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[monstersandmaw]

Male kelpie (dad-bod, single father, biker) x plus size f. reader - Part One (sfw)

Background info post on the Full Moon Motorcycles group here Oats Appreciation post here

Featuring a plus-size, bisexual, not very confident reader, and a divorced, Scottish, single-dad, biker kelpie with a soft-dad bod and a heart as big as his bike’s engine (possibly bigger).

CW: there is a very brief moment where a character (not Oats!) insults the reader for her size and uses some fat-phobic language towards and about her, unaware that she can hear him. If you’re sensitive to that, it is brief, but you can skip from “…you caught the conversation drifting over from the other guys who’d arrived just ahead of you.” to the paragraph beginning, “After some deep breaths and a check in the mirror…”. Also, if you squint, there’s a passing moment that could possibly be interpreted as the reader having some potential issues with food, but it’s not intended to be a big deal and it’s only for about two sentences. Still putting it in here too, just in case. 

Wordcount: 7562

You pushed open the glass door of Full Moon Motorcycles and willed yourself not to feel self-conscious or out of place.

Having both an older brother and a mother who rode motorbikes had at least given you a fair bit of familiarity with bikes and the general ‘biker culture’, but it was mostly the fact that almost all the ‘biker girls’ you saw posing on social media were slim and toned, which you were decidedly not.

From the utterly foetid takes in the comments section of the one post your brother had shared on his page with you in it, you’d also got the impression that the biker community was not particularly kind to any woman with a waist over 25 inches. It probably wasn’t the case, but your one experience with it had been enough to make you very wary.

And yet, as you made your way towards the bike shop’s counter and the older man with floppy, greying hair and warm brown eyes looked up, you were greeted with an open, welcoming smile.

“Hi there,” he said, standing up with a grunt from the comfy chair where he’d been sitting in the corner near the shop’s antique cash register. “What can I do for you?”

You smiled shyly and glanced along the wooden countertop before returning your gaze to him. “I’m looking for a present for my brother, but I’m kind of on a budget…”

“Gotcha. We’ve got some silly key fobs there,” he said, indicating a rotating display rack at one end of the counter, with mottoes that ranged from funny to explicit, “But if they like working on their bike themselves, you can’t go wrong with some maintenance supplies… Not the most glamorous but I promise they’ll be grateful to you all the same.”

“Could always tie a festive ribbon round it,” you said, and he chuckled and nodded.

“That’s the spirit.”

You eyed the reasonable price of the fobs with some relief, and then followed his gesture towards the various bottles of chain degreaser and the like, and a few other useful tools and kits that were stacked on shelves on the back wall to the right of a door that presumably led into the back and store rooms.

The right hand side of the shop had the counter and some shiny, new bikes that had been parked in a row around the perimeter of the space, and the left hand side was more open with a bench or two against the brick walls, and some red, mechanics’ tool-chests tucked against the back wall. A number of leather two- and one-piece suits hung in racks at the furthest end though, with helmets on shelves and a few rows of t-shirts, jeans, gloves, and boots displayed too. There were oil stains in the centre of the polished concrete floor, and you suspected that tinkering took place there outside of the shop’s usual opening hours.

The whole vibe of Full Moon Motorcycles was friendly and cosy, with a slightly industrial, grungy note for some flavour.

In short, you loved it.

“There are also some fun helmet covers –” the older man chuckled, and added, “A number of the regulars here have them, and there are also some earplugs, or perhaps a tough phone case and mount? A chain care kit? There are some vinyl stickers too, and t-shirts, socks, neck warmers, balaclavas, mugs, helmet care kits, thermals…”

Laughing, you held up your hands for him to stop, and he started to chuckle too.

“I’ll let you browse in peace, sweetheart,” he said, his whisky brown eyes twinkling. Even his un-looked-for endearment came across as kindly instead of creepy, and not many men could pull that off. “You just holler if you have questions and I’ll be happy to –”

The door opened behind you and he broke off as his attention was snagged by the arrival of a heavy-set guy in dark jeans and a softly-worn, black leather jacket. He held a black helmet with a tinted visor in his large hands, and he looked more than a little wind-blown and rumpled.

Incongruous with his rather roguish-dishevelment, a lock of his long, thick, slightly grizzled, black hair was held back by a little hair-clip with a Barbie-pink, fabric bow. It didn’t fit with the dark scruff of stubble on his jaw or the piercing green-blue eyes at all, but he seemed completely unfazed by its presence.

“Oats!” the older man exclaimed with obvious joy, clapping his hands. “It’s been a while, my boy! How was the trip to Scotland? You make it round the NC500 this time?”

The ‘boy’ looked to be in his mid to late thirties…

“Ach, no’ a chance this time, Hank,” the man chuckled with a heavy, Scottish accent lacing his rich, rough baritone. Exactly where in Scotland he was from, you couldn’t tell, but it was lyrical and attractive all the same.

“Ah, next time, next time. And is Natalie well?

“Oh aye, my wee Loch Ness Monster is doing just fine. She’ll be terrorising her mother for the Christmas holidays. I came straight from the road though — clutch started playing up just south of Birmingham.” He grimaced, but even that looