrangles its way out of Rhett's throat. The only reason you catch note of it is from the way it rumbles against your bottom lip, pulling the corners of your mouth up into a giddy smile. 

All too quickly, you're fully seated in his lap, fitting against him like a puzzle piece. Bodies carved to fit seamlessly against one another, lost in the blending of limbs, tangling until you can no longer tell where one of you begins and the other ends. A shiver races up your spine, pussy involuntarily spasming around his thick cock. 

"Didn't think I was gonna be the one gettin' ridden tonight," there's no reason for Rhett to be grinning up at you like this, with that healing split in his lip and those glistening eyes. Mesermized. As if he's taking in the sight of a precious painting lost for centuries. 

If you didn't know any better, you would think he was looking at the stars behind your head.

But he's only looking at you. 

It's got you lifting yourself a little too quickly; haven't even begun to adjust to his size yet. "You'd better hope it lasts longer than eight seconds."

Something sharp digs into your knee as you lift yourself, but it's impossible to pay attention to. So fucking full of him that your every racing thought has wrapped itself around the shape of his name. Oh, and it's not helped by the burning drag of his cock; a little too big for you to be riding him without lube. 

You're sinking back down when his hips lips, snapping up into you midway. Fuck, you're burning alive out here. Growing wetter from that little motion alone, that tingling heat climbing your spine and settling into your cheeks. 

"Impatient," you're huffing, lacking any bit of the conviction you'd hoped you would have.

"Them bulls buck, y'know," that smug grin of his falters as your hips swivel, readjusting yourself, "'m just playin' my part."

So annoying. 

So, so annoying.

Something about the change in an angle has him rubbing up against something he hadn't before, air catching in your throat as he presses directly into it. Shit, it's too early for your thighs to be shivering like they are, and it's all you can do to flatten your palms against his chest, forcing yourself to remain upright. 

"Keep—mmh keep doin' that." Stupid cowboys and their stupidly pretty whines. Has no right to be squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head back and forth like he's trying to shake the feel of you out of his head.

And he just keeps rubbing against those little nerves, over and over and over. Stars sparkle across your vision, so many of them that you can no longer tell which hang high in the sky and which stem from your own imagination. Whether or not that's thunder or the hammer of your own heart, you're not even remotely sure. 

A stray hand meanders up your back, his touch so feather-light and ticklish that it's got you arching away from it. Unintentionally angling him into those soft little spots even more, your pussy clenching around him so tightly that you nearly freeze in place. 

You hardly feel yourself reaching for his wrists. Only recognize the feel of them in your grasp, thick and strong from years of manual labor, yet so willing to be pinned over his head. Falling into place like they always longed to be there.

"Fuck," Rhett's teeth sink into his bottom lip, stifling a noise that you wish you could have caught, "so fuckin' pretty on top of me." 

"And here I thought you were marveling at the storm," panting into the open air like a damn dog, breathless all too quickly. As if the slow rise and fall of your hips is simply too much for you to handle. 

Rhett's biceps flex, muscle visibly rippling as the thunder crackles. "Nah," grunting, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, "could watch y' ride me all fuckin' day." 

God, what is it about sex that makes him so fucking talkative?

Your hand darts out to the side. Blindly patting the blankets until you find one of the candies that spilled out of the container, shoving it past his parted lips before he can utter another word.

His mouth wobbles. Torn between a smile and something he wants to say. Neither manages to win the upper hand, instead beaten by a secret third thing. Because now he's sitting up, wearily bracing himself on that good arm, eyes falling shut midway as he leans in to kiss you. Knocking into each other so abruptly that your teeth audibly clatter.

But the wind is twirling past you with a kind of ferocity that wasn't there before, and in the back of your mind you're convinced that you've inadvertently caused it to happen. Distant storm falling into a rage as you tumble forward, forearms resting on either side of his head, hands in his hair, drowning yourself in the lemonade and candy that paints his tongue. 

Something sparks behind your eyes. "Rhett..."

He doesn't respond. Doesn't need to. The lift of his hips is more than enough of a reply, so sudden that it rips a sharp noise out of your throat. A decade of bull riding has made him too fucking strong for his own good, pushing up into you with devastating ease. 

This...thisis something. His breath tickling your skin. Your chest against his, nails scraping at his scalp. Helpless to do nothing but whine as he brushes against those little spots once more. Long, heaving motions that jostle you with every thrust, your eyes already struggling to remain open. 

"Rhett," repeating yourself like a broken record, panting into his ear like you're getting paid to do it.

The ground shakes. Lightning strikes somewhere in the distance, volting through the soil, up through your knees, and into your belly. Or maybe it's not lightning at all, simply the dizzying sensation of his cock driving up into you with a sickeningly wet noise. You can't help the way your legs squeeze impossibly tight around him. Can't stop the familiar tingle from settling into your core, spreading down into your thighs. 

You don't remember when the babbling started, but you can hear the sound of your name twisting through the air, chanting beneath his breath like a melody. His prickly cheek rubs against yours, and you just know that it's going to leave your skin raw, but you can't bring yourself to pull away. 

"'m gonna..." the rasp of his voice has you clamping tighter around him. A whimper slips off his tongue. "I—"

He doesn't need to finish that sentence. One look is all you need. 

You are, too. 

There's no need for you to reach down and touch yourself. His cock alone is enough to have you crumbling like a house of cards, burying your head into the crook of his neck, unable to muffle every little noise he punches out of you. Downright merciless as he rubs into those sensitive little nerves over and over and over and—

A ghost of wind is enough to push you over the edge. Tumbling over the edge and into the abyss, the world around you going quiet as you cum around his cock. Not a sound breaking past your lips, head swirling round and round until you can no longer tell which way is up. 

You're only distantly aware of the sudden stalling of Rhett's hips, pushing up into you so hard that he lifts you up. Can't miss the sensation of his cock twitching, his cum spilling into your pussy, rope after rope of it, so much that you think you can feel it pooling inside of you.

A drop of rain hits your shoulder. Cold. Biting into your skin with its sharp little teeth. 

The storm is so much closer now, thick clouds hanging overhead, blocking out the stars entirely. Electricity arcs across the sky as you begin to lift yourself up before your body is even ready to move. 

Rhett's cock slips out of you with an awkward noise, slapping audibly against his belly. Shit, you can already feel it beginning to spill out, don't know how you plan to get home without making a mess of your clothes. 

A groan sounds from below you. "So fuckin' full of it," the soft tip of his cock presses back into you, and you don't need to look to know that Rhett's eyes are fixated on the obscene sight of his cum leaking out of you. "God damn."

"Well, don't...mmh, don't keep pushing it in," but your complaint is futile, and you're making no effort to try and stop him. No point in it, you suppose; it's not as if you can clean yourself up out here. 

He chuckles at that. You think the stars have secretly gathered in his eyes, sparkling in those deep blues. "Can't do nothin' 'bout it now."

"Hold on!" Your giggles echo through the kitchen, wet feet stumbling across the tile. "I can't move that fast!" 

But Rhett's hand keeps tugging you along, sliding around the corner and into the hallway. Water pours from his hair and shoulders, speckling across the floor, leaving a trail in his wake. A mess that you'd complain about if not for your own soaked clothes, so cold that you've gone entirely numb. 

Lights flicker overhead, power fading in and out as the storm rages on. Rain striking the windows so hard that you can hear it, even as you fumble down the hallway. Wet socks slide against the tile as you try to turn, your shoulder bumping into Rhett's. His hip smacks into the door frame. Your feet tangle. 

"We ain't never doin' that again," he's stumbling toward the shower, reaching for the knobs. Twists until he can't crank the hot water up any hotter. Something, anything to melt away the ice that's about to freeze over your skin.

You reach for the hem of your shirt, the fabric clinging to you like a second skin. "I thought you liked having sex outside."

"I do," he pauses, pulling the material over your head. It audibly hits the floor, the beginnings of yet another mess. "I don't like downpours 'n hail!" 

The red mark on his forehead is only just beginning to bloom, sure to darken as the night rages on. It's a little too high up to be blamed on a bar fight, but you're sure he'll find a way to play it off when his momma asks about what happened. 

Your pants are on the floor before he can finish getting his flannel off, not a care in the world for where they land. Your mind only has enough room for one thought at a time: hot water. A cloud of steam greets you as you step into the shower. The water has yet to hit your skin, and yet you can already feel yourself melting, the heat eating away at the invisible frost that has long since settled upon you. 

It's almost too hot, the spray seeming to burn little holes straight through your chest, and your toes sting. Such a sharp contrast compared to the heat that you wonder if it'll eat you alive.

A firm chest presses against your naked back, familiar arms settling loosely around your waist. "Y' jus' gonna leave me behind like that?" His attempt at sounding irritated doesn't miss your ears, but it dies before he can finish the sentence. Isn't helped by the kisses that appear on your shoulder.  

"If you can ride bulls, then you can climb into the shower by yourself," leaning back into him, your eyes fall closed. It might be the first time you've blinked since the rain began to fall, starting the moment you'd begun gathering the blankets into your arms. Mother Nature's punishment for not taking her warnings seriously.

Rhett hums, the vibration tickling the side of your neck. "Then." Kiss. "I should probably." Kiss. "Tell you." Kiss. "That we didn't bring any clean clothes..." Kiss. "Or towels."

...the towels. 

Your groan bounces off the tile walls and out into the hallway, probably even ventures past the closet and out into the living room. Why did it never occur to you to grab towels and clothes before you climbed in here?

"We'll rock paper scissors it after we rinse off," it's the same solution he uses for every conflict, but you find yourself agreeing with the idea anyway. 

He loses. Never deviates from playing rock, even when he knows full well that you will forever play paper. You're not sure if he's waiting for the day that you crack and play scissors or if he's intentionally losing, but you've got the sneaking suspicion it's the latter. He's way too content to dart into the hallway for towels, returning with more than either of you could possibly need.

"Did you grab every towel in the closet?" You laugh as you pull one of them around your shoulders, hugging it to yourself like a blanket. It's too damn cold in this house.

"No," then, grinning, "I left one behind."

He's gone before you've finished drying off, comes back one more time with your favorite pajamas in his hand, then disappears into the darkness of the house. Where he's gone, you're not sure; it's hard to tell when he never turns any of the lights on, navigating based on muscle memory alone. 

But you can hear the television turning on, your forgotten movie picking up right where it left off. 

"Rhett?" Calling out as you mosey out of the bathroom.

Damp carpet squishes beneath your feet, frigid and not at all what you expected to find yourself standing on. Only seems to get worse as you make your way down the hall, hopelessly soaked with rainwater. The old fan is already out, cool air blowing across the worst of it, licking at your heels when you step past.

Rhett's pale shoulders stick out like a sore thumb in the living room. All too visible as he moves around, hands audibly patting something down on the couch. Blankets. The ones off the bed, out of the closet, hell, he's grabbed the decorative one off the rocking chair. All to build an oversized nest, high around the edges, like he's trying to keep something out. So focused on the task at hand that he doesn't notice you until it's too late.

