#best with known quantities? check

[ao3cassandraic]

oh shit

yeah no wonder I'm Aziraphale-coded

Aziraphale, the bad guy

The thing is that Aziraphale as a bunch of character traits is the secretly evil person in so much fiction. Maybe that's why so many people want him to be the bad guy? He is bookish, well dressed, somewhat old fashioned, clever, well spoken, classical music fan, a food snob, doesn't do so well with banter and other generally expected communication skills. He's an introvert and only shines next to people (one demon really) he knows well, otherwise he can be kinda awkward (fangirling over Shakespeare anyone?). He is the prototype of the brainy, antisocial professor that wants to bring down the world and everyone in it. And this is why I ADORE him. Because he is all the things above and yet he is not evil. And yes he is an actual angel and no that also does not mean he is secretly awful. He is just imperfect. And that is so wonderfully fucking normal I will never get over it and will revere @neil-gaiman for this forever and ever.

[durrtydawg]

Look, Don't Touch.

(Sam Drake x F!Reader smut) 3rd person

CW: It's smut, it's sex polleny, and it's got a big, fat, dubcon warning. Also a bit of angst, hurt/comfort, internal conflict, etc etc. For detailed tags, please check out ao3, as funnily enough, I literally cannot add any more text into this post 😛

Masterlist

This is long. Horrendously long. Like... *18,000 words* or so, so I don't want to hear any yapping if you click 'read more' and don't actually want to read. Dare I say, quantity over quality? Sorry to those that wanted this split into parts, but honestly... I couldn't make it work, so here we are. Regardless, I hope someone out there enjoys this!! It's been my baby for a while, and whilst not the best thing I've written, I need to let it go before I, too, become a reprobate by force x

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

“In the wake of the Second World War, the elusive Polish alchemist Dariusz Cassimir left behind a legacy shrouded… ooo… in mystery. Hmm. Shrouded is a fun word.”

“Big door. Ominous etchings. Doesn’t get more ‘shrouded in mystery’ than that. This has gotta be it.”

“O-kay… But how do we get in?”

She shrugs, turning back to him with a raised brow. “Oh, I don’t know, Sam, maybe the huge lever right next to said mysterious door?” She purposely targets her flashlight at his face, making her way over to the lever. He swats her with the notes in his hand.

“Okay,” Sam sniffs, striding ahead with a crack of the knuckles after he fixes his own torch to his belt, “‘Cause of the attitude, I get to open it.” He grins sarcastically, making sure to gently nudge her shoulder as he passes, thrusting the papers he was reading from into her hands.

Her eyes roll, but she finds the cockiness endearing- and he knows it.

“Known for his work in chemical weapon and explosives development throughout the Great War, and the start of the Second, Cassimir's true genius lay in the shadows, where he conducted secretive experiments with potions, remedies, and poisons, yada yada… yeah, right.”

She continues reading out from where he left off as Sam checks around the lever for any dodgy set-ups that might send the two of them plummeting into an inescapable pit, falling victim to some sort of horrific creature ready to maul the two of them to death, or perhaps crushed by a flurry of falling boulders, etcetera, etcetera. No death trap is too garish in this line of work.

“Oh. Listen to this. Ahem. Despising intrusion into his work, Cassimir was rumoured to eliminate those who stumbled upon these experiments without permission.” She hums. “So, not only was this guy insane, but he was a murderer too- hey, be careful with that lever, please... I don’t want a repeat of the Tuscan trap door incident.” She sighs, fingernails trepidatiously digging into the straps on her backpack as he braces his hands against the lever.

“Still not over that, huh?” Sam snorts, turning back to her with an arrogance-tinged smirk as she grimaces, folding the paper and stuffing it into her jacket pocket.

“My ankle isn't.”

He scoffs. “Every possible trap we’ve come across today has either rotted itself out of action or has been destroyed by some other poor bastard that got here before us. Besides,” He stamps a boot against the ground to prove his point, “It’s a dense stone floor. I don’t think trap doors are a cause for concern here.”

“Famous last words.” She murmurs as he pulls on the lever, a soft grunt signalling that it takes more effort than initially predicted. “You sure you don't want to find another way in before you start fiddling with- nope? Okay.”

“What’s…the worst…” he pauses, re-positioning himself to give a little more force to the lever, “that could- Ow, Jesus!” He cuts himself off with a hiss of pain as the lever finally gives and he stumbles upright, wincing.

“Aw. Too much strain on your big, strong, man muscles?” She questions teasingly as Sam glares at his hand, flexing his fingers with a frown.

“The damn thing pricked me.”

A sudden deep rumble through the ground prevents her from quipping back as both of their attention is now taken by the stone wall in front of them slowly sliding to the side with a wince-worthy scrape.

“It’s always fascinating how something so archaic can still be so…mobile.” Sam says inquisitively, causing her to snort.

“Talking about you, or the door?”

He offers her no more than an unimpressed glare, lips pursed and eyes heavy-lidded, still scrunching and un-scrunching his hand.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, ya know.” He grumbles, watching a cheeky pout form on her lips.

“Thank you. Anyway, it's probably not that old. Cassimir used this place as his base between the first and second world wars, which, in the grand scheme of things, isn't that long ago. I’m guessing, with all the influence he had-”

“-He spruced up the place. New doors. Lick of paint. Few booby traps for good measure. The usual stuff.” He concludes for her with a slow nod, eyes narrowed at the lever, attention diverting back from the door to his palm.

She snickers.

Her smile deepens into a grin as he bares his teeth in irritation at his tiny little injury.

He grumbles, thumb rubbing small circles on his palm.

She steps forwards, “C’mon, grump. Serves you right for touching things you shouldn't.”

“Well, thank you for exhibiting the utmost care and patience.” He responds, brows knitted together as he continues to scrutinise his hand.

“Don't guilt-trip me.” She turns back and holds onto his wrist gently to inspect the palm of his hand. A little more than a pin-prick sits in the centre; a fresh bead of blood oozing to the surface each time he wipes one away. 

She pouts as she examines it, then offers a quick glance to the lever to see…nothing interesting at surface level. She turned to him with a moue. “What is it? A splinter?”

“Don’t think so.” He mutters, wiping the speckles of blood onto his jeans, nose scrunched into an expression of disapproval.

“Well…You’ve gone through far worse. C’mon.”

He hums in amusement at her dismissal of interest before the two of them begin to walk down the newly revealed corridor.

As she disappears off into the distance, Sam takes a glance at his assailant, cringing as he notes a tiny divot in the centre of the smooth, varnished wood of the lever- furthermore, two engraved letters beneath it. ‘I D’.

“The hell does i-d mean?” He mutters, glancing at his hand again and wiping it on his jeans for the second time with an irked grunt. Strange.

“Noooo!” Her voice echoes from around the corner, attracting his attention back to the task at hand. Or… away from hand, rather.

He turns in her direction, approaching from behind as she grumbles at yet another obstacle. She frowns down at a dormant stone pressure plate on the floor.

“Guess old Cassimir really doesn’t want us getting in there, huh?” Sam mutters, making his way beside her as they both look at yet another enormous door blocking them from proceeding any further.

“Yeah. What an asshole.” She turns to Sam, tongue swirling contemplatively around a molar as he looks down at her with narrowed eyes. “Any lever this time? Stupid thing won’t do anything.” A tut from her makes him chuckle, watching her impatiently scuff the toe of her boot against the plate as if it’ll make it do something other than sink into the ground a little.

He shakes his head, hands on his hips as he ponders their next move. After a moment, he pouts.

“You… think you can squeeze through there?” Sam questions, eye-line fixing onto the discoloured stained glass of a small window framed by stone above the door.

Her cheeks puff up as she assesses the window held ajar by some sort of rusted hinge. A slow exhale deflates said cheeks before she shrugs.

“You severely underestimate the size of my ass, but yes. If you can get me up there, I can certainly try to ‘squeeze through’.”

“Hmm.”

He leans back, making a show of inspecting her rear with exaggerated intrigue.

“Oh, y- yeah, you might be right.”

She flashes a middle finger. “He's here all week!”

“You'd love that, huh.”

“Stop flirting for a sec and help me up.” She teases, feeding his ego slightly.

Ready to crack on, Sam crouches a little, a small grin pinned to his face at her quip. He puts his arms out as she takes a few steps back.

"M'lady."

"Alright, Patrick Swayze." She chuckles, diluted sarcasm in her tone. “Watch those hands.”

He scoffs in response, patting his thigh as if to non-verbally tell her to shut up and get on with it.

After a little run up, the pair manage to execute a relatively successful boost manoeuvre, resulting in boots scuffing against the stone wall as she scrambles the remainder of the way up to the window.

“Nobody puts Baby in a fuckin’ corner.” he commends her dexterity from the ground, his continuation of her reference sending a grin creeping onto her face as she pushes the window further open, wriggling her way through the gap.

“Damn right.” She replies, eventually disappearing out of his sight. She slides down the wall, dust and flecks of rubble curling off of the surface as she approaches the ground.

Dusting her gravelly hands off on her leggings and adjusting the torch clipped to her backpack strap, she begins to look around.

“Shit.” is all she can muster.

Sam glances up at the stained glass, thumb rubbing at the sting in his palm, eyes focusing on coloured Latin lettering separated by intricately crafted lead framing.

Firmitudo Intus Aequilibrio

“You okay?” He pushes, his voice muffled from behind the wall, head tilted to the side in thought as he reads the stained glass. The cogs turn, congruous smirk etching its way onto his lips- his knowledge of Latin permits a little smugness, or so he tells himself.

She nods slowly, before realising that Sam can’t actually see her, almost too distracted by her new surroundings to offer a verbal response.

“Y-yeah, I’m all good.” She clears her throat, turning off her torch. “This place just… you ever seen Shrek 2?”

The stone walls, worn and weathered, stand sentinel, bearing witness to the passage of time. They’re tall. Imposing. But there’s a beauty to their eeriness, aided by the soft, colourful glow from the bottles that haven't succumbed to time.

"Sure. Great hangover movie."

Dust particles dance in the air, caught in the soft rays of crisp winter moonlight filtering through thick tree roots that make up the ceiling, casting ethereal streaks around the room.

"Well, picture the shelves in the dinky potion room."

The shelves, carved untidily into the walls, cradle a trove of relics from bygone eras. Flasks, vials, and jars, now cloaked in the patina of age, their contents long untouched- some clearly from medieval times; when the crypt was first used as an underground apothecary, to more contemporary receptacles used by Casimir himself to store whatever insane concoctions he experimented with; early 20th century brand logos indented into glass, less worn and more transparent than others.

"The one that cat gets the potion stuck in?"

"That's the one." She titters. Sam hums in understanding. "Ha. 'That cat'."

The lair’s height is imposing, a testament to the grandeur of Casimir’s forgotten pursuits. Yet, amidst the stone walls, pockets of soft, colourful radiance emanate from a select few frosty flasks perched high on the shelves. These remaining potions, survivors of the relentless march of time, cast speckled, saturated glows of purples, pinks, and blues around the plethora of other vials and tubes that have greyed and muddied over the years.

It’s all quite something.

She steps back, lips parted as she takes in her surroundings, fingers wrapped around the straps of her backpack. Her breath catches as she feels sudden give in the ground beneath her, calming when she realises she’s trodden on another pressure plate, though this time it doesn’t remain unresponsive.

As the door behind her rumbles and begins to grate upwards, she turns as her heart rate spikes in shock. Sam, still standing on the corresponding slab, watches in intrigue as the room she’s in reveals itself to him. He smiles when he sees her, the mechanism suddenly making sense.

Wagging a finger up to the latin-scribed stained glass window, he chuckles knowingly.

“Balance.” He says, winking at her as she tilts her head cluelessly.

“What?” She asks as he saunters into the room, shining his torch around.

“Latin. See, I’m the brains of this whole operation.”

“Hm.” She huffs. “Thought you were the beauty.”

He scoffs in response to her attempt at sarcasm, walking past her to the heart of the room as the door scrapes shut again. “Hey, you said it.” He smirks over his shoulder at her as she shakes her head.

A stone slab serves as what Sam presumes was once Casimir's makeshift desk, worn and weathered and mossy like the walls that surround it. On its surface, an array of flasks and mixing bowls, each bearing the damage of countless failed experiments, sitting in a dusty mosaic of scientific chaos.

“Spooky.” She mutters, crouching to inspect some brittle bird bones sprawled out on the stone surface. Aged twigs and fibres, remnants of ingredients that probably pulsed with life once upon a time, now lie in withered repose, their potency surrendered to decay. Sam huffs.

“Oof. It is stuffy as balls in here.” He mumbles, hands skimming through parchment laid on the surface.

The room's cold dampness has left its mark on scrawled notes and papers, ink faded, edges curled, bearing witness to the crypt’s neglect.

“Cold as balls.” she contradicts with a punctuating shiver.

Sam gawks at her as if she’s just said something completely insane, but she’s too busy plinking flasks around to notice. It's goddamn roasting.

That, and her idiom makes no sense whatsoever. He’d laugh if he wasn’t so preoccupied with how antsy he feels.

He rolls his neck, an uncomfortable crack making him huff again, yet as his head hangs sideways, he catches a glimpse of something a little more substantial than a few sheets of faded parchment.

Nestled within the clutter, a chunky, leather-bound notebook sits, worn from use, but still relatively intact. “Hell-o.” He purrs, pushing aside some of the papers to grab it.

“What’cha got?” she chirps, still facing one of the many shelves, crystalline clinks reverbing off of the walls as she continues imbibing in her own curiosity.

“I think,” Sam's fingers delicately trace the timeworn pages of the notebook, each page imbued with the secrets of Casimir’s elixir recipes and incantations, “we have got our hands on Mr. Magic Man’s recipe book.”

“Ooo. Anything juicy?”

He leans a hip against the stone, cupping the book in one hand whilst the other tugs at the sherpa collar rubbing against the back of his neck. It is stuffy.

"Uh, yeah, there's... there's definitely some interesting stuff in here," He replies vaguely, his mind preoccupied with the subtle shifts in his body's temperature.

“Spill.” She says, finally diverting her attention from the shelves, a frosty puff of air billowing from her lips as she speaks.

As his eyes scan the complex instructions and cryptic symbols, a particular recipe catches his attention, intrigue somewhat subding his discomfort. "Here's somethin’," he murmurs, his voice just managing to keep his uncertainty under wraps. “'Whisperwind Tonic,’” Sam scrunches his face up, his brow furrowing in concentration as he reads the intricate script.

“Grants the drinker the ability to move unseen and unheard for a short period of time.” He scoffs at the page, subconsciously rubbing his injured hand against the corner of the notebook in an attempt to relieve the subtle ache that’s beginning to radiate from the centre of his palm. 

“Bullshit.” She snorts, putting a bottle back to its rightful place on the shelf in front of her.

“Right.” He clears his throat as he continues to peruse the notebook's contents. Did he eat something funny?

“Keep going. I’m intrigued.” She turns around, making her way towards him to take a peek at the book herself.

His eyes narrow as he faces her, her proximity suddenly more pronounced, the surrounding heat sending him into a slightly dizzying haze. He shakes off the feeling, rolling his shoulders before reading again.

"There’s... potions to manipulate memories... truth elixirs. Nonsense. All this stuff for people who can’t get laid. Probably just a bottle of rohypnol, right? I mean, how else can someone make a ‘passion elix--”

He coughs suddenly, choking on his words before looking at her with some sort of incredulous bewilderment that makes her stop in her tracks.

“What?”

“Jesus, girl. You got enough perfume on?”

“I don’t- what do you mean?”

He scoffs, grimacing. “Whatever you’ve got on? Ease up on it, next time, huh?”

She grumbles, hopping up onto the table beside him, pulling the collar of her jacket up to her nose. She sniffs. It smells like nothing. Just… her. Not good, not bad. She kicks his shin playfully.

“If you think I smell like shit, just say. It’s been a long day.”

“Nah, you don't…” He scratches his palm again, a faint frown creasing his brow as he notices a faint discolouration at the centre. He rolls his wrist to determine whether or not it was just a trick of the light. “You smell really good, actually.” He speaks, though it’s like he’s unaware he’s said anything.

She does. Good enough to eat, in fact, and as she leans in, resting her chin on his shoulder with an amused smirk on her face, Sam's line of sight is dragged from his hand to her eyes, narrowed slightly by her bemused smile. His vision blurs slightly and his brows furrow as he struggles to refocus.

She inquisitively tilts her head, and slowly, he finds his eyesight refocusing on the part of her neck left exposed between her hair and the collar of her jacket. It looks soft. Smooth.

Inviting.

The gentle glow of colour coming from the shelves behind them, reflecting off of her skin mesmerises him, and he finds himself wondering what it would be like to bury his face in the curve of her neck, to dig his fingers into its nape, and let his teeth leave small, speckled bruises behind, to hold her in place and breathe the sweetness in as her breath cools his skin. It's an urge, almost. Raw and overwhelming.

One that he quickly snaps out of.

His cheeks flush as he realises the deviance of his own thoughts, the suddenness of it all leaving him... reeling, to say the least.

“Okay, Romeo.” She teases. “Sometimes I think we’re lucky that this line of work doesn’t have an HR department.” Her voice feels like a hug and a punch to the jaw at the same time, nonetheless, her giggle pulls him back to reality, his attention snapped back to his aching palm.

He frowns deeper, a faint purplish hue beginning to emerge at its centre, subtle discolouration spreading slowly like tendrils of ink on cotton, becoming more pronounced by the second.

He swallows hard, the thickness of the scent oozing down his throat still, leaving him momentarily breathless.

"I, uh..." he stammers, his mind racing to find an explanation for the sudden onslaught of whatever-the-fuck-just-happened, whilst all the layers on him begin to feel like cling film. It’s irritating. It hurts, even.

Her smile falters a little. “I’m… just kidding- hey, you good?” She reaches for his wrist to see what keeps grabbing his attention.

“It’s nothin’, forget it," he stammers, voice a little strained as he closes his sore hand into a fist. He shakes her off of him with an unconvincing snort in a poor attempt to save face.

His attempt at self-preservation only causes her to mirror his embarrassment, and as Sam feels the scent dissipate slightly, an uncomfortable tension takes its place.

He watches her eyes narrow in the corner of his vision, suspicion flickering in their depths as she studies her companion's sudden unsettled demeanour. 

“Right.” she mumbles, slapping her thighs awkwardly. “Well… I’m not one to waste perfume on a job. Especially with you for company, so…” her voice trails off, waiting for what she thinks is an inevitable clapback. It doesn’t come. Her face reddens as her eyes move around awkwardly, though fortunately, he’s too focused on turning the pages of the book to notice.

