#bulk denim shirts

[yeyinde]

Outlaw!Price, the enigmatic leader of the notorious and deadly 141 gang, who stumbles upon you one evening near the stables (attempting to steal the mare he had his eyes on, no less) as you try to sneak out of the city (and away from the awful, awful man you're supposed to be married to in the morning), and decides to help you get away.

But if you think it's altruism that's making him lend a helping hand to a stranger, you're wrong. In this life, he knows it's kill or be killed.

And most importantly:

finders keepers.

“How's this,” he begins, and everything inside of you screams to run. “I'll accompany you across the desert. Get you somewhere safe.” 

“Out of the goodness of your heart, I'm sure,” you sneer, edging backwards. “As if I'm dumb enough to believe that.”

“Can't leave a maiden—” your scathing hiss makes his lips twitch beneath the thick moustache; “—all on her own like that. I know these parts like the back of my hand. No harm will come to you. That, you have my word for.”

“And what's that worth?” 

He dips his chin. “Far more than you could imagine, love.” 

You swallow. “I don't know. I don't trust you—”

“Smart,” he nods, drops the cigar on the ground before snuffing the end out with the heel of his boot. “But I ain't very patient. Better make up your mind quickly.”

“Well, in that case—”

“But," he cuts your scoff off with a low hum. "I'll put it this way for you: do you want me to be the one to accompany you across the desert or the one they'll pay, handsomely, tomorrow morning to drag you back home, mm?”

“You scoundrel—! You dirty, rotten—”

“It's business, love.”

“I don't have any money to even pay you to—”

His eyes are searing when they catch on the threads of your lace collar, razing over exposed skin like he's owed the privilege. You've never seen such hunger on a man's face before.

Your skin prickles. Heart sinking low with each rasping sweep of his eyes across your body. It's as if you're meat. Something to be bartered with. Bargained.

The rasp in his voice makes you shiver. “You're a smart girl. I'm sure you can figure something out.”

“I—”

“I'll leave it to you, then, mm?” He starts forward, then, chin ducking low into his collar to stare down at you through the wide brim of his hat. Each thud of his boots echo against the floor in haunting harmony with the metal clink of his spurs. 

More of his bulk is revealed as he steps out from the shadows and into the pale moonlight, and somewhere in your chest, the air becomes trapped. 

He's huge. Bigger, now, where most of him blended in, almost seamlessly, into the shadows. A massive mountain of a man. 

His shoulders seem to stretch the fabric of his vest and waistcoat taut, pulling sharply on the straining threads. The heavy brown of his jacket sweeps down to midthigh, the seam tucked behind the leather holster of his gun tied tight at his waist. The brass buttons of his dress shirt crease against the pull of his broad chest and barrelled stomach. The softness around his midsection speaks almost highly of a luxurious lifestyle—pure hedonism. The sort ladies back home whisper about. Violence, women, and booze—ruffians, the lot of them! But it seems to belie the power in his gait. In the flex of his thick, corded thighs bunching in the tightness of his denim trousers and the leather caps covering them.

He has the walk of a bear. Lumbering, sloven. A touch clumsy. 

And yet—

The softness about him hides the raw strength under the thick pelt. Deadly. The slow, meandering trawl of a man who knows, unequivocally, that he needn’t run or rush anywhere. 

It lodges somewhere inside of you. This knowledge, this fact. He'll outpace you in spades. Catch up no matter where you flee to. 

Your stomach folds, looping over itself. It's nausea, maybe. And something else—

He's so big. Burly. Thickened like the strong trucks of ponderosa pine. A man cut from the wilderness; made in the likeness of the savagery of the wild. The brutality of the desert, of mother nature herself. Kin to the affinity this land seems to have in taking every ounce of a man and leaving him bereft in the face of the looming unknowns in the vast desert.

None of the men you've ever met before look like him. Grizzled. Hardened.

His scarred, tanned skin speaks of a life living outdoors. On a horse, on the run—hard work made with his bare hands. You think the softness, the callous-free palm that gripped your fingers tight in a vice, and can't help but to lean, just a little, into him. Drawn there, like a moth to a flame.

There's something about this man that makes you tremble. Something that curls inside of your guts. Something deeper, darker than fear. Primal. Animalistic. There must be something wrong with you, then. Most know to run from the predators—not move closer.

He comes to a halt less than an arm's length away from you, close enough that you can scent the heavy musk of him so thickly in your nose. Something purely masculine—loam, humus—and yet unfathomably different from the men you've known your whole life. Horse, and sweat. Sun. The headiness of riding nonstop through the sprawling deserts of New Mexico. Leather, and gunpowder. 

The novelty of it all is enough to make you dizzy. And, as if to reinforce it, he leans down, the brim of his hat narrowly missing your forehead, and he rasps, guttural and dark, 

“and I do expect to be paid back in full, love,” his voice is felled timber. Low, and firm. “Or you'll find you don't like the consequences very much. Am I clear?”

The unmistakable iron in it snags on the tendrils of your resolve, pulling messily at the threads. No escape. It winds tighter, tighter— 

Still. 

Your only other option is to stay here, and in the morning, marry a man who made it abundantly clear that the sole use he has for you is to rebrand a dwindling legacy (women ought to be seen, not heard, darlin’, and I think it's high time someone teach you that); or— 

Make off on your own. Through the unmapped, untamed wilderness of New Mexico with nothing for protection except whatever you could reasonably steal away with uninterrupted, which. Isn't much. Not only that—this man, this outlaw, had made it abundantly clear that there would be a bounty on you come sunrise. One he'd be most eager to fulfil. 

Rock, hard place. No escape. 

You steel yourself, grappling with trembling fingers against the dwindling options in front of you, and offer a slow, jerking nod. 

He heaves a breath in response. “Good choice, love.”

It doesn't feel very much like one. It doesn't feel very good at all, even. 

In this little stable just outside of town, you sell your soul to the devil in New Mexico while the cicadas in the background scream through the ink black night. The sounds they make seem to ask, 

what have you done?

[astralnymphh]

veiled affections ⚝ | ellie williams

☆࿐-ˊˎ farm!ellie x fem!reader

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

.

.

✧˖ ° 🕯 bright blessings!

AN: quick little smut to hold me off before i work on a bigger project/series fic!! more casual and less proofread like my last one but still pretty good ifya ask me <3

tags/cw: NSFW!! SMUT!! 18+ MDNI, usual playful bickering, one second of cuddiling, poetic ahh writing, very mild foreplay, hella dirty talk, lotsa swearing, oral (receiving) spitting, clit stim (receiving), petnames (babe, baby, good girl)

WC: 2k+

designated song: stargirl interlude - the weekend & lana del rey

synopsis; swept under your fossil gray wool blanket, a body deprived of slumber and living the effects of back-bending chores all around the farmhouse has you fatigued and yearning to supply the last ounce of energy with a bit of literature. eventually, ellie will set that book on rain check, and your fatigue, ..and her boredom. honestly, she'll definitely be the one to steal your energy instead of the book. 

radiance incarnate is what lies behind the glass pane just ahead of your bed-post. lunar light outstanding the dark night, never lacking a few stars that flecked the sky above the nocturnal forest, at least what you could perceive through a regular sized window. fusing with the comfortability of your mattress and cloaked in a warm wool blanket makes for a nice end-of-the-day reward while you immerse yourself in the realm of 'the odyssey'. ellie's not in bed. not in the room. she's presumably downstairs finishing up something, so not a clue of her coming is on your mind.

you wriggle around the soft bed altering your position to have one leg bent and the other draped over, the book upheld by the bulk of your thigh making it easier to flip through. page by page, word by word, space and time diminishes around you and is replaced by this entrancing world of mycenaean greece portraying the aegean sea. the room was dimly lit and still, minus the muted sounds of an owl and crickets chirping beyond the wooden walls. serenity lasts for a good half hour before an upsurge of hard rubber footsteps wake the floor by the bedroom door to the right of you.

"hey babe- ooh, what'cha reading?" ellie's voice grapples your focus to her profile, attired in her white shirt, grubby denim and converse that look like they've been dragged to hell.

"the odyssey." you respond as she begins to lurk closer, arms crossed.

she swipes her tongue across her lips, saying, "y'know.. savage starlight might be more.. fun to read?" in an obviously sarcastic note, creasing her brows together accompanying a brass smirk.

"to you, maybe. I actually enjoy this a lot." you cave the book over your chest, sitting like a roof, "you just don't have a mature taste."

"whadda'ya mean? comics are for everyone, and actually easy to understand." she clambers atop of your hips, descending her face upon you, "unlike the odyssey."

"pshh, the odyssey is a classic." you highlight.

"you're just mad that im right." 

you pucker a pout, slowly lifting the book between your noses till ellie knocks it down plumb on your collarbone.

"ah-uh," she intently strikes spires into your eyes with her persuasive peer, narrowing those lids in an undeniably tantalizing way, "can't ignore this now."

"you're right." you spat out and divided the space with your book again.

"c'mon.." she prys the book from your limp grasp, leaving it astray to the bed adjacent to you, "I'm here now, aren't I?" a humbly intimate whisper croaks from her toothy grin.

you banish your sight to the headboard above, pondering the words that would wisp from your lips, "I have a few pages left, babe, then we'll do whatever.."

"mmk, 'gonna lay on you though." she giggles and shuffles along the length of you, interlacing your limbs together and smushing her cheek on your stomach. her arms swathe your hips and tuck underneath your butt.

the book diverged from your fingertips finds its way back, cuddled between your thumbs and eclipses ellie's head from your vision. your pupils root back to the muster of sentences lining the page, with a certain breath gusting onto your mildly exposed midriff.

a scant minute survives before a husk is heard, "mmph- so warm.." the tip of her nose drags on your skin as she faces downward, marking an indulgent smooch to your abdomen. 

that brought a melliferous smile to draw out, instilled with admiration from her speckled kisses. it anchors your attention unwillingly when these kisses continue but you'd rather void it and tread on with reading as ellie treads on with a rampancy of taunting kisses. normally, this'd be blasé, but tonight, it's turning your tides.

ellie muffles, "wann' kiss every inch.." her nibbles subside in target of your navel, nuzzling on the pouch of your belly and biting your shorts' band, "fuck.."

"els."

"mhm?"

"what're up to?" the book slants down.

"you."

"elsies.." 

"just showin' my love.." her tone airs up and turns raspy. 

"I think it's more than that." you dig at her transparent peak in sensuality and prod her foot with yours.

ellie can't necessarily disprove this, she was blatantly horny but wanted to keep that 'under the covers' till you shared the feeling outwardly. a shameless smirk paints her mouth regardless, "y'know what I really wanna do?"

"what?"

a gnaw at her lower lip fracts the answer briefly, uttering, "I wanna eat your fucking pussy." and blunt she was, verdant eyes fastened to yours. she's so eager for you, clawing at your loins.

a shudder bolts the extent of your nerves and you clench around nothing but a throb at the contents of her question, visibly ruffled up by it, "babe.." 

"can I?"

nary a gloom of doubt inhabits your mind, the way she's laying on your body, patient to taste you revs you up like a torrent of arousal. oh my fucking goddess. it's making you go wild.

"yes.." 

"shit- m'kay, lemme just.." ellie wrinkles up the sheet in her fist, tossing it overhead till her head was obscured by it. the amber hue of her hair is subtle under the thin pearly sheet as she slithers down between the interstice of your thighs.

maybe the now carnal environment made it inconvenient to carry on with the perusal of your book, but you're elevating it back up from your sternum regardless. the vivid thought of her eating you out while you read is a bit elating, is it not?

ellie's cunning lips park at the epitome of your core, locking her biceps under your slack legs and dangling her still shoe-clad feet off the beds' brink.

"can't wait to see that beautiful fucking pussy.." her veiled voice has strings of raw ardor plucking in her throttle rippling onto your clothed entrance with a muggy pant on every word.

an unheard gulp passes through to the trench of your chest, sending out a reflex of sweet sensations to your pelvis, whimpering, "mhh- ellie.."

"shhhshhh.. i got'chu.." 

she begins to pleat your panties over themselves and slip them off your legs, whizzing them away to some lifeless nook of the tucked-in sheets.

"fuck.. shit-" ellie heaves in awe, even day after day of seeing you bare, it's so titillating to her, drool is abandoning her lips.

the paragraphs living on the pages merge into an unintelligible blob as your vision drowses and the only sensation you can detect is her breath lathering your exposed slit. an open 'ptui' is heard prior to a wet glob landing on your clit and evoking a jolt from your body.

"so sensitive.." she pokes fun at your reaction, slapping her digits down on your sappy pussy and rubbing the spit through your folds, which to much avail, juts your body again.

"fck!" you hack out a swear at each writhe and prod.

"yeah, like that?" 

the grip on your book tightens, causing it to tremor in your shaky hold.

"gonna taste so fuckin' good, mmh.." she murmurs to herself but you catch the gist since immediately after her lips envelop your clit and enlist deft torpedo laps to it.

a heap of pleasurous pricks throb in your cunt and garner a gentle mewl from your chords, whining, "gh- mhhhn.." tenderly in growing bliss.

ellie laps your clit in brisk flicks while sucking it up with noises similar to kissing resounding through the sheer fabric cascading over her head.

you observe the cover moving with every mild thrust of her head, creasing and shuffling with the halo of her hair. a hand prowls from the sheets' hem and searches for anywhere to rest, to which you beckon it to your breast.

she realizes this and gives it duo squeezes for good measure and her unemployed fingers knead the squishy flesh of your ass, all while smirking.

"mmhh~ I wanna see you.." you mumble into the whafted-shut book, knocking off the already sliding sheet with your knee to reveal a flushed ellie with her nose buried in your crotch, her pretty face poised between your thighs, stuffed in your cunt.

her irises hark this newfound horizon before her and diffuse an intense glare that shudders your soul, sinking her lips deeper into those parted folds and drinking up your sticky deluge.

her mouth disconnects with threads of saliva and slick following, "this pussy tastes s'fucking divine, you know that right?"

"y-yeah.."

"could go down n'you for breakfast, lunch n' dinner.. fuck- baby.." 

ellie retreats her keen tongue, dipping into your entrance and soaking up the lewd coating of your walls. oral sounds of her mouth practically having a make-out sesh with your puffy lips overflow the room and bounce like an echo betwixt your ears.

"ohh my godd.." your moans enhance and amplify in the sea of ebbing relief and flowing pleasure.

her pecan speckled skin tinted with rose is glazed with a sinful slick from how far she pushed her face in, a terribly arousing sight to behold when she withdraws to praise her own work.

"how's m'pretty girl doing?"

"s-so.. closee.."

"want' you to moan my name when you do, yeah?"

"o-okay.."

"I wanna know how fuckin' good I make you feel." her sharp curses stay unyielding in her expression.

"mh-mhghmm.." your throat clogs up in anticipation.

ellie pours over your bare stature one last time before gripping the back of your knees and pushing them up till your feet meet the sky.

"that's better."

her lips smash into your cunt once again and prove to be frothing with a craving for you, clenched brows and grunting into your groin intently. she explores every attainable inch like she knows it, licking up your pre-cum like it's the last fucking meal on earth.

"oh- fuck!" you wail out, webbing your fingers in her frizzed up locks by habit.

her inhuman speeds catch you out of the blue, binding her tastebuds with your natural taste and delighted in every millisecond of it. she hoists onto her knees and hovers over your bottom half, wriggling her tongue over your entire opening and sending that abused clit into overdrive.

"el-ell.. ellie! i can't fucki- ah!" a high squeak blazes from your gullet.

she blurts out, "cum on m'fuckin' face." submerged in your folds.

"els.. mh!"

it's the end for you when she starts purposefully moaning on your bud, finally ushering your climax to dull your senses and numbfuck your consciousness. your reality is painted with a globe of starlight just by the heavenly feeling of it.

"good girl..-fck, there there..." ellies gingerly tone conflicts with her devilish play, drinking up the breach of cum gushing from your orgasm.

"oof.. jeez.." you recline your legs once her hands flee, huffing your way down from the celestial heavens.

ellie clambers up and collapses next to you, a smug and prideful visage staring back at your profile. 

"did ya finish those pages?"

"erm, no." 

she butts off a laugh, "eh, well.." her palm advances your bangs, hooking them behind the conch of your ear, "ended up having more fun, yeah?'

"i- yeah.. I guess.."

"you guess?"

"coulda been a lot better."

