#but on occasion he likes to smell Polites’ mouth to make sure he’s healthy and eating well

[somepsychopomp]

Wolf hybrid Odysseus who grows up wanting to stick his nose into people’s mouths so he can smell them and “greet” them as he’s instinctively inclined to. Only for little Ody to be reprimanded by his parents for behaving inappropriately with his teachers/nurses/etc.

The only exception is his childhood friend Polites. When they were very young and first introduced to each other, Polites yawned and Odysseus couldn’t help but stick his nose into his new friend’s mouth.

Polites not only took this in stride but reciprocated, thinking his new friend was funny and weird but in a good way.

Polites was also positively enamored with Odysseus’ soft puppy ears and his squishy toe beans. He didn’t think they were strange or off putting, only curious. As they played together, he even tried to run after Ody on all fours the way his new friend liked to, but for some reason, it was a lot harder for him.

Their parents looked at the wolf boy and the regular boy chasing each other in circles and thought, “Well, as long as he’s happy.”

[tuttle-did-it]

Here's how I see the main crew on the station dealing with pronouns.

Jadzia is obviously the first to adopt neopronouns, and prefers they/them. They're not pushy about it, but they appreciate when their friends try to get it right. There's at least one or two previous lifetimes that are very strictly gendered, so when they talk about those hosts, they are careful to respect the pronouns those hosts would have chosen.

Jadzia is a little annoyed that Worf doesn't make more of an effort, because Worf doesn't see the point and doesn't understand why this matters to you. But he respects that this is your choice, and will generally make the correction- unless he's angry with you. Then suddenly he keeps 'forgetting' (either accidentally or on purpose, who knows) to use the proper pronouns because you keep telling him he smells like lilac.

I agree that Dukat would just do things his way. Who cares what you want? Why are we wasting time with this frivolous conversation?

Kai Winn will absolutely, hands down refuse to call you by your preferred pronouns. She won't even call you by your preferred name. She 100% does it on purpose, as a power play. On the rare occasion someone corrects her, she unctuously apologises and immediately repeats the same misgendering again, followed by 'my child.' It's rage-inducing, and everyone just avoids her completely because she's SO sanctimonious and awful.

Kira, because of her friendship with Dax, would make an effort. She'd get it wrong and forget sometimes, she'd get angry with herself and flustered, and Dax (or whomever) would have to patiently remind her that it's okay if she gets it wrong sometimes and she doesn't need to get that frustrated by it. It's hard for her, but she really does try because she believes it's important to you. She actually thinks about it a lot more than you do, and really wants to get this right, but she just forgets, and she's always struggled to think before she speaks. It's something she is working on.

O'Brien, you know Miles, he likes the quiet. He might roll his eyes and think it's silly, but he'd either do it to avoid trouble, or just use names and titles to avoid gendered pronouns all together cos he doesn't want to hear Bashir correct him again. It's not out of a place of malice, he just doesn't see why it matters.

I do agree with @garaks-padded-bra that Bashir would hound Chief every single time Miles opened his mouth and correct him on the pronouns. And everyone else who got it wrong. His autistic brain would be very quick to correct, and he would be very enthusiastic. Eventually, Jadzia has to tell Bashir that it's not the end of the world if someone gets it wrong, but Bashir insists that he'll make sure they don't.

Garak would be very careful to use the appropriate language. Garak is a Dandy- his entire identity is about the surface and appearance. And he knows how much surface matters. Everything Garak does is precise and intentional. So I think he would actually be one of the first to respect gendered language, and he'd use it carefully and concisely. Garak never says anything without knowing exactly what he's saying. Like Andy Robinson has said in interviews, he is the smartest person in the room (or at least is convinced he is). He can afford to be generous and magnanimous. He can afford to be painfully polite about the whole thing. I think if Dax told Garak that she wanted to go by they/them pronouns from now on, Garak would instantly switch, and he'd never make a single mistake. He'd get it perfect every time, and he'd do it with a smile.

Quark would somehow find a way to monetise it. Put a jar behind the counter that people have to pay into every time they misgender Dax (or whomever it might be). Profits would go to the "orphans of Bajor" (minus his healthy cut). Chief has to put into the pot fairly frequently.

Sisko would shrug and comply. He gets it right most of the time but sometimes he forgets and apologises later when Jake tells him that he thinks someone was offended because Sisko forgot. Jake doesn't see the big deal to change pronouns, and finds it interesting enough that he creates a trans/nonbinary character in his novel who uses those pronouns.

Kasidy generally remembers, unless it's been a while since she's seen you, and then Jake has to remind her, too. It really makes no difference to her, but she appreciates that it matters to you.

Odo, because he has no gender, is completely aware that gender is a ridiculous social construct that means nothing. Odo would be the surprise friend whom you think will be a bit shirty about it, but is actually really supportive and considerate about the whole thing. Odo is now considering going by a neopronoun, but doesn't want the extra attention on him. So he says nothing, but secretly harrumphs, annoyed, everytime someone refers to him in the masculine, now. And frankly, the fact that you didn't ask him if he wanted to go by different pronouns is something he's quietly going to hold against you every time he thinks about it.

Nog keeps reminding you that ferengi language is not gendered, and gendering hoo-maans is just stupid. He uses every gender interchangeably to compensate; not in a mean-spirited way, but in a playful, silly way. Dax finds it hilarious. Bashir is offended on their behalf.

Rom tries really hard to understand what you're talking about, he really does, but he cannot seem to grasp the concept. After explaining it to him twelve times, you decide to forgive him every time he gets it wrong.

Zek wants to find a way to charge you to use your new pronouns, and the abandonment of your old ones. He creates new forms you can buy with the correct pronouns on it that you can buy for 8 strips of latinum. You don't need the forms. No one needs the forms.

Leeta patiently corrects Rom every time, and apologises for him when he gets it wrong.

Ezri tries very hard to gender you correctly, but frankly, she's really not sure how to gender herself right now and the whole thing is very confusing for her. She'd rather not discuss it.

@writergeekrhw - how far off base am I?

ds9 characters that would misgender you for at least a week after coming out to them, either with malicious intent or without:

1. Dukat

2. Kira

3. Obrien

4. Garak

pls add ur thoughts

[babyybitchhh]

Ogun x Reader 18+

Rating: Explicit/R-18+

Words: 8,375

Warnings: established relationship, cunnilingus, brief mention of breeding/pregnancy implication, piv sex, creampie

A/N: I really did not think I'd finish this and yet, months later, here we are. I said I wanted to do Ogun's hair for him so that is exactly what I did. 😤 A LOT of research went into the first half of this fic, I can't even tell you how many braiding videos I watched or how many haircare blurbs I read through, so if my ignorance shows I really do apologize. I can barely do my own hair let alone someone else's and I put in a lot leg work for about 5 paragraphs of relevant information. lol Best boy deserves it though, so please enjoy!

♥♥♥♥

The quiet drone of the TV against the far wall was the only source of noise in the small apartment and neither of you were paying any attention to it. Hadn’t been for the last few hours, but that was how most wash days went. The background chatter was superfluous at best when you had all of your attention zeroed in on your boyfriend's hair and Ogun was pleasantly dozing at your feet, lost in his own little world of pampered bliss.

It did, however, serve its purpose in helping you better keep track of the time. If left to your own thoughts, you would have all too easily slipped into the same comfortable lull as him and forgotten about everything else you had to do. Like think about food, for example.

Briefly glancing up at the sound of cheesy sitcom music, you mentally check off another half hour. It was starting to get late which meant he’d probably be starving by the time you were done and that wouldn’t exactly come as a surprise given you’d been at this for the better part of the day. All that hard earned muscle mass of his certainly wasn’t going to maintain itself.

And, now that you were thinking about it, you were starting to notice the creeping pang of hunger in the back of your mind, buzzing faintly like an incessant afterthought.

Drawing a breath, you start to ask if he’s in the mood for anything in particular but Ogun manages to beat you to it.

“What should we do for dinner?”

You smile to yourself, fingers deftly moving through his hair with practiced ease -- under, scoop, under, repeat -- while you give that question some thought. Surely there was something you could whip up with what you had on hand in the kitchen. The real question, however, was what.

Doing a quick mental checklist of your cupboards, you rapidly narrow down your options. A fast and easy pasta dish was out of the question without the sauce or any ingredients to make it with. No meat for hamburgers. There was still some salad mix in the fridge but he needed something far more substantial than that. Damn. You should probably go shopping soon.

“Hmm,” Gently tilting Ogun’s head forward, you pick back up on the half finished braid you were working on. He was almost done, with only two rows left to go. The argan oil and shea products you’d put in his hair left your fingertips feeling buttery smooth and soft, their lingering smell as warm as it was soothing. It permeated the air in the living room, enclosing you both in your own little bubble for two and making for an altogether pleasantly relaxing Sunday afternoon.

“Let’s see …” You murmur at length. “I could probably make a stir fry with some vegetables and shrimp. How’s that sound?”

“As much as I love your cooking,” He shifts on the floor and glances over his shoulder, forcing you to pause what your fingers are doing. “I was thinking we could order in tonight. My treat.”

Your smile grows even when you try to ignore the unmistakable flutter in your chest. “Oh? And what’s the occasion?”

“There isn’t one.” His mouth curls up, mirroring yours. “But if you need an excuse, consider it thanks for doing my hair.”

“That’s sweet of you, but I’m not finished yet.” Placing a hand atop his head, you pointedly turn him around straight again and Ogun laughs, very softly, when you release him so you can get back to work.

You enjoyed getting to do this for him and the fact you liked playing with his hair was no secret either. It was wild and thick, very close to being untamable, but it was also incredibly healthy -- something you would have all too happily taken credit for if it hadn’t been in the same enviable condition as when you’d first met him. That he trusted you enough to let you do this was, perhaps, more intimate than anything else you’d ever done together, and with a few more twists you put the finishing touches on the braid.

Letting it hang next to the others, you direct him to lean back so that you can easily reach the front of his hairline again. He acquiesces without a fuss and sinks into the couch, letting the back of his head settle comfortably in your lap. Ogun’s shoulders brush your knees when you hunch closer with a pink rat tail comb in hand and you’re acutely aware of him watching you as you begin sectioning out the next row. You start to smile again, even though you try not to.

“What?”

“I’m still waiting on an answer.”

You shoot him a quick look.

Golden eyes gleam back at you, reflecting endearment and humor alike, and you quickly focus in on his blown out, fluffy hair again before he can successfully distract you. “I don’t know. You pick.”

“Nope.” He hums goodnaturedly. “That’s not how this works. You can’t just push it back on me when I asked you for a reason. Tell me what you want.”

“I really don’t know - hey!” You squawk when he gives the back of your calf a sharp pinch in retaliation for being so uncooperative and you squirm, giggling. “Don’t do that! I’m honestly not sure what I’m in the mood for.”

“Then think about it.”

“I am.” You intone, gently pushing Ogun’s head forward just enough to get at the crown of his head. Relative silence claims the room once more while you consider an almost endless list of potential choices and finish up the second to last braid. Thankfully without any more pinching attacks on his end. He was going to look so nice when you were done.

“What about a pizza?” You suggest at last.

“I’m game.” He murmurs, slouching to the side so he can rest his temple against the plush cushion of your leg. It gives you the perfect angle to attack the final strip from and you get to work weaving coarse strands into his preferred fashion, your fingers moving quickly but efficiently. You’d practiced tirelessly just to ensure he wouldn’t have to go to someone else for this without skimping on the finished product's quality and it certainly showed.

A few moments later, the task is complete.

Grabbing an elastic band, you gather Ogun’s styled hair into a neat little ponytail and tie it off at the back of his head. You finish up by running your fingertips across one shaved side of his scalp, affectionately feeling out the new growth before deciding he can go another week or two until you have to bring out the clippers again.

“Alright. You’re all done.”

Lifting a hand to feel over his hair, he twists around and peers up at you with an expectant grin. “How do I look?”

“Like the most handsome man in the world.”

Ogun positively beams. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Leaning close, you press a brief kiss to his smiling mouth. “What sort of pizza do you --”

He cuts you off when he suddenly pushes up on his knees and catches your lips again.

Your eyes go big when broad hands find the meat of your thighs and gently squeeze them while he kisses you much more impassionedly than you’d kissed him. A sound of surprise rises in the back of your throat but he quickly swallows it, making your heart race.

Heaving a quiet sigh through your nose, you lean into the gesture and meet him halfway, eagerly kissing him back.

Grinning knowingly, Ogun tilts his head and slots his mouth more securely over yours to deepen the exchange. You find yourself slowly melting against him and you bring your hands up to grab onto his shoulders. God, he was unfairly good at this. Not that you were complaining, but a polite segue from one topic to the next would have been appreciated. You’d been thinking about dinner, what sort of toppings you wanted on your pizza, and now you were thinking about …

You groan, very softly, when his palms drag up along your sides, bunching the cotton of your t-shirt in the process. It allows for the briefest skin on skin contact and an eruption of goosebumps spreads across your body, as anticipatory as they were impatient.

Lips parting, you grant him access and Ogun jumps at the chance, eagerly sweeping his tongue into your mouth to lav yours with warm, wet attention. The smooth, flickering strokes he graces your palette with inspires a flood of molten heat in your gut that leaves you wanting more. Always more. It was never enough where he was concerned - and you slide one of your hands higher still to tenderly cradle the curve of his skull.

Much to your whining disappointment, however, he pulls back a moment later to give you some space and you whimper at the loss.

“Ogun …”

“Shh. I’m right here, baby.” He whispers, leaning back in to press a quick peck to your lips before doing the same to the corner of your mouth.

It’s not enough to pacify you though and you loop both arms around his neck, trying to pull him back in again. He obliges with an affectionate nuzzle, pressing close to settle against your lap and pin you to the back of the couch under his sturdy weight.

“What's wrong, sweetheart?”

You pull your mouth in an imploring pout. “I’d like for you to finish what you started.”

He laughs, sweet and boyish as he pulls back to fix you with a big grin. “Oh? And have I ever left you wanting?”

“No, but I’d hate for you to start now.” You sound a little whiny. Needy.

Another quiet laugh and Ogun comes in to kiss you again, much more sedately this time. His soft lips mold seamlessly to yours, working against your mouth at just the right speed, with the right amount of pressure to steal the air from your lungs.

You let loose a soft moan as you arch underneath him and push your chests together, basking in the fleeting contact despite how unsatisfying it is. What you really want is to have his body working over yours without the impediment of bothersome clothes in the way. To feel the chorded steel muscle he’d worked so hard to build flexing and driving into you.

A shudder ripples through you when the thrumming desire that wells inside slithers out from between your legs to ignite the rest of your body in heated flame. An all powerful compulsion which you wouldn’t have fought even if you could.

His mouth still working in tandem with yours, Ogun gives your waist a possessive squeeze and it sends a fresh wave of sharp arousal racing down your spine. You whimper, pushing up into him a little harder, more fervently, as you clutch at his shoulders. The need to have him laid out on top of you has taken over your higher functioning mind, all thoughts of pizza long gone out the window as the velvety push and pull of his mouth draws you further under his spell.

Willingly, you surrender to the exigent summons and curl your legs up around his narrow hips to tug him even closer, urging him into action.