”Hey.” She says, prodding his temple with her forefinger. “You… sure you’re okay?”

Sam flinches at her touch, a jolt shooting through him as he sniffs to maintain his composure, standing up to distance himself.

“Mhm,” he replies hastily, his gaze darting away from hers as his mind races to find a plausible reason behind the overwhelming sensation. “Yeah, yeah, fine…just- think I ate…” God it’s hot. “-Damn jacket.” He grunts, putting the book down to tug the denim off of an arm, shaking it off of the rest of him impatiently.

She hops off of the stone and backs away, a perplexed laugh escaping her.

“Don’t be evasive!”

“What? It’s…I’m hot. Shit.” Sam mutters, his irritation mounting as he tries to regain control of the situation. He scratches the palm of his hand, and, with a sigh, moves further away from the stone counter, throwing off another layer.

Left in his t-shirt, she gawks at him as he preoccupies himself by looking at his hand once more.

“Samuel, It’s like… sub-zero in-”

“Look. It is warm. I am warm.” He scrunches up his hand with a sigh, frustration progressing strangely fast as he cuts her off. “So, I’ve taken my jacket off. That a problem?”

Her grin falters. She awkwardly teeters from side to side as she decides to keep quiet.

“I could smell… somethin’, thought it might’ve been you, now it’s gone. Just…” He trails off, taking a deep breath as he tries to steady himself. Tilting his head up to the ceiling, he basks in the brief recess from the sweltering heat clinging onto his body, “Just…park it. Please.”

She frowns, her gaze lingering on Sam for a moment longer before she holds her hands up defensively, dismissing the strange encounter with a slow nod as she turns her head back to the shelves.

“Parked. Dick.” she retorts, a façade of amusement decorating her tone in an attempt to lighten the mood, covering the awkward swallow and slight flush in her cheeks one might get after being scolded by a teacher in front of their class. Meanwhile, Sam fixates his attention back onto the notebook in his hands.

As he continues to flip through the brittle parchment, a developing sense of unease begins to tighten his chest. From the corner of his eye, he watches her hop off of the table, tightening her ponytail as she ambles awkwardly back over to the shelves. He parts his lips to apologise, but a painful pulse coming from his hand re-diverts his attention.

He squints between his hand and the intricate symbols and arcane diagrams, words written in faded text, but just as he begins to take it in, he feels himself struggling to focus.

That same sickening sweetness from moments ago slowly assaults his senses again; it’s like a thick, unshakable mist, seeping into his nose, clinging to his throat and settling heavily in his lungs.

Attempting to clear his throat without drawing her attention, Sam shakes his head, a slight furrow forming between his brows as he does so. The back of his hand instinctively rests against his nose, as if warding off the unexplained, worsening discomfort. 

"You…” he swallows, the room seemingly closing in on the tension his outburst had created, “Y’sure you're not wearing perfume or something? Jeez, it’s givin’ me a headache," he mutters with a meekness that she finds irksome.

She scoffs in irritation. "Oh my God, no! What are you talking about?" she retorts, pointing emphatically toward the shelf of vials, her impatience palpable as his attention remains surgically attached to the notebook. “Will you focus?” She looks back at the shelf.

Five of the vials remain untouched, surrounded by that same soft glow he was fixated on moments ago. 

“We need those ones, right?”

Sam, however, remains frozen, his eyes now locked onto a specific page.

“Id. The word- it wasn’t a… damn abbreviation.” Freud's structural model of the goddamn psyche.

“Huh?” She prods, arms folded, brows arched.

“Freud…Id and ego.” Unable to detach his attention from the inked pages, he ignores her as his lips move silently, mimicking the phonetics of the symptoms written on the frail parchment.

The pinprick- sore, burning now, in fact- has become the centre point of a spider's web of dark hairline veins, matching the worrying description in front of him. His gaze shifts between the book and his own hand, a growing realisation drilling into his brain as he watches the deep colour reach his wrist. This is when he remembers the engraving on the lever. Id. the insatiable id, the book says. He scoffs at the audacity of it all. Wonderful!

His own blood flow pulses through his ears, clouding him with more anxiety and indignation, and dread pitches in his gut-

"Sam!"

"What?" He snaps, abruptly smacked back to reality as her irked voice pierces through his fearful focus.

As her gaze settles on him, flustered, brows knitted together in vexed concern, she momentarily holds back her annoyance, her brows furrowing as he blinks, attempting not to entertain the gravity of the situation unfurling in front of him.

 “Jesus, are you PMSing or something?” Her sarcasm goes hand in hand with her raised brow, smirk combo, amused disbelief taking her over. Yet, her own annoyance gives way slightly to genuine worry as she observes the uncharacteristic vulnerability in his expression. "What’s in that stupid book that’s got you so worked up?"

She looks… good. When she's flustered. Annoyed. The flyaway hairs and the frown. He supposes she thinks she looks intimidating. It's having the opposite effect- nope. No. That's enough. 

"I’m not-'' he fumbles an attempt at trying to reassure both himself and her. "Just…” he clears his throat again, the musky sweetness still violating his respiratory system as his eyes twinge with guilt at his sudden attitude change. “Nope. Doesn’t matter." Quickly closing the notebook, Sam clutches it under his arm, straightening his posture, and offering a nod and an awkward smile. “I, uh, didn’t mean’ta…” He trails off, a soft haze forming over his vision. 

She's not stupid. She sees the growing urgency in his eyes that hints at a deeper worry, and it makes her huff. Why can’t he ever just say what he’s thinking? Or, perhaps better, apologise properly?

She sighs and shakes her head. She spends far too much of her energy stressing about him and his wellbeing, when he probably couldn't give a shit about her outside of a job. Enough self sabotage.

“Whatever…can you… get me up to those shelves? Place is starting to give me the creeps.”

Should he show her the book? He looks back to the dark colour continuing to weave through the veins in his palm.

He considers the danger he’s in- that she’s in, if this isn’t, in fact, total bullshit. His blood flow picks up the pace, and he gets hotter. His mouth feels tight. Wet and dry at the same time. God, he feels sick-

“Oh my God, Sam, snap out of it!” She steps closer to him, making him stiffen in apprehension. “I need to get on your shoulders. Focus, please.”

Please. Please please please- the rasped desperation lodged at the back of her throat makes him shudder. He wants to hear her say it again and again and again-

“Do I need to smack you?” The thought of her palm thwacking against his cheek slices through his thoughts, her voice low, bordering irate. He swallows again.

A strained shake of the head is all he can manage in response, and the urgency of their situation propels him into action- if they could just get out of here, he can distance himself. Fresh air cures all ailments, no?

"Alright, just-" he mutters, voice tight as he takes a hesitant step closer, throwing the book to the ground and kicking it aside. His stare flickers briefly to the discoloured veins now reaching his fingertips, and he swallows in silent acknowledgment of the dangerous path he seems to be treading. Still, with a deep breath, Sam carefully lowers himself to a knee, jaw clenched, skin clammy as he beckons her over.

Oblivious to the tumult going on inside him, she moves, adjusting her stance over him. His hands find support on her hips as she sits on his shoulders, but as their skin brushes directly for no more than half a second, his breath catches and he almost chokes.

“You okay?” She asks out of obligation, looking down at him warily.

Sam inhales deeply, nodding in response, jaw clenched, desperately trying to ease up his heart rate as he pushes himself up, raising her to the height she needs.

He tries to steady himself, but as every sense intensifies to an unfathomable degree, he has no choice but to close his eyes to try shutting them out.

Sam can feel the rhythmic rush of her pulse resonating through him, every beat amplifying that strange suffocating sweetness that continues to overwhelm his senses whenever he’s close to her.

“Hurry it up.” He winces.

“Pot, kettle, black.” She retorts, leaning forwards, backpack unzipped as she reaches for the first vial, and as the softness of her voice reverberates through him, his spine is graced with a shiver.

As she reaches up, her body shifts slightly, and he tightens his grip to keep her steady. He can’t help but notice the way her breath hitches, just for a second. It’s a small sound, almost imperceptible, but it makes his chest tighten with a fierce, protective… is it desire?

"Almost there," she says, her voice a little breathless from the fear of falling off of him. "Just...keep still."

"Doin’ my best," he murmurs, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. He wonders if she can feel it too—the electric current. A persistent, dull thrum tugging and squeezing and pulling at every cell and synapse in his body.

Her thighs tighten around him ever so slightly as she reaches for a further vial; the fabric covering them brushes against his ears, the sensation overwhelming enough to make him grunt and dig his fingers even deeper into the flesh of her hips.

As he does so, the details of her body become vividly apparent beneath his fingertips– every fibrous contour of muscle, the softness of fat, the rush of blood beneath her lycra-clad skin– his senses are heightened to an almost unbearable degree, and his head turns sideways as he tries to steady his shaky breathing- the dichotomy of duty and… maybe temptation… playing out in a near-excruciating loop in his mind.

He feels a pull. His nose- his mouth, are lured towards her inner thigh. He swears his stomach growls at the scent of her. If only he could taste her. Drink her down- devour her until he drowns- Shit. No. No-- they need to wrap this the fuck up. Get the hell out of here.

“C’mon.” he grits- whether it was more to her, or his way of trying to pull himself together, he doesn’t know. He lays his head against her thigh, willing for it all to be over.

He wants to yell at her- tell her to stop being so inquisitive-- to stop finding the need to read the labels on the fucking vials she’s still gathering, but if she speaks back to him again his knees might just give.

You're going to be fine, he unconvincingly tells himself. That's what you do. Deal with things. More importantly, she’s going to be fine. Fresh air, he thinks again, they’ll be out of here soon.

Sam’s eyes begin to glaze over again, fingers pressing ever-so-slightly deeper into her as he tries to keep his vision focused.

He’d be able to control himself, he’s sure of it. He’d stare down at the floor as they both retrace their steps out of the crypt, in his head repeating the notion that whatever’s affecting him will just… go away- it’ll be fine if he just pushes through it, it’ll be fine if he just pushes through it-- diminishing any thoughts of how easy it would be to grab her whilst she walks just ahead of him, blissfully unaware of what he wants to do to her.

Oh. What he wants… to do to her.

Pinning her against the wall. Tearing through that perfectly stitched seam on her leggings right between her thighs before even giving her a chance to react, or, God forbid, to protest before he breaks her in.

He absentmindedly licks his lips.

Thoughts of the financial reward, the glory of finding this place- fulfilling their client’s desires, blah, blah, fucking blah, fade into the background as a primal spark flickers deep. The awareness of the perilous temptation turns into some sort of hypnotic drumbeat in his head, rational thoughts singed at the edges, slowly burning into ash and flaking away into thin air.

As his nose and mouth press against her inner thigh, the tension peaks and he becomes overwhelmed by her; Sam's breath quickens, and a possessive hunger simmers behind his eyelids.

His lips part, brushing against her, teeth grazing against fabric- an exploration that hovers on the edge of giving in to something far removed from sanity.

Feeling a warm tickle, she diverts her attention from the shelves in front of her to Sam’s head between her legs.

She swallows, a fleeting pull in her core as she takes in the sight of his fingers dug deep into her hips, but quickly shrugs it off in favour of understanding why the hell he’s breathing so heavily against her, and why on earth his mouth is pressed against her leg.

Sam inhales, opening his mouth wider, taking shallow breaths.

Then, he bites. 

It’s a feral snap into temptation he was trying so hard to fight against.

As his teeth clamp down into the meat of her thigh, she squeals, wobbling, then falling back and off of his shoulders, her skin grazing harshly, simultaneously snapping him out of whatever sick trance he'd fallen into.

“Fuck!” She shouts as her body thuds against the ground. She painfully drags herself into a sitting position, face contorted into an expression of complete disarray as he gawks at her, horrified.

“Shit- are you-” Sam rushes over to see if she’s hurt, but as his hand brushes against her shoulder, he has to fight against himself in order to suppress a groan. It’s too much. He painfully wrenches his hand away, subduing his own body's desire to keep it there. He cowers back. “Oh, God.”

One hand cradling the back of her head whilst the other pulls at the fabric of her leggings, she frowns, cracking her neck and rolling her shoulders uncomfortably as she leans herself away from him.

Wide-eyed frown fixed to her face, she checks her hands for blood. Nothing, thank God, other than a dull ache that sears through her upper thigh.

“Did… did you just fucking bite me?!” She asks, voice quiet, dipped in anger.

Sam doesn’t reply. He’s shaking, hand clasped to his forehead as he glares at the floor, unable to bring himself to look at her. His hand obscures his vision and he breathes heavily at the sight; the purple steadily darkening into the veins in his wrist, fading into his forearm. The book is right. And he’s absolutely fucked.

Meanwhile, she double takes. Sam, leggings, Sam, leggings. There’s a slight fray in the fabric.

She pulls herself to her feet, wincing at the all-round ache in her body, astounded.

“What the hell is up with you?!” She hisses at him, taking a step closer before he holds a hand out defensively.

“I- I’m- no, stay over there, I… I don’t know. I don’t-” He splutters, doubling over as if he’s been punched in the gut as she gets closer. He stumbles backwards, back smacking against the stone table with a force that makes him grunt. “Somethin’- something’s happening t’me.” He rasps, wide eyes glued to the palm of his hand.

“Yeah, no shit.” She spits, looking at her leg again. “You broke the fucking skin- how-” Her voice is tinged with exasperated irritation… that quickly morphs into extreme concern when she finally takes in his appearance. “Jesus. W-what is going on with you?”

Sam’s sweating, despite it being cold enough to see their own breath, his sleeves clinging to his arms, fabric glued to his torso as his chest heaves unsteadily. His eyes are wide, and as they traverse away from his palm, down his body, it’s clear that they’re wide in realisation. 

“You-” He’s fucked. Which means she’s fucked. How on earth is he supposed to explain what’s going on here? “You’ve gotta go.”

She huffs, ignoring his plea. “Do you need… water, or something? Painkillers?” She asks, panic creeping into her voice, dropping to her knees as she throws her backpack to the ground. She holds it open, hands ferreting around for her water bottle, clattering around the vials that miraculously remain intact, whilst Sam’s eyelids grow heavy.

“N-no.” He shakes his head, turning back to her to make sure she’s unharmed, but as soon as he looks at her, he’s unable to avert his gaze from the fullness of her thighs as she kneels. “God.” He mumbles, salivating.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s losing himself.

He musters the strength to force his eyes shut, and it hurts. Every part of his body wants her. To look at her, to touch her, to… taste her, even- but the slither that remains of his weakened mind can't allow it.

Shaking her head, she retrieves her flask. “Here. You’re sweating.” She says, walking over to him. “It’ll cool you down.”

Sam swallows a whine, and lowers himself fully down to the ground with a self-loathing groan, hunched over, eyes squeezed shut as he attempts to drive out all sorts of depraved, wanton thoughts that keep flitting in and out of his head unprompted.

“N-no. Don’t come near me.” his hushed murmur comes out gravelly as she wearily dips her head down to meet his eye line, concerned at how he’s lowered himself to the ground. She takes a nervous breath, kneeling to his level as he lets out a defeated sigh.

He keeps his view of her hidden by his arm as she extends her own, ignoring his plea to instead tilt his chin up and hold the flask up to his lips. He shudders, his whole body trembling as his eyes unwillingly fix on hers, cursing under his breath at the touch of her cool hand on his skin. His gaze draws lower to her waist, her hips, her soft stomach- his hands clenched tight into his jeans as he fights against the impulse to lunge at her.

She tilts the flask and upwards and watches his throat bob as he swallows. She swallows too, almost choking on her dry throat. The longer she looks at him, the more the chill in her bones dissipates- the more she feels warmth seep into her bloodstream.

Her skin against his feels like molten metal, and he shakes with the ever-growing impulse to grab hold of her. To touch, and to be touched. He pushes the flask away in a brash attempt to get her away from him, then holds his breath as he tries to focus on the small bit of reprieve the cool water has granted him, even if it is no better than a bucket thrown over a forest fire.

“Any better?” No answer. She huffs, screwing the lid back on before backing up a little. “Can I trust you to get me back to the window so we can get out of here, or are you gonna bite my other leg, too?”

“Can’t-” Sam blurts panicked, eyes wide as his head darts in her direction.

“Oh my-” She laughs mirthlessly, strenuously rubbing her face before eyeing the room to see what else she can come up with. “Where’s that book?”

No. He’s going to throw up. He can’t let her find out. If he just waits it out, everything will be fine. His gaze moves to where he’d kicked the notebook- just under a shelf. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

“Jesus chr- where’s the notebook, Sam! The one you were reading!”

Unfortunately, her eyes follow suit, and as she catches a glimpse of the frayed leather binding, she crawls towards it.

He watches in a sort of trance-like state as she flattens herself against the ground, moving her torch around underneath the dusty shelves in search of the book he’d kicked under them minutes ago. “If you’re not going to tell me, I’ll look for answers myself.”

This is perfect. He could go for her right this second. Pinning her down would be easy- she's so small compared to him. So weak. A pretty little lamb, all ready for him to slaughter. He suppresses a moan at the thought.

“Got it.” She jumps up, fragile book in hand, and he smacks himself in the face with a grunt.

Revolting. Selfish.

She starts flicking through the pages, face riddled with ire as Sam's breath hitches. “No. Don’t- don’t look in th-” He lets out a panicked whimper as his body reacts to the feeling of his shirt peeling on and off his skin; he starts to hyperventilate. Clasping his hand over his mouth as he strains painfully against his jeans, he winces. “Shit.” He swallows, covering his face with his hands as he leans back against the stone. 

She watches his Adam's apple bob as he quietly gulps down air in an attempt to calm himself down.

“You’re hardly in any position to tell me what to do.” She reads; pages upon pages of notes and diagrams elude her as she takes cautious steps towards him, but as his hands shoot out to stop her coming closer, she stills, and takes him in.

She notes the uneasy tremble, the sheen of sweat, flushed cheeks, and the uncharacteristic panic. Perhaps even more alarming than the complete absence of his calm and collected nature is the wispy nebula of blackcurrant-purple bleeding outwards from the more concentrated black in the centre of his palm, up into the veins leading towards his elbow.

She steps closer.

"Don't." He snarls, flecks of frightened spittle coming through his teeth. And this time, she does as she’s told.

She exhales shakily, eyes fixed on the sight of his hand- she swears she sees the dark wisps expanding.

"I- I need to find out what that… purple shit is."

She keeps flicking through, rubbing at her thigh as it twinges with discomfort.

