#but this one at least has a very pleasant shape to me !

[tinta--branca--art]

More art fight !! And more PoE because my love for it endures

This is @draw-you-coward's Watcher Rake having a Time™ with Berath

[skbeaumont]

"Make Me Wanna" | Jackson!Joel x Reader oneshot

Song: Make Me Wanna - Thomas Rhett Summary: Joel fucks you in the back of a truck. That's literally it. Tags/Warnings: MDNI, 18+, porn with a smattering of plot, smut, PIV, dirty talk, pets names (baby, darling), kind of dom!Joel, established relationship, Jackson era Word Count: 3.2k A/N: As always, the lyrics have been worked into the story, so if you can listen please do!

There are two working vehicles in Jackson. The school bus – a large van that serves as transport for the kids in the winter, when the paths freeze over and the snow falls too thick to walk through – and a ’75 Chevy Cheyenne. It’s the keys to this that Tommy hands Joel one early morning, the dry Wyoming summer heat already pushing the mercury up into the eighties.

The rest of the town are still asleep, but you, Joel, and Tommy are outside in the square, your conversation chorused by the call of the town’s raggedy old rooster. Joel’s having trouble concentrating on his brother’s instructions, his eyes flicking like the hands on a clock to the way the dress you pulled on this morning clings to your ass and hips, the thin cotton leaving very little to his imagination.

He’s sure you’ve done it on purpose; there can be no other reason to wear such an impractical outfit when you’re heading out beyond the wall. Sure, it’s an easy run – up to the dam, check everything’s in order, head back – but Joel’s not sure how he’s even going to make it there with you in that ridiculous damn dress, curves calling out to him. It makes him wanna-

“Joel, are even you listening?” Tommy’s voice cuts through his reverie, has him shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it of flies.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“What was the last thing I just said?”

“Uh,”

Tommy rolls his eyes and Joel looks at you for help, but you just smile at him innocently with dimples in your cheeks, batting your eyelashes like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.

“Jesus Joel, can’t you concentrate for two minutes?”

Tommy relaunches into his lecture about the dam and the route, and Joel tries to pay attention to the words, tries to ignore the way you’re gliding a single finger across the small of his back, hand dipping under his shirt to reach the hot skin there. It’s such an innocent gesture, the pad of your finger caressing him gently, without urgency, but it sends electricity coiling up his spine.

For your part, it’s all you can do not to jump him here and now. Tommy’s early morning wakeup call disturbed what was shaping up to be a very pleasant morning in bed with Joel, and there’s an insistent warmth in your belly at the memory of his rough stubble on the back of your neck as you lay together in bed not an hour ago. You’re wondering how far you can push him, how riled up he’ll have to be before he sacks in this run and takes you back to bed.

Finally convinced that Joel’s taken on board at least some of what he’s said, or perhaps fed up of trying to talk to him while he’s clearly so distracted, Tommy leads you both to an old barn where the vehicles are kept. The chevvy is a faded, sun-bleached red: a worn leather front bench up front, large enough for three or four people to sit in a line, with an open bed in the back. You climb into the cab next to Joel, shuffle yourself over so that you’re almost in his lap where he sits at the wheel.

“Wanna explain what this is about?” He asks as he starts the engine, gesturing to the dress with his free hand.

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” You reply, and you can hear him rolling his eyes, hear the tight, whispered Jesus Christ as he shifts the truck into gear.

It’s a slow drive through Jackson; the narrow streets aren’t built for vehicles. Joel steers the truck around the chicken coops and picnic benches, taking you to the front of town where the gates are. Here, the watchers on the duty lever open the corrugated metal wall that separates Jackson from the wilderness outside, and Joel guides the truck through.

You haven’t had much of a chance to spend time outside the walls since your arrived in Jackson some four months ago, but even so, you find it hard to take in the countryside and wide, rolling hills with Joel sat next to you, his warm hand on your thigh. You trace patterns across the back of his hand, follow the lines of old scars and new scratches, let your fingertips trail higher, up to his bare wrist, over the prominent veins that sit just beneath his tan skin.

“I know what you’re doin’” He says, voice dark as he squeezes your thigh in his grip, a warning you’re bound to ignore.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” You repeat, letting go of his wrist to lean across in your seat, reaching for the glove box. You pull it open.

“Aha!” A cassette tape falls out into your hand, writing blurred with age but still legible. “County Sound FM.”

You slide it into the old cassette player set in the dash, hold your breath as it cracks and pops and then starts playing.

“Is this…” Joel turns his head slightly, angling so that the gentle rhythm and rolling melody can reach his good ear. “R.E.M.?”

“Man on the Moon,” You confirm, looking at the track listing on the cassette.

“Jesus.” He says, shaking his head.

He takes a right at the end of the main track up to Jackson, down a dirt road that’s overhung with dense trees. You let your eyes trace over his profile; the strong, curved line of his nose, dark stubble that’s flecked with grey. His jaw is set, but he’s nodding along with the music. He catches you watching him out of the corner of his eye and squeezes your thigh again, kneading the flesh there.

“You gotta stop looking at me that way, baby,” He says, shifting the fabric of your dress so that he can drag his hand further up your leg, the heat of his palm almost feverish against you.

You shift in the seat, open your legs wider, encouraging him to move higher still and then turn into him, press you lips against the juncture of his throat, inching your own hand over the front of his jeans where he’s already half hard.

“You know there’s only so much I can take,” His voice is gruff against the lightness of the country song. “You make me wanna…”

He trails off and you huff a laugh against his collarbone, move your mouth to his ear so that you can say, “make you wanna what, Joel?” into it.

“Pull this truck to the side of the road, for a start.” He says, turning his head to look at you.

His eyes are dark, expression serious, a frown creasing his brow. The hand he’s got on the steering wheel is gripping it tight, knuckles white against the dark leather of the grip. You can see the tension in his shoulders, his thighs when he shifts as you run the flat of your hand against his cock.

“If you don’t stop,” He says, voice catching in his throat, “I’m gonna- fuck, darlin’, Jesus Christ.”

He breaks off as you slip your hand suddenly under the waistband of his jeans, wrist barely squeezing between the buckle of his belt and his stomach. His cock jerks against your hand, smearing precum across your knuckles as you fight against the tight denim. “Gonna what?” You ask again, wrapping your fist around his cock, letting your thumb run over the silky tip of him. “Pull the truck over? Go on then.”

The truck veers to one side, brakes squealing out as Joel brings it to a stop at the side of the road, tree branches scratching against the windows.

“Slide on over, then,” He says, turning into you, leaning back and opening his legs so that you can climb into his lap.

His gaze is hot and hard and animalistic as you settle against him. You reach between your heaving chests to paw at the button to his jeans but he grabs your wrists, grins at you, eyes glinting.

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking,” He says, wrapping two solid arms around and pulling you flush to his chest, mouth resting at the shell of your ear. “I’ll tell you everything I’m thinking.”

He buries his mouth at your throat, licks and sucks and nips at the tender flesh there, kneads your ass with his hands.

“I think you’re an impatient little thing who needs to learn some manners,” He says, his voice thick, “and I think I’m gonna take you to the back of this track and fuck you on the tailgate. How does that sound?”

He barely gives you a chance to answer, just tucks your dress out of the way so that he can reach down between your ass cheeks to the wet line of your panties, following the crotch round over your cunt to the hard nub of your clit, already swollen and throbbing under his ministrations.

“Joel, please,” You whine, as he teases you with two of his fingers, circling your entrance but not breaching it.

“You know better than to wear that dress, baby,” he says into your throat, “Oughta be against the law,”

He pulls back, fists a hand in your hair and drags your mouth to his. The kiss is heated and ferocious from the start; Joel pulls your lower lip into his mouth with his teeth, draws out your keening moans with a clever flick of his tongue.

“I need you, Joel, please,” You say, trying again to undo the button on his jeans.

“Ain’t room in here,” He says, reaching over the pop open his door, “in the back, like I said. C’mon.”

You follow him out and round to the back of the truck. He lets the tailgate fall with a soft clunk, takes his jacket off and spreads it out on the dusty metal of the truck bed.

“Hop on up,” He says, shooting you a grin that’s laced with mirth and heat, his eyes crinkling mischievously.

You do as he says, sitting up on the open tailgate. He steps between your thighs, presses them open with two large hands so that he can fit there. Running one hand up your chest to your breast, he presses his clothed cock against the wet line of your panties, circles his hips so that the rough denim catches against your clit and makes you moan.

When he pulls back he takes your panties off, dragging them down your legs with two fingers before pushing them into the pocket of his jeans. It makes your stomach clench, the sight of them peeking out, the pink lace a stark contrast to the worn dark denim, marking you as his. With them out of the way, Joel wastes no time in pressing two fingers into your soaking cunt, grinning down at you as you yelp at the sudden intrusion. It turns into a whimper as he bends them just so, the calloused pads of his fingertips searching out that tender spot inside that has you curling your toes and clawing at his shoulders.

“There she is,” He says, chuckling darkly, pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit and applying a steady, gentle pressure.

It’s intoxicating – the firm pressure of his fingers inside you, the sure, confident thrum of his thumb over your clit. It’s like being drunk on no alcohol, just Joel, his breathy sighs and warm scent enveloping you, wrapping you up in a haze of heady desire.

“Gonna come for me, darlin’?” He asks as he feels you start to tense around him.

He trails his free hand along the side of your jaw, drawing your face back to his so that he can kiss you again, swallow down your moans as you jolt and shake against him, the orgasm rising up suddenly in your belly, sending spikes of ecstasy through your quivering cunt.

“Good girl,” He whispers, drawing his fingers out.

He pulls them up to his mouth, places his fingertips against his lush bottom lip and slides his tongue over them, groaning at the taste of you.

“You wear this dress jus’ for me, baby?” He asks, fisting the fabric between his knuckles as he unbuckles his belt, “Know just how to turn me on, don’t you?”

You nod, watching him pull his cock out of the confines of his jeans. He drags the swollen, weeping head against your folds, drawing air in through his teeth as he does, hissing the breath back out.

“Good girl,” He keens, using the fist that’s clutching your dress to drag you forward in the truck bed so that he can line himself up. “Feel how hard I am for you, hmm, baby? Get me so goddamn worked up I can’t think straight.”

He presses the thick length of himself against you, covering his shaft with your slick. He pulls back slightly, places the fat head of his cock at the entrance of your cunt, curses through his teeth as he inches inside, a drawn out, breathy “fuck, baby”, that has desire coiling up your spine. A muscle jumps in his jaw as you watch his face, watch his eyebrows pull up as he sinks into you, the slight tilt to his mouth, a steady slow breath pouring out of him with the effort of not slamming into you in one hard thrust.

“Okay?” He asks, holding himself still when he bottoms out, waiting for your confirmation that he can keep going.

“Move, Joel, please, God.”

A chuckle echoes deep in his chest at this, and then he wraps his arms under your thighs, pulls you firmly into him and drags himself out before slamming back inside. He sets a punishing pace. It’s all you can do to grip onto his shoulders, dig your fingernails into the firm muscles of his back and let him fuck you, his cock kissing your cervix with each thrust. You watch the beads of perspiration rise on his forehead and cheeks, trace them as they roll down his face to his neck, the tendons there straining as he continues to pound into you. He’s quiet, mostly, grunting and cursing in a rasping voice, fuck, that’s it and Jesus Christ, baby.

“Got the softest pussy I’ve ever felt, darlin’.” He praises you, pressing kisses to your forehead, the side of your neck, groaning as he drags his teeth against your jaw, “gripping me so fucking tight.”

A familiar heat is coiling up inside you again, making your stomach clench and your toes curl in the boots you’re still wearing. Joel knows, can tell by the way you squeeze your eyes tight shut, hands gripping his forearms where they hold your thighs up. He changes the angle, shifts his hips so that his cock hits that spot inside you that has you seeing stars, spikes of pleasure sparking in your cunt right through to the tips of your fingers. You come around his cock, fingernails digging into the hard muscles of his arms, no doubt leaving indents that will mark him as yours when you return to town later.

“That’s it, baby, comin’ all over my cock like a good fuckin’ girl.” He presses his lips to yours, licks his tongue into your mouth, teeth biting into your bottom lip, pain blossoming into pleasure.

He slows his thrusts as you come down from your high, dragging his cock against the roof of your cunt and running a hand up your side, over the curve of your hips up to your breast. He pinches your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, soothes your moans with his mouth on yours, swallowing them as they fall from your lips.

“I know, baby, I know.” He says, picking up the pace again, snapping his hips to yours, fisting his hand into your hair. “Can you give me one more? One more and I’ll come in this perfect cunt, hmm?”

He reaches between your writhing bodies, presses his fingers to the bundle of nerves above where he’s thrusting into you and draws circles over your clit. The pressure is firm and fucking perfect, Joel’s fingers confident and sure in what they’re doing. He knows your body like the back of his hand, has spent hours learning how to make you come. It only takes a few minutes before you feel yourself tightening around his cock again, eyes squeezing shut, but this time he lets go of your thigh with his free hand and grabs your chin.

“Eyes open, baby, I want you to look at me while I make you come.”

And you do, locking your eyes onto his. His pupils are blown wide, eating into the chocolate brown of his irises. His brow is furrowed with the effort of fucking you, making the lines that paint his face stand out. There’s a bead of sweat sliding down one cheek, and he bites his lip between his teeth as you come, cunt clenching around him.

“Fuck, that’s it baby, good girl” He keeps circling his fingers as you come, drawing out your orgasm, his voice vibrating in your chest. “Jesus Christ, I’m gonna come. Shit.”

He groans, holding himself still as he spurts inside you, ropes of come painting your cunt as you contract around him. You’re both breathless then, panting and holding each other, your fingers pinching his skin, his hand tangled in your hair.

“I can’t believe we did that.” You say, suddenly laughing as you realise how reckless you’ve been, out here in the middle of nowhere, Joel’s gun long since forgotten on the back seat of the truck.

“Well, you know better than to wear that dress,” Joel says, pressing his lips to your cheek, the corner of your mouth, the side of your neck. “You make me wanna…”

[aquaticmercy]

Of Black Ink and White Lilies

Summary : Bucky wants to get a tattoo, so he asks you for advice.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) (written with tattooed!reader in mind.)

Warnings/tags : fluff. Tattoos. Angst if you really squint.

Requested by : myself!

Word count : 1.6k

Note : Not many of you on here know this, but I’m quite heavily tattooed! I have a sleeve and the top half of my chest is filled. My legs are quite full, too. My irl boyfriend also has tattoos, but he has significantly less than me, so he often asks me for advice on what to get next. This fic is inspired by him because he gives me Bucky vibes lol. Enjoy!

Requests are open!

○ buy me a ko-fi ○

Bucky Barnes had been through so much in his lifetime. Since witnessing the horrors of World War II, the brutality of mind control, and eventually finding his freedom in the 21st century, he was bound to have changed, grown, and healed more times than he would ever care to admit. For a while, he was convinced that he overstayed his welcome. Until he met you. 

When he met you, he felt more alive than he ever did. You gave him something he had not found in the modern world: meaning.

Which is why— for the past few weeks at least— he’d been glancing at your tattoos with more interest, more intent, than he usually did. He loved your tattoos, he always had. 

It was fascinating how you viewed your skin as a canvas of colors and lines. Every drop of ink that lived into your skin seemed to tell a part of your life, and he admired how you wore them proudly, loudly on display for the world to see. From the intricate patterns that wound up your beautiful body, to the shapes that danced along skin, every piece was personal, intimate, and a wonderful confirmation of the life you had lived.

And Bucky is now realising that he also wanted part of him immortalised in ink. 

One problem: he didn’t know where to start. Until very recently, he never considered getting a tattoo. Hell, back when he was young, tattoos were something most people didn’t have, and he was sure Steve would probably give him a raised eyebrow if he got it in the 40s. It was a taboo— only sailors and bikers, the ultra-macho type had them. 

It was something he had to unlearn while adapting to modern life. You definitely sped up the process for him. Seeing ink on such a lovely human being — who he thought was extremely easy on the eyes — made him think twice about his old-fashioned views on ink. 

Every time he glanced at you, sprawled out on the couch reading your latest favourite novel or cooking pancakes for breakfast in one of his oversized shirts with all your body art on display, he felt the urge—heard the little voice in his head that said maybe it was time he etched something permanent onto his own skin.

That evening, you did what you always do on a lazy day— you were both curled up on the couch, tangled in each others’ presence. You were just admiring your boyfriend’s features when you noticed his gaze lingering a little longer than usual, particularly focused on the ink winding up body. You were used to him admiring your tattoos. He often traced his fingers absentmindedly over them, but this felt a bit different.

"You're staring again, Barnes," you teased as you nudged him gently. He blinked, your words pulling from his deep thoughts. He gave you an almost shy smile.

"Sorry, doll," he said, his fingers tracing a line of ink. "M’ just thinking."

"About?" You asked, tilting your head inquisitively. 

He hesitated for a moment longer than he had meant to. When he finally spoke, his voice came out a little softer than usual. "Bout’ getting a tattoo,” he answered.

You raised your eyebrows, unable to hide your pleasant surprise. Bucky had never mentioned wanting a tattoo before. You couldn’t help but smile as you leaned closer. "Really?”

"Really,” He chuckled, scratching the back of his head. His metal hand rested on your knee, rubbing your skin. “I mean… I think so. I’m not sure what to get."

You had to admit, the thought of him even thinking of getting one made your heartbeat a little quick. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it. Until now you weren’t sure that day would ever come. 

“Get something that means a lot to you,” your voice adorably squeaky with excitement. “Something personal."

“There’s a lot that means something to me,” Bucky considered it, “but I don’t know what would be right. You have all these beautiful pieces, and they seem to fit you perfectly. I don’t know what would do that for me.”

"It will fit if it feels right to you.” You placed your hand over his and squeezed gently, “I’m sure if you think about it, something’ll stand out."

Bucky was quiet for a moment, like he was deep in thought. You didn’t press him; this was something he had to decide for himself, and any form of pressure wouldn’t help. After all, you wanted it to mean as much to him as yours meant to you.

"You think I should go for something small to start?" His voice was thoughtful as bright blue eyes lifted up to meet yours.

"That’s up to you.” You said, putting your hand on his, “But that might be a good idea. You can always get bigger ones later."

"One step at a time, doll." Bucky found himself chuckling at the thought of getting more than one tattoo. 

You smiled. "Whatever you choose, I know it’ll be perfect." You leaned in to press a gentle kiss on his cheek. 

—

A week passed since that conversation, and Bucky hadn’t said a word about the tattoo. You figured he either wasn’t ready yet or maybe still hadn’t made up his mind. 