"Jesus!" His naked back jumps away from you as if burned by your kiss.

"Watcha buildin'?" Your speech mimicking his just a little more than usual, already leaning in to press a second kiss in between the knobs of his spine. Rhett twists in your arms before you can land a third, the swell of his chest mere inches from your lips now.

You'll smooch him here, too. 

"Our last line of defense," his giggle rides on the coattails of another roll of thunder. "Jus' in case that storm knocks out the power 'n steals our heat."

You don't realize his arms are around you until he's falling toward the couch, taking you right along with him, landing in a messy heap on top of the blankets. A box of candy rattles behind your back. Someone bumps into the remote, the movie pausing on the television screen. 

A piece of the candy bounces off your chin, narrowly misses landing back in Rhett's hand. You find it squished between your chests, pushing it between his parted lips. 

"Y' gonna keep force feedin' me candy?" He asks, that little candy rolling across his tongue as he speaks. Wonder if you'll be able to taste it if you kiss him. 

You lean in, nuzzling your noses together. "It's my new party trick."

His eyes roll so hard that you hope they'll get stuck. 

[suzukiblu]

How did you spread your Ko-fi/ comms? I've had a Ko-fi of my own set up for a little over a month now but I'm struggling to get any commissioners. Do you have any tips?

disclaimer: This is what worked for specifically me and my specific situation/style/etc and I don't know your specific audience or how you typically interact with them, so take or leave what I say in terms of what seems like useful or helpful information to your own situation. I do have some more specific advice for you in the back half, just I'm gonna be starting out with the "this worked for me" stuff.

Anyway actual answer/info behind the cut, hah. God, this is so long and only mostly organized, I apologize, I just get INTO it sometimes when I get asked this kind of thing.

First and foremost, for clarity's purpose and all: I have been on the internet for literally twenty-five years and am WELL established in fandom, as well as someone who has been reasonably popular and/or well-known in multiple fandoms on multiple sites at multiple times. There are literally people following me who were reading my stuff ten or fifteen or even the full twenty-five years ago. Given your profile says you're in your twenties I may have LITERALLY been online longer than you have been alive, haha.

So like, I've been at this a minute and have a LOT of experience in engaging and maintaining an active audience because that's a thing I value having and therefore do my best to encourage; it just works best for my process. So if you're feeling a little vexed with the response you're getting, know that this is all coming from a much-experienced Old(tm) who has had issues getting commissions and attention several times themselves and just currently has a decent chunk of followers and a very communicative "yes and" writing style and is, as a writer, WILDLY prolific. Like. WILDLY prolific. Genuinely, I am not trying to brag or talk myself up here or anything, I just straight-up feel like I haven't written at all if I don't break 2k in a day ( and even 2k feels kinda low to me at this point ), and I write EVERY day.

Literally. Literally every day. Like I missed two days after I got COVID and solo-drove four hours and needed to sleep for a week to recover, and I missed one day at the beginning of this month because I was real burned out from writing 32k more than usual last month and just needed to veg for a day. That's it, that is it all. Those are literally the only days that I have not written in like, the past SEVERAL months. Like, the high end of "several", to be clear. Occasionally I have a lighter day and only write a few hundred words, but typically I do somewhere in the range of 2.5-3.5k, and on my more productive days I can break 5 or 6k easy. That is the kind of person that you have asked for advice here, haha. 😅 So like . . . I'm low-key a freak, productivity-wise. Like I am the living embodiment of that one interview where George R.R. Martin is staring at Stephen King with visible fear in his eyes as the dude describes how many billions of pages he writes a day like it's no big.

tl;dr: I write SO. SO. MUCH. So much, and ALSO I have a backlog of something like two million words on AO3 and definitely hundreds of thousands more words under my tags list on here on top of that. People get a LOT of content when they get into me, I am MADE of content. I have built up a lot of momentum over time, that's just what's worked for me personally.

Also I'm cheap, ngl. I'm just--I'm very affordable, Ko-fi-wise. So I am sure that helps, considering!

ANYWAY. Some of this advice is not going to sound relevant to Ko-fi, but it is relevant to how I personally use Ko-fi, so yeah, here we go:

Always remember: everyone on the internet has social anxiety. Yes, even the people who don't actually have social anxiety. Just go into everything assuming most people you meet on here are gonna be shy or nervous or just feel awkward striking up a conversation with you out of the blue, especially if they've never really spoken to you before. It doesn't matter if they don't actually have social anxiety, thinking that way just puts you in a mindframe to be mindful when you're talking to them and being mindful in your communication makes people more comfortable with things like messaging you with questions and the prospect of going through the commission process with you.

Generally just assume the best of people's intentions whenever possible, and when their intentions are clearly not the best, just move on and don't engage. It is a lose-lose situation; you are not gonna convince them of anything and you're just gonna look like a dick to people who don't have the context and leave a sour taste in their mouths. Which, long story short, people are just way more likely to enjoy your stuff and WAY more likely to commission you if you're putting your best foot forward whenever possible. I definitely try not to get too negative on here myself; like I'm not doing any toxic positivity or anything, just I am here to vent some feelings and make some friends and enjoy the process, and I wanna cultivate a setup where other people can benefit from that too.

Link. Link link link. How easy is it to find your Ko-fi link? Make it easier than that. Keep it in your pinned post and on the front page of your actual blog and in your back pocket and stapled to your sleeve. When you post a commission, link your commission info in the description. When you talk about your art in general, link your commission info in the body of the text--like for example, "I'm trying to use my Ko-fi more" or "I finished up my last commission, I have some slots open again". ( used my own Ko-fi links for reference here, obviously, hah, but specifically linking to your main page OR just straight to your actual commissions page are both useful options. linking your main page introduces you as a person more effectively, while linking straight to your commissions page removes a step for people and makes it easier for them to find the info they're looking for. )

Communicate! Remind people that your Ko-fi/your commissions exist every now and then. Like, definitely not daily or weekly, but depending on how often you update your blog in general, maybe once every month or couple of months give people a heads up if you've got commission slots open/available. That way they're not awkwardly peering at the pinned post you put up months ago wondering if you're still actively open or just forgot it was in your pinned, and also it gives a heads up to people who might've been thinking about or meaning to commission you that you're available for work.

Post consistently in general; not just about commissions or Ko-fi, obviously, just like making yourself available and open to people and hanging out WITH people. Answer as many asks as you have the spoons to. Talk about stuff you like and stuff you're excited by and into. Like obviously not everyone can do this but I personally post a lot on here and I definitely UPDATE a lot on here; generally speaking if someone swings by my blog once or twice a week, there's gonna be at least a few hundred to a few thousand words of new stuff for them to read ( or SEVERAL thousand, even ). Or to look at, when I'm feeling arty.

Answers asks and make personal posts. Like I'm not saying trauma-dump on your followers or use Tumblr like a diary, definitely, but it's a good idea to give people a bit of an idea about yourself in terms of things like talking about your dog being cute or if you're going to be out of town on vacation or how your process works or just new or different things that you're trying out/experimenting with/interested in. Bluntly put, you want people to remember you are a person who wants to hang out with them and not just a Content Generator to be "liked" and then scrolled on past, and you want to engage with them and try to talk to them when they talk to you and generally be, like, approachable. In my case I just do my best to assume the best of every interaction and try to notice who's regularly popping up in my notifs and remember what I can about them. This does not always work for me because my memory is swiss cheese, but I do what I can there because I very much appreciate people engaging with my stuff ( and also my me, haha ) and I think communicating that kind of thing to people usually makes them feel good, and in turn you feel better about what you're doing and how people are responding to your work, and then you're more motivated TO work and maybe they catch some mistakes for you or have good ideas that vastly, VASTLY improve what you had in mind. The circle of fandom! The life cycle of a WIP!!

Which leads us into: you need to be doing things that are very recognizably You(tm) and cannot just be picked up for free just any random anywhere. Which like, that can be an issue with fanart, obviously, because the internet is FULL of free fanart, so what you probably want is to be looking to court people who are looking for art of their fics/AUs or their own original characters. Like your style is very distinctive for sure, that's definitely a good thing, so leaning into your personal interpretations of characters is a good idea, and it does look like you're doing that with the stuff of yours I've seen. I would just say lean into your own designs and own little quirks of styling and stuff you really love to draw and go hard on all of it. Once you really feel it out, the stuff you are REALLY vibing with is the stuff that is gonna resonate with people the most significantly in the long run, in my experience. Even if it doesn't always get the same level of response as less niche stuff does, it'll very likely get a more DEVOTED response, and people who'll come back for more of it. I did not write so dang much of Darcy Lewis in my MCU days because her fans were uninvested in seeing new content for her, put it that way.

Also, I AM in fact cheap; I have a few different price options on my Ko-fi and two-thirds of them are five bucks or under. The nature of how I personally do Ko-fi means I'm adding words to already-established stories, though, so people are coming in invested and more willing to donate so they can find out what happens next. Which, like, is obviously not something that works with art commissions, unless you're doing something like "when I hit this donation goal I will draw the next page of this comic script I have written in thanks for hitting the goal". But honestly, sometimes doing a limited amount of projects and getting people interested/invested in said projects is more cost-effective in terms of your time and energy and less overwhelming than doing a million different things all at once. Plus it gets your audience more story to chew on in the long run and I have NEVER met anyone who complained about a fuller narrative happening to them.

Mind, I don't actually know if you're the comic-making type, comics are just the first example I thought of, but also you do have to make sure you're giving people enough content to be invested in to begin with. Sticking with the comic example, people aren't gonna donate to see more of a comic if they don't know they LIKE your comics, so doing some shorter ones and posting a nice selection of those first and THEN doing a donation goal is more respectful of your audience because you're clearly actively interested in them and want to make things you can share with them, not just, like, collect their Ko-fi donos, and at the same time it's also just better advertisement for you. Ethical marketing, basically; there's plenty of content you shared freely, and you're also posting the things that get crowdfunded for everyone to see and not paywalling anything, and ideally building some community and making some friends along the way. Which, like, obviously substitute whatever works for you for "comic" here; I personally just find having overarching narratives/stories/settings helps people get invested and enjoy themselves more with your stuff, and also be likelier to REMEMBER your stuff. Come up with an AU, do some little comics or illustrations in it or some design work for it. Just make a thing that is very specifically YOU and what you like.

On that note: get niche. Get weird. You REALLY don't wanna be making stuff that is not as You(tm) as possible and can just be picked up anywhere. You wanna make the kind of stuff where people go "I wanna see more like this, fuck, who else is even MAKING this, alright OP please do me a solid and have more of this on your blog--fuck YEAH you do, look at all this, okay I live here now". In fandom terms: yes, everyone loves Timkon, Timkon'll get likes, it'll probably even get comments, but if you really want to find the diehards who are gonna lock in and ENGAGE, you wanna make sure you also do the niche shit that you're telling yourself everyone else is gonna think is too weird or just not be interested in. Shut up, imposter syndrome, people LOVE weird! People WANT weird, this is fandom, we're a largely queer subculture that's reclaiming our modern mythologies from capitalism, we're not here for the normie shit! We'd be rereading canon again if we just wanted the normie shit!