A hot puff of air fans across your face when he abruptly disengages from the kiss, moving to press his lips against the apple of your cheek, your jaw. There’s a noticeable haste in his actions now and you turn your head to give him better access, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his seeking mouth.

Ogun wastes no time and immediately swoops in, pecking his way down the column of your neck with an occasional love bite here or there for good measure. Each one seemed to make your toes curl that much tighter to the point where you could hardly stand it anymore.

“You play dirty …” You mumble, lightly running your nails across his nape.

“Mm, how so?” He sounds distracted and preoccupied, too busy mouthing at your pulse to pay it any mind.

“You told me to decide on dinner …” You trail off when he latches onto the juncture of your neck and shoulder, immediately succumbing to the tantalizing suction Ogun applies with his lips. You let out a soft, faltering groan, brows furrowing in pleasure when it makes the simmering heat in your gut double and then triple as teeth sink into delicate skin.

Shuddering, you deliberately wrack your brain in an attempt to finish your train of thought but that proves much more of a struggle than you’d been prepared for.

“But … nngh, but now all I want is you …”

He comes up at your somewhat dreamy admittance, a mischievous look camping out on his face even as big hands push at the hem of your shirt. “Oh yeah? Anything you want in particular, sweetheart?”

Lifting your gaze, you peer up at Ogun from just a scant few inches away. The shallow rise and fall of your chest has no doubt clued him in that he’s got you all worked up now but you aren’t exactly trying to hide it. He already knew just how weak you were for him, knew precisely how well your body always responded to his advances, so there really wasn’t any point in pretending otherwise.

You were powerless against his undeniable charm and he seemed to get just as much enjoyment out of that as you did. And looking at him now you think, not for the first time, that you just might be the luckiest girl in the world.

“Let’s start with that talented mouth.” You murmur, reaching out to take his smooth jaw in hand and pull him, grinning, into another kiss.

Noising quietly against your mouth, he leans further into you until it feels like you’re being pleasantly crushed under the hard, muscular weight of his frame. It only serves to get you even more riled up, now well and truly desperate to feel his bare skin flush against yours as you roll your hips forward and drag your clenching pussy across the front of his pants.

Lips parting on a heady groan, he returns the favor by slowly thrusting his pelvis forward so you can feel the stiff outline of his cock caressing your clothed slit. You keen at the sensation and cant your hips into the pressure, the two of you gradually picking up a steady, unhurried rhythm together that damn near drives you wild.

Hands staying busy while he sedately humps you, Ogun patiently works your shirt up higher and higher until it’s bunched under your armpits. Reaching around for the clasp of your bra, he gives it one good tug and the satiny soft material loosens around your shoulders with a near silent slither. Bringing his hands to the front again, he shoves the cups up out of the way before letting them descend on soft, pliant breasts that seem to fit just right in the curve of his worn palms. Giving them both a gentle squeeze, he kneads your chest until you groan and tip your head back, breaking apart from the kiss in favor of sighing up at the ceiling.

He takes that opportunity to dip his face close and press an open mouthed kiss to the center of your sternum while he carefully squeezes your tits in a pinching grip. It makes you shudder, wishing you could clench your thighs and ease the growing ache there, but that’s impossible when he’s slotted between them like this. You have no choice but to endure the thrumming tension and you squirm underneath him, needily bucking up to meet the next thrust of his hips with a frustrated little groan.

“Ogun,” You gasp, letting your fingers scrabble to grab hold of his black t-shirt and tug on it. “I need you. Now.”

Bringing his head up, Ogun allows himself a moment to drink in the wanton expression on your face while he cups his hands around your breasts almost reverently. “How do you need me, baby?” He mumbles, letting his thumbs brush over your stiff nipples in a feather light caress. “What do you need?”

“Your mouth …” You whine, practically choking on it.

“Where do you need my mouth, huh? Tell me.”

“On my pussy.” It’s more a plea than a statement and you shake for him even as the words leave your mouth.

Ogun shifts against you and bends down, mouth opening wide over the pebbled peak of your breast. You watch on, mesmerized, when the pink of his tongue darts out to lap at the fleshy bud before sealing his lips around it and suckling. Your eyes slip shut as you arch, pushing your chest up to meet him while your fingers cling to the cotton of his shirt. Ogun doesn’t linger long though and he soon comes up off the first with a dull pop before catching your other nipple between his lips.

Briefly worrying it, he slides his hand forward to tweak the spit lathered bud between thumb and forefinger, making you outright seethe. You give up on getting his top off with an impatient little huff and bring your hands down to grasp at his arms instead. The firm, wiry muscle under his skin offers little give no matter how hard you squeeze or dig your nails in, and he remains ever unperturbed, casually sucking the tip of your breast to stiff, throbbing attention.

“Please, Ogun …”

With a faint hum, he comes up off your chest and presses a quick peck to the puckered nipple. “I know, baby. I know.” Moving back to the first nipple, he kisses that one too. “Just be patient, alright? You know you don’t have to beg me to go down on you …”

You groan at the velvety suggestion and tuck your chin down to pin him with an imploring look. Ogun offers you a lopsided grin in return, pinching both your nipples between his fingers and carefully tweaking the sensitive flesh until you outright gasp. You feel like you’re running on autopilot now as you reach up to sandwich his face between your palms and pull him into yet another kiss, lips crashing together with an intensity that makes your pussy flutter.

His mouth parts against yours, opening wide as if to swallow you whole, and all the while he keeps plucking at your tits until they’re aching almost as much as your neglected cunt. You couldn’t take it anymore ...

Tightening your legs around Ogun’s waist, you dig your heels into the small of his back and draw him right up against you so you can feel the hard weight of his cock digging into the spot where you need him most. A frazzled, high strung wail claws its way up the back of your throat as you jut your pelvis up and rub yourself against that thick, pulsing heat in search of some relief but very little is forthcoming like this.

He pulls back at the sudden friction thoufg and issues a faltering groan that seems to echo off the walls for as quiet as it is. “Shit … you really want it that bad, baby?”

“It’s your fault …”

“I know, I know.” Bending close, Ogun presses a hard peck to the center of your chest. “And I’ll take responsibility for that, don’t you worry.”

Lower he trails, slowly kissing his way down your fluttering stomach as his hands come around to unbutton your shorts. The zipper quickly follows suit and then he’s tugging them down your thighs while you eagerly twist to help get you undressed just that much quicker.

Thoughtlessly tossing them aside, Ogun reaches for your panties next but he’s much more subdued in removing these. One torturous fraction at a time, he carefully pries the thin cotton away until they’re low enough to expose your puffy slit to the air. He lets out an appreciative noise of approval when he sees the sticky mess you’ve made along the seam and your heart pounds in your ears as you draw your legs up so he can slip the dainty cotton the rest of the way off.

He discards them somewhere on the floor, probably right alongside your shorts, before palming your bent knees. Gently, Ogun eases them apart so he can peer down at your sticky cunt with an unconcealed expression of hunger.

“Look at you, baby. Just look at this pretty pussy, already so wet for me.”

Smoothing big hands up along your bare thighs, he bends close and presses his mouth to the apex of your mound in a surprisingly chaste but hungry kiss. Digging your fingers into the couch cushions, you enticingly wiggle your hips at him and gold eyes flash at you from between your legs, amusement and something much more dark shining within them.

You feel his lips eagerly curl against you then, and he shuffles closer to the couch so that he’s hunched directly over your prone body. Hooking long fingers under one of your legs, he hauls it up and over his shoulder before repeating the process on the other side. Grabbing big, grasping handfuls of your hips, he uses his hold on you to drag your lower body just to the edge of the seat, making you squeak at suddenly finding yourself completely vulnerable and laid bare. Your pussy clenches tight in anticipation though and you tremble, drawing a steadying breath when he pecks at the soft swell of your inner thigh, warm breath puffing against your skin.

There was no denying that he had you completely at his mercy like this and you would have been lying through your teeth if you said that didn’t excite you.

“Comfortable?”

At your nod, Ogun leans forward just enough to bend your legs towards your chest and fold you against the top of the couch. He settles on his knees and dips his head down, mouth parting so his tongue can take a quick swipe from the bottom of your gushing cunt up to the top. The sight of it has you groaning for him, your vision swimming as you force yourself to keep watching.

That proves exceedingly difficult when he presses in close, making the meat of your pussy lips squish and mold against his face. Slowly kissing at you to work them open with his mouth, he flicks his attention up to regard your face and you practically vibrate on the cushions. Another swipe of his tongue hits its mark, wetly knocking your clit, and you let loose a seething mewl.

“O - ohh! Yeah …”

Ogun’s fingers dig into your twitching hips to keep them spread while he takes his time slowly swirling around that sensitive pleasure button. He starts at a wide breadth and then gradually works his tongue in tighter and tighter circles until he’s finally grinding it into oblivion. The soft, gooey friction of his mouth is enough to have you wheezing in pleasure as sweat beads, unnoticed, along your lower back and you arch, making your tits jiggle with the motion.

“Right there … don’t stop!”

Issuing a low sound of agreement, Ogun opens his jaw wider and drags his tongue straight up through your slick, juicy folds. You can feel every little thing - every nerve ending and every meaty bit of flesh that tries to cling to the textured muscle and your legs jerk at the sensation.

Tossing your head back against the couch, you blindly reach down to grasp his knuckles in a death grip. “Ah, haah … feels good ...”

In lieu of a proper response, he tilts his head and attacks your thrumming clit from a different angle. He’s relentless, mercilessly battering that delicate little pearl back and forth with such fervor that it leaves you quaking under his attention, struggling just to breathe. You’re not sure how much more of this you can stand, the threat of tipping over the edge before you can even fully enjoy it looking like a very real possibility now, but then Ogun seals his mouth around the fleshy nub and sucks.

Hard.

“Oh!” You choke on a haggard, stuttering gasp of pleasure, lurching underneath him.

Confidently humming, he comes up off you with a dull pop and a sticky breath of air. “Looks like you’re already getting close.” Ogun murmurs, sounding really quite smug about that.

Never one to leave you hanging though, he crowds one of his hands between your legs and presses blunt fingers into your slit. Finding your throbbing clit again, Ogun starts to rub it in fast strokes made smooth by the viscous mix of saliva and arousal that absolutely coats your pussy and this time you practically shriek.

“Yes! Yes, I’m getting close! … nngghh … please, please, pleeease! Ogun, please!”

But he refuses to let up on your poor little cunt just yet. “Please what, baby?”

You twist, thighs flexing and going ramrod stiff around his head. Your vision was starting to blur around the edges, reflexive tears pricking at your eyes. It’s hard just to think straight let alone form a semi coherent sentence when he’s relentlessly rubbing your clit with roughly calloused fingertips like that, the friction almost too much to bear and quickly riding the line of overstimulation. You couldn’t handle much more of it.

“Pl - please put your dick in me! Please! I wanna’ come on your cock, Ogun! I’m buh - aaah - ah! - begging!”

A low, rumbling groan rises up in his chest but, still, he doesn’t stop. “I thought you wanted to come on my mouth?”

“I - I changed my mind!”

He grunts, deep and primal in his acknowledgement, and the sound races straight to your throbbing cunt.

You respond with a broken groan, only to nearly come right up off the couch when he withdraws his fingers and replaces them with his mouth. Supple lips part and work you open again so he can worm his tongue into the crease of your body. He delivers a series of taunting flicks to the straining bud hidden within, making you sensitively twitch, before dragging the flat of his tongue across it in broad, sweeping strokes. You could feel yourself tipping ever closer to the edge and, with a wheezing gasp, you reach down with both hands to cradle either side of his head.

You’re not sure if you want to push him away or draw him closer - as if that were even possible at this point.

“Oh - Ogun, wha - wait! Nngh … if you keep going - -“

Smacking his lips, he comes up just enough for you to hear him say “You’ll cum? Good.” Before diving back in.

The way he immediately opens his mouth wide and plunges his tongue into the satiny soft folds and creases of your cunt, teasing at your entrance, has you jolting as if you’ve been electrocuted. Gritting your teeth, you clutch him all the tighter while the building pressure inside you steadily inches towards blissful discomfort. Your heaving body was truly hanging in the balance now, entirely at his mercy (of which there seemed to be none) and your legs uselessly flex in the air when you squeeze them around his head. You could almost taste it in the back of your throat.

“Fuck! Right there …” you whine as you rock your pelvis against his mouth, the motion stiff and halting. “Right there, baby … I’m s - so - ooooh - close!”

Ogun grunts in approval and drags his tongue up to the top of your slit again, burying his face somehow even deeper into the cushiony give of your pussy. He glances at you, very briefly, from under the fall of dark lashes and the heady, masculine glint in those burnt gold irises sends a powerful shudder rippling down your spine. Your mouth drops open as if to scream but nothing comes out. For a worryingly long moment, it feels like you forgot how to breathe.

All you can do is watch on in thrumming suspense when he drops his gaze and gives his head a shake to jostle all the nerve endings in your cunt. The braids you’d worked on all day give a little bounce in their ponytail before settling again, and your eyes start to roll back when he flattens his tongue to your clit so he can grind down on it again. Static shoots through your system as you arch against him, so fitfully your back starts to ache in protest, but it was much too late. Nothing could stop it now, not even if you wanted to.

You suck in a haggard breath and the coil snaps, just like that. With an almost violent jerk, you devolve into a fit of convulsions that has you wailing up at the ceiling in total disregard for the upstairs neighbors. They probably heard you every time you and your boyfriend had sex but it’s not as if you could very well help it. Ogun was a talented individual by nature and that certainly transferred over into bedroom activities too.

Helpless, all you can do is cling to him through the full bodied tremors that shake you straight down to your core while he leisurely laps at your throbbing clit to ease you through it. He always seemed intent on milking your orgasms for all they were worth, and that certainly didn’t help your case with your neighbors either. It always felt like something of an out of body experience when he was the one going down on you and you couldn’t exactly say you disliked him for that.

The exact opposite, actually.

“Oh, god …”

With a stuttering groan, you slowly go limp as you come down from your high one piece of you at a time. It was hard to tell which jagged edges fit where, but you’re still acutely aware of the mess he’s made of your cunt when Ogun finally straightens and you feel a rush of fresh air hit your drenched slit. You shiver at the sensation and crack your eyes open to peer down at him, whimpering.

“You didn’t listen …”

Snorting a quiet laugh, he shifts against you and brings a hand up to swipe the glistening moisture from his mouth. “I only did what you initially asked for, sweetheart. That doesn’t mean I can’t give you the second request, too.”

Your lips curl in a warbling smile at that, and he grins right back.

Letting your head loll against the couch cushions, you contentedly watch as he brings your legs down off his shoulders so he can move to stand. Leaving you spread out and feeling like silly putty, he yanks his shirt over his head with one quick, fluid motion that makes his abdominals tantalizingly ripple before reaching for his pants next. He makes quick work of the button and then the fly, anticipation evident in his body language when he shoves them along with his underwear down to his feet.

Ogun’s thick cock bounces eagerly when he steps out of his discarded clothes, and the sight alone is enough to make your pussy clench tight. You still felt sensitive and over wrought, so fresh off the tail end of your orgasm, but that doesn’t stop you from moaning faintly at the sight of him.

You’d never known a more attractive man in all your life.

“Ogun …” You murmur, eyes slipping shut when your desire flares back at full force dizzyingly fast.