It wasn’t until one evening, on a particularly rainy day, that the topic even came up again.

You came home that day, finding him waiting patiently in the living room. He had a small, shy smile on his handsome face.

"Hey, sweetheart," you greeted, placing your bag onto an armchair.

Bucky stood there almost awkwardly, his hands in his pockets. He was shifting his weight slightly like a high schooler that was about to ask his high school crush to prom. 

He was brimming with anticipation, or nerves? 

“I did something," he said, his voice a little smaller than usual. He was so cute when he was nervous.

"And what might that be?" You asked, raising an eyebrow.

Not answering, he instead reached down and lifted the hem of his t-shirt. He revealed a newly inked tattoo on his left side, just above his ribs. Your breath hitched as you saw in the delicate black and gray flowers that now decorated his battle-hardened skin.

Lilies.

The same flowers he had brought you on your very first date. 

Your heart fluttered as wildly as a baby bluebird taking flight for the first time. Your mind flooded back with memories of that day. It had been a wonderful date, simple and extravagant at all. He took you to dinner and a quiet walk along the waterfront, where you ended up talking for hours.

That day, Bucky had shown up with a bouquet of white lilies, their sweet smell filling the air as you had greeted him, and it filled your apartment for the entire week, making you think of him every time you’re home. The scent had made you think of Bucky so much that he had given you a lily-scented perfume for your first anniversary— and you knew it wasn’t cheap to get.

On that first date, the flowers were such a small gesture, but one that had stayed with you all this time. 

"Bucky…" you breathed out a sigh. Your hand reached out instinctively to touch the tattoo, but you stopped yourself, knowing it was still fresh. 

He read your emotions like an open book as his lips tugged into a small smile. "I remembered how much you liked them. How happy you looked when I brought them to you that night.” He put a hand on your waist. “I wanted something that reminded me of you. Of us."

Your eyes misted over, swelling with joy as you studied the delicate design. 

The art was perfect— elegant, simple, yet brimming with memories. You could see the care that had gone into choosing the design. The thought he had behind it. 

Bucky wasn’t the type to do things lightly and this tattoo was a perfect example of that.

“I can’t believe you chose this." You said, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s smile softened, gazing at you with an admiration you recognized. He gently pulled you into his arms, careful not to press his side against you. "You told me to get something that mattered the most to me.”

You couldn’t help the tears that slipped from your eyes, caressing his cheek gently. You were overwhelmed by how sweet a man that had so much wrong done to him can be. "I love it. I love you."

"I love you too," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

You pulled back slightly, wiping your eyes. "How was it?"

Bucky chuckled, “Kinda stings, but worth it."

It seemed silly to you, that a man who was so used to pain even thought of the ache of getting a tattoo, but then you realized this is possibly the first time he was willingly inflicting pain on himself, and it was to commemorate your relationship.

You stifled a sob at the realisation. "Careful babe,” You shook your head. “Next thing you know you’ll be getting full sleeves."

He raised an eyebrow, a playful sparkle in his eyes. "You wish."

You pressed your lips to his, your heart full of fluttering content.

Bucky smiled against your lips. He may have been the Winter Soldier once, but now, he was simply Bucky— a man in love, with lilies inked into his skin to prove it.

“And maybe,” Bucky whispered quietly, already considering his next tattoo. “If you’re lucky.”

-end

[lunarw0rks]

farmer!price & sweet little girl next door!reader (yes i’m thinking about this pairing in the most perverted way possible)

a/n: here it is. the long-awaited neighbor!price fic <3 Hopefully, you all enjoy these Price crumbs. anon is onto something ;) & thx for the dog name ideas! ⊹。°˖➴ ao3 ver. // word count: 6.9k

// warning(s); nsfw (18+), implied age gap [r is mid-twenties, price is early/mid-forties], dadbod!price agenda, oral (r.), p/v unsafe sex, fem!reader

Price is living out his recluse dreams. Retired and secluded, finally! It was more than he’d wished for, honestly. He always desired a patch of land far from town, leaving out scraps for the critters, finding the simple pleasures.

But here he was, with a small, self-sufficient farm, growing enough to feed himself. It was a quiet, rewarding lifestyle. Entirely the opposite of his years in the service. Right now, he found himself conquering his lost list of mundane tasks. Watering his herbs, then sorting the junk that accumulated in his storage shed.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

After a grueling afternoon of unpacking, you needed to unwind. Right now, you found yourself lounging on your deck, head tilted back as you shielded your eyes from the summer sun. As if moving and assembling furniture wasn't exhausting enough — now you had the sweltering star beating down on you.

Abruptly, you feel something soft brush against your legs. Before you can open your eyes, there's a hefty weight plunged atop your lap. Your eyes snap open, greeted with the hot breath of a smiling golden retriever.

You caress the blonde fur, receiving several licks along your hand. "Zeus! down, boy!" A husky voice shouts, followed by the face to match it. The eager, not-so-small ball of fluff hops off your lap, prancing toward the man walking around the side of your house.

A charcoal gray t-shirt hugging his buff but girthy body. A man who's been in shape for years — arms bulging and tanned from hours of working outside, all whilst his older years have caught up to him a bit on his stomach, which stuck out with just a bit of fat cushion.

"My apologies, he knows better." He rubbed his head and flashed an apologetic look, exposing the faint abs you'd already imagined on him at first glance. Price's eyes wandered you from top to bottom, nearly forgetting to unfurrow his brow.

What a sight for sore eyes, you were.

You peer down at your lap, now stained with dirt in the shape of paws — on your thighs and the shorts you're wearing. "Oh, not a big deal! he gave me quite a scare, but it was a pleasant surprise." You look over at Zeus, his tail thwacking against his owner's leg.

For a few moments, all he did was leer, before he snapped himself out of it. "John," he steps forward as if going to shake hands but retracts hastily.

"—'m all covered in dirt, wouldn't want to get you dirtier than Zeus already has, hm?" He chuckles when he finishes his rhetorical, smearing the dirt onto his denim pants.

You shake your head and chuckle gently, “no room for pleasantries in the countryside, is there?” You case his appearance again, eyes skimming his muscles.

John flashes a polite smile, muttering a reply before hooking a finger around the Golden’s red collar. “Be seeing you.” He effectively leads the sparky dog out of your yard, preventing both any more surprise attacks and more ogling on his part.

Not only was getting a new neighbor a surprise, but her being so damn tempting — an entirely different genre of awe.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Yesterday wasn’t your smoothest first impression. looking rugged and sweaty from unpacking, ending up covered in dirt and in awkward conversation. You wanted a second chance. He was going to be your neighbor after all — and it wasn’t like there were many others. John was the only one within reasonable walking distance, it seemed.

Now, wearing a sundress as opposed to sweat-caked shorts and a tee — you were more confident in your odds of at least being civil with your neighbor. At the very least, a man who would roll up your trash bins before a storm. Perhaps even supply a spare cup of sugar if you were being optimistic.

You trudge down the dirt road, careful not to roll your ankle on the unpredictable mounds of earth. For a few moments, you’re convinced you’ve gone the wrong way. It’s either dense forest, patches of crop, or more road ahead of you.

Lord knows you were exhausted yesterday, maybe the handsome neighbor was just a figment in your fried mind. A foolish thought — but one that worsened the longer you walked.

The tray in your hands; a few oatmeal dog biscuits and some cookies made from the recipe on the chocolate chip bag. It was better than coming empty-handed, wasn’t it? That would just be distasteful judgment.

With eyes glued ahead, you nearly let the handles of the platter slip when you finally spotted the lights in the distance. Golden-tinted and countless, illuminating the updated cabin. In the yard, lay a few scattered chewed ropes and muddy tennis balls. You could safely assume you made it to the suave man’s residence.

You knock on the oak door, seeing the hues of a television flickering through some of the bent blinds. After a few seconds of mumbling, the door swung open.

Price answered with a beer in one of his fists, instantly straightening his posture when he laid eyes on you. The sundress; cherry red with splotches of tiny florals. Dusk sunbeams highlighted your bone structure seamlessly — casting an ethereal glow on your captivating flesh.

Today, instead of gray, his shirt is army green and just as snug of a fit. You can't help but prolong your stare when he leans against the doorway, his bicep bulging even when he stands with nonchalance. He's even more of a knockout when not covered in dirt; though you suppose the same could be applied to you.

"This is a surprise." He glances at the tray in your hands, then at the polite smile on your face as you flash it in his direction.

With a beam, you extend the platter out and wait for him to take it. "I wasn't sure when to come. I hope I'm not intruding." You speak softly, catching a glimpse of his tidy living space.

“No such thing as intrusion around here, eh? ‘m practically searching for chores these days. A little conversation won’t bother me any.” Price chuckles a bit, flicking his head as an invitation for you to join him.

You step inside behind him, engulfed by the scent of tobacco and cedarwood. The cabin's interior walls have been stained with a warm tint, stretching throughout what bits of the space you can spot. Immediately through the front door is his kitchen, likely the most modernized of the rooms.

Distressed, truffle-colored counters in an L shape; altogether enough space for a man living alone. Yet, the countertops are anything but cluttered — nearly spotless, in fact. He slides the tray across the counter, finally unveiling the homemade treats for both human and man's best friend.

"Figured chocolate chip would be simple enough, right?" You speak up, watching him examine one of them. For a few moments, he's lost in thought again, not taking a bite.

You furrow your brows, "please don't tell me I baked the one dessert you don't like."

Instantaneously, a grin smears on his face, then a rumbly snicker. "Nothing like that," he bites the cookie in half and savors its sweetness, "—just not used to having neighbors this deep in the woods, you're my first. And she can bake too, huh? Aren't I lucky?" He teases a bit at the end, rinsing off some chocolate residue from his scarred fingertips.

Well, it was only the recipe on the back of a bag, so you surely hope it would taste decent. You decide it best to leave that out, merely twirling your thumbs as he shuffles around the space.

Finally, he walks back around the counter and holds out the same beer he sipped when he answered the door. Your reluctant fist wrapped around the brown bottle's glass neck, following him as he led you to the porch.

“Weren’t you watching something?” You question, sitting yourself beside him on the cement steps. Zeus’ collar jingle sounded once the back door closed, the sound a signal for him to join his owner out back.

John shook his head, taking another sip of the brew as his achy muscles relaxed again. “You’re doing me a favor; I could cut back on my screen time.” He reached out his free hand and gently patted the dog’s head, giving his fur a few strokes.

“Cut back? By the looks of your land, you’re outside all day.” You retort with a playful scoff, feeling the nuzzle of a wet nose along your leg. Without shame, you glance at his hands, observing their size and condition. “The callouses don’t lie.”

You piqued his interest at the mention of his hands, and he'd noticed just how long you were staring at them. "Suppose you're right, love." On purpose, he caressed the neck of the bottle with his thumb. He takes another hefty sip, which prompts you to take your first.

You didn't have the heart to tell him before how much you disliked the taste. The tangy beer coated your mouth and throat, seemingly sliding down at an agonizing pace just to prolong the torment. Still, the scrunch of your face spilled enough of the fib.

"Faces don't lie, either." Price mocked, taking the barely touched bottle from your grip. His words held double meaning — one harmless and one sinful — though that truth was unbeknownst to both of you.

In a matter of seconds, you'd been caught in a petty lie. You wipe away the bit that dripped between your lips. "Guess you caught me," you chortle, "I don't like beer much."

"Much? Don't be so modest." He screws the top back on and sets it on the wooden deck beside him. "You hate it, don't you?"

The way he spoke had you in some sort of trance. Perhaps it was his age, perhaps it was his obvious past of influence. It was... like being interrogated. Not in the pathetic way an inexperienced civilian would mock his way through, either. The agitation of being put on the spot — feeling as though you'd done something illegal the second you approach airport security.

That is what this felt like; only the words came tender and sportive.

“Alright, I hate it.” You affirm, unable to wipe the simper off your face. “We’ve officially made it through our first lie. That’s a milestone, right? Saves us the sting later.” Unintentionally, you haven’t broken your stare — even when he did to gaze at the sunset in front of him.

Later? Would this company become a routine? How wrong was it for him to hope it would?

Eventually, he nods and turns to face you again, shamelessly taking you in like it was the first time. “Ah, you’re like me. Ten steps ahead, got everything planned out already.” He questions, squinting slightly from the bright dusk, which was actively being snuffed by storm clouds. "Besides, I could tell your lie from miles away. The way you fumbled that bottle."

You waved a flustered hand of dismissal. "Yeah, yeah. Point taken. I'll remember that next time."

John cocked a brow, "next time, eh? With no more fibbing?" He asked you jovially, once again putting you under his spotlight.

But this time you knew how to handle it. Besides, you had learned his ways of meaningless banter — despite only spending several minutes with the man. "Next time I'll make sure it's not so obvious, and you'll be none the wiser."

"It was more than how I held the bottle," you added accusingly. "You don't just afford a place like this with retirement savings. Not without sacrifices."

He was more than someone who once had a mundane, meaningless job. You could tell it from 'miles away' he was a man who had stories to tell. More than his scarred body already did, that was. A fierce career, a position of power — something cutthroat, literally.

Of course, you had no intention of prying. Screwing this relationship up prematurely would be a grave mistake.

Fortunately, he remained untouched by your suspicions; they intrigued him. And John, he knew you weren't wrong about him, either. He was one of the few souls who could confidently declare he'd seen it all — or the closest thing to it.

"Sacrifices... is a way to put it," his lips curled into a polite smile. Finally, he stopped staring holes into you and caught a whiff of musky petrichor in the air. "C'mon, we're due for rain. Get you inside before the mosquitos feast on us."

The same lips pursed, letting out a sharp whistle to recall Zeus. He transformed from a blond dot in the distance into a prancing canine at the speed of light, slowing to a prance when he laid eyes on his owner.

With one hand, he held both bottlenecks between his thick fingers, then opened the back door with the other. Zeus nudged your legs and walked through them, determined to get inside first. The sight made you snicker as you walked inside, hearing the soft creak of the door behind you.

His work boots thudded against the wooden floor as he took them off, setting them neatly beside the door. Yet another unusual trait for men his age living alone, at least in your experience. No clutter in sight, and no grime residue from his tireless yard work.

Now, his steps are a glide instead of thuds when he walks around the breakfast bar. You turned to face him, watching as he ignited a burner for the kettle. "Do you fancy drinking something you'll actually enjoy? Tea?"

You lean against the island, unintentionally allowing a bit of the dress neckline to droop.

“Tea will work.”

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

In front of you were the only signs of his old self. Metals and ribbons encased behind a glass frame, hung up in the hall as a quaint display of his achievements. Below them, on the hall table, decorative mason jars; most with faux leaves and vines. You made your way up and down, admiring how the rustic, shipshape decor was placed with such intention.

As your gaze panned left to right, you made it to the end of the display. Interest arose when you examined the last jar; a small mason with a bullet inside, littered with indents and some bits chipped away. Your mind swirled with scenarios as you put together the story told in front of you. A career so intense, so all-important; it was difficult to imagine the man in the kitchen enmeshed in one.

In the distance, the kettle whistles, effectively ripping you from your peering. Before he can shout for you, you’ve walked around the corner, ready to claim a drink your mouth will savor.

“Here you are.” Across the marble countertop, Price slid forward the mug.

A green tea of sorts, with a bit of cream on top and a dust of cinnamon. The presentation is nowhere near seamless, with its lopsided spoonful of foam and granules that ended up sprinkled unevenly through his fingers. Still, there was nothing wrong with a drink that looked homemade.

“Matcha?” You ask, wrapping your fingers around the handle of the mug, then using your supporting hand to hold the small plate it’s resting on.

Price glances at the tea box through the frosted glass cabinets then nods. When he presses his own mug to his lips, the tea is ebony and swirling like a cyclone from the sugar he mixed in.

From the corner of your eye, you skim past him and gaze out the window overlooking the deep copper sink. Through its rectangular pane, you see the string of herbs and leaves grown — well-tended and used often in his cooking, surely.

You point a free finger towards the fresh greens outside, “do you grow it?”

He lets out a rumbly chuckle and shakes his head, “if I could. Matcha plants are loads of work.” You now spot the pasty green box poking through the cabinet, which you hadn’t noticed when too occupied with the herb planters.

You mutter a ‘hm’ in response and raise the porcelain rim to your lips, feeling the steam scald the tip of your nose and Cupid's bow. The vegetal fragrance of the green tea soothes your senses — just before the spice of cinnamon gives them a right hook.

To keep your eyes from tearing, you close them and take your first sip. It’s thicker than you anticipated, coating your mouth and throat as you swallow, yet the taste is pleasant and earthy.

Whatever John had done to prepare it, he did it correctly. That much you could tell.

Before your throat can sizzle with aftertaste, the cold foam dollop calms it. From grassy, fresh matcha to a striking sweet cream.

“You have a bit…” Price motions to his mouth, an index pointed toward the left corner of his mouth. The cream is too airy for you to notice any accidental residue. You’ve missed the swear twice before he sighs and raises a crumpled napkin to your lips.

You meet gazes while he dabs at your bottom lip, feeling any confidence seep from you in an instant.

The sweet aroma fleeted instantly with the proximity, now with your nostrils flooded with his fragrance. Smokey and masculine; something rum-adjacent, mixed sinfully with cedarwood and the earthy smell of crisp soil. And then, lastly, there are the pungent remnants of his minty mouthwash, which is slightly diluted by the black tea he swallowed.

This close, you can trace every wrinkle and line with your eyes. While you’re engulfed in his presence, he’s observing. Smothered and suffocating with the weight of diminishing continence. The vermillion sundress, the tray of goodies in the corner of his vision, the twitch of your lips as he dabs and drags with the linen.

Price has yet to notice his other hand, grabbing the tip of your chin with a feather-like hold.

But you have, blinking rapidly a few times while the chalky foam is rid of your mouth, which might as well have been thrown in the trash along with the napkin — because you’ve turned reticent.

“There.” He whispers, mouth curling into a polite glow.

Ultimately, your haze falters. Your senses unfreeze when you’re no longer swarmed by his aroma, or his tender touch when he walks back around the breakfast bar. Warmth coaxes your fingers, still emanating from the tea snug in your grip — even after the milky olive-tinted liquid has gone tepid.

With a perpetually widened gaze, you raised your mug to finish off the rest of your tea. This neighborly visit had played out differently than you expected. You savored about half of the lukewarm brew, letting it mellow the pining that arose when he got close. Sweaty fingers fumbled around the handle when you tipped the cup again, sending a gush of tea down the front of your outfit. The fabric stained instantaneously as the warmth soaked in, whilst the sugary cream made the dress cling in an unsavory, sticky fashion.