Seriously, being openly weird and leaning into said weird is a VERY definite reason that people recognize and remember my writing as opposed to, like, just consuming it and moving on without even noticing there was an author involved. If people vibe real hard with the themes you get really into working with or really like the unique parts of your style/voice or appreciate the way you handle certain subjects/characters/weird niche shit, they're a lot likelier to remember you and either come back or just stick around from the start. Like attracts like and your "like" will be delighted to have found you, and you will get to enjoy the benefits of BEING found by your fellow niche weirdos and all be thriving together! Everyone wins!

Also, I have some more specifically tailored practical advice/critique that is based off my immediate reactions to what I saw when I clicked over to your blog/Ko-fi, which definitely take with a grain of salt because I am giving it without being familiar with your process/situation/audience and from a different position. I'm just trying to be less general and offer some stuff that might be more specifically useful to you. So like, please feel free to hit me up in DMs or asks if you wanna talk about any of this in more detail or get some clarification on anything I'm saying here, this is just what I've got from my initial impressions and off the dome.

Also-also, again, this is all based on what's worked for me personally, so I'm sure there's some stuff that might not be applicable to or just not vibe with you because of that. So like please don't take this as me trying to smack down what you've been doing so far or anything, I'm just trying to be thorough in building on it and also, like, my graphic design experience definitely slipped into some of this, hah.

So to start I took a quick look at your blog to see how easy it was to find your Ko-fi and then a quick peek at your Ko-fi itself to see how it was set up. I found your Ko-fi immediately, which was good! Having it in both your bio and your pinned is definitely the right idea. I did have to expand your bio to find the link that was listed in there, which not everyone will do while scrolling past, but that's just like, nitpicking on my part since you do have the pinned post directly beneath it. I just am very much "make literally everything as easy as possible for everyone ever in every possible way".

It'd probably be helpful to mention that you're open for commissions in the "about" on your Ko-fi's front page so people don't have to scroll too far or click any links to find that out/have that confirmed. You may also wanna either slim down the descriptions in your commissions listings or break them up into paragraphs; you wanna do your best to avoid big solid blocks of text because people are likelier to only skim those and therefore less likely to absorb the information.

Skimming is also bad because it means people are less likely to notice that something you're describing appeals to them, and are way MORE likely to end up confused. "Confused" ups the chances that they just decide they don't wanna bother you by asking for clarification, given they might feel stressed by asking or pressured to buy or just like they're bothering you.

Avoiding text blocks is also just gonna make your descriptions wayyyyy easier to read for people who are dyslexic or have vision problems or possibly didn't learn English as their first language ( depending on their fluency for that last one, obviously, but you never know so yeah ). Basically you wanna make the commission process as quick and effortless and A-to-B as possible for people; your goal is "how can I make this process as close to one-click shopping for people?" Your goal is to become the Occam's Razor of commissions.

Your promo sheet on Tumblr I'd say could be an issue in the sense that it's a little difficult to read; you want people to not have to think about it to clock it as what it is. I only immediately knew it was a commissions sheet because I went in looking for one, and you want people to INSTANTLY know it is a commissions sheet. Like, before they even process anything about it, they should have the instinctive recognition of "this is a commissions sheet" and be primed to read a commissions sheet.

The main issue I see is that the sheet's layout is pretty dense and lacks visual flow in its composition; the prices are scattered and the font on the header is hard to read at a glance; my reflexive assumption from the moment it took to recognize it as text and the overall layout of the graphic was that it was a border, not a header. And like, I figured it out like half a second later, yeah, but that first couple of seconds can disorient or confuse people or just make them just scroll by without stopping to read, because it's not a tall image and the image is ALWAYS your best chance to catch somebody's eye, especially when deliberately going for art commissions.

The first thing I actually read off the sheet was "X no NSFW GORE", which I was initially unclear on the meaning of and had to reread to realize what you meant, but either way is not the first thing you want me to read; it should definitely be on the sheet and very visible, but not positioned to be the first thing someone's eye goes to. It belongs off to the side in a lower corner or just over on the right-hand side. Right now it's too high and too emphasized in comparison to the actual header, which is very much what you WANT people reading first.

There's almost no negative space on the sheet and some of the example art you've included is shrunk down so small that it's REALLY hard to read unless you've seen the larger pieces before, so I think considering doing two or three complementing slides so you can spread out your offerings/pricing and make your examples bigger would really be helpful there. I think it's a really good idea to include multiple pieces as examples, it shows your range and makes it clear what people are gonna be getting for their money; that's definitely the way to go imo. You just also wanna be sure that people can see the details and get the full vibe of your art and the work you put into it. Like, I REALLY love that pic of Match you have down at the bottom, full disclosure I realize we have like never spoken but it is literally my phone background and has been since the day I first saw it ( my lock screen being the complementing Kon pic, natch ), but you can't see any of the cool little details I know are in it with it shrunk down that small. I wanna see his eyes and the detail in his hair and the phone cord wrapped around his throat and the heart freckles, I LOVE those dang heart freckles! And like, those are also interesting little quirks and creative things that will make people think, "oh, I like how that looks, if I commission this person I'll get a cool pose or creative styling or fun details out of it!", so they are definitely the kind of thing you should make sure to show off when you are showing off your work.

I personally tend to go for vertical posts over horizontal ones, given Tumblr is meant to be scrolled and it's more important that people's eyes get caught by something in the scrolling process than that your graphic expands across the screen in the best fit; a lot of people won't even click on the image to expand it anyway. You do want to make sure it'll stay readable if they DO click, of course, so I'd personally recommend stacking two or three horizontally-composed sheets on top of each other to make the POST'S composition vertical. Scrolling down is how people traverse this site; you want to lean into presentations that read well when they're being scrolled down.

The accompanying text below the actual sheet is also not as neatly balanced/formatted as it could be, so it looks less . . . hm, less INTENTIONAL, maybe? Less thought-out than it could be, at least. It makes it harder to read at first glance and doesn't give off a professional vibe. Using bullet points or indents or headers can help with that kind of thing and just make it easier for the eye to follow along and for people to read/focus on what you're saying. ESPECIALLY when you're doing promos/price lists you want to have the most stripped-down and functional version of the text you can manage. You wanna get your point across as clear and succinct as you can and make sure there's negative space around your text so the words can be read quickly and the text itself can breathe, visually-speaking. Negative space is your friend.

Yes I realize talking about the VISUALS of text is a little weird but listen man, you're an artist, you get what I'm saying here. You wanna make the actual first-glance look of your text aesthetically appealing and easy to follow through at the pace and in the order you want it followed. Which like, takes some practice, obviously, but again, I have been here for twenty-five years, haha. Just this is a very visual site and very scroll-oriented, so you wanna do your best to be eye-catching! That's why I frequently post my finished fics with a little accompanying image, just to make sure they stick out to people in the tags.

uhhhhh okay this was a lot, lol, sorry for dumping a ton of info all at once there, but hopefully some of it will be helpful to you! Even if some of it probably sounds weird and way too concerned with curb appeal, haha. Sometimes you just gotta put in some grind and build your momentum, sometimes it's really just that; in the meantime, just try to be approachable and enjoy yourself! If you build it, they will come.

[such-expensive-mistakes]

Superpham AU (part 5)

Masterpost

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This is more of an interlude, but I figured I would get it posted for WIP Wednesday. Enjoy!

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Ellie lost her phone somewhere between San Diego and Vancouver. Normally, that's not a big deal; she loses or breaks a phone every few months, and each time she just gets another of those cheap pay-as-you-go phones to replace it. She has Danny's number memorized, and that's the important one.

Except that Danny hasn't answered his phone for the past week.

For the first few days, she assumed he'd broken it in a ghost fight and Tucker hadn't got around to fixing it yet. But it's day six and Danny still hasn't answered. At first, Ellie planned to go to Amity Park, but before she's halfway there she thinks better of it. Danny's stronger than her, and if something bad happened to him, she wants to be prepared.

So instead, she's invisibly flying around the campus of UPenn, looking for Jazz and kicking herself for not memorizing which dorm the older girl is living in. There are a lot of people, and a surprising amount of them are tall redheads.

Eventually, she spots Jazz leaving one of the lecture halls. There are dark circles under the other girl's eyes, and she seems to be ignoring all the people around her.

Ellie slips around a corner to a spot no one is watching and lands, turning visible. Then she runs to catch up.

"Jazz!" she calls.

Jazz whirls around, eyes wide. "Ellie? What are you doing here?"

Ellie is taken aback at her sharp tone. "Just leaving, I guess."

"No, wait!" Jazz grabs her wrist before Ellie can slip away. And sure, she can always go intangible to escape, but she doesn't need to just yet.

"It's not safe for you here," Jazz says. "Let's go back to my room."

She's quiet as she leads Ellie back to her dorm. They get stopped in the hallway by a few other students, but Jazz extricates herself from the conversation by introducing Ellie as her "little cousin" and saying she's going to show Ellie around.

Finally, they arrive in Jazz's dorm room. It's roughly the size of a closet, and with two beds, two dressers and two desks, there's hardly any room left to stand in. It's easy to tell which side belongs to Jazz; it's the one that's actually organized.

Oh, and the picture of Jazz and Danny taped to the wall are also a dead giveaway.

"My roommate has class til four," Jazz says. "So that gives us some time." She sits on her bed, and Ellie perches on the nearby desk.

"Danny isn't answering his phone," Ellie says.

"Danny is missing."

The fear that Ellie has been trying to ignore sets in.

"Missing, like…" she trails off. Maybe "missing" just means he's dealing with Vlad, or with something in the Ghost Zone.

"Mom and Dad are dead. Their portal was destroyed. Sam and Tucker said it was the GIW. And no one has seen Danny since." Jazz sounds close to tears. "The GIW is still looking for Phantom, so we don't think they have him, but I don't know where he is. Tucker thinks he might have made it through the portal, but we don't have a way to check."

"I can check," Ellie says. "I can use Vlad's portal."

"Are you sure?" Jazz's voice is gentle, like she thinks Ellie might break. And yeah, Ellie hates Vlad and his stupid lab and his stupid house, but anything is better than sitting around and waiting for answers.

"I'm sure."

[the-marshals-wife]

Strangers Like Me (Orm Marius x Reader)

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⋅☆⋅ 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

A/N: I love Orm so, so much, and I've wanted to write for him since my major obsession with the first movie back in 2019. The sequel was everything I could have wanted for his character, and now that he's had the perfect open ending to his cinematic story, I finally let the inspiration run wild. This is the longest fic I've ever posted, and I'm proud to say he was the muse that inspired it.