"whaaaat?" she mimicked an offended countenance.

"like it's nothing to write home about-"

"u're just trynna rile me up!"

"what if I am?" you boldy tease, tutting your skull side-to-side.

and that's ellie's one weakness, teasing. her brows hike, hollering "ohhh- I see how it is!" and rolls on top of you and thrusts her pelvis down with clear intention, "c'mere-"

"fhmm--" her willowy finger seals your lips, heeding the provocation you've cast into her mind.

"you're on."

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

hoep you enjoyed <3

[lazypanartist]

Hobie Brown x Artistic/DIY Reader

I love him 💙

pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4

Warnings: maybe spoilers for ATSV, IDK. Reader's in the punk scene and from Hobie's universe. Whole lotta projection. Canon-typical injuries

Features info dumping and personal Hobie HCs I guess. It's long ASF. And just self indulgent

Please RB, likes alone don't do anything for the algorithm!

-----

DIY/punk Hobie Brown

If you're in the scene, you know the basics

Patches?

Hand-Stitched

Usually with dental floss for durability/cost efficiency

And originally painted with white-out for the same reasons

Spikes or studs?

Cheap, bulk buy, screw em on yourself

Or just make em out of cans

Hobie's fit looks like it fits the bill

Old leather or denim jacket with the sleeves cut off

FN/SM painted on the back

Shirt's kinda tattered iirc

Spiked collars are easy

Same with the wristbands

When he meets you?

Whoo boy

It was one of his shows he was putting on

New songs, new faces in the crowd

He spots you from a distance at first

Little sketchbook in hand

You stay through his whole performance

When he's chatting up the crowd afterwards, though?

You're already gone

(Bitch writes a song about the pretty thing watching from afar, bc ofc he does)

He next sees you during one of President Osborne's speeches

Standing in the front row of a gathered crowd, shaking your head at the screen

He drops down after a few minutes, hanging upside down and blocking the less-than-pleasant view

He takes a few moments between questions from others

Little explanations

A promise to do what he can

Takes just a glimpse to look you over

You have a similar touch to the rest of the crowd

Worn out boots, tattered clothes, hand-sewn and painted patches

And your sketchbook still in hand

It's a little peculiar for the crowd

But he doesn't question it

What he does question is where you've gone after he turns to look at you

He only took a second for more reassurances

But when he goes to see you again

You're gone, just like the first time you caught his eye

He realizes then

That he's intrigued

He doesn't know what it is about you

Until he keeps seeing you pop up again

Riots

Concerts

Shows

Speeches

His immaterial object of interest

He finally starts actually talking to you the third or fourth time he sees you

At another of Osborne's liefests

An ambassador on a stage, surrounded by punks

Speaking of the President's virtues

Yeah

Spider-Punk shows up pretty quickly to run him off

And gets to chatting with you

When he first approaches, you ask for his opinion on a patch idea

And turn your sketchbook to show him the page

His spider symbol backpiece

But instead of FN/SM, it simply states

"Down With President Osborne"

He takes your pen and signs as a seal of approval before swinging away

Sure, it was a short interaction

But it led to even more meaningful ones

Like, say..

Him practically dropping out of the sky into a park

You were just minding your business, sketching the scenery

When he almost fell on top of you.

Covered in injuries

He laughs when he looks up and sees that it's you

Because of course it's you

Tries to resist when you start futzing over him

If you're the parent friend like me?

Patch him up

PLEASE

Even if you can't see him back together

Just

Bandaids and gauze pads

And maybe some candy

Bc suckers help with creativity

Or it's just my neurodivergence? Idk

Just. Offer him one in case he needs to bite on something while you're putting alcohol on his injuries

When you're done he looks them over

Promptly winces when he twists his arm 🙄

But then thanks you for your help and swings off

Again

These kinds of interactions become common

He'll find you hanging around the city

Either doodling or just vibing

And drops down to talk for a bit

Or get patched up

Loves when you offer to fix his costume

Bc it looks just as nice & homemade as the rest of your/his fits

Grins under his mask when he sees a new patch or two

And starts snickering if you deny their application

He really appreciates everything you do for him

And figures he should prove it

Sure, he's saved you

But he's saved a lot of people..

He wants this to be special

Unique

And he thinks he knows how to do that..

---

Click for next part

[springsylph]

bodyguard.

[bodyguard!john price x rookie actress!reader]

extension of this blurb. || minors, do not interact.

read on ao3

this was supposed to be a one-off thing but uh. my hand slipped? had to cut down the "price wouldn't do that" monster with my "i can do what i want" sword, and we got 3k of an unedited brain dump that i typed on my phone at six in the morning. also my first time writing something for price! woo!

He pulls out the crown on his watch, begins to twist and twist so that the dials can begin their inevitable rotation. “You know what time it is?"

Yelling secures you your first big project.

You can’t pay those bills until I land a job. A real job.

You’re almost certain your agent thinks you’re throwing a tantrum, and it leaves a coarse grit in your molars. You don’t like to pick fights. Hate it, really. But pushes are usually succeeded by shoves, and you can’t afford to get knocked out of the ring this time around.

The worst they can do is say no, right?

Thankfully, one yes is all you need to beg for. Your chariot arrives in the shape of a surprisingly low-budget rom-com, in simple terms. You and your C-list costar (flanked by a squeaky clean track record, thank god) are swept up in a soundless spiral of table reads and filming and wrapping before you can really, truly process.

But a warden stands guard at the eye of your perfect storm. John Price, assigned to you through your agency without so much as a proper word.

(“Squeaky clean,” apparently, didn’t take a history of overzealous stalkers into account.)

The peephole to your dilapidated apartment can barely contain him. blocks him—or attempts to do so—like a child might shield their sandcastle from the pulsing tide. Only, you think the tide might be more forgiving. He’s rooted in place, made harsher under the cracked fluorescent bulbs out in the hallway. They hum along with him. Faint, unless your breathing stills.

You’d feel a little more at ease if he were actually ex-military; the scraps of information you’ve been fed tell you that he’s been discharged, but you don’t believe it. Not for a second. You hadn’t been given much else apart from that and a face, but you could put together that he was disgustingly overqualified—not that you were complaining, though. Not yet.

You watch as John Price—Price?—gazes with a deceiving sort of apathy toward the end of the hall, then to the other, and back to the other end in three smooth seconds.

You think he’s seeing things till the apartment two doors down produces a tenant from its depths and price is turning, warding the disturbance off with an easy mornin’ and a wave of a large hand. He says nothing when they shuffle off awkwardly without a response, and the slow crawl of his opposite hand away from a flash of metal at his hip draws your pupil like a magnet.

It’s then that you note the suspiciously white shirt—rolled up to his elbows, tucked neatly into dark denim. hands tucked into pockets. Beard trimmed. Everything not protected by the skin on his body squared away just so, with just enough of his bulk on display to prompt that second spike of wariness.

A meticulous problem, then.

You peel yourself away from the door after an inhale and swing it open regardless.

The smell of tobacco and cologne hits your nose like a hammer the moment the door hits the bolt behind you, but you recover the feeling in your knees quickly. The fisheye lens doesn’t quite do him justice—you have to look up a bit to take another quick scan, cheeks cramping with the sudden momentum of your smile.

“I don’t see a bible or a pamphlet, so I’m assuming you’re not here to preach?” 

The joke doesn’t fall flat, but it does sail into one of the weaker bulbs before it shuts off with a buzz.

“…Captain Price, right?”

His eyes crinkle with a hint of what might be a grin. Under different circumstances, maybe. “Right on the mark. A pleasure to finally meet you, Ma’am.” But that thrum of irritation is there, as is the narrowing of his eyes when you extend your hand in greeting. “Just Price’ll do though.”

Hm.

He reaches up to fix his beanie just above his brow before giving your hand a firm shake. Definitely military. And hot as a furnace. You’re more than a little dizzy when he pulls back to check his watch, the inside of your wrist now raw from the grazing of a fingernail.

You can feel the skin he’s taken with him when he looks you in the eyes. Assessing. You don’t know why, but think you’ve won until he’s looking back down at his wrist.

He pulls out the crown on his watch, begins to twist and twist so that the dials can begin their inevitable rotation. “You know what time it is?”

Nine in the morning.

Or, at least it was thirty minutes ago.

“I—yeah. Lost track of time, sorry.” You scratch just under the collar of your shirt, straighten it out when the itch turns into a tingle you’re willing to overlook. You realize after an embarrassing beat that he’s probably asking for the actual time. “I sleep like a rock,” you add anyway. Your agency had actually given you three things, not two: a poorly put together profile, a face, and a meeting time.

It dawns on you now that a thirty minute “test of patience” with your back pressed to the door may not have been the way to go.

Price looks up, finally. Rolls his shoulders back as if to shed the pileup of gravity that’s compressed his spine in the half hour you’ve kept him waiting—and somehow, someway, seems to double the amount of space he takes up.

“That so,” he questions. Low in his throat, and a tad exasperated, because you’ve studied exasperation. Went into debt to have that understanding feel like a second skin. Which is why you observe, perplexed, as he gestures to the entryway. You think you feel your head nod, and he brushes past you to push through the door. “‘Nother habit we’ll have to kick.”

Any objections you might’ve had are killed in your throat the moment his prowl begins, and your socks catch on the scuffed linoleum as you flounder in after him.

The door slams back against the bolt while Price’s boots press the air out of your hardwood floors, squeals escaping with each heavy step. You squeak out a feeble excuse me alongside them once or twice, but to no avail. He can’t hear you, too intent on following some internal rhythm that takes him to the open window, the dusty cabinets, slipping fingers into the creases of a space you’re barely acquainted with yourself.

Something like nausea begins to bubble. You planned this. You’d planned out your introduction. Picked out your clothes, your shoes, where you’d grab coffee so you could build up your integrity and explain to him that you’re not looking to be coddled, he’d just get in the way. And now you’re wringing your hands, abject unease burning in a dense knot between your eyes while you figure out how to melt into the poorly hidden pile of dirty laundry.

There’s a delay in your processing, and you don’t start to catch up until Price finally slows down enough for you to realize he’s been talking.

He’s stooping over your dining room table, swiping a finger over his tongue before using it to card through old mail. “Real sorry ‘bout this, Ma’am. Not the most ideal introduction, I know, but we’re on a bit of a time crunch. Standard protocol—’m sure you know how it is, yeah?”

Price moves to turn over a stack of magazines on your dining table, and you wonder: were you supposed to know? You’re sure his question is rhetorical, and you’re certainly not inclined to answer. But something about the way it hits the water stains on your ceiling justifies the way he turns to look at you over his shoulder.

Concern. An uncut gem, plucked from some cavernous fissure that might be closer in proximity to hell than your own flesh and blood.

The crease between his brows deepens. “You have had security before, haven’t you?”

“Don’t get out much. I do my work, come right home.” You shrug, but your shoulders can’t seem to come back down. Perhaps this was why they’d put him on leave—he couldn’t do math.

You shuffle a bit in place, kick aside a ratty tennis ball left behind from one of your pet sitting stints. It hits your refrigerator and he’s still looking down at your feet, so you look with him.

—at the last two toes sticking out of your sock.

You rush to cover it with your other foot while Price sucks his teeth. He doesn’t move, hands still planted on the table, but each time he blinks his eyes are trained on something different.

Price lets out a sigh before he finally stands upright, perching his hands on his hips. “I'm surprised your people waited this long to call someone in. Right idiots they are, I’ll tell you that.”

Your people. You wrap your arms around your middle, pinch the fabric of your shirt between your fingers.

“I can't really blame them,” you say after a moment. Tip your chin up, a last ditch attempt at salvaging what little of your farce is left to cover yourself with.

Price tuts, strangely unconvinced for someone you’d only known for around ten minutes. “You’d be smart to blame them.”

“Don’t think I can do that when I'm working for them, Price.”

“Can’t you? S’clear they’ve done fuck all to look out for you.”

And you could. Should. Want to. So, so desperately need to. But you’re already saddled with enough things to hate. Hope of catharsis is an outbound ship, a blip on the horizon that you don’t have the funds to board. 

“…I don't follow.”

Price doesn’t flinch when the table rocks without the weight of the magazines to keep it steady, and neither do you.

“You don’t follow,” he repeats. Like a crucial detail has been lost in translation.

You shake your head.

“Well, that’s no good.”

Cigar smoke snakes its way into your headspace again when he strides past you to put his hand up against the door, muscles in his forearms flexing when he pulls at the doorknob. He beckons you closer, and you’re pulled out of orbit when you skirt close enough for him to reach, guiding your hand to the cool metal while he stands just behind you.

“Here,” he mutters. Your chest is a cushion, and the rumble in his chest is a bright red pin.

(Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if the crackle of a walkie-talkie might bury how frighteningly human he sounds.)

“What am I looking for?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

He takes his hand off once you’ve stopped throwing glances at him, and your knuckles sizzle in his absence. What was he looking for? Nothing…looks different. 

You can’t focus. His eyes are on your neck, and you can’t focus.

And suddenly, you don’t like how close he is. You’re reminded of how he’d shoved his way into your apartment. Barely spoken to you before driving a stake through the bubble put together with your blood sweat and tears. Made you feel ashamed in your own home.

Righteous indignation flares up, and you’re spewing words you’re certain you believe in until they tumble out.

“If you’re just here to poke fun, I’m not—”

Pop.

You look down. The keyhole pokes just out of the doorknob and you look to Price, his face remarkably passive.

“Lock’s been tampered with.” He runs a thumb over the offending protrusion, watches as it slots back into place. “You should see some scratches on the other side of it. Thought I noticed something when the door first slammed, but I didn't want to startle you in case my eyes were playing tricks. Can’t quite see like I used to.”

Why not get glasses?

“I would’ve put up less of a fuss if you’d told me up front.”

He looks at you, eyes a perfect congruence of something just beyond what your fingertips can touch. But he smiles, and you think you can understand. Maybe mash the pieces together. A distending warmth. Nepenthe sinking into every orifice until you’re expelling your woes through your nostrils.

Your axis tilts when Price puts a solid hand on your shoulder.

“It’s not good to lie, mm? Not to me.”

Not good to lie.

When you slide out from under his palm, his callouses snag on the exposed seam of your shirt. You toss him a grin, a bone. “Noted.”

Insecure seconds pass, but not without movement. 

It begins like this: Price walks away from the door, and you’re almost grateful for the squealing underneath his feet to fill the silence. He takes your stack of mail and magazines, sets them exactly as they had been before he’d entered. The table is righted, and he works in reverse from that point on.

Closing cabinet doors. Angling that picture frame you’ve been meaning to adjust for weeks. He’s putting things into their proper place, like setting bones before they’re enclosed in a stiff cast. 

You, though, are still standing awkwardly by the door.

“You really don’t need to—”

He holds out a hand. “Relax. ‘M just having a second go around.”

You bristle, but your decision to pad over to the couch is of your own volition. It caves in when you sit, and you wiggle to get the cushions to realign with your hips. Your hands feel around blindly for the remote to your TV before remembering you’d dropped it out of the window in a fit of anger some weeks ago, so you sit back, spine hitting the hard frame of the couch. Price’s noises pair well, somehow, with the wind sliding over the glass and the neighbors downstairs.

Until you feel his presence at the back of the couch, and a thought smacks you right across your forehead.

You shoot up, heart rate suddenly inflamed by panic. “Price?”

The movement stops, and you turn around, peer over to find Price prepped to duck his head under the couch. “Hm?”

“Uh.” You hesitate. Shit, think—

“H-how much are they paying you, anyways?” Good save. Maybe a little less than good.

You feel a little bad that you’d stopped Price mid-crouch; you can’t quite remember how old he is, but you know he’s old enough for knee pain to be a concern. He looks up as if crunching the numbers in his head. Hums. “Enough.”

“What’re you looking for?”

“Saw the picked lock, didn’t you?”

“Were you really discharged?”

“Depends. There something under this couch you don’t want me seeing?”

Looks like you can knock “interrogation skills” off of your list of special skills on your resume.

Your jaw snapping shut is enough to send his arm sliding under, and you can only watch in horror as his clutched hand emerges holding a scrap of thin blue fabric. He pushes himself up off of his knees. Takes his sweet time wringing out his back while your eyes track his hand like he’s got a thumb over the button of a detonator.

If he had any shred of decency—

“Another thing I caught on my way in,” he huffs. He holds out his hand and allows the blue fabric to uncurl. A flag, hung full mast right between your eyes. Another one of his tests. 