You cursed audibly and darted your gaze towards him apologetically, setting the mug down with a clammer. “I’m sorry,” you gasped, feeling an ocean’s wave of dishonor pummel through you at once.

John, who was mid-cleanup, jerked his head to the side when he heard the commotion. When greeted with the frazzled expression, he made an effort to soothe it. It wasn’t your fault; it was only some overpriced, boxed infusion that had collected dust in the back of his cabinet. 

Besides, you were in front of him, now in soaked clothing and apologizing profusely.

“Don’t apologize. Happens to the best of us.” That damn smile again. The wrinkles around his eyes, the almost all-knowing look of understanding in them.

He fisted your discarded mug, turning on the sink.

“The washroom is down the hall, in my room. It has a better mirror than the half.” Price wavers through his instructions, overcome with his own helping of uncertainty. Nothing had gone explicitly wrong, per se, but it didn’t mean they went right. But they never do, do they? There’s a reason he decided on a life of recluse, even more, a reason for him to befriend seclusion so closely.

Your footsteps retreated down the hall, passing the picture frames and decor you had been admiring moments ago. John scrubbed both mugs until they were full of suds and then rinsed, placing them on the dish rack afterward. He made it a habit to never leave used dishes to sit in the sink.

Quickly, he walked through the open door of his bedroom. Golden beams peeked out from the gap under the door, where you were frantically blotting the stains. He pulled the string on his bedside lamp, illuminating a majority of the moody, rustic bedroom. His fingers hooked around the handle, gently sliding open the pocket doors of his closet.

His t-shirts hung neatly on the left wall, whilst his fewer button-ups remained on the opposite. With a quick hum, he took hold of his baggiest navy blue tee, draping it over his forearm. From inside his dresser, he grabbed a pair of sweats that were tight on him — enough to prevent them from slipping down your legs.

Inside the bathroom, you alternated between being hunched over the counter in embarrassment, to rubbing your dress profusely. The damp washcloth was doing little to the fabric, which was a few shades darker from the liquid, compressing tighter against you. It wasn’t a flattering look, nor was it a comfortable fit anymore. Akin to the feeling of maple syrup residue on your hands after breakfast, only it was covering the front of your body.

Would it have been better to spill on his authentic wood floors? Was it completely selfish to prefer it, to spare the discomfort of a soaked garment?

Two subdued knocks on the door halted your useless wiping. “I have some clothes.” The gruff voice spoke through the door, yet remained as placid as it was in the kitchen.

“Oh, no need,” you replied dismissively through the door. “I can change at home.” You tossed the wet towel into the small hamper. When you opened the door, Price remained standing there, fresh clothing in hand.

The thought was there, and now were the actions to go along. You didn’t want to change at home or be walking down that dirt avenue at all. At this hour, home would be lonesome and still, regardless of whether your new neighbor was fanciable or not.

But he was; that made him all the harder to decline.

Void of any attempt on John’s part, his gaze scanned the mess that covered you. This time, more obvious than he would’ve liked. It felt wrong; downright distasteful and discouraging, to do so.

Howbeit, he did — and you sensed it this time. The unavoidable gawking at your snug gown, devouring his dwindling abstinence. No unease, imminence, or desire to dismiss yourself ever came. Not like it did with men on the street, who resembled that of depraved, hungry hounds.

John wasn’t corrupted; behind the lust, there was something more, something too complex to daydream.

“Nonsense.” He persisted, the clothes remaining outstretched. “It’s raining. And you’ve got to walk quite a way, don’t you?”

You leaned your head against the thick wood of the door, unable to spit out another worthy excuse. “Thank you. Really.” With a nod, you took the folded clothing, setting the pieces on the countertop beside you. As he accepted your answer and turned on his heels, you mustered the gut to speak again.

“And, John?” You stepped through the threshold of the door, “if I go home in these clothes, you probably won’t get them back.”

“I’ll keep the dish, then.” This time, he didn’t back away after stepping closer. “Do we have a deal?” His breathing picked up subtly but was noticeable against your face. When faced with his proximity before, you fumbled a mug. But now, you were certain of every ache and desire troubling you.

Whoever leaned in first became a fleeting afterthought. It didn’t matter, not while your mouths and noses clashed together. He was the first to give way, to tilt his head to relieve the pressure on your nose, which allowed him more mobility.

Your knees nearly buckled when his hands cupped your cheeks — how the calloused prints of his fingers felt against the opposing texture of your face. It felt natural; a relief to every urge you’ve stifled from the moment he answered his door.

Before you broke away for air, he removed his lips while still maintaining his tender hold on your face.

“Are you sure about this…?” Price posed, pressing his forehead against yours. You exchanged each other's exhales, cloaking your racing thoughts with a suffocating, dizzy effect.

Still, regardless of your thundering heartbeat and draining lungs — you uttered the quickest yes of your lifetime. This time, you turned your head when lips and teeth clashed, back colliding with the door. Your lips parted as you panted, letting his tongue swipe along your lips, leaving them saturated. His beard audibly scraped against your jaw and down your neck, producing goosebumps as you shivered.

Though his movements weren’t theatrical or jaw-dropping, they left you unable to lose focus. His hands wrapped around the sleeves of the ruined gown, rolling the fabric down while he dropped into a kneel before you.

A need to provide, to satisfy, to satiate. No teases, no dramatics; just utter experience. The only terms you would associate with him currently.

The clingy fabric peeled off like a sticky bandage, peeling to expose the damn stain from cleavage to your pelvis. John’s briefly raised to suckle between your breasts, cleaning off every drop of the tea that had soaked through the discarded dress. Down; sternum to belly button, savoring the small remnants of the sweet cream.

“So beautiful,” he muttered, lips pressed to your lower stomach. His hands moved and kneaded your hips in worship. Despite his face hovering in front of your panties, and how he was actively trailing kisses along your thighs — his voice never changed. Not cloaked with blind lust or hesitation.

Admiration, purely; for you, maybe only your body. But you didn’t care about that — or couldn’t — right now. John was utterly too much, From light conversation to huddling in the restroom, then to being backed against the door. One hand rested on your lower stomach, as a means of keeping your back against the door. The other rolled your undergarments down at a sluggish pace, beard and lips following the falling undies.

Your neck craned down, seeing them fall to your ankles, shortly before the cold breeze hit your exposed core — emanating from the bathroom window left slightly ajar. The muscles in your thighs tense when Price’s tongue finally makes brief contact with it, blown pupils still staring up at you.

His tongue lay flat against your clit for a few moments until saliva rolled down his tongue, allowing him to delve deeper. Further on, he would kiss and suckle on the bundle of nerves, and you were sure your grip on the knob couldn’t have been firmer. Experience truly was the right word to describe him, earlier and now more than ever.

Along your slit, he plunged inside, growly breaths vibrating against your sensitivity. Your taste coated his mouth, and your natural scent drove him mad; like no other partner he’d had before.

“Wanna feel you—” Price slurped again, then pulled away to finish, “—clench around my fingers. You want that, sweetheart?” His tongue glistened under the spotty lighting, his buff chest still heavy. He was goddamn distracting in this state, more than he was before.

After a flash of muteness, you nodded your head. As if you could pass up that offer; if it was an offer at all.

True to his word and the desires racing through his head, John slipped his middle finger inside your entrance. Instantly, the appendage glided against the soaked, puffy walls of your cunt, causing him to chuckle with satisfaction.

Even the smallest pump forced a whine from your lips, though you were unsure what you should be pleading for. Tonight, this feeling was already unsurpassed.

“Another, huh? Can’t fuckin’ say no to you, can I?” Next entered his ring finger, the thick digits stretching you out delectably, in ways you could only dream of executing with your own two fingers.

His name slipped out when he curled them against your sweet spot, daring your knees to buckle and send both of you tumbling. His eerily observant nature had him anticipating the sudden weakness, and his other hand holding you in place never once faltered. Finding his shaggy hair, your fingers intertwined with the locks, purely to be holding onto anything of his when you inevitably come undone.

Back to slobbering, his tongue ran laps against your swollen clit, the tip of his nose knocking against it with every pass. Each flick, each thrust making your back arch wildly against the door. And once again, as he anticipated, you ended up clenching around his fingers like he wanted.

So tense, it was any wonder Price was able to keep moving his fingers. His erection pressed against his thigh, the tight denim making him resist the urge to squirm. Oh, how you sounded, how you felt. His years of stamina and strength training will surely be tested once it’s his cock filling you up instead.

The nub throbbed and visibly pulsed when he combined a well-timed lick and curl all at once, plunging you off that cliff of release. Around his head, your thighs clamped tighter than the fingers digging into his scalp. It was clear you’d be reeling this feeling for days to come, probably a climax to forever be unbeaten during your life.

Your heart hammered against your rib cage, your lungs exhausted and working overtime as you sucked in desperate breaths. “Fuck— that was…” You breathed, unable to articulate any one of the feelings assaulting your system.

The leer tugging at the corners of his soaked mouth wasn’t smug, it was pleased; pleasantly. Slowly, he raised himself, holding each side of your face. Price slurred, “You sound lovely when you cum, y’know that?” Before you could lift a finger to answer again, his dangerous tongue swirled around yours, spreading the taste of yourself against your taste buds.

Your sticky inner thighs glided when he blindly led you out of the threshold, collapsing atop you. The frame creaked under the weight of both of you, the mattress now with a crater in the center of it.

“Want you to fuck me, John. Please.” You pleaded between kisses, unconsciously wrapping a leg around his waist for any friction on the mess he caused. The sensitive tip of his cock ached, despite only being rocked against through the thick denim.

As if your sounds of pleasure weren’t divine enough, that fucking word was. Please. So desperate, so distraught. If he had the restraint or the patience, Price might coax a few more begs out of you — but those were the two things he didn’t have currently.

Briefly, his touches ceased when he leaned back. Swiftly unbuckling his belt, he slid out of his jeans and tossed them aside; discarded, now the only clutter in the bedroom. Soaked through his grey briefs, a stain of pre-cum, merely proving how badly he needed you. The same as his jeans, he rid himself of them, erection upright and freed.

Girthy and curved upward a hair, capable of reaching deeper than his fingers. Down his happy trail, which you got a peak of during the first encounter, were his trimmed pubes. The same shade of brown as the hair littering his chest. You examined further, spotting a few prominent veins bound to drive you mad.

Any longer without it, and you were willing to start pawing at him. The stars must’ve been aligned, because pleading wasn’t necessary anymore.

“Spread your legs f’me.” You did, as swiftly as he uttered the command. As wide as comfortable, you exposed the mess of your pussy to him, reflecting off the cool moonlight peaking through his blinds. Glistening and twitching from the first climax, remnants still left around your inner thighs. “Gonna fill you up, fuck you proper, hm? Have you clenching around me?”

As if his fingers weren’t euphoric enough. Gnawing on your bottom lip until it ached, you nodded your head eagerly, hooking an arm around your leg to keep the shaky limb steady.

Price gripped the base of his cock, guiding it toward your entrance. The tip slipped in as smooth as honey, coated in slick and strings of his saliva leftover. With a drenched glide, the rest of him dipped inside, until his pelvis was against yours.

Entirely crammed inside, your head lolled back against the comforter, reeling in the painless stretch of his girth. And how, before the movements began, the natural curve of his cock had him snug against your cervix, kissing all the right places within you. Your fingers trailed downward, beginning to rub circles around your responsive clit, the wet clicks combining with the squelch of his thrusts.

Whatever noises came from you were all-natural and uncontrollable, from a sensual place within you never trespassed. John grunted with every tighten around his length, pumping deeply and with more force. His thoughts earlier rang true, how little restraint you left him with. Already, he could’ve finished inside of you — just from the view of your body alone.

Breasts bouncing, hips jiggling, the sounds of your soaked core, the expression on your face as he got rougher. “Such a good girl, takin’ every inch of me,” his words came out grunts, matching the pace of his jabs.

“You’ll cum for me again, and let me hear those bloody sounds, won’t you? Fuckin’ touching yourself, all needy.” For him, the words acted as a distraction until you came undone for a second time. For you, it enhances your stimulation tenfold — his voice was like nectar, yet it rumbled through the room like thunder.

It mixed with the real thunder outside, which you caught bits of between everything. The rain he said the area was due for, faintly coming down in the distance, and surely headed this way by the time your legs shook.

With a soft nudge, he shimmied closer between your thighs, chest inches from yours, and allowed him to slam against your cervix. Your fingers had gone erratic, desperately teasing the bundle of nerves the closer you got to release.

And John, sure of this, allowed himself to focus on a fraction of his pleasure. You twitched around his length, swallowing every last inch of him. Arousal dribbled from you to the bed, soaking into the navy blue duvet.

When the coil of pleasure began bursting at the seams, his name slipped out again, in between your gasps for oxygen. How his thrusts had turned as sloppy as your fingers, every jerk of his pelvis knocking the wind out of you. Your legs wrapped tight around his waist, feet hooking under his backside to keep him locked in — as if the thought of stopping had ever crossed his mind.

Thighs quivering like your fingers were, you dug your fingernails into his shoulders, leaving crescent indents in his flesh. Yet another string of moans poured out of you, which tipped John over the edge same edge you’d tumbled off twice. His balls contracted while they drained, strings of pearly cum painting you on the inside.

Warmth filled you, from your tummy to your core, his length swimming in his own sloppy release. Your constricted ab muscles slowly eased up as the aftermath of orgasm faded, leaving you breathless and spent. His agape mouth dipped down as he withdrew his softening cock from you slowly, careful to not leave you any more sensitive than you already were.

The kiss distracted you and served as a reminder of what this hookup meant. Not regretful, not meaningless. Something lingered in the air, beyond the smell of sweat and sex.

Though his body begged to collapse atop you and fall fast asleep, you deserved to be taken care of. Price planted a parting kiss on your jaw, making the short trip to the bathroom to grab one of his fresh washcloths.

Silently, you observed his tenderness take over — even though it never left him. With a few featherlike swipes, he wiped away the messy aftermath of arousal, saliva, and cum, disposing of the used towel somewhere in the darkness.

You fought to stay awake, feeling his weight sink beside you once more after some squirming around. Eventually, John successfully got you and himself under the thick comforter, weighted and radiating as much warmth as your bodies. An arm snaked under your head, your back against his chest. The other arm around your waist, keeping you right up against his soft body.

He waited until he saw the rise and fall of your frame, the faint breaths of deep sleep before he decided that was permission enough to do the same.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Insects chirped loudly, enough to stir you awake.

Fresh morning light peaked through the blinds, which had been opened. Through your twitching lids, the intensity made your face scrunch. One hand reached up and rubbed them, while the other palmed beside you.

No sign of your neighbor, if he can have that title after last night.

His side had gone cold, and anything that was askew had been picked up or set back in place. Sitting yourself up, you groaned from hunger and the soreness in your legs. Beside the dresser, were the sweatpants and t-shirt he was going to lend you yesterday. Still neatly folded, placed with care on one of his leather armchairs.

You peeled the comforter off your sticky skin, coated with a layer of sweat from the sunlight on you. Usually overheating would’ve had you lying awake and sizzling, but it was clear that Price had thoroughly tired you out.

In addition to the shirt and pants, he provided a clean pair of boxers — since the ones you came over wearing had been long soiled. And nowhere to be found in the bathroom, where you made your best effort to fix up your appearance.

Aside from the sounds of nature, there was the hum of an appliance when you opened the bedroom door. Down the hall, you passed the dryer; the root of the tumbling sound. Through the small window, was your cherry sundress and underwear, half dry and spinning in circles.

Your bare feet adjusted to the cold wood, taking small, sleepy strides down the hall.

Into the living room, you laid eyes on the shelves around his television. Since you spent most of the visit on the porch, in the kitchen, and obviously the bedroom, you hadn’t had time to inspect this area closely.

Custom-built shelves frame the television. Rustic, meticulous decor placed on them. Some were store-bought, others looked to be souvenirs and memories. Stepping closer, you spotted a few framed photos; four soldiers, with Sharpie written on the corner: 1-4-1.

On the bright side, there is one mystery solved about his past. Military, or SAS, which you spot on their patches. Shuffling along, your gaze sets on the next section. More medals and ribbons, each most likely with their own significance.

Most notably, a plaque displaying his full name and title: Capt. Jonathan Price.

Another mystery solved. Why he had been so observant, so skilled at asking his questions. It all began to make sense, especially the closer you examined the relics. With a slight hm, you decided it best to stop snooping on the man’s possessions and continue your search for him.

No sign of Zeus in the house either, which isn’t shocking since he’s practically sewn to John’s hip.

Through the kitchen you go, finally picking up on the faint voice outside. Through the window overlooking the copper sink, you see Price tending to the herbs you pointed out the previous day, seemingly making conversation with his canine.

You continue on, opening the creaky patio door and shutting it behind you. You walk along the stained wood deck, rounding the corner. He’s in the middle of kneeling down, meticulously planting another herb or seasoning for his mini-garden.

“Looking good, Captain.” You startle him slightly, leaning a shoulder against the paneling of the cabin.

Price’s head perks up, snapping to the side at the sudden sound. And Zeus predictably treks over for your undivided attention, and you’re unable to refuse. The golden walks beside you when you approach further, and John gets to his feet with a small grunt.

“Snooping again, are we?” His lips curl into a harmless smile, dirt-covered fingers playing with the backs of your hands.

You shrug your shoulders, unable to conceal the feelings of fluster. Being put on the spot was something you’d have to get used to, that’s for sure. “Maybe I was. Just a little bit.”

“Careful now, sweetheart.” His voice molds into that of a superior, which you hadn’t heard from him yet. Was it twisted how much it excites you? Price continued, “or I might have you calling me Captain from here on.”

With a light scoff, you muster the last bits of confidence left in you.

“Is that a promise?”

♡‧₊˚✧˖° divider cred. - cafekitsune

[lazycats-stuff]

What about male reader being Alfred's nephew who came to live with him because his parents died or were just unfit parents? Alfred isn't all too happy that he's here, but not because he hates him, no, but because Gotham isn't the safest place and the fact that he's bow living with the vigilante family isn't the greatest fact. I feel like Alfred would be very overprotective of his nephew, and just the family's reaction to Alfred's nephew, i feel like the family didn't really ask Alfred about his family and such .

Oh yeah, some Alfred for the soul. That man needs more love. Also, this will be under Batfamily since I'm too lazy to put a new masterlist for Alfred.

Summary: Alfred's nephew comes to live with Bruce and the rest of the fam.

Warnings: child abuse, mentions, mentions of what happened, everyone trying to make sure that (Y/N) is comfortable, Alfred being protective.