Description: Orm Marius/Ocean Master x Fem!Reader (human), friends to lovers | Warnings: suggestive themes, steaminess at the end, cataclysmic levels of fluff throughout | Setting: after The Lost Kingdom | Word count: 5.8k

Gif credit: user acecroft

Imagine Orm opening up to you about who he truly is, and wanting to be part of your world

If someone had asked you a few months ago where you liked to be most, you wouldn't have said the boardwalk. Now, it'd become your favorite place in the world. Not for the noisy crowds, overpriced deep-fried foods, or vendors overflowing with cheap beachwear and souvenirs for the tourists. Those things you could have done without. That is, until you met Orm. Ever since that fateful day, everything around you had transformed into something new and exciting. Today was no different.

"I can't believe you've never had a corn dog before," you say.

Orm walks alongside you, well into his second serving. "And I can't believe something this abysmal in appearance can taste so good," he replies before taking another bite.

"Seriously, what have you been eating all this time?" you ask, wiping the mustard from the corner of your mouth with a napkin.

He swallows before answering, "Fish, mostly."

He was completely serious, as usual.

"You really love seafood, don't you?"

"Where I'm from, it's just called food," he counters.

Once again, you found yourself wanting to ask where exactly that place was. The last time you inquired yielded little insight. He gave a vague reply to the tune of "somewhere far away" and quickly changed the subject. For a while, you'd assumed he was originally European or something like that. Yet the more time went on, the more difficult it became to believe in that explanation. There must be a reason he did not want to talk about it, and you knew when he was ready, he would probably tell you. Still, you couldn't help but wonder where he had come from, and why he had not showed up sooner.

"So, what did you think of your first corn dog?" you ask instead.

"It was excellent. And I imagine it will not be my last," he says, tossing the stick into a trashcan as you walk by, "I still don't understand the name though, if it's not made of dog."

"Me either, honestly," you laugh as you toss your trash as well, "I'll have to look it up sometime."

"Speaking of, I listened to the singer you told me about."

"You did? What did you think?!" you exclaim, almost bumping into a passerby in your excitement.

"She is quite good, vocally. But I do think Ms. Parton would have more success exposing her rival publicly," he suggests.

"I know you're not talking about Jolene right now," you burst out laughing, covering your mouth.

"Indeed. This Jolene is a siren. She lures men with her wiles, and then goes unpunished because of her beauty," he explains wholeheartedly, holding his arms behind his back.

"Well that's the point of the song. Dolly is calling her out," you remind, "Plus what about her man? Shouldn't he get some of the blame? Falling for Jolene when he's already in a relationship? I mean come on, he's talking about her in his sleep. That's pretty low."

"Indeed, he misses the treasure that is right in front of him because he too has no honor," he expounds, his expression turning thoughtful, "You're right. Ultimately, they're deserving of each other."

"See! I told you," you chuckle victoriously.

Orm shakes his head, "I could not be tempted by such a woman."

"Oh, I don't know. You heard Dolly. Her beauty is 'beyond compare'."

"That is merely a facade," he dismisses, waving his hand, "Besides, I have seen far more beautiful than her."

You're about to inquire about his remark, but then you realize he's looking over at you. You can only hold his attentive gaze a moment before averting your eyes toward your feet, heart fluttering.

The previous moment still hanging heavy in the air, you walk together quietly for a minute before Orm stops in front of a beachwear vendor.

"Now that is amusing," he declares.

You backup a couple of steps to stand alongside him, "What is?"

He points to a pink tee shirt, the image of a mermaid riding on the back of a smiling dolphin printed on the front. "Dolphins are actually quite aggressive. They do not enjoy having riders on their backs. Sharks are much better mounts."

You stare at him, brow furrowed. "And how do you know that exactly?"

"I, uh, saw it on a television program," he stutters, "about taming sea life."

That was a lie if you'd ever heard one, and a strange one no less.

"Uh-huh," you reply unconvinced, walking away.

In silence, you resume your short walk to the end of the dock, Orm trailing close behind you. Once you reach the end, you lean over and rest your arms on the weathered wood railing, and he stands beside you. A few moments pass as you watch the waves crash upon the shore below and breathe in the salt air. It's not long before you feel his gaze on you once again.

He finally speaks, hesitation thick in his voice, "Something...on your mind?"

You smirk to yourself before looking over at him, "I'm just trying to figure you out."

"What do you mean?" he asks, concern visible in his bright eyes.

"I've never met anyone like you before. So much of what you say is a mystery," you remark.

"That is a fair point," he concedes, "I don't wish to vex you. There's just...so much that I don't know how to say."

You stand up straighter, smiling at him softly.

"I didn't mean it as a bad thing. Everyone has parts of themselves that they hide. Parts they don't want anyone else to see. There's nothing wrong with that," you reply, turning towards the ocean, "You don't like talking about your past, and I respect that. I just don't want you to think you have to hide. It's awful feeling like you don't belong, just for being yourself. I wouldn't want that for you."

"That is kind of you to say. Truly." He mirrors your posture on the railing, moving closer to you as a result. "You don't make me want to hide, Y/N. Quite the opposite, actually. I've learned so many things from you these past few weeks, and I have greatly enjoyed your company."

You look back to him, your heart skipping, "So have I."

His gaze softens. "I've also never met anyone like you before. You find joy and purpose in even the smallest of things. It inspires me how gracefully you view the world. And I've known no one whom I've wanted to share it with more."

Everything else around you melted away as you find yourself becoming just as lost in his eyes as you've been in his words.

Before either of you can move an inch closer, the chime of your cellphone cuts through the thick air between you.

Cursing inwardly, you shoot upright, embarrassed, and retrieve it from your pocket. It's an all-caps text from your sister with many exclamation marks, quickly followed by another. The sister you just now realized you forgot needed picked up.

"Oh no. I have to go," you say, frenzied, "My sister's waiting for me. I have to drive her home from her class, I completely forgot!"

"I understand," he nods, touching your arm assuringly, "Do you want me to accompany you back to the lot?"

"I really appreciate it, but I literally have to run. I'm so sorry, Orm," you say, turning to leave.

You make it only a few steps before you hear him call out.

"Y/N!"

Despite the urgency of your escape, you can't help but turn on your heel expectantly.

"Would you meet me tomorrow? Down on the beach, beneath the pier around sunset?"

A grin spreads across your face. "I'll be there!"

♆

It took everything in you not to grin like an idiot the entire drive to pick up your less-than-amused sister. You weren't ready for the brutal interrogation that would surely come if she saw the look you knew was on your face. After apologizing to her profusely and letting her chew you out, as was her sisterly right, her suspicions were already raised.

"You've never looked this happy for me to yell at you," she said, glaring at you.

"I'm just really enjoying my book! I started the sequel I told you about," you defended, flashing a smile even you knew was pretty fake.

"Enough to forget all about me," she rolled her eyes and punched your arm, "You're not telling me something, I know it."

"I'm dying to know if she's really the lost heir to the throne, I heard the reveal is like halfway through," you add, ignoring her last words.

"Mhm," she grumbled, "Fine don't tell me. I'll figure it out, just wait. You can't hide from me."

"The only thing I need to hide from you is my chocolate bars," you argue in a desperate attempt to throw her off the subject.

"I'll find those too," she snickered confidently.

You laughed it off and went back to biting down hard on your lip. It was the only thing you could do not to spill everything to her as she continued to give you the side-eye. Your body was at the steering wheel, but your mind, and your heart, were back on that boardwalk. The final glare she gave you in her driveway was unmissable, but for now, you'd evaded being found out as you made a getaway back to your own apartment.

That night you'd hardly slept, the moment at the end of the dock replaying in your mind over and over well into the morning. Work only made it worse, the monotony making the perfect backdrop to picture what the coming evening would bring. When your shift ended, you couldn't get out of there fast enough to go home and change.

Now, with sunset fast approaching, you were circling the parking lot trying to find a space, and close to bribing someone to move, when a spot finally opened up.

"Someone loves me," you exhale, hurriedly locking your car as you throw your bag over your shoulder.

The words linger in your thoughts. You can't help but blush at the notion, given your current destination, and who was waiting there.

In some ways it seemed like a lifetime since you met Orm, and in others it felt like only yesterday. The memory of that fateful day comes to the front of your thoughts as you start the long trek to the path that cuts through the dunes.

Unlike your fib from last night, you'd actually been desperate to finish the book your coworker had been pestering you about all summer. With only four chapters left, you'd escaped to the boardwalk one sunny Tuesday afternoon, hoping to find a bench, a fresh lemonade, and far less crowds than the weekend so that you could finally finish in peace.

Just as you'd sucked up the last drop of your drink and reached the last handful of pages, you noticed something out of the corner of your eye. On a bench across the way from you, you saw a man trying to untangle the most knotted pair of earbuds you'd ever seen in your life. You watched him from behind the top of your book, and suppressed a giggle as he became more animated in frustration. He ran a hand through his blond hair and seemed near to giving up on the whole endeavor. Unable to watch him struggle any longer, you tucked your book beneath your arm, tossed your empty cup in the trash, and started to walk over.

"He did this on purpose," he muttered as you approached.

"I can take a crack at them, if you'd like."

In his fierce concentration, he hadn't noticed you approach. He jumped a bit at your greeting, and squinted up at you, confused.

"Hi. Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Would you like some help with those?" you smiled hesitantly, "I just, I couldn't help but notice you were having a hard time with them."

"Well, you are welcome to try," he invited with a sigh, extending them to you, "Although I have seen seaweed less entangled than this."

You took them and sat down beside him, analyzing the knots.

"Earbuds are pretty notorious for getting tangled," you began, pausing to focus a moment, "These, however, look like a sailor used them to practice tying his knots."

"Courtesy of my brother," he said with no small amount of exasperation, "He delights in making things difficult for me."

"As brothers are wont to do."

"Indeed," he conceded.

Untying your own numerous pairs of earbuds over the years had more than prepared you for this moment. You'd made quick work of separating the right and left buds, down to the last few kinks in each.

"You're quite skilled at this," he observed.

"I should probably put it on my resume, huh?" you chuckled as you conquered the final knot.

"I think you might consider it," he laughed as well.

At last, all the tangles were gone.

"There you go," you declared, handing them back, "Good as new."

"Impressive," he remarked, marveling at your handiwork before looking back at you, "Thank you for your assistance."

"You're welcome," you smiled and pointed to the iPod in his lap, "What do you like to listen to, if you don't mind me asking?"

He hesitated, picking it up, "I'm...not actually sure how this device works. Are you familiar with the technology?"

"An iPod?" you laugh, "Yeah, I had one in high school. It's been a while and it wasn't this exact model, but they're all pretty much the same. MP3 players, that is. I had so many songs on mine, I couldn't add any more. Never went anywhere without it. I had to tape it together in senior year because I used it so much."