Your eyes immediately pop back open, however, when he slides his arms under your knees and leans forward to brace against the couch, folding you up like a pretzel. Your toes flex as you squirm underneath him, glancing down at your defenless little cunt with an excited squeak. Puffy lips can’t help but spread in this position and you easily catch sight of your swollen clit straining towards him in obvious need, not yet satisfied.

Hovering just a scant breath away, his straining cock - all silky smooth and heavy - twitches in anticipation, eager to sink into you. It doesn’t look like it's going to fit. It never does but, somehow or another, he always manages to squeeze every girthy inch of himself inside you and the thought alone has you throbbing in sharp, sporadic pulses.

It was almost embarrassing how fast you were bouncing back from the first round, but you can’t quite complain when you watch his hanging ballsack sway with the motion of getting himself situated and your pussy responds in kind with an intense pulse. He had the body of a breeder and you were sure he would’ve already had you heavy and round by now if only you weren’t on birth control. Maybe someday, though …

“Ogun …” You were starting to feel well and truly delirious now, and you reach up to dig your nails into his forearms for leverage to ground yourself with.

He doesn’t seem to mind it though, and he merely issues a soft grunt of acknowledgement as he rocks forward a bit to angle your defenseless pussy up at him more. You can feel yourself squeeze down and you groan, dazedly watching your own thighs flex in their bent up position but there was simply no way out of his hold now. The thought alone is enough to have you breathing out a stuttering puff of air, which you promptly choke on when he starts to lower his pelvis towards yours.

“Yes, yes, yes, please give it to me, I need it, I need it, please --”

You’re whining. You realize that on some level, but you’re much too consumed by this desperate hunger to have him rearranging your guts to care about that right now. It wouldn’t take Ogun long at all to have you creaming around him at this rate.

Unperturbed, he casually adjusts his position over top of you before swooping down to catch your babbling mouth in another heated kiss to silence you. The passionate force behind the gesture pushes your head back against the cushions and you relent, groaning into his lips as your hands fly up to offer his sides an encouraging squeeze.

Luxuriating under the strength of his body, you drag your palms up across his chest and higher still to grasp his shoulders. With a weak, halfhearted jut of your pelvis, you make a sad little attempt at angling your hips up enough to feel his leaking cockhead against your sticky cunt but it’s no use. He has you thoroughly pinned and at his mercy like this. His for the taking whenever he saw fit to skewer you on his sizable length and not a moment sooner.

It was too much.

You suddenly break from the kiss in favor of keening in soft desperation. He pulls back, stopping just long enough to regard you with that infuriatingly attractive, heavy lidded look before pointedly glancing between your bodies.

Slowly, you follow his lead only to swallow hard when his thighs flex forward and the underside of his cock skirts along your parted pussy lips. The crude way it bumps against your clit has you jolting at the sensation and clutching him all the more fervently. Your whole body positively shakes as Ogun shuffles his feet a little further apart and tries again, the bulbous glans slipping and sliding through petal soft folds once, twice - until it abruptly finds its mark on the third stroke.

Catching at your entrance, he pauses for a moment and then slowly starts to sink in. Your breath hitches, mouth opening on a silent scream as you watch the ruddy pink head slowly disappear into your body. The stretch is immediately felt, and it’s more than enough to make your greedy pussy flutter around the intrusion even as it gushes more sticky slick to ease the way.

But the more of him that slides into the gummy sleeve of your insides, the less good it does. He’s just too big - wider than he is long, yet still large enough to push your heaving body right to its limits. You hold your breath, head spinning, when he pushes further in and forces your squeezing passage to make room for him. More and more, until he’s about half of the way inside where he finally pauses to let you adjust.

You twitch, weakly writhing like a small animal caught in the merciless maw a steel trap. You were utterly powerless underneath him.

“Oh - Ogun! Fuck … fuck me - dear Sol, please just fuck me!”

He draws a slow, calming breath. “You’re still so tight, baby … I don’t want to hurt you.”

Whimpering, you reach between your legs and wrap trembling fingers around the base of him. Ogun moans after a few awkward pumps of your hand and tilts his face up at the ceiling, basking in the sensation of you jerking him while he’s half wedged inside your body.

It must feel good because it takes him a prolonged moment to get his bearings again and when he does, he carefully eases himself back just enough to give a tiny thrust forward. You can feel the moment he slips in a little deeper than before and you guide him into it, one sedate thrust at a time. When you stroke up, he pulls back and when you stroke down, he pushes into you. It’s a maddeningly cohesive rhythm that has you panting like a bitch in heat long before he finally slides home and you outright choke when the fronts of his thighs settle against the backs of yours a small eternity later.

“Shit,” He hisses, brows knitting as he peers down to admire the sight of his pelvis flush against yours. “That’s a tight fit … how’re you doing, sweetheart? It’s not too much, is it?”

You give your head a numb shake and roll your eyes up at him, teasing your fingertips through the mess of curls at the base of his groin while you do it. Words couldn’t even come close to describing how stuffed full you felt, but you loved it.

“N - no … it’s perfect … feels - ngh - good …”

Smiling, Ogun dips his face close to press his mouth to your forehead in a chastely sweet kiss. He stays like that as he carefully angles back until just the tip remains and then, so slowly you can feel it in your bones, he pushes back in. The drag is exquisite and it feels like you’re practically suffocating on the intense pleasure of every solid inch, each throbbing vein. You could feel it all.

A wordless cry of pleasure bursts out of you when he slides back out and in again at that same staggered pace. He’s so big you can feel the pressure on your cervix and when he wiggles his hips, grinding into you, oh god, it feels like he’s pushing the glans right on that raised ring of puckered flesh. Your mouth drops open but nothing comes out. It was hard just to keep your eyes focused anymore.

Haltingly, he starts up a gradual but steady pace as your body adjusts around the intrusion and makes room for him, your pulpy walls clinging to the length of him on each drawn out stroke. It comes as a great relief, particularly when the building pressure swells into high strung arousal and replaces the initial discomfort of being stretched right to the breaking point.

In a matter of moments, the sticky wet clicking that noises each time your pussy sucks him in deep on the downward thrust comes to dominate the living room. The sound of it only seems highlighted by your sensitive bleating and the husky groans slipping out of him, the drone of the tv so much an afterthought now that you forgot it was even on. Even when he picks up enough speed to drive the fronts of his thighs against your upturned ass, creating a sharp, fleshy slap, it’s nothing compared to the hungry slurping of your cunt.

You probably would’ve been embarrassed by the whole thing if only it didn’t feel like he was spearing you straight down the middle. It made your eyes cross, mouth hanging open in doped out bliss while you cling and clutch at him for dear life. There wasn’t a single inch of you that he didn’t touch like this and it lit up every nerve ending along the way like a goddamn firework.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think he was going to break you in half.

“Such a pretty baby. Look how well you’re taking my cock ....”

You gasp. “Hnng, s’so big …!”

“And you’re taking all of it,” he murmurs, just this side of breathless. “Like a champ. Do you have any idea how good you look right now? Huh?”

You warble out an incomprehensible response, far too overwhelmed and riveted by the way Ogun’s cock glistens obscenely every time it makes another appearance between your thighs. Your fingers dig into his forearms, leaving crescent shaped marks in his skin and try not to scream in ecstasy while he carves out a space within you.

You loved watching him fuck you like this for a multitude of reasons, the most pressing at the moment being that it drove you absolutely wild.

“If you keep squeezing me like that … ngh, I won’t last much longer.” He warns, his tone far too strained to hold even a hint of real reprimand.

“I want it,” you blubber wetly. “I want it, Ogun, please …”

“You want me to cum in you?”

A jerky nod accompanied by a mewling whimper.

He lets out a shaky breath as the speed of his thrusts quicken and you jerk underneath him, bleating like something wounded. The muscles in his arms flex and twitch around you when he smoothly adjusts the positioning of his hands, hunching further over you without so much as missing a beat.

“God, you drive me crazy …”

You’d like to tell him the feeling is mutual but you don’t get the chance. A particularly sharp snap of his hips knocks something loose inside you and you uncontrollably shake, legs kicking up uselessly at the air with a wordless noise of soaring pleasure. Cumming again doesn’t seem like such a far off possibility and a frazzled whine claws at the back of your throat when he presses his sweat slick forehead against yours, prompting you to glance up.

Ogun’s eyes were always beautiful to look at but especially so when you were staring into them from just a hair's breadth away and they were clouded dark with primal need as well something much more weighty.

“Tell me you want it, sweetheart. Tell me.”

“I - ngh - aaaahh, I want your cum, Ogun! I need you to fill me uh - up, please, I want it so baaad!”

A shudder races through him and he groans, eyes slipping shut for a brief moment as if to get his bearings before cracking open again. Keeping his forehead against yours, he tilts his head down to look between the two of you and, once again, you follow suit.

The sinfully rich color of his cock, just a shade or two darker than the rest of him, looks all the more tantalizing coated in your slick. You’ve all but drenched him at this point, the tight curls that frame his length visibly damp and matted together now. You suck in a frazzled breath at the sight, your head spinning alarmingly fast when the building pressure in your gut becomes almost too much to withstand. How was it that one single man could make you feel so primal with need but tenderly cared for at the same time?

“I - -“ You all but choke on it, wheezing at the next stroke. “I’m gonna’ - ahh, cum again … don’t stop!”

“I’m about to cum too, sweetheart.” With a soft groan, he lifts his attention to pin you with a heady look of challenge. “Think we can cum together?”

You frantically nod. “Uh huh!”

The corner of Ogun’s mouth twitches at that, settling into a lazy smirk as he shifts back and slows the motion of his hips. You can’t help groaning in disappointment but you realize what he’s doing quickly enough when he lets up his hold on your legs so he can lower himself down to lay out on top of you. Working his arms under your overheated back, he practically crushes you to the front of him and you bring your own up to wrap them around his neck.

This new position increases the pressure in your guts by a noticeable margin and the air rushes out of you with a stuttering sigh when he crawls up onto the edge of the couch to pin your thighs under his weight. Your legs are just as useless as before, twitching impotently in the air when he eases his hips back as far as he can. He doesn’t make it far, just enough to feel the drag and the subsequent plunge, but it makes you cry out all the same.

Face shoved into your hair, Ogun lets loose a series of heavy grunts when he picks up his earlier pace and the same sticky clicking rises in the air again. It’s much less deafening this time, softer by virtue of his shorter strokes, and you gratefully clutch him against you, glad to hold onto him.

“You feel so good …” he groans, making you shudder at the puff of hot air against your neck.

You can’t quite find your voice though, and you respond with a faltering moan that has him twitching inside you. The thick bands of musculature across his shoulders dance under your fingers each time he moves, emphasizing the raw strength in his lithe body. And yet he was still being careful with you, the plunge of his cock as carefully measured as before so as not to slam against your cervix but still tease it.

It wasn’t even that he was unreasonably large but, rather, he just so happened to fit you like a glove and that was perhaps the most arousing part of all.

“Ogun,” you finally manage to whimper. “Mm’ gonna’ cum …”

“Me too …”

The quietly stricken groan that comes out of him next makes your toes curl. You clench around him in a palpitating flutter, so close to the edge it brought the sting of tears to your eyes. His hips stutter at the squeeze and he trembles against you, struggling to keep up the subdued thrusting he’d settled into.

It quickly proves futile when his body tenses up with a low, faltering moan that rattles so deep you feel it in your cunt. The air catches in your throat and you squeeze him with your arms across his back and your legs around his narrow waist, clutching him to you as he lurches. Blunt fingers dig into your skin and he gives a little jerk, issuing a sucker punched wheeze seconds before you feel the rush of hot seed flooding your cunt.

You tremble wildly, nails clawing into his back when the sensation of Ogun shooting thick ropes against your gummy walls makes your muscles clamp around him hard enough to send you over the edge. Writhing in bliss, you stutter out a groan that he matches with one of his own while the two of you quake through your orgasms as one.

It was transcendental in a way you never would have thought possible.

Dropping his face to the couch cushions when you finally start to grow still underneath him some moments later, he issues a rumbling sound of satisfaction. The ragged quality of your panting quickly rushes in to replace the sticky wet squelching of your cunt, and you go boneless while you try to catch your breath. That was a lot easier said than done though and he, predictably, recovers much quicker than you.

“I’m surprised we really managed to pull that off.” He hums in contentment and turns his face to kiss at your ear, teasingly soft. “That’s a first.”

“And hopefully not the last.” You wheeze, making him chuckle.

“You liked it then, I take it?”

Dislodging your cramping fingers from his back with a certain amount of effort, you bring your hand up to push the hair from your face. “It was amazing … intense. I didn’t think we could do it either.”

Ogun lifts his head to press his mouth to your check, your nose, the spot between your eyes, all with a big smile on his face. “I’m glad we did. I promise I’ll try my best to make it happen again but no promises, okay?”

You can’t quite stop from giggling. “Don’t worry. I have faith in you.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Pausing long enough to give your ribs an affectionate pinch, he carefully pushes up from the couch and leans back. His softened cock slips out of you in the process, and you internally wince at the dribble of hot cum that oozes from you without him there to stopper it.

You draw your legs up to keep the mess to a minimum when he stands, gleaming eyes taking in the sight of you curled up on your couch with his semen leaking down the crease of your pussy for a prolonged beat. And then, he grins.

“Wanna’ get cleaned up and I’ll order that pizza?”

“How am I supposed to think about food after all that?” You pout at him.

Sending a sly look down at the spot between your thighs, Ogun starts to turn towards the bathroom. “I’ll get you a rag. I’m sure you’ll realize just how hungry you are once the adrenaline wears off. Besides, you should probably refuel before I try to give you an encore.”

Smiling at that, you appreciatively glance down at his tight ass before he disappears through the doorway. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind he’d be able to pull it off.

[seokmingiggles]

peonies.

Prompt: "Going somewhere?"

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x gender neutral reader

Genre: fluff, established relationship, quarantine!au (if that’s what you’d call it?), non-idol!au (this isn’t a typical tag of mine, but I want to make it clear!).

2.36k words

No warnings.

Being cooped up inside for the protection of others can become a redundant routine. Today, your boyfriend breaks that cycle and goes on an unexpected outing—safely, of course.

Alternatively, Taehyung decides that he wants to remind you of his love with the surprise of little gifts. Not that he needs to, but he wants to.

A/N: Here’s a little something I wrote in the span of a couple of hours tonight to separate my Seventeen teacup drabbles. By ‘quarantine!au,’ I mean this one-shot takes place in our current situation with Covid-19 :/ I truly hope all of you are able to stay safe and healthy. Please wear a mask when you go out! We will fight this pandemic!! ♡

•• The distinct metal clinking of keys jingling by the front door catches your attention.

"Going somewhere?"

Taehyung looks up from his feet after slipping on a pair of brown boots. He's got his keys in one hand, along with a slightly crumpled list of something illegible to you from your spot on the couch. A black medical mask is hung haphazardly to the side off of one of his ears.

He stands up tall, "Just got a couple of errands to run. I'll be right back." Your boyfriend flashes you a smile, rounding his cheeks into rolls of puffy dough.

You hum out, "Okay," and return his small wave as he leaves your shared apartment.