Alfred left the UK and London behind a long time ago. He had his training and career as a soldier and then as a spy. Soon enough, his path led him to the USA, where he got a job as a butler for the Wayne family, even before Bruce was even in the picture. It wasn't really easy to leave his life behind, but Alfred knew it was for the better.

He needed a new beginning after everything he has witness over the years. Especially since his sister cut contact with him. Alfred, while said, he knew he couldn't change her mind in the slightest. But that didn't matter today. What mattered was his new family and his four grandsons and son.

Yes, he did consider Bruce to be his son. After all, he did raise him from when he was 7. And as his four grandsons came along, he was happy.

As far as his old family? Around 13 years ago, his sister had a baby. A boy named (Y/N). Yes, Alfred kept some tabs on his family, just to make sure that everything was like okay back there. Years went by and when (Y/N) was 13, Alfred got a call.

It wasn't a pleasant one.

Alfred sighed as he ended the call, rubbing his temples, muttering a lot of unpleasant things underneath his breath. His nephew (Y/N) was taken out of his sister's custody because she was abusive in every since of the word. And in every shape too.

Starving, beatings... Neglect...

Alfred was really mortified and he could barley speak as he remembered the conversation... He sighed and quickly made his way down to the kitchen opening up the cabinet where he held the strongest drinks in the manor. He poured himself a glass of scotch, since it was the first thing he could see.

I downed the scotch in one sip before pouring himself another one. He sighed yet again, leaning on the kitchen counter, trying not to snap.

" Something happened? " Bruce asked from behind him and Alfred sighed for the third time.

" Well master Bruce... Something did happen. " Alfred said, taking the glass and turning around to face Bruce. Alfred knew that (Y/N) had to come live here... But this family is full of vigilantes... But this is also a safe space too.

" What happened Alfred? " Bruce asked, worried for the man. Alfred is often composed and sarcastic, but now, he was shaken and just... Sad?

" My nephew is in the custody of CPS, well, at least the British version. " Alfred started and Bruce crossed his arms as he leaned on the doorway.

" I didn't know you had a nephew... " Bruce admitted softly and Alfred chuckled, sipping his scotch slowly.

" Yeah... My sister cut contact with me a long time ago master Bruce... " Alfred acknowledged and Bruce nodded, not knowing what to say.

" Either way... I'm the only family he has master Bruce, which means he will have to come here. " Alfred whispered, downing his scotch again.

" That's not a problem Alfred. I'll make space for (Y/N), clear out one room for him and talk to the boys. " Bruce responded and Alfred shook his head, making Bruce frown and tilt his head in confusion.

" That's something I know you would do master Bruce. " Alfred explained and poured himself more scotch. " It's... You are Batman and the danger that comes with that name... I can't bring my nephew into more danger. " Alfred finished explaining and downed the scotch once more.

" It will be different. We will be honest with him. " Bruce said and Alfred did have to agree, they had to be honest with him.

" He will flying here tomorrow master Bruce, so we will need to pick him up. But before hand, we need to talk to the boys. And it will need to be serious. "

" Of course it will be serious Alfred. (Y/N) will feel safe here. And if any boys are out of line, send them to me Alfred. I'll call them down now so we can talk about this. " Bruce said before he went upstairs.

Alfred just finished a bottle in the meantime.

Bruce sat his sons down, telling them that this is very serious.

" Now, listen to Alfred intently. He is officially a lead on this. " Bruce said and sat down. The four boys looked at Alfred, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

" Well... My nephew is coming here to live with us. His parents, my sister and her husband were abusive to him... Physically, verbally... They starved him too... Either way, he is in a bad mental place. Which means that you four better be on your best behavior. No fights in front of him, both verbal and physical. Don't force him to talk about it and try to befriend him. " Alfred finished, looking at his grandsons with a pointed look.

" Is that all you had to say? " Dick asked and Alfred nodded.

" You have a nephew?! " Jason exclaimed and Alfred nodded.

" Okay, that... I thought you had no family. " Tim said and Alfred sighed and Bruce smiled sadly.

" I thought you were an agent for the MI6 and had no family... Like killed off. " Damian said and Alfred sighed yet again.

" Okay boys, that's enough commentary. " Bruce said and they all grumbled. " It's important that (Y/N) feels safe here. And Alfred has my full permission to put you all back in line. "

" As if he ever needed permission. " Jason mumbled quietly and Dick smacked the back of his head.

" Thank you master Dick. "

" Everyone, this is (Y/N). " Alfred said, introducing his nephew to his grandsons. " (Y/N), these are the infamous Wayne kids. I don't think anymore introduction is needed. " Alfred said, glancing at his shy nephew.

" Now (Y/N), let me lead you to your room. " Alfred said and gently lead (Y/N) to his room. It was one of the bigger ones, with a lot of room and a comfortable bed.

" Now (Y/N), are you hungry? Because it's lunchtime in America at the moment. " Alfred said as (Y/N) put a small suitcase on the bed.

" I could eat something. " (Y/N) said and Alfred nodded, smiling at the fact that (Y/N) would eat something.

" I was thinking about some burgers actually. I can make a good one, with my awesome recipe. Do you want to come down or do you want to stay in your room? " Alfred asked softly.

" I would like to go down... This is a nice place... " (Y/N) said, still nervous.

" I agree it is nice, now come on mate, lets go down. " Alfred said and let (Y/N) go down. Alfred gently led him down to the kitchen and (Y/N) sat down, the boys all around him, keeping some distance, trying to not make him feel overwhelmed.

" So... Is it true that the Queen is a lizard? " Jason asked out of the blue and (Y/N) rolled his eyes at that, but with a smile.

" She passed away. " (Y/N) said and Jason raised his brow.

" No. "

" Yes. "

Jason scoffed with a smile and Alfred listened as he started making the meat mixture for the patties.

" Is it true that people from London speak the best English? " Dick asked and (Y/N) rolled his eyes.

" It's not true. It's so far from the truth... " (Y/N) said and Dick chuckled.

" Well, the royals are there and they must be educated... So how come? " Dick joked and (Y/N) shrugged his shoulders.

" Is it true that gun control is tighter? " Jason asked curiously and (Y/N) nodded.

" Damn... Well, welcome to the land of freedom. " Jason joked and (Y/N) smiled, but it was tiny. Tiny as hell.

" If you hear a bald eagle screeching it means you have reached the peak of staying here. " Tim stated and (Y/N) rolled his eyes a bit.

(Y/N) turned his head when he saw Titus, the Great Dane walking in with his head high and tail wagging at the sight of a newcomer. Damian was ready to intervene if necessary, but Titus was calm with people.

Damian watched as Titus sniffed (Y/N)'s hands, licking them softly and then (Y/N) hesitantly petting him.

" What's his name? " (Y/N) asked, not sure who to ask directly.

" His name is Titus. " Damian answered as he kept watching, tilting his head in wonder.

" Is he yours? " (Y/N) asked as he scratched Titus' ears.

" Yes he is. " Damian answered and (Y/N) moved down his hand to Titus' cheek. " He is huge... " (Y/N) mumbled as he kept patting Titus, who was wagging his tail.

" He is a Great Dane so he is big. " Damian explained and (Y/N) stopped petting him, making Titus whine.

" He is a big baby. " Jason chimed in and Damian nodded.

Alfred put the things he needed aside and checked on (Y/N) and the way he was handling the situation was great. The boys didn't push him, joked about something with him... And (Y/N) was comfortable. That was the most important thing here.

Thankfully, Alfred and Bruce both have experience with sort of traumatized children so (Y/N) will be able to heal properly. And the truth about them being vigilantes... Well, that can wait until (Y/N) is more stable.

[roll-of-royces]

HC: The LaDS Find You as a Neko

This is a request I ran into by @chryssikyu and as I love a good Neko I had fun!

Xavier considers himself to be fairly prepared for the world at large. He's not so simple as most people seem to think he is, but this he did not expect. 

You are asleep, curled up on top of the covers instead of beneath them. That's not the unusual part, the two of you are avid nap takers. Many afternoons have been dedicated to curling up together and falling asleep in the sun. 

This is different. This is different for several reasons. One, you're napping in nothing but a thin white nightdress that barely comes to the mid-thigh. Two, you have two large fluffy looking cat ears. Three, those ears are accompanied by a lush tail that drapes over your thigh as you slumber. 

The fur has a soft pale white sheen. He has no idea how this could have happened, and he's seen so much in his life. Xavier approaches, steps light, as if he is approaching a threat instead of the light of his life. His hand reaches out, tentatively brushing the tip of your new ear. It twitches, not a trick. 

He can't help himself, he sinks onto the edge of the bed, you huff but don't awaken. Before he knows it he has his hand around your tail, dragging downward to feel the soft warmth. You open your eyes, and those too have changed. Your pupils are different, cat like, though still your color. 

"Do you understand me?" He asks carefully. 

You hum, yawn again, and rest your head on his lap, "Xavier." Your voice is the same, still rough with sleep. Still you, just you a little different. 

"What happened?" His hand comes to curl into your hair, it feels softer than it was before. It's nice.

"Dunno." You close your eyes, apparently content to go back to sleep. "Missed you." 

He smiles, because that never gets old to hear. You lean into his hand, arms curling around his waist. Well, he could nap. 

"Move over." He murmurs and you do as asked, knowing well enough he will join you. You'll figure this out in due time. For now he curls atop the bed, with you pressed along his side, tail twitching contentedly as he holds you to him. 

It's not entirely uncommon for Zayne to find you in his office, especially since the two of you started openly stating you're a couple. Sometimes you drop in to see him, sometimes you're only there long enough to leave take-out on his desk before you're gone again. 

Regardless seeing you is always a pleasant surprise. He says your name in greeting, but you keep looking out the window. You're in a hoodie, hood up. It might be Xaviers'. Zayne chews on the jealousy of that for a moment, before letting out a slow breath through his nose. 

You must have been cold. He'll give you his jacket to wear home. You don't look up when he enters, eyes still pinned on something out of the window. He takes another step and sees Clopidogrel hovering on the windowsill. "We should set out some more nuts for him." Zayne says conversationally, walking toward his desk to get the bag he has there for this very purpose. 

Once he's by his desk he gets a view of your face, somewhat shadowed by the hood. There is enough light to see your eyes, the unnatural shape of them. Zayne freezes, scanning you over for injuries. Bag forgotten he heads right for you, watching you track the resident squirrel. 

His hand comes to your chin, pulling your face up to look at him. A doctor's gaze that floods concern through him, he pushes the hood back and is met with twitching fluffy black ears. His thumb pulls your lip up to see the sharpness of some of your teeth. He's heard of this condition only vaguely. 

Harmless, short term. Like the common cold, the tightness in his shoulders relaxes. "Are you alright?" 

Your eyes continue to track the squirrel, "Yes." 

"You can't have him." Zayne informs you, amusement coloring his tone. He'll need to take the rest of the day off at least, make sure you're safe. Your impulsivity will be up, you're likely to do something foolish. 

"Want him." 

He reaches out and pets the top of your head, scratching at your scalp with his nails to distract you from the prey you are being denied. It works, your eyes slip closed, and you lean into his hand. 

"We'll get you some food on the way home." He promises. "Come on, kitten." 

It's the first time he's used the term of endearment but Zayne thinks it might stick. 

Rafayel juggles the bags over one arm as he pushes his studio door open with his foot, calling out as soon as he's through, "If only my bodyguard came with me today. These bags are so heavy!" He gets the door closed, frowning when you don't call out in reply or approach. 

Depositing the bags onto the kitchen counter Rafayel goes off in search of you. He doesn't expect what he finds. You're on the balcony outside of your shared bedroom, in nothing but one of his shirts. Which normally he would not mind, not one bit. 

However. You have a pair of purple ears and a tail to match, a tail that is moving on its own, flicking from side to side. Oh no, oh no. You've got that weird cat sickness. He's read about it, he even had a nightmare once. 

Rafayel rushes toward you, colliding with the balcony railing to look at you. And when you turn to him, ears pivoting, eyes strange he doesn't know what to do. "Are you ... are you alright?" 

You nod, and then step into his arms. He flounders momentarily before he remembers this is you, cat or not, this is you. And he is safe. He is safe. 

His arms wrap around you, as you tuck yourself against his chest. "Play with me, I'm bored." 

Rafayel relaxes further hearing you sound normal, if a bit needy. He likes when you're needy, he likes the fact you need him. "What do you want to do? Not eat me I hope." 

Your eyes spark with mirth, and then you sink your teeth into the side of his neck. He squeaks, but you let go and it didn't really hurt. 

"I'm not on the menu." He scolds. "Find another fish to chew on." 

[bynineb]

my favorite & least favorite Pokemon from each generation!

GEN 1

FAVE: VENONAT

my lovely buggy boy! this is partly for nostalgic reasons as my very first slot car i built with my father was called VENOM, and had a little Venonat figurine perched on top. but the design is also precious, a Kuriboh style fuzzball gnat in a whimsical purple. also when it runs it hops!!! like a bunny!!!

Runner Ups: Nidorino, Poliwhirl, Porygon, Charizard, Haunter

LEAST FAVE: GOLDUCK

a wet fart of an evolution that loses all of psyduck's walleyed charm and replaces it with... nothing. it has no identity. even its pokedex entries are lame - it can swim fast and that's it. usually the simpler gen 1 pokemon still appeal to me just due to sugimori's art style, but no such luck for the duck.

that being said, i don't completely hate it. it just needs more to latch onto design-wise

Runner Ups: Rapidash, Hypno

(the rest is under the cut!)

GEN 2

FAVE: FLAAFFY

once my all-time favorite pokemon, although that has since been ceded to Venonat, i adore Flaaffy to bits. it has that perfect amount of cuteness and patheticness that endears me to some of my favorite designs, said patheticness owing to its stubby arms, mangy coat, watery eyes, and peculiar bowed stance when it stands up. i love the striped horns and tail, the colors are very pleasant, and the wool gives it a je ne sais quoi that the otherwise similar Ampharos lacks, almost like a wooly muffler and hat. (not knockin Ampharos btw, love it too). there's a reason Fynn took so much inspiration from this fluffy fellow!

(also, the rental Flaaffy in Pokemon Stadium 2 had Thunder Punch and Fire Punch. considering the sorry state of rental movesets in that game, and my lack of an N64 link cable, Flaaffy carrying me through those fights may have helped cement our bond!)

Runner Ups: Skiploom, Dunsparce, Forretress, Unown, Magcargo

LEAST FAVE: TYROGUE

not only does it not really resemble the hitmons - maybe hitmonchan? - it's just not a flattering design. the bandages and ear guards give it some definition and trainee-like character, at least, but the colors are gross, and frankly it just looks too much like a human being. in general i dislike pokemon that too closely resemble humans and Tyrogue is one of the biggest offenders. even its name is dumb! it's not roguish at all! what a hitmonchump

(also the beta version was so much better imo. linked art by @racieb)

Runner Ups: Qwilfish, Smoochum, Noctowl

GEN 3

FAVE: DUSKULL

aww duskull... what a charmingly spooky spirit. the single red eye behind the skull mask is a killer design motif and i love its fishlike phantom body, arms tucked behind its back in eternal contemplation. so halloweeny!

Runner Ups: Trapinch, Lunatone, Illumise, Shedinja, Tropius

LEAST FAVE: DELCATTY

it lacks in personality, and i don't think the color scheme looks good. its head shape also freaks me out the longer i look at it... but i do like that its neck resembling a pincushion, that's clever

Runner Ups: Castform

GEN 4

FAVE: REGIGIGAS

hey look, it's game freak's favorite whipping boy! i'm a sucker for hulking construct-type designs and regigigas is such a thoroughly excellent example of one. the black runes and mossy accessories give it a feeling of ancient, unknown significance. unlike a lot of gen 4 legendaries, it doesn't feel overly busy but still feels complex enough to have that "legendary" impact

Runner Ups: Giratina, Carnivine, Torterra, Bastiodon, Gliscor, Drapion

LEAST FAVE: AMBIPOM

i have to say gen 4's designs usually feel distinct, particularly the new evolutions for older pokemon, which go out of their way to differentiate themselves from their previous form, for better or worse. not so for Ambipom, though!- which is just Aipom but worse in every single way. its once nimble fingers reduced to swollen udders, its cheeky grin slackened into a vacant smile and marred with an unpleasantly singular nostril, that dreadful haircut, and even the introduction of elbows to its vestigial arms that further emphasize the seeming impracticality of those wretched bulbous tail hands. and maybe even worse, it doesn't evolve the base concept in any way, aside from doubling the number of party balloons that limply float behind it, possibly the least interesting iteration on the existing concept

nothing unique to it is good or interesting, and that to me is way worse than a design that tries something new and fails

in terms of what i like about it... i guess it does seem like a pretty friendly guy. maybe he does tricks at parties. and it's nice that they can hold hands with one another in a group

Runner Ups: Gallade, Lopunny, Magmortar, Glaceon,

GEN 5

FAVE: HAXORUS

god if this thing isn't cool! the exquisite color palette, the subtle contours of its armor, the bloodred axe-tusks... elegant simplicity in a terrifyingly brutal beast. it feels out of time, jurassic yet medieval...

Runner Ups: Roggenrola, Heatmor, Scolipede, Cofagrigus, Mienshao

LEAST FAVE: GURDURR

there are very few pokemon that make me feel disgusted by looking at them, but here's one of them. its creepy lumpy head and bulging veins make me deeply uncomfortable. i must give credit for the base concept of a clown-ogre-construction-worker... that's ambitious, at least, and i think it pays off pretty well in Conkeldurr.

Runner Ups: the monkeys, the genies, & the musketeers... the fillerest of filler

GEN 6

FAVE: GOURGEIST

SUCH a fun design. it blends a candle and a jack-o-lantern into its own original creature with a very unique shape, and what a cutie at that! it coming in multiple sizes like a real pumpkin would just seals the deal. another perfectly halloweeny 'mon, it and Duskull would be best friends

Runner Ups: Avalugg, Barbaracle, Clawitzer, Espurr, Trevenant

LEAST FAVE: VOLCANION

one of the pokemon i forget about the most, and i am never happy to remember it. what a waste of the first fire/water type! its face looks constipated, its colors are lame, and it doesn't do jack-all with the concept besides the most obvious "it can shoot out steam." at the very least, though, i can say it has a unique silhouette. i think the design has potential, it's just that a lot of the particulars are very clunky and lame

(also, give me the fireball seal from the beta game freak!!)