“Price.”

“C’mon, now. Take it from me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice; your arm shoots out and you win it back in one go. Stuff your lacy underwear into the pocket of your pants and wait for your ceiling to collapse in on you.

“Can’t leave pretty things like that layin’ around.” And Price stops, watches as you curl in on yourself. Voice like the push of velvet shifting underneath your palms. “Likely to rip if you’re not careful.”

You pull your head into your shirt and curl your knees into your chest. It’s a shock when you find yourself face to face with your heartbeat, the skin over your left breast jumping underneath your nose. “I think we’re done here.” 

Price makes that sucking noise again with his teeth—agitation, you think it’s agitation—and you trace the hazy shadow of him through your shirt as he steps around the couch to walk to the window. He snaps twice, and you’re beginning to entertain the thought of what might happen if you had enough strength to push him out.

“What now,” you croak.

“Eyes up.”

Slowly, you muster up enough spite to bring your head just above the collar of your shirt. Military men and their incessant need for…whatever the hell this was. 

“You’ve gotten better at this. Quick study,” Price remarks.

“Better at what.”

“Listening. That’s good, real good. That’ll make this a whole lot easier,” he says, a note of appreciation that you haven’t heard yet stirring that tiny pool of filth just underneath your navel. You hum.

Price crosses his arms. Flicks his stupid eyes toward the fluttering curtains. “How often d’you leave this open?”

Your face pinches. “I mean—pretty often? It’s hot, Price. And in case you haven’t noticed,” you wave your hand to the general state of disrepair, “I don’t exactly have good circulation in here.”

This gives him pause. Whatever plan he’s recalibrating, you want no part of it. You do notice that he hasn’t put his hands in his pockets since he showed up on your doorstep, instead favoring the use of his left hand to rub his chin. 

“Come over here and close the window.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. “...Close the window? Price, you can’t be serious.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Can’t…can’t you close it?”

“It’s not my window. Can’t do everythin’ for you.”

He stares at you expectantly. Your tailbone is beginning to throb, and for some damning reason, that note still ringing bright in the back of your skull. That’s good. Good, good, good.

Price catches that eager glint the moment it surfaces.

“Go on then, love.” He tips his head. “Close it.”

The rest of you surfaces slowly. You look back for a moment at the indent left on the couch, think about how long that imprint will be there until you feel inclined to fluff out those cushions again.

(Later. You’ll get to it later.)

Shutting the window doesn’t take much effort, but the swampy temperature is noticeable. You turn around a little too quickly, so you hold an arm out to the now sealed vault in an exaggerated show of bravado. I did it, see?

Price slides past you to look outside. He purses his lips when he finds what he’s looking for, and you can almost see the note being stashed into some faraway file.

He turns to you. “Keep this window closed till further notice,” and a hand reaches out to tug the curtains shut, and yellow from the lamp you’d left on last night washes over the room instantly.

“Price.”

“I take my work seriously. You take yours seriously, you’ll need me.”

It feels like a slap in the face. “I do, but that doesn’t mean—”

“My job,” and he points to himself, then to you, “is to keep you out of harm's way. Can’t do this if you don’t trust me.”

“You’re asking a lot for someone who hasn’t—”

You go silent as he reaches a hand into a back pocket, pulls out his hand and you count one, two, three square devices around the size of a nail.

“Busted lock, three faulty cameras, all outside. You’re lucky these people are idiots.” He shoves them back into his pocket before returning his focus to you. “You need me.”

You blink. 

Price smiles, raises his eyebrows as if the conversation is already over. “Hungry?”

You stumble back. “But what about—what about the apartment?”

“S’fine,” he says. He checks his watch. “I know a couple guys, you’re in good hands.”

[hamsterclaw]

Weighted

You don’t know if you needed Namjoon, but he comes to you anyway. Part of the Love AU, read the rest here.

Pairing: Namjoon x afab! reader

Warnings: Sex, swearing, mention of self-harm

Rating: 18+

Word count: 1.1k

There are weighted days, like today, when the world sweeps by outside your window and you feel inconsequential.

Your presence is irrelevant, you’re a speck of matter in the universe, and it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference whether you are here or not.

You’re curled up in the duvet you dragged from your bed, scattering the clutter on your coffee table in its synthetic wake, face pressed to the glass.

The height of your apartment makes you feel a vertiginous swoop in your insides as you take in the city below you.

You’re too numb to feel anything but the basics. Hot, cold, hard, soft. Higher emotions escape you when you’re like this.

There’s a buzzing of your intercom that you’re trying to ignore.

It’s probably some parcel with something you thought you needed before you’ve come to know better.

Nothing can fill the void.

The sound of a key in the lock makes you groan and pull the duvet over your head.

There’s only one person with a key to your apartment, and it’s not a fuckboy that you need right now.

The door opens and you don’t look, buried under the textural swirls of your duvet, a sea of ivory.

There’s a few steps, the clatter of keys in the dish in your hallway.

Now he learns to put his keys in the right place.

One divorce too late.

The footsteps stop right next to you but you keep your eyes tightly closed, so tight the firebursts behind your eyelids are blinding anyway.

Kim Namjoon sighs, the impatience he puts in the sound making you feel the first emotion you’ve felt in days.

It’s anger.

You try to push it away but it burns bright.

‘Did you slit your wrists under there?’ he asks. He pats the fluffy bulk enclosing you half-heartedly.

‘Take any pills?’ he continues.

Like the anger, Namjoon is getting difficult to ignore.

You pull the covers off, head surfacing from the softness, re-entering the world where everything is too bright, too loud and too goddamn annoying.

‘Do you need something Namjoon?’ you ask, flat.

He doesn’t answer at first, eyes scanning your face.

Finally he says, ‘Need a fuck?’

You blink up at him.

Namjoon sighs again. ‘When did you last eat?’

He doesn’t wait for an answer this time, turning and heading in the direction of your tiny kitchenette.

There’s unnecessarily aggressive clanging of pots, even the hiss of the kettle seems louder, a scream of discontent cutting through the fog of your detachment.

Your traitorous stomach rumbles, but you can’t bring yourself to get up and go to the kitchen.

You close your eyes instead.

When you dip back into the world, Namjoon’s sitting on your couch.

‘I’m not heating this up again, so you’d better eat,’ he says, not looking at you.

It feels like you can’t move, the heaviness of everything presses you down.

Eventually, Namjoon gets up and sits next to you on the window seat.

‘Open,’ he says, holding out a mouthful of noodles.

It’s too big, he always makes each forkful the size he would eat himself, like he hasn’t noticed that you eat smaller bites.

It’s delicious though.

You wipe the drip of broth off your chin on your t-shirt, and to his credit, he doesn’t even blink.

Namjoon scans channels on your TV whilst he feeds you, you can hear snippets behind your head.

Canned laughter, classical piano, tension and an explosion.

Namjoon sets the empty bowl down.

‘Want to take a shower, baby?’ he asks.

His tone is gentle, coaxing.

‘You’ll feel better.’

He places a warm hand on the small of your back, leading you to your bathroom.

You’re not wearing much but he helps you out of your clothes anyway, puts the shower on.

His clothes land heavily on the floor, the denim of his jeans solid against the tiles.

He tests the water, tugs you in next to him, shielding you from the fall of water with his own body.

There’s the squirt of soap, then his warm hands smoothing over your shoulders, brushing over the rounds of your breasts.

Your nipples harden under his palms, there’s no way he hasn’t noticed, but he carries on, hands kneading your back.

He’s semi-hard, you note distantly, his cock rising a little away from his body as he cleans you.

He reaches between your legs, thumb over your clit, fingers sliding along your folds. You arch your back a little, and his cock hardens even more.

Namjoon kneels to slide soap down your thighs, behind your knees, and you put your hand on his shoulder to steady yourself.

When he comes back up he’s fully hard, cock pressing into your belly.

You curl your hand around him instinctively, and you both watch the head of his cock appearing and disappearing in your fist as you stroke him.

Namjoon wraps his hand around yours, uses his other hand to turn the water off.

‘Let’s dry off,’ is all he says.

He wraps you in a towel, grabs one for himself.

The way he tents the terrycloth makes your mouth water.

Lust joins anger in your newly re-acquired library of emotions, and the combination of both is so acutely Namjoon in your experience that you revel in the familiarity of it.

Namjoon dries you off in front of your mirror, and you both watch as he plays with your breasts until you’re breathless.

He spreads your legs, delves his fingers in between, shows you your own arousal coating his fingers.

He’s dropped the towel, his cock nudges between your ass cheeks, the promise of filling you up tantalising.

Namjoon tugs you onto your bed, grabs a pillow, slips it under your hips.

‘Watch,’ he says, voice velvety.

His cock juts from him now, full and hard and seeking, as he lifts your hips and pushes into you.

You grasp the sheets underneath you as he fills you, his hardness thick and hot.

Namjoon snaps his hips forward, and you moan.

‘That’s it,’ he says, his voice thick, slurred. ‘Show me that you like it, baby.’

‘Come close,’ you pant, and he dips his torso so you can curl an arm around his shoulders, hold on to him whilst he fucks you so well everything else falls away from this moment.

There’s nothing but the slap of his sex against yours, his mouth on yours when he finally decides to kiss you, the hot spill of his cum inside you as your cunt contracts to take him, over and over.

There’s nothing but Namjoon, and you, and fuck what a mess you both have made.

‘Happy anniversary, baby,’ he says, face buried in your hair.

There’s the prick of tears in your eyes that you blink away before he can see.

Then, the third emotion, always inextricably linked with Kim Namjoon in your mind.

Sadness, lingering long after the anger and the lust have gone.

[harrieatthemet]

Needle

Summary: in which Harry brings you flowers to minimize the pain of a needle, and you've decided to throw out your baby books.

Word Count: 2.6k

Author's note: taking it to the very beginning and gifting all of us (myself included) the series of events that brought us to our reigning queen: Angel Baby.

It's her world, we're just living in it: she lives here

It’s resting menacingly between his fingers, staring you down as though it’s got a mind of it’s own. There’s a very familiar sensation that’s starting to conjure itself up in the pit of your stomach; fear and the anticipation of unavoidable pain. Honestly, the longer you fixate on the bulk of the needle the more the feeling that started in your gut starts to expand towards your chest. 

“Just do it,” you blurt out, “get it over with.”

You’re not intentionally trying to squirm. Fight or flight is just loitering deep within your instinctual reflexes, which is making it kind of hard not to writhe around a bit. You don’t know if it’s the gush of cool air that falls in through the cracked window or the way Harry moves closer to your exposed abdomen but you can’t help but jolt a bit. 

“Just hold still poppet, promise m’gonna make it quick.” 

He’s eye level with your lower back now, crouched down with his knees hovering brazenly above his feet. Before he advances any closer he peeks up at you. It’s almost as if he’s silently asking for permission to get on with it. You just nod before sealing your eyes shut, like you typically do. 

There’s an entire routine for this that’s he nailed down to a T. In an attempt to soothe a bit of your nerves, he always lays his hand flat to the base of your stomach. That’s where he lets his thumb rub a few circles as a way to ease the nerves a bit; not just yours, but his too. His newest addition is delivering a small kiss to the spot he pokes you with the needle. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, but he feels like an extra step for good luck couldn’t hurt at this point. He doesn’t mind that this particular shot goes into your butt. He’s big on good luck rituals, so he’s not about to fuck with the juju on this one.

One bit he refuses to change is to dig up something distracting to draw your attention elsewhere. It doesn’t always work. In fact, you don’t think it’s ever worked at all. You’d never outwardly admit that it’s a useless ploy; you know he’s just trying to take some of the edge off. Each time it’s something different and he always tries to pick something ridiculous or outlandishly stupid. 

“Y’know,” he grins as he takes the fleshy part of your belly in between his thumb and index finger “I literally just kissed your ass.”

A proud smirk plants itself on his mouth when he hears an exhale-like laugh slip out of you. It fades into a frown though as he jabs at you with the needle, because you suck it back in with a sharp breath. One of your hands is gripping onto the basin of the sink, and the other is digging it’s fingers into the flimsy material of his shoulder in an attempt to offset the impending burning sensation. He can almost feel your fingernails creating small crescents into the surface of his skin. 

It’s a relief once he can finally pull the needle out. He hates seeing you in pain. Even though this was an endeavor you both willingly agreed to embark on, he hates being the one to put you in pain. That’s why he breathes out in comforting release when he can put the empty needle onto the kitchen counter. 

“S’all finished now,” his tone is so calm because he knows the stifling burning sensation is well underway, “no more shots.”

His eyes are trained on you as you wiggle your jeans back up your legs, wincing a bit when the denim veers over the injection spot. And you fiddle with the zipper before looping the button back in, smoothing out your shirt over the waistband as a way to push the last 6 minutes completely from your mind. 

Finally you bring your gaze to meet his, moping a bit in the process, “You said that last time.”

“I mean it,” he tuts, the coolness of his rings meeting your cheeks as he lays both hands flat on your face, “can feel somethin’ different this time.”

He doesn’t care that he goes in for a peck on your mouth and still feels the frown on your lips. For good measure, he delivers a few more at rapid speed until he finally feels your frown lines subside. That’s how he can start to feel a little more content. He’s completely at ease when he pulls his face back a bit, analyzing the more lax expression on your face while he strokes his thumbs near your temples. 

“Maybe” you answer flatly, “I’m not getting my hopes up, though.”

Though he’s limited in what he can do to mitigate all that comes with the IVF process, he’s made it his priority to over-compensate in what he actually can do to try and make up for the things he can’t. If he could physically take the shots himself he would in a heartbeat. But he can’t, so he teeters on the border of helplessness when you get down in the mouth like this. He’d compensate with long vacations, drowning you in little gifts sporadically or planning quirky dates to keep your energy up. There was a shift after the most recent miscarriage that even doubling the size of your wedding ring diamond couldn’t reverse. So now he just tries to stick solely to offering his optimistic support whatever chance he gets. 

“Thank you for these,” you hum in gratitude as you bring the bouquet of flowers beneath your nose, “I feel like I should be getting you flowers, though.”

“Flowers fo’ me?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you, “Why’s that?”

“Didn’t you just open mouth kiss my ass cheek?” 

His laugh starts in the back of his eyes as they crinkle in amusement, tickling the back of his throat as it spills from his mouth and echos through the kitchen. With a shake of the head he mocks you for a minute by puckering his lips, handing you the ice pack he fished out of the freezer so you could minimize the burn from the injection site. 

He gleefully accepts your invitation to handle the flowers; unwrapping them with nimble fingers as he peels back the paper to expose the stems. There’s amusement twinkling in his eye as he catches you slipping the bunny shaped ice pack inside the butt of your jeans, fidgeting with it so it’ll stay in one place. The amusement quickly deteriorates though when he opens the garbage to throw out the paper and greeted with something of a much more somber tone. 

“Y/N,” his shoulders drop a bit, “y’wanna tell me why these are in here?” 

Though your back is turned to him so you can’t physically see what it is he’s referring to, you already know exactly what he’s talking about. If he’s got the garbage open you know he’s looking at the pile of baby books mounted at the very top. You know how he is, how he wants to take care of everyone all the time. And because of that, you willfully decided to omit your brief breakdown earlier when you went through your nightstand and stumbled upon those books hidden beneath a couple pairs of tights. 

“Not particularly” you admit, back still turned to him, “just had a kinda weird morning.”

There’s a lingering silence that takes up a chunk of space in the room. You’re not willing to divulge anymore than you already have, and Harry waits a minute before throwing out the paper before closing the garage. He wants to make sure he strings together the proper things to say to you before saying anything at all. 

It’s once he gathers what he needs to that you don’t hear him, but feel him; the front his body pressing into the back of yours. He smirks a bit when he feels the chill of the ice pack through your pants, hands slithering around your waist before he interlocks his fingers and rests both hands on your stomach. A hum of approval gurgles in his throat when he feels you lean into the embrace so he can rest his head atop your shoulder. 

“S’gonna happen” his whisper is like a lull in your ear, his lips right up against them, “We’ll go t’the doctor in a few days and do th’extraction and just take it day by day. Good news this time, I promise.” 

He delivers it with kisses to your head in between words, as though it’ll somehow permanently ingrain into your mind and become a staple in your thought process. 

In a way, it almost does. 