"Yeah, well," He mumbles through gritted teeth, shoulders heaving as if he's fighting the most ferocious of fevers. “Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

"Ignorance is only making things worse." She snaps, fingers desperately frittering between pages of Casimir's stupid fucking disintegrating notebook. "Why don’t you just tell me what’s happening?" She laughs- no mirth in sight, eyes watering as her head throbs and her insides churn with dread. “Tell me what’s going on. I bet I can fix it.”

“You can’t fix- Shit, there’s that goddamn smell again.” He laughs ironically, before hissing in discomfort and writhing slightly.

She rests the book on the stone desk with a frustrated grunt, holding it open with one hand whilst the other arm wrestles off her jacket absentmindedly, sighing in relief as the cool air ventilates under her t-shirt. She shakes her head in disbelief before flicking to the next page.

She looks at Sam dead in the eyes, trying to steady her own heart rate as she does so in hopes he’ll pass her red cheeks off as some sort of side effect of the cold. Cold. It was cold a second ago, wasn’t it? 

As soon as she looks back at him, a stifling humidity continues to build. It must be the intensity and the… abruptness of the situation. She goes to remove her jacket, until she realises it’s already off. She feels like she’s wrapped in a layer of plastic- hot, flustered, and her leg fucking kills- This is the last time she lets herself get so… pent up over him.

“You’ve- gotta go.”

“Go?” She huffs, annoyance permeating her tone. She shudders, her face running even hotter, his voice alone enough to render her knees weak, and her throat tight. “You'd love that, wouldn't you? Ever the hero. Asshole.”

“No, I- Fuuuck!” He groans loudly into his fist, trembling. Admittedly, it unnerves her, so she turns her attention back to the book, fingers scrambling from dog-eared page to dog-eared page.

“So, you’d rather I let your stubborn ass stay here, suffering from- who knows what- ow, my God.” She hisses, the urgency and irritation in her voice making a return as a dull ache throbs through her thigh. 

“You can’t be near me.” He mutters into his hands as he doubles over, just loud enough for her to hear.

Inhaling sharply, a brief but intense pang of emotion stirs within her, an ache born not only from the profound lack of understanding of what’s transpiring, but also, admittedly, the slight sting of… is it some sort of infantilization? She thought they were over that! They’ve been partners for months now, and he still doesn’t trust her? Why is he trying so hard not to let her know what the problem is?

And then there's the rejection, of course. That hurts almost as much as her developing headache.

“Well, unfortunately, I have to be near you. I can’t get out.” She points to the stained glass window. “I need you to get me up there-” He cuts her off abruptly with an irritated grunt, jaw clenched in warning.

“I can’t!” He shouts.

“Why?” She shouts louder, stepping closer again.

“Stop-”

“Don’t tell me to stop-'' She follows his eyeline, landing on the writing on the window that he’s transfixed on again. “Firmitudo Intus- what?” The script grates clumsily out of her throat as she rubs feverishly at her sore leg. “Tell me what it means! What’s wrong with you?!”

“S-stability in- in balance. How- ughh, shit- how the pressure plates worked.” Sam huffs, words punctuated with a flurry of uncomfortable grunts. “Why can’t you-- ah, God dammit- just take a hint!” He groans loudly into his fist, trembling.

“Take a hint?!” She spits, voice wavering. “Screw you! Just tell me what's going on- or, or better off- tell me the fact that you can't stand the sight of me."

“No, no, no- stay there— It's not like that, I- you don't get it, it's —”

“Spell it out for me then! Stop being so fucking secreti-”

“I’m going to fucking jump you.” He bellows, his face twitching as a wave of blistering, blistering heat courses through him. His fingertips dig painfully into the stone behind him, finding leverage.

She ogles him, bewildered.

Then, after a moment, she guffaws, her fear momentarily usurped by such a ridiculous statement.

In that moment, as she mocks him, Sam feels a surge of strength shoot through him, perhaps a side effect of his desperation not to face further humiliation. It's as if some dormant force within him has been nudged awake, overpowering his rational mind, and with a grunt, he drags himself upright against the table; movements fluid. Predatory.

“You’re going… to jump me?” She sneers, her voice low, teeth bared in a sour smile as she turns to the window, momentarily considering how to get up there herself. “Hah! Of course you are. Any threat to avoid telling me what’s happening, huh? You're such a-”

Her insults die in her throat as she’s shoved harshly into the wall. The fragile book slips from her fingers, thudding onto the floor.

She stares up at Sam, wide-eyed and startled. His painful grip on her wrist, the back of her head pulsating after colliding with so many hard surfaces- it’s all making her ears ring. His grip is firm and bruising as he pushes himself onto her, his stare intense. Unrelenting.

“What are you doing?" she stammers, her voice trembling, brows furrowed in frightened confusion.

But Sam doesn't answer. Instead, he leans in closer, his breath hot against her skin, eyes locked onto hers with an unsettling intensity that makes her stomach flutter. She can feel his heart pounding against her chest as he presses into her, matching the now frantic rhythm of her own as heat radiates off of him.

Sam's certain he can hear her blood flow as he holds her gaze, his senses heightened to the point of overload. The warmth emanating from her skin, the rapid rhythm of her pulse beneath his fingertips, and the heady, sickly sweet scent of her- it’s all driving him to the brink of madness.

“What… the hell are you doing, Sam? Let go.” she whispers, her other hand tentatively going for him in an attempt to wrench herself free, though, with an instinctive speed, he captures her other wrist, pinning it on the other side of her head as a startled gasp leaves her lips. She struggles against his grasp with an anxious whimper, but he only tightens his hold, his wild expression a frightening mix of confusion and horror. Yet his grip on her remains tight. 

"Make it stop-," he stammers through his tightened jaw, his voice trembling with remorse. "I don't know what… I didn't mean to- I need-” A wave of dizziness washes over him as he speaks, a growing tightness in his chest, threatening to send him spiralling into oblivion- he feels like he’s going into cardiac arrest.

Her eyes are wet with anxiety as he cages her in, brows wavering as if she’s attempting to prevent herself from tearing up.

But he’s frozen. Mind rapidly toing and froing between wanting to let her go, and wanting to see her cry. What he’d give to see her eyes brimming with tears, his fingers tight against her scalp while her lips grow swollen, drenched by her own drool as he rams himself down her throat. “I can’t- I can’t stop thinkin’ about… Jesus, the things I wanna do to you.”

His fingers tighten their grip further, pushing himself harder against her, keeping her painfully upright against the stone. Their eyes meet once more as her own chest starts to heave. God. The way he’s looking at her. It’s… carnal.

Amongst this sudden yo-yoing of fear and confusion, she feels herself heat up more, a cramping feeling tugging at her abdomen as he stares at her, breathing deeply- slowly.

“What?” She just about manages to rasp, lips parted, wrists aching, head pounding. “What are you talking about?”

She knows exactly what he's talking about. She can feel him pressing against her.

“You s- sound like a mouse.” He mumbles as if inebriated, one side of his mouth twisted into an almost malevolent grin that makes her stomach drop as he presses his forehead against hers, rendering her virtually immobile. “So small. So scared.” He mocks with a pout as she shudders. “But you’re not just scared, are you?” He speaks through his teeth, eyes trailing down to watch himself push his hips against her with a deep groan.

The sudden friction sends an embarrassingly high-pitched gasp spilling out from her mouth before her teeth have a chance to trap it. Fuck.

His eyes go back to hers, darkened, pupils blown. “Thought so.” He smirks. “I can pretty much taste you from-” a grunt permeates the end of his sentence as his darkened resolve wavers.

He shakes his head, a sudden maelstrom of panic and culpability in his chest making his eyes water. 

“Not- me. I didn’t mean-” She remains glued to the wall, wide-eyed and disoriented, as he stumbles over his words, her heart racing as she watches him lose balance and fall into her, palms braced at either side of her waist as the vice-like grip on her wrists finally relents. “I’m s-” he hisses, his body burning as if demanding him to succumb to what it wants.

Much to her own dismay, she doesn’t move her freed hands- there’s no attempt to push him away again. She’s so caught up in the shock of how good that felt and all of the confusion and guilt that are beginning to plague her head. She must've hit it hard.

Sam’s hand digs into the small of her back, his shoulders slumping as his fingers slip just beneath the hem of her shirt. His grip is tight and desperate as he drops his head against her chest, leaning into her for support as he whimpers, gasping for air. “I can't help it- I want- to stop, but-” 

She takes in a shaky breath, momentarily paralysed, as if her body and vocal chords are in combat against her brain. There's something hypnotic about the way he's looking at her, something frightening about the desperation and the spontaneous Jekyll-and-Hyde-ness of it all, yes, but equally… satiating… as if this is something her body's been vying for for ages.

She swallows hard at the feeling of his skin on hers, and the soft, needy sounds coming out of him- at his weight keeping her firmly pressed against the wall, and the smell of his sweat, cheap detergent, the gift set aftershave he feels obligated to use that’s making her heart thump even harder.

All such normal things- usually so unnoticeable. But it’s a sudden assault on her senses that she can’t shake off- it clings to her, burning her eyes, creeping up her nose, down her throat, settling in her stomach. It’s grounding. Exhilarating, to the point where she wants to tug him closer and inhale him to the point of suffocation.

And she’s baffled by this revelation. Nauseated, almost. She should be angry with him. Furious. How dare he manhandle, bite, bruise and then withhold an explanation from her. Instead, she can’t help but feel an intrinsic need to keep him as close to her as possible. To see, smell, hear, taste him.

Why is her body reacting in such a way? Why is she soaking wet? 

Sam’s terrified. The thoughts he’s had in the past few minutes have been depraved. Actions violent, and he would rather die than cause her harm, so he’s trying with all his might not to let himself give in. Even if he wants nothing more.

From day dot, she’s been off limits. And he's always stuck to that.

He's aware of how she reacts every time he's pushed their banter a bit too far, leaving her flustered. Every hint of jealousy she's let slip when he's talked about his ‘dating’ life. He knows about her ‘crush’– cute, he thought, but inevitably fleeting, surely. Unlike his own feelings- oh no! They’ve fused to every fibre of his being like hot glue.

This whole situation is nothing but a cruel joke. Like fate has conspired to mock him- to force him into getting his way via a horrible, depraved, manipulative circumstance since he's been too much of a pussy to act upon it otherwise. She’s right. He is stubborn. He should’ve let her pull the damn lever. At least that way, she wouldn't be a victim. Or... perhaps less of one.

His stomach lurches and he slumps to his knees, hands maintaining an unstable hold on her hips. He feels pathetic. “Makeitstop.” He heaves again.

He tries to speak again, but as he bucks his hips again, completely against his own will, the blazing friction against his own jeans causes him to hiss, his forehead collapsing against her thigh, eyes wide as he pants for air. “Holy shit.”

She looks down helplessly, shaken and clueless. She watches his hand dig into her thigh, holding it in place as he burrows his face into it.

“You smell so fucking good, I-” He cuts himself off with a groan, shaking his head and pursing his lips. His voice comes out rough again. Dark. Crumbled asphalt, absinthe poured straight down her throat, settling into her bloodstream. “No, no, no…” He just about pulls away to give himself air, eyes flitting up to her, warring between despair and yearning.

The sight of it makes her… warmer still. Hot, even. The bite on her thigh burns as his proximity agitates it. “What should I do?” She rasps, fingers anxiously pulling at the curls by the nape of her neck as if she’s trying to withhold from touching him. “I don’t know what’s… happening.” She whispers, vision losing focus for just a moment.

"I need..." he grunts, struggling to find the words. He weakly tugs at the collar of his t-shirt, but his strength is failing him. "I need you to... take it off... please," he begs, his voice barely more than a desperate whisper.

He looks so pretty like this. On his knees… whining softly, cheeks flushed, his hands grasping at her. It’s so unlike him. Samuel Casanova Drake- reduced to this. The flirtation. The teasing. Getting her all worked up on purpose, only to be reminded that she’s nothing special- that that’s just the way he is. All bark, no bite. Is he being taught a lesson?

She swallows thickly.

She thinks about how it felt when he grinded himself onto her and forcibly suppresses a moan as a pleasurable jolt shoots up her spine, setting her hairs on end. Her head is swimming. This is all so… artificial. So odd. She’s always been attracted to him, but fuck, this is wrong.

She hesitates, her heart pounding in her chest as a wave of guilt-ridden nausea rushes through her. Is- is she taking advantage of him?

“Please.” He repeats, his plea punctuated with a desperate whimper. She blinks, nodding, and with trembling hands, she crouches and reaches for the hem of his shirt, her fingers brushing against his heated skin. Gently, she lifts the shirt over his head, her touch lingering on his arms as she pulls it free.

Sam gasps as the cool air hits his bare skin, a momentary relief from the feverish heat consuming him. He leans heavily against her, his breathing ragged, his body trembling. "Thanks," he murmurs, his eyes closing briefly as he savours the sensation.

She swallows hard, feeling a strange mix of fear and sickening lust fester in her bloodstream. Her hands remain on his arms, steadying the both of them.

"What now?" she asks, her voice barely audible.

Her eyes are drawn to the sheen of sweat covering his body; the way dark hairs lay matted on his chest, softly trailing down his stomach, past fading ink and mottled scars, beyond where his belt keeps his jeans smouldering against his skin.

She watches her own hand rest under his chin, tilting him up to her. It’s like she’s watching it unfold through a TV screen.

Delicate wisps of condensation coming from his parted lips makes her mind wander; What would they taste like? How would the roughness of his stubble feel against her? Her mouth, her neck, her bare stomach, down down down- she's had these thoughts before; fingers delved between her thighs as she stares breathlessly up at the ceiling.

Saliva pools under her tongue as she imagines rutting against his pretty nose and open mouth like a bitch in fucking heat- oh god- her teeth graze her lower lip as her thoughts begin to spiral further than usual- why are they spiralling like this?

She’s sweating.

There’s so much desire- so much insatiable hunger in his eyes alone as he looks at her that it makes her thighs tense together. As she does so, she’s reminded of the bite again. It fucking hurts, snapping her out of her depraved trance; her eyelids flutter unsteadily as she regains focus, her cheeks burning.

His pulse thuds frantically against her thumb, and her nails stroke gently at his skin as his shoulders rise and fall harder, amplifying his restraint which is growing more and more painful by the second. 

“You…” he pauses and grunts, fighting himself as his eyes remain shut. “Don’t… know what to... ugh- hurts. It’s too- too much." Every tiny little touch feels like he’s being swallowed whole. It’s like a cold spring and a flow of lava all at once, and he wants to scream. 

She pulls her hands away, looking at them as though she’s the cause of the problem. Hoping to herself that her sick mind will sort itself out if she distances herself from him.

He shakes, sweat beading off of his chest, blood pumping through him at a dizzying pace as his eyes pine for her.

“N-no.” He’s craving- starving. A trembling hand raises to her wrist, and he winces as his fingers wrap around her. As his fingertips dig into her forearm, the thought of sudden absence of her touch feels like a death sentence. “Don’t.”

He swallows audibly as his body jolts again at the touch. The contact hurts him. Arouses him to such a painful degree, but he’s not letting her get away. He can’t- he doesn’t want to. He’s too far gone.

Sam’s eyes squeeze shut and he screws up his face in some sort of pained internal conflict. He grabs her wrist tighter and she winces, but as he drags her hand back to his face, her eyes follow.

“Help.” he blurts, finally deciding it’s time to bite the proverbial bullet as he sits fully and leans back against the stone table, accidentally pulling her with him. “I need- need you- your help. The last pages- another way to-” He eyeballs the notebook. “Make it stop. Before I hurt you again.”

She picks up the book and kneels. Her thumb swipes across his cheekbone as his hand rests over hers. Her hands on his bare skin are fucking excruciating; he can feel every single ridge of her fingerprints despite her stillness, like thousands of knife edges grazing his skin all at once.

“Okay- I- I’m looking.” She says, and oh, she sounds like velvet. Liquid gold that he just wants to swallow forever and ever and ever. He’s transfixed by her lips as she speaks, absentmindedly snaking his other hand up the nape of her neck and into her hair.

His fingers tighten their grip, gently pulling her head backwards, and with watery eyes he nuzzles into her neck, breathing deeply- slowly. “Hmmm, God.”

His hips buck towards her, and the feeling of his lips grazing over her neck make her swallow hard. She doesn’t need to read the book to know what’s going on. He whispers breathless apologies, guilt making his heart ache whilst he loses control of the rest of his body.

Her eyes continue to flit around the pages nervously, no longer to read, but to hide. This is ridiculous. Her skin hasn’t felt this sensitive before.

Her eyes fall over a likely explanation; a sketch of a lever mechanism, an embedded sharp needle, designed to assault the user of the lever- the intruder, all annotated in scrawled purple ink.

This artifice serves twofold: first, as a deterrent to the audacious; and second, as a penance, a punishment to those who dare disrupt the harmony of my sacred space. May they find the scales tipped; themselves lost within the labyrinth of their own psyche, ensnared by the very primal urges that govern the basest instincts.

She looks at his hand again, and takes in the details written on the page. Primal urge. Base instinct. Her cheeks flush as she converts the words into layman's terms, confirming her theory.

“It’s an… aphrodisiac.” She affirms.

As the wayward thief succumbs, such symptoms shall manifest: The skin shall burn, the point of breach becoming the source of a webbed discolouration as dark as ones fevered desire, and the pulse shall quicken with an infernal craving, subjugating the relentless pursuit of knowledge with the all-consuming tug of the insatiable id. The mind, entangled in the labyrinth of unbridled lust, shall forsake rationality. The thief shall be led astray from their pursuits, ensnared by their own voracious yearnings, knowledge plundered.

Sam hears the uncertainty in her voice as she grapples with the implications of the infection. Their eyes meet for a split second, and he feels a surge of humiliation that’s so unfamiliar to him he’d probably wretch if his mouth wasn’t preoccupied.

She takes in a shaky breath returning to the page again as the pieces begin to fit together.

“S’there another way?” he murmurs into her, the low vibrations of his voice making her close her eyes for a moment. She grunts to herself, forcing her eyes back to the page.

In the safety of companionship, the afflicted may find respite. Should the infection remain unchecked, the heart will strain beyond its limits, ultimately succumbing to the weight of its own longing.

The ‘cure’  is plain and simple. Two people. Balance. Or, by the sound of it, death.

She shakes her head.

The thought of said cure makes her shiver, tongue rolling over her bottom lip.

A coil begins to tighten in her abdomen as he groans into her skin. His hips buck towards her, and the feeling of his lips on her neck make her exhale harshly.

She looks at her leggings as another sore, shooting pain emanates from the bite mark, Sam’s wandering hands peeling apart the small tear in the fabric as his teeth graze against her throat.