Runner Ups: Hoopa, Braixen

GEN 7

FAVE: CHARJABUG

BEEP BEEP!!! oh how i adore this little battery buggy. i didn't think much of it back when it was first revealed, but as soon as i heard its cry i immediately fell in love. it really is unique, too - no other pokemon has this shape. even cooler it has a support-based playstyle unique from its evolution based around its Battery ability, improving its allies' damage passively. thanks charjabug : )

Runner Ups: Type: Null, Celesteela, Bruxish, Stakataka, Melmetal

LEAST FAVE: LYCANROC-DAY

i don't particularly dislike Lycanroc really (Alola's designs are bangers), but the rock typing is so thoroughly phoned in. and if you get rid of that you're just left with a wolf, an animal i don't care about. midnight form is fun though!

Runner Ups: Passimian, Toucannon

GEN 8

FAVE: SNEASLER

this pick is probably not too popular, but i can't help but love Sneasler because it looks so much like what i would doodle in my high school notebooks, monster people with huge claws and wicked eyes. it's a cringe OC and that's badass. it carrying you around in a basket is also just precious...

special mention also to legends arceus for making the diamond/pearl legendaries look way cooler. to me, anyway, i just think they're so much more fun in this surreal state

Runner Ups: Carkol, Cursola, Falinks, Ursaluna, Hatterene, Toxtricity

LEAST FAVE: CINDERACE

i generally don't care for the set of designs made for sword and shield. (my favorite gen 8 mon isn't even from sword/shield!!) it feels like over half of the dex is either a guy with a job, or tries way too hard to be "memetic" and funny. cinderace falls into the former camp, an uncannily humanoid and unnatural design. i also don't like the colors used... that being said, it's going for a very different aesthetic than what i prefer, so i can imagine some people loving this design just as much as I dislike it.

i think the idea of kicking a pebble that becomes a blazing fireball is rad though, and Court Change is a sick move

Runner Ups: Boltund, Eiscue, Kubfu, Coalossal, Skwovet, Greedent

GEN 9

FAVE: GLIMMORA

this perfect angel was one of the most unexpected delights of my scarlet playthrough. i love how otherworldly and surreal it is, its beautiful flower-like blooming petals that conceal its deadly poisonous nature, and its barreleye-fish-like-eyes that are at once adorable and haunting. it's amazing that we're 1000 designs in and game freak's artists are still able to create wholly new feeling concepts that are this cool...

Runner Ups: Slither Wing, Espathra, Houndstone, Ogerpon

LEAST FAVE: RELLOR

WHY DO YOU HAVE THE FACE OF A HUMAN, RELLOR?! WHY!?! i am begging gamefreak to stop giving so many pokemon mustaches and beards. i also don't like the weirdly smooth dunkin-donuts-lookin' dung ball and how none of its colors match the bug's colors... that being said, it does at least have personality, i can't deny that...

Runner Ups: Iron Jugulis, Frigibax, Iron Crown

well that was cathartic! to end on a positive note, i must say that I think Pokemon's overall design track record is very good. most designs have a likeable quality to them, and so many are bursting with creativity and charm. honestly even the ones i just criticized are probably some people's favorites, and they're not wrong to think so. thanks for reading!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hello! It's me again. I'm probably pestering you, lol. I think a lotta people give flack for the Octavinelle trio being ruthless and "behaving like a Mafia." But I think considering where they live it makes sense? They live in the ocean. And the ocean is a kill or be killed environment, where you have to the strongest and toughest. If not? You at least have to be quick witted and unable to be seen, otherwise you'll be dead. If the trio become too soft they'll be fish meat.

I think the fandom is pretty divided when it comes to perceptions of what the Coral Sea is like. On one hand, you have the people who think of it as like living in Atlantica, which is basically just like living in a peaceful and pretty city (but underwater). Then you have the people who think the environment would be so different it would shape its inhabitants to behave differently as well. The second one tends to be a darker or grittier interpretation which aknowledges dangers such as other undersea creatures and treacherous living conditions.

Personally, I lean on and enjoy the latter, since TWST rarely ever designs purely for the aesthetic of it; one example of this is how the twins are confirmed to be bioluminescent in the Magical Archives. This is a decision that was not made “because it would look cool”, but because many deep sea creatures rely on this trait to intimidate potential predators. It would make more sense for the cold waters of the Coral Sea to change its people rather than merfolks’ cities simply being civilizations moved several leagues under, especially seeing TWST time and time again really consider the geography and history of each new location and how those inform the cultures that form there.

However, I want to state that the Coral Sea would be very different depending on which area you’re in, just like how there are nice parts and bad parts of a city. It’s not ALL nice or ALL bad. For example, the Atlantica Museum in book 3 appears to be in a more photic zone, so there’s more sunlight and it appears pleasant to be in. Even the merpeople there seem to be different than the Octatrio; they less so resemble specific sea creatures and are much more akin to being human-like. We have yet to really see how the benthic zones are—but we do know they must be harsher, since Floyd has mentioned exploring shipwrecks and various dangers there (like sharks).

I also want to point out that there are subtle signs in dialogue which could imply merpeople prefer traits that promote survivability and adaptability in the ocean. Azul’s bullies are noted to taunt him for his weight, but also for his bulky tentacles and inky tears. Now why those traits specifically??? Because these impede his ability to swim swiftly (making it harder to escape danger) and easily give away his location (if he’s in hiding or camoflauging).

I’ve seen others suggest that maybe these comments are because of racism against octopus merpeople, who are a rare kind of merfolk. This is entirely possible, yes! But thinking about it like that… Isn’t it also possible that there aren’t a lot of octopus merpeople at the moment because it’s more difficult for them to escape or to hide from predators? Which then informs and perpetuates preexisting prejudices. In this context (plus the bullying), it makes sense why Azul may have “hardened” as a defense and survival mechanism. The same goes for the twins, who were explicitly taught how to defend themselves (although this also goes into the Leech mob family theory, which is a whole separate matter) and have often made references to fighting others in the Coral Sea. Their upbringings also play a part in their personalities, but so does the environment they grew up in. Like Azul and the twins, you’d have to harden mentally or physically to some degree to ensure your survival through tough circumstances.

It’s hard to say for sure though! A lot of this is speculation based on current but infrequent lore, and the Octatrio themselves are a very small portion of all merfolk. They may not be representative of the behaviors of all other merpeople, and we should keep this in mind when referring to them as our exemplars. That’s why I’ve been hoping for a Coral Sea hometown event so we have a more concrete idea of what life under the sea is like 😭

[cakesunflower]

lovelorn (and nobody knows) [rafe cameron au fic] chapter 7

Summary: Isla Carrera had planned for the summer before college to be focused on three things: helping out at her family’s restaurant (the helpful daughter), preparing for college (the good student), and having fun with the Pogues (the loyal friend). But one fateful night, where her car breaks down and her rescuer is none other than Rafe Cameron, seems to send her summer down a path she didn’t see coming–one teeming with a secret, illicit romance with the last person she expected. And if her friends and sister found out, Isla isn’t sure they’ll be so understanding, no matter what her feelings are.

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

It was only supposed to be dinner, and Isla had every intention of sticking to that when she agreed to a date with Rafe. But even after a heavy meal, Isla discovered that Rafe has as big of a sweet tooth as she does, which is how they ended up in the kitchen making an ice cream sundae—to share—before bringing it to eat outside. Except instead of returning to their table, they sit on the edge of the pool, bare feet dangling into the inviting water as the boat-shaped dish sits between them.

And Isla, God, she’s having fun.

The conversation with Rafe never falls flat or tapers off into awkward silence. The two of them talk constantly, flowing from one topic to the next seamlessly as they eat the sundae. Isla kicks her feet back and forth lightly in the pool, the view of her yellow painted toenails distorted under the lapping water as she scoops up some more ice cream, drenched in chocolate syrup, and asks, “So you like the campus?”

Rafe nods, the gentle breeze dancing through his hair. They are talking about college, since Rafe is a year ahead of her, and already done with his first year at the same university Isla is starting at in the fall. “Yeah, it’s nice,” he nods, looking down as he scoops some ice cream as well. “There are some great spots to hang out, and some hole-in-the-wall type of places to grab food between classes.”

“Hole-in-the-wall?” Isla repeats with a raised eyebrow and teasing smile. “Didn’t really picture you as someone who’d like those kinds of places.”

As soon as the words are out, Isla feels a stab of guilt for obviously judging him blatantly, but Rafe doesn’t look the least bit insulted by her comment. Instead, he lets out a laugh around the spoon in his mouth, the light in his eyes dancing. “Hey, no one was more surprised than me,” he admits. “But I very quickly learned that those places have the best food.”

Isla laughs, nodding. “Fair enough. What’s your favorite one?”

“Sutton’s Drug Store,” Rafe answers immediately. Her eyebrows flick up, grinning at the lack of hesitation on his part. “They’ve got the best burgers I’ve ever had. It’s also pretty popular with the college students but, yeah, if you like burgers and sandwiches, I highly suggest going there.”

“Maybe you can show me.” She shocks them both by saying this, her smile turning a little shy when Rafe’s slightly surprised eyes meet hers. “Since you’re so familiar with the place.”

“You sure you wanna be seen with me?”

He doesn’t sound accusatory or upset about it, just simply curious, but it makes her chest tighten all the same. Truthfully, the thought of her friends seeing her with Rafe is a little daunting, mostly because Isla knows how they can be. Especially because it’s Rafe, of all people. The history between them is too deep and not all that pleasant for her friends to readily accept. . . Whatever it is that’s happening between her and Rafe.

Licking her lips and tasting the ice cream, Isla drops her gaze to the dish between them, scooping up some melting ice cream onto her spoon as she tells him quietly, “Maybe we take it one step at a time?”

“Hey.” Isla lifts her gaze and bites the inside of her cheek at the softened look in his eyes as he gazes at her, the light of the pool dancing in his blue eyes, somehow making them lighter. “You run the show here, Isla. Whatever you’re most comfortable with, I’m game. I just—” He hesitates and Isla is endeared by the flash of uncertainty as he gazes down at her, reminding her that she’s not the only one that’s probably nervous about this. About them and this whole situation they have found themselves in. “I just wanna see you again.”

Her heart thumps wildly, warmth unfurling in her chest. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he nods, the corner of his mouth curving upwards. “I’d say this was a successful first date, wouldn’t you?”

She did have fun tonight—more than she thought she would. Rafe went through the effort of making their dinner, and he and Isla chatted and laughed together in ways she hadn’t seen coming. As the night went on, Isla felt more and more comfortable in his presence, for once putting the whole Pogues versus Kooks ideals out of her mind and just letting herself enjoy the moment.

Rafe is funny and knows how to carry a conversation, and it’s never one-sided; with every question she asks of him, he returns them to her, looking genuinely interested in wanting to get to know her more. The fact of the matter is, Isla had a lot of fun tonight, and she wouldn’t mind doing this again with him.

“I would,” she answers with a nod and slow growing grin, one that he mirrors and knocks the air out of her lungs. The way he looks at her dries her throat, a hundred thoughts running behind those blue eyes, all of which Isla wants to know desperately. With a breathless chuckle, she raises the spoon and quips, “You’re quite the charmer, Rafe Cameron,” before popping the spoon in her mouth for her last bit of ice cream, legs gently kicking in the water.

She lets it sit in her mouth for a moment, grinning around it as Rafe lets out a laugh. “As long as it gets me a second date,” he muses, which makes her cheeks flush.

Isla giggles; it’s light and a little breathless, but it’s a giggle nonetheless, and when was the last time a guy made her laugh like that? Ducking her head and feeling a little overwhelmed, she puts her spoon down and clears her throat. “It’s getting late, I should head home.”

“Yeah, okay,” Rafe says coolly, and Isla avoids his gaze because then he’d be able to make out the pink in her cheeks as she pulls her feet out of the water and stands up. When she goes to pick up the ice cream dish, Rafe says, “Leave it, I’ll take care of it.”

She hums in acknowledgement and slips her sandals back on, grabbing her purse. She can sense Rafe following after her as they walk back into the house and cross over to the front door. Isla bites her lip when Rafe reaches around her and opens the door, and Isla finally turns to face him, her eyes meeting his pretty blue. “This was fun,” she tells him honestly with a smile. “I. . . We should do it again,” she adds with a new warmth pooling in her cheeks.

Rafe smiles, an excited flash of his eyes accompanying the relief that seems to relax his shoulders. His gaze dips, then, to her mouth, and just when Isla begins to think something is going to happen, he says, “You’ve got a little—”

He gestures to the corner of his own mouth, and the warmth in Isla’s face intensifies with an embarrassed heat when she realizes she’s got something on her face. “Oh, God,” she groans, using the back of her hand to wipe at the corner of her mouth. When she glances at her hand, she doesn’t see anything, but asks Rafe anyway, “Did I get it?”

Amusement dances in his eyes, which somehow manages to lessen her embarrassment. “No,” he says, a smile playing on his lips as his hand lifts. Rafe blinks, pausing, and Isla’s gaze flickers from his hand back to him as he clears his throat and asks, “Uh, can I?”

Isla freezes for a moment, pulse quickening. Despite her surprise, she finds herself nodding, Rafe’s gaze locked with hers and not straying for a second, even as his hand reaches out. The air hitches in her throat when she feels his fingers gently grasp the underside of her left jaw, the briefest of touches eliciting sparks of electricity to shoot throughout the rest of her  body and threatening to knock her off her feet. The band of his signet ring is cool against her skin. She notes, in that moment, his blue eyes darkening a bit when his thumb gently rubs the skin next to her lips, not quite at the corner of them but close enough.

It’s oddly, stunningly, intimate. Isla doesn’t even dare to breathe as she peers up at him, his height easily overtaking hers and it shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. His touch is warm, electrifying, and she isn’t quite sure if she’s imagining the space between them lessening while the tension stirs and grows thicker with every passing second. 

So slowly, Rafe lowers his hand, her skin already missing the contact, but the lack of space between them remains the same. Isla knows she should go, turn and walk to her car and that will be the end of the date. Yet she still lingers, still hopes a little, maybe. She wonders if he will close the distance, if she will be brave enough to do it herself, and realizes that she really wants Rafe to kiss her. A thrill of anticipation runs through Isla, goosebumps pickling her skin with a thunderous pulse thrumming through her.

She picks up the split second where his gaze dips to her mouth, hope and excitement rising—only for it all to shatter when the shrill ring of a phone cuts through the air.

Isla immediately steps back, heart leaping into her throat and cheeks warming as Rafe’s jaw tightens in annoyance. Disappointment sits heavily on Isla’s chest as Rafe digs his phone out of the pockets of his pants and runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, it’s my dad.”

“No, it’s okay,” Isla rushes, her words slurring together in a hurry as she takes a backwards step out of the house. Rafe’s gaze meets her and Isla tries hard not to notice the longing in his eyes—for her, for the moment they lost. She knows it’s reflected in her own eyes, too, as she flashes him a quick smile. “I should head out, anyway. I’ll, um, see you later.” She steps into the night, the phone still ringing in Rafe’s hand as he watches her, and her smile softens. Despite the disappointment of the lack of kiss, Isla tells him, “Thank you for tonight. It was. . .” She trails off, cheeks pinkening, and she sees Rafe ease a bit at her sudden shyness. “It was wonderful.”

The heat in her face grows, wanting to cringe at her breathless choice of words, but Rafe grins, triumph and a boyish kind of giddiness brightening his features. “Thank you for coming. I—” He glances at his phone before asking her, “Let me know when you get home?”

Isla bites her lower lip, smiling with a nod. “I will. Goodnight, Rafe.”

He leans against the doorway. He still hasn’t answered the call. “Goodnight, Isla.”

When she walks to her car, she can feel Rafe’s gaze on her back, and she’s surprised by the fact that she has to resist the urge to turn back around and kiss him. He stays in the doorway, phone to his ear now, and watches her get into her car, and she grins to herself when she realizes that he doesn’t shut the front door until she’s all the way backed out of his driveway.

On her drive home, Isla blasts the air conditioner to cool her heated skin down, music playing through the speakers and the bass of the song amplifying the thumping of her heart. She drives home in a daze, mostly, as she replays the entire night in her mind once again. The smiles they shared, the conversations that seemed never ending. She’s surprised to find out that she and Rafe have a lot in common; their love for reading—even if it’s different genres—music taste, a healthy fear of snakes, both preferring Nutella over peanut butter. . .

It goes on and on, the things they both like and dislike, and with each revelation, Isla felt like she was discovering a whole new Rafe Cameron that she didn’t know existed before. And she likes him. A lot. 

Isla huffs out a quiet laugh, entering her room and shutting the door behind her. She collapses on her bed, staring at the ceiling for three seconds before grabbing a pillow and presses it to her face, before letting out the loudest muffled squeal she can.

*****

“Hey, did you leave the restaurant yet?” Kie asks when Isla answers her phone call.

“Walking out right now,” she says, walking down the path towards the parking lot, hiking up her tote bag that’s stuffed with her work clothes. She had changed into her bathing suit, crop top and shorts in the bathroom before clocking out of her shift. “Why?”

“Can you pick JJ up from work?” Kie asks. “He caught a ride this morning from one of his neighbors, I think. Something about his bike not starting.”

“Are you already at John B’s?” Isla asks as she unlocks her car.

Kie blows out a breath. “Yeah, I didn’t know he’d need a ride or I would’ve waited before leaving.”

Isla grins as she starts the car. “Aw, you’re such a nice girlfriend.”

“Shut up,” her sister hisses, making Isla burst into laughter. She loves teasing Kie, especially when it comes to her feelings for JJ. It’s Isla’s duty as her sister, really, to tease and tease until Kiara and JJ do themselves a favor and get together. “I’ll see you later.”

The drive to the country club is only ten minutes, and as Isla is pulling into the parking lot, she passes by two parked motorcycles—one of which is very familiar. Her pulse quickens when she recognizes Rafe’s bike, tongue pressing to her cheek as she parks her car a few spaces down. She sits in the car for a few seconds, gripping the steering wheel tightly as she debates her next decision, staring out of the windshield and right at the white building ahead.

“Fuck it,” Isla mutters to herself with a skipping heart beat, killing the engine and jumping out of her car.

The afternoon sun is warm but not too harsh, perfect for a boat and swimming day, which is why Isla is here to pick up JJ. She and the Pogues are taking out the HMS Pogue around the water, and Isla is itching to jump into the cool water. But right now, she crosses the parking lot and heads inside the club, shivering slightly under the cool blast of the air conditioner once she steps through the door.

There’s a muted hum of chatter as she walks down the wide hall, heading towards the outdoor patio area of the restaurant and bar that she knows JJ is working. As Isla walks, her gaze casually wanders, trying—hoping—to catch a glimpse of the guy she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about since their date two days ago.

It hasn’t been radio silent since then between them, either. They had been messaging on Instagram, just random conversations that never felt forced, until Isla finally sent him her phone number, and then they went from private messaging to texts. Funnily enough, it felt like a step forward in the right direction, bringing a new sense of excitement in this new development.