On a loop in your mind his words play; over and over throughout the next few days without pause in sight. He tries to reiterate them as much as he can whenever he feels like you need a little extra support; the egg retrieval, the implantation process, all of it and everything in between. If this has been a difficult road for him to go down, he truthfully can’t imagine the cross you’ve been bearing through it all. All he can do for the next couple of days, though it pains him there isn’t anything more he’s capable of, is offer as much moral support and words of encouragement that he’s capable of producing. 

“How y’feeling?” He’s asking with a wide, forced smile as he peeks over at you from the driver’s seat, “Feelin’ good?” 

His hand unoccupied by the steering wheel is making itself useful on your upper thigh. It’s where his fingers are tapping in tune to the key of the music humming from the car stereo. And every so often they’ll stop to give your leg a squeeze; his way of comforting you on the trek to the long-await, very dreaded doctors appointment. The tone of the afternoon is overkill perkiness, and Harry is setting the mood by sparing no gesture big or small. 

“Har relax,” you laugh, “I’m all good.” 

There’s no point in rebutting with anything or doubling down on the enthusiasm like he’s been doing all morning. You’re answer was definitive enough to tell him that you weren’t interested in dragging that conversation any further than where you left it. That’s fine; he’s playing by your rule book today anyways. 

It’s why he doesn’t make that cheesy cat joke to the girl behind the desk at the doctor’s office. He’s said it about a million times and knows you’re sick of it. He doesn’t stand up when the attending nurse hangs in the doorway of the waiting room, calling out for a ‘Ms. Styles’ and being corrected by Harry with the usual (and polite) ‘it’s Mrs. Actually’. He’s so sure to keep you in a calm and collected state that he doesn’t make a vampire joke or pretend to pass out when the nurse puts the line into your vein to take a blood sample. 

“No fake faint this time,” you muse teasingly, “they grow up so fast.” 

From his seat in the corner you watch him playfully roll his eyes, mimicking you under his breath before he stands up and straightens himself up. He wants to take a firm stance by you, who’s perched meekly on the examination table swinging your legs back and forth to pass the time. 

You won’t tell Harry in fear of him leaning into the overcompensating role of ‘caretaker’ and ‘fixer of all problems’, but you’re stomach is in a million tight little knots and your eyes are starting to glaze over. At first you wanted to fault it to exhaustion; you barely got an hours worth of sleep last night because the onset of anxiety was too overbearing to keep your eyes shut for more than a few minutes. 

“I don’t think I’m meant to be a mom,” you sigh forlornly, and his eyes go wide at the bluntness, “I don’t think- I don’t wanna do this again if it doesn’t work, okay? Is that okay?”

It’s almost an a-ha moment for Harry. He’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop because he couldn’t really wrap his head around how mild you were being. But there it was, the revelation from you’d he’d been holding his breath for. It’s not what he wanted to here but nonetheless, he knew it was bound to come at some point. 

"Whatever y'want, poppet. Just want y'to be happy."

He nods in agreement as he says it, hoping it's enough. If this was the end, than it was the end. All he can do is offer a kiss before a long-lingering hug, which you take as confirmation that he understands you’re just not equipped to keep at this further than the point you’re at. 

“How’re we doing today?”

Both you and Harry stiffen out a bit once the doctor immerses himself into the room, answering with a chipper ‘good’ in unison. It tells Harry to prep for the impending bad news. It feels like he regressed and sunken back into the last time he was here. The memory is almost too vivid; the perpetual ball of dread in his stomach, the look of disappointment that swept across your face before a few tears dribbled down your cheek, the sob or two you choked out in the otherwise silent car ride home. The memory is subconsciously prepping him for what’s to come, and he’ll be here to pull himself up by the boot straps to make sure you have plenty of space to crumble once the doctor reads off the plastic board in his hands. 

“Tell me how you’re feeling,” the doctor asks, plopping himself down in one of those backless spinning chairs to scoot himself closer, “anything worth making a note of? Nothing is too big or small.” 

“Not really” Harry answer is simply a mindless, knee-jerk response, “just like-oh, y’asking, no ok-ok sorry.” 

The doctor chuckles a bit, saying something to Harry about how nerves are normal. Honestly, you’re only half listening and both of them are as audible as white noise. You’ve mentally checked out as you anticipate the news to come. You wish you were out of your body or anywhere else.

“Just tired,” you admit, slowly nodding as you purse your lips, “really tired. A little bit of cramping, too. Mostly tired, though.” 

That’s about all you’re willing to disclose for your quaint audience of two. Though you are literally and physically exhausted, perhaps there was a bit of a metaphoric meaning to it too. This process is tiring. Consistent bad news is tiring. Being physically incapable of giving Harry the child he so desperately wants is so fucking tiring. 

All the doctor does is nod his head in a way to in-audibly tell you he’s making a mental note of your vague list of symptoms. There’s a terse pause where the room falls into a quiet pause. The only noise to be heard is when your doctor flips one of the pages on his clipboard before swiftly folding it in half. 

“Well,” his breath out is in a more positive tune, “all normal symptoms for the first trimester.” 

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion before your body begins to go completely numb, though Harry’s hand gives your a comforting squeeze. He looks at you first, lips spread in a little O as his eyes nearly double in size. Frantically he tries to rack his brain for something to say, and while nothing seems to be coming out, the doctor swoops in to do enough talking for him.

The doctor extends his hand out to you, the folded paper in his palm and a grin etched on the lower half of his face, “Congratulations.”

[sindirimba]

two thoughts:

they buy denim shirts in bulk right

& do you think that's booker's that nile is wearing. it's pretty baggy but is it baggy enough for booker. well i choose to believe it is.

[dumpster-divers-unite]

There is so much more waste out there then your brain can imagine.

That’s a fact. There is SO MUCH waste out there just in clothing alone. After it’s been ‘consumed’, we think to donate it to give it another life. When that happens to literally millions of items, the chance of what was formally your stuff getting that well deserved second chance is diminished significantly.

I’m going to give you guys a tiny behind the scenes on a warehouse I’ve partially toured yesterday for a job. It was at a goodwill location with a bin style layout for second hand consumers. The crowd of people there were of all ages and backgrounds. The moment one of the workers put a fresh bin out, they swarmed it to pick through it like a horde of zombies.

The warehouse portion of the store was as huge as your mind could think of in terms of ‘large spaces’ but bigger. I had to follow one of the associates to the offices to interview, and I slowed to look at the literal HUNDREDS of gaylords stacked in 2’s in the middle of the storage space. Every single gaylord was stuffed with clothing. If you don’t know, a Gaylord is a really big foldable cardboard box that bulk stuff like produce get shipped in. It didn’t even hit me that all of them were packed to the brim with clothing until I rounded one of the corners to see the other side of the gaylord wall, were I saw the clothing bales. Visually, it was an assault to the eyes; there was so much to see but you couldn’t just stop to gawk at it all. As I walked through, I couldn’t help but to think of how much that all must have costed first hand. How much is a normal long sleeve t shirt, $25+? Multiply it by 10,000+ in every color of the rainbow, every mix, every match, every style, and without repeating your outfits. In long sleeve shirts alone, that’s a staggering $250k. Jeans and denims are popular right now and are flooding first hand brands and trickling their way to thrifts/second hands. According to my fast research online, both men’s and women’s brand new store brand are selling for upwards of $156 on average. Ask yourself, “how many pairs of jeans do I see at my favorite thrift stores? How many racks of jeans are available second hand right now?” and see if you can come up with a number. Sense denim jeans are so common, I could reasonably use the same 10k number for the estimated amount of jeans that are in that warehouse right now and say with some level of confidence that there are at least $1,560,000 in new/like new garments hidden beneath the rest of the unwanted clothing. The numbers, on all sides, were staggering and sickening to think about. If people took the time and effort to do so, I promise you they could have stacked all of the items (both folded and unfolded) to the ceiling.

Backing away now from those dizzying numbers; coming out from the warehouse portion and back to the bins, I was near breathless. ‘Breathtaking in a queasy way’ is my best way of conveying my experience with facing, head on, how much people are consuming and discarding. I can say with absolute confidence and certainty that everything you’re seeing and reading online about the waste/pollution problem in the clothing world is true. This is one of those issues that you can only really display online to get your point across sadly, and that might take away some of the reality of the problem. The rampant message to consume more and more of the clothing that these big brand stores are offering at every opportunity they have is one issue in a sea of many, but we can start to solve it ourselves. The power to do so is in our own hands sense this is a social issue that we have to tackle together. This isn’t an issue that a government can give an answer or a set of answers for.

I encourage you to take the deep dive into your wardrobe when you have time to pick out what you’re wearing and not. Ask yourself, “What makes me wear this? What makes this shirt worth keeping? What element of this style of garment do I like, and why do I like it? Why am I keeping this if I haven’t thought about or touched this item in the past 6 months to a year?” And see what your answers are. Separate your worn from your unworn and see what can reasonably be recycled or repurposed at home before it goes to the thrift.

Be passionate about preventing waste. Maybe one day, we won’t have to worry about the mountains of clothing and items stuck in warehouses and in dumps. For now, take it slow.

[snowbellewells]

Self Promo Sunday: "Melting for You"

It's been a bit since I've done a Self Promo Sunday post, but with the weather heating and well into summer this one shot came to mind, and it seemed like the right one for this week to get them going again. I wish we had a few more steamy CS pics to work with to make a cover art, but I still gave it a go. If this is new to you, I hope you'll enjoy, and if it's a repeat maybe you'll find it fun to revisit.

Summary: When Emma decides to tease an overheated pirate, soon she's the one burning up... A Post Season 6 canon divergent ff, with CS enjoying their happy beginning

Can also be found on AO3 if that's your preference...

by: @snowbellewells

Even indoors the air was heavy and oppressive - especially for June - and Emma Swan gave herself a mental pat on the back for even being out of her recliner nearest the air conditioning vent in the old, high-ceiling house that could be expensive to sufficiently cool. She tended to covet a day like this - off from the station, Henry out with friends, no one needing anything from her, and a backlog of her favorite crime procedurals ready in her streaming queue - chuckling to herself about deserving some sort of Savior Above and Beyond medal for being in the kitchen tackling a sink of dirty dishes.

Normally, she’d just put them in the dishwasher, but the last clean load had never been taken back out and put away - one of Henry’s designated jobs - and her husband, loving and fond of her son as he was, was still a captain through and through, determined for each member of his crew to pull their weight. Emma, on the other hand, while not as worried about the degree of neatness Killian would prefer, was just stubborn enough not to do her kid’s chores for him. Henry had been busy lately; finals, college applications and other genuine responsibilities taking up the bulk of his time, but she trusted him to get to it when he could. Though she wouldn’t admit it out loud, the real reason she didn’t put the clean dishes away was because she didn’t understand Killian’s precise method for storing all the various pots, pans, containers, and baking sheets; inevitably, when she tried to unload the dishwasher alone, she ended up with numerous things she couldn’t find a place for strewn across the kitchen’s center island and more of a mess than she’d started with.

It just wasn’t worth the hassle.

So, here she stood, sweating over a sink full of hot, soapy water, feeling loose tendrils of hair begin to curl around her face in the humidity, just trying to make sure they had enough clean spoons and to-go mugs for their coffee the next morning and cursing the 90 degree heat and the ceiling fan not doing an adequate job of getting the cooler air to her as her shirt began to feel stuck to her skin between her shoulder blades.

At least she had a good view. 

Emma smirked to herself, eyes lighting up once again as she refocused from the charred bits of pizza crust she’d slightly burnt onto a pan and back out the window over the sink. She wasn’t sure how her husband could stand it outside, and he’d been at it for at least a couple hours at this point, but as she took in the scene before her, Emma couldn’t help thinking that at this moment, his discomfort was a cross she was willing to bear.

Standing up straighter, running her forearm across her face, she dazedly allowed her hands to drip across the counter as she studied him more closely, almost forgetting where she was. Killian was wearing dark, stained denim jeans he often used when out of doors and not on his ship, along with a thin, gray T-shirt, stretched and faded with holes in places, but more than serviceable for working around the house and yard. She could see the muscles in his back and shoulders straining and bunching through the nearly threadbare material easily, and hardly realized she’d unconsciously licked her lips at the decadent sight.

As she continued to shamelessly spy on her fine pirate, Killian stretched his arms up overhead, clearly working out some of the kinks from his exertions, then to her eternal delight, raised the hem of his T-shirt to mop sweat from his brow. She could see a band of tanned, flushed skin on his lower back, unknowingly tantalizing her as she stared, unable to blink or look away. Then, as if that hadn’t been enough, he slowly peeled the taut fabric up his torso and off over his head before tossing it to the side.

She knew her breath went a bit shallow at the sight of his whole back bared to her while Killian stood for several long moments catching his breath. At this point, her sudsy hands were clutching the edge of the sink while her knees went watery at the show he was putting on inadvertently. The expanse of his skin was marred in places by lines almost white from the time gone by since they had been inflicted, and high on his left shoulder a compass sat, bearing the name ‘Liam’ along its edge, while the dark tentacles of a kraken curled surreptitiously along his rib cage on his right side. The dark and light took not one iota from his swarthy perfection though, not to her eyes. In fact, if she had been overwarm before, she was burning up now; the sight of his whole torso practically glistening in the bright afternoon sun making her weak. She was seized with the almost uncontrollable desire to go out there and started licking the salty moisture from his skin with her tongue.

If she didn’t know better, she would think he was purposely trying to tempt her. 

Wait… did she know better? Emma paused, tilted her head to one side in thought. She’d told him when he’d gone outside that she was kicking back to watch some tv. But Killian could be scarily prescient of everyone around him, alert without even trying. Did he know she was watching; and, if so, was he teasing her?

Eyes narrowing, she thought for a second, feeling more than a bit devious as she considered her rapscallion husband and just what mischief he might have on his mind. She could almost picture him scoffing about getting her riled up; his brow arched just so, tongue poking against the inside of his lower lip, practically leering at her, knowing she couldn’t resist him at the best of times, and absolutely using it to his advantage. What she needed, Emma decided, a twinkle coming into her eye as the perfect plan of attack took shape in her mind, was to get him back, while appearing completely innocent. Get him flustered and as hot and bothered as he was making her. Turning off the tap and quickly drying her hands on a towel nearby, she grabbed a large glass from the cabinet to her left, then opened the freezer for ice - and her chosen secret weapon.

Strolling outside, Emma tried her best to school her expression, knowing a twitch of mischievous humor or devilish twinkle would give her away. Her pirate still read her like a book - knew her every feature more minutely than anyone else had ever bothered to try - even more so after years together. He’d catch any slip and be on the alert.

Killian turned to look at her, just as she drew up beside him. Reaching out to trail the hand holding an ice cold glass of water down his damp, overheated bicep, she fought to hold in the smirk as her husband let his head fall backwards, nearly growling in pleasure. The unrelenting heat had the glass already covered in condensation, and the warmth radiating from Killian as well after working so long in the sun, meant the cool moisture had to feel heavenly.

Eyeing her with both adoration and curiosity, her captain made Emma’s own inner thermostat raise a tick as well when he licked the perspiration from his upper lip. “May I assume that’s for me, Love?”

“Yep,” she replied, letting the ‘p’ pop distinctly, just as he often did when alluring her with his speech. “I thought it was time to bring you some water. Can’t have my True Love getting dehydrated, after all.”

He raised a brow, as if wondering why she seemed so enthusiastic, but he took the glass from her eagerly, seemingly deciding just to accept the gesture with thanks. Of course, as his Adam's apple bobbed with his greedy swallows of the cool, refreshing liquid, it was Emma who found her throat working desperately to gain more air.

For a second, she almost forgot her plan in the wake of the tantalizing distraction he made, before she regained focus and hurried to unwrap what she held in her other hand.

While Killian’s eyes were still closed savoring the last of his drink, Emma quickly stuffed the wrapper of an ice cream bar in her cutoff jean pockets and began to lick the chocolate coating, enjoying the sweet taste, but also waiting for the moment she would feel the sizzle of his eyes on her once more.

“Here you go, Love,” Killian’s voice spoke up as she felt him turn toward her, just as she enveloped the whole tip of the ice cream bar between her lips. “That truly hit the sp - “

His words died on his tongue as he got an eyeful of what she was doing, though Emma avoided looking back just yet, knowing the glee she was feeling would give her away. ‘Gotcha, Pirate!’ she couldn’t help gloating in her mind.