There's a slight crisp to the air outside today. It nips on the tips of Taehyung's cheeks exposed from his mask. The boy considers if he should have put on a scarf, too, overtop his jacket. Overtop his mask? It's too late now, he muses. At least his hands are warm inside his fleece-lined pockets, and his round nose is sheltered from the late-winter air. He clutches the piece of paper tightly in his right hand. Writing lists may be obsolete now in the digital age, but Taehyung can't deny how he likes the feel of pen on paper, even if he can recite each written line from memory; crossing off his to-do lists makes him feel accomplished.

His shoes gently click on the sidewalk. The streets are emptier than he's used to seeing. The light snowfall from a few days ago has already melted. Instead, some dead leaves rustle across the dry ground. Someone is walking on the same sidewalk, heading in Taehyung's direction. She's wearing a similar medical-grade mask with hands stuffed deeply into her pockets too. Her hair blows violently in the head-on wind. She looks up from her footsteps, and Taehyung swears he can see what might be a polite smile beneath her mask. The boy's eyes crinkle slightly at the corners in response, continuing on his way.

His first stop is the used bookstore. The smell of old paper and the slight dryness from the dust make their way through Taehyung's mask, into his nose. He doesn't have anything specific in mind. He does, however, know the types of books you like to read. Shelf after shelf, he scans the spines one by one, in search of a title that stands out to him. Stardust, he ruminates, eyes inspecting the plain royal blue cover. It seems simple enough, and if you don't like it, he may consider reading it.

Taehyung weaves through the maze of piled books laid out on the floor; there are far too many for the small shop to accommodate. The owner of the store is sat behind the desk at the side, likewise surrounded by stacks upon stacks of books. Some are dustier than others; some look newer than others.

"Just this one today?" the bookkeeper ponders, face half-masked.

"Yes, please."

The blue-bound book finds a place in the crook of the boy's elbow, pressed to his chest as he returns on his walk. This time, someone is on a run with their dog, jogging on the opposite side of the street. Taehyung never sees his face, only the back of his head as he moves ahead. But he does notice the little elastics of his mask tucked around his ears once he passes by. Muscular, yet lean calves push him to run further; the brown spotted dog seems to skip happily along the sidewalk next to its owner.

The aroma of the bakery is mildly evident before he crosses the street. Located as the first shop on the corner of a new avenue, the little store contains your favourite treats, Taehyung's too. A family-owned business, the boy wants to support their shop during this time of limited sales. Frankly, the boy wishes he could do the same for all of the little stores lining the streets here downtown.

The bell above the door chimes when Taehyung enters the store; the sound resonates in the single room. A rush of hot air smacks his face.

With the sound of footsteps coming down from the upstairs attachment, the shop owner appears in a blue mask. "Welcome!" her voice is jolly, eyes in crescents. "Is it the usual for today, Taehyung?"

The boy in question nods with a smile, fluffy bangs bouncing with the movement, "Please."

The patissier moves to the windowed counter displaying significantly fewer treats than what would have been a year ago.

"Is it a special occasion?"

"No," Taehyung admits. "Just because."

There's a twinkle in the baker's eye. "They're a lucky one."

Taehyung doesn't say anything, and instead, he thinks how he's the lucky one out of the two of you.

He pays with cash, rounding up as an extra tip. The two exchange thanks and other pleasantries, and Taehyung sets back out in the cool air on his way. The paper gift bag holds the two cardboard containers with mouth-watering snacks inside. He slips the novel carefully into the bag, making sure it doesn't rip.

The florist is his final stop on today's little journey.

Blooming buds of each and every colour of the rainbow and then some invade Taehyung's vision. He's sure the fragrant floral scent would be more potent without wearing his mask. He tries to sniff one of the bunches of tulips near the entryway. No, it's mostly neutral with a hint of dust leftover from the bookstore.

"For any reason in particular? Birthday? Anniversary?"

Taehyung is brought from his flower-sniffing, seeing the florist behind the counter bearing what might be an amused grin. The boy hides his frustration at being unable to read people's expressions properly when concealed by the masks.

"Ah, no," his face flushes slightly, "not today. Could I still get some flowers, though?"

"Of course," she beams. "Anything specific?"

The boy ponders, examining each prearranged bouquet laying about. They all look beautiful to him, but Taehyung also doesn't know much about flowers. What's more important to him is how much you like them; that's all he needs to know.

"Surprise me," is his answer, confident in the florist's abilities.

Taehyung ends up leaving the store with a combination of delicate daffodils, carnations, roses, and two large peonies in the center. The bright yellows of the daffodils compliment the ivory carnations and ruby-red roses. The pastel pink peonies, Taehyung thinks, might be his favourite from the bunch. Maybe the two of you are peonies? You're certainly pretty like a flower, yes, so why not a peony?

Taehyung heads in the opposite direction from his travels, starting the walk back to the apartment. The paper bag containing the pastries and the book is still clutched tightly in one hand, while the colourful, decorative flowers are held with significantly more care in his other hand.

The sky is grey today, filled with an abundance of dense clouds. Taehyung swears it had been blue when he had left the house earlier, although now, it looks like there may be another snowfall. More leaves scatter with the wind, blowing in Taehyung's direction. They dance in the breeze, scraping the cemented road and landing in the crook of an alleyway between two shops, both with their lights off and variations of 'Closed' signs decorating the doors.

Sure enough, what can barely be classified as snow begins to fall from the heavens. Tiny flakes of white flutter down, instantly melting as they hit the sidewalk. The only evidence of their existence is when they land on Taehyung's black woollen jacket, but even then, they don't last for very long.

The distinct metal clinking of keys signals your boyfriend's return home. Taehyung takes in your appearance, now off the couch and facing the stove with your back to him. You've changed out of your trusty pair of sweatpants you've been housed in for the past months, opting for something slightly more form-fitting, but comfortable still, nonetheless. Your hair looks washed. Maybe you took a shower in the time Taehyung had been out. You're boiling some water in a pot, from what the boy can tell. Yes, upon moving closer, some pasta swirls around in the churning bubbles, steam escaping only to be swept up in the oven range above.

"You're done with your errands?" you call out over your shoulder, returning your gaze to the cooking pasta as you listen to your boyfriend removing his outerwear by the front door. "How was it out there?"

Taehyung moves his sock-clad feet to where you stand. After washing his hands, a pair of warm arms tenderly wraps around your torso from behind, followed by a brisk peck to your cheek.

"It was quiet out there, as you'd expect," the boy mulls over as he traces some unknown shape onto your hipbone. "Do you want to see what I got?"

You comply with his request, turning the stove's burner down before moving in his embrace as he shifts the two of you to the kitchen island. There, the array of treats are splayed out.

Your eyes immediately land on the flowers: the colours nearly take your breath away. It's been so long since you've seen something so alive. You don't fail to notice the brown paper bag with your favourite bakery's emblem stamped on the side. Something else is peeking out of the bag, something blue that you can't distinguish.

"Why?" you can't help but ask Taehyung. "What's the reason for all of this?" Still held in his arms, you slightly twist so you can glance upwards at your boyfriend.

He's already looking at you with his big brown eyes. Little droplets of melted snow rest daintily in his hair. You reach upwards to brush some aside, also smoothing down some of the astray strands displaced from the wind.

"The reason is that I love you."

"You're too good, Tae," you whisper, hugging the boy properly and burying your face into him. "I love you too."

Another kiss finds your head before you pull away, but only to move closer once again to place your lips on Taehyung's. His nose is cold, but his mouth is hot as you move together with years of practice. You're the first one to part, but staying close enough for noses to brush. Taehyung has a hand cupping the side of your face, thumbing over the roundest part of your cheek from your smile: a shape comparable to a soft bread bun.

Being stuck inside has its downfalls; you and Taehyung are no exception. You've had more arguments in the span of the past ten months than all of the years in your relationship combined. Considering them as arguments may be putting it harshly, disagreements or miscommunication are more accurate depictions of your quarrels. Perhaps the fatigue of being confined indoors is to blame. The worst dispute was a couple of months ago, where you and Taehyung grimly doubted the status of your relationship—if any of it was worth it anymore.

Clearly, you managed to work things out as here you sit on the sofa now, biting into one of the flaky, buttery croissants—one of the few treats adorning the inside of the paper bag. The raspberry preserves on the inside burst across your tongue in a pleasant tartness, complementing the sweet pastry. The pasta on the stove now forgotten, moved to the side and off the burner for another time. You offer Taehyung a bit of the croissant to which he complies, taking a large bite from it. Little flecks of gold decorate the corners of his mouth; one finds a spot on his upper lip beside the dimple of his cupid's bow.

"You're cute," you mumble, gently removing the crumbs from his mouth.

Taehyung disagrees, a voice so soft you'd nearly miss it if he weren't in such proximity, "Not as cute as you, my love." He takes your hand in his, pressing a string of little pecks onto your fingers. Your hand stays in his even after the kisses placed, digits now laced comfortably.

You take another bite of the raspberry croissant until there's one mouthful left. You wordlessly offer it to your boyfriend.

The floral bouquet occupies the center of the kitchen table. It's a fluorescent sight between the dulled walls of the apartment. Like a little piece of sunshine, the flowers provide you with a sense of warmth or energy that you no longer experience trapped in your confined space day after day.

The snow has picked up outside. The clouds have only gotten denser since Taehyung's return home. The sky is gradually growing darker with the hour; streetlamps flicker on one-by-one, lining the streets in glowing amber and putting spotlights on the colourless, falling flakes. Rooftops and tree branches gradually become covered in a dusting of white.

"I love you," Taehyung repeats out of the blue, causing you to remove your gaze from the winter landscape forming outside.

You examine his face as his eyes flutter between yours. A pretty shade of pink blossoms on his cheeks while his mouth lifts into the smallest of smiles.

"I love you too," you say with all earnest. "Thank you for everything today."

"Of course," he nuzzles into the top of your head, pulling you close against him. "I'm sorry we have to stay indoors most of the time."

"It's not your fault, Tae."

The boy hums in acknowledgement. "Sometimes I wish I could solve it all, you know? Like if I wish or pray, or maybe if I believe hard enough, everything will be fixed. Everything will be normal again."

"Things will be normal again," you return. Your thumb strokes over Taehyung's on the hand you're still holding. Your head finds his shoulder.

Taehyung is warm and familiar and possibly the only constant in your life right now. Your eyes reach the flowers in the vase on the dining table once more—vibrant and attractive yellows, reds, and pastel pinks.

You squeeze your boyfriend's hand: a silent thank you; an unsaid I love you.

Taehyung squeezes your hand back.

To do:

live for today

and cherish (Y/N)

••

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Stinky Love

Sam Wilson x Fem!Reader

ONE SHOT

Warnings: NSFW! Stay safe kiddos! No funny business till you know what you’re doing. Okay?

Word Count: It’s weird. Not bad. Not good weird. But it is weird nonetheless. I might be stuck in the middle. I want to make healthy decisions. The start of it? Hmm...let’s see...today I consciously did not get into hyperactive mode when I had nothing to do at work. I told myself it is okay to rest for ten minutes without thinking of having something in hand every second! Another thing I did was greet the guards at the entrance (Anxiety- 0 Me- 1). Oh aaaand I wrote this! Despite my block. Because someone really special requested it. :D

MASTERLIST in bio, darlings. Tags are open (check bio)

"Easy. Easy. Eeeeasy. EEE-"

"SHUT UP, SAM!"

"Okay."

You put your hand on your knees, trying to get some air inside your lungs while the tears basically flew into the relentless wind that tried its very best to crack open your cheeks until the blood gushed out.

"Oh fuck!" You sobbed, not knowing what to do with this poisonous feeling in your gut right before you felt the rush and out came the contents of your stomach.

Sam’s hand was already on your back making gentle upward strokes to get everything out once and for all, all the while trying his best to soothe you through the pain and embarrassment.

"Oh my God ," you cried a bit louder this time.

"Shh," Sam cut you with his soft voice, "it's okay. It's perfectly normal. It could happen to anyone. Not everyone has the stomach for...this. Here."

You took the bottle from his hand and rinsed your mouth of the toxic kick of your insides lingering in every taste bud and stood up straight- measuring the straightness of the spine with the amount your gut could take without throwing anything more out. Once you were sure of it, you sighed with ease and cut a look at Sam.

"I puked. On my shoes. Because I couldn't handle a cable car, Sam."

Sam tried to form words in his mouth but all he ended up doing was making funny faces that had no idea what they were trying to achieve. "Wel- I mean...I'm sure someone else might've"

" A CABLE CAR !"

Sam sighed and took your hand, walking away from the snowy edge towards the gazebo resting on the hilltop that was one way of him sheltering you from the cold winter breeze trying to ruin your perfect cheeks. The wooden chairs had fluffed Tibetan cushions and a corner by the thick cement pillar to sit over the traditionally made mattresses and enjoy the fire from the fire pit kept in the centre of it all. He took you by the corner and sat down with you.

"I am pretty sure something was wrong with that cable car, babe. Even I'm feeling a little weird in the stomach," he assured you and wiped away those precious tears off your face gently, not taking his stubborn eyes off you till he was sure you believed him.

"Liar," you muttered, your voice still broken from all the crying, your body pushing itself closer to Sam, who was more than happy to wrap his arms around you. "Don't you dare tell the rest about this. Or I swear to God, Samuel Thomas Wilson, you will regret it for the rest of your life."

Sam suppressed his giggles but his eyes were giving away the humour they found when those brown eyes saw the cuteness that erupted out of you whenever you threatened him. Hell, he'd been turned on on more than one occasion when you'd been trying to fight him, never taking the situation where it was supposed to go.

"Okay. Yeah. I can promise you that. Sure." Sam shrugged and nodded, his smile growing wider with every second when he could see your nose flare up at the thought of finding your misery so funny.

So he kissed your nose.

"Stop it," you groaned, scrunching your nose, "I stink."

"Oh," Sam tilted his head, "no you don't," and ended up kissing your cheek before moving to your jaw and then down your neck, nearly catching your sweet spot till you wiggled and closed yourself like a touch-me-not at his caress and giggled. " Staahaap ! Stop it! I really do stink." And to not give his sex-brain an edge over you, you got up and stood three feet apart from him, smirking with victory.

Sam exhaled. And for some reason, you could see that familiar heavy gaze in his melting eyes- the very gaze that meant he was wondering, of all the ways to turn you on in such a way that you just couldn't resist.

Oh no.

"Sooo," he nearly whistled the word, "if you don't drink anymore, you won't stop running away from my sloppy kisses."

Okay...this is a trap.

This definitely has to be a trap.

"Whatcha say, Y/N?"

Trap. Trap. Trap.

"Yeah sure. Why not. But I don't see a way of getting out of this stink filled clothes and boots any time soon. We're four hour's hike away from Tony's summer house. And the weather doesn't look like a good time to travel."

You stood there, quite proud of yourself at counting down all the possible ways he could get his expert hands on you- damn those hands, they really know how to work you. There was no way out of here unless by some miracle-

"Friday," Sam announced out of nowhere, lounging back onto the seat, "give us some privacy, would you?"

What?

"Wait-"

"Here you go, Mr Wilson," Friday's voice echoed through the gazebo before you saw walls rising up from the stones in the ground- with fucking windows at that- and tiny partitions divided that space to welcome- out of the ground like some grand revelation- a cosy bed in one corner with a shower attached in the wall across the glass partition. The fireplace crackled to life and warm lights flooded this small yet unimaginably comfortable little place.