When she steps out onto the patio, shooting a friendly smile to Ariana, the hostess, Isla’s gaze travels around in search of JJ—but it too easily snags on another blonde boy sitting at a table towards the railing that overlooks the water. Isla takes in a quiet breath at the sight of Rafe, sitting at a square table with Topper and Kelce sitting opposite of him, but her attention is solely on him. 

Sunglasses cover those blue eyes, the breeze making the longer strands of his hair framing his temples dance gently. He’s in a simple black and gray striped shirt and black pants, leaning back in his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world as he talks with his friends. Before, Isla had the same mindset as her friends, where when she’d see Rafe, she only saw an air of arrogance around him in the way he carried himself. As though he thinks he is above everyone else, which is easy to believe given that he’s a part of the richest family in the Outer Banks—possibly in all of North Carolina.

But maybe Isla was wrong to think that. Maybe it’s his confidence and charm that is often misconstrued as arrogance. The conversations Isla has had with him so far don’t particularly give her the vibe that he’s the arrogant asshole her friends believe him to be. 

Isla wants to dive headfirst into the idea that she had just misunderstood him, but despite their fun date and her desire to kiss him, touch him, she still hesitates. What if it’s a facade? What if he’s just pretending?

Then again, what does he get out of that? What does he get out of pretending to like her and want to be with her? Some kind of prank to humiliate her? Could he be that cruel and callous?

She’s not sure. Her stomach knots up, the feeling far too unpleasant. And it’s that moment when Rafe’s head turns just so, and despite him wearing sunglasses, her body tingles with sudden awareness, and she knows that he’s looking right at her. Isla swears the corner of his mouth lifts in a smile, her skin warming in immediate response as she bites back a foolish smile, though her lips still tug upwards of their own accord. It’s like the two of them are sharing a secret from either side of the patio, one that is just theirs to keep.

Just then, movement catches her eyes, and her gaze slides from Rafe to JJ cleaning up a table a few away from Rafe’s, and when her friend’s head lifts, the smile is immediately wiped off of Isla’s face. All thoughts slip from Isla’s mind, stomach dropping when she notes the black eye that JJ is sporting. “JJ,” she breathes out, hurrying around the tables to approach him. He senses her, eyes meeting hers, and she sees the way his lips purse when he takes in the worried look widening her eyes. “JJ, what happened?” Isla asks once she gets to him.

Her first concern is if her friend is okay and, selfishly, her second concern is hoping that Rafe isn’t the one who hurt JJ. Her friends and Rafe have gotten into quite a few physical fights over the years, and Isla knows it’s self-centered to hope that Rafe wasn’t the one who gave JJ that black eye. She also knows that she isn’t really giving Rafe the benefit of the doubt by even connecting him to JJ’s injury, especially after their date. But her worry has her jumping to the worst case scenario as JJ sighs, gripping the rectangular bucket he’s loading the dirty dishes into.

“I’m fine, Isla,” he assures her, a hint of resignation leaking into his voice. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” she repeats, eyes wide as she tries to keep her voice low. The patio isn’t too busy, but there are still some guests around, and for JJ’s sake, Isla doesn’t want to create a scene at his place of work. But his left eye has a purpling ring around it, the skin under the eye slightly swollen as pinkish-red discoloration taints his temple by the eye. More quietly yet no less intensely, she demands, “What the hell happened?”

Isla braces herself for his answer, tongue pressing to the back of her teeth as she watches him intently. She sees JJ struggle to answer, the muscle in his jaw jumping repetitively as the conflict wars in his bright blue eyes. The one that’s bruised is slightly bloodshot and the sight of it has Isla’s chest tightening painfully, her concern drying her throat out. JJ is her best friend—she’s probably closer with him than the rest—and seeing him in this state is like a punch to the gut.

And maybe he sees that there’s no easing her worry by just dismissing the topic, so he lets out another breath, gaze cutting away from hers as he tells her, “My dad happened.”

Isla’s eyebrows furrow together, eyes still wide as bewilderment has her shaking her head. “Wait, your dad? I thought he was in jail?” Hadn’t Kie said he’d be locked up for six months?

A sardonic smile tugs at JJ’s mouth, just barely hinting at a dimple. “There was a riot, he used it to his advantage and escaped.” Isla’s eyes widen even more, if possible, as disbelief and fear for JJ stiffens her muscles. 

“And the first place he went to was your house?” Isla asks. “Weren’t the cops looking for him?”

“They were too busy getting shit under control,” JJ says, picking up a glass from the table and putting it in the bin he’s holding, the glasses clinking together. “But he left after. . . After,” he shrugs. “Don’t know where he went, but didn’t leave without a parting gift.”

Isla shakes her head, her eyes looking over him. “Jesus, JJ,” she whispers. She hates that he has to deal with this, that he has to have a dad as shitty as Luke Maybank. All that guy does is waste money he doesn’t have, get drunk, and beat on JJ. There's a damn good reason JJ is never home, and has a semi-permanent room at John B’s place.

Her hand reaches out, fingers gently grasping his chin and turning his head. He lets her, as this is nothing new between them, and she lets out a heavy breath. “Does it hurt? Did you ice it?”

“Yeah, I did,” he mutters, a hand grasping her wrist and putting her hand down. “Stop fussing. I’m fine.”

She shoots him a flat look. “Do the others know?” When he stays stubbornly silent, Isla shakes her head again. “You know they’re gonna wanna know.”

“I don’t need them worryin’ about this shit,” JJ says with a roll of his eyes. With a one shouldered shrug, he says, “I’ll just say one of those shitheads did it. They’ll believe it and leave it alone.”

He nods towards  his left and Isla doesn’t even have to look over to know who he gestured to. But she does, anyway, and her gaze lands on Rafe. He still has his sunglasses on, but Isla feels that same prickle of awareness that tells her he is watching her—and has been, probably for the entire length of her conversation with JJ. Rafe’s lips are in a thin line and Isla has been around Rafe long enough throughout the years to know that he doesn’t look happy behind those sunglasses.

But she can’t focus on that right now, not when JJ’s words ring in her head. There’s an urge to come to Rafe’s defense, not wanting JJ to stir the pot when things have been relatively peaceful between her friends and Rafe. Isla’s stomach tightens, getting the dreaded sense of being a traitor—the only problem is, she’s not sure who she’s betraying with the conflicting feelings that are bubbling up inside of her. She knows Rafe couldn’t have heard her and JJ’s conversation, yet guilt still threatens to bloom.

“Come on, JJ,” she says, half laughing and half huffing in exasperation. “You don’t think news about Luke is gonna spread and they won’t find out? They’ll connect the dots and you know it.” She arches an eyebrow when JJ presses his lips together. “Just tell them.”

He’s silent for a few seconds and Isla tries to prepare another argument in case he doesn’t want to listen to her. But then JJ surprises her by exhaling heavily and saying defeatedly, “No secrets among Pogues, right?”

Isla feels beyond hypocritical as she forces a smile at JJ’s words. “Yeah, exactly,” she agrees with a nod, nervously hiking the strap of her bag higher up on her shoulder. Swallowing through the discomfort tightening her throat, she says, “Come on. The others are waiting at the Chateau.”

JJ nods. “Let me drop this off at the kitchen and change.” He walks around her but doesn’t leave before asking, “Why’d you walk in? You could’ve texted me.”

“Um,” Isla says, eyes widening because he’s behind her now as she scrambles her brain for an excuse. “My mom thought she forgot her Apple watch in her locker,” she lies, turning to shoot JJ a smile. “I went to check but no dice.”

He clicks his tongue. “Bummer. Alright, I’ll be back in ten,” he says before heading inside.

Isla watches him go, chewing on her bottom lip as he disappears inside. Once he’s gone, her shoulders slump, fingers running through her hair as she shuts her eyes and blows out a breath. She hadn’t realized how tense her body got throughout her conversation with JJ—particularly when he had brought up Rafe. It’s not lost on Isla how quickly she jumped in to defend Rafe without JJ knowing about it, even if Isla had wrongfully assumed and dreaded that Rafe had been the one to give JJ a black eye.

“Everything okay?”

Isla jumps at the sound of Rafe’s voice, as if she conjured him from her thoughts, spinning to face him. “Whoa,” he says, chuckling slightly as he takes a step back. He raises his eyebrows, though Isla sees the concern in his eyes. “You okay?”

Isla glances behind him, seeing Topper and Kelce watching them from their table. Isla’s not sure if she likes that, but she looks back at Rafe, and something inside of her softens at the worry in his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, all good,” she reassures with a nod. “Just, uh, worried about JJ.”

“Yeah,” Rafe says, his gaze flickering over her head in the direction JJ had gone. “That looked like a nasty black eye.”

Isla nods, lips rolling into her mouth as she hums. “Mhm.” Her gaze drops, looking down at her sneaker clad feet, a little too pointedly avoiding Rafe’s gaze. 

She grips the strap of her bag tightly, feeling the weight of Rafe’s eyes on her, silent until he starts, “Wait. . .” Isla reluctantly lifts her gaze and sees Rafe frowning, a calculating look churning in his blue eyes that has her pulse quickening. He once again glances over her head before looking back at her and asks, “Did you think I did that to him?”

Isla’s eyes widen, stunned that he seems to have figured out her shameful thoughts so easily. She wants to laugh it off and dismiss it, but the air knocks out of her lungs when she sees a confused frown on his face turn into one of hurt, pulling back from her, and that subtle act has her stomach knotting up in total discomfort. 

Her expression is answer enough to Rafe’s question, and she watches as his lips curve up and a sardonic laugh escapes him, hand coming up to cover his mouth, gaze darting away. The hurt is obvious in the sound of his empty laugh, and it in turns makes Isla hurt, knowing that she’s the reason for it. “Come on, Isla,” Rafe mutters, huffing out a breath.

“I’m sorry, I—” she hastily speaks, voice a whisper. “Can you blame me? It’s not like this hasn’t happened in the past—”

“Yeah, in the past,” he cuts her off, his own voice low but sharp. She presses her lips together at the way he looks at her, eyebrows pulled together but not quite a glare. Just disappointment and hurt that he’s struggling to hide, and Isla’s throat bobs, already regretting her words. “After this weekend, do you really think I’d turn around and do that to him? I haven’t gotten into it with your friends in a while, Isla. Are you serious?”

Isla takes in a sharp breath, pulse quickening as she tries to de-escalate this situation as it gets away from her. She wants to tell him that she talked JJ out of blaming Rafe anyway for the black eye, but the words don’t come out—not in the face of the look he’s giving her. When she can’t come up with anything to say that could possibly make this better, Rafe shakes his head.

“Alright,” is all he says, gaze cutting away from her as he turns and walks back to his table, hand rubbing the back of his neck as he goes.

She watches him go, a lump in her throat borne of guilt, ignoring the curious and confused looks from Topper and Kelce. Isla hesitates, wanting to smooth things over with Rafe right away because, honestly, her skin prickles with the idea of making him upset. A month ago, Isla wouldn’t have cared, not really. But right now, it worsens the knots in her stomach, overwhelmed with the urge to talk to him and smooth things over, except JJ suddenly calls her name, and she tears her gaze away from Rafe, who returns to his seat, and looks over at JJ waiting for her. Isla takes a step towards him, but her gaze slides back to Rafe, who is pointedly ignoring her. She lets out a heavy sigh, knowing this is her own doing, yet still lamenting how she went from thinking about their date to this.

[terry-perry]

Hi there! I saw you were looking to do Alastor requests, and I have a…spicier one in mind.

So the scenario I was hoping for, if you are comfortable with it is consensual cannibalism. The Reader (female) has an advanced regenerative and healing ability and is also a masochist.

So after the Extermination, Reader helps Alastor heal and also offers her flesh to him. Things go from there. Maybe some aftercare at the end, too?

It's not exactly smut, but some crazy, kinky, bloody stuff is involved!

TRIGGER WARNING!

Y/N was the one who found him in his radio tower, muttering and wincing to himself. She'd been the only one who searched for him after the battle. His disappearance from it was so sudden that she had her suspicions. Finding her friend in such a state was heartwrenching, especially since he always seemed so composed. Now he appeared so broken, fragile, wounded.

She approached him with caution. He was her friend, but an infamous demon, forced into a corner by the First Man too. Like dealing with many beasts, it was best to proceed with caution.

"Alastor?" She called out to him slowly.

His head snapped up upon hearing her. His dark eyes narrowed to get a better look at her. After doing so, his strained smile came with a snarl. "I do not want you to see me in such a state..."

"We've all taken a beating today Alastor," she said, walking over to him in a still careful manner. Slowly she knelt before his curled up figure on the floor. "You were smart to leave when you did. Gave you time to heal."

"Well, as you can see..." he took his hand away from his chest, which spewed out some blood that darkened his already red attire. "I may need a little more time."

She saw the way the blood covered his chest like splattered paint. He certainly took a beating after fighting hard. She was at least happy the wound was wide yet shallow. What she hated was noticing the way he attempted to reach out to her but grimaced in pain while doing so. She found it so awful to see him like this that it made her act on impulse.

Alastor didn't have time to protest as she already had her hand over his injury. He watched how she concentrated on it, how her hand suddenly had a golden light under it as his chest felt very warm then cool. Once she let go, he saw he was as good as new! No blood or anything!

"You're welcome!" She chirped, making an effort to break the tense silence.

It didn't help since before she knew it, he was throwing himself on top of her. He looked down at her, pinning her to the floor. He looked wild and savage as his eyes changed into those notorious radio dials and his sardonic grin had blood leaking out from its corners.

"I don't recall asking for your help, my dear," he growled. "You know better than to make the Radio Demon owe you his life!"

She never thought she'd be on the receiving end of Alastor's threats. They'd always been rather close and respected one another. Yet she forgot two important things about him:

He despised being on someone's hook.

And he always needed to be in control.

He already lost his sense of control in the battle when fighting Adam. His microphone was split in two, and he'd been no better. Now that she saw him in bad shape and offered him assistance in healing, he needed to find a way to regain power - to show he still could intimidate.

She was terrified...but also excited.

She doesn't know why it excited her. It might've had something to do with the fact she was hell-born and had no real experience with pain or death. It didn't help that she was born with regenerative healing abilities that helped her survive every scuffle she'd find herself in. Whatever the reason, the way Alastor bent over her gave her pleasant tingles.

She knew he didn't desire sexual depravity the way others down there did, but he did have other carnal urges that could benefit them both.

"Hurt me then Alastor," she said, growing bold with a coy smirk. "Give me all the anger you have. Take it out on my flesh."

There are some things people just don't expect. Even in Hell, surprises can come. For a demon like Alastor, he took pride in how little can shock him, humble him. Yet he's recently realized he's not in as much control as he claimed to be. He's been beaten, insulted, taken hold of. A new sense of purpose was required. A way to show power again.

But this?

"I know you want to," she hissed up at him. "You want to devour me. Go ahead! At least you'll be good at that!"

She knew that did the trick since he returned to his malicious state. His large, sharp-tooth grin opened into a gaping maw that attacked her. She let out a cry as he bit down hard on her shoulder. She wrapped her legs around his waist while his teeth pierced her so fiercely that she could practically feel his gums on her skin. She pushed him further by grabbing a hold of his hair as she moaned so desperately. He held her so tightly that her cries grew strenuous.

She loved every second of it, especially when he managed to tear off some of her flesh.

----

With a snap of his finger, Alastor conjured up a small flame that helped her with her cigarette. She inhaled, released a puff of smoke, and relaxed after their little escapade. They remained on the floor of his radio tower, now snuggled up together. He looked over her body, his claws tracing the marks he left behind before they disappeared.

It was just what he needed for the time being to satiate his hunger. Full freedom was still far from his grasp, but he at least found a way to play with his needs. Thanks to her, his burning yearnings were temporarily fulfilled.

[mrsshabana]

𝐏𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞

꒦꒷‧₊ Summary Working in a morgue, you're used to being surrounded by death. But one night you come face to face with an undead that isn't the norm for your line of work. ꒦꒷‧₊ Content Gyutaro x female!reader, modern au, vampires, blood, violence, corpses ꒦꒷‧₊ Note 2.6k words. Thank you @chibi-absol for helping me develop this idea and motivating me to write something for myself ♡

✧:･ﾟ→ Chapter Two

This isn’t the job you dreamt of having, but it wasn’t bad either. Being a mortuary technician wasn’t on your to-do list, but you were desperate and needed money. Your family owned a funeral home growing up so you weren’t deterred by the idea of working with dead bodies every day. 

And hey it had some perks! Sure it was the night shift but at least you got to work alone. Never having to worry about a manager breathing down your neck or co-workers interfering with your work. It was more pleasant than the average person would expect. 

You worked for the city, not a private funeral home so most of the time you were preparing bodies for cremation or doing autopsies on suspicious deaths. Most of the bodies that come in are either homeless people or people who have no family members to claim the body. These cases were suspiciously high in your city. But again, it didn’t bother you because this is how you pay your bills. 

Today was like any other day, clocking in at 10 pm as usual. Examining your paperwork to see how many bodies you’ll be working with today. 

The file at the top of your stack is for a man estimated to be in his mid-twenties. And… that’s it? Usually, your files have more information on them, like the location or date the body was found. But this one has nothing.

“How strange…” you mumble to yourself as you put on your gloves and prepare for an initial examination. 

You waste no time getting to work, loading the young man’s body onto the transport cart, wheeling him over to the examination table and gently setting his body atop the cold surface. 

The first thing you observe is how his body moves as you transport him, he must have been dead for a while since it appears that rigor mortis has come and gone. Yet his body doesn’t smell? Everything about this case has been peculiar. But it doesn’t stop you from proceeding as usual. 

With a deep breath, you carefully unzip the body bag and remove it completely. Putting this young man’s corpse on full display. Right away there are some things you notice. You quickly turn on your recorder, grab his file, and begin filling it out as you examine his bare body. 

“The deceased appears to have spots located all throughout his body,” you look closer at the black splotches that are scattered across his skin. “They don’t appear to be wounds, but irregular shaped birthmarks.”

You clear your throat and continue writing and talking, “He has them on his right cheek, bridge of his nose, both sides of the chin, right clavicle, left breast, left and right upper arms, right hip, and on the genitalia. Further investigation may be required to determine if the deceased was born with these marks or if they were caused by illness.”

You usually don’t get very emotional when looking at corpses, but you can’t help but feel sadness when you look at him. He looks to be around your age, it’s sad to think that he died all alone, with no one stepping forward to claim his body. You can’t help but wonder what his story is and how he came to his end. 

You make a few more notes about his body, regarding his lithe frame, he was likely malnourished making you think that he was possibly homeless. He also has bags around his eyes, nothing too uncommon or alarming though. 