Humming slightly as if she was only focused on how delicious her frozen treat tasted, Emma was inwardly high fiving herself after shooting a quick sidelong glance at her husband to see him looking as though he had swallowed his own tongue. The empty glass he’d moved to hand back to her fell to the ground from his suddenly lax fingers, and when she heard him speak again, his words were a hoarse whisper. “Gods above, Swan, are you trying to kill me?”

“Of course not,” she chirped happily, winking at him with what she hoped was breezy nonchalance. “Just enjoying some refreshment myself.” She then popped the treat back into her mouth, pointedly hollowing her cheeks a bit, then pulling it back out while letting her tongue trail along the rapidly melting chocolate coating.

‘And now the final touch,’ she thought, turning her head back toward the porch and deliberately putting more swing in her hips than normal. “Bring that glass with you when you come back in, okay Babe?” she tossed over her shoulder, with one brief backward glance that she hoped managed to be sultry.

Congratulating herself, even as just the short amount of time she’d been outside was beginning to make her sweat too and the vanilla insides of her ice cream began to drip down her hand, Emma had nearly reached the outdoor water spigot and attached hose by the porch steps, which seemed a good place to finish her dessert and wash off the stickiness, when she heard heavy steps coming up behind her rapidly. ‘Right on cue, ’ her mind practically crowed.

In the next moment, Killian’s strong, muscled arm snaked around her stomach and jerked her back firmly against the front of his body. Holding her tightly, his teeth nipped her earlobe before he purred a seductive warning against her neck. “It’s cruel to tease a man like that, Minx - not if you don’t intend to share a taste.”

Impishly, Emma held up the rapidly shrinking bit of ice cream left on the stick, as if in offering. However, when he dove in to swipe his tongue up the side of her hand and engulf both the melting treat and the tips of her fingers in the warm, wet cavern of his mouth, she willingly let go. His eyes were pure blue flames that wouldn’t allow her to blink, turning her bones and sinew to liquid more than the heat outside could have ever managed.

Emma was leaning into him breathlessly, mind going blank at the way he pulled his lips back off her fingers, laving her skin playfully as he leaned away, the self-satisfied gleam in his eyes along with the heat telling her all too well that he knew what he was doing. Winking devilishly, he stepped away slightly, making her nearly stumble as her body strained to follow, a soft whine leaving her throat completely against her will. 

“Hmm…” he purred, baiting her now, sensing victory no doubt. “Just as I thought - delicious.”

Emma’s misfiring synapses crackled back to life as he stood there, just out of reach, clearly waiting for his wife’s next move, and almost certainly counting on her being unable to resist.

Her chest heaved, trying to get a full breath and bring herself under control. She’d had the upper hand! She was so sure she’d have him begging - just this once. But she was flushed and sweating every bit as much as Killian now. That sinful way he was tracing her bare legs with his gaze, and the feel of his mouth on her, however briefly, had been all it had taken to send her temperature soaring beyond all reason.

“You don’t play fair, Captain,” she chided, her voice low and her own teasing smile finally returning to her as it just tilted the corner of her lips.

Killian’s dark brow arched devastatingly in challenge, not about to be outdone. “Oh, and I suppose you think waltzing out here in those shorts that barely cover your knickers and shamelessly teasing me was fair play?”

There was no good comeback, and Emma knew it. She’d been messing with him from the start, and neither of them had any doubts on that score. However, it was just then she remembered the hose and spigot right behind her. Using an innocent shrug of her shoulders and a toss of her blond hair she knew could often distract him - pirate indeed, her golden hair had always drawn his touch, he’d been brushing it over her shoulder since they had first climbed the beanstalk together - she managed to move back enough to reach behind her and turn on the water without him catching onto her actions. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” she sniffed, feigning insult. “I only brought you a cold drink. You looked like you needed…” she fumbled to grasp the hose quickly and pull it up into her hands “...to cool off!”

Without further warning, she pointed the nozzle at him, squeezed the handle and let fly, startling him with a blast of water right to the chest. Luckily, she’d managed to crank up the power enough to have a steady stream leaving the hose at full blast, and they kept it coiled in the shade of the porch, so she knew the spray rapidly soaking her husband was as ice cold as the sun beating down on them from above was burning hot.

Spluttering and yelping at the sudden, frigid onslaught, Killian’s pleased smirk dissolved as he threw up both arms in a helpless attempt to block the spray. She couldn’t help throwing her head back with a triumphant laugh and an emphatic “Gotcha!” escaping her lips. No part of her husband was getting out of this unscathed, she decided, aiming to soak him from head to toe while she had the upper hand. 

Unfortunately for her, the victory was short-lived. Adaptable and quick-thinking as ever, Killian had steeled himself against the cold blast and was inching closer amidst laughter of his own and short exclamations at the bursts of chilled water hitting him.

Emma was about to relent in truth, the sight of Killian’s streams of eater running down his arms and sides and droplets clinging to his trim, well-defined chest and the enticing covering of matted dark hair across his taut chest muscles, was more than enough prize for her efforts. The handle actually faltered in her grip for a moment as her mouth fell open with her gawking.

 It was all the opening her pirate needed. 

Killian bounded forward, closing the slight distance left between them and deftly plucking the hose from her grip. The squelch of his feet on the wet grass and the slap of soaked denim against his legs were Emma’s only other warnings before the sharp, freezing spray was turned on her full blast in retaliation.

“Ahhh! Killian!” she screeched helplessly, the shock of the cold making her gasp, despite knowing she wasn’t going to get any more mercy than she herself had been willing to grant moments ago. Instead, she floundered forward, grabbing for the hand aiming the spray at her. They scuffled briefly, both only getting wetter and more winded, until - ridiculously tangled up with each other and the hose - they tumbled to the sodden grass in a heap of wriggling limbs.

At this point, both of them were laughing, hands rapidly smoothing over wet skin in delicious slides. The hose fell from Killian’s grip, easily forgotten, and the water splashed them both in a wild arc until it fell to the ground and stopped. The damage was long done anyway as they rolled together on the marshy ground, legs entwined and bodies beginning to move against each other deliciously, almost without thought in a deliciously familiar next move.

Unable to resist any longer, and far past teasing or trying to win their game, Emma’s hands stole to trace up his panting side, thrilling at the feel of his stomach muscles trembling where her fingertips swept over them. 

Killian was not idle as she worked feverishly, a low groan of pleasure escaping him as she stroked along the planes of his torso.  In the next moment, he dove in, pulling down the vee of her own shirt further and baring her breast before closing his mouth over the tight, alert bud warming and tormenting in equal measure with swipes of his wicked tongue.

She bucked up into him, keening and whimpering and wordlessly desperate to urge him on. After that, there was no time for words, merely pants of exertion, the occasional clacking of teeth, the slapping of damp skin on skin, and the smack of the rest of their soaking clothing frantically shed on the swampy ground around them. Soon they were moving in unison, Killian pushing forward, and her opening to pull him in, then clinging to him tightly for all she was worth.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Later, as the evening shadows fell, a light breeze moved in, cooling the heavy air of the day. Emma’s eyes trailed languidly over the nude lines of her husband’s hip and side as he returned to her with water and slid back under the light blanket they had draped over their bodies as they snuggled skin to skin on the back porch. It hadn’t seemed worth bothering to get dressed again when they’d only adjourned as far as the porch before their kisses and touches and mischievous smiles led to them going again at an achingly slower, more luxurious pace on the porch glider while the sun had slowly dipped closer to the horizon. As Killian curled back around her and brought her hand up to kiss each one of her knuckles reverently, humming as he somehow found a sweet bit of leftover ice cream, Emma could only think it was lucky their porch faced nothing but the rocky coastline and the harbor beyond it. Not that she was ashamed of how quickly she had melted at his whim, but she didn’t need anyone else to get an eyeful.

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @searchingwardrobes @laschatzi @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jrob64

@apiratewhopines @iamstartraveller776 @tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @teamhook

@revanmeetra87 @anmylica @xarandomdreamx @bluewildcatfanatic @xsajx @motherkatereloyshipper

@stahlop @mie779 @jonesfandomfanatic @linda8084 @lfh1226-linda @winterbaby89

@darkcolinodonorgasm @hollyethecurious @artistic-writer @zaharadessert @booksteaandtoomuchtv @caught-in-the-filter

[elliebyrrdwrites]

14.4

THEO

“What do I do about my hair?” Hermione asked, suddenly, staring off into a mirror above the floo.

She had her hair wrapped up in a messy bun atop her head with her wand holding the bulk of it in place. There were stray curls falling down over her temple, the back of her neck, over her forehead.

Theo grimaced because hair really wasn’t his thing. To be honest, he and Hermione could be siblings if one was to make the assumption based on hair alone. “Uh…down?” He reached out and pulled the wand free. Releasing the curls, he watched as they tumbled around her, reminding him of living beings that seemed to have a mind of their own. Some sprang forward, others wanted to be pushed back. He wondered how she managed to keep them so smooth. Hermione snatched her wand from his hand and shoved it into a pocket she had transfigured into the dress.

He pushed several curls back behind her ear on one side and then strategically pulled two separate curls forward on the other.

“There.” He nodded as he readjusted the curls two more times.

The floo flared and Hermione stiffened as he laid a curl over her temple.

They both looked to see two figures emerging from the green flames. One tall, pale and blonde. The other, well the other was short, pale and raven haired.

Hermione choked on her indignation as Pansy Parkinson stepped out of the floor and into the room.

She was just as beautiful as he remembered her. All curves on a petite frame, her arms were toned and lean, her shoulders sculpted. Her green eyes flicked over him, noting the hand touching the temple of Hermione Granger.

Draco was staring at Granger, taking in the black dress she had put on at Theos insistence. It was a sleeveless number with a boat neckline and the soft, cotton fabric hugged her curves perfectly, the mini silhouette accentuating her hourglass waistline. Nothing but pure possession lay within his best friends eyes.

Theo cleared his throat and chuckled, albeit a bit nervously. “Good evening, boss.”

“What is she doing here?” Hermione demanded of Draco.

“I invited her.” He removed his wand holster, tossing it onto one of the chairs nearby.

Theo took the opportunity to run his eyes over Pansy. She was wearing a black tank top that showed off the milky white skin of her arms, her shoulders, the tops of her breasts and was tucked into a pair of black denim pants that stopped at her ankles, and then he took in the pair of white canvas slip on shoes she wore.

“Clearly you did, because I surely didn’t and I don’t see Harry anywhere around.” Hermione’s arms flew out to her sides, encompassing the space around them. “My question is why.”

“I’m here to train you, Granger.” Pansy drawled, her eyes flicking over to Theo. “What’s he doing here?”

“Train me?” Her laugh was derisive. “In what?”

“Self defense.” Draco replied, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves.

“I know how to defend myself, Malfoy.”

“Without a wand, Granger.” Pansy rolled her eyes and then turned to Draco. She threw a hand out toward Theo. “You didn’t tell me he’d be here.”

Theo cleared his throat and shuffled closer to Hermione. “She’s my principal.”

“Then why am I here? Just have Casanova over there train her.” She sneered over at Theo.

Draco shot Theo a knowing look before he answered Pansy. “You’re the best in one on one and you’re capable of taking down a man twice your size. I think it would be best if Granger learned from you.” He shoved both sleeves of his shirt up to his elbow.

Theo couldn’t help but notice that the tattoo on the inside of his left forearm was glamoured to appear unmarked. He wondered if Draco did that for Granger’s benefit or his own. Theo had noticed that Granger had a scar on her own forearm, which she covered with a glamour of her own when she saw his eyes flick to it earlier tonight.

Hermione scoffed. “I can defend myself without a wand.” She crossed her arms over her chest and turned her head to glare out the window.

Draco disapparated from his spot, only to reappear behind her. He banned his arms around her, pinning her arms to her chest.

Hermione growled. “Get off of me!” She thrashed in his arms, wiggling her body against his, trying to throw the back of her head against Draco’s mouth and kicking her heel into his shin.

“Careful, Draco.” Theo sniffed. “She bites.”

Pansy threw an acidic glare in his direction.

Hermione scraped her nails across Draco’s forearms.

“Come on, Pussy cat.” Draco murmured into her ear. “Fight me off, if you’re so tough.”

She growled and her nails sunk deeper into his skin. She lowered her mouth, which indicated, to Theo, that she was about to bite his knuckles before Draco repositioned it lower down. On her stomach, causing her to still against him.

“She’s useless.” Pansy scoffed.

Theo chuckled. “She’s feisty, though.” He shrugged. “And tenacious.”

“Oh, pull your tongue out of her ass, Theo.” Pansy hissed causing him to choke on a laugh that wedged itself somewhere towards the back of his throat.

“Why Pansy,” He placed a hand over his chest. “Are you jealous of my relationship with Granger?”

Pansy bit out a laugh, crossing her arms over her chest. “Please. Only an idiot falls in love with his principal.”

“In love?” His brow lifted. “You’re assuming the worst of me, Pans. Hermione’s safety is my number one priority. No matter how I may or may not feel about her.”

Pansy’s cheeks flared a delicious shade of pink that spread to the tip of her nose.

Her anger was volatile and really, Theo should have been more careful but how could he resist sparking the flame inside of the witch.

Theo looked over to find that Draco was still curled around Hermione, rubbing his chin across her shoulder blade while her eyes eyelids seemed to grow heavy. She was panting, and her cheeks were aflame. Draco dropped her arms from around her and pulled his head off of her shoulder.

“You have claws, love.” He murmured. “Just like a puss-” She spun around and planted her hand over his mouth, cutting him off.

They stared at each other for several moments, Draco’s eyes heated and bright. “Stop saying that word.” She whispered.

Draco nodded once in understanding and she pulled her hand away. “Whatever you say, kitty cat.” He amended before winking at her.

Theo sent a pointed stare at Pansy who raised her brows in return. “Well, that was cute and all but can we go ahead and get on with this meeting? I have plans.”

“Plans?” Theo mused with a curious lift of his brow.

She shrugged and observed her fingernails, an obvious attempt at making him wonder what her plans entailed. Another man, possibly. She could just be trying to make him jealous. It might be working.

“Why her? Why can’t Theo train me?” Hermione looked to Pansy. “What makes you more qualified than him?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Other than the reasons Draco already listed?”

When Hermione nodded, Pansy uncrossed her arms and twisted away from Theo for only a second. Before she jumped and did a spinning kick. Only, instead of planting her feet firmly into Theo’s face or chest, she caught him by the neck with her legs before she finished spinning. Theo was forced forward and over, flipping hard onto his back before Pansy landed in a crouching position beside him.

The air was forced violently from his lungs upon impact. His lungs contracted, his throat worked as he wheezed and gasped.

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed. “Well, that was quite impressive.” Theo coughed on a sliver of air that finally made it back into his lungs.

“It was brilliant.” Draco sounded absolutely tickled.

Pansy was smiling down at him.

Theo managed to hold up his middle finger to the room at large, narrowing his eyes in on the beautiful witch above him.

“She’ll train with you.”

Hermione scoffed.

Pansy stood from her position above Theo and dusted her hands off. “We start tomorrow morning, seven sharp.”

“There’s a room at the DMLE you two can use.”

“I never agreed to this!”

“Perfect. Bye, Granger. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Theo watched as Pansy stepped away and disappear from his peripheral. The ceiling flashed green as she departed.

Draco appeared above him, his hand already outstretched.

“Still want to tell me that there nothing going on between you two? Nothing you want to tell me?” He asked as he pulled Theo to his feet.

He sniffed and rubbed at his lower back. “We had a rather mind altering night several months back.”

“Oh?” Draco slid his hands into his pockets.

Theo nodded. “I dipped out before she woke up. Haven’t called her since.”

“Oh.”

“It must be a Slytherin rule.” Hermione scoffed. “Abruptly work your way into a witches heart and, just as quickly, forget all about her.” She spun and left the parlor, disappearing into the kitchen.

“You might want to go after that one.” Theo pointed toward the kitchen. “You kind of fucked up, not telling her why you were coming over.”

Draco glanced toward the kitchen with a frown. “She would have said no if I asked her to talk and work with Pansy.”

“She did say no.” Theo turned to the Floo, desperate for a stiff drink and a soft bed. “And honestly,” He shook his head as he shuffled into the fireplace. “A warning would have been appreciated.”