"Would you like some music?" Friday asked politely.

"Yes, please," Sam announced, quite proud of himself, "put on something slow and sexy for my woman here."

You looked at him, eyes filled with equal amounts of shock and appreciation.

"You knew ," you mention, "that's why you brought me here."

"It was hard getting some alone time with you back at Tony's place. Of course, I had to get you away from there."

And that's why I love you.

You took a step towards him before going back, making Sam raise his brow in questioning confusion.

"I really want to kiss you right now but I would hate myself if you smell all the vomit on me."

"Okaaaay..." He sang softly while getting up and closing the distance between the two of you, his fingers undoing the zipper of your jacket, "how about we get that stink off you so that I can kiss you as much as I want you."

And as soon as your head nodded an approval, a slow dance began to get you- and him- out of the clothes.

The jacket and sweater were already on the floor when you were moving away from the little living room space towards the bedroom and bathroom space, Sam helping you out of your blue t-shirt- his favourite- and folding it neatly before putting it on the bed.

You, on the other hand, had already got him half-naked, reaching for his belt but not quick enough for he already had his thumbs hooked into your jeans, twirling you to get his hands on your bra, unhooking it to let it go of your breaths, kissing your shoulders as he does so.

"Wha-hey!" You tried to refrain from giving in. "That's not our deal!"

You could feel the vibrations of Sam's chuckle on your shoulder, his hands already done with the jeans, sliding them down your legs with a little help from you. You were throwing the pair away when Sam pressed the shower controls, letting a gush of effectively warmed water hit you with the right amount of pressure. You turned around to catch your boyfriend in his boxers, wiping away his face of the stray water beads before reaching for the shower gel by the slot in the wall.

His hands massaged your muscles in the shoulders, your arms and stomach and then took the help of the loofah to make foam up his work. Soon enough, every last trace of the stink along with fatigue was gone, washed away by the water, the stench of gory sickness leaving you to be replaced by a wave of everything fresh.

It was a task to get Sam away from you just so he could let you brush your teeth- thanks to Stark's complimentary toiletries- but you somehow did escape his arms to get that bit done and wrap yourself in a robe and walk out into the bedroom.

The bed was too enticing after that five-hour hike and your legs did not have the energy to do anymore. Though watching Sam's lusty eyes, you felt he had some other plans.

"Sam, babe, I know this-"

"Shhhh..." He was already on the bed, shushing you by his fingers before planting a light kiss on your lips and planting himself behind you on the bed where you sat. "Let me help you get rid of it."

His hands picked up a slow, sensual pace, grinding his thumbs into your shoulders and back, letting them feel the pain, winding up the fatigue itself before releasing the grip to make everything feel five times lighter than before. Your moans were just a bonus, which, it's quite obvious to say, was turning Sam on, making him leave deep kisses where his touch would leave marks where the pain left and relief entered.

"I-ahh didn't know I could get turned o-oohhh-on by a massage!"

Yup. Your words were becoming an incoherent slur just as time passed by and his hands were finding there way down your waist, forcing you to lie down and let your body enjoy the much-needed love and sweet sweet torture.

"Oh...but I'm just getting started, pumpkin," he announced before slapping your butt cheek and turning you on your back and opening your legs.

"Well, who am I to say no to excellent service," you shrugged and pressed your lips to prevent the cheeky smirk about to land on your face while Sam chuckled and kissed your thighs, leaving wet kisses and nibbles on his way to your core.

His hot breath was your undoing. His touch dropped every last chain of restraint while his tongue called the Goddess of sex to come out and play.

And play, they did. The best concert on your aroused instrument, his tongue the professional conductor, knowing which swing and twirl of his will bring the perfect symphonies out of you, making you writhe under him with rising pleasure that was the quickest high on record.

"Sam," his name was coming out as a breathless chant from your lips, your hands finding his hair while his tried to keep your hips in place. "Please," the Goddess was begging to let the waves rise above the dams to let the floodgates be opened, either way, the high wanted to end with a thundering roar.

The moans grew louder once his fingers found your sweet spots and his tongue worked its magic around your clit. The tightness of your walls around him were telling him to increase the pace, making the Goddess dance with pleasure unknown before. The torrents rose, taking all your senses with them before breaking with a bang, their echoes coming after as Sam made sure he let you enjoy every last drop of nature's nectar.

Breathless.

Both you and him.

He flumped into the mattress beside you, watching your flushed face with a chuckle.

"How ya feelin'"

"...lucky?"

The walls vibrated with his laughter. Sam turned to you, picking the box of tissues- luxurious, of course; thank you, Stark- from the bedside table to help clean up the mess before taking you in his arms and wrapping you both in the duvet.

You kissed him. Once. Twice. Thrice. Okay, just one last time , because the number of kisses you wanted to shower him with was not enough.

"Okay, alright, sweetheart," Sam stated, taking another love-filled kiss from you, "your eyes are half open and you are on the edge of falling into a coma if you don't sleep right this second."

You groan. "Lemme kiss youuuuhhh."

Wrapping you in his arm, bringing you closer to his warm chest, Sam planted a peck your forehead.

"Sweet dreams, honey."

You yawned, tickling his chest with your breath. Your body bringing itself closer to his for the attractive abundance of love and warmth, your lips wearing a smile at the thought of him loving you even when you were a stinky mess.

"I love you, Samuel Thomas Wilson."

"I love you too, Y/N Y/L/N."

[lavenderbones22]

Playing The Game- Ben!Roger Taylor

Summary: Roger has been thrust into sudden fame with his band, Queen, and with fame come groupies. Overwhelmed with the amount of attention he's receiving and unsure how to handle it, his girlfriend falls on the back burner and now Roger must try to win her heart back.

Requested: 'I sent you my request yesterday but Tumblr is being useless as always hehe. So, can you write an os where Ben!Roger is so excited with his sudden fame and the groupies all over him that he kinda forgets the reader exists. Then, realizing that this kind of life is good but only for a moment, he tries to win the reader's heart all over again. You know, angst and fluffy stuff.'

Word Count: 3491

----------

1973

The bright lights, the encapsulating smell of cigarettes and weed, the alcohol, the hard drugs, it was all prevalent in the small venue Queen were playing at. Having gone around playing bigger venues in other countries for a while, they were back at their old stomping ground for a night. The crowd of what used to be mainly guys who loved rock music had seemingly suddenly turned into a crowd of young women.

Maybe it was all the hair, the tight jeans, the bare chests, the sweaty muscles, that drew them to watch the band play but it was thought that it was mostly because they wanted to fuck one of the band members.

Brian and John were single, leaving Freddie and Roger the half of the band currently in relationships. Roger would sit back and watch two of his best mates indulge in the pleasures of these easy young women and he couldn't mistake the feeling of jealousy that would hit him.

He loved his girlfriend, he really, really did. She was a good girl, been by his side for just on two years now and sexy, fuck, she was sexy as all hell but it was the excitement that these groupies would bring that intrigued him.

He'd listen to Brian and Deacy's sinful stories of what these women would let the guys do to them, how they would beg to be tied up, be hung from things, fucked in every orifice of their fit bodies. If he didn't have such a healthy sex life with his girlfriend, fucking most days, Roger would have caved a long time ago. He was satisfied, but he was curious.

He was sat in his usual spot at the drum kit, a perfect view of Freddie as he waltzed across the stage singing his dramatic heart out. He'd been keeping an eye out for his girl, she was meant to come to the show after work but it was after eight and he still hadn't seen her. She knew how much this show meant to him and the guys, it was like coming full circle and he wanted her to be there.

Her hectic work schedule as of late had been playing havoc on their relationship. They were like ships passing in the night, schedules that were completely opposite. She worked in a salon, a hairdresser, and her hours were all over the place.

As he hit the symbol's, pressed his foot down on the bass pedal, he channelled the frustration he felt at not having seen her yet; they were half way through the set, she was probably not going to show.

Roger tried desperately to distract himself from his negative thoughts by going harder at the drums and although one would think that it would be easy to shut everything else out of your mind whilst playing an instrument as intense as they were, it was not.

The set came to an end, the sweat literally dripping down Roger's face, his chest, his arms. He was always so fierce when he drummed, putting everything he had into bringing out the best beats he possibly could. It was part of his charm and his girl would often say one of her favourite things to do was watch Roger lose himself in his music. They'd even fucked on his drum kit a few times.

He lit a fag before he did anything. Grabbing a cloth and using it to wipe his face. The crowd was cheering, the others were thanking them. Roger stood up, waving to the crowd to huge cheers as he stepped off the stage and went out the back.

Deep puffs, strong exhales, he was annoyed.

She had intended to go to the gig, she knew how much it meant to Roger. He'd been going on about it for a couple of weeks now, excited to play for their home crowd again now their careers had taken off and everyone knew every word to every song. She didn't leave the salon until seven forty-five, her feet killing her from standing all day. Knowing the guys went on stage at seven, for an hour and a half, she didn't see much point in going for the last fifteen minutes.

Well aware that it was poor on her behalf by not showing up to her boyfriend's gig, she fought with her conscience on the taxi ride home and by the time she arrived at the doorstep of the flat she shared with Roger, she had come to terms with her decision.

There was more to this though, than what was presented on the outside. She had another reason for this decision.

Along with the bands growth in album sales and popularity came their growth in attention from women, groupies in particular. It seemed that every woman, and some men, wanted to fuck a rockstar. Sure, she'd known it was a fad, she had fancied a few guys in bands in her time, but the extent that it was at currently took her by total surprise.

Women just wanted to have sex with a rockstar so that they could go and brag about it to their friends, maybe sell a story to the newspaper about how big or small his dick might have been.

She had never been bothered by this fact until her boyfriend was the centre of everybody's attention.

Most people who visited her salon knew Roger or had met him at some point in time, but sometimes when she had new clients who didn't know who she was or who her boyfriend was, she would hear things. It had happened on only a few occasions but that was a few occasions too many in her opinion. Young girls similar to her age or a tad younger would come in mouthing off about how hot Roger Taylor from Queen was and how much they wanted to fuck him. She remembered one girl even saying that he had been eye fucking her the entire performance; needless to say, that was an awkward moment for everybody in the salon.

In hindsight, she wished to have made a different decision that night when she left work. She should have gone to the gig, then maybe things between her and Roger wouldn't be so shit.

It was about a month after the hometown gig and Queen were still in England. They were driving around doing shows in smaller parts of the country, being no more than a few days away from home at a time.

Her work had become more demanding, people had found out that she was Roger Taylor's girlfriend and suddenly her client list became endless. Roger, well Roger was playing music and revelling in the attention from all of the groupies. He was still angry at his girlfriend for missing that important show, so he channelled that anger into attracting beautiful women.

He hadn't cheated, or at least anything he had done he'd hadn’t classified as cheating.

A few brief kisses on lips, bites on necks, ass pinches, they were all innocent to him. And besides, he wanted to give these girls something to talk about, make their day.

Oh, and they hadn't had sex in weeks.

She was antsy and had pleasured herself in the shower more times these past few weeks than she had ever in her life. Roger though, he didn't seem phased by it or at least he didn't show that he was.

There was a party tonight down in the nicer part of London. It was an exclusive event, organised by the band's record company to celebrate the number of album sales they had achieved thus far.

She had been angry at him for a while for his behaviour, hearing more and more stories as every day passed but the anger had stopped and suddenly it had turned into sadness. She missed him. She missed who he was, what they were together. She missed just spending nights lying together on the sofa playing with each other's fingers and watching shitty movies. She missed waking up to him holding her tight, his breath on the back of her neck.

He was barely home at a decent hour anymore and when he was he wasn't holding her like that.

She wanted her Roger back, the one who told her that he loved her so much that she sometimes had to tell him to stop. She wanted to hit herself for that. She wanted to hit herself for a lot of things she had done recently.

She also wanted to hit him. He was a fucking idiot for indulging even a little bit in these pretentious women. She missed Roger so much that her heart hurt but if he was going to go around acting like he didn't have a girlfriend, then he wouldn't have a girlfriend.

She loved him, but she could get over him if she had to.

Black slacks, gold suit jacket, black shirt, open half way down so his chest could be seen; that was what Roger decided to wear to the label party tonight. He was stoked, the band had sold more albums than ever expected and the record label were ecstatic at the result. The four lads literally had cash being thrown at them. Roger had no idea what to do with all of the money he was suddenly making.

He was a few drinks down and a little high when he rocked up. His ego was soaring as fans called out his name when he got out of the car. They were lined up outside of the venue, having somehow found out when and where the party was being held. He waved and threw some cheeky winks at the hot girls screaming for him.

There were over two hundred people inside the fairly large venue, many wanting to talk to the charismatic drummer.

It wasn't until someone asked him about her that he realised he hadn't invited her.

Fuck.

Neither the drugs nor the alcohol could prevent his mind from feeling grossly guilty about this revelation.

"I forgot to fuckin' invite her," he had dashed over to Brian who was talking to one of the label executives. Brian excused himself politely, moving aside with Roger who looked frantic.

"Who?" Brian asked casually, knowing exactly who Roger was referring to but rather enjoying watching him freak out. He had had a few conversations with his best mate's long term girlfriend in the recent weeks and knew just how upset she was about his behaviour around town. He had assured her that he knew Roger like the back of his hand and that the excitement of all this new attention would wear off after a while. She had also asked him if he thought Roger had cheated, to which Brian replied that he was ninety percent sure he hadn't. He knew though that the ten percent was all she was thinking about.

Brian had also invited her to the party tonight.

Like he had said, he knew his mate like the back of his hand so he just knew that he would forget to extend an invitation to her.

Roger didn't see when she walked in wearing a gold dress, much like Roger's jacket, that fell down to the floor, deep v neck showing off her cleavage and a low cut back. It was a divine creation, she was a divine creation, glistening in the lights of the room and turning everybody's heads. Her dark hair was behind her back in loose curls, gold hoops hanging from her ears.

She couldn't see Roger, but she didn't really care.

He'd been at the party for nearly two hours and he'd lost count of the amount of drinks he'd had. He felt terrible about forgetting to invite his girlfriend, he couldn't believe he'd done it honestly. It started his mind off, thinking back to the last month or so where he wouldn't come home, instead crashing on Deacy's couch or stand her up when they were meant to have a dinner date. He'd been a positively rotten boyfriend to the love of his life.

And that's what she was, she was the love of his life and for a little second there he'd forgotten it. He'd come to realise that these groupies were never going to stick around, they'd fuck off the second someone more popular or hotter came around; that was what groupies did. His girl though, she was his partner in life and he knew she would never leave him like the groupies would. Well, he hoped she wouldn't. He was overwhelmed with all of the changes going on in his life that he'd derailed for a moment. But he had decided that it ended here, this was the last mistake he was going to make when it came to her.

It was her ass he saw first, then the curve of her back, bare in a tight fitting gold dress.

She was here.

But how?

Brian was watching him from a short distance, chuckling to himself over Roger's confusion, deciding to walk up and enlighten him on how she had ended up at the party.

"I invited her," he put his hand on his shorter friend's shoulder, sipping his beer.

"H-how?" Roger looked up, wide eyed at Brian. "Why, Brian?"