Realisation fills her lungs, a bubble forming by her tonsils; the disorienting mix of undeniable, rising pleasure and panic creeping into the forefront of her mind.

Her skin looks mottled, veins deep purple.

Just like his.

The telltale discolouration, mirroring the ominous staining making its way up Sam's arm sends a shiver through her as she comprehends it all. As she watches his brows waver in internal dispute, her own contort in… concern, yes. But also a sense of desperation, wanting to feel more as Sam drags himself more upright with a cracked groan that makes her lips part and her throat seize when she’s pushed harder against him. More importantly, perhaps, the relief from knowing that neither of them can help it. That, for what it’s worth, is a mutual need.

She takes a gamble, grappling with the part-insidious, part-alleviating truth as she looks back to him, legs parting to straddle him properly.

Her chest heaves; the air feels thick, and there’s a strong pulsing ache between her thighs every time her nipples rise and fall, sore and tender underneath her tight sports bra. All of her clothes feel tight, creating tangible friction all over; her whole body, her face, her skin- is clammy and sticky and so fucking overwhelmingly hot.

A small part of Sam is still trying to stop, to control himself, but as he drags himself away from her neck to look at her, it’s clear that this prolonged contact has its consequences; his psyche swells with a sudden growth in appetite as she settles over him, and suddenly, he barely registers that he’s doing anything at all.

Moving his hand to the back of her head, he pulls her closer in a sudden move that draws a gasp from her as her hands brace themselves on his chest- the sudden harshness of his desperate fingers tugging at the roots of her hair is unexpected. The strength coming from this movement alone renders her unable to pull away- even if she wanted to.

He pants harder, unable to let her go, but so afraid of causing her harm all the same. His fingers impulsively flex at her scalp, and she gulps down a whine at the sensation as her eyes squeeze shut.

“I’m- I’m s- I can’t stop. I’m sorry-”

A hand moves from his chest to the back of his neck. With a gentle pull, she guides his gaze downward, her fingers pulling apart the material to trace the mottled purple that’s started snaking across her skin.

Sam's heart lurches in his chest, an undercurrent of panic rising up his throat like bile.

"No, no- what did i do? I-“

“Sam.” She hushes, pressing her forehead onto his, forcing him to stay still- to focus. She silently implores him to find solace in her. “It’s... we’ve just gotta...” Her eyes non-verbally tell whatever flecks of her Sam that’s still in there that she’s here for as long as he needs her to be. That she wants this. She's wanted this. That she’s willing- God, she’s willing.

This is where he feels himself begin to dissolve away completely. Prolonged closeness. Her voice. The heat rising throughout her pretty little face, the growing heaviness of her eyelids, her freckles subdued by an involuntary heat spreading through her cheeks.

And, he can feel the warmth pooling between her legs.

It doesn’t take a genius to realise that this kind of reaction from her is fuelling him. He needs more of it. Craves more of it.

He’s slipping just beneath the surface, but he’s too tired to drag himself up for air. He supposes he doesn’t really need to, now. He could drown in her and die happy.

She’s starting to feel it worsen, too. The ache. The coercion of mind from body.

Her lips brushing against his feels like molten sugar; a searing heat that’s so sickly sweet he can’t pull away despite the blistering heat that’s destined to leave a nasty burn.

“We’ve just… gotta…” she repeats slowly, voice low and speech slurred. She can’t finish her sentence- every part of her is swarmed by the need to close the gap. She has no idea how he’s managed to hold out for so long.

With a shaky exhale, he nods, releasing the tension he's been painfully holding onto, allowing himself to surrender to the overwhelming heat pulsing through him. He finally allows himself to sink under as she plants a tentative kiss on his lips. A kiss which he only returns, though much more urgent- more voracious; it’s like stumbling across an oasis in the middle of the desert- it’s his first sip of fresh water in days, and it makes her eyes widen.

She brings a hand round to the back of his neck, clinging to him eagerly, her thighs spreading further- non-verbal consent, a silent plea for more as she begins to feel the simmering deep in her belly hurriedly rise to a boil.

He grinds himself upwards without a thought, and she whimpers into his mouth. The friction, the sweet, fucking friction has him press back into her desperately, wanting more, sending a groan up from deep in his chest.

He’s gone. Rationality dwindled entirely as the slightest bit of pressure is applied, steadily being replaced with a frightening strength and burning need to have his way no matter the consequences.

She feels her heart rate quicken as she takes in the sight of his pupils. They’re fucking blown out. The pretty specks of amber that normally contrast the darker brown in his irises have been eclipsed by a deep amethyst.

“… want...fu-” Sam’s voice becomes lower still, grating through gnarled teeth, and as his fingertips dig into her back, keeping her in place, he shifts again- he’s so hard, so perfectly angled underneath her- she salivates as she chokes out. “Want to f- fill you up.”

Hey eyes gloss over and her brain numbs. She nods frantically. Heat floods between her thighs with a vengeance, rationality waning as a shockwave shoots through her arched spine. She wants everything to be touched by him.

The third time comes quicker; more brutal, more needy, taking advantage of her lack of composure as she succumbs to his grip, his mouth hungrily taking a dive for her neck again, except this time there’s less restraint. None, even.

“Oh-- sh-mmf-” Her body shudders as she slurs her words, and as his teeth pull harshly at her skin, she cries out into her hand.

Her legs tremble, knees aching as the stone beneath them digs in, breath pitching in her throat as she’s hit with a shamefully sudden climax.

Her wide eyes water as her hand remains clasped around her mouth, chest heaving as she struggles to register how little action it took for her to come, waiting for the pressure to abate and the fog to clear.

Instead, as she feels his hands roam, and watches his frantic eyes fail to decide what to settle on, the fog only thickens, overruling any semblance of critical thinking.

It hits her like a fucking tidal wave, in fact; she can’t fathom anything other than the fact that she needs more.

And in that split second, she surrenders to the pull, inhibitions fizzling away as she leans in, closing the distance between them again with a fierce determination. A surge of adrenaline tips her over the edge and she takes control, seizing him hungrily, fingertips digging harshly into his scalp to bring him back up to her. He protests, growling, biting harder until he feels himself pried away by force, her nails pressing into his jaw, leaving crescents as she gets him where she wants him, lips crashing together again in a tumultuous collision of lust and fervour.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She wants everything off- to feel her skin pressed up against his, but the time it would take to unbutton and unzip is a repulsive notion that ignites an almost animalistic frustration within her. The thought of it drives her insane- feverish fingers move from his hair and chin, and instead scramble for his belt buckle, clumsily tugging it apart as his teeth mirror the action at her bottom lip.

The messy exchange of teeth, tongue, and spit takes precedence over Sam’s brain, and he feels himself fall into her, torsos glued desperately together as the heat in his belly burns stronger. Hot blood pumps rapidly to his cock as her choked mewls drag him perilously close to the edge after no more than some mere friction.

His mouth traverses down her chin to her throat, ravenous groans muffled against her skin as he grips onto her for dear life, beginning to feel some give in the confinement of his jeans as she unzips them. She doesn’t even try to pull him away this time- her objective has changed.

He’d swear if he could, but his brain can’t even conjure up letters any more.

His teeth pierce the delicate skin of her neck, and a startled cry escapes her lips as she loses balance and tumbles backwards onto the unforgiving stone beneath them.

Sam looms over her, his weight pressing down until she feels almost crushed beneath him. Only his hand, gripping the back of her head with a fierce intensity that verges on violence, prevents her skull from meeting the ground with bone-shattering force.

His weight bears down on her, the back of one hand planted firmly against the ground underneath her head, while the other moves to maintain its bruising hold on her jaw, thumb hooking around her bottom teeth.

Every nerve in her body seems to betray any remnant of morality as she keens, her thighs tightening around him, trapping him in place as grinds himself against her. He selfishly draws tiny pinpricks of blood from her neck, and she claws at his arm, holding it against him as she bites and sucks what he gives her- almost every inch of her has become an unforgiving erogenous zone; it's all too much but not enough. It’s not enough. Teeth piercing her skin, tongue lapping up the mess- It’s an exquisite sort of agony, and she wants- needs- 

“More.” She murmurs around his thumb- or is it his finger now?

His teeth leave a trail of fire along her collarbone, her jawline, finally settling on her pulse point as it throbs beneath his lips. He grunts in response. There, he bites down harder, eliciting a guttural sound from deep within her throat as she struggles to catch her breath beneath him. Every break of the skin permits small bleeds of that relentless purple colour, rendering her virtually feral as she grows increasingly more overruled by the substance.

Rough hands roam beneath her t-shirt, sending goosebumps rising over heated skin as speckled blood bruises settle around her neck wherever his teeth have failed to puncture. To find some semblance of control amongst the chaotic frenzy, her trembling fingers pull at the waistband of her leggings, her urgency matching his own.

Fumbling clumsily, he joins her, his fingers tugging at the fabric with an urgency nigh on feral as his other hand harshly kneads at her waist. God, he wants to dig his fingers into her flesh, to break the skin, tear her apart, and fucking consume her from the inside out.

Before the waistband can even reach her thighs, she’s reaching down, pulling him out, drawing him towards her as a dribble of precum trickles over her fingertips, and he pushes up his torso to watch.

He’s sensitive. So, so, sensitive. In her desperation to pull him closer, she squeezes her palm around his shaft, and he chokes on his sudden gasp, hands smacking hard against the floor to hold himself up. 

Fuck. She wants to hear him do that again.

She grips him harder, stroking up and down with a cruelly tight fist. He’s all breathless whimpers and fluttering eyelids, allowing her to revel in the sounds as he drinks in the sight of her hand wrapped around him.

He shudders, undone, from virtually nothing, shaking violently and audibly moaning behind pursed lips. He can’t even think to muster up a verbal warning before he comes, pearly hot liquid spurting over her hand, dripping down onto her stomach. Yet, similarly to her, there’s no comedown. No time for shame about such a short build up. He’s still hard, red hot and weeping, body vying for more as his eyes glue themselves to the mess he’s made on her t-shirt, seeping through to her skin- Christ, her skin-

He’s hooked; her plushness, every recess and every convex curve, how her t-shirt clings to her stomach, made tacky by him. If it were possible, he’d cover her in him just so he could spend minutes watching it drip and bead and roll across and in-between her soft, smooth, warm skin. Sam’s so mesmerised that he barely even takes in the fact that he’s pushed her t-shirt up, his tongue and teeth licking and pulling at her stomach until his hips buck harshly at the saltiness of her sweat mixing with the flavour of his own stickiness. He shudders.

Her hands slide and scramble, clumsily unhooking her bra, scraping her knuckles on the floor beneath her before pulling it all off, over her head; all just in time for his mouth to open and cram as much of her left tit inside as he can. Sam sucks with a ferocity that’d be frightening if this wasn’t a shared affliction, rutting his hips sporadically against the bunched up fabric of her leggings rolled down to her thigh.

Her nipples are hard, sore, aching, and the pressure of his teeth rabidly biting and pulling, contradicting the soothing warmth of his tongue rolling in tandem, make her jaw go slack and her brows knit tightly together as she tries to navigate the fluctuating sensations.

Her hands slide over the back of Sam’s neck and down his shoulder blades, to his waist, his hips, sticky fingers stretching, running over hairs and scars and flexing abdominal muscle as they reach for his cock, slick, swollen, and heated as it meets her palm. Squeezing him closer to her, Sam groans, mouth pausing its assault on her chest, face falling flat into it, bucking harshly as she impatiently pulls him close, close, closer, writhing restlessly ’til her leggings are low enough for her thighs to part enough to let him in.

Incoherent, mumbled moans are hummed and panted into her tender chest, hands digging into the flesh of her waist as his shaft is squeezed and dragged against her sopping cunt. She moans, a languid, filthy thing as he meets her swollen, sensitive clit, the sodden cotton of her underwear brushing tortuously against it as she brashly pulls them aside.

His impatience builds, fingers digging into her deeper and deeper until they become restless and tug fiercely at her leggings. She hisses sharply as her naked back scrapes suddenly against the floor, her body shunted downwards til one of her legs are fully exposed to air, allowing Sam to hook his knee under hers, pushing up harshly and pinning her thighs apart- access that they’re both burning for. She urges him on with a whine as he pushes down on top of her, words lost to the both of them, communication reduced to vying grunts and desperate writhing.

His pupils dilate enough to make him look feral, purple-flecked irises madly dancing left, right, up, down, as if committing the sight of her, greedy and parched, to memory, before he finally complies, long groan grating out of him as his tip breaches her slightly. He can’t hesitate any longer. His lips part as his thick cock sinks into her inexorably, leaving her completely pliant beneath him. Despite how impossibly wet she is, the stretch is still so intense- she feels like she’s being split in two; it’s both the best and worst thing she’s ever felt, but something she never wants to end.

“S-ss…” She hisses, screwing her face up in frustration as she tries and fails to say his name, nails digging into him more. “Pl-P…” She grunts again, frustrated with her inability to conjure words. Her thighs tremble, the sharp, tight warmth in her stomach tugging and pulling and obliterating every sense as she tightens around him, eyes flickering, rolling back almost painfully as he fills her deep, retracts, and fills again, each time not stopping until he’s buried to the hilt.

For a moment, head spinning, he stares down at the way her head falls back, eyes squeezing shut, arms flopping, knuckles smacking against the ground as she traps a warbled cry behind her teeth, greedily sucking him into her. He grunts, brows drawn together, and thinks he’ll never be sated again like this. It's perfect. If only it weren't manufactured.

Heat sears him apart from the inside out, savage gluttony evident in the way he gasps and he groans when his hips slam forward, over and over, pressed so tightly against her that each movement reverberates astoundingly against her clit. She’s so tight, so perfect, so wet, around him as she whines and bucks up into him.

Sam holds her down; hand pinning forearm, fingers digging deeply into stomach and waist, knee prying thigh from purple-stained thigh, pumping into her at a relentless pace; She groans as he harshly works her open, arching into him as her stomach tightens— tighter, tighter, tighter, until she’s screaming, unpinned arm smacking into his back, nails clawing crescents into his sweat-slicked skin as another wave of arousal floods every sense of her being.

She can’t breathe- she doesn’t want to- the energy needed to do so would take away from the white hot pleasure coursing through every inch of her. Liquid gushes, her cunt clamping down hot around him and squeezing, milking him so tight it makes him choke on his own sharp inhale, so good it burns- it’s almost excruciating. He shudders as he breaks, palm slamming against the floor to hold himself up when he comes, too.

She groans at the fullness and the warmth of him spilling inside her, breath coming out in messy, uneven bursts as she feels herself suck in every drop.

For a moment, she watches him come down from his peak, heavy-lidded eyes grazing over the vulnerable crease in his brow, the way his cheeks flush as he catches his breath above her, and his parted lips- she wants to kiss him. Sweetly. She wants him to let her show him she's not a ‘kid’. She wants to feel what it's like to be wanted by him. She's strong, capable, undeniably and irrevocably attracted to him, and… God… She still feels hot. Despite coming twice- or is it three times, now- the need for more is already becoming unbearable, and she fails to decipher if these thoughts are coming from the chemical festering in her veins, or if they're being made apparent due to its diminishing strength. She stings. Oh, she's a mess.

He’s still hard inside her, twitching, demanding still. The question gnaws at her, but her body burns for more, more, more. He slows above her, the lack of physical stimulation, and the completely deriding overstimulation of her mental state making her eyes water. She wriggles slightly, an impatient grunt echoing around the small room as she tries to roll her hips under him. The stillness of his cock inside her has her mewling, still spasming softly around him.

“S- Sam-” She sputters, eyes widening in realisation of her somewhat rehabilitated ability to speak.

For just a few seconds his mind’s feverish occupation dilutes, replaced with a glimpse of a soft, sated afterglow… he falters, his mouth hanging open like there’s something he wants to say. 

“Mm…more. Need more.” She beats him to it, murmuring between shallow breaths, feeling the rising ache cloud her mind already.

His heart thuds so fast it’s a surprise it’s not sat in his throat- is it gratitude he’s trying to muster? Or, an admission perhaps? “I-” Just like her, the words are fighting to get out of him, but just as he strings a sentence together in his head, he starts to tense again. “Gotta… I- I’m-”

For a second, she feels sympathetic as she watches him war with himself. But her body doesn’t let the sympathy hang about for long, and she finds herself making his mind up for him, tugging him down by the back of the neck, tongue meeting tongue as she ferociously bucks up, calf hooking around thigh to pull him tight against her, giving her leverage to twist her hips and roll them both around.

It burns, the white hot anticipation, and he can barely move. His brain has been dumbed down; near-irrevocably stuck between wanting to split her open again, to keep biting and bruising and claiming, or to actually feel- to savour her in her entirety. His indecisive stupor makes him ache even more, brows knitting together tightly as his mind tries and fails to establish where to go next.

Sam can barely process anything outside of the softness of her sticky palm on his chest, the ridges of her fingerprints and the gentle sharpness each time her nails brush against his skin as she pushes him against the ground. She rolls her hips, soft curses spilling out of her lips as she feels his hands clumsily dig into her ass. He shuts his eyes, head lulling sideways as he swallows hard, choosing to feel.

Grip loosening momentarily, his eyes open at the feeling of her fingers branching up, wrapping themselves around his throat; loose, but just enough pressure that he can feel his own pulse reverberate against her thumb. She squeezes harder, turning him to face her, his head numbing with a pleasurable fizz as his vision transfixes on her.

He's too tired to fight against her- truth be told, he probably wouldn't try if he did have the strength. Jesus, she's so pretty, he thinks. Well that makes a change. Significantly less violent than the thoughts circulating his head earlier. She could squeeze tighter and tighter if she wanted, and he still wouldn't protest if it meant he could watch her, like this, from underneath her. Especially when she comes again, back arching as she moans like a fucking animal- and still she doesn't stop.

“So- you’re-” Between the pressure on his throat, her relentless pace, and his own spasmodic panting, he can barely string a sentence together, “s-damn tight- so good- fuck.”

He finds himself completely and utterly caught up in how tight she still feels around him- how fucking gorgeous she looks with her eyebrows drawn tightly together, eyelids heavy as she ferociously rocks her hips, stomach flexing, tits bouncing- the speckled bruises and drying blood stippled across her neck and collarbones- and then there's a hard pang of guilt; he did that to her- made her bleed- infected her- it's his fault that she's being made to give him this-- exactly… what he's wanted…for months.