[seiwas]

John Price:3

ok. i believe the 141 men wear compression shirts + sweatpants all the time when they're off duty, so while they DO look good in it (i would still be drooling LOL), i think it's just too much of a common occurrence yk?

button-down and slacks would look sexy but he kinda walks around a little out of his element in it. STILL HOT but confidence is key, and i think it shines the most when john wears a white shirt + blue jeans.

it's just... the relaxed nature of it all + the fact that he has the ass and thighs for it.

it feels like a sunday in between assignments, and he's gone to the market with you that morning. tucks his wallet inside his back pocket before hauling all the produce out of his car into the house. he tries to help you around the kitchen (but really, you only keep him around bc it's the perfect view for you).

he's shrugged off that plaid button-down and stands in front of your kitchen counter, hands too large and fingers far too chunky to handle julienning some carrots. you giggle, and he turns around at the sound, wondering what's made you laugh.

from the back, his back is broad, everything from the shoulders down wide and thick, but when he twists to the side, you see how his chest puffs out ever so slightly; how it slopes down to taper at his waist, that from experience, you know, may be soft at first touch but is densely packed muscle underneath.

when your eyes trail down to the dip at his lower back (the place you know his dimples hide), the angled view provides the perfect look at the curve of his ass. you can see the denim of his jeans defying its very nature just to stretch around it, hugging it just as much as it hugs the bulk of his thighs.

john chuckles before he smirks, "eyes're up here, love."

(tagging u bc this is ur man FDBJD @soumies)

send me a character and i’ll tell you which outfit they’d look 🥵 in: white shirt + blue jeans / fitted black shirt + sweatpants / button-down + slacks

[guysgetbigger]

Sympathy Santa (4 of 12)

The morning sun bled through the bedroom curtains, painting Ethan's bare back in warm hues. He stretched, the movement causing the soft expanse of his belly to jiggle invitingly. Reaching for his usual jeans, a familiar tug of resistance met his fingers. He frowned, pulling harder, but the denim refused to budge.

"Ugh, these must have shrunk in the dryer," he muttered, tugging his underwear higher in a futile attempt to create more slack.

Sarah, sipping her coffee from the doorway, watched the silent battle with amusement. "Or maybe," she suggested, a playful lilt in her voice, "you've just, you know, outgrown them."

Ethan's cheeks flushed a rosy red. He glanced down at his reflection in the mirror, the sight confirming her playful accusation. His belly, now a prominent feature, strained against the waistband of his underwear. His chest, broad and expansive, seemed even wider without the shirt to contain it.

"Maybe," he conceded, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. He flexed his biceps, the movement causing ripples beneath his skin. "Guess all that gym time is paying off… in unexpected ways."

Sarah chuckled, her gaze lingering on the display of newfound muscle. "Paying off indeed," she murmured, her voice husky with unspoken desire. "Though, I might need to invest in some new bedsheets if this keeps up."

Ethan winked, the playful banter easing the pang of self-consciousness. He glanced around, realizing his usual morning attire was conspicuously absent.

"Speaking of unexpected growth," he said, a touch of mock seriousness in his voice, "have you seen my bigger pants anywhere? The ones with the, uh, enhanced capacity?"

Sarah's laughter filled the room, a melody sweeter than any morning song. "I believe they're residing peacefully in the back of the closet, awaiting their next heroic outing."

With a playful groan, Ethan reached for his discarded shirt, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The day stretched before him, filled with the promise of laughter, love, and perhaps, just perhaps, a shopping spree for his newly expanded physique. He was Ethan, the bigger, the bolder, the man who embraced his curves with confidence and humor, and he wouldn't trade it for the world, not for a million pairs of perfectly fitting jeans. After all, some things, like love and acceptance, came in all sizes, and his were just right, perfectly imperfect, and undeniably delicious.

—

As Ethan lumbered into the kitchen, Derek did a double take. Was it just him, or did Ethan seem…taller? It wasn't just the way he held himself, shoulders back and chest puffed out with newfound confidence. Ethan's entire frame appeared stretched, his head brushing the top of the doorway where it hadn't before.

Derek narrowed his eyes, amusement battling with a flicker of something else, something primal and possessive. The sight of Ethan, already formidably built, somehow larger than life, sent a jolt through him.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Derek greeted, leaning against the counter, unable to tear his gaze away from Ethan's broad expanse.

Ethan, still half asleep, mumbled a response, reaching for the coffee pot. His sleep shirt clung to his torso, straining against the growing bulk beneath. With a grunt, he pulled it off, revealing the expanse of his bare chest and the gentle slope of his belly, now adorned with a smattering of new dark hairs.

Derek felt his throat tighten. It wasn't just the size; it was the way Ethan wore it. He moved with an ease that belied his physical presence, a relaxed confidence that spoke of a man comfortable in his own skin, in all its delicious curves.

"You look…taller," Derek blurted out, surprising himself.

Ethan stopped pouring coffee, turning towards him with a raised eyebrow. "Do I?"

Derek swallowed hard, unable to look away from the way the morning light glinted off Ethan's sweat-slicked skin. "Yeah," he confirmed, his voice husky. "Like you grew an inch overnight."

Ethan chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Maybe it's the extra protein shakes you keep pushing on me," he teased, his gaze meeting Derek's with a knowing glint.

The air crackled with unspoken desire, the playful banter a thin veil over the simmering attraction beneath. Derek stepped closer, drawn by the magnetic pull of Ethan's larger-than-life presence. He reached out, his hand hovering over the soft expanse of Ethan's belly before settling on his bicep, the muscle flexing beneath his touch.

"Whatever it is," Derek murmured, his voice low and seductive, "it looks good on you. Very good."

Ethan leaned into the touch, a thrill shooting through him. Derek's admiration, once shy and tentative, was now bold and unapologetic. He had grown, not just physically, but in the way he carried himself, the way he owned his size, his desires.

This new Ethan, bigger, bolder, more confident, was a feast for Derek's eyes and a delicious challenge he was more than ready to accept. They stood there, a silent promise hanging heavy in the air, the promise of a journey into uncharted territory, a dance of strength and desire fueled by Ethan's newfound size and Derek's insatiable hunger. And as the coffee brewed, its aroma filling the kitchen, they both knew this was just the beginning, a delicious prelude to a symphony of curves and passion, played out one intimate touch, one hungry kiss, one bold exploration at a time.

—

Derek huffed a mock sigh, playfully swatting at Ethan's hand. "Oh please," he countered, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "As if you could possibly make this wolf feel small."

Ethan chuckled, squeezing him tighter in his bear hug. "Maybe I wouldn't have to if you weren't shrinking like a startled kitten every time I flex."

Derek sputtered, his playful façade momentarily cracking. He shoved Ethan back, a hint of unease flickering in his eyes. "Shrinking? I am not shrinking!"

Ethan grinned, raising an eyebrow. "Then explain why I suddenly feel like I could pick you up and cuddle you like a teddy bear?"

Derek scoffed, puffing out his chest in a show of mock offense. "Because you're a giant oaf, Miller."

But his bluster lacked conviction. Ethan had noticed the subtle shifts in their dynamic lately. The way Derek seemed to shrink himself, physically and metaphorically, whenever they stood side-by-side. The hesitant looks he cast at Ethan's broad frame, the way his eyes lingered just a beat too long on the expanse of Ethan's chest and belly.

It was almost… flattering. A primal spark ignited within Ethan, a possessive pride in his newfound size and strength. He sauntered closer, his shadow engulfing Derek's smaller frame.

"Maybe," he murmured, his voice a low rumble, "it's not about who's shrinking, but who's… growing."

He leaned in, his lips grazing Derek's ear. The heat of his breath sent shivers down Derek's spine. "And maybe," he continued, his voice laced with playful sensuality, "all this extra size needs a little… exploring."

Derek's throat went dry. His usual bravado faltered under the weight of Ethan's nearness, the power radiating from his larger-than-life presence. He couldn't deny the thrill, the delicious tension that crackled between them.

"Exploring, huh?" he whispered, his voice husky with unbidden desire. "And who exactly," he purred, stepping closer, "would be doing the exploring?"

Ethan chuckled, his amusement tinged with possessiveness. "Why, who else," he whispered, his lips brushing against Derek's neck, "but your new, bigger, bolder teddy bear?"

The next few moments were a blur of laughter, heated touches, and stolen kisses. Derek, initially hesitant, melted into Ethan's embrace, reveling in the unexpected dominance, the delicious feeling of being held, not just physically, but emotionally, by Ethan's newfound strength.

As they tumbled onto the couch, their laughter subsiding into a comfortable silence, Derek looked up at Ethan, his eyes filled with a mixture of admiration and something deeper, something primal and possessive.

"You may be bigger," he whispered, tracing a finger along Ethan's broad chest, "but I bet I can still make you purr, big bear."

Ethan chuckled, pulling Derek closer. "Oh, challenge accepted, little wolf."

And with that, they embarked on a journey of exploration, not just of Ethan's growing physique, but of their evolving relationship, driven by newfound size, unspoken desires, and a love that stretched, quite literally, to accommodate all their delicious curves and unexpected turns. Theirs was a love story written in bold strokes, fueled by laughter, passion, and the undeniable truth that sometimes, the biggest surprises come in the most unexpected packages, one bear hug, one playful tease, one delicious curve at a time.

—

The clang of weights echoed through the gym as Ethan pushed himself through a set of overhead presses. His muscles strained, beads of sweat forming on his brow, but he didn't relent. This wasn't just about building strength anymore; it was about claiming ownership of his new size, embracing the changes that had transformed him from a lean athlete to a formidable bear.

He finally lowered the bar, gasping for breath, a sense of exhilaration coursing through him. Glancing at the weight plates, he saw he'd set a new personal record. A triumphant grin split his face. He may be bigger, rounder, but he was stronger than ever.

Stepping off the platform, he caught Derek's admiring gaze. His boyfriend, ever the quick wit, winked. "Careful, Ethan," he chuckled, "you're almost twice my size now. I might get lost somewhere in the folds of your belly."

Ethan laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. The playful jab didn't sting; instead, it fueled the possessive pride simmering within him. He scooped Derek up in a playful hug, burying his face in the younger man's soft hair.

"Don't worry, little wolf," he said, his voice a low rumble, "I'll always find you there, nestled safe and warm."

Derek giggled, playfully squirming in his arms. "Just make sure you don't smother me with all that extra padding," he teased.

Ethan set him down, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind Derek's ear. The contrast between their physiques was stark – Ethan, broad and imposing, dwarfing Derek's lean frame. Yet, in that moment, the difference felt exhilarating, a testament to the unique dynamic they shared.

Later, after their workout, Ethan stepped onto the scale, curiosity gnawing at him. The numbers glowed back – 270 lbs. He had gained another ten pounds, his weight steadily climbing with his dedication to the gym. A flicker of self-consciousness stirred within him, but it was quickly overshadowed by a deeper sense of acceptance. This was his body, his temple, and he was learning to love every curve, every delicious fold.

"Looking mighty hefty, big guy," Derek purred, wrapping his arms around Ethan's waist from behind. He leaned in, nuzzling the soft expanse of Ethan's belly.

Ethan chuckled, the warmth of Derek's touch melting away any lingering doubts. His size, once a source of insecurity, was now a bridge to a deeper intimacy, a playground for Derek's adventurous spirit.

He turned, pulling Derek close, his hand resting possessively on the small of his back. "And you," he murmured, his gaze tracing the delicate lines of Derek's face, "are still every bit as perfect as ever, even if you are getting a little lost in my bear hugs."

They stood there, a testament to the beauty of their mismatched forms, their laughter echoing through the empty gym. Size, they realized, was just a number. Their love, however, was boundless, a delicious tapestry woven from strength and vulnerability, playful banter and passionate embraces. And as they walked out into the twilight, hand in hand, they knew that their journey, filled with unexpected curves and delightful surprises, was only just beginning.

—

The familiar scent of his childhood home washed over Ethan as he stepped through the doorway, a wave of nostalgia mingling with the nervous anticipation churning in his gut. He'd put off this visit for longer than he cared to admit, the prospect of facing his parents' scrutiny after his dramatic physical transformation looming like a storm cloud.

But here he was, standing in the living room, a man far removed from the lean athlete they might remember. His once-loose T-shirt now clung desperately to his frame, straining against the swell of his chest and biceps. A rogue tuft of chest hair peeked out from the V-neck, a testament to the changes that had reshaped him from boy to something altogether different.

His mother, ever perceptive, was the first to react. Her eyes widened, then crinkled at the corners in a mixture of surprise and amusement. "Ethan!" she exclaimed, her voice laced with affection and a hint of disbelief. "You've… filled out a bit, haven't you?"

His father, a man of few words, grunted in agreement, his gaze sweeping over Ethan's broad frame with a mix of curiosity and something he couldn't quite decipher. It was a look that sent a prickle of apprehension down Ethan's spine.

"Yeah," Ethan chuckled, self-consciously tugging at the hem of his shirt. "Been hitting the gym a bit more than usual."

His mother, ever the diplomat, ushered him into a hug, her embrace enveloping him in a familiar warmth. "Well, you look strong, dear," she said, her voice soft. "Though maybe a tad bit… snug in that shirt."

Ethan flushed, the playful comment hitting a bit too close to home. He glanced at his father, who remained silent, his expression still unreadable.

They settled into the living room, the air thick with unspoken questions and a tension that Ethan fought to ignore. As the conversation flowed, his mother peppered him with inquiries about his life, his job, his well-being. His father, however, stayed largely quiet, his silence a looming presence that weighed heavily on Ethan.

Finally, after dinner, as they sat by the fireplace, the silence stretched thin. Ethan knew he couldn't avoid it any longer.

"So," he began, taking a deep breath, "you probably noticed I've… changed a bit."

His father finally met his gaze, his eyes sharp and assessing. "Indeed," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "You've gotten bigger, heavier."

Ethan braced himself, expecting disapproval, judgment. But what came next surprised him.

"But you also seem… different," his father continued, his words measured. "More confident, maybe. Like you've grown into yourself."

Ethan blinked, a flicker of hope warming his chest. He hadn't expected this, this acceptance, this subtle understanding.

"I have," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "It hasn't always been easy, but I'm starting to embrace it, this new me."

His father nodded, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Good," he said simply. "Just make sure you're taking care of yourself, son. That's all that matters."

Relief washed over Ethan, warm and sweet. He had come prepared for a battle, but found understanding instead. His parents might not fully comprehend his transformation, but they loved him, accepted him, big curves and all.

Later that night, as he lay in his old childhood bed, the weight of his worries lifted, replaced by a newfound sense of peace. He wasn't just bigger; he was stronger, more confident, a man comfortable in his own skin. And as he drifted off to sleep, a smile gracing his lips, he knew this was just the beginning of a new chapter, one filled with self-acceptance, love, and maybe, just maybe, a wardrobe update that could accommodate his delicious, ever-evolving self.

—

The familiar scent of lavender and dust bunnies wafted through the air as Ethan eased himself onto the mattress of his childhood bed. He hadn't slept here since college, and the once-inviting twin bed now felt comically small beneath his considerably larger frame. With a chuckle, he sank in, the springs groaning in protest under his newfound weight.

His T-shirt, already stretched thin across his chest, strained even further, revealing a peek of the dark expanse of his belly that spilled over the waistband of his shorts. He patted it affectionately, a wave of self-consciousness battling with a newfound sense of acceptance. This was his body, bigger and bolder than his younger self, and he was learning to revel in its unique curves.

The old wooden frame creaked and groaned beneath him, a nostalgic symphony that lulled him back to simpler times. Back then, lean and lanky, he would sprawl across the bed with reckless abandon, the mattress barely registering his weight. Now, every movement felt deliberate, an exploration of his own physical territory.

He rolled onto his side, his arm hanging off the edge, his fingertips brushing the soft plush carpet. Below his window, the moon cast a silvery glow on the familiar backyard, whispering secrets of childhood games and midnight adventures. A pang of bittersweet nostalgia tugged at his heart.

But the nostalgia was quickly overridden by a surge of contentment. He was no longer that skinny boy, unsure of his place in the world. He was Ethan, a man comfortable in his own skin, his size, and his ever-evolving desires. He had grown, not just physically, but in confidence, in self-acceptance, and in the love he shared with Derek and Sarah.

As he drifted off to sleep, the creaking of the bed beneath him became a lullaby, a comforting reminder of the journey he had taken, the changes he had embraced, and the delicious curves that made him who he was. He was bigger, bolder, and better than ever, and tonight, in his childhood bed, he finally felt at home in his own skin, ready to face the world, one delicious curve at a time.