"Because I knew that you would forget," he responded. "You've been a bit distracted lately, mate."

Roger sighed. "I know. I'm fucking terrible," he ran his hands through his long, blonde hair. "I wouldn't be surprised if she ended it with me honestly."

"She loves you," Brian reassured him. "But trust me when I say that you're really going to have to make it up to her."

Roger knew he was right. He knew that she loved him and he knew that he loved her. A lot had happened but it wasn't a total lost cause.

"You're here." His deep voice startled her. She whipped around, meeting his emerald eyes for the first proper time in weeks.

"I'm here," she replied monotonously.

Neither knew what to say. It was awkward.

She accepted her drink from the bartender and thanked him. She turned back to her estranged lover.

"Brian invited me," she told him.

"I know."

"I would have thought you would have," she spoke with no bitterness in her voice, only sadness.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, sheepish. "I've been fucking horrible lately. I cannot believe I forgot to invite my own girlfriend to a party."

"Not just any party Roger," she looked at him sadly. "A party to celebrate the success of your band!"

He swallowed nervously. This really wasn't the place to have a conversation like this but it was happening and he wasn't about to stop it.

"I am your biggest supporter, you know that! I love you and I love the guys. I want to be included in everything you do. I want to be there by your side as you succeed," she felt herself getting teary but she held it in. "But you've just pushed me away and replaced me with cheap groupies."

"I never meant for any of it to happen," he sighed. "I was angry at you that night you didn't turn up to the home town show. I guess I let it bubble away inside of me too long and used the groupies as a way to make you feel how I was feeling."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Are you kidding me?"

He shook his blonde locks, embarrassed by his childish behaviour. "No, unfortunately."

"You're a child, Roger," she crossed her arms still holding her wine. "Why didn't you just talk to me?"

He shrugged. "I don't know really."

"I felt terrible that I missed that show but I was exhausted after a nearly twelve hour work day and I just couldn't comprehend standing there. Besides, the show would have been practically over by the time I arrived and I would have had to wait around while all the gear got packed up," she explained. "I also couldn't bare to stand in a crowd of women talking about how badly they want to fuck you. I can only take so much."

Roger hadn't always been a self obsessed womanizer, he was always very considerate of other people's feelings. He prided himself on being able to pick up on when someone was upset and doing everything he could to rectify it. He was ashamed. He hadn't even thought about what she had been going through during all of these changes, only thinking about himself.

He would throw punches if he heard men talk about her that way.

Fuck, he was a shit boyfriend.

He stepped closer to her. Her usual 'Charlie' perfume floating into his nostrils. It made him feel like he was home; she made him feel like he was home.

Her big, round eyes looked up at him as he placed both of his hands on either side of her neck. "I'm so sorry for everything baby," he spoke quietly. Although the music was loud, the sounds of people talking louder, she heard him perfectly. "I know nothing I say right now can take back anything that's happened but all I can do is try to be a better man, a better boyfriend for you. You deserve the world and I want to give it to you."

A tear left her eye, rolling down her cheek and she smiled up at him. "You've got a lot of ground to make up," she told him. "But as long as I have your word that you won't let these women have you, that you'll love me and consider me in everything just like you used to," she smiled again as Roger wiped away her stray tear with his thumb. "Then I guess we can begin to move forward."

He laughed and pulled her into him, their lips meeting for the first time in quite a while.

"I love you," he whispered, forehead against hers.

"I love you too you asshole," she chuckled. Roger smiled once more, pulling her to him again, this time deepening the kiss and letting their tongues tangle around each other. She couldn't even help the moan that vibrated their kiss.

"Wanna pop into the toilet's for a sec?" He suggested, brows raised.

She knew she should make him work for her forgiveness a little longer but honestly, she was horny as hell and needed to feel him inside her again.

"We gotta be quick," she told him, taking his hand. "They're serving the food now and I saw some mini hamburgers." Roger laughed loudly at his girlfriend's priorities. Her humour was one of the many reasons he loved her.

Her back was pressed hard against the stall of the female toilet's. Roger's lips were on her neck, hands firmly placed on her bare ass. Her dress was gathered around her hips, thong pushed to one side while his dick was currently buried inside of her.

"Fuck," she cried. "Fuck Roger that feels so good." Her eyes were closed tightly, arms hanging on for dear life around his neck as he pounded into her like there was no tomorrow.

"I fucking love it when you tell me how good I make you feel," he groaned, licking across her throat. "You look so sexy when I'm fucking you."

His dirty words always helped bring her orgasm on and this time was no exception.

His fingers dug into her ass cheeks as his cock kept banging against her cervix. "Fuckkkk, yeah," he groaned loudly. She giggled, shushing him because even though it was noisy, they could probably still be heard if someone was in the bathroom with them.

She was so wet she swore that she could feel it dripping down her leg. Her orgasm started to hit just as she heard voices in the bathroom. Mindless chatter from women started to distract her, she was cursing them in her mind.

"Focus baby," Roger brought her back to him with a hot kiss. He went harder and faster to bring her mind back and within seconds she was right on the brink of coming again.

His shirt had undone all of the way now so she leant forward and licked up his bare skin. She loved the taste of his sweat, especially when she had gone without tasting any of him for so long.

She cried out, expletives leaving her lips as she tightened around Roger's cock, spurring on his orgasm and it would be a damn miracle if nobody heard them. His name was loud from her mouth letting everybody know who was making her feel so good. This turned him on so fucking much.

When they had both finally recovered, they kissed slowly while they both tried to regain their breaths. He was still in her and semi hard. She never wanted to be without him inside of her again.

"Bet those groupies couldn't take your cock as good as I can," she told him with a girly giggle.

"Never baby. You're such a good girl," he ran his hands up her sides, kissing her collarbones. "So sexy. I'm such a lucky motherfucker."

"And don't you ever forget it again!"

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I LOVE WRITING BEN!ROGER, MORE IDEAS ABOUT THAT BABE PLS! ENJOY BABIES XXXXX

[more-than-a-princess]

@psychcdelica​ asked:  How about [ catch ] for Sonia and Jubellian?

Random Acts of Kindness icebreakers - No Longer Accepting!

[ catch ]: the sender spots the receiver swaying as though they are about to faint or fall asleep on their feet, and grabs them before they can hit the floor.

Everything so far about the Ashet Empire, at least to Princess Sonia of Novoselic, was stifling. From the set of rooms she, her lady's maid, and her security retinue had taken up at the city's most elegant hotel to the dress she'd worn for the afternoon's occasion, some sort of knighting or medaling ceremony at the nation's palace, she felt terribly uncomfortable. Suffocated, even.

In her father's stead, she'd been sent to negotiate new treatises for both alliances in war and new trades, but surely, Sonia thought, this was something that could have been assigned to her uncle instead. Not that Sonia didn't enjoy the travel, but there had to be a reason that, upon checking in at the hotel, a list had been waiting for her in the small drawing room in her master suite: a carefully curated one, listing all of the Ashet Empire's current bachelors by family, net worth, properties, and other miscellaneous things, like their ages and a hobby or two. Sonia had groaned and immediately thrust it into a desk drawer, hoping that it would disappear on its own. The political nature of her visit, she was happy to attend to: but the underhanded reason the future monarch had been sent to work with the ambassador to the Ashet Empire made her feel queasy. Enough that she'd skipped breakfast that morning.

But now, as she stood in the grand throne room full of Ashet's royals and nobility, she rather wished she'd attempted something. Even a piece of toast, something that ensured she at least felt healthy and readied for the day ahead. Which she wasn't, not at least in the presence of so many whispers and the fact that the ambassador had gone off in search of a Viscount he was keen to introduce to the Novoselic Crown Princess. After all, she hadn't been allowed to accept a single invitation to stay at anyone's estates, whether it be their city dwellings or a vast country manor. Even evening soirees were to be carefully pruned over in order to discern if it was worthy of her time, done by people who apparently knew her better than she did herself. Resisting every urge to chew the inside of her mouth as she tried her best to ignore the murmurs around her, she cast a hopeful glance towards the royal family: the Emperor and Empress looked rather smug or cross all the time, both during her earlier, private introduction to them and now as the man reached for an array of medals to award to those who provided great service to the Empire. She'd yet to meet the Prince and Princess, but the former seemed to be searching the crowd for something, or someone, and the latter wore an expression that looked like she constantly smelled something foul and wished she could make a hasty departure.

It was easier, Sonia thought, when at least the princes and princesses were amiable. Even if they weren't to become the best of friends, it did make negotiations, much less all of the various balls, garden parties, teas, and other elegant events, more bearable. But instead, she would need to wait until the end of the ceremony for further introductions and, with the combination of her dress laced far tighter than she would've liked and an empty stomach, she was becoming increasingly more doubtful by the minute that she'd be able to retain her composure. Between the rumbling in her belly, her headache, and her fraying nerves, Sonia gasped gently as she felt herself sway in her thick layers of petticoats and heels. Oh dear God...I'm going to collapse in front of the entire Ashet Court! She inwardly screamed, and her family's own knights were standing much too far away to assist her in time and-

She felt a pair of hands close over her upper arms. Just as she was sure she would hit the marble floor, bottom first, a pair of slender hands had reached for her. Pale, Sonia could tell through her bleary, hungry haze, and soft in the way hers were: the skin of a young woman who did not perform much in the way of menial labor. Likely a member of the court, which was now even more embarrassing for the visiting princess if she'd made a spectacle of someone she was supposed to get along with. "Goodness, I am so sorry!" She immediately apologized. At least she'd been gifted with an intermission in the ceremony so the Emperor and Empress could be refreshed. Turning quickly, though a bit wobbly on unsteady legs, Sonia caught sight of the young woman she'd nearly fallen on. Close to her in age, with long, silver hair and silver-blue eyes. She seemed kind, or at least she didn't seem too terribly interested in the gossip like the rest of the attendees. "Are you all right? It is terribly inappropriate for me to lose my posture like that. Please do tell me how I may make amends." 

Of all the times for the Ashet Ambassador to wander off: he could've at least told her the young woman's name and title, so she could address her with the proper etiquette she deserved. Sighing, the best Sonia could do right then was will the pink color to fade from her cheeks, smooth over her skirt, and do her best to ignore the pounding in her head that would only be solved with good food, some rest, and some time away from the tittering crowds.

[molioanimatra]

@vintyvanora | originally this was inspiration for something else, but then this happened so I ran with it

He got a chance to redeem himself.

The Winter Ball the Inquisition held, he wasn’t able to attend. It was a last-minute thing, but there was a contingent of soldiers who had gone out for supplies a few days beforehand, and never come back. In Commander Cullen’s absence, Maretus stepped up and lead the search for them himself. It took him far down the mountain passes, however, beyond even the herbalist’s hut that Vanora got her own supplies from, and he so he wasn’t even in Skyhold when the Winter Ball happened. It struck him one night, while he and a handful of soldiers were camped up against a copse of trees, that it was going on, and he wouldn’t be able to show Vanora that he really did know how to dance without stepping on her feet. Maretus wondered if she would dance with many others.

In the end, he was able to locate most of the soldiers---two of them were lost to a demon attack, but the rest were rescued and brought back. He delivered the wounded and one with a fever to Vanora’s healers himself, though she wasn’t there. He couldn’t even apologize for not being around.

The seasons turned, and as luck---or something---would have it, the southerners celebrated the oncoming of summer. Which, to Maretus, made sense; as soon as the weather started truly warming up and the sun was in the sky longer, he felt like celebrating himself. As such, they were preparing another big party on the grounds of Skyhold.

Buntings and colored streamers of cloth were strung up all around the courtyards, both upper and lower, and a variety of lanterns were scattered about, either nestled in the grass or hanging amid the colorful array of cloth. Everyone was in good spirits not only due to the celebration, or the weather finally turning nice, but the Inquisitor was making good headway in gathering a fair amount of allies. No one had tried to attack Skyhold, the troops were steadily learning new tactics; it all made for a combination amounting to a pleasant buzz.

After a few days’ preparation, Summerday arrived, and the festivities went into full swing. The kitchens were pumping out food as if they were run by a magic force, and both Ambassador Montilyet and the Iron Bull had pulled their respective strings to get in an army’s worth of wines and beers, and even some good brandies and whiskies to go around. Much to Maretus’ delight, there were even some liquors from Tevinter present, and he grabbed an entire bottle of sweetened desi daru he spotted before anyone else could happen upon its existence.

Music drifted through each of the courtyards, minstrels and bards working in unison together for each section to get the people dancing and laughing. It was a right festival, and even Maretus found a smile tug unbidden to his face, and his feet tapping out a rhythm.

As the day dimmed into night and the light of the lanterns multiplied to keep the party going, he saw many familiar faces of soldiers, allies, and members of the Inquisition, though lingered with none of them. He wasn’t much of a mingler in general, and a festive occasion was no different. Luckily, he was much better than when he was younger, being far more at ease with himself and not so stiff---though he was sure that most people would still accuse of being so, he really wasn’t as bad as he was a decade ago, when he was still required to attend political and military balls during his tenure.

So, he meandered his way through the clusters of people, bottle cradled in hand. Though he did not particularly relish the idea of throwing himself in the middle of things, he did find that he enjoyed watching everyone else. It wasn’t like the soirees in Tevinter, where every motion and word was calculated and watched hawkishly, but something much simpler, of people just... having fun. It was refreshing to witness.

That thought sobered him a bit. He’d been with the Inquisition for some time, and still he felt like an outsider. It’d been so long since he stayed in one place for any true length of time, or considered himself part of a group. But, here, he has soldiers to train again, and it almost feels like he could fit in---but then he sees the way some of the people in Skyhold look at him askance, and he remembers that he looks like the face of their enemy. Sometimes, he wonders if he’d never left to begin with, if he’d truly be their enemy now.

That was too sober a thought for the occasion, though, and Maretus did his best to banish it. He took another healthy drink from his bottle, relishing the sweetness of it and feeling the surge of memories from the camps of the Perivantium Legion well in him.

“What’s that you have there?”

A familiar voice cut through his thoughts, and Maretus lifted his gaze to meet with Vanora’s. He lifted his shoulders in an easy shrug. “Desi daru,” he said. “Somehow, I don’t think the locals here truly appreciate it’s subtleties.”

She gave a full, throaty laugh that had his insides shifting strangely, pleasantly, in response. After, a smirk perched upon her lips, she settled on him a truly mischievous look. “What, they don’t want to go blind from foreign alcohol?”

With an exaggerated huff, because he was already nearly halfway through the bottle, he shook it slightly at her. “This is actually pretty decent. It’s not like the things we used to hide in our packs in the Legion. That was some dangerous stuff.”

The light that danced in her eyes threatened to make his heart skip a few beats. His grip tightened imperceptibly on the bottle’s neck. “I can’t imagine you sneaking in contraband anywhere, really.”

Maretus laughed then, too. “Oh, it wasn’t contraband by any means. Out in eastern Tevinter, this stuff was the norm in every local village. Some of it definitely went down like death’s cousin. But this,” he lifted the bottle again, “is actually pretty good. Want to try some?”

She eyed him suspiciously, but eventually accepted, and they took turns passing the bottle back and forth for a while after that, amid more comfortable conversation. Eventually the liquor ran low, and he handed it over to her one last time.

“You can finish it,” he said.