He expects the thrumming ache to cloud him over again, but it never comes. Instead, a strange clarity claws its way through the haze of his mind. This is what he has longed for for months, but now that it's here, the moment is tainted by anguish. It took this entire horrible ordeal to force him to act upon his feelings, and he mourns the likelihood that this will be the one and only time he gets to be this close to her.

And then, beneath the sorrow and the dread, there lies a deeper, more corrosive guilt. It gnaws at him, a conscience-grating burden that leaves him nauseous. Despite the mental torment, despite everything, his body betrays him, running rife with boiling hot pleasure. The contradiction tears at him, a cruel reminder of his own skewed morality and the complex, painful nature of his...is it his love for her?

The obscene squelching sounds and the wetness leaking out of her and down her inner thighs, forming small puddles on his skin, and the floor, and, fuck, as she murmurs an exhausted plea, the taste he's getting of being wanted- needed- used by her- it all sends him over the edge.

She whimpers and falls into him, moaning incoherently into the crook of his neck as her fingers tighten, nails scraping against stubble, and-- jesus, he's coming again.

His hands meet her upper back, holding her down as he fills her once more, rasped groans and a string of murmured curses vibrate against her skin as he swallows against her hand. He holds onto her selfishly, savouring the feeling of her weight on top of his- bare skin on bare skin, the way she seeks comfort in him- he's thought about this countless times… and he hates how much he's enjoying the consent-less reality of it.

Her movements slow, becoming sloppier, lazier, her energy dwindling as she tries to chase the release she desperately needs. She whimpers, tears squeezing out of the corners of her eyes, dampening Sam's shoulder as they fall, and she finds her swollen, sensitive clit with one hand while the other moves from his throat to his hair.

He continues to hold her as his sensitive cock twitches inside her, nose nuzzling into her hair as he whispers; "Did you...?"

She shakes her head, a soft whimper coming out of her as she tries to push herself into another orgasm. The sound of his voice. Raw, raspy, quiet in her ears makes her tear up even more, and all of a sudden, her body's pursuit of pleasure has become torturous. She looks at Sam, his eyes clearer, amber flecks of colour visible again, his expression one of concern and exhaustion. Guilt churns in her stomach, sharp and nauseating, as the fog in her mind grows lighter by the second- the physical pain persists.

Her body, still wracked by the effects of the drug, betrays her with every shiver, flush of heat, and every desperate circle of her fingertips. She feels humiliated, the intense need now a source of shame, tucking her head back into his shoulder as she arches her back despite herself. Tears well up in her eyes, and she can’t meet Sam's eyes. "I... I'm so sorry," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I still need to-" she sniffs, "I can't- hurts."

Sam’s heart aches at the sight of her distress, and he nods, one hand smoothing down to her soft hip as the other stays on her back. He breathes in the scent of her hair, wanting to savour the moment- hell, he probably won't see her again if this is how she's reacting before she's fully recovered.

He wants more of her, he knows he does. But he's sensitive… and the clarity is still there. The clarity. The stabbing, blunt, serrated knife sawing in and out of his gut that makes him realise that he's never going to have this again. And that none of it was real anyway. But she sobs, and the sting in his chest wanes from his pain to hers. For now, curing hers takes precedence. 

Gently, he pushes against her, and exhausted, she complies, rolling back round to her back, eyes closed, borderline hyperventilating. He pulls her hand from between her legs and she huffs out a shaky breath.

“Sorry…hgnn- I'm sorry.” She whispers, her chest tightening.

He watches her try to cover her face with her forearm, and as he slides out of her, she sobs quietly, tensing her thighs together and rocking her hips softly to try and give her clit the friction it needs as she's left empty.

He rubs the palm of her hand with his thumb, gently lacing his fingers between hers, eyes glued to the way their skin glistens with their mixed arousal. “None’a that.” He says, squeezing her hand as he gently pries her thighs apart. “Not your fault.”

She whimpers up to the ceiling.

“God, it really hurts, Sam.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He holds himself up on an elbow and exhales. His free hand traverses down her torso, giving her waist a reassuring squeeze before reaching between her thighs.

She keens at the nickname, making a shuddered whimper as his fore and middle fingers gather some of the copious amount of shared arousal, rubbing against her carefully.

“This okay?”

Her chin trembles as she nods. “I need more.” She whispers, and almost immediately he pushes two fingers knuckle-deep into her aching cunt, pearlescent slick oozing out onto the palm of his hand down to his wrist. She squeezes his hand instinctively, a groan bubbling out of her throat.

His eyes follow the trail as his fingers stroke her from the inside and his thumb flicks softly at her clit, her soft moans permeating his mind. He's hard again; the thick liquid warms his wrist as it trickles down further, up to where the veins in his forearm meet the inside of his elbow- the veins that were deep purple not too long ago. He looks at his hand, then her thigh; still a small webbing of colour coming from the bite mark, whilst nowhere to be seen on him.

He swallows. There's a soft haze over his brain again, but it's gentle this time. Normal, even, bar the bittersweetness of it all. There's no burn. No malicious desire eating away at him… He just wants to savour her; to soothe, to make her feel better. She looks so ashamed. He wants to take that away from her.

Sam glances back up at her, eyes shut and arm crossed to cover her chest and it feels like a kick in the stomach. He purposely slows his hand, and her eyes open.

Before she can choke out another plea, he leans over her again, pressing his lips to hers gently, slowly building up his hand’s pace as he feels her sigh heavily. His chest thuds as he takes the time to memorise the softness of her lips, acknowledging that this might be the only time he gets to be so soft with her. It breaks his heart- another unforseen circumstance.

Her stomach flutters as he kisses her, the unexpected softness of it making more tears prick at her eyes as he works her closer to her peak. She moves her arm from her chest back to his hair, gently massaging his scalp.

After a moment, he moves from her lips, gently licking and pecking at each bruise and break in her delicate skin, relieved that there's no more purple, but unable to shake the guilt as he mutters apologies interspersed with each break for breath.

She squeezes his hand back, her whole body tensing.

His mouth traverses lower; down her sternum, all the way to her lower abdomen, until he reaches the tops of her thighs, where tacky quickly turns to wet as he moves lower still. Her breath catches as his eyes lock onto hers, and her lips part slightly, a subtle invitation, or perhaps merely surprise, but it's enough to keep him rooted, suspended between action and restraint as he feels himself salivate. In that silence, he waits, desperately vying for the smallest sign of consent.

She winces, her body aching as it waits for release, but she doesn't break eye contact. Instead, she takes a deep breath, and her fingers, trembling, unhook from his and reach out to rest on his jaw, her thumb brushing lightly against his lower lip. It's so brief and gentle it almost feels imagined. Yet, it's there— an undeniable gesture that heats his blood- organically, this time; He tastes them both on her skin and fuck, it's nothing short of heavenly. 

He swallows, eyes flitting around, learning the sight of her by heart before looking back up at her. He licks again and his cock twitches.

With a mixture of reverence and hunger, he closes the distance between them, movements measured and purposeful, each stroke of his tongue filled with a tenderness that belies all of the turmoil eating away inside him.

Her grip on his hair tightens as she sighs up to the ceiling. He loses a little restraint as she breathes out his name, begging him for more, and small, neat licks turn more rabid when his hand wraps around his shaft. He pumps himself with the same intensity as his tongue as it works in and out of her, his soft groans making her hips buck into his mouth as her breaths become more shallow.

She moans- cracked and raspy with exhaustion- at the feel of his lips, his nose, his tongue licking and sucking and savouring the satiating nectar dripping from between her trembling legs. His tongue broadens to gather and swallow before alternating to target her clit with the tip, wet and hot as he laps and swirls and buries in and around her. He tightens his fist around his cock, causing her stomach to roll as he moans into her- it's sloppy and messy and downright vulgar, but there's something so enamouring about his enthusiasm. His forearm wraps under her thigh, pulling her tight against his mouth as he grows closer to another climax of his own, and she gasps and arches even closer.

"Fuck, Sam-I, I'm-" she can feel him looking up at her as she struggles to string a sentence together, using the sight of her to coax his own pain-numbing, breathtaking orgasm. He moans, stimulating her tenfold as he releases warm ropes onto himself, his eyes rolling back as he near-suffocates against her.

He keeps going, and going, even when he lets go of himself to grip her stomach and pin her down- and she almost chokes, unable to breathe as she's utterly overwhelmed by the pleasure and the raw, visceral feelings for him that stabs relentlessly into her heart. She feels the pain raking its way through her body dissipate with each second that goes by.

He's so good. So fucking handsome.

She finally comes, a warbled cry trapped behind her teeth as her eyes squeeze shut and a rapturous wave of coolness floods her body. It's overwhelming- asphyxiating, even; tears streaming, fingers knotting rougher into his curls as he holds her tightly in place, devouring her through and past her climax. He takes and takes and takes-- shit, he loves this.

"S-sam,"

He loves this.

"Agh- Sam, pl- stop-"

He loves this. He fucking loves this- her. He- he loves-

She yanks hard enough on his hair that he's forced away from her with a pained hiss, gasping heavily like he hasn't taken a proper breath in minutes, his entire face from the bridge of his nose down glazed and glistening. He looks so pretty. She aches.

His eyes traverse, conflicted and somewhat melancholic from her thighs, up to her face, and she sees that he's... crying too. It's alien to her. What has she done to him?

She holds his gaze, her own eyes red-rimmed and tear-filled. The regret feels like a physical ache in her chest, mingling with the remnants of aftershock and the soreness between her legs and all over her broken skin across her thigh and décolletage. Despite the excruciating shame, she wants to reach out, to tell him that it's okay, that they had both been caught in the same storm. But the words don't come.

Instead, she sits up ever so slightly, wincing as she scoots closer, their bodies brushing as she nervously pulls his head to her shoulder; a tentative, fragile gesture, but she hopes it speaks volumes nonetheless. He stiffens at first, but eventually relaxes, his arm scooping beneath her to hold onto her gently.

She cradles his head against her, staring at the ceiling with tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. The physical pain was dulled now, but the emotional ache was fierce. She had never fantasised it being like this, tainted by necessity and confusion, and she doesn't know what to do. It's suffocating.

For a moment, they both just breathe, soaking in the sickly, unfiltered aftermath of the whole ordeal.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours—they've lost all sense of time in this weird fucking space where the boundaries have been irreparably corroded. They're cold. Exhausted. Emotionally bare. And now he feels like a damn coward, letting her stroke his hair and cradle him against her chest, after all he's put her through. He grits his teeth in an attempt to keep his watery eyes from spilling over.

But the attempt fails, and he hates how uncharacteristic this is. Screw this place. Screw Cassimir. Screw their client, screw his own greed that brought them here in the first place, and screw- fucking screw her for taking away his ability to remain a husk- and for letting him hurt her.

Finally, she pulls back as she feels her skin dampen and his shoulders jolt ever so slightly, her hand forcing his chin up. Her eyes search for him, and in that moment, she fully takes it in, and sees what she hopes to be the same fear, the same shame, and yet, the same insane level of care that has gnawed at her heart for so long.

Sam opens his mouth to speak as her brows furrow, but no words form, let alone come out, aside from a pathetic, choked sigh that hints at the tumult of emotions stirring inside him. His tongue rolls over his lip, and the lingering taste of them has him shudder and shut his eyes.

He can’t bring himself to look at her, the shame too sickening, too palpable. But then, as he pulls away, getting up to his knees as he fumbles with his jeans, he feels her hand on his arm, steadying him. He looks down, and in her eyes, he doesn't see pity, or accusation, but- and for a second he considers pinching himself- understanding, a non-verbal acknowledgment of his vulnerability.

Delicate and trembling, her fingers reach up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw as if to reassure herself that he is real, that this moment, however fleeting and fraught with confusion, was real. At least she'd have it stapled to her memory. Sam closes his eyes at her touch, a self deprecating huff leaving his lips. He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to her palm; a silent apology and a desperate plea for reassurance that she's actually thinking what he hopes she is. He even hazards a look to her thigh for any sign of coercion from the drug still coursing through her, but there's no purple in sight.

She reaches one of her arms above her head, just about reaching her shirt. She grunts in disgust, the material sodden, and she drops it back down with a shaky huff, the room's frigid temperature finally having an effect once more.

Sam pushes himself up again, rubbing his damp cheeks with the back of his hand as a sense of normalcy seeps back into his senses. And with that normalcy, grief.

He finds his t-shirt, quickly sliding it over his head despite the excess of sweat and bodily fluid covering both his skin and the material. He grimaces as it clings to him, and she watches on with a poignant shiver, pulling her knees to her chest after adjusting her soaked-through underwear, her boots scraping against the ground as she does so.

He clears his throat, picking up his plaid overshirt from where he'd discarded it earlier before looking over his shoulder at her as he pulls the sleeves through the right way. 

Someone has to speak sooner or later, she thinks, but can't bring herself to. Her nails scratch nervously at her skin as she weighs up what to do, trying not to cry at the prospect of Sam's walls being rebuilt so fast after pouring everything- mind, body, soul- into her moments ago. She feels so naive- so fucking silly-

“What was it you said earlier?”

Her head shoots up as he speaks, caught off guard by how much he sounds like his usual self. Charming, cocky, collected.

She tilts her head slightly, her eyebrows drawing together and her eyes narrowing in a mix of confusion and curiosity. Her lips part just enough to show she's on the verge of speaking, but she holds back, waiting for his next words to clarify the moment.

He extends his shirt out to her, lips quirking into a soft, somewhat reassuring smile. She looks at him for a moment, taking the shirt and putting it on.

“Somethin’ about an HR department?”

She looks at him, a soft laugh fluttering to the surface. It's a quiet sound, tinged with shyness and still wrapped in the lingering sadness of their shared ordeal. Her eyes lower for a moment, the weight of everything that happened settling in.

Seeing her reaction, Sam gets up and moves to where her water flask lies discarded. He unscrews the cap and pours some onto a clean part of his t-shirt. She begins to button her shirt, but he stops her, silently asking for a moment longer.

“Can I?”

She lets go of the shirt, and with gentle, still slightly shaky hands, he dabs the wet cotton softly over her wound-ridden skin.

She watches him, the sadness in her eyes gradually giving way to something softer, his tenderness speaking volumes. As he continues to tend to her wounds, his mouth twists in thought, like there's something he wants to say. So he does.

“I'm sorry.”

He's not the type to apologise, so eye contact is impossible.

“What?”

He continues dabbing at her skin in silence.

“Sam.”

She covers his hand, stopping him from finding any other distraction.

“You didn't ask for this."

He frowns. “I- I just put you through… somethin’ not far off of assault, and your response is-”

“No. Not one part of that was assault-”

“She says, as I wipe up blood from bites I gave her.”

“Yeah, with the mouth that's covered in my cum.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but he can't find anything to say. His cheeks redden.

She sighs again. They're going in circles and she wants to put an end to it all- she's tired. Filthy. Possibly concussed. Which she uses to excuse what she does next.

“Can I try something?” she asks. Fuck it.

“Try what?"

Without another word, she steps closer, her eyes searching for any sign of protest. When she finds none, she leans in and kisses him, her lips soft and warm against his, holding none of the desperation or haze of their previous encounter, completely free from the influence of any perverted pill or potion.

What's she got to lose?

Sam is shocked at first, his body tensing. He instinctively pulls her off, his eyes flitting around her face as his jaw loosens and tightens in search of something to say.

Her heart sinks and she steps back, “Thought so,” she smiles sadly, backing away, knowing it was a mistake to try. "Can we... can we get out of here?"

He should hate himself, right? He's gone against everything he's ever stood for- let every non-committal brick he's built since teenagehood crumble to dust. He's gone soft. Sentimental. By force, to begin with, yet he still hasn't stopped himself. It's… Pleasant. Is this the balance Cassimir fetishised over?

Screw it, he decides, Because if he has to stand by and watch her grow apart from him when she's just shown the same as- if not more vulnerability than him, what use are a few walls?

He pulls her back, his lips finding hers again. This time, it's different- there’s no urgency, no magical compulsion, but rather something deep- genuine. The kiss is tender, filled with all the emotions they’ve been too afraid to voice, and he feels years worth of tension escape him. His sore muscles loosen, hands cupping her face softly, and she melts into him.

When they finally pull apart, their foreheads rest together, and this alone feels infinitely more intimate than anything that had transpired beforehand.

"So... is it safe to assume that we're both on the same page, or...?" She swallows hard, her voice barely above a whisper, but her usual playfulness breaks through, and it makes him smile.

"What, that we're both in dire need of some good laundry detergent and a shower? Or was there somethin' else on your mind?"

She snorts, gently kicking his shin, the enormity of months worth of repressed feelings finally worn on the proverbial sleeve. She takes a deep breath, the worry in her eyes softening as she looks at him.

"We have a lot to figure out."

He chews the inside of his lip contemplatively, still not entirely sure there’s any reason why she’s being so gracious. So calm, despite it all, like he deserves any of it.

There’s a beat.

And then he nods. Because that’s why she makes his entire psyche shift off-kilter- makes him notice his bad habits.

"We'd… uh, better cash those vials in."

She sees a million-and-one thoughts behind his eyes, but he needs to rest. So she waits, head tilted, suspecting he's got something else to add. 

"How else am I supposed to afford a five-star first date?"

The other million thoughts can wait.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

I promise to write something short and funny next time x

[loganjameshowlett]

SAME AS IT EVER WAS

02: FACTS DON'T DO WHAT I WANT THEM TO

pairing: peter parker/muntant!reader summary: you're getting good at pretending everything is normal. peter's getting less good at the very same. word count: 3.2k+

series masterlist | previous installment | next installment

When you woke up on Thursday, the bizarre scars were still uncomfortably present on your shoulder blades, and you kind of wished the SUV had finished the job. 

It was 3:07 PM when you rolled over– an action accompanied with a certain measure of full-body agony– and squinted blearily at your phone screen. 

“Shit,” you muttered, rubbing your eyes and checking the time again. You had missed both of your classes for the day, and had to be over to the bodega in just under two hours for a shift. It was unlike you to oversleep, or to ever miss a class, and you tamped down the anxiety already bubbling in your chest about falling behind or missing something crucial. It was also unlike you to get fully run over by an SUV and live to tell the tale, you supposed. And it made for a hell of a good reason to have missed class, anyway. 

Your body felt like it belonged tucked into a bed in the ICU unit over in Bellevue. When you finally dragged it out of bed and in front of the mirror to check, the line of unsightly, discolored tire track bruises had bloated to cover most of the skin from your ribs down to your hips. The same wave of questions from the night before welled up in your mind, and just as the night before, you pushed them all away just as fast. You had enough sense to know you weren’t going to come to any meaningful answers standing on your own in the middle of your bedroom, and you had to shower and get ready for work, anyhow. Another place where you were not likely to get answers, so best not to think about the questions. 

By the time you were done with a near-scalding shower, your body was actually feeling mostly okay and you were well on your way to convincing yourself that whatever happened last night was a fluke. A one time thing. Yes, it was completely bizarre and should have been impossible by all accounts, but those were things you didn’t have to concern yourself with if it never happened again. A few decades from now, you’d probably think it had all been a particularly vivid dream, the way most people who glimpse one unexplainable thing in their lives and then nothing ever again do, and that was alright by you.  

***

“You’ll never guess what happened to me last night,” Mickey says, grinning and coming around the counter as soon as you came through the door. 

You stole my line, you wanted to say, but you were making a valiant effort at not devoting large quantities of brainpower to thinking about last night, so you didn’t. Instead, you walked behind the counter and shed your jacket on the plastic chair in the tiny storage-closet-turned-office, tossing a look Mickey’s way to show her you were listening to her story. 

“Two minutes away from my dorm, I ran into fucking Klara,” she said, punctuating her sentence with a roll of her wide brown eyes. “She has somehow gotten more fuckin’ unbearable than ever.”

“In other news, the sky is blue,” you interjected, and Mickey waved a hand dismissively. 

“That is not the point of the story,” Mickey said. “She stopped me on the path with her bullshit smalltalk for about thirty seconds before dropping that fucking Spider-Man had just swung through campus five minutes earlier!” 

“He has been known to do that,” you nodded. “Couple weeks ago he webbed up some finance frat loser who was trying to start fist fights with everyone who walked past him.” 

“Yeah, I know he’s around sometimes, but I have never seen him! And there I was last night, missing him by a matter of mere minutes.” Mickey huffed, dropping her chin onto her hand. 

“Your time will come, Mick,” you assured her. “And then you can try to flirt your way into his spandex, or whatever.”

“I will succeed in flirting my way into his spandex, thank you very much,” she responded haughtily, and despite your mood and the soreness still ebbing its way through your body, you laughed. 

Gary hopped up onto the counter, wending his way through Mickey’s arms, and then crossing over to do the same to yours. Absently, you sunk your fingers into his soft orange fur, gently scratching his little head. 

“Hey, you kinda look like shit. Did something happen?” Mickey asked, startling you out of the blank-gazed factory reset your brain was trying to accomplish. When you looked up at her, her head was tilted to the side, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. 

“If staying up most of the night doing homework counts as something happening, then yeah,” you shrugged. “This is just what a me approaching midterms looks like.” 

“Yeah… I guess that’s true,” she drawled, but you could tell by her voice that she wasn’t totally convinced. Mickey was your best friend, and years of telling each other everything without a second thought had culminated in both of you being able to easily tell when the other was, on those rare occasions, hiding something. And usually, as soon as Mickey seemed even marginally onto you, you would spill everything to her. But this time, you couldn’t say a thing. What even would you say? Nothing good could come out of telling her that you’d been run over by a car and then just… walked home. 

“Can we finally talk about how Josh McClellan is clearly coming in here several times a week just to see you?” you asked, trying to change the subject as smoothly as you were capable of. 

“Okay, so it’s not only me who was thinkin’ that?” Mickey launched into a play-by-play dissection of her interactions with the guy immediately, and you sank onto the stool behind the counter in relief of the attention no longer being on you. 

The rest of your shift passed mostly without incident. Mickey followed Gary around the bodega, harassing him with pets and occasionally fixing up or restocking a shelf or two. The after-work crowd even seemed a little less disgruntled than usual, which your hourly deteriorating people skills appreciated greatly. 

“Think we can bump off early?” Mickey asked, as the clock reached eleven. “It’s only an hour.”

“I wouldn’t do Mr. Browne like that, and neither should you,” you said, aiming  a scolding look at her over the shelves as you idly pushed a broom back and forth in front of the coolers. “And, ‘sides, this is the easiest hour of the shift. Basically nobody comes in between now and closing.”

As soon as the words left your mouth, the bell above the door chimed. Mickey shot a told ya so look at you, before turning around to see who came in. 

“Oh– hey, Peter,” you greeted, eyes widening slightly as you realized it wasn’t just some random schmuck looking for mixers for their pregame. You knew this schmuck. Kind of. 

For his part, Peter froze in the door, looking a little too much like a prey animal for someone simply being recognized when they didn’t expect it. His eyes met yours, and he forced an awkward smile onto his face. 

“Hey,” he said your name, accompanied by a small wave. “I didn’t know you worked here.” 

“Didn’t come up while we were discussing your essay?” you asked, and Peter’s smile grew into something a little more embarrassed, cheeks pinking slightly as he ducked his head. 

“Sorry, that was stupid,” he said, wending his way through the aisles and clearly searching for something specific. You brought the broom back into the office and situated yourself behind the register for when Peter was ready to check out. Mickey met your eye from across the room as she hoisted Gary into her arms, giving you a look that was clearly asking what the fuck? You shrugged almost imperceptibly and looked away, but you could still feel her eyes on you. 

A few minutes later, Peter ambled up to the counter and set three different flavors of Celsius and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos down in front of you. Fascinating snack for this time of night. 

“Still on for tomorrow afternoon?” he asked as you began scanning his items. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” you said, looking up to offer him a small smile. Up close, the bags under his eyes were so pronounced they looked like true bruises, and there was a pretty fresh cut almost completely hidden in his hairline. 

“You okay?”

The words came out of both of your mouths at the same time, followed by twin looks of confusion. 

“Me?” you asked, brow furrowing as you finished ringing him up. “Total’s $13.50, by the way.” 

“Yeah– uh, sorry–” Peter said, fishing a couple of bills out of his jacket pocket. “You just… it seemed like something might be wrong.” 

You blinked at him for a few seconds, frankly dumbfounded that he– a virtual stranger– was able to pick up on the general wrongness of the current state of your existence. Realizing you’d been quiet for a weird amount of time, you sucked in a breath and responded, “Oh, yeah, no, I’m good. Just exhausted, s’all– you know, finals coming up and everything.”

“Oh, sure,” he nodded, like it made complete sense. “Right there with you.”

“And, uh, what happened up–?” you asked, gesturing toward the cut along his hairline. You noticed then that the skin around it was starting to bruise. 

“Oh, that,” Peter said, bringing a hand up to ghost along the offending injury. “I was in the lab earlier for my, uh, my internship and there was a little accident. You know how labs are.”

“I really do not know how labs are,” you said, and the same embarrassed smile from earlier grew on his face. 

“Right. Yeah. Accidents are par for the course.”

“Well, make sure you dress that properly when you get home,” you said, fighting the urge to fuss over the wound. 

“First thing when I walk through the door,” he promised, and you nodded, satisfied, as you handed over his purchases. 

“See you tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah, ‘night,” Peter said, waving as he took a few backward steps from the counter, before disappearing through the door. 

As soon as he was out on the sidewalk, Mickey materialized on the other side of the counter, red curls and freckled expression of shocked interest taking up your entire field of vision. “What the fuck was that?” 

***

You spent Friday morning valiantly trying to finish your biology work so that you actually had something for Peter to look over that afternoon. You figured that, honestly, bringing a blank lab worksheet to him would be just as useful as bringing one you filled in by yourself; it was like the synapses stopped firing in your brain when you opened up this stupid lab’s Canvas page. 

And anyway, your lack of ability to concentrate on anything that looked even remotely like STEM homework had become a hundred times worse since the Incident (you had taken to thinking of it as this: capitalized so as to be given proper weight, and named so that you never had to dwell on any of the details). Suddenly learning about plant tissue culture seemed entirely meaningless in the greater context of your increasingly bizarre life. 

Meaningless or not, you still had to pass the class. The universe worked in mysterious ways, and as you skimmed the same textbook page for the ninth time, absorbing not a single word, you thanked it for sending Peter Parker your way. 

When you reached the second floor of the library at five minutes to two, Peter was already sitting at the table the two of you had occupied the other day, general backpack detritus spread haphazardly across half the surface. He had a fresh printed copy of his edited essay in front of him, partially obscured by his arm resting on top of it, which was, in turn, supporting his head while he napped. 

You approached the table, dumping your bag in one of the empty chairs as gently as you could. Peter’s hair stuck up in all directions, and you noticed that the bruise blooming out from the cut along his hairline had matured into something nastier looking since the last time you saw him. 

For a moment, you stood awkwardly at the side of the table, waiting to see if he would wake up. You felt bad about the prospect of waking him– he clearly needed the sleep badly– and you briefly thought about just leaving and emailing him to set up a different time, but you knew he’d feel bad about it and selfishly, you needed to submit your lab by midnight. 

“Peter?” you asked, voice pitched low for the library. Hesitantly, you reached a hand toward his shoulder, unsure still of what you would do with it once it reached its destination, but just before your fingers brushed his sweatshirt, Peter’s head bolted up as if electrocuted. 

He took a few seconds to gaze, confused, about the room, before his eyes landed on you and a blush that was quickly becoming familiar pinked his cheeks. 

He said your name, half confused question and half surprised exclamation, and blinked up at you a few times as if trying to orient himself. 

“You alright?” you asked, moving to sit in the seat catty-cornered to his own. 

“Yeah, I’m all good, I– honestly, I can’t believe I  fell asleep here,” Peter answered, reassuring smile an afterthought. You watched how the smile dropped quickly and his brow furrowed, skin creasing above the bridge of his nose; he seemed far too concerned about accidentally falling asleep in the library. 

“I can’t tell you how many naps I’ve taken at this exact table, let alone the rest of the building,” you told him, tone light. You weren’t quite sure what about the situation had him so worried, but you hoped you could reassure him a bit anyway. “You wanna start with your essay, or my lab?” 

“Your lab deserves to go first,” Peter decided quickly. “What’s this one on?”

You attempted to explain the lab to the best of your ability, eventually giving up and handing over your entire biology folder so Peter could read it himself. For the next two hours, he talked you through each aspect of the lab– it felt like finding God, finally being able to understand something for this fucking class. 

Peter perked up with every question you asked him, as though getting the opportunity to explain biological concepts was literally reinvigorating him. His eyes brightened, his posture straightened– he was more confident than you’d ever seen him now that he was given the space to ramble about something he knew well. You were embarrassed to have to forcibly stop yourself from openly staring at him about half a dozen times. 

“Sorry, we got way off track at the end, there,” Peter said, suddenly cutting off a tangent about some research on chloroplasts that one of his internship colleagues was conducting. 

You waved him off, a genuine smile on your face. “Don’t be, I like listening to you. ‘Sides, I learned more from you this afternoon than I have from Dr. Katz the entire semester,” you said earnestly. 

Peter grinned, ducking his head a bit. “Well, I aim to educate and entertain, so I'm glad I hit on both of those today.”

“I really think you could have a future as Bill Nye’s successor with these skills, Parker,” you said solemnly, and Peter laughed. 

“With this kind of unwavering support, maybe I will be conducting science experiments on direct-to-videos being played in seventh grade biology classrooms all over the country very soon.”

“Maybe,” you nodded. “If you’re lucky.”

***

Three years into college, and Peter still hadn’t quite mastered balancing the student and hero halves of his life. 

Submitting work late and having no consistent social life were just, he guessed, par for the course. His entire life seemed to be made up of excuses, and he was helpless to change it. Mostly, it didn’t bother him. Being Spider-Man was just who he was; he wouldn’t give up any part of that for “the traditional college experience” or “having friends”. He shuffled his half-dead body between chem lectures and getting 18-wheelers thrown at him by the Rhino, and in the exceedingly rare moments of quiet between the two, he kept his head down. And that was that. He was good with that. 

And then he met you. 

He’d never needed a tutor before Professor Liu, and when he finally bit the bullet and asked her for help, he expected to be paired with some pretentious, Moby Dick reading, flowy blouse wearing poet who would eloquently tell him exactly how much of a dunce he was when it came to literary analysis. This probably wasn’t a fair assessment, but he didn’t know many English majors, and anyway, anyone who was held in such high esteem by Professor Liu was somebody whom, he assumed, he would never get along with in a million years. 

And then he’d shown up to tutoring, and there you were at the table in a giant sweatshirt, dog-eared book held open by one errant finger as you tapped at your keyboard, and you’d remembered his name right off the bat and smiled at him– one of those patient, encouraging smiles that could make anyone open up about anything– and somewhere between breaths the tutoring session had become the highlight of his week. 

He’d left with the guarantee of seeing you again in a few days, and then it was like his brain got the flu because all he could think about, any time he idled, was you, and how you laughed at all his stupid jokes and were so casually witty and– honestly, the torrent was never ending (not that he was trying to end it very hard) and maybe worryingly distracting (he’d only missed the broad side of a building with his webs once, and he rebounded before he became a stain on the pavement, so really, no harm no foul). 

He thought he was hallucinating when he walked into a bodega at random after a surprisingly nasty spat with a would-be car thief, spandex still on under his jacket and a pair of sweatpants, and there you were, too, name tag pinned to your sweater and broom in your hand, existing in your own right away from the library, which was, for some reason, a shock to him. He said something stupid (a curse he was sure he would never get rid of) and had to fumble his way through normalcy even when you, through what you claimed to be exhaustion but was pinging his spidey senses as something much more, noticed his little bump on the head and asked if he was okay. His heart had done a painful, spasmodic little dance at the thought that you cared enough to ask, and he didn’t really know what to do with that. 

Sitting on this rooftop was becoming frigid, and all he could think about was your hand touching his when you handed him back his change, and your voice so earnestly saying I like listening to you. 

God, but he was fucked.

[blamemma]

Emma, I know you are still on the delusional hopium just like I am - so using this as a safe space to say: the one thing that gets me, that stops me from getting any real closure, is when the official announcement graphic was made if mentioned that Daniel had departed RB (I.e. Racing Bulls). There’s been absolutely nothing to say he’s left Red Bull Racing and it has me so 🤔🤔🤔

What’s the plan then? Is he just going to sit on their payroll forever? Of course, they want him to take up an ambassador role but if he hasn’t taken it up by now I really don’t see him doing it ever.

Delusional copium in me: they need these six races to assess Liam and their full 2025 options, Daniel obviously wasn’t happy to take (or officially announce) a reserve role and so they just…haven’t announced anything. Hence, all the smoke and mirrors around Singapore. In the meantime, he is still in the drivers pool for 2025/26 and any official decision will come at the end of this season. Either Checo finds his form (he won’t) or Liam will blow everyone away in these next 5 races (he won’t) and if that doesn’t happen….they have the perfect time to announce Daniel’s return to the team in Australia next year 🤷🏼‍♀️

me at the helm of the sinking ship like woooooo lets go lesbians billy eichner style until we're literally at the bottom of the ocean decomposing at this rate. idk i just. its something i said to the girls from the beginning. f1 was his dream from a child. and he made it. he should be so proud. but his new dream was making it back to red bull, and he still hoped he would win a wdc one day. and that was our dream as well. we shared in that dream. it's hard to just....stop dreaming one day.

but yes. no r word in the statement. no updates or anything on his website (trust me, i check around 5 times a day). no official word or leaked comments or anything from him. we're still processing all this, so it hurts to think how weird this processing thing must be for him, but i switch between thinking, oh there's still hope, to oh he's just taking his time around 20 times an hour. i have my theories about the contracts and how that planned out and i have my feelings regarding red bull and how they've handled this fall out and i have....other things. but how exactly does a rookie prove within 6 races he is ready. and what happens when he ultimately proves he's not....i'm sorry but going up against max is a battle. a hard one. max is the best. i go round and round and round in circles arguing over and over and over again that the best driver for that second seat is a known quantity. someone who has respect and admiration for max, which daniel has proven time and time again. who will fight, and fight hard. has daniel not shown, fight, resilience, respect, over these past few months and years? yes, a million times over in so many different iterations. until i truly see....a final point. a statement or movement from daniel. an actual confirmation from red bull over....things.....i can't let it go, because ultimately, none of this makes sense. the crux to me of sooooo much of this, is singapore did not make any sense. at all. none. whatsoever.

[80s-movie-tournament]

Did your parents sit you down and make you watch all their childhood films? Do you have strong feelings about old movies? Do you like the 80s?

Then you've come to the right place! Submit your favorite '80s films here!

What count as an 80s film?

Well, as you might expect, the film needs to have been released during or in between 1980-1989. It's also worth noting that this tournament is primarily about well known films (movies directed by John Hughes, Rob Reiner, Steven Spielberg, and Robert Zemeckis come to mind). Not everything has to be a teen flick of family comedy or even super mainstream in general but it just has to be recognizable (someone please submit Blue Velvet).

Other rules

Don’t spam submit the same movie, but you can submit as many entries as you wish

I will do my best to reblog any propaganda tagged with my @

Be kind!

There will only be 64 movies selected for the tournament, so please be aware that if there ends up being a ton of submissions your book may not get in.

I will leave submissions open for about two weeks, or until the amount of submissions exceeds a quantity that I can sort through reasonably :)

Tagging for visibility but also because these tournaments are cool and you should check them out:

@shortstorytournament @bestmusicalworldcup @bookfirstlinetourney @musicaltheatregirlsandsongs @makethosenarratorsfight @gayest-classiclit @quote-tournament @hauntthenarrative @episodeoftv @high-school-lit-tournament

Lmk if you have any questions!