—

The aroma of pancakes and bacon flooded Ethan's senses as he entered the kitchen, instantly igniting a familiar pang of childhood hunger. His stomach rumbled in agreement, a low growl that seemed to echo off the walls. His parents, already seated at the table, greeted him with smiles and raised eyebrows.

"Good morning, sleeping bear," his mother chuckled, gesturing to the towering stack of pancakes on his plate. Ethan grinned, self-consciously tugging down his T-shirt. The once-loose fabric strained against his expanding chest and belly, threatening to reveal the soft expanse peeking above his waistband.

He dug in with gusto, savoring the fluffy pancakes dripping with maple syrup and crispy bacon that crackled with each bite. Every mouthful seemed to fuel a bottomless pit in his stomach, his appetite fueled by nostalgia and the comfort of being home.

As he devoured his breakfast, the laughter lines around his mother's eyes crinkled even more. "Slow down, dear," she advised, a playful glint in her gaze. "You're going to eat the table too."

Ethan chuckled, wiping a streak of syrup from his lips with a sheepish grin. "Just enjoying the home cooking, Mom. You know I can't resist your pancakes."

His father, ever the stoic observer, cleared his throat. "You've certainly gotten yourself, uh, well-rounded, son."

Ethan's cheeks flushed a rosy red. His shirt had ridden up further, exposing a generous portion of his growing belly, now adorned with a smattering of dark hairs. He patted it absently, the self-consciousness momentarily overshadowed by the warmth of his parents' regard.

Later that day, while exploring the attic, reminiscing over old toys and dusty photo albums, Ethan bumped into a forgotten board game tucked away in a corner. As he bent down to pick it up, his belly collided with a stack of dusty boxes with a resounding thud.

"Oof!" he exclaimed, rubbing his stomach with a grimace. His parents, who had been following him, burst into laughter.

"Careful there, big guy," his father chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. "That belly packs a punch!"

Ethan joined in the laughter, the playful teasing washing over him in waves of affection. He wasn't just bigger; he was part of this loving family, his size just another facet of his personality, like his goofy laugh and insatiable appetite.

That evening, after a comforting home-cooked dinner, they sat around the fireplace, sharing stories and laughter. Ethan, nestled between his parents on the couch, felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the crackling fire. He was home, accepted, loved, not despite his size, but because of it. His curves, his appetite, his laughter – they were all part of the fabric of their family, a delicious tapestry woven with love and acceptance.

As he drifted off to sleep that night, the memory of his father's playful jab at his belly lingered, not as a taunt, but as a reminder of his belonging. He was Ethan, the big, the bold, the beloved son, and in his parents' eyes, he was perfect, just as he was, one delicious curve and one rumbling belly laugh at a time.

[uncleewoodystories]

P2 Convention

CHP 1.

I pull my grey 2009 Ford Wrangler into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn, it’s searing outside but the cool breeze from my old and faithful car keeps me and Bobby nice and chilly.

I turn to look at the boy, all big blue eyes and blonde hair, he fills out the adorable jean overall shorts I bought for him in all the right places and the neon green shirt makes his blue eyes even bluer.

‘Is this where we’re going Dad?’ He looked at the old Holiday Inn, all beige walls and orange ceilings of the building. I could tell it was one of the big Holiday Inns by the entrance alone, one of those with a pool and even a big convention room.

Through the windshield I notice a boy walking, no older than twelve, with tan skin and brown hair and wearing tight khaki shorts being led by a white man with Glasses by the back of his neck. They quickly walk into the lobby doors of the hotel.

‘I think we’re in the right place’ I said

The glass doors of the hotel opened up to a delicious air conditioned room and the smell of old 90s airfragrance. The reception clerk, a male receptionist was already talking to the tan skin boy and his dad.

‘Here’s the activity booklet and a map of the hotel, it should be nice and private since we are only accepting patrons for the convention.’ The receptionist smiled creepily and then at the direction of the tan boy, who shrank back behind the man with glasses, who uttered a wordless thanks and turned almost running into us. The man saw Bobby first of course all bright colors and big blue eyes and soft lips and stared for a bit and regained his composture once he saw me.

‘Here for the convention?’ I smiled and held out my hand to the man,

‘Yes’ the guy took my hand, he was cold to the touch.

‘Nice, I said, im Harlan and this is my son Bobby, say hi Bobby’ I teased Bobby’s hair

‘Hello!’ Said brightly at the man, who stood looking at him, mouth slightly agape, he held out his hand as well.

‘He-l-lo’ the man stammered as he held the boy’s warm hand

‘Im Nick’ he said, and this is my- um Boy, Tobias’

‘Toby’ the brown haired boy still was hiding behind his dad, I could see soft lips and cute brown eyes and the receptionist behind him was staring at the boy’s behind no doubt, because Tobias, from what I could see even from afar, had an ass for days. I compared my own boy’s behind, wrapped in that denim sure made it look bigger, it was definitely competition.

‘We gotta go now Toby say bye’ He grabbed the boy by the back of his neck and led him towards the room sheepishly, he added ‘See you in a bit at the lucheon’ I smiled and nodded yes and made my way to the reception desk.

As soon as I showed the clerk my reservation he talked wildly, and stole glances at ‘young Bobby’ as he called him’ he gave me all of the details on the weekend’s events and gave me a tour of the map with his finger, I got distracted as I noticed Bobby had drifted away into a small table with art books and couches on either side I became transfixed as he crouched down, it reminded me of babies when they secretly go poop somewhere he crouched on the tables searching the tmagazines for a videogame one. His vuloptious ass showed in his jean overalls, that was my son who I had adpoted since 5 years old, handpicked from all the others. He leaned over to grab a snack from the table and his overalls bulked up in all the right places. 

He was 9 years old, almost ten, and already his football training had paid off, apart from the blonde boy looks, he had begun to eat more, no doubt explaining all the energy and natural talent he had for playing football. It had been my pleasure seing those golden football pants thicken with every coming year.

Beyond his beautiful butt I suddenly saw sitting in an armchair of one corner of the table, an older man whit grey har and thick eyebrows, he was looking at bobby intently, one hand placed on his pants at the crotch, and the other a phone, angled right at Bobby.

[thegatesofsilverandbone]

It had been a long day at college, and Jake was feeling the strain. Classes were demanding, and the pressure to keep up with his workouts was starting to get to him. He was desperate to bulk up, to stand out among the sea of ripped guys at the gym. That's why when he came across an ad online for a protein shake that guaranteed growth, he didn’t hesitate. “Max Gainz: The Ultimate Growth Formula,” it promised in bold letters. The testimonials were glowing, and the price, though steep, seemed worth it.

Jake mixed the powder with some water, downed it in one go, and plopped down on the couch, feeling an odd sense of accomplishment. But as the minutes ticked by, something didn’t feel right. His stomach began to churn, a heavy bloated sensation settling in. He rubbed his abdomen, hoping to ease the discomfort, his fingers pressing into the firm muscles he’d worked so hard to sculpt.

But as he rubbed, the sensation shifted from discomfort to something entirely different. His stomach wasn’t just bloated—it was expanding. Jake’s eyes widened as he felt his stomach begin to push out against his hand, growing rounder and firmer. The fabric of his shirt stretched tight across his midsection, the seams straining as his belly grew outwards, thickening with solid, dense muscle and a layer of firm fat. Dark hair sprouted across his once smooth skin, a coarse trail running from his navel and spreading outwards, covering his burgeoning belly in a thick pelt.

His shirt gave a loud rip as it tore down the middle, revealing the strong, hairy belly beneath. Jake’s breath hitched, a mixture of shock and excitement swirling in his mind. This wasn’t what he expected, but the sight of his own body transforming was… exhilarating.

The changes didn’t stop at his stomach. He felt a tingling in his chest as it broadened, his pecs swelling with mass, dense hair sprouting in a thick carpet across them. His arms followed suit, biceps bulging, skin stretching tight over newfound muscle as a dusting of hair crept along his forearms. His shoulders grew wider, his back thickening, giving him a powerful, sturdy frame that spoke of years of hard labor and dedication.

Jake’s legs grew next, his thighs thickening, quads bulging with new strength. His jeans were stretched to their limits, the denim straining before finally giving way, tearing at the seams as his legs expanded. His calves, once lean, now bulged with muscle, covered in a mat of hair that matched the rest of his body.

As the changes swept through him, Jake’s face began to alter. His jawline grew more defined, squaring out as a thick beard sprouted from his chin, creeping up his cheeks and connecting with his sideburns. His hairline receded slightly, giving him a mature, masculine look that was accentuated by the deepening lines around his eyes and the slight graying at his temples.

The strangest part, though, was the shift in his mind. As Jake marveled at his new form, memories began to blur and reconfigure. He was no longer Jake, the college kid struggling to bulk up—he was Jake, the burly, confident bear of a man who’d embraced his body and his life. The protein shake? It had always been a part of his routine, just like hitting the gym and relaxing on the couch after a hard day’s work. He had a boyfriend, didn’t he? Yeah, his mind filled in the gaps—a sweet, affectionate guy who loved the burly man he’d become.

Jake—no, not Jake, he wasn’t that kid anymore—smirked as he looked down at his hairy, muscular body. He gave his thick beard a thoughtful stroke, feeling the coarse hair against his fingers. Tonight was going to be great. His boyfriend would be over soon, and they had plans. But for now, he was content to relax on the couch, his strong, hairy belly resting comfortably in his lap as he settled in to watch some TV.

The college kid he had been was a distant memory, as natural and fading as a dream. This was who he was now, and it felt damn good.

[knickynoo]

Back to the Future: The Animated Series, s01ep01 "Brothers" Review & Commentary

Well, I let you people vote on it, and you (overwhelmingly) urged me to do this. Not gonna lie; I'm excited. The animated series is. It's a thing that was made. It's kind of like that cousin or uncle that no one in the family really talks about or acknowledges. But, as far as a children's show goes, it is pretty fun. It's also ridiculous, and I can't wait to dive in, tear it apart, analyze it too much, and just generally have a good time talking about this weird little cartoon. These posts will be long, but I'm going to really try to make them enjoyable to read.

Before we begin! Some background info just to orient you: The series takes place in 1991. The Brown family has moved to a farm in Hill Valley and are continuing to go on adventures through the space time continuum because why not? Doc has thrown all caution to the wind, evidently. Marty is in college. I guess 1991 would put him in his senior year, so, maybe he's 20? I dunno. I'm going to have a LOT of fun discussing him, because--as you may have seen me mention briefly in the past--they really did a number on him character-wise.

The series makes use of live-action segments at the beginning and end of each episode, with Christopher Lloyd as Doc. He's often assisted by Bill Nye, The Science Guy. Most of the live action beginnings are framed as Doc telling a story about a specific memory or adventure, which then leads into the cartoon portion, which is the "bulk" of the story. Please keep this in mind. These are supposed to be actual life stories that Doc is sharing about the goings-on in his life post-trilogy. Okay, let's get to it.

We open in Doc's lab, where he's setting up a camera. I don't think it's ever addressed or explained, but he's got some sort of science show that he now runs for children? Honestly, these segments are delightful. Christopher Lloyd clearly enthusiastically jumped right back into the role of Doc, and it's great to see more of him.

There's our guy. Look at him. He's wearing his train shirt again, so he must have gotten a new one after the events of Part III. I don't blame him; that is a nice shirt. He's talking about the electromagnet that he and Jules have made, and it leads him into a story of another time the two of them built one, which was in 1864. Cue the cartoon portion!

The first cartoonified (?) character we get to see is Marty! He's supposed to be paying attention to a history lesson on the Civil War (using Doc's futuristic tech that includes a holographic teacher) but he's not listening at all. He's got his headphones on and is jamming on his guitar. Very Marty behavior. At least they kept that trait of his. Anyway, look at him. Look what they did to him. He's wearing a letterman jacket like some sort of jock, and I do not approve of it. Why did they not have him wear a denim jacket?? Denim was huge in the 90s. Who made this decision? Where are the strings on his guitar? I have so many questions and no answers.

Oh! I should probably mention that Marty is voiced by David Kaufman. Many of you will know him as the voice of Danny Phantom. Doc is voiced by Dan Castellaneta, who is also the voice of Homer Simpson.

When Doc enters the scene, he shows Marty the new feature he's added to the DeLorean. (Oh, yeah, the DeLorean is back, btw. He built another one) As a precaution against anyone trying to steal the car, Doc has modified it to be able to fold down into a suitcase?

It will only open up at the sound of Doc's voice or Einstein's bark, and it weighs over 2,000 pounds. Doc also has a fancy robot crane thing to help lift it and carry it around, but it malfunctions when he tries to demonstrate, and it catapults the DeLorean-turned-suitcase that weighs a literal ton RIGHT ON TOP OF HIM.

photos taken seconds before disaster. rip Doc, cartoon over.

He then shows Marty how the time circuits are now voice activated, and we also learn that the car can travel to locations throughout the world now. It is no longer confined to just traveling through time. Marty's thinks this is all very interesting (no he doesn't) and hurries off because he's late for his classes and Dean Strickland will be angry at him if he fails his Civil War exam. Doc goes into a mini soliloquy, saying, "Ah, the Civil War; a tragic moment from America's past. The powers of oppression and slavery versus the forces of freedom. The south pitted against the north—brother against brother. Thank goodness those days are far behind us."

Naturally, this brings us immediately to a very loud fight between Jules and Verne. Now, I actually like the way Jules and Verne are included and their personalities are established in the cartoon. And if anyone here has read my fanfic "Harborage", you know that I love writing Jules and Verne and take their characterization straight from this cartoon (though I do water them down, obviously. these cartoons are so over the top). Generally, though, I do like their dynamic. Jules is essentially a mini-Doc but even more so in a way? He's extremely smart, very logical, and speaks formally at all times. Verne, on the other hand, is all about having fun. He's loud, hyper, and thinks Jules is a huge geek. Verne and Marty are super close, and they're very much a "big brother, little brother" type dynamic duo of chaos through the series. Doc breaks up his sons' fighting, but Verne is upset that he always seems to take Jules's side.

Then, we go back to Marty (later in the day, I guess?). He's doing another virtual Civil War lesson but is still wearing his headphones and playing guitar during it. His virtual teacher gets annoyed and yells an important date from the war—February 11th, 1864 in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Remember how Doc said the time circuits are now voice activated? Yeah, this date gets programmed into the DeLorean.

Verne, feeling neglected and looked down on by his family, decides to take a joy ride in the DeLorean. Marty witnesses Verne take off, and we actually get a good bit of Marty characterization! He sighs and says, "Perfect", which--as many of you know—is one of Marty's favorite words.

Meanwhile, outside, Verne nearly runs over his own father with the car, and Doc has the most hilariously cartoony reaction to seeing the car barreling at him.

Then, uh oh, Verne is sent right into the middle of the Civil War. He meets Beauregard Tannen, a Confederate General. (This is a good place to mention that Thomas Wilson actually voices all Tannen relatives in the cartoon!)

Back at the house, Doc, Jules, and Marty are all sick with worry and have no clue where Verne has ventured off to. I will point out that we haven't seen or even heard about Clara yet. Where is my girl Clara? *sigh* Anyway, it's Einstein who figures it out. He—he has mechanical gloves that he wears that basically give him human hands, so he finds a photo of Verne in a history book and...yeah.

Turns out Verne has been forced to join the Confederate Army as a little drummer boy. The book states that the group in the picture is "wiped out" a day after the photo was taken. The gang all race to the Time Train, which is hidden in an underground tunnel on the Brown's property. That's a pretty neat detail, ngl. I've wondered where Doc would store that massive train if he ever moved back to Hill Valley.

Once arriving in Chattenooga, Doc puts Marty in charge of guarding the train, and he is immediately captured and tied up. And, ya know what? Even though I feel like Marty is generally out of character a lot in this show, I'll admit it's pretty spot on so far. Doc and Jules are also captured and forced into the Union Army. They learn of General Ulysses S. Clayton, who is Clara's uncle, and Jules goes to try to convince him to put a stop to the upcoming battle. It doesn't work, but they do notice some sort of electromagnetic machine a doctor is using on Ulysses (to treat rheumatism), so Doc and Jules steal it.