"Perhaps you could show me how to properly operate it?" he posed, turning towards you more, "My brother sent it to me. He said it contains music inside that I must hear, but I'm at a loss on knowing how to make it play."

You gazed at him bewildered a moment, caught off guard. Never had you met anyone who didn't know how to work an iPod before. But then again, you reminded yourself, not everyone had a chance to own one.

"Sure," you grinned, "I can show you. There's not too much to it, really, once you know the basics."

"Thank you," he replied sincerely, "It's not often that I've met a lady with such kindness, and lightness of fingers."

Heat immediately rushed to your cheeks at his gracious works, and suddenly it was difficult to hold the gaze of his rich blue eyes.

"It's no problem at all," you replied, offering your hand, "I'm Y/N, by the way. Nice to meet you."

"I'm Orm Marius, and the pleasure is mine."

Before you could blink, he'd taken your hand, and instead of shaking it, he kissed your knuckles. If he had lingered, perhaps it would have alarmed you. But he did it so quickly, it was like it was second-nature to him. Practiced or not, your head spun nonetheless, and launching into an urgent, flustered spiel about how to power on the iPod was all you could do to keep yourself held together.

You spent the next half an hour showing him everything from the buttons to the way to change the background image on the menus. Before long, you were talking about all of your favorite songs and artists, simultaneously making lists for each that he would have to listen to. Orm listened eagerly to your recommendations, and soon the conversation turned to any and every subject, from foods to places to dreams. You still remember the feeling of the rest of the world fading away as you talked to him, afternoon turning to evening. And the thrill you felt when he asked if he could see you again.

In the almost four months since, every meeting followed much in the same manner as that first day, with introducing Orm to the many things he'd never experienced before, and hours of conversation on the pier or walking along the beach. You'd stolen away to this area as many times as possible to see him, well over a dozen now. Of course your sister was more suspicious than ever after yesterday, but you still weren't ready to reveal where you'd been spending so many evenings, and who you'd spent them with. There was something exhilarating about you and Orm meeting secretly, and you wanted that feeling to last as long as possible.

He had such wonder about the world, like someone who'd not been in it very long. It was one of his oddest qualities, but his curiosity was endearing to you. Despite knowing so little about his past, you'd come to trust him like few others in your life. Whoever he'd been before, and wherever he was from, it seemed he had no intention on going back. If you were honest with yourself, you didn't want him to. There were so many places you wanted to take him further inland, yet he was still hesitant to go far from from the ocean. You'd never gone beyond a couple of blocks from the boardwalk together, but tonight, with the energy of yesterday's encounter fresh in your mind, you'd planned to breech the topic with him.

Now, the sun is sinking lower in the pale orange sky and your pulse quickens with the threat of being late. With all your reminiscing and daydreaming, you'd lost track of the time. You nearly run across the wooden walkway over the dunes and down the broad stairs. As soon as your feet hit the sand, you remove your sandals. Grasping them in one hand and the strap of your bookbag in the other, you take off into the best sprint you can manage. The pier is still a good distance up the beach, and you want to curse out whoever built the access so far away. You run at an angle towards the water, the wetter ground giving you better traction than the loose sand.

Just within the shadow of the great structure, you finally see Orm up ahead, his back turned. Out of breath, you slow your pace and try to catch some of it back before you reach him. Once he's within ear shot you call out to him.

"I'm sorry I left in such a hurry yesterday," you pant.

He spins on his heel. Relief is written all over his face.

"You came. I was afraid you might not," he sighs, walking up to meet you.

"Of course," you exhale, dropping your shoes and brushing away the hair clinging to your forehead, "Why wouldn't I?"

His expression indicates he had not thought of an answer to that question.

"I don't know," he hesitates, "I didn't mean anything by that. I mean, I wouldn't have blamed you if you hadn't. I did ask you at the last minute."

You can't help but chuckle as he stumbles regretfully all over his words.

"I brought you something," you declare to change the subject, much to his gratitude.

"A gift? For me?"

You can tell by his tone that he is actually baffled. Reaching into your satchel, you retrieve the item. In your outstretched palm, you hold a small snow globe, a miniature skyline of New York City contained inside.

His confused expression leads you to elaborate. "It's called a snow globe," you say, turning it upside down so that the little flakes inside swirl around, "You told me once that you never get to see snow where you're from. Now you can see it whenever you want."

He tentatively takes it, entranced by the miniature flurry.

"That's where I'm from. Well, I grew up there. We moved here when I was sixteen," you add, chuckling, "It's a little bit nicer in person."

Orm looks up at you, visibly touched by the gesture, "It's wonderful. Thank you."

"You're welcome," you smile, "I, hope that I can show you the real thing some day."

"I would like that," he replies with the smallest hint of sadness, pausing to behold it again, "I will treasure this always."

You'd never met anyone who talked like he did. Everything word he spoke was with full conviction. Others might sound pompous or conceited speaking the way he does, but when he said something, you believed he truly meant it.

"I'm glad you like it," you say, tucking your hair behind your ear.

"I do, very much," he says, frowning a bit, "I'm only sorry that I have nothing to give you in return."

"That's alright," you dismiss.

"Will you keep it safe for me while we are by the water? I regret that I have no pockets large enough to carry it."

"Absolutely," you say, putting it securely back inside your bag, "I know that feeling all too well."

When you finish with the zipper and lift your head up, you see Orm offering his arm to you. Surprised, and twice as excited, you take it.

As you cross beneath the pier and set off down the beach together, you suppress the urge to glance up at him. You agonize over what to say next, hoping he would speak first. When he did, it only made your heart beat faster.

"Actually, when I said I had nothing to give you, that was not entirely true," he said, clearing his throat before going on, "As much as I enjoy your educating me in foods and traditions I've never tried, I was hoping this evening we might enjoy a treat of a different kind."

Just up ahead, something on the shore comes into view. Your mind races in anticipation, and moments later, you come upon a blue blanket spread out neatly across the sand. A single white rose lies in the middle.

"Oh Orm," you breathe.

"It's not much, but I thought you would like to watch the sunset with at least some level of comfort," he says, a veil of nervousness in his voice.

"It's perfect," you exclaim.

He releases your arm and picks up the rose, presenting it to you.

"For you."

You feel nearly breathless once more as you take the flower and inhale its sweet fragrance.

"It's beautiful," you sigh, "Thank you."

He smiles timidly at your approval. "Shall we?"

"This is amazing," you say, removing your bag and carefully sitting down on the soft blanket.

He follows suit, and you gently place the rose in your lap as he comes to rest close beside you. The glow of the setting sun warms your skin, but it's nothing compared to the warmth in your chest.

You'd never seen him act like this before. He was normally so calm and collected, but now he was almost pure nerves. You work up the courage to glance over at him. He's staring hard ahead, clenching his jaw and rolling a seashell between his fingers. It's slowly becoming clear that you're not the only one who wanted to say something this evening. Normally, you found the rolling of the waves to be one of most soothing sounds in the world. But at this moment, they were far too loud.

You decide you have to break the excruciating silence.

"I've only watched a true beach sunset alone before."

Your voice brings him out from his trance. "I've also been by myself. I'm glad I have someone to share the splendor with."

"Me too."

He smiles weakly, and fixes his stare back on the horizon.

To your disappointment, the silence returns. Before long, everything is bathed in golden light. The sky transforms into rich oranges and reds before your eyes. The beach is surprisingly deserted apart from the seagulls and sand pipers, making it seem all the more that this moment was tailor-made just for the two of you.

Just when you're about to speak again, Orm at last turns towards you.

"I wish I could show you my world, Y/N. It is a realm of beauty, and strength, and light. You belong in such a place."

You feel your cheeks flush as he continues.

"Where I'm from, you can't see the stars at night. But there is a place with magnificent, glowing lights. A cave, filled with luminescence of every color you can imagine. You would absolutely love it."

"That sounds magical." You hang on his every word as you try to picture it.

"My mother used to take me there when I was a boy. I remember my whole hand disappearing inside hers." He smiled at the memory, but it faded as he spoke once more, "We used to go there seeking solace from my father."

Frowning, he throws the seashell towards the water. The sun begins to dissolve into the ocean, but neither of you take notice.

"Did you not get along?" you ask, hoping it was not too personal to do so.

His gaze falls downward again. "That's one way of putting it. Growing up in his shadow was- challenging. He was severe about many things, and against all of the rest. He expected me to become just like him. Demanded it, more like. Yet he was never up to the task of teaching me how. I wanted nothing more than to please him, but as I look back on it now, I'm not sure that I ever did. I was never worthy enough to be his son."

His words make your chest ache. You reach to gently touch his hand on the blanket.

"You are not an unworthy son," you assert, your feelings coming to the surface, "He was an unworthy father. I don't need to have met him to know that. Because I know you, and you are a good man. The most thoughtful, polite, decent man I've ever met."

He stares at you, emotion all over his face. A wistful look shines in his eyes.

"If only I had known you then," he reflects, "Perhaps I would not have gotten so lost in the tides of his storm."

"I wish I had known you too," you agree, more shyly than you'd expected, "But wouldn't have needed me. You already survived it, all on your own. You're stronger than he ever was."

His expression steels.

"Y/N, there is something I must tell you," he says, his tone turning grave, "It will not be easy for you to hear it, but I can't go on without you knowing what I am. I cannot hide it any longer. You deserve to know the truth."

Your heart starts to race quicker than your thoughts at his startling declaration. "What do you mean?"

Without warning, he casts off his jacket and stands up.

"Orm, what are you talking about?"

"Perhaps, it would be better if I showed you," he says, reaching out his hand to you, "I want you to understand. No more secrets."

For just a moment, you look up into his pleading eyes. Then, as if it had even been a choice, you carefully set the rose aside and take his hand. He helps you to your feet and leads you down past the water's edge. The cool water on your feet sends a shiver up your spine. The foam is lapping at your ankles when he stops just in front of you.

"You see that marker?" he points ahead.

The breeze whips your hair into your sight as you fight to push it away. You have to squint to see the outline of the buoy, the red light on top twinkling faintly in the twilight.

"Yes," you hesitate.

"Keep your eye on it," he directs calmly.

With that one instruction, he retreats further into the water, stopping until it is well above his waist. You cross your arms against the chill of sea spray and wait worriedly. He looks up and down the beach, as if to make sure no one is watching. You are still alone. Before you can call out to him, he dives headlong into the waves.

What follows you can only describe as a thunder beneath the water. It looks as if a missile has been launched from where Orm stood, careening toward the marker. Mere seconds later, a blast like a whale spout shoots above the horizon, and the buoy rocks violently as it is landed upon by the figure that flew up out of the sea.

A gasp escapes from your agape mouth as you witness the silhouette wave at you, and proceed to dive back into the blue.

Three pounding heartbeats later, Orm immerges from the surf and walks toward you, slicking back his dripping hair. His tee shirt clings to his muscular form, and his soaked jeans don't seem to encumber him at all. You're frozen in the sand, staring at him with only one word on your parted lips.

"How..."

"There's no simple way to say it, but you must know. I am from the Kingdom of Atlantis," he confesses, struggling to hold your stare, "I am Prince Orm Marius, son of Queen Atlanna. Although I was once ruler, I made many mistakes during my time on the throne for which I was banished. My penance is served by my exile here on the surface. I deserve my fate, and I gladly uphold it, but it is not something I wanted to keep from you any longer. I'm sorry that I was not honest with you sooner, but I didn't think that I could trust any surface-dweller with my secret. I was...proven wrong."

"You're a real Atlantean?" you manage to get out.

"I am," he nods, apprehension still in his voice, "I was raised to hate the surface and its inhabitants, but much has changed. You, Y/N, have had no small part in that."

Despite your reeling head, it's slowly becoming clear what Orm is saying by this grand unveiling of his true identity. As you struggle to process it, however, your silence compels him to go on.

"If all of this is too much, I understand. It is my burden to bear, and you did not ask to be part of it."

"I-It's not that," you stammer as the shock starts to wear off. You step closer to him. "Not at all. It's just a lot to take in. I need a minute, that's all. I promise."

Hope lights up his eyes.

"Absolutely," he agrees eagerly, "I apologize, I know this reveal was sudden. Please ask any questions that you have. I will withhold nothing from you."

As you finally begin look at him instead of through him, only one question lodged in your throat.

"Why?" you ask through threatening tears, "Why did you tell me all this?"

You knew why, because it was the same reason you wanted to tell him all of your own secrets. The same reason you came back to this beach over and over. The same reason your heart skipped every time you saw his handsome face, and heard him speak your name. You just wanted to hear him say it. For any of this to work, you needed to hear it.

His anxious gaze softens as he weighs his answer.

"I meant every word of what I told you yesterday. When I'm with you, I see a future that I never thought I would deserve. You make me feel like I can be more than I've ever been. And for the first time in my life, I have felt true happiness," he says, finding the words along with his conviction, "I never thought I would belong anywhere but Atlantis, but now, I want to know more about this world and its many gifts. And most of all, I want you to be by my side to show it to me."

"I want that too," you respond, tears threatening.

He gently takes your hand in his. "Even after all that I've done, part of me hoped that I might find some kind of redemption here on the surface. I wasn't sure how, and then I met you," he says tearfully, searching your eyes, "Y/N, you gave me that hope. Your goodness, your charity, your beauty. This realm has much to offer, more than I ever dreamed, but you are what I love most about the surface. From that very first day we spoke, I knew that you were what I was meant to find here."

Your vision blurs as he reaches to gently stroke your cheek.

"All of that to say...I've fallen in love with you, Y/N."

A sob escapes your throat as you look into his eyes and see it.

"I fell for you too. From the first day," you nod, finding your own confidence, "Being Atlantean doesn't change that. I don't care about who you've been or what you've done. I want to be with you. I love you too, Orm."

His composure crumbles along with yours as you embrace. The distance between you vanishes as your lips meet in a desperate kiss. You rest your hands on his chest and melt into his touch. He sighs and deepens the kiss, pulling you close against him. You feel the coolness of this still-dripping clothes soak through to your skin as you become lost in the taste of salt and longing. When you're forced to come up for air, you're both beaming.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," he smiles, caressing your face.

"Me too," you giggle, lacing your arms around his neck, "What did you think of your first surface-dweller kiss?"

"Not too bad. I think I'll have to try it again before I decide if I really like it," he smirks.

"Well, if you get me out of this frigid water, I'll see what I can do about that," you tease back.

"Now that I can do," he announces.

You shriek in surprise as he swiftly lifts you from the water and into his arms as if you weighed nothing at all. He chuckles in amusement and carries you bridal style back toward the shore.

"Orm!" you protest, in an obviously half-hearted fashion.

"I have to admit, concealing my Atlantean strength has been considerably more difficult than I anticipated," he reveals, wincing a bit, "I intended to bring a bottle of wine tonight as well, but- the glass here is far weaker than what I'm accustomed to."

You laugh. "Well, it's the thought that counts."

"I'm glad you think so. Because I thought since I'm responsible for us missing the best part of the sunset, that perhaps we could lie under the stars instead?" he suggests, setting you down gently on your feet upon the blanket.

"I would love to," you say, looking up at him, "But aren't you freezing in those clothes?"

"I'm used to it," he shrugs, "I don't think I feel the cold the same as you."

"In that case," you say, pulling him closer into a tender kiss, "What do you think about that?"

He grins.

"It was perfect, and I'm certain it will not be my last."

You no longer feel the chill as you cling to him, and he rests his forehead to yours. It didn't matter where the tides of life would take you next. As long as Orm was there to hold you in the waves, you would always be in your favorite place.

[prettycalla]

|| another's treasure ||

Pairing: Michael/Reader

Summary: You used to play piano as a child. Michael finds a very specific gift for you.

Word count: 1869

Tags and warnings: Mostly fluff, established relationship, Michael is a bit odd but he means well, no use of Y/N.

(I dropped this hyper-specific little idea into the server I'm in, and after some encouragement, here it is! It's kind of a spin on something that happened to me as a kid and I managed to crack it out in a day. Hopefully it's okay! Also I still have a load of Emperors fics in progress!)

Masterlist

“Do you play any instruments?” you ask.

It’s a Saturday night, and the two of you are sitting in front of the TV, watching a music documentary. Michael’s long since given up on sitting up straight, now slumped into the cushions with his hands resting on his stomach and his legs spread out. You sit next to him, your legs resting on his thigh.

“Not unless you count Three Blind Mice on the recorder,” he says with a laugh. “What about you?”

“I used to play piano,” you tell him.

He turns his attention to you then. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. My neighbour used to give me lessons when I was a kid. She was a lovely older lady, always so kind to me," you say, a little smile on your face as the memory comes back to you. "She had the most beautiful old piano in her living room. I was always so afraid to touch it. Then we moved, so…”

You trail off awkwardly, a little pang in your heart. It had been so long since you'd last thought about it.

Michael places his hand on your leg, gently bringing you back to the present.

“D’you miss it?” he asks.

“Sometimes, yeah,” you reply. “I wasn’t very good, mind. But I enjoyed it.”

“Maybe we could pick one up cheap somewhere?” he suggests. “Not a proper piano, but like, a keyboard or something."

He points to the corner of the living room near the TV.

“You’ve been saying that bit of the room's too empty," he says. "Could put it there.”

You look at him, lip trembling slightly as you smile. You know neither of you have the money for something so frivolous right now, but it's the thought that has you feeling overwhelmed.

“What?” he asks, completely oblivious.

You shake your head. “Nothing. It’s, um…Yeah, sounds nice.”

A few weeks pass. Neither of you had said any more about it, and eventually you'd forgotten that you'd even mentioned it.

You're alone in the living room one night. Michael had gone out a few hours ago, saying he was going to "see a man about a dog". You never liked when he said that, because it meant he was up to something, and he wasn't going to tell you what it was.

You hear him before you see him. An awful scraping sound, followed by a lot of muffled cursing and shuffling. You assume it’s one of your neighbours on the landing outside and think no more of it.

Besides, you have more pressing matters at hand. The tape of your favourite cassette has been coming loose lately and you’ve been spending the better part of a half hour trying to carefully wind it all back in with a pencil.

Then comes an ungodly bang from outside your door and the tape flies out of your hand.

“Who the hell-“ you start to say, when you hear the letterbox open.

"Babe? You there?" Michael calls down the hallway.

"Yes!" you shout back.

“Can you get the door for me?” he asks.

You look down at the ruined cassette in your lap. You could kill him.

“It’s on the snib!” you answer, picking up the pencil again.

You can’t remember if it is, but you want him to suffer just a little for messing up your hard work.

“It’s not, it’s locked,” he replies. “I don’t think I have my key. Please open the door, I have a surprise for you.”

You hesitate. Knowing Michael, this will either be very good or truly awful. There’s never any in-between. His heart’s always in the right place, though.

With a sigh, you set the tape aside and make your way to the front door. Michael’s hand is still holding the letterbox open, his brown eyes looking up at you.

“Cheers, darlin’,” he calls. “Now listen, I need you to hold the door open for me, but don’t look, alright?”

“What have you dragged home now?” you ask as you reach for the lock.

He steps back, the letterbox clanging shut.

“I mean it, no looking," he insists through the door. "Eyes shut. Promise me.”

“Alright, alright, I promise," you say impatiently.

You turn the lock, pulling the heavy door back as far as it’ll go. Despite your better judgment, you do as he asked, holding the door open with your eyes closed.

Whatever it is, it’s big. Michael’s clearly struggling with it as he pushes it across the hall.

“D’you need a hand?” you ask.

“No!” he answers too quickly, his voice strained. “Just stay where you are. I’ll tell you when to move.”

A few more minutes of grunting and cursing and “Oh, come on, you stupid-" pass before the flat finally falls silent again. You hear Michael’s footsteps drawing closer to you.

“How long are you gonna make me stand here like this?” you ask with a nervous laugh.

Michael pulls the door gently from your grasp, shutting it before turning his attention back to you. He takes your hands in his.

“Not long, promise. Follow me,” he says, gently guiding you along with him.

“Can I open my eyes?” you ask, fearful of tripping over something.

“Not yet,” he replies. “Easy, watch yourself. You’re almost there…”

You couldn’t swing a cat in the hallway for all the size of it, and yet now it feels as though it goes on forever. Suddenly, Michael stops, and you bump into him. He lets go of your hands, his footsteps receding.

“Okay, you can open your eyes now," he says.

You squint slightly, your eyes adjusting to the light as you open them. Michael’s standing across the room, face flushed and hair a mess. His jeans are covered in dirt marks, his coat left in a heap on the floor.

“Well? What’d you think?” he asks expectantly with a smile.

You turn your attention to the large thing sitting next to him. Your eyes widen.

“Michael…” is all you can manage.

It's a piano.

You cross the room to take a better look at it, awestruck. It's an upright piano, the most beautiful colour of mahogany. The wood is cracked and damaged in some places, but not so much to take away from its charm. You lift the heavy lid. The keys are yellowed with age and a little dusty in places, and they're all still intact.

You press one of them down. Nothing happens.

You try another one. Nothing.

With a frown, you take a step back to look at it properly. Near the bottom are two large pedals, upholstered with red carpet that's worn and fraying in areas.

Then you realise. It's a reed organ.

“Where did you get this?” you ask, fingers sliding reverently across the keys.

How much did this cost? is what you want to ask.

“Found it,” is all Michael says.

You look at him, your expression full of doubt.

“You found this?” you ask. “Michael, it’s an organ. Who would just throw this away?”

He shrugs. “Chapel was doing a clear-out of some old stuff. I saw it while I was doing my rounds a couple days ago," he explains, "Bellows are busted on it, apparently, but it’s fine other than that. There was no way it was fitting in the lorry, so I asked them if they could hold onto it for me until I could go 'round and get it myself.”

Then it dawns on you.

“You dragged this the whole way from the chapel?” you ask. “Are you mental? That’s three streets over!”

He laughs, brushing his messy hair from his forehead with his hand. “Tell me about it. It was hardly gonna fit in a cab now, was it?”

He moves closer to you, his fingers lightly brushing yours where they still lay on the keys.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he murmurs, glancing at you.

You look up at him.

“What d'you think?” he asks again, worry evident in his expression.

You look back at the worn old thing sitting in front of you that’s clearly seen better days.

“I know it’s not the best, but we can clean it up, get it working again," he says, as if he's trying to convince you. "I was gonna go down to the library tomorrow and see if I can get some books to help with fixing it.”

Michael’s hand rests over yours. You haven't moved, haven't spoken.

“Say something, darlin’, please,” he murmurs nervously. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

You shake your head. It's only then that you realise you've been crying.

“No…It’s…It’s perfect,” you manage to say in a choked whisper.

You turn your attention back to him. He still looks worried, dark eyes watching you carefully. You don't trust yourself to speak, instead throwing your arms around him and pulling him close. He almost loses his balance in the process and he laughs.

“Oi, give me some warning next time, will you?” he scolds, but his tone is affectionate as he wraps his arms around you tightly.

It takes a while before you're able to calm yourself, but Michael stays with you, gently running his hand up and down your back. Eventually, the wave of emotion settles and you pull back, your hands still gripping at the shoulders of his shirt.

"Probably should've given you a heads-up, ey?" he asks light-heartedly. "Didn't realise you'd go all wobbly on me."

You lightly slap at him, giving him a mock-frown in response.

"Wait here," he says suddenly as he rushes out of the room.

He returns with a dining chair, setting it in front of the organ. He gestures to you to sit.

"You said it was broken," you say as you sit. "And it's not gonna play like a piano."

"Yeah, but give it a go," he replies. "Let's see what the damage is."

You raise your eyebrows at him. "You'd better not mean my playing."

He folds his arms, waiting for you to start. You turn back to the keys, trying to remember where middle C is. You place your foot on one of the pedals, pressing down on both it and the key at the same time.

The organ lets out an awful sound like a ship's horn, startling you both. You sit there, frozen for a moment. Michael snorts, and you can't help yourself, you burst out laughing.

"I think it might be beyond help," you tell him with a smile, gently closing the lid over the keys again.

"Nah, you leave it to me," he replies.

He places his hands on your shoulders, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

"Nothing that can't be sorted, yeah?" he murmurs close to your ear.

You reach up, bringing your hand to the back of his neck.

"Yeah," you reply fondly.

Whether or not it can be fixed, or if it just ends up as an interesting piece of furniture, it doesn't matter to you, not right now. Michael may have a different worldview from you at times, and you might not always see eye to eye on everything, but knowing that he went to so much trouble over something so small means so much to you, and that's what really matters.

(banners by @ cafekitsune)

[crappymixtape]

soft sweet sounds

EDIT -> there’s a part II cos 🫠 — okay, well apparently you get this from horny!me at 7:30am on a monday ( idk what my problem is 😵‍💫 ) – roommate!steve comes home from work to hear you in your room upset and he just can't help himself from offering you a shoulder to cry on | ( 958 words – roommates -> something?, tiny fluff, tiny smut, steve x you )

S O F T S W E E T S O U N D S 🎶 touch tank, quinnie

It had seemed silly to Steve at first, living with you. Living with his best friend, but it was cheap and made paying the bills easier because god knew Family Video wasn’t making him rich anytime soon. And you’d figured out a routine, shared your work schedules, told each other when you’d be out late or staying over with your boyfriend — or Steve with someone else. Cooked dinner together and watched movies until 1am and no pressure. Ever.

Until now.

He’d just come home from his shift at Family Video and could hear soft crying coming from behind your door. His stomach twisted with worry as he sat his keys on the counter, wondering what happened, wondering what your asshole boyfriend did this time.

Steve hated him. Your boyfriend. He was a complete douchebag and if it wasn’t him forgetting to pick you up at work it was making plans and flaking out an hour before, so you’d have to excuse Steve for assuming your crying was his fault.

Walking down the hallway Steve pressed a his palm to you door, the other resting on the handle.

“Hey,” he called out, gentle, sympathetic, “Everything okay?” And as he slowly pushed it open, he swore what he saw was going to kill him right there on the spot.

Your cries weren’t cries at all, not even close to sad or upset as his brain worked overtime to process what he’d walked in on.

You.

Laid out all pretty on your bed.

Panties hooked around your knees and your shirt rucked up your stomach. Hand pressed between your thighs as your fingers drew tight, messy circles over your clit. A pinch between your brows with how good it was making you feel, so good you didn’t hear the door at first, but then you did hear Steve.

Heard him asking if you were okay.

Heard him coming into your room without knocking and it was all just a second too late.

“Oh shit–Jesus Christ–oh my god–I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, fuck-“

“Steve??” you gasped, yanking your sheets over your body in a failed attempt to hide as he practically tripped over his own feet and back out into the hallway.

“Fuck. Shit,” he pressed his back into the wall, chest heaving and heart hammering heavy against his ribcage, unable to breathe. What was he thinking??

A huge invasion of privacy. A fucking rookie move. ‘Doesn’t anyone knock anymore??’ he hears a voice mock in his head. There’s no way you’d trust him after that.

Burying his face in his hands he groaned, you idiot! Waited for you to yell at him to get out, to take his things and find somewhere else to live, but then your door slowly opened again revealing a sliver of your face. Cheeks flushed and pink, a lighter tinge than the deep red that had settled on his.

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a minute as he let out a heavy sigh. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I just heard crying and–but obviously you weren’t crying—I just thought something bad happened and–and I know how he can get sometimes, so I thought you were upset and maybe I’d try and cheer you up, but I didn’t know you were in there doing that and–“

“Steve,” you said softly, cheeks still pink. Still warm from teasing yourself. Still warm from Steve, “It’s okay.”

He opened his eyes slowly and looked at you through the crack in the door. Your curls perfectly messed. Framing your face. The soft curve of your lips, the long sweep of your lashes, the half smile you were giving him and he exhaled. A small sigh of relief.

“I’m really sorry,” he said again, features still pulled down with concern as he roughed his hands through his hair, still stressed and worried about what you’d think of him now.

“It’s okay, it was really sweet of you to worry about me,” you reassured him, opening the door a little more. Enough for him to see you’d put on a pair of pajama shorts, you shirt half tucked into the waistband in haste.

“Sure, course,” he murmured, the lines of worry on his face melting at the sound of your voice.

“I broke up with him,” you confessed, chewing at your bottom lip. The sting of having an ex now instead of a boyfriend still fresh, but the lack of weight on your shoulders told you you’d made the right decision.

“Oh,” fell from his lips softly, sorry again, his mouth pulling down into a half frown again.

“I know,” a small sigh pushed itself from your lungs as you leaned against the door frame, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Anything I can do?” Steve asked, and he meant it. He’d give you the world and all the stars and galaxies. Give you whatever you asked for. Anything.

“Uhm,” you murmured, a little shy, but feeling bolder as Steve took a step toward you. His hair falling messy across his forehead, big brown eyes edged with long lashes. Your best friend. Your roommate. Your Steve. His lips parted ever so slightly, hanging on your silence. Waiting.

Anticipating.

“Could you help me?” you asked, swallowing down the nerves in your throat as your hand reached out to tangle your fingers up with his.

“H–help you?” Steve’s voice sounded strangled, like he couldn’t quite understand what you were asking of him, and so you decided to show him instead.

“Yeah, please?” and you lifted the hand that was wrapped up in his and pressed his palm against the plush of your waist. Pulled him back into your room. Tugged him down into you and kicked the door shut behind you and asked him to help you forget about things for just a little while.

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[dearharriet]

hello! Congratulations on reaching 150 followers milestone! Really deserved, girly!

Can I get a🍸with Remus Lupin + Lovers Rock? Thank you so much!

hi!! i’m so sorry this took me so long my love, i’ve had the busiest weekend 😭 thank you sm for the request, i hope you like it! <3 (wc: 859) (cw: implied/attempted use of a roofie/date-rape drug)

If you were less drunk, you’d be abashed about flirting so openly in front of Remus, but you’re not. He’s watching you lean into the man’s advances from the bar booth you’re both sitting in, a mean look brewing behind his eyes. You’re praying to god it’s jealousy. At least then he’d feel something for you.

“Real pretty get-up you’ve got on, babe,” the guy is saying, and you’re just sober enough to know he’s staring at your chest as he says it.

“Looks even better on the floor,” you tell him. It’s a cheap response, but he perks up anyway. Remus spins his beer on the sticky booth table, sighing irritably.

The stranger has a silky smooth voice, one that seems to smooth over other, less admirable traits in your mind. He says, “I can make that happen,” and you hear a promise, not a boast. You also don’t notice in his towering over you that he’s tampering with your drink.

Remus isn’t nearly as entranced. He’s on his feet in a second, whipping the man away from you by the collar of his button-up shirt.

“Hey—?”

Cutting him off with a vicious shove, Remus bites, “fuck off out of here. I know what you want.”

You stand then on wobbly legs, approaching the growing scene. Remus was clearly jealous, but you never assumed he was the violent type. He looks ready to crack teeth at this point, and the man still hasn’t left.

“Remus, what—?”

He turns to you with wild eyes, holding up a hand to keep you at bay.

“You stay there,” he says, and the anger he held for the man has ebbed away. He points to your cocktail on the table. “Don’t drink that, okay?”

Blinking, you frown at him. Something about his behavior makes you uneasy, but he’s your friend. You’d trust him over any stranger.

“Hey,” he snaps, demanding your hazy attention. “Did you hear me? Don’t—”

“Don’t drink it.” You nod.

From there all you can do is watch him shred the poor guy apart until Sirius and James finally notice something is wrong from their place at the bar. By then you have a pretty good idea what happened, and you feel sick to your stomach thinking about it.

James keeps you company while Sirius and Remus get the guy thrown out on his ass, and then they both reconvene at your shared booth. Most of the girls have come to see what happened, too, but Remus shooes most everyone away.

“Fucking pig,” Marlene mumbles, petting your hair gently before leaving a small kiss there. She looks to one of the boys, though you’re too busy picking at your nails to know which one. “I can make sure she gets home?”

“I’ve got her,” he replies, and you’d know Remus’ voice anywhere.

Marlene and the other two boys seem to accept this fact easily, though Sirius stops Remus before leaving.

“Go easy, yeah?” he says. “It wasn’t her fault.”

Remus doesn’t reply, but when he takes James’ place beside you his eyes are much calmer than before.

“Hi, dovey.” His hand comes up to rub your back. “You ready to go home?”

Sniffing, you nod slowly, still quite drunk and lethargic. Remus helps you out of the booth, carting you to the door with careful touches.

“It’s okay, Remus,” you assert, feeling more embarrassed by everyone’s worrying than anything now. “You’re not going to hurt me. I’m fine.”

Remus looks down at you with conflict coating his features.

“That was really close, Y/N. I almost didn’t see him do it.”

“But you did,” you correct. “And thank you, by the way.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. Not for that.”

Pushing the bar door open, he ushers you out into the mild night. It’s not cold, but his arm slung protectively over your shoulders is a relief anyways. Outside the safety of the bar, the man might be lurking somewhere. The thought makes you curl further into Remus, shivering.

“Remus?”

You can tell he’s in the same line of thought as you, because his head is on a swivel, checking behind you periodically. He hums in response to your question.

“If we’re going to my place, would you stay with me? In case he’s following us.”

You’d like to tell yourself the man wouldn’t, but you’re not sure you can put anything past him. Again, Remus appears to think the same.

“‘Course. I'll probably sleep better that way, anyways.”

In your drunken mood, you can’t help the way your heart squeezes at Remus’ doting. It’s a fiery feeling, to be cared for as if you’re an extension of himself, to have witnessed the sharpness of his affection in real time. It’s the barest human decency, but you suspect it was rooted in a much more complex emotion. Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking.

“Okay,” is what you finally say, flagging your thoughts for a later date, when less pressing matters than your safety are on the table. For tonight, it’s enough to let Remus walk you home, and to fall asleep under the warm blanket of his protection.

+

thank you for reading! xx

masterlist

join the celebration!

[sharenadraculea]

H:tP Math!

So Hunter: the Parenting is set in 2006 Norfolk, England. And we have some characters ages, so we can do Math

Boy: Boy is eleven. This means he was most likely born in 1995.

Door: Having a elevenyearold son means Door is at minimum in his twenties (which would be kind of yikes). Taking what I would consider a fairly reasonable and realistic timeframe for a normal human to have kids in (somewhere between 20 and 50), Door in current Htp would be somewhere between 30 and 60, tough he could be older if he isn‘t a normal human. Now, Door also talks about his old mining days. So he seems to have had a whole career several years ago (possibly before having boy), making it more likely for him to be somewhere between 40 and 60, which also matches up decently well with his appearence in the flashbacks to 1988

Marckus: He‘s thirty, so probally born in 1976.

Kitten: Iirc he‘s 32, so likely born in 1974

Kevin: He‘s 27. I‘m not sure if that means he was born in 1979 or if he was turned/dies at 27 and was born earlier, but since D get‘s his age from a ID, the first option is more likely. Which means Kevin had a very busy life so far and also apartements in the 2000s were really cheap if someone can afford on in their early twenties

Horse: D tells a story about going to a speakeasy with horse. Assuming he doesn‘t just mean a bar that‘s styled to look old and isn‘t lying, this means that Horse has been with the family since the 1920s to early 1930s, but possibly since the 1880s

Big D: He is probally the most interesting one and there are also several options for his age. Option 1: Just ignoring everything D has said. For this we take Dorn‘s likely age of 40 to 60 and add our reasonable and realistice ages to have a child at, which gives us a possible age-range for D as beeing between 60 and 110. Definetly possible with a but of magic bullshittery that makes him look younger Option 2: Believing that D has been hunting since the 90s. This puts his latest possible birthyear at 1899, assuming getting carried around while his caregivers hunt counts as hunting, since we know he has been hunting since before the 1990s (the thing with Anton happend in 1988 after all and the family has been hunting since a while before that). Tough Calenders accurate enough to date something this precisely have existed since about the second millenium BCE, so D could be pretty old while still getting this factoid correct (assuming he did the math correctly). Option 3: The 90s-factoid is wrong and D is very ancient. In which case like, Homo Sapiens has been around for 200‘000 years and there were other human species before that. So for any closer, tough still very rough, estimate I‘d need D‘s skull and/or DNA. Tough even just a quick questionaire about like how well he tolerates lactose and wheter he straigthens his hair would be quite helpfull I think my favorite option would be for D to have been born within like the last 200 to 500 years, so he‘s definetly unusually old and has way more experience than a regular human, but like he isn‘t unreasonably, has been there for most of human history, barely comprehandable how old he is old

[feasibilities]

Sweet As Honey - Patricia 'Kitten' Braden x AFAB Client!Reader ⚢

Warnings: Prostitution, Pet Names, Teasing, Overstimulation, Pining (like really badly), Love at first sight, P in V, Soft!Dom/Sub Aspects, etc. Author's Note: I wouldn't have survived the year if I didn't write something about the goddess that is Patricia 'Kitten' Braden. A beauty who deserves everything good in this world. I was shook making the GIF above but that's neither here nor there. Enjoy!

“Am I really about to do this?” You thought as you stared at the red neon ‘GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS’ sign outside of Xanadu. Opening the door, you met the confused glance of a John—and the smell of cigarettes & cheap perfume. You quickly brushed past him and went to the front desk. Setting a few dollars on the counter, the madame gave you change. 

“Booth 7, darlin’.” She purred, looking you up & down. You hesitantly walked to the booth and shut the door. Sliding 4 coins into the slot, the booth’s window slid open. You were met with the gamine beauty on the other side.

“Hello, sir. What’s your name?” Patricia hummed, rocking back & forth on her flower-covered swing. Her view of you was obscured, so she assumed you were among her male clientele. 

“Y/N.” You spoke softly into the shoddy microphone. You felt your temperature rise after hearing her silken voice. Tilting her head, Patricia barely managed to hide her surprise that a woman was behind the wall.  Giggling to herself, she decided to toy with you.

“So…what brings you here, sweetheart?”  Patricia inquired, already knowing the answer. 

“Just looking for some company, I suppose…” You trailed off as you stared through the window. She was wearing a blue silk nightie & her hair was curled beautifully. Thoughts of the beauty that lie underneath were too much to bear.

“You can go to your local pub for company. Why are you really here, love?” Patricia purred, running her hands in between her smooth legs. You caught yourself rutting against the velvet chair before you realized she asked you a question. 

“To fuck.” You admitted, hoping she’ll accept your offer. 

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” She teased. Standing up, she walked to the booth window and stared inside at you. Her blue eyes widened with curiosity. It took every ounce of restraint to not kiss her. 

“A pretty little doll, aren’t you?” She praised. Your heart fluttered at her words. 

“I normally don’t do this but…” She trailed off, pulling a gold key from her bra. She unlocked the booth’s door and took your hand in hers. Pulling you to her bedroom, she quickly shut the door. Paper dolls & Marilyn Monroe posters covered the wall. Her vanity had a wonderful assortment of makeup and perfume bottles. A beautiful canopy hung over her bed with a mirror on the ceiling. 

“C’mere, darling.” She whispered as she pulled you closer. Taking some initiative, you slipped the sheer robe off her shoulders. She followed suit by reaching under your shirt and unfastening your bra. You moaned when her cool fingers teased your nipples. She hushed you with a fervid kiss. You whimpered softly when she nipped at your bottom lip. Pulling away, you saw that her lipstick was smeared and her pupils were dilated. Desire boiled over in the resplendent room. 

You took off the rest of your clothing as she watched with starved eyes. Growing impatient, you began to untie the silk strings of her nightie before she stopped you once more. “Patience is a virtue, my love. Lay down.” She chastised sweetly. You followed her orders and soon felt her lay next to you. Sliding her hand between your legs, she grazed the sensitive flesh of your clit. You bit your lip as you ached for her touch. She slipped her fingers inside and pressed against the spongy flesh of your g-spot. A wicked smile formed across her face when you gasped and your legs began shaking.

“Mhmm…” She purred, nipping at the flesh of your collarbone. Her fingers sped up while her plump lips moved to your nipple. You watched yourself in the mirror above the bed. You got off on the salacious visual and the sounds of your arousal gushing around her fingers. Her tongue swirled around the delicate bud as you unraveled. Your vision blurred as your climax took possession of your body. You cried out Patricia’s name like a Hail Mary. She held you close as you rode out your high. 

Removing her mouth from your nipple, strings of saliva clung to her lips as she stared up at you. She put her coated fingers in her mouth, savoring your taste. “Sweet as honey, beloved.” She whispered, sending chills through your body. She sat up to remove her nightie & was just as beautiful as you thought. You kissed her shoulder softly and moved your hand to her dick. Stroking gently, you heard her whimper. You held her in place as you stroked faster. She moaned sweetly as her eyes fluttered shut. Soon after, ejaculate began spurting out of her onto her torso. Her mewls were like music to your ears. 

“I..I don’t think I can take much more, sweetheart.” She relented.

“Of course you can.” You said, kissing her neck.

You pulled her down on the bed and straddled her. She hastily slid into you and thrusted her hips upward, bottoming out. A indecorous moan left your lips. She responded with murmurs of pleasure. Adjusting to her size, you started to grind slowly. Patricia stared up at you with appreciative eyes. Her pouty disposition, messy hair, and flushed cheeks almost made you cum once more. 

“So beautiful…” You praised, trying to keep the floodgates from bursting. 

“Just- mmm, just like you.” She replied, feeling the elixir of your arousal drip down her shaft. She ran her fingertips up your legs before stopping at your sides. She wrapped her arms around you and started thrusting at a searing pace. You buried your face in her neck and weeped at the overstimulation. She smelled sweet, especially of Chanel No. 5. Sounds of skin hitting skin filled the room. You tried to squirm out of her grip, but to no avail. 

“Hold still, sweet pea. We’ll be done soon.” She breathed as your walls fluttered around her. You cycled through one high after another before going numb. Patricia stared up at the mirror again and fell in love with the visual of herself plowing into you. The thin layer of sweat on her face made her glow. Seeing you pant in her ear made her want to pull out and finish all over your face.  However, she wanted to hold back her 2nd orgasm until you were deranged with pleasure. 

Your voice was a raspy whisper from constant pleas of mercy. The numbness from earlier faded as she started rutting against your g-spot once more. Your legs began to tremble involuntarily as another tsunami of delectation washed over you. Patricia finally followed suit as her thrusts staggered and hot ropes of seed spilled into you. 

“Fuck…” You groaned, drawing out the monosyllabic word. You made sure to clench tighter to drain every drop of her. Patricia whimpered once again as she throbbed inside of you. You kissed her lovingly while she held you close.

Things were silent for a bit as you two admired each other. She massaged the soft flesh of your hips. You toyed with one of her blonde curls. “Look at you, all fucked out, aren’t ya?” She giggled, examining the leftover tears around your eyelashes. You gave her a weak smile as reality started to creep back in. You understood that this gorgeous maiden didn’t belong to you, and this could be the last time you saw her. 

“I love you.” Patricia declared, virtually reading your mind. 

"I love you too." You replied, trying to hide your excitement for what was to come.