[stay-tiny-ville]

Han Jisung

Summary ~ Delulu thoughts of baby gurl Han Jisung and why the hell can’t men like this exist where I am (Or just my head going wild with dating head cannons of Han Jisung)

A.N. - I have heard your pleas for more Stray Kids before I move on to Ateez and I come to deliver DONT WORRY BABIES I HAVE 14 DRAFTS

A.N. 2 - I haven’t really checked word counts my brain just kinda goes on and on so if ones are longer than others I deeply apologize 🧎🏻‍♀️

A.N. 3 - also I’m genuinely confused if I can actually consider them head cannons if these are kind of mainly blurbs in each (if you can’t tell idk how to classify these)

———————————————————

Dawg, dude, sweetheart, baby, babe, angel are names he’d call you

Def the best friend boyfriend

That’s probably how you got together was from being best friends because he’d probably be too anxious to get with someone he had feelings for that he didn’t know on a deep level

You two are on top of each other at all times

Like laying on top of each other when one is already laying down

Full weight where the other can’t breathe

Or laying full body weight on them while they are doing stuff out and about

One only gets out of bed/off the couch if the other carries them

You’ve seen the nonexistent legendary baby photos

If you like to wear baggy or big clothes he would wear your clothes and you would wear his and all of a sudden you both have one giant closet with double the clothes

Would def watch marathons of movies with you when they should be watched

Like nightmare before before Christmas, horror movies, and Charlie Brown Halloween movies around fall

Star Wars runs in May

And def the classic Christmas movies such as Harry Potter, the Santa Claus movies, and even the original and classic stop motion movies

Year without a Santa Claus is the best

I imagine on one of your rare coinciding days off you don’t go out, no matter how long it had been since you had, instead this was the superior alternative

Maybe it was even a special occasion like an anniversary or birthday or even just an accomplishment but you spend the day on the couch

The beginning of the day consisted of the classics you had to get out of the way like the Studio Ghibli movies I know everyone agrees on him loving so much or just things that recently released you had been dying to getting around to watching

After a collection of movies was watched you would break for food

Most of it consisted of not the healthiest stuff a man in his field should be consuming in such quantities

Like pop tarts in the morning, hot pockets for lunch, macaroni for dinner

Just a lot of processed things but man were you two adorable and just having a fun day so who can be mad at you

As the day slowly got darker, Hannie built a nest of blankets he nestled around him, but there wasn’t a blanket on top of him

But that’s where you come in

You lay between his legs, head on his stomach, turned to wach intently the movie that played

one of his hands holding yours while the other ran along your head

As the movie pulled to a close you turned to rest your chin on his stomach, his own dark, large, quokka eyes bore into your own

His hand falls from your head to your cheek and he held it gently

His gaze softening as much as humanly possible as his eyes closed the more he smiled at you his gorgeous smile

You felt your heartbeat quicken

No matter how many years you had known this man, through childhood or not, no matter how old you were, you were just a teenager madly in love

You were lost in your adoration for this beautiful creature and you think he could tell since he giggled before he untangled from you and stood, pulling you up by your hands

He mumbled “come on” with a smile as he pulled you to the kitchen for snacks

You knew the drill at this point in the night

Popcorn

He got the bowl ready while you had put the bag into the microwave/started heating it on the stove

Obviously he got the quicker job and by the time you sat back and waited he was already waiting and leaning against the kitchen island behind you

You turned around and barely took a step before his gentle hands grabbed ahold of your forearm and coaxed you into his arms

His arms securely wrapped around your shoulders and thus pressed your head into his shoulder and neck

Your own arms wrapping around his tiny waist

The only noise was the hum of the microwave/hiss of the popcorn on the stove as you relaxed into who you called your home

After making your way back to the couch for what would be the last movie of the night with the snacks, you once again found yourself attached at the hip to your boy

This time you were tucked into his side, head on his shoulder while you two laid

you lasted all but 40 minutes of the two hour film before your eyes fluttered

It didn’t help that his hand was on your waist and was softly brushing at the open skin and made you feel safe

He watched you as you lost the fight to your eyes and brushed strands of hair from your face

(If you’re a heavy sleeper) he gathers you into his arms and heads to the bedroom, leaving behind the snacks and blankets to be cleaned up tomorrow

(If you aren’t a heavy sleeper) he moves all items off of you (phones, popcorn bowl) and falls asleep to the sight of you in his arms

Han deserves so much love and I love love baby girl Hannie

[astroyongie]

Why Do I Behave This Way ? - Psychology Answers

Note: we are finally to start another topic, this time with why do I behave this way. for this section we will go through the following questions: “Why Can't I Focus?”, “I Am Getting Old, Why Do I Keep Wanting Things?” “Usually I Am Well Behaved.. So Why Did I Lost My Temper?” “Why Do I Lie To People When They Ask Me Something?” “I Have Phobias: wWhat Can I Do?” “Last Week I Did Something Dangerous.. Why?” “Why Do I Keep Watching The Same Shows’” “Why Do I Embarrass Myself In Front Of Important People?"

“Why Can't I Focus?”

What happens in the unconscious brain: 

Everyone knows what attention is but few really knows how it works

In psychology, attention refers to the cognitive process of selectively concentrating on a discrete aspect of information, whether considered subjective or objective, while ignoring other perceivable information.

There’s several types of attention such as: sustained, selective, divided and alternating. 

The information received from our senses passes through the brain's processing system, but is weakened so that it can pass through the system at an unconscious level

Which is the reason we are able to do things without fully paying attention to it or through mechanical actions. Yet our subconscious is still able to visualize the entire information, it just processes it to keep the most important information. 

For example in some cases of Autism Spectrum Disorder, their brain/subconscious is unable to filter the information which makes them sensitive to stimulus and more aware of their environment. 

To resume it all, our attention is a dynamic and competitive system. During the processing of information, our attention amplifies some information while inhibiting others. 

To the question, why can't I focus, can have several answers. Anxiety and other psychological disorders or symptoms can have an impact on the brain processing system,  but the most common known impact is screen time 

The problem with screen time, such as phones or laptops or tv, it's the fact that they put all the things that attract attention together in a practical package, and add some addictive brain chemicals for fun.

One can be more sensitive when looking through a phone. you are receiving a text and your brain’s attention focuses on that.  After the text, you will see other notifications and this process is proven to have the same effect than opiates drugs have. 

Of course the process of focusing can also have other origins and will depend on your health and your environmental factors around you. 

If you are interested in more of these topics you can check the works of Broadbent, Cherry, Skinner, Treisman and Helmholtz as they have the best insight on attention and perception theories in psychology and neurology.

So what can we do?

The first thing we can do is try to understand why it is causing us to lose focus. Is it the screen time? Is it an underlying medical condition? Is it your emotions? are there any other bio-environmental factors? by pointing out what is causing the trouble, we can start working on it

We humans, we possess a limited quantity of attention and thus it's important to try and care for it the best we can

Some solutions can be used to try and regain focus on your everyday tasks such as: limiting screen time, using a reward recompense system with your causes of losing focus, setting boundaries and limits to when and where to use screen time, helo through medication and/or therapy depending on each one case 

You can also re-learn to stay focus. For that you can start doing simple activities like: studying (without screen time), reading, practicing yoga or meditation, playing board games or doing cognitive exercises specialized in attention. 

Now, you know where to work to become a better version of yourself 

[theminecraftbee]

having read the content warnings, do you have any personal recommendations on which game to start with? i know p5 is super popular (and 50% off right now) but is there anything about p3 or 4 that would make you say to go for those first?

the answer is "it depends"! honestly, if persona 5 royal is currently 50% off (and i checked, it is currently only 30 dollars on steam, it is actually 50% off), that is a good starting point; there are a LOT of persona fans who would argue with me, but it's the one that REALLY made the series blow up for a reason. it is the most polished of the games, the most likely to make someone who isn't already a jrpg fan like the game (despite it being an EXTREMELY jrpg jrpg, it is like, a known fact that a lot of people play it and go "ohhhh that's why people like it"), and the gameplay is the smoothest and easiest for newcomers.

that said, some additional data points:

you want persona 5 royal, persona 4 golden, or persona 3 reload; that last one is going to be a controversial statement but for someone new to the series, reload is going to be a much easier entry point than trying to play portable (although persona 3 portable is MUCH cheaper, lol), as it has a LOT of modern quality-of-life improvements.

honestly if you just want the cheapest entry point into the series, persona 4 golden is only 20 bucks on steam even when it's not on sale, and is only 13 bucks at the moment. it has a lot more janky elements that reload and royal both have smoothed out, but i personally label persona 4 as my favorite because the characters, man. the characters, the atmosphere, yes, even the high quantities of weird anime bullshit side episodes, i love all of it. it doesn't have the same modern flare and polish as the newer games but it's still got a lot of what makes persona persona. just, uh, be aware the boss design in that game is... questionable at best. (surely, giving this boss more hp makes for a more interesting fight, right?)

persona 3 reload is what i direct you towards if you SPECIFICALLY want to play persona 3. i'll say that storyline-wise, persona 3 probably has the tightest/most effective storytelling. that said, reload is. sigh. 70 dollars. which may VERY WELL NOT BE WORTH IT TO YOU, especially given that portable, for all portable is super, super jank as a port, is only thirteen. the main differences, for the record, is that reload looks and plays so much nicer, actually has cutscenes, is fully voice-acted, and has a LOT of combat and exploration tweaks that make the dungeon crawling way less of a chore.

that said, persona 5 royal? STILL probably my recommendation for a first persona game. it's got flash, panache, a pretty smooth combat system, it's easier for beginners, it takes a lot fewer Very Questionable Writing Swings than p4 (i love p4 it's my favorite but you may have noticed how many caveats i keep throwing at it, curse of my favorite being Like That), and more than anything: palaces are just so much better than the randomly-generated dungeons of p3 and p4. like, if you've only played p5: mementos is basically what EVERY dungeon is like in p3 and p4. you now understand why palaces are such an improvement. you will probably like this one the most as a new persona fan! i just wanted to offer the other options to you as well.

[steppingonyourshadow]

Selected excerpts from Xiao Zhan's Global People interview

Our interview with Xiao Zhan took place in the depths of the night. During the day, he had been busy with training camp for a new movie, and at night he attended a taping of a promotional program for his new show which ran until almost midnight. In the lounge which had been converted into our interview space hung the two outfits he wore today. Two pairs of white trainers sat on the ground. Once the equipment and the lights had been set up, there was almost no space to move.

After he finished the taping, Xiao Zhan changed as quickly as he could, fixed his hair and hurried to the lounge. Near the door, he stopped for just a moment, slowed his steps, came in. Greeted me coolly, sat quietly. Staff bustled around him, adjusting lighting, checking the mic. As he picked up and carefully read through the interview outline, there seemed to be a spotlight beaming down from above his head, separating him from the noise of the outside world, leaving only a man immersed in thought.

It seemed to be a habit of Xiao Zhan's to have some paper on hand. Acting coach Yang Xu, who has worked with him many times, once described him as "constantly with a script in hand". This comes partly from anxiety about the role, and also the respect he has for the character. As an actor with no professional training, Xiao Zhan still maintains a conscientious approach to performance.

This attitude, lurking beneath the surface, has been crucial to quietly helping him make the transformation from quantity to quality. In the past three years, Xiao Zhan starred in the play A Dream Like A Dream, with more than ten thousand characters of dialogue; there have been a steady stream of releases, ranging from costume to modern dramas, from fantasy to realist; when the TV series Where Dreams Began was released in June, audiences saw a more mature "actor Xiao Zhan".

"I think the way in which I'm most like Xiao Chunsheng is that if we decide on the right thing to do, we will persist with it all the way. In the show, Xiao Chunsheng had to make a lot of different choices as society changed around him, but the core of what he insisted on never changed, including how he is with his friends, family, and his life's work. He's kind of an obstinate person," Xiao Zhan told us.

"When people talk about you in the future, what do you hope they'll say?" We asked him.

"That show he was in recently was pretty good," Xiao Zhan says, smiling.

This is his intent, to be an actor who is known for his work. In recent years, Xiao Zhan has increasingly felt the special connection an actor has to the act of performance. At the end of the work day, back in his hotel room, he would often think back on the day with a strange sense of satisfaction.

"I'd feel really pleased, like oh, actually that scene was decent, all that hard work was worth it." Or he'd reflect, "that scene wasn't my best, if I could do it again I'd do better."

"Audiences tend to have a harsher, more critical view of non-professionally trained actors who attract a lot of attention like yourself. How do you view these comments?"

Three years ago, at an event to commemorate 110 years since the birth of the playwright Cao Yu, Xiao Zhan had a conversation with Cao Yu's daughter Wan Fang. Xiao Zhan asked her: "is truthfulness the most important thing in doing creative work?"

"With equanimity. Like the line from Where Dreams Begin, 'the more difficult road is the one heading up'. If their comments have merit, then I'll take them on board and make changes next time. For me, an actor speaks through their works, so everything should serve the work."

Wan Fang replied with a line from her play 'Winter's Journey': "There's no single path toward truth, truth is its own path."

Xiao Zhan carried this answer with him. He knew that this was also the attitude one should take to performing - there are no shortcuts on the way to a good performance; it can only be achieved through sincerity and persistence.

[talesofsonicasura]

Weretoons

I couldn't help but think of this concept after seeing this post. *Check out @horologiiiumart to see their Pizza Tower AU* Cartoons! We know them from age to style, whether it be classics or modern day. The most unique of them being particular movies like Who Framed Rodger Rabbit, Space Jam and Looney Tunes Back In Action.

What makes these quite special, especially the forner, are the interactions between our world with the cartoon side. Toons live on completely different rules unlike normal people. Any natural laws of the world being replaced with their cartoon version.

Jumping ridiculous heights outta sheer fright, bodies mold and stretch when interacting with certain things or storing objects much stronger than the average pocket easily. It is an easy thing for a toon to understand and do. But what if there's an exception to this rule.

Weretoons are a very unique entity amongst were-beings. A non-toon being who becomes a fully functional Toon under various conditions. The basic being a full or crescent moon on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights. (Days where new episodes for cartoons usually air on said night or incoming morning.)

*Caution must be heeded around Weretoons during the Blood Moon! Their antics have a high probability of not only becoming malicious but can potentially maim normal people! Lunar Eclipses will increase their aggression too.

Solar Eclipses and Blue Moons are the only safest shift alternatives for normal folk. Although it is best to keep an eye on inexperienced Weretoons with the latter. Blue Moons can cause uncontrollable sadness or unhealthy actions related to it.*

Transformations can also be triggered by excessive laughter, vengeful rage, or exposure to certain quantity of ink. Essentially the building blocks for cartoons in simpler terms. (Their purpose, the rules and creation of the popular Rubberhose.)

There is no clue if they occur naturally but these can be created through artificial means. Like any epidemic, it involved a Patient 0 and enough people to get infected for it to be impossible to eradicate. A Weretoon can spread their influence through biting, organ/blood transfusion, or their descendants.

*The percentage of those who become Weretoons through heritage start at 80% before dwindling down to the average 20% further down the bloodline.*

Weretoons don't always share the same species between non-toon and toon forms. A large chunk of individuals gain unrelated features or can become a completely different species upon a shift. EX: One human can become a Cartoon Dragon while another turns into a cartoon version of themselves.

In toon form, the Weretoon doesn't follow all natural laws. A good chunk are instead replaced with the Cartoon Laws of Physics. These new rules mainly focus on motion, objects, matter and gravity. Non-toons can be subjected to them by a Toon in the right moment.

Weretoons are born with a unique type called Tropes. These often determine their abilities and what kind of cartoon shenanigans they can do. Here's a simple list involving the more known ones. Link to a character archetypes for those who want to delve further.

Strongman- A trope that embodies incredible physical prowess such as strength or speed unmatched by many.

Eldritch Horror- A trope which manifests in transformations which range from varying degrees of body horror for intimidation and frights.

Jester- A trope that focuses on crafting mischief onto others on usually dangerous or potentially lethal levels.

Chaos Agent- A trope which embodies sheer mayhem with no care for the immense destruction wrought and anything caught up in the antics. *Most dangerous*

Loser- A trope that manifests as various degrees of misfortune or lackluster skill which can affect more than just the possessor.

Mad Scientist- A trope where anything can be made possible through science but will go wrong at some point and be possibly inhumane.

Magician- A trope which can turn the simplest sleight of hand into actual magic as long as the trick isn't fully interrupted.

Defense against Weretoons often varies upon the respective form. They can be killed like any non-toon equivalent if unable to or haven't shifted. It is highly important to not cause an blood drawing injury when a Weretoon is in mid-shift.

*This video is pretty good at explaining further depths on the concept of dealing with a toon.*

This often leads to a creation of a Clone. Clones are Toons born from this process and can create Weretoons just like their predecessors. The only differences between them being their tropes, appearance but also nature. Most clones tend to be very off-point or malformed versions of their Weretoon creators.

Their intelligence and copied memories usually varies between how close they are in resemblance to the original. All Clones are very clingy which often leads to stalking until taught not to. They tend to be very hostile with those deemed a threat to their Weretoon or said creator if mistreated enough.

It is near impossible to kill/injure a Clone and Weretoon in toon form except for one thing: The Dip. A lethal concoction of turpentine, acetone and benzene that became a real threat upon the popular staple status attained by Who Framed Rodger Rabbit. Weretoons can get hurt by it even if they aren't in toon form. Ink is the only thing that can treat Dip injuries. A fully submerged Weretoon will be severely burned in non-toon form and death can follow if they shift before removing the solution.

The Dip is a popular tool almost a particular group of people known as Cartoon Hunters. A common fear amongst Weretoons and Clones since these individuals will go to any length to kill a confirmed person. Most Cartoon Hunters won't let any moral boundaries like innocence or victims get in their way. Only the death of the Weretoons matter to them.

Dangers such as these led to most living in hiding or secret communities. Weretoons can be considered tall tales and crazy stories due to how elusive their nature has become. That doesn't mean there isn't a chance someone in your neighborhood can be one.

[minniethemoocherda]

Iridescent: Chapter 18

A/N: So sorry! I think this is the longest I have gone between updates for this fic! But I did post a bonus one-shot about Optimus and Bumblebee in this series if you're interested in checking that out! And from now on we should be back to our regularly scheduled updates! Xxxxxxx

Ao3

FF.net

"What are your opinions on Uraya?"

"That it was a shit hole even before the war." Jazz replied.

With the Decepticons now clearly aware of the locations of both the Ark and their MacCadam's base, Optimus had understandably decided that the Autobots needed to find a safer place to call home.

Which was why Jazz was currently sitting opposite Prowl in the Head Tactician's office, a holomap of Cybertron projected on the desk between them with most of the cities being covered with big red crosses.

They had been debating over locations for so long that Jazz had nearly finished his army of tiny replicas of high command out of scraps of metal.

Thankfully as long as Jazz stayed on topic and didn't wreck his office, then Prowl put up with it.

"Polyhex?" Prowl suggested.

Jazz snorted as he twisted the top of Scrap-Prowl's head into its signature chevron points.

"As much as my old home town will always hold a special space in my spark, it was a city state through and through. Even in ruins there ain't enough space to park the Ark."

Jazz may have been omitting certain details about why he personally didn't want to go back to the place he had once run away from, but that didn't mean that his words weren't true.

For similar reasons, he wasn't even going to entertain the idea of suggesting Praxus to the former Praxian enforcer.

"Whattdya think about Iacon?" Jazz asked, changing the topic.

"It is well fortified and has the most remaining structures of any city left on the planet. However, as the previous capital for the Autobots, I fear it would be too obvious a location."

"The Deceptions could think it's a double bluff?" Jazz suggested, putting his feet up on Prowl's desk.

Prowl promptly batted them away.

"I will not be risking the safety of our faction on a bluff."