On the battlefield the next day, as the armies are charging at each other, Jules gets thrown right into the middle of it all. Verne then runs to him, and they huddle together as they await their doom. (I must say that, as a first episode of a series, this is quite the story to open with. Very interesting choice.) As they soldiers prepare to destroy each other, they notice the brothers cowering together and stop in their tracks—struck by how sweet the scene is. Realizing that the war has pitted many family members and friends against each other, the men begin to hug each other and put aside their differences. On their way back home, Marty's history book changes to show that the particular regiment Verne was forced into never fought any battles. All those men apparently took the little lesson they'd been taught to heart. And I gotta point out that, originally, all those men died in battle, so Verne's actions led to a whole group of people continuing to go on, live their lives, and probably have children. But, seeing as this is a kid's show, the potential repercussions of this on the timeline aren't addressed. And that's the end of the cartoon portion.

We go back to Real Doc then. Yayyy! He shares this news with us.

The delivery of these lines is great. They're said with all the weary exasperation of a parent whose warnings have been ignored over and over. Doc does not feel bad for Marty.

I think Doc does an experiment then? But guess what. As I'm typing this, I'm realizing that I got distracted making the gifs and never actually finished the episode. I don't feel like pulling it back up and watching those last 2 minutes. Oh well.

I think that, overall, this is a weird episode to start a series on. It's not very fun or wacky. Mostly just feels like a history lesson with a "fighting doesn't solve anything" moral slapped onto it. This was fun to write up, though.

Tune in next week to see if we find out where my girl Clara is.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

The Dark Passenger - Chapter Three.

Thank you to all who’ve left lovely comments on this, I appreciate you so much for doing so, and taking the time to read in the first place. Now... did somebody say smut? ;)

Previous chapters - One  Two

Words - 3,242

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, minors DNI!

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed

Coming to a stop at the foot of her bed, EZ set her down to her feet, Camille, taking the bottom of his white t shirt as he shrugged his kutte onto the floor, pulling the garment over his head. There beneath, lay the splendorous sight of a body that looked like carved marble, her fingertips stroking over his smooth chest. His skin was utterly beautiful.

Her eyelids fluttered shut as he claimed her lips once more, the kiss a little softer than she’d shared with him while being carried to her bedroom, the hard mass of his bulk grounding as she felt her head spinning, his arms holding her to him, rooting her there. He hummed into the kiss, hands teasing at the fabric of her t shirt, turned on more than he expected he would be to feel that she’d forgone putting a bra on.  

His fingertips concentrated upon her nipples, feeling them stiffen to his touch, pushing her back gently, his hands grasping to pull the t shirt from her body, his head dipping, laying a path of kisses down her chest.

“These are about the most perfect tits I’ve ever damned seen,” he complimented, his mouth closing in a hard suck at her nipple, coaxing a little gasp from her, her hips rising beneath him.  

“They should be for what I paid for them.”

His eyebrows fluttered, smiling around his suck on the dark pink bud. “Money very well spent.” Feeling his hands slide down over her narrow waist, her breath caught, the air thickening in her lungs as she felt him unfasten her jeans, Camille shaking each Ugg covered foot until the boots fell to the floor with a soft thud, EZ staring down at her with heavy want as he yanked at her jeans.  

“Christ, did you spray these on?” It was a moment that almost felt out of place, the little spark of humour, Camille not believing he had such within him as her soft giggle peppered the air. “I thought mom jeans were the fashion right now?”

She snorted softly, a final yank freeing her of the tight denim, her thong gone with the jeans. “Would you wear mom jeans if you had an ass like mine?”

He made a thoughtful face for the briefest hint of a second passing. “I see you point.” Moving to the end of the bed, he dropped down to kneel at the foot, yanking her body down to meet him, his hands parting her thighs as his lips laid hot, open-mouthed kisses from her knee downwards, the scent of her womanhood catching his senses, his pupils dilating in response.  

Camille expected to be kept in anticipation, the heat of his mouth enfolding around her like a mist, that heat taking its first lick at her apex bringing her back to herself, a soft gasp floating from her throat, the very tip of his tongue pushing at her opening before he used it to drag a firm lick right through her folds, ending at her clit. The action made her jolt, her body keening against his mouth, EZ feeling his heart miss a couple of beats. Fuck, she tasted heavenly.  

A flush of warmth skipped over her nerve endings from those first few tentative licks, her folds bathed in the wet press of his tongue, his groan gone to rasp, his fingers joining his mouth, stroking at her as his tongue focused tight circles around her clit, his middle finger slipping inside her, crooking, stroking, EZ thinking her soft moan to be the sweetest thing he’d heard in a while.  

“Mmmm, such a pretty little pussy.” he praised, sucking on her clit, removing his finger to close his mouth around her entirely, eating her with greed, her fingers trailing through his short hair as her hips purled against his mouth. He flushed a summer tempest from her, balmy and winding, tongue flicking over her clit fast and rhythmically, the little bud swollen and tender, EZ pausing to suck on it firmly once more.  

She lay there utterly floored by his talent, the dexterity of his fingers as two pushed back within her, the precision of his tongue as he took hard, sweeping licks over her bundle again and again. That air of arrogance he wore, the one that radiated his self-confidence, he had every right to wear it with the pride he did, she thought, if this was what he could do to a woman with just two fingers and a tongue. Fuck.  

While his fingers began to drive hard, the lewd noises from her glistening cunt filling the room, his tongue bathed her bud in featherlight licks, driving her out of her mind, her body a host of glimmering tingles, perfect pools of pleasure melting down her spine. He had her whining and gasping, her hands clutching at his thick biceps, each lick quickening against her, watching her tits heaving as she panted hard. He knew where she was heading, straight into wet heat driven bliss, her cries spilling from her mouth like wine as her nails dug in on his arms, her clit bouncing against his tongue as she came hard.  

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ!” she panted, stroking his face, EZ turning his head to suck her fingers. “You’re too good at that!”  

“Yep.”

She scoffed a laugh. “Oh, and so freakin’ modest!”

He shrugged, letting go of his suck upon her dainty fingers, returning his mouth to her folds, but gentler this time. “Well, to be completely fair, you don’t exactly make it difficult. You and your peachy little pussy that tastes even better than it looks.” She shuddered against him, squealing with a little oversensitivity when he began sucking at her again, the vibrations from his rumbling laugh adding something a little more pleasurable. “So, if you want to wrap these gorgeous legs around my head,” he paused, grabbing them and physically doing just that, Camille laughing hard, “you do just that, beautiful. I’m happy to drown down here.”  

He felt her thighs flexing against the sides of his head as his tongue began to beat softly over her clit once more, gentle heat winding through her, EZ applying more pressure the less the shook against him as her oversensitivity passed. It flushed through her core like spring rain, the pleasure pattering, until it began to pelt down once again, her muscles tightening as she cried out, falling apart against the incessance of his tongue.  

“Oh god, you have to stop now!” she cried, sitting up a little, “if for no other reason than to let me return the favour.”  

Usually, EZ wouldn’t have hesitated at all, but at that moment, his need to be inside her far outweighed his desire to feel his cock in her mouth. He shook his head, his hands reaching for her neck, pulling her near, offering kisses gilded in embers, reaching to unfasten his belt. “Later. Right now, I have to fuck you. I have to, Camille.” Their kisses edged on frantic as EZ freed himself from his jeans and boxers, not before retrieving a condom from his wallet, shuddering while pulling it on, the wet warmth of her tongue circling his nipple.  

Glancing down, she saw it for the first time, the hard mass of cock she’d enjoyed grinding against when giving him a lap dance. She gulped. It was huge. Long, fat, intimidating, but god, she bet it felt incredible. Pushing her back, he pressed her thighs down to the bed, a grunt pooling his throat when she grasped his cock, squeezing it, bringing it to the soaking mess of her sex, her mouth dropping open as he slid in fluidly. Each thick inch parted her walls, EZ grasping her thighs, keeping them spread as he leaned down, kissing her with a shuddered breath as he filled her entirely, dragging back slowly, the hug of her making his abs quake.  

He looked down upon her, his smile widening. “How’s that feel, beautiful?”

“It... I... I... oh... my... god!” Already, he had her a stuttering mess, laying kisses and little bites along her jaw as he pushed forth once more, Camille arching into him with a soft cry. “Oh geez, it’s fucking huge!” And huge felt incredible. She thought she’d known a big dick before, but that was pre-EZ. Now, god... feeling him stretch her out, drag against her sweet spots, her nerve endings dancing in a blaze of glimmers, no man had ever felt as good as he did.  

He fucked her slow, his body moving almost fluidly against her, Camille running her hands up and down his arms as she met his downward movements with a little upward punt of her hips, pulling him to her, losing herself in a tangle of messy kisses as they panted against one another.  

“Fuck, you feel amazing, and god fucking damn, you look a thousand times hotter when you’re getting fucked,” he rumbled, his voice gone to gravel entirely, hitting her deeper with a few more sharply delivered thrusts, the need to quicken taking over for a few moments, her wails making his pulse flip wildly before he brought himself under control again. “God, you’re beautiful.”  

He nuzzled her, kissing her again, Camille a little staggered by the praise he heaped upon her. While it was true that she barely knew him at all, she hadn’t thought him the type to be this complimentary. She wouldn’t class him as unfriendly, per se, but she’d considered him maybe a little too wrapped up in himself to be so extolling of her.  

And then there was the passion in him, which he lavished upon her amply, kissing her, his lips travelling to her neck, his deep groans, the way he stroked her all over as that slow rhythm gave way to something with more voracity, his thumb moving to her clit, skating back and forth over the slick little bud, her nails grazing his thick, perfect chest as she cried out. Sitting back on his heels, he pulled her legs up over his shoulders, beginning to pound into her cunt furiously, chasing the tingles of release he could feel beginning to glimmer within him, the coil of his arousal thrashing like an angry serpent.

Moving her legs, he reached for her, pulling her up with him, Camille feeling her butt cheek sting as he grasped them both in his big hands, spanking the one she hadn’t landed on hard, and shit, it felt good, her body moving rhythmically against his as she ground herself down on every last inch of his huge cock. He hit her at every angle, every depth, her walls fluttering around him as the pressure increased, delicious friction scraping sparks right through her, burning to her very marrow and back.

He coaxed further groans from her, repeatedly spanking her as his teeth nipped gently at her neck, Camille grasping his thick shoulders as she rode him with gusto, her body moving like a wave against his, EZ taking a handful of her blonde waves and fisting it at the roots, pulling her head back, his tongue sliding in a slow drag up her throat until they were sharing kisses full of filthy indulgence once more. It was the kind of perfect sex she’d only ever fantasised before, never believing that any reality could ever live up to it.

Staring at one another, it was intensity unmatched, EZ feeling himself pulled in by her sharply, so strongly that he had to keep reminding himself that he wouldn’t let his emotions be swayed by her, this magmatic, blonde princess who rode him more expertly than any other woman of his past, who he felt a very real connection with. No. That would not happen, but for a few moments, he let himself tumble, clutching her to him, groaning in utter abandon as he felt the pleasure surging up his spine.  

“Come on, beautiful girl. Cum hard for me.” His encouragement had her soaring, his teeth biting her lower lip before he moved to lay kisses over her throat. It streaked through her in unabating waves, her crest skittering over her nerve endings, like sunlight beaming over the darkness of dawn, coming hard with a wail, EZ reaching that same point a few seconds after her, his cock twitching hard as he saw paradise behind his closed eyelids, every colour illuminating, but none more so than the bright blue of her eyes when he opened them to look upon her again.  

He was a panting wreck in the wake of it, staring at her as they kissed, enjoying the way her soaking walls pulsed around him. “You look so pretty when you cum.” His soft whisper was coupled with a kiss to the tip of her nose, Camille feeling fluttery inside, gently lifting herself from him before flopping back on the bed, EZ disposing of the condom into the small wastepaper basket in the corner of her room before joining her. “Shit, your ass is starting to bruise already.”  

She turned back to look, her eyes widening. “Oh, that’s going to look such a damned state in a couple of days!” she cringed, rolling her eyes. “Fuck that guy.”

He nodded, his agreement entirely fake, of course. “When you told me you were used to it, I take it that happens a lot, you girls getting grabbed?”  

“Less than you’d think, but more than we should be. Some men think just because they pay us to dance that they can take advantage. The last guy who did it, he grabbed me right between the legs and on impulse, I kicked him in the face. I felt so bad for cutting his cheek open, I ended up apologising to him! I guess I’m that kind of person, though. I don’t like hurting others, even if they happen to be in the wrong.”

He played the part of attentive listener, all the while storing the information up in his head, before suddenly, a bolt of thought hit him hard. ‘Why are you doing this? What did she ever do to deserve you playing games with her?’ It went as quickly as it came, EZ shaking the thought loose, letting it float away. He wasn’t that man any longer. Being decent towards nice girls was too far into his rear view of the man he used to be to ever go back there again. Nice girls got in his way, held him back, their decency and morality stifling. He’d evolved past needing them for anything more than a means to an end.  

Control, of everything and everyone in his life was all that interested Ezekiel Reyes now. The thrill of finding someone to connect with was now replaced by the thrill of finding ways to force them to bend to his will, and he had no intentions of deviating from that. Not for her, or anybody else.  

Reaching for her, he ran a finger down her spine, resting his head on his hand. “He grabbed you, and you made him pay for it. You shouldn’t feel bad about that, Camille. Some guys, they’ll walk all over you if you let them.”  

She dropped her head from his gaze, shrugging a little. He saw it there, that she had a weakness over letting men do exactly that to her. Again, the information was stored, EZ continuing to stroke her as she looked back up at him. “Let me guess, you’re not that guy though, right?”  

He smiled, shuffling closer to her, his hand curling beneath her chin as he offered a soft kiss to her pretty lips. “No, I’m not.”

And it was true, he wasn’t. He was right at the top of the rung, because he’d walk all over anyone... whether they let him or not. Lying there with her, he continued to feign attentiveness, asking her questions specifically designed to reveal information he could use in the future, all the while with Camille simply thinking he wanted to get to know her for honest, magnanimous intentions. How wrong she was.  

In turn, he gave away just enough about his own life to seem reciprocal and invested in their conversations, pleased when she moved to sit astride him, her nails raking over his chest as she began to kiss her way down.  

“Oh, so she’s tired of talking?” he questioned, arching an eyebrow.

“Mmhmm.” Looking up at him, her tongue ran in a hot glide up the centre of his abs, her hand curling around his cock. It was like iron by the time her mouth joined it, EZ’s head thudding back against the covers as she fit as much of him as she physically could between the wet hug of her lips.  

“Jesus... fuck,” he grunted, his hands tangling in her hair. “Damn, you give great head.”

She was utter sexual dynamite, EZ deciding to stay with her there the whole night and enjoy her again many times over, even falling asleep curled around her, Camille feeling on top of the world to receive such affection from this brand-new man in her life.  

When she awoke at just gone 9am the following morning to an empty bed, though, she felt a little bit let down, the seemingly great connection they had not enough for him to wait around until she woke, or leave her his number. The only trace of him being there were the four used condoms in her wastepaper basket, and the burning sting between her legs from the pounding she’d taken from him.  

She felt deflated for it the more it sunk in, the fact that she’d obviously just been a one-night stand. Of course, she’d gone into it thinking it would only be that, but after spending time getting to know him and having him sleep all curled around her, stroking her nakedness and telling her how beautiful she was, she had thought maybe, it could have been the start of something special. Her habit of picking bad men hadn’t left her, it seemed, and she was pissed off with herself all the way up until Tuesday evening when she returned to The Luna Lounge, when she found something waiting for her on her makeup table.  

“Someone has an admirer.” Raven spoke, nodding in the direction of the black boxed arrangement of white roses.  

Camille was too busy floating on cloud nine to really pay attention to the little slither of envy in her voice. “Mmm, it seems so.” Lifting the card, she opened it, buzzing with excitement as she read the words.  

‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful girl. Look at you, turning me into the kind of guy who sends flowers. Damn you! I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the weekend. I’m really busy with work at the moment, but I’ll come and see you soon. Count on it. EZ x.’

Her favourite flowers. How had he known? She then reasoned he must have noticed upon leaving her house, with the fact that he would have passed by the two vases she always had fresh white roses presented within. Sitting down and reading the note again, her insides sparkled with the relief of realising that she’d been hasty in her assumption that he was just like all of the rest.  

Except she hadn’t been. And he wasn’t like all the rest either. He was worse.