But it is quite strange, his body is as pale as a ghost yet the texture and appearance of his skin seems youthful and alive. Though he is most certainly dead. 

You’re about to wrap up your investigation when you notice something peculiar. 

“The deceased appears to have… a bite? On his neck?” you say in confusion, leaning forward to get a closer look. You’ve never seen anything like this before. 

“He has two prominent indentations on his neck, maybe bitten by an animal. But… the other teeth marks appear human…” 

You narrow your eyes and lean in closer. 

Suddenly the man’s eyes shoot open and he gasps for air, his chest rising as his lungs are filled with air for the first time in too long. You stumble backward, utterly horrified that your “patient” has just woken up. 

Before you can even open your mouth to speak to him, he’s lunging forward and slamming you against the cold concrete floor. His blunt nails turned claws, swipe at you as he hisses and snarls. Baring large fangs as he snaps at you, trying to get closer to you, but you barely manage to hold him back. 

Red eyes glare hungrily at you. You don’t know what’s going on but you do know that this is no human, this man is some kind of monster. 

“S-Sir! Please calm down!” You beg, but to no avail. The man doesn’t seem to have any thought in his head besides his intent on hurting you. 

You feel his strength suddenly increase, black veins visibly popping out on his face and body. He pushes down harder on you, his deadly teeth inching closer to your face. You panic and hold up your forearm to stop him from ripping your face apart. 

You may have saved your face, but you sacrificed your arm as his jaws immediately wrap around your flesh and close down with extreme force. But he doesn’t just bite and hold on no, he bites, and bites, and bites again. Until your arm is a bloody mess, skin and muscle hanging from his abuse. 

His eyes glow in excitement as your blood touches his tongue. 

If you stay here like this it won't take long for him to completely gnaw through your arm. Your body moves on its own, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you muster all of your strength to push him off of you. His body falling backwards causing the back of his head to slam against the bottom of the metal examination table. Momentarily stunning him for a few seconds. 

You use that time to quickly grab a bottle of formaldehyde and run to the walk-in freezer.

He grunts and blinks a few times as he regains his composure. After a few seconds, the smell of blood hits his nose and he is ravenously drawn towards it. Blindly running into the freezer, the scent of your fresh wound draws him. 

Your back is against the wall beside the entrance, hidden from his immediate view as he enters the walk-in freezer. As soon as he’s inside you smash the bottle of formaldehyde on his face. Holding your breath and squinting your eyes, trying not to allow the toxic fumes to enter your body. 

He howls in pain, so animalistically that it almost makes you pity the creature. Immediately he falls to the ground, claws at his burning eyes, and coughs as he breathes in the toxic substance. 

While he’s incapacitated you hurriedly slam the door behind him, locking him inside of the freezer. 

Your vision is blurry as tears fill your eyes, mostly from the pain in your arm but also from the fumes of the formaldehyde. Your legs feel like jelly as you collapse against the door, breathing heavily, panicking. With shaky movements you examine your body, making sure you didn’t get any of the toxin in your wound. But it appears to have only gotten on your hand and splashed a bit on your shirt. 

With wobbly legs you are barely able to force yourself up, quickly running over to the sink to wash your hands. The sounds of the man’s cries echo throughout the morgue. Then everything suddenly goes quiet. So quiet that you can hear your heart pounding.

“I-Is it d-dead…?” You stare wide eyed at the door as the anticipation seems to freeze time. 

…

A loud bang echoes through the morgue, shaking the door's hinges, as a large distortion forms on the freezer door. Bang, bang, bang. The creature slams its body against the inside of the door, trying desperately to escape. His strength is shown by how the thick metal door distorts from his efforts. You don’t want to wait around and see if he’s able to escape so you quickly grab your purse and run out of the morgue. 

✣ .. ༺♰༻ .. ✣

As soon as you left last night you went to the hospital. You had to get stitches but thankfully you ended up being okay. Though you were so shaken up that you were barely able to tell the nurses about what happened. Of course they’d never believe you, so you just told them that you had been attacked by a large dog. 

Physically you weren’t doing too bad, but mentally you were a wreck. A part of you had tried to convince yourself that you had just imagined the whole thing, but you knew deep down that it really happened. No matter how much the thought terrified you, especially when you had to return to the morgue the next night.

At the end of the day you still needed to pay your bills. And you would never forgive yourself if you left this monster for someone else to find and possibly get killed by. 

Hesitantly stepping into the morgue once again, it’s eerily quiet. 

“I-Is it still here?” You whisper to yourself. 

You swallow dryly, walking with trembling feet toward the walk-in freezer. All you can hear is your heart pounding in your chest and the sound of your footsteps.

Slowly, very slowly, you turn the handle of the freezer door. Opening it ever so cautiously.

And there he is. Lying in the fetal position in the corner of the room. His body completely still, pale, and covered in frost.

“Did I… Did I kill it?” 

You step closer and he doesn’t move. You even touch his skin, feeling that it’s freezing cold. Maybe you really did freeze him to death. 

Looking back at the door you see where he desperately tried to escape. Throwing his body against the door, even clawing at it with his claws. Even though he's a monster you still feel bad for him. 

But you know time is not on your side. And this creature has come back from the dead one time, so you know he could do it again. And you can’t leave him in the freezer forever. 

So you struggle to grab hold of him and drag him out of the freezer. His body still remains lifeless as he is dragged across the concrete floors and into the examination room. 

Now that he’s out of the freezer, what do you do with him? You have no idea if this creature is even killable, and to be frank you want answers. All you can think to do is restrain him to the examination table with leather straps you sometimes use to position corpses. You tie them tightly around his wrists and ankles. 

“Ok, that should be good right?” you pant, “Er, maybe not… what if he wakes up and tries to attack me again?” 

Really the only logical thought here. He will attack you again. 

Last time he seemed to be drawn to your flesh, so maybe you can use that to your advantage. You shouldn’t be doing this but you don’t have any other ideas. So you siphon the blood out of one of the corpses lined up for examination. Siphoning it into a large metal bucket. The blood isn’t fresh but you hope it will be enough to distract him if need be. 

Then you place a blanket on his body to cover him up. Partly because he has no clothes on, but also because a part of you feels compassion for him. Something about a cold body begs you to cover it with a blanket. Whether it be man or monster, you can’t ignore your caring nature.

Now all you do is wait. Despite having plenty of work to do, this is more important. And quite frankly you can’t focus on getting any work done with a bloodthirsty monster in your vicinity. 

You sit and wait in front of the examination table, watching as his skin dethaws as the minutes pass. Anxiously holding a scalpel in your hand, as if it would be a valid defense against him.

After less than an hour he begins to wake up. His eyes slowly open, looking around the room curiously. Red irises locking on as soon as they land on your form. He glares at you like a predator stares down its prey before it strikes. 

He tries to get up, but is stopped by the restraints. You grin, thinking you’ve succeeded. But no, with an effortless tug the leather straps snap and he lunges towards you. Though slowed from being frozen for 24 hours, he’s still surprisingly fast. 

“Don’t hurt me! Please!” You plead, holding out the bucket of blood. Hoping that it will be enough to deter him from taking your flesh into his maw. 

The scent of exposed blood is too much for him to bear. He’s drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Aggressively snatching it from your hands and greedily drinking it. The way in which he gulps down the thick liquid is frenzied and desperate. Like his life depends on it. 

The sounds alone are enough to disturb you greatly. You feel stunned as you stand there, watching this savage creature feast in front of you. 

In under a minute, the bucket is empty and he’s licking his fingers. Thick maroon dripping down his chin and onto his bare chest. You’ve never seen something so primal before. But it’s oddly beautiful at the same time. 

“You…” he croaks, panting as he tries to catch his breath. His voice is deep and carries an inhuman rasp, “Do you… wish to die?”

His face contorts into a scowl as he brings his bloodied hand up to your neck and squeezes tightly. Digging his claws into the flesh of your soft skin. 

“P-Please! Don’t ngh- hurt me!” You cry, grabbing his wrist in a pathetic attempt to pry his grip off of your neck. 

His red eyes speak of his murderous intent as he seemingly looks into your soul. Eyes redder than blood, pooling with primal hunger. 

“Stupid girl,” he growls, opening his mouth. His sharp fangs glistening red from his meal. 

“I-I can help you!” you beg desperately. When he seems unfazed by your words you continue, “I can give you blood! Wh-whenever you want! I have tons of it!”

He narrows his eyes at you, and quirks his brow curiously before looking around the room. “You… you work here?” he asks, sounding almost like a normal person.

You nod frantically as his grip around your neck tightens, restricting you from speaking further.

“Fine,” he growls, releasing you from his grasp and throwing you to the floor, “Give me blood whenever I ask and I’ll allow you to live.”

You hunch over on your hands and knees, coughing as you catch your breath. “Y-yes,” you pant, “I can do that, no problem! And I-I won’t tell anyone about you.”

“I know you won’t. You aren’t that stupid,” he snarls, looking down at you with an expression of uncertainty. 

You sit there instilled with fear, looking up at this undead creature. Unknowingly making an eternal pact with an unholy force. 

Finally, he averts his predatory gaze away from you. Grabbing the blanket you put on him previously and tying it around his waist. And without another word he opens the window and climbs out, disappearing into the night. 

And just like that the morgue is silent, almost as if nothing happened. You feel a strange combination of dread and relief wash over you. But you know this isn’t the end. 

You get a feeling you’ll be having a visit from the vampire again very soon.

[onyourowndaisymae]

obey me characters hands hcs (demon brothers, dateables, + side characters)

college has whooped my ass but your girl has officially graduated with two degrees!! finally!! hopefully i will be able to get out more writing soon. i think i am also going to tweak my request rules in the coming days to make writing easier on myself and my schedule, so expect that soon. anyways enjoy these random headcanons that came to mind one night out of nowhere

content warnings: none

Lucifer

lucifer is usually wearing gloves, so you rarely get to see or feel his hands. so when you do, it's a treat.

his hands are cold, but not unbearably so. they perpetually feel like he's been out in the cold just a few minutes too long. when he touches your bare skin, it makes you jump-- but keep them close for a few minutes and you'll chase the cold away completely.

his hands are soft. probably not super surprising considering he's always wearing gloves, but it's still pleasant.

he's got big ass, strong hands. they may be soft, but that doesn't mean they're weak. lucifer is the type of person that could open a jar for you with such ease that he'd almost look disappointed in your weak little human arms. if he's in a good mood, he might tease you about it.

he's pretty pale, so you can see the color of his veins under his skin. he's also got just a few prominent veins-- nothing excessive, but just enough to hit that sweet spot between too much and not enough.

his nails are always pristine. he's the avatar of pride. do you think he'd willingly walk around with chipped nail polish? if something somehow happens, they will be redone by the next day, almost like they'd never chipped in the first place. either he'll call asmo over to fix them, or fix them himself, depending on how much time he has.

Mammon

mammon has pleasantly warm hands. sometimes they get a little sweaty, but it's not much of a problem honestly. he's like a nice little heating pack on a winter day. because his hands are warm, though, yours usually feel cold to him... and he will complain. it's mammon.

his hands are also pretty soft. gotta look nice, y'know? i can see him keeping lotion (and chapstick-- not relevant here but it's worth a mention regardless) on his person pretty often. this came about bc he got tired of the lotion he borrowed from asmo smelling all perfume-y getting him odd looks.

this man is always wearing at least one ring and you cannot convince me otherwise. i can see him wearing a lot of matching gold ring sets. they just look like they belong on him, y'know?

i think he's got a few subtle veins across his hands. he knows that people like that, so i think he's pretty proud of his hands. he even takes care to avoid chipping or otherwise messing up his nails so the whole look will stay cohesive.

Leviathan

oh you know this man's hands are clammy as fuck. sorry bud. facts are facts.

he's blessed with very pretty hands. his nails just grow in a pretty shape (and asmo makes sure to keep them that way), his fingers are slender and proportional, his hands are a normal size, and his skin stays pretty moisturized, even in harsh weather. he doesn't have to try. which is good, because we all know he wouldn't.

i think levi actually hates the feeling of rings and hand jewelry. he'd fidget with it too much and eventually become so aware of it that he'd need to take it off before he goes crazy. if he gets married and wears a traditional wedding ring, it would have to fit perfectly and be very comfortable for him to eventually get used to it.

levi picks at the pads of his fingers a lot when he's anxious, but he's not super prone to scaring there, so it isn't super noticeable. he'll go through bursts of trying to break this habit where he covers his poor hands in vaseline, but nothing even quite breaks him of it.

Satan

satan has hands crafted by god specifically to play piano and look nice holding books. look at him. there's no way he'd have ugly hands. they're soft and pretty, but i think he has to put more effort than expected into maintaining them.

he's another one that i think would be anti-ring for much of the same reason as levi. i think it would just feel odd on his fingers and he'd get irritated by their presence. he's okay wearing bracelets though.

his hands, slender and pretty as they remain, are also quite strong. he's the avatar of wrath, after all. he's probably the second or third best to go to when you need a tough jar opened.

his nails and cuticles always look presentable, but i think he finds grooming them unpleasant. he lets asmo do it for him-- the younger one's chattering distracts him from the irritating feeling of pushed back cuticles and trimmed hangnails. his hands aren't naturally soft, either, but asmo has developed a routine for him so they stay nice with a bit of regular (secret) effort. satan's all about seeming effortlessly perfect, after all, and his hands are no exception.

Asmo

softest hands in the entire cast. simeon and mephistopheles are good competitors, but this is not a battle he will lose.

his nails are always perfectly manicured and soft. he's got a million different lotions scatter across his room, the HoL, RAD, etc., all to make sure he never encounters even a hint of dry skin. he's got emergency nail polish, too, just incase a nail were to chip while he's out and about.

asmo reaches a lot for daintier, tasteful jewelry. think small rings, delicate bracelets, pretty gemstones, the works. he's very particular about matching the jewelry both to his outfit AND his nails.

he doesn't have any visible veins, so his hands seem inhumanly perfect at times. he likes this. compliment his hands and he'll swoon-- not that he cares more about them than the rest of his body, but because it shows you notice the smaller details he puts effort into, and he appreciates it.

Beel

big boy's got big ass hands. even if you're grown yourself, putting your palms against his will make you feel like a kid again. he could palm a basketball like shaq.

he's got his fair share of callouses. i think he mostly leaves them alone because they serve the purpose of improving his grip, which is nice for the gym or fangol. asmo probably gets on him for it, but beel doesn't care enough to do something about it. i can also see him having quite a few prominent veins on both hands.

his hands fluctuate in temperature a LOT. it's pretty unpredictable, too. you can touch his hand and find it scorching hot, then touch it again ten minutes later to find it eerily lukewarm. nobody knows why this happens.

beel has to be very conscious of his hygiene, or his hands will get really dirty in a matter of minutes. he's constantly eating and touching things, so he needs to either be careful or have a napkin on hand. i think lucifer carries hand sanitizer for this exact reason (although he won't admit it).

Belphegor

belphegor's hands are upsettingly lukewarm. it's like touching things or inclimate weather has no effect on him. they're always lazily warm, like a glass of water sitting out in the sun.

his hands stay soft mainly because he doesn't do much with them. he is, however, prone to hangnails. he's lazily bite them off and accidentally cause more in the process-- not that he particularly cares.

he leaves nail and hand maintenance in asmo's hands. he'll let the fifth born do anything to them so long as he gets to sleep through it.

not anti-jewelry/rings per se, but doesn't care enough about it to a) put any on, or b) make sure he doesn't lose whatever he's wearing that day. if it somehow falls off, the most you're getting from him is a quick look around, unless the piece was really meaningful and/or borrowed.

Diavolo

is anyone surprised to hear that diavolo has massive, strong hands? no? didn't think so.

he's got really thick fingers, too. you feel like a toddler comparing hand sizes with him. he's just a mountain of a man.

his hands are always hot but never sweaty. it's comforting most of the times, but if you're already hot his touch is like fire. dawg. don't touch me. i'm sweating. his entire body is like this, too.

his nails are always very particularly manicured (it's an image thing) and fairly soft. he cares enough to use lotion but not enough to carry it. he's not one to be super vain in that regard.

there's a tasteful amount of veinage on this prince's hands. enough to be attractive, but not enough to make him seen overworked or to age him.

Barbatos

definitively the coldest fucking hands in the entire cast. barbatos' hands are cold enough to wake the dead with just a touch.

his hands are always covered by gloves as well, so they're not as rough as you'd expect. still, though, the butler is always keeping his hands busy, so i imagine there are still some minor calluses across his hands. nothing enough to be super noticable, but still there.

he's got long, slender fingers. very regal. his hands themselves are average sized. compared to someone like diavolo, though, they're dainty.

his hands are also very pale, but for some reason you can't spot a single vein. it's odd. you can see the tendons and bones shift when he moves so you know his hands are built like normal... but something about the veins just seems so odd. mammon tricked luke into thinking barbatos doesn't have any blood, so that's why no one can see his veins. this is wrong, but luke is too polite to ask about it. (the real explanation is that, although he's pale, he's got pretty thick skin-- demon perks-- so you don't really see much below it).

Simeon

simeon's hands are pleasantly warm at all times. you can feel the heat through his gloves. it's just a very comforting thing-- he'll hold your hand anytime you ask, so don't be afraid to ask if you're a little chilly or in need of some reassurance.

when he takes the gloves off, his hands are silky smooth. did you expect anything different? i can see him being very methodical abut hygiene in general, and in this case i think he's always using a nice lotion on his hands before he puts his gloves on for the day. when they come off, his hands are soft and sweet-smelling-- like cocoa butter and vanilla.

he doesn't paint his nails or anything, but they always look very nice. his liberal use of lotion pairs well with his other grooming habits. his cuticles are never overgrown, his nails are always short and uniform, and his nail beds are healthy and clear. it's minor, but it just adds to the overwhelming perfection that simeon exudes.

Solomon

solomon's hands are somehow both clammy AND cold. pick a struggle, peepaw.

on the plus side, his hands are soft. even in the winter, solomon never has to worry about rough knuckles or dry skin. which is good, because you cannot convince me that this man would remember to regularly apply lotion. he's a menace.

his hands are pale, like the rest of them, but also more veiny than i think most would anticipate. he's got one prominent one heading to his ring finger, and the rest are a bit smaller but still noticeable. his pale skin allows you to see the blue of his veins underneath. they're interesting to just stare at at watch move when he flexes his fingers.

i can see him wearing a ring or two on occasion. i don't think he'd care a whole lot about the aesthetics, but i think he'd put in enough effort to wear gold when his outfit has gold and switch to silver when wearing outfits with silver in them. it's a small thing, but it lets your know he's putting in at least a little thought.