"Fair enough." Jazz shrugged, adding his now completed Scrap-Prowl to the line of sculptures standing to attention on Prowl's desk. "What about Kalis? The Ark should fit inside the arena."

Polyhex might've been known for its music, but Kallis was the real entertainment centre of the planet, home to the largest stadium on Cybertron which held the World Cube Championship every year. One of the few wonders of the world left standing.

"It would provide some protection." Prowl considered. "Unfortunately the construction was designed with quantity of seats of quality of fortification in mind. It would not be a suitable long term base. However-"

Jazz watched as Prowl zoomed in on Kallis.

"- Kalis' docks would easily provide enough space to hoke the Ark, with the remains if the city providing cover to the East whilst the Rust Sea would provide natural protection from the West."

"Looks like we've got a winner." Jazz grinned, glad that they had finally found themselves some new digs.

As Prowl started arguing that he still needed to run a few thousand simulations before he could confirm that Kalis' Docks really were their best choice, Jazz checked the time on his wrist screen. It was late, most bots would be in recharge by now and Red Alert's shift had finally finished meaning that there was a next to zero chance of random room inspections.

Absent-mindedly nodding along to Prowl’s points, Jazz stood up out of the chair. He then slowly made his way around to Prowl’s side of the desk, trailing his hand under the rim as he did so, thankfully finding no listening devices.

Jazz folded his arms and leaned against the edge of the desk, careful not to jostle any of his sculptures To any observing eye he would appear the picture of casualties.

He looked down at Prowl's face, a chiselled picture of focus which he could never capture the beauty of in a piece of scrap. As someone with an often erratic attention span, even when he once hated the guy's spark, Jazz had always admired Prowl's ability to put his entire being into focusing to complete a task.

Jazz hated to ruin such a sight but he needed to get what he was about to say off his chest.

"Hey mech, I got something to tell ya." Jazz said, his tone as casual as if he was asking the weather.

"Then say it." Prowl said, those piercing blue eyes giving him his full attention.

Jazz took a deep breathe. There would be no taking this back once it was out in the open.

"I think we've got a spy."

Jazz watched in trepidation whilst Prowl considered the bombshell for a moment. Then in the next that familiar calculating blank look vanished as the bot nodded.

"Yes, my calculations have come to the same conclusion."

Jazz let out a vent he didn't realise he'd been holding. Although with a brain as big as Prowl's he should have known that the tactician would already have had similar thoughts.

"Have you told anyone else of your suspicions?" Prowl asked.

Jazz shook his head.

"I ain't got enough proof to go to Optimus or Red Alert yet."

"Then why are you telling me?" Prowl asked, once again those brilliant blue eyes giving him his full attention.

"Because I trust you."

Prowl blinked, his optics flickering as they ran yet another set of calculations. This time they didn't appear to have come to any conclusions. At least one that they didn't share with Jazz. And well Jazz was a spy after all so he wasn't going to hold keeping secrets against the tactician.

"Do you have any suspects?" Prowl said eventually.

Jazz shrugged.

"All I can tell is that they know the current location of the Ark, which so far narrows to down to everybody on base."

"What about the circumstances of apparent self destruction of Head of Communications at the MacCadam's base?"

"I don't know Elita's crew well enough the narrow down anyone specific. And most of them know our location too so that doesn't help much either."

At this late, or rather early hour, the darkness of the room pretty easily captured the downer mood.

However, even in the dim light of the projection, Jazz could see the dark purple undersides of Prowl's optics that marred his usually handsome face.

"Well, looks like its time to hit the sack." Jazz said with an exaggerated yawn.

"I'll just finish-"

"Oh no," Jazz protested. "We need your big brain firing on all cylinders tomorrow if we want to convince Optimus that Kalis is our best bet. Besides-"

Jazz leaned over the tactician, their helms so close that he could see the reflection of his grin in those bright blue eyes.

"Even if you worked all through the night, you would to need my persuasive pizzaz to win him over."

For a long time, Prowl refused to speak, which meant that he refused to admit that his calculations had shown Jazz to be correct.

"Fine." Prowl conceded through gritted denta. "As long as we can work on this first thing tomorrow."

Jazz gave him a cheeky salute. 

"Yessir!"

[hello-kitty101]

The Art of Being Mysterious

 Understand People's Intentions Better.

When I talk less and observe more, I've noticed that I can indicate red flags better; I can without this, too, but it's easy for people to slip, indicating red flags.

In the past two months, I've definitely gotten better at reading people, improving intuition and observing red flags. I can sense when there's something off about someone right away now and cannot really explain why but just a lot of videos on "dark psychology" and reading people in general.

I definitely recommend.

2. Always Stay Calm and Be Less Reactive -- but Not a Pushover

This is just self-explanatory; it also always makes you the stronger person in each case.

3. Use correct body language

First impressions are crucial so always use appropriate, confident, and approachable body language.

4. Don't always be available

Don’t be available all the time; focus on you. If you are constantly answering your phone, checking your phone -- it shows desperation and insecurity.

With me, I am barely on my phone... I only really go on it for my daily deep breathing exercises and for unlocking my email since it's protected beyond belief.

5. Not being a Try-Hard

It's not cute, and you just look extremely desperate -- huge turn off.

6. Revealing Small Details

This person doesn't need to know EVERYTHING about you. I've known my best friend for almost 4 years now, and she still doesn't know everything about me, so why should a guy you met an hour ago, 2 days ago, a week ago, or even a month ago?

Be like a book, reveal small pieces of information that will keep them wanting more but not too much.

7. Be Hard to Get

Don't sell yourself short for anyone.

8. Quantity Over Quality

You don't need one million friends to be happy; having just one authentic friend is all you really need over 100 fake friends.

9. Stay Off Social Media/Be Careful with Who you give your no. to

Give it time before you give someone your social media and phone number, especially phone no. if they turn out to be a total creep. I don't have social media anymore, totally gone, but when I did, I had no posts... None... with a blank profile picture, and I also didn't follow any topics or celebrities I was interested in in case people decided to dig around my account and get too much information about me. Not that the stuff I was into was bad, but it gave more information about me that I wanted to share when I was ready like my taste in music, favorite shows, hobbies, etc... I also think it added into the people pleasing aspect when I did post on my story occasionally, wishing people would just message me and say how cute I looked or how fun it looked which was not helping my mental health at all. Not to mention, I wasn't really close to anyone on there except 2 people out of 143 people.

[udhhyog2]

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Why Choose Udhhyog for 2 Inch MS Flanges?

At Udhhyog, we prioritize quality, affordability, and customer satisfaction. Here’s why businesses choose us for their 2 inch MS flange needs:

Competitive Pricing: We offer some of the most competitive prices in the market without compromising on quality. Our pricing strategy is designed to provide maximum value to our customers.

Customization: Need specific dimensions or coatings? We can customize flanges according to your precise requirements, ensuring they meet the demands of your specific application.

Quality Assurance: Every 2 inch MS flange we manufacture undergoes stringent quality checks to ensure it meets the highest industry standards.

Timely Delivery: With a well-organized supply chain, we ensure that your orders are delivered on time, helping you keep your projects on schedule.

How to Get the Best Price for a 2 Inch MS Flange?

To get the best price for a 2 inch MS flange, consider the following tips:

Request Quotes: Reach out to multiple suppliers and request detailed quotes. At Udhhyog, we provide transparent pricing with no hidden costs.

Compare Quality: Don’t just look at the price—compare the quality of the flanges offered. A slightly higher price for better quality can save you money in the long run by reducing maintenance and replacement costs.

Consider Bulk Orders: As mentioned earlier, purchasing in bulk can reduce the overall cost per unit. Udhhyog offers discounts on bulk orders, making it a cost-effective option for large projects.

Negotiate: Don’t hesitate to negotiate, especially if you’re placing a large order. We at Udhhyog are open to discussions to ensure you get the best deal possible.

[cinema-tv-etc]

How Do These Celebs SIZE Up?

Do you ever wonder which celebrities have the biggest and smallest penises in Hollywood? Well today you’re in luck! Here at Mr. Man we love penises of all shapes and sizes, and we’re celebrating the delish diversity of dongage with the 20 biggest celebrity growers and showers! Only A-listers actors made the cut (or uncut!) and the results have been verified by our dedicated team of guy-ientists. Those are guy scientists for you non-academics. Hit the list below to check out the sexy celebrities with the biggest and smallest penises in Hollywood!

Watchmen star Yahya Abdul-Mateen II is one of the most well-endowed men in Hollywood, according to a list compiled by Mr. Man, a database for male celebrity nude scenes.  The Emmy-award winning actor who can also be seen in the Netflix historical legal drama The Trial of the Chicago 7, is included in “Hollywood Showers” list. “During this award season, we thought it would be fun to recognize the actors who dare to bare all,” says Phil Henricks, an executive at Mr. Man.  “We didn’t feel the need to hand out trophies as these men have already been gifted with the best prizes of all.”

The experts at Mr. Man were satisfied as well. , they chose him among their 10 “Showers” in Tinseltown.  Viggo Mortensen, Ben Affleck, Colin Farrell, and Ewan McGregor also make the well-hung club.

Michael Fassbender, best known for his starring role in the X-Men films, appears on the list for his full-frontal scene in the 2011 film, Shame.  “The German race car driver turned actor is probably not as well known in America as the other men on our list,” reflects Henricks. “But judging from the impression that he made on our team, he should be.”

Among the Growers list are Tom Cruise who appeared nude in 1983’s All the Right Moves, Jude Law from 1999’s The Talented Mr. Ripley, Leonardo DiCaprio in 1995’s Total Eclipse and Tom Hardy who bared all in 2008’s Bronson.  “We applaud the Growers, too,” says Henricks.  “At Mr. Man, we appreciate all shapes and sizes.”

#1: Ben Affleck

It’s no secret that Ben Affleck is one of the sexiest men in the biz we call show. But did you know that the real-life DILF has the biggest penis in Hollywood? It’s true. He surpasses even the legendary Michael Fassbender (who seemingly fluffed for his Shame role). For a look at what Ben is packing, check out his massive member in Gone Girl. Ben there, hung that!

#2: Michael Fassbender

Michael Fassbender’s legendary cock has received ample time in front of the camera thanks to his brazen full-frontal performances. Michael really put other actors to shame in, well, Shame, when he flaunted his huge swinging penis. Raise your hand if you want more Fassbender dick!

#3: Yahya Abdul-Mateen II

The talented and sexy actor Yahya Abdul-Mateen II em-bawdy-ies Watchmen’s Dr. Manhattan like no other man can. He lends his perfect, thick penis to the role of the famously naked Dr. Manhattan in multiple mouthwatering scenes. Do we like seeing him naked? Um, Ya...hya.

#4: Liam Neeson

We’re Taken… by Liam Neeson’s cock! Now we know where the horse-hung Irish actor gets his swagger from. Liam Neeson’s full frontal scene goes down in Under Suspicion, when he makes a mad dash across a lawn with his thigh-slapper on full display. Just… wow.

#5: Ewan McGregor

Ewan McGregor is one of the nudest actors in Hollywood, with over a half dozen frontal performances under his rarely-there belt. And with his impressive package in Young Adam, this sexpot is an example of quality and quantity! When it comes to Ewan, we all win.

#6: Omar Epps

Omar God! Omar Epps is definitely an actor who we want to see more nudity from. But at least he blessed us with a great frontal nude scene in Conviction. We’re convinced that he’s one of the most well-endowed actors in Hollywood!

#7: Viggo Mortensen

Viggo Mortensen has delivered decades of dudity, first showing off his thick penis in 1991’s The Indian Runner, and most recently in 2016’s Captain Fantastic. That cock? Fantastic!

#8: Antonio Banderas

Many fans might not know that Zorro himself is packing an impressive sword. Antonio was just a twink when he showed off his genuinely thick sausage in 1982’s False Eyelash! And don’t get us started on that sexy au naturel bush. Just don’t okay.

#9: Colin Farrell

A man with a dashingly handsome face, dreamy eyes, perfectly toned bod, and an extra long dong might seem too good to be true. But that’s exactly what you get with Colin Farrell! Porn fans can check out his sizable soapy cock in Triage.

#10: Justin Theroux

My man’s lingerie? Grey sweatpants. Justin Theroux made headlines for his bobbing bulge in The Leftovers, but to see what he’s actually packing, check out Justin’s impressive frontal shot in Eight Inches Under. We mean, Six Feet Under!

#11: Robert De Niro

The legendary actor Robert De Niro was about as studly as they came when he was a young Hollywood hotshot. We think that his sexy cock, as seen in the Bernardo Bertolucci movie 1900, might contribute to his confidence.

#12: Harvey Keitel

This accomplished actor made a name for himself with his brazen nude performances. You can peep Harvey's hog in unforgettable scenes in Bad Lieutenant, The Piano, Ulysses’ Gaze, and more!

#13: Alexander Skarsgård

Arguably the hottest member of the Skarsgård dy-nasty isn’t afraid to serve up his Swedish sausage. Alexander shocked audiences by delivering full frontal nudity in a True Blood scene that’s straight fire.

#14: Daniel Craig

If you look up “daddy" in the dictionary, you won’t find a picture of Daniel Craig. That’s not how dictionaries work. But if you check him out in Love is the Devil, you will see one of the hottest daddy cocks in Hollywood when he lets it all hang out in the tub!

#15: Richard Gere

Richard Gere proves that it’s not the size that matters, it’s how you use it. The retro heartthrob bravely bared his bits in the aptly named movie American Gigolo. Now that’s what we call kicking things into high Gere!

#16: Tom Hardy

This British babe loves showing off his pint-sized package to anyone and everyone. Shia LaBeouf even claimed that he and Tom once wrestled fully naked! Tom Hardy boldly bares it all in some of the most memorable nude titles here at Mr. Man, like Colditz and Bronson. Hardy will leave you hard!

#17: Tom Cruise

Now we know why things didn’t work out with Katie! Throughout his career Tom Cruise tried his best to hide his package from the camera, but in 1983’s All the Right Moves, he briefly slipped audiences his Cruise missile. Tom’s nudity has us jumping (on the couch) for joy!

#18: Jude Law

Jude Law was every gay boy’s crush in the ’90s, but many people don’t know that he showed off his goods on screen. Jude Law’s best penis shot can be found in the homoerotic The Talented Mr. Ripley. With a face like that, does penis size matter… like at all?

#19: Leonardo DiCaprio

Back when he was a mere twink, industry favorite Leonardo DiCaprio delivered a surprising frontal scene in Total Eclipse. He was only twenty-years-old when he showed his fun-size cock and balls while standing on a roof fully naked! See, you can be a ladies man, even without the gland.

#20: Terrence Howard

We’re certain that he’s simply a grower and not a show-er, but that didn’t stop audiences from commenting on the shocking size of Terrence Howard's penis as seen in Get Rich or Die Tryin’. Maybe in Terryology (Howard’s unproven math theory) three inches equals a foot!

https://www.mrman.com/top10-biggest-smallest-dicks-hollywood

Mr. Man is an adult entertainment website and database of male nude and sexually explicit scenes from mainstream movies and TV.  It launched in 2013, 14 years after its parent site, Mr. Skin.  Its collection includes more than 8,000 stars, 90,000 photos and video clips and a vast selection of curated films and TV shows in full HD video.

You can watch every scene now with a FREE Mr. Man account!

[ccaptain]

H:SR Kaeya's body, not having a blood flow or proper organs to dilute and distribute the effects of it, isn't the best at absorbing alcohol.

Ingesting huge quantities of it doesn't happen often, if at all, since it tends to form something heavy (like waste) in what should be the equivalent his stomach, and the more he tries to hold it in, the queasier it makes him. Eight, talls drinks is his limit. More of that will drain the color off his face and send him hurling in the nearest alley he can find.

If he's in a concerned company who followed him after seeing his distress, he'll quietly apologize for the inconvenience this caused them with the most pathetic wet eye known to mankind, trying uselessly to wipe at it and trying to clean his mouth and nose from the consequence of his actions. After having expelled most of it, his body begins working to get rid of the much more sustainable amount left in him, but the queasiness will stick a while.

( Alcohol abuse has been his main test method to check what his limits were upon gaining full sentience as a being- and something that made him feel closer to Kaeya Alberich. The sensation he felt proved that there was still some human-ish part of him in here.

Fortunately, these times are behind him. He can tolerate a lot of things, but nausea isn't one of them. )

[finallyunveiled]

tommy martinez, pansexual, cis male + he/him → isn’t that marino torres? i’ve seen them hanging out with the merfolk. i hear they're 136, but they’ve only been in alexandria for 1 year. they seem to be extroverted & cooperative, but also indulgent & reckless.

GET TO KNOW THE MUSE

Name: Marino Torres

Species: Merman

Nickname(s): Rino

Age: 136

Zodiac Sign

Race / Ethnicity: Latino

Gender: Cis Male

Pronouns: He/Him

Job: Flower Shop Keeper

APPEARANCE

Height: 6'5"

Weight: 248

Build: Muscular - Bulk

Hair Color: Black

Eye Color: Dark Hazel

Tattoos: Tattoos from hands to shoulders

Piercings: Both Ears

Clothing style - Casual Street Wear, Athleisure

Distinguishing Features: Scar on his lower lip near the left corner

NSFW

Position: Vers Top

Kinks: Body Worship, Breeding Kink, Sex in Water, Hair Pulling, still discovering.

Safeword: Quantity

Dick Size: 11.6"

BIOGRAPHY

Marino was the middle child of thirteen children. He's not entirely sure if that's still the case.

Merman are known to be very independent despite their large communities. However, Marino exhibited the opposite traits when it was time to depart from his pod, wanting nothing more than to stay a little longer.

He was able to survive on his own, but he tend to linger when he spotted other merfolk, wanting to create a sort of collective. It was never successful, as the longest he's gotten was a full year.

Regardless, Marino traveled across the world countless times, learning everything he could about the communities around, finding himself to stay around the coastal towns due to limitations.

He was always very benevolent, even with the humans. Whenever he could he tried to keep the weather in check to minimize the damage nature could cause on others.

However, after many years of traveling, he somehow heard about this special town that was home to a lot of different supernatural species.

Obviously, his curiosity got the best of him, because he was quick to give up his immortality so he can immerse himself in this small town.

Marino was quick to put his roots into his town, wanting to create a modernized tavern and offering the people of Alexandria refreshing drinks and food that he's learned from all across the world. (Maybe even some sunken wine that he's come across through his travels)

The Merman is currently living in the chateau, as he prefers the community that it offers. However, he's been thinking about moving to the apartment on top of his restaurant. Most likely with roommates to liven up the place.