Vanora took the bottle from him, swirled the last of the alcohol, then downed it. “You were right,” she began.

His eyebrows lifted. “I know.”

A chuckle escaped through her nose. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I know what you were going to say.”

“You know me that well, hm? Well, what am I going to say next?” He enjoyed the challenging look she threw his way, so he decided to play along.

“Something about needing food,” he guessed, knowing he was wrong.

Vanora laughed, and he drank up the sound. “Wrong. I like this song,” she said, and he tilted his head to listen more carefully.

The music had shifted since he last paid any attention to it. Somehow, when Vanora was around, she took up nearly all his focus. It wasn’t something he did consciously, but still it happened.

“Do you want to dance?” Maretus asked her suddenly.

She looked at him with her mouth slightly parted, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to answer. He wondered if she was remembering the lesson she’d given him in the abandoned room in one of Skyhold’s towers.

“I suppose,” Vanora ventured, “if you’re not going to step on my foot again.”

Maretus stood from the bench they’d been sitting on for a while, and offered her his hand. “I’ll do my best.”

She slipped her hand, soft and cool, into his, and he drew her to her feet as well. She set the bottle aside and allowed him to lead her a few steps away from their bench. He pulled her closer, settling his other hand on her hip as she slid her free hand up his arm to rest on his shoulder. Immediately, he took the lead, pressing and pulling and directing her with an ease he hadn’t shown during their lessons. That was partially due to the desi daru loosening him, but also because he’d actively worked on shaking the dust off his memory of dances he’d learned while rising through the ranks of the Legion. He wanted to show her he could dance.

So it was with an unexpected grace that he turned them about, leading her in a simple dance in time with the music. She stepped closer to him; his hand slipped further along the small of her back, palm spread against the curve of her spine. Somewhere along the way, she pressed nearly flush against him, a bit breathless, matching the hitch of breath in his own throat. She smelled of fresh soap and lavender, and Maretus felt more drunk off that than any of the desi daru he’s had all evening. He was acutely aware of the way she fit bracketed between his shoulders.

Then, all at once, the song ended, and she stepped in closer at the same time he did, and they closed whatever small gap had remained between them. His heart thudded in his chest, but he chuckled and stepped back, trying to ignore it. She laughed, hand lifting to cover her mouth, and it wasn’t difficult for him to imagine her draped in finer clothes and jewelry. She’d dressed up for the Summerday celebration like everyone else, but the motion she’d made had him thinking she might have been better suited to silks and linens than cotton and wool.

Her voice cut through his wayward thoughts. “Well, that was much better than last time. You didn’t step on my feet at all.”

Maretus found himself staring unabashedly at her face, his attention snagged on the wisps of hair that framed her face, and the way the curve of her neck looked in the firelight. It was then he realized her usual braid was pinned up, exposing the lean line of her throat, and he felt something drop in his stomach at the thought of pulling out the pins that held it in place and letting the dark of her hair tumble down.

“I’m a quick learner,” he heard himself say.

She laughed, her eyes bright in the lantern light. “So I see.”

“It helps to have a good teacher,” he added, immediately recognizing the looseness of his tongue and cursing it.

Another smirk settled across her mouth. “I’m glad to have such an apt student.”

Any lesson you’d give, he thought before he could stop it. What in the endless void did that even mean? Maretus pushed it away, echoing a ghost of her smirk back to her. His held a touch of bashfulness, and he couldn’t stop himself from casting his gaze away from hers. She spoke again before he could think of how to respond.

“I might want to have another go. Make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”

He looked up at her, her eyes still bright with mirth in the dim light. The desi daru bled warmth through him. “I think I can accommodate that,” he agreed, extending his hand again for her to take.

[kinny93ethz]

[the-uptake]

The Uptake, The 704. 2|2|3|W. Book 1, Chapter 3. Go to previous. TWs: needles/phlegbotomy, medical diagnostics, emetophobia, forcefeeding, abusive dynamic. Revised 2019.06.28.

Galen came to in a small room with a polished concrete floor and walls and ceiling edges with simple recessed studio lighting. He attempted to roll over on his back. When the discovery of handcuffs halted him, he instead rolled onto his face to ease getting into a kneeling position. He pulled on the cuffs to guarantee they had been soundly clicked shut. He looked around the room. Whoever had brought him here had removed his tattered attire and clothed him in a dark tank top and pajama pants.

Fumbling to his bare feet, he found a locked heavy metal door in the middle of one wall, while the flimsy door in the corner led to a one-person bathroom. The layout of the room couldn’t manifest its current function at first glance. He kicked at the metal door trying to make some noise, but it didn’t get him anywhere, and it didn’t have any knob or handle anyway. He tried repeatedly to reach the cuffs to suck on them, but couldn’t manage to get his hands in his lap from behind him, and each time an exhausted derangement defeated him more and more. Eventually, he laid back down in the middle of the floor, and welcomed the cool of the concrete against his body.

He must have dozed off at some point, because two pair of dress shoes appeared in front of his face. He jerked back a ways with a hushed slaggit! under his breath. They belonged to two clean-cut older men, one a good bit taller than the other.

“Sorry to startle you, Galen.” The taller one, brunet, crouched down nearer, and rested his arms on his sprawled knees. “And we’re sorry that you had to be brought here under such circumstances. Hopefully, we can help you.”

Galen gave them a wild, sarcastic look before the fatigue wiped the expression off his face. Still, he craved the cuffs.

“--I know y’all?”

“Oh, my, no.” The shorter one, with longish swept-back pepper-blond hair, adjusted his glasses by scrunching his nose a bit, and joined his colleague in crouching. “Confirm for us, if you would: You were in an accident recently? And you believe it was chemical in nature?”

“Forgive Lyst.” The taller one shot an annoyed glance at his colleague, then motioned at him. “This is James Lyst, and my name’s Daniel O’Donnell. He’s very... task oriented, to put it mildly. Try to be patient with him, if you can.”

“How do y’all know all this-- Bell.” The stalker deflated and slumped on the concrete, recalling how poorly the exam had gone. “Must be bad, if the Good Doc thought he had to toss me into somebody else’s care. I, I, I, I. I’m dead, yeah? Thought so. Y’all must be morticians, with my luck.”

His features sympathetic, O’Donnell’s nod turned into a shake of the head.

“We’re chemists. Well, a chemical engineer and a pharmacist. And we currently have you under supervision for the sequelae of your toxic waste exposure. Between access and the square footage to house it, our facility is better suited to accommodate whatever diagnostics we determine can assess your health.”

“It’s a momentous occasion, really,” Lyst continued with a grin of large teeth, in an affected lyricism which seemed typical of him. “A new class of metahuman. Really, you’re something special, Galen.”

Galen struggled to keep up.

“Metahuman? My DNA’s all screwy now? This didn’t happen cause a street chems. This was a buncha drums a truck. They. They fell on me an’ broke an’ I was trapped to where I. I think I inhaled and swallowed a buncha it.” He flinched from trying to piece together details, and shoved down his tic as hard as he could. Something about these two felt more trustworthy and candid than Bell had, but he couldn’t place why. “If y’need me to remember the exact names of every thing that bust open an’ drowned me... you’re S.O.L. ‘cause I. I. --I wasn’t payin’ attention t’that kinda stuff at the time.”

Lyst and O’Donnell listened attentively, but it was Lyst who spoke up.

“You don’t need to remember all that right now. It’s quite all right. But yes, metahuman. I’d suspect you’d know what a metahuman is through some knowledge of Ketonamil, considering its prevalence in casual Quarter use, or perhaps through the politics of hybrids, but based on our current knowledge of your predicament, we both doubt any of either related substance was present on site where the exposure took place. And although a number of different chemicals can induce metahumanity, in the history of the one we suspect... there haven’t been any who took exposure with such resilience as you have.”

Galen balked, increasingly nettled by the metal around his wrists.

“Wouldn’t call it resilience. --Are the handcuffs necessary? Course they are. Y’all had t’drug me to get me here. No tellin’ what my reaction could’a been. Forget it.”

“We’re to understand it’s for your own protection as well.” O’Donnell frowned. “You have compulsion troubles?”

“I get hungry. Brain’s slagged.” He turned over, away from them. “It’s... hard t’get comfortable. Not for the floor. ‘Cause the cuffs. ...Can I say somethin’ weird?”

“I’m sorry to hear the restraints are making comfort difficult. We’ll work on that. Are they on too tight? What’s on your mind?”

“...These handcuffs.” Galen jammed his tongue up in the roof of his mouth and squinted. “...Metal. I get y’all not trustin’ me, but can we maybe not do metal? S’not the cuffs hurt. S’that...”

“What is it? You can speak with us without consequence.”

“...S’makin’ me hungry. Don’t get how, but it’s like I, I, can smell ‘em. Metal’s been drivin’ me loon. An’ with my hands behind me. Sure y’got cameras in here or some truck. Couldn’t sleep, for tryin’ t’get at ‘em.”

“Fascinating...!” Lyst had to sit down at this. “It’s affected your sensory acuity as well?”

O’Donnell dismissed the callous commentary with a cough.

“Trying to sleep with a loud appetite can’t be working well for you.” He ignored his colleague. “We’re going to try to make this arrangement as easy on you as possible. I’ll look into it personally this afternoon.”

“You must be ravenous.” Lyst leaned in to coax Galen’s eye contact, without succeeding. “It’s been a while since you were brought here.”

“Don’t remember last time I wasn’t. Not since--”

“A healthy appetite isn’t always a bad thing.” He patted Galen’s shoulder. “What would you like us to bring you? Within reason, of course. Our budget won’t allow for steak dinners.”

Galen just lay there for a moment, in a double-take.

“I don’t get y’sense a humor. That was a joke right? He was jokin’?”

“We’ll get you whatever you like,” O’Donnell insisted, increasingly exasperated with Lyst. “Burger Block? Chick Digs? King Pho? A pizza?”

Another long silence.

“Y’too, then. Let’s get somethin’ crystal here. Last I tried t’eat food, threw up. Out every end. Know y’all don’t wanna clean that up, an’ I ain’t inclined to it neither.”

“Do you remember the last thing you ate, out of curiosity?”

“A bottle a iodine. Buncha those lil’ funnel things the doc sticks in y’ear. I dunno, was a little stressed out at the Clinic.”

“Food, Galen. Not the compulsions. Stay with me here.”

The stalker let out a shrill bark, unmoving.

“Been weeks since I ate food, doc. ‘Fore ‘Piphany. Can we--” He fidgeted with his wrists and swallowed his saliva.

“Which of us has the smart sense of humor here again?” Lyst rolled his eyes.

“Y’think I’m slaggin’ y’all? Bring me Burger Block. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya. Can we, maybe--” More squirming.

“If not... food... then what? The offer still stands, to get you anything within reason.”

“--I want these slagGIN’ HANDCUFFS--”

Almost in tears, Galen rolled on his face and tugged at the cuffs until his wrists were raw. The two men scrambled to each take one upper arm in hand and steady the boy.

“Cool it, cool it.” O’Donnell made hushing noises as he fished the key out of his pocket. “Stop squirming and I can-- Here-- wait, that’s not--”

The instant the cuffs were off, Galen wrestled out of their grip and snatched the restraining tool from them. They vanished down his throat in a series of curled links, and he lay back and stared at the ceiling with mental clarity afterward, hands laced on his stomach. Despite having contended with the offending article, an odor still divided Galen’s attention.

The scientists failed to hide their alarm.

“...You’ve... certainly done that before,” Lyst commented.

“Told ya I wanted ‘em. Nah. If y’makin’ a point f’me not, not chewin’. Y’couldn’t chew metal neither.”

“To your understanding, do you digest it slower or the same? The metal?”

“...Faster, t’be fair. A lot fastern’ what I think makes any sense. Paint. That’s what I’m smellin’, fresh paint. I...”

Lyst and O’Donnell glanced to each other.

“The lobby was being renovated earlier this week. Do you... you want paint?” Lyst looked at O’Donnell again, making sure he’d heard Galen right. “How-- how is he able to--”

“You’re able to smell the fresh paint upstairs?”

“Y’just seen me swallow handcuffs. Wouldn’t be weird as that, bringin’ me a bucket a paint, yeah?”

“You see that look in his eye.” Lyst wagged a finger at the flightiness Galen couldn’t quite shove down. “He’s just as overwhelmed by this as we are.”

“James, shush. It’s our job to figure this out, not shrink him. Besides, don’t you think it’s fair for him to be confused and disoriented? Clearly this condition has altered his perception in some way.”

“I’m right here, y’know. ...Will y-- will y’bring it? A bucket? Or a coupla cans?”

“Will that tide you over? We won’t be coming back to check on you until tomorrow.”

Entertaining his own warping appetites felt ill-advised at best.

“Ss, somethin’ plastic, maybe? Dunno. Don’t think ahead to well with it, jus’ makes me wanna eat it all at once if I do. Y’all haven’t got any books, yeah? It’s... borin’ in here.”

O’Donnell smiled, and helped his colleague up as they both stood to leave.

“We’ll see what we can do.”

Before Galen knew it, he was alone with himself again, the inception of the commonality of intermittent solitude. He didn’t catch how the door worked.

▼▼▼▼▼▼▼▼▼▼

A rough boot to the butt jolted Galen awake, and he rolled over in anticipation for a fight, but his fists and gaze stiffened where he lay in confusion when he saw a stranger joined him. The man pulled a folding chair across the concrete floor and unfolded it with a series of rusty creaks, purposefully generating nuisance, and he sat mere feet from Galen with a big paper bag with its top rolled over. Younger than the two scientists, he had long grey-blond hair with the top half pulled back, angular features, and a white neoprene jumpsuit. Galen could tell by smell alone the bag contained fast food. Burger Block. Queasy, his fists and face drooped.

The man set down a fountain drink to one side of him, and fished out a hamburger piled up with vegetables. He tore into it with a diligent politic, seemingly less for keeping it off his uniform and more for some obligation to etiquette. After a few bites, once he was sure Galen had thought he was ignoring him, he jammed the burger right under his nose with a curious brow.

“--I, what, no.”

Galen moved to squirm away, but from where he sat the man pinned him down by the inner thigh with one foot. The man pressed down harder on Galen’s leg, until the treads of the boot dragged his flesh through the thin pajama pants. The stalker winced, and the man offered again by holding it there.

“I, I, I, I, I, I--” Galen swallowed, trying not to tremble. "--Can’t eat that.”

The man sat up straight and pulled off the bun to glance coolly back and forth between the bun and toppings.

“Educated guess whether you were a mustard or pink sauce kind of dreg.” He put the sandwich back together and took another bite. “Couldn’t exactly take your order, you know.”

“Are you... with those two guys from before? Lyst an’ O’Donnell?”

“You could say that.” The man shoved the food against Galen’s mouth this time, smearing mustard at the corner of the stalker’s mouth as he sustained unblinking eye contact. “If you don’t eat, going hungry will be the least of your worries.”

Galen grabbed him by the wrists, and the man allowed it.

“I, ii, if you were with those guys, you’d know s’got nothin’ t’do with whether I like mus--”

The man had only let Galen talk to get his mouth open, and jammed the burger in, even once the rest met Galen’s gnashed teeth. The mixture of bread, meat, lettuce, tomato, onion, and mustard elicited the same revulsion as a wad of hair in his mouth. With Galen caught off guard, the man pulled one hand away easily and used it to steady the shaven backside of Galen’s head so he could continue forcing more burger. Galen’s hands flew up to pry the salty oil and veggies away from his face, but it did little good save scatter a bit of lettuce.