Luke

luke has got such little, cute hands. his fingers are small and a little stubby, just like his nails. his nails also grow slowly, too, so he doesn't have to do much to keep them presentable.

unfortunately, they're often a little sticky. he bakes a lot, and while he's not usually dirty or messy, he's still young and somehow just attracts stickiness like any other child. it's especially bad when he uses honey in his recipes-- his hands are perpetually sticky for like two or three days after, no matter how often he washes his hands.

luke is a nervous little child, and for that i could see him being someone that picks at his cuticles. simeon gently discourages this habit, but at the end of the day he can't do much but make sure they heal properly.

BONUS:

Thirteen

she gives barbatos a run for his money in the cold hand competition. her fingers are ice. unlike barbatos, she will use this to her advantage. you'll find her frigid fingers on the back of your neck or under the hem of your shirt when you least expect it. she doesn't have any reason to do this. she just thinks it's funny.

her hands are a little dry, mainly around the knuckles. she strikes me as someone that constantly rubs her dry hands together and bitches about needing lotion, while simultaneously never remembering her own. she probably bums a dab of lotion off of someone ever day (i'm thinking asmo).

her nails are always really nice. they're just naturally shaped really well, round at the top and pretty straight. they're strong and don't break easy, which is good, because a hangnail can throw off her concentration for an entire afternoon.

Raphael

like belphegor, raphael's hands are an upsetting temperature-- no matter how warm or cold your hands are, his feel lukewarm against yours. it should literally be impossible, but then again, a lot of things you've encountered in the devildom should be impossible.

he's got some calluses. they're pretty interesting, honestly-- if he was a human, he'd have the bumpy, dry hands of a weathered veteran or lonely woodworker, all rough skin and long years embedded into his flesh. but he's an angel. the calluses on his hands are small and fairly easy to miss if you don't touch him. but run your hand along the ridges of his fingers or the fatty parts of his palms and you'll find them just fine.

raphael has really pretty nail beds. something about the way they look is just so clean and nice. he never has overgrown cuticles or anything, either. just really nice hands for a man that does not spare a single thought to the way they look.

Mephistopheles

this man has hands like butter. they're just so soft and luxurious. you think they'd be a bit more rugged seeing as he's a rich boy with a penchant for horseback riding, but no. i can see him being very anal about his hands. they're always soft with not a callous or imperfection in sight.

speaking of perfect, this motherfucker has amazing nails. they're just a tad longer than you'd expect to be traditionally "masculine", but that just enhances how slender and pretty his fingers look. no wonder he's always pointing and gesturing so dramatically-- he's gotta show off all that hard work!

pretty boy here just has really nice, strong hands. not really veiny, but very smooth and even. his palms are a bit lighter than his skintone, naturally, but across the board there's no discoloration or scarring to be seen. you can tell he's a noble just by looking at his hands.

he's usually in those gloves but, if not, i could see him being a rings kinda guy. only tasteful ones, though, and in moderation. not like mammon.

[milehighmegs]

On the Subject of Fandoms: A Love Letter

So, I'm old. Well, oldER. I haven't entered the twilight of my years by any stretch, but once I entered that midlife wistful state of nostalgia, I knew that I had very likely reached the point at which it would be more past than future. And ya know, that's ok. I made peace with my mortality long ago. I don't fear death, I fear not living before I die.

So what's that got to do with fandoms? you may be asking. Fair enough. Here's what it's got to do with fandoms:

Before it was even a term, before I could do multiplication or write my name in cursive (I told you I'm old), I was part of a fandom and didn't even know it. My parents watched 'Star Trek: The Next Generation' when it was still on primetime; we even recorded the final episode on VHS and had it for years. (I told you, I'M OLD.) It was so incredibly formative for me that it's become part of my identity, part of my moral & ethical code, part of my personality. Is that ridiculous? Dramatic? Maybe even a bit of hubris? Perhaps. But it's true, nonetheless.

I've since joined other fandoms, of movie franchises (namely the MCU), TV shows (like Good Omens), and musicians (I'm a die-hard metalhead) over the course of my life, each of them creating/inhabiting a different part of what makes me ME. Though I've always remained the same basic person at my core (a decent one at least if not a good one, I hope), being a part of these fandoms has shaped the foundations of how I live my life, and how I've LIVED my life.

Being on the proverbial back nine of my earthly existence, looking back at what's come before, at how far I've come and all the things I've fucked up or gotten right, questioned, accepted, regretted, cherished... so much of that is filled with moments like, 'what would Captain Picard do? How would the Avengers handle this? Which Slipknot song would be most comforting right now?' With the explosion of semi-social media sites (like tumblr here, and its gateway drug, Pinterest), I've been able to dive even deeper into the fandom. The fic, the art, the theories & analyses... it turns my appreciation for all these things I love to 11. But it wouldn't be possible without the most critical element: the fans.

Because people have such a love for, and identify so strongly with the stories & characters of their respective fandoms, they go deep into hidden meanings, major themes, & what they imagine these stories would be like if they were able to direct the action. More than anything, what I love about fanfic/fanart is that while yes, we're creating what we want for the characters, it's more a reflection of what we want for ourselves, both in the same situation as the characters and in life in general. For example, I see SO MUCH art/fic of Crowley & Aziraphale being open & free in showing their love for each other. I see so many stories of them making up and living happily ever after. The art ranges from sweet & adorable to... ah... adult-themed, but the vast majority of the latter is passionate, tender, & clearly loving; rarely is it straight-up raunchy. Smutty? Totally. Raunchy? Not so much. And why? Because we know these two are IN LURVE, not just in lust. And we want what they (clearly) have, even if they can't admit it to one another. We, the fans, can live vicariously through these characters and these worlds, and there we can find what we're looking for.

I've had a rollercoaster of a life, emotionally speaking, especially in matters of romantic love, and much of that hasn't been pleasant. I've done so much soul-searching, shadow work, self-care and all that whathaveyou, but none of it- NONE of it- has come anywhere near to being as insightful as the fan-based art & analyses of the relationship between Crowley & Zira. I have spent the vast majority of the last week thinking about it, writing about it, going over & over how it applies to my life & experiences, and I gotta say... none of it would be possible without the remarkable Good Omens fandom. So seriously, thank you. THANK YOU. You've helped to make me a better person. You've helped to make me look back on my life, smile, and turn around... to look forward to what comes next.

Keep up the incredible work, creators. You never know whose life you could be saving.

[foldingfittedsheets]

I have never had a post-coital headache, but I saw the ask and it made me think...

Orgasming using a vibe hurts my clitoris. It doesn't even touch my clit because it uses airwaves or something to vibrate the air around the clit, not sure. And I don't enjoy vibrators that touch the clit because it just doesn't feel like anything pleasurable? I can't explain it but it doesn't feel good or bad just kinda numbs me.

I'll be getting bottom surgery to nullify my crotch someday, so I guess it doesn't matter much, since I can limp along till then. I'll be tucking the clitoris and the nerve bundle under some skin and tissue and hopefully the padding will help offset the pain (and I could finally use those cute giant wand vibrators with the big buzzy ball), but I'm just asking in case you have ever heard of this and are willing to respond on your blog.

For the record, I don't enjoy using my hands on my clit, doesn't feel good and dysphoric and bothers my asexuality (I don't like touching genitals at all and the wetness feels icky). I grew up using the pressure and squeeze method. Basically ball up a blanket, press it to my pubis, and then do a very prolonged, overpowered kegel and there you go (kinda tiring tho). I didn't even know I had a clit growing up, always assumed it was the urethra because it hurt to touch (turns out it's supposed to be wet, thanks homeschooling for the lack of sex ed).

So I use the vibrator but I hate the vibrator. The moments before the orgasm is just so painful. And I have to immediately turn it off because the continued vibration causes even more pain and makes my muscles clench up in response which makes it very difficult to pull the toy away from my body. When using it with my partner I have to "tap out" and she'll pull it away for me.

I low-key believe the multiple orgasms for clit+pussy based anatomy is a myth because how could it possibly feel good to touch there once the orgasm has happened? Sometimes I can't close my legs completely for minutes. That shit is so sensitive and like swollen? Throbbing? Why?!?

I theoretically like orgasms. I like the quiet feeling after them. But getting there sucks, masturbating is unpleasant (apparently normal people enjoy the whole process, I'm just there for the afterglow), esp when it's a maintenance orgasm and I'm not horny or physically aroused (sometimes I just think that I need to orgasm without really wanting to if that makes sense, weird ace shit).

This ask is longer than I hoped it would be, but there's lots of important context and I honestly don't know why my body is like this, Google is useless (esp nowadays).

Okay there’s a ton to touch on here, but first: vibes are not one size fits all. Everyone’s body’s are different and motors come in different powers and pulses. The “cute” massage wand types are actually some of my least favorite because they just go cataclysmic in power which is way too much for 90% of clits. They just have good marketing.

If possible, you can look for a gentler vibe. Jimmy Jane Form 2 has a pulse setting that’s reallyyyyy light, and puts vibrations on either side of the clit instead of directly on it. But there’s a lot of shapes and sizes that could be gentler than what you’re using now.

If you’re unsure check out a store and try the vibe on the tip of your nose. This is pretty close to how sensitive your clit is and can give you a frame of reference for how much power you actually want. Generally lower rumbles are more expensive but also more pleasant so that’s a cost/benefit you can run.

The other aspect of this is that clitoral tissue is actually massive. There’s a lot of stuff going on under the hood, so to speak.

Clitoral nerves get everywhere! That’s the whole thing with G-spots- you’re still hypothetically applying pressure to nerve endings associated with the clit. I’ve heard anecdotally that they can end up in the anus too but I couldn’t find a source to verify that.

The takeaway from how sprawling all those nerves are is that there’s probably places you might like sensation better that directly on the clit. Most clit havers in my experience found that pretty overwhelming, myself included.

If your main business with your junk has been businesslike and unpleasant to touch it makes sense not messing with it much. If your partner is a person you trust to explore with you can just have them feel around and caress and see if other areas feel stimulating without being as overwhelming.

As for getting so throbby and uncomfortable afterward, and multiple orgasms: In my experience and anecdotally this depends how you get there. When you come fast and hard your body reacts differently than when you edge into an orgasm. You can try changing up your routine to see if this makes a difference for you.

Some people can never do multiple orgasms, it’s rare for me but does happen on occasion, so it’s worth noting that smut has a lot to answer for in terms of how normal they make that. If you can’t get off more than once it is what it is. It’s not a myth but it’s not everyone’s reality.

I hope this was helpful, good luck and as you say, eventually after surgery this will get easier for you!

[deuxcherise]

Collar Crimes: Weasel In

C/w: Unhealthy behavior, yandere OC, yandere male, whiny yandere, gender neutral reader, comfort (?), fluff (?), mentions violent action, cute image of stoat for reference A/n: So I watched a video about a stoat, a type of weasel, and oml it's adorable as heck. And vicious. And we can’t deny a cute yandere, can we? Enjoy~ Masterlist | Part 0, Part 1 (you're here!), Part 2

The stoat is a very lovely creature. Quite small, halfway tameable, and very weasel-like. A long-shaped living doll of a creature. However, it is… less cute in its mannerisms. You've seen it, with its tiny form, take down a rabbit twice its size and thickness. You were a child back then when you first witnessed this shocking event in a documentary, and have long since accepted that not all cute things are gentle and innocent.

Perhaps that is why you haven't called the police yet, though you definitely keep your phone on hand. Just in case…

“(Y-Y/n)... I… This is not what it looks like!”

Really? Then what the heck am I looking at? 

The very large trash bag he is dragging away in the alleyway next to your apartment has a very suspiciously human shape, with a defined head, armed-bound torso, and bound legs. Sure, an idiot could chalk it up to Eris's strange tying technique, but you are no idiot.

Not to mention, the bag starts to squirm and make a muffled noise.

“Quiet,” Eris spit before he stomps on the bag so hard you hear a crack. The bag immediately stills. He then turns to you with a bashful smile, like the kind of smile you’d find on a person who accidentally made a mess in the kitchen because they were trying to make a cake for you.

…..

Yeah, that’s the same exact smile he had when the one time you found him in your kitchen at 3AM, in the middle of baking a cake for your birthday. Sweet as the gesture was, you’re pretty sure you’ve never given him a key to your apartment.

You sigh. “Listen, could you please be more…” You gesture to this whole scene with circular motions of both of your hands. “Inconspicuous about your crimes?”

Eris's eyes sparkle. “Of course, my love! I made sure there aren't any cameras or witnesses here to catch me!”

There were many cameras set up by your landlord just a few days ago, as a result of an uptick of crimes in the area recently. Knowing Eris… that landlord wasted quite a sum.

“Actually, the area here is pretty dangerous,” he adds. “You should come live with me!”

“I've said this before, and I'll say it again. No, thank you.”

His pleasant expression falls for a second before he pipes up, “Mm, okay! Then let me install some cameras!”

“No. No, thank you.”

“But (Y/n)! How else am I going to wat- protect you?” he whines, his arms flailing the trash bag like a child throwing a tantrum.

You sigh as you turn around and start walking back to your apartment. You ignore his cries for your name, unwilling to deal with people in general after finishing your 9-to-5 customer service job. That's how you found him actually, or rather how he found you. Funny, isn’t it? You don't understand why he's so… obsessed over you to this point. 

Why haven't you taken any real action so far? It’s because he’s been pretty harmless overall—aside from a few kisses on the cheek and head and hand. He really likes planting kisses on you, doesn't he? At least he doesn't kiss you on the lips… as far as you're aware…

Still in your work uniform, you collapse on your couch and take a nap for at least an hour. When you wake up again, you find Eris on top of you, staring intensely at your face with a very blank, doll-like expression. Realizing you're awake, his doll-like face breaks into a smile.

“(Y/n)~” he sweetly calls out to you, like a puppy greeting his owner. It would’ve been cute, but his history of creepy antics pollutes his image.

You don't question how he gets into your apartment without a key anymore. “Get off,” you command.

“Noooo… Don't wannaaaa.”

You sigh. He's being difficult again. You take a hand and push against his shoulder, expecting to push him off your bed as usual. This time, however, he's too solid and stable. Drowsiness is keeping you weak.

“Eris…”

“Yes, love?”

“Please get off… you're crushing me.”

“Eh?? No, I'm not!”

He really isn't, bearing his weight on his elbows and knees and not at all on your body. How long has he kept this pose?

Seeing his face about to whine again, you say, “Ugh, fine.” You roll over onto your stomach and close your eyes again.

“(Y/n)? Are you going back to sleep? You haven't had dinner yeeet.”

“.....”

“(Y/nnn).”

“Don't feel like eating,” you mumble.

“Uh… But (Y/n), you have to take care of your health. Or let me take care of your health.”

“Don't need you to. Leave me alone.”

“Hmphhhhh.”

“.....”

You hear him lower himself down onto your body to wrap his arms around you. His lips trace the back of your neck, much to your discomfort.

“(Y/n),” he whispers.

“.....”

“You're lonely, right?”

“.....”

“I am too, so I know. You don't have to tell me.”

“.....”

“Since we're both alone… I was thinking… we should become a family together… Isn't that a good idea?”

“.....”

“I can wait for you at home… cook for you… do the laundry… take out the trash… take care of our children…”

“I don't want any children,” you murmur.

He gently kisses the back of your head. “Of course, of course. I’m okay if it’s just you and me too~ Would you like a summer wedding or a winter wedding? Personally, I prefer winter-”

“I'm not… marrying you.”

“Mm… That's okay too! We can… elope, if that's what you want. As long as we're together.”

“I don't… like you that way.”

“Oh… does that mean you like me in other ways?”

What part of– You sigh. “Shut up… trying to sleep…”

You hear him giggle as he hugs you tighter and plants some more kisses on the back of your head. “Okay, okay, my love. I'm just… so happy. Being with you. I really am. I'll make you fall in love with me… someday, (Y/n).”

“Mm hmm… Sure…”

“Just need to… get rid of some more… pests… so we can be together… always…”

And the both of you head off to dreamland together on the couch~

[renhanaschewtoy]

What about some Lawrence headcanons? I'd love to hear if you have any ))

Yay! My first ask💕 Sorry if these are scattered or short or all over the place, I got excited and did this at work lol

Oh, dear, sweet Lawrence... I'll never stop being salty that he cold clocked me outside of the bar lmao I panic on quick time events. Caught me on my back foot lol

°King of always having bruises and not knowing where they came from. Was it from work? Is it just his fucked up body? Was it you? He couldn't have bumped his desk that hard, surely? But any day, any time- there's a few random bruises all the time of varying shapes, sizes, and color.

°While Lawrence hates going out due to his sociophobia, I could see him really liking botanical gardens. He definitely has learned what times are the least crowded or shit...after a while, might even just break in when they're closed. It's quiet, it's serene. Lawrence can take some of the plants home, precisely pruning carefully to propagate if he finds himself fond of them. In the same vein, I wouldn't put it past him to also slip some fucked chemicals to kill other plants or prune some to the point of withering should be feel so inclined.

°He likes collecting bones and rocks, could see Lawrence passing time by making shadow box art with the bones he collects. Rot is a part of death, it's the natural cycle, it's beautiful- it deserves to be celebrated to.

°Lawrence prefers honey to maple syrup. Given he's a tea guy, he's got a variety of different honeys, different flavors. He's not a charitable guy but he's gotten quite a few "save the bees" stickers with purchases and maybe got so high he donated a couple of bucks to some random bee conservation cause. Lawrence has no recollection of this.

°Roadkill Scrapbook. Idk, Lawrence strikes me as the guy who early on and before he got into what he got into and even had a real grasp on it- was really into just staring at and studying roadkill. And one thing lead to another where Lawrence photographs it for keeps. Dates them and adds notes as he seems fit

°When alone, prefers to masturbate in the shower. For efficiency, but really, it's to feel warm. Idk I feel Lawrence's body runs cold and given some of his... proclivities- it's a pleasant change up. Until you come around. Low key I could see this feeding into a bit of a temperature play or kink once he gets a taste.

°Works in a warehouse? Forklift certified. (I'm sorry I couldn't resist)

°Smokes more than he drinks but despite the bar scene, Lawrence likes Gin. Simple gin and tonics but I think he'd like a negroni if he ever went to a place that served them. For smoking tho? If he is going out or has something arduous to do, whatever- he does dab. It isn't so much that he likes it better or prefers it- it just gets the job done better, harder.

°Loves asphyxiation. On himself, on you. You're a bit more delicate though. Not that the science matters too terribly to him. Owns one very sturdy belt that's creased in a specific areas.

°Big fan of somnophilia. I don't need to elaborate.