“Chew. Swallow. Repeat. Stop being difficult. Didn’t anybody teach you how to eat? Don’t make me help you the entire way. I don’t get paid enough to babysit.”

Galen could smell the man’s holstered gun through the assault of fast food smells right under his nose, and opted not to argue. But these mutations, if that’s what was really going on... they’d given him such trouble stomaching anything... Still, it couldn’t be worse to resume being bathroom-ridden, than to second-guess the man’s disposition. So, he swallowed. He pulled the burger out of the man’s hands and shoved the whole thing in his mouth, and after the same level of mental preparation as taking a large pill, he swallowed whole what was left of it, just to get it over with.

Feigning he wasn’t shaking at the display, the man unstuck by letting go and offering up the soda.

“Supposin’ I can’t just say no thanks.” Without objecting beyond that, Galen popped the lid and used it to skim the ice as he chugged down the soda. He withheld comment as to the rising temperature in his gut. He ate the straw to satisfy his spite, and roll-folded the lid into his mouth too. “Don’t get what y’want.”

Rather than answer verbally, the man produced his reader from his breast pocket, and pointed in demonstration to the tiny, brightly colored cubes visible in the clear tray door on the edge of it. Heavy-lidded and matter-of-fact, he opened a recording on one of the cubes, and it lit up a pale green when he began playback.

“--Y’think I’m slaggin’ y’all? Bring me Burger Block. Don’t say I d--”

The man played it back a few times, watching contentedly as the look on Galen’s face melted from physical displeasure to disoriented grief. Galen wasn’t used to hearing his own voice, and it didn’t even click at first that it was his. Why the hell did this guy have a recording of Galen? His head ran hot and cold at once, and sweat wrought him clammy all over. Then it registered for the stalker, that this guy likely had a recording of the entire conversation he’d had with the scientists earlier. A scientist jealous of hearing of his rivals’ new work in progress? A security guard seemed the more likely explanation, but it felt like too simple of one to explain potential motives for this behavior. The more his stomach churned, the less he could focus.

Eventually, the whole thing spilled out across the floor in a charred effervescent mess. The man moved a foot aside to avoid the splatter, and his skin crawled to observe that the stomach acid actively dissolved the varnish of the polished concrete. His lip curled at the display to bare a gold incisor. He stood and pushed over the limp stalker with a small nudge, then retrieved the paper garbage to leave.

“You’re to follow all instructions to the letter. Nod if you hear me.”

A small nod, as Galen tried very hard to ignore the near-garlicky rancid stench of his stomach contents digesting the flooring beside him. He clutched his stomach, still cramping despite how much better he felt without the offending stuff inside him. Half-consciously, he felt grateful that it had come out before it had hit his intestines.

“That’s how you show gratitude for people going out of their way to extend a little kindness to you? That’s filthy, you know. Absolutely filthy.”

Galen nearly blurted out well it’s your fault, I told you exactly what’d happen. When he glanced up, he understood he’d have said it to no one: the man had already left.

“...I know.”

▼▼▼▼▼▼▼▼▼▼

The door opened and shut, and a pair of shoes approached Galen, who’d curled up into one corner, lost in doldrums over the conviction that his family would not want him back until he was stable.

“Good morning,” O’Donnell started. “I brought you the paint you requested.”

He looked up over his shoulder to see the chemist had come alone, and he rolled over to sit up. When O’Donnell sheepishly handed him the can, he readily took it, but tucked it into his lap.

“Thanks.” He shied from eye contact.

“...Oh! You must be upset because you didn’t just ask for paint. Fret not.” O’Donnell reached into the hip pocket of his lab coat, and produced a reader and held it out to him. “You asked for books. I wasn’t sure what you might like, so I just downloaded a mess of things. You’re free to download whatever you like. The reader’s registered with the Central server.”

Galen stared at the device, and didn’t know how to respond to being offered such a thing. When he’d asked for books, he’d thought asking for a book would produce the physical copy of something, not a reader. He’d never had a reader to himself--the whole family had shared one, and Vana used it more than anybody. The irony was not lost on Galen, either, that O’Donnell had outfitted the thing with an impact-resistant protective case. Maybe this had been the man in white’s idea: a test of whether Galen could keep himself from eating something, when overcoming the compulsion would reward him by providing mental stimulation and alleviating isolation.

He caught himself glaring at the dark glassy stain in the floor and took the reader from O’Donnell.

“Y’all are... too generous. Don’t deserve this kindness.”

The chemist frowned at the sentiment.

“It’s the least we can do for you. You’ve been through so much already, and we haven’t even gotten to your diagnostics screening.”

Galen tapped the power button on the side and flicked the screen on. The navigation keypad along the bottom edge befuddled him and he pecked at it.

“Can I... ask a stupid question?”

“I don’t imagine it’s very stupid.”

“Has this place got security guards?”

O’Donnell crouched to be closer to the boy’s eye level where he sat in the floor, and tried to determine how to answer based on what reason Galen could possibly have for asking such a thing.

“This building is very secure. We have several guards, and extensive surveillance.”

“An’ their uniform, it’s an all white suit? Grey edges?”

The chemist’s eyes narrowed, brow shifting from scrutiny to concern.

“Why? Did one of them come in here?”

Again, Galen glanced at the vitreous slurry-stain. Left unattended, the stomach enzymes had reduced the food to carbon, and the mess had dissipated into the melted glass before the enzymes lost their potency and let the whole thing set up like it had been there all along. A lump formed in his throat.

“Long, greyish hair? But not all that old, I guess? Gold tooth. He’s one of yours, yeah?”

The chemist’s features flattened in a squint for a moment, but he reached out to hold Galen’s shoulders to look him in the eye.

“That’s... Michael. What did he want?”

“...Dunno.”

“Galen, I meant it when I said you could speak to us without consequence. The guards aren’t permitted in here unless they’re accompanying Lyst or me. No one but James and I have clearance to get in here. Did he say anything to you?”

Follow all instructions to the letter.

Galen shook his head and opened the first book he could click on.

“Thought it was weird, is all, that he wasn’t with you guys.” He tried to look like he had gotten absorbed in the romance novel, uninterested in conversation. “Guess he wasn’t supposed to be.”

“No. No, he wasn’t. Will you be all right for another day or so? We had to rent out a lot of the machines we need to run your diagnostics, but they won’t be here until tomorrow.”

“I’m fine.”

The flat affect indicated otherwise, but O’Donnell didn’t press him further.

“Please tell Lyst or me if Michael, or anyone else, comes in here again. You don’t have to go into detail, if you don’t want. But I promise you that the two of us want to keep you safe. If Michael doesn’t make you feel safe, neither of us want that.”

Galen didn’t have a response.

▼▼▼▼▼▼▼▼▼▼

Galen flinched when Lyst and O’Donnell next visited, and withdrew into the corner before either could even greet him. The paint, can and all, had vanished, as had the reader. Balled up inside his head, he upset himself all over again over his own lack of self-control.

“I, I, I, I, I-- couldn’t help it--” He swallowed hard, trembling. “There’s gotta be a way t’make it up t’ya somehow.”

“You... how did you...” Lyst uncrossed his arms, and was looking around the room for proof he was wrong. He didn’t find any. “How did you eat the reader? --And the can?”

“I--” He looked to O’Donnell for an affirmation that it was okay to speak. “Ss, sssuck on it ‘til it melts. Like candy, or s, somethin’, I guess...”

“Incredible.” Lyst dropped all incredulity, now again fascinated. “Really, though, Galen. If you’d known you were going to eat it, you could have simply asked for an old, broken reader. It would have been fine to ask for that.”

“I-- I thought y’was gonna bring me a paper book. Know it sounds real sorry of me t’say, but... I forgot readers could even have books.”

“I don’t know that our budget could allow for antiques like that.” As tactfully as possible, O’Donnell asked, “You mean to say you don’t think you would have any compulsion to eat paper?”

“Haven’t had one so far. Not that I noticed.” Galen sighed and stared at their shoes in dejection, trying not to remember how the security guard had removed all the paper from the room on his way out when he’d been there. “I... get y’all not entrustin’ me with antiques. It was dumb of me t’even ask. Knew better. I ate my own damn e-cig, an’ Walkman, and--”

“Hey, now.” Lyst wagged a gracious finger at him. “You needn’t beat yourself up. So you had an expensive meal. It’s quite all right. Part of this is learning how your appetite works, little Galen. Galenula. Hhn.” He grinned, scrunching his nose.

“You finished off that can of paint in no time,” O’Donnell began. “We expected it to tide you over for at least a day, but that’s clearly not the case. Do we need to bring you larger, ah, servings? It’s difficult to bring things more frequently, but if we need to figure out how to schedule that, we will.”

“Metal.” Galen got doe-eyed at having blurted out the craving, envisioning what a larger serving might resemble. “Lots a metal. Computer parts if y'can.”

O’Donnell smiled, able to get their subject on a thought which seemed to calm him.

“We’ll see what we can do. In the mean time, Galen, we did come today for more than to just see you... We can start one set of tests this afternoon, if you’re up for it.”

Galen shook his head in dismissal that he could tell them no, and stood compliant.

“Whatever you need of me.”

Lyst left the room long enough to wheel in a small cart with two trays on top. In one surgical tray lay a fistful of stoppered vials, while in the other lay a variety of tubing and sterile-packaged implements. O’Donnell retrieved a pair of folding chairs once his colleague had returned, as not to leave Galen unattended with the door unlocked, and set them out opposite one another next to the cart.

“A blood panel.” The pharmacist refrained from mentioning even anecdotally that it had been since college that he’d had any phlebotomy practice. “A rather extensive one, I’m afraid. I’ll be gentle.”

“Drawin’ blood? Don’t bother me any.” Galen sat in the chair Lyst did not, and already found himself eyeing the glass on the tray. “One of y’gonna hold me?”

“If it’ll make you feel better, I’m right behind you,” O’Donnell reassured, both hands on the back of the folding chair.

“First, vitals.”

Lyst produced a sphygmomanometer from a drawer in the cart. He wrapped the cuff around Galen’s upper arm, then depressed the auto-inflate mechanism so that the gauge pressed against his antecubital fold could take the composite measure of the boy’s blood pressure. With a holographic chirp, it annotated the measurement, and Lyst let the pressure out of the instrument and put it away. He got the infrared thermometer from the drawer next, and waved it over Galen’s forehead twice, and annotated its measure as well. Then, from the bottom drawer, the pharmacist set out a scale between the two of them, and suggested Galen stand on it. The only measure Galen saw for himself, it registered 81.6kg. The stalker never really had dealt much with metric, and he sat back down.

“Hm.”

“Hmm?” Hoping for an understanding, Galen looked expectantly to Lyst, who kept tapping away at calculations and annotations, then up behind him to O’Donnell, who also watched Lyst.

“How tall are you?” Lyst asked.

“Five-five. ‘Bout 130, last I checked.”

“Closer... to 180 pounds, it seems. Bell gave us his patient chart data when we overtook your care. You weigh nearly 82 kilo today. That’s about twenty-five kilo over what you should reasonably weigh. But, clearly you’re not overweight. Just... over what you ought to weigh.”

“He means to say, that kind of weight would normally factor as fat,” O’Donnell translated, concealing how wild his mind went with speculation. “Something internal has to be denser. The chemical composition of your muscles, perhaps. Or your bone mass.”

“Diagnostics will better inform us than any speculation.” Lyst put on a pair of latex gloves with minor flourish. “Now, Galenula, offer up an arm. And ball up a fist for me.”

When Galen did as instructed, Lyst gingerly tourniqueted it with a length of yellow rubber. The bespectacled pharmacist then cradled the elbow and palpated for a good artery. He took an alcohol-soaked poly swab to sterilize the area, then tapped at the resultant blood vessels again to test them to satisfaction. He nodded to himself, and unwrapped the catheter needle. Then he looked over his glasses up at Galen, who watched attentively all the while, then proceeded to eyeball exactly where to stick.

“I’m going to count to three, and you’ll feel a pinch, all right?”

Galen nodded. He had to look away, but it didn’t hurt too badly. Bell had hurt worse, he recalled, the doctor seemingly more compelled by speed and efficiency than avoiding exacting pain in the process. The stalker only looked down again once Lyst had snapped the first vial into place over the open tip of the tubing. Something about it felt wrong, and Galen tried not to squirm.

“...Shouldn’t it... be... red...?”

Rather than blood, a bright orange substance filled the vial.

“It wasn’t this color when Dr. Bell drew it?”

“...No...”

Lyst soon switched out the first vial for the second, going down the line. Some vials already contained something with which the blood was to interact, and one of these popped within a minute of the pharmacist setting it down on the tray. The burst startled all three of them, and Galen cried out when Lyst pulled the needle out and pressed down with a fresh poly swab, rather than accidentally jam the catheter further in. They all stared at the tray, wary that the others might follow suit. Galen nudged the caster-wheeled cart with his toe, to push it further away from all of them.

“I... only got seven of the eight vials drawn, but I think it’s safe to say that one wouldn’t have been a viable test sample.” Still holding the boy’s arm to apply pressure, he chuckled at how Galen had done what all three of them had thought of doing. “It’s fine. We got almost all of them, and these will definitely give us much information to work with. I won’t terrorize you further right now.”

Eyes glazed in revulsion, Galen couldn’t stop staring at the vials, many of which had turned nearly neon.

“That... that ain’t blood. Ain’t my blood.”

“It came out of your veins, Galen,” O’Donnell soothed, putting his hands to Galen’s shoulders. “The tests will tell us whether it’s supposed to be there.”

“It’s going to be all right,” Lyst seconded. “Once I get the chance to send off this panel to the lab, we’ll be sure to come right back with something you’ll like.”

“--Hhmetal,” Galen reflexively repeated, transfixed upon the fluid in the glass.

“Yes, yes. We know. Hm! You liked paint. Would you like soap as well, perhaps?”

“Soap sounds nice,” he agreed, becalmed by the idea of eating.

Lyst applied a patch of paper tape over the poly swab, and let go finally.

“Soap. And something metal. Absolutely.”

The pharmacist collected up all the vials into a foam-lined medical-grade mailer carton. From what Galen could tell as he watched, it wasn’t at all unlike a test tube rack fitted inside there, and it seemed to have thermal insulation to keep it within a certain range, as well. He noticed the side of the carton read BF Meehl before it vanished safely into the cart drawer, and Lyst tucked all the remainder of nonsense into the sharps bin in another drawer. O’Donnell patted Galen on the shoulder reassuringly, to shake him out of his stupor enough that he’d notice them leave.

“I’ll come and check on you in about an hour, all right?”

Galen took the shoulder pat as urging to stand so the scientists could retrieve the chair, then he returned to his favored corner next to the bathroom.

“Yeah. ...Thanks, any rate.”

He watched them exit, and observed this time the door opened in a series of magnetic buzzing. Maybe the security guard was watching the whole time, and let them in and out.

Once they were gone, he stared down at the taped poly swab, and forcing himself to take a nap was the only thing that kept him from ripping it off to see if the catheter had gotten out all the orange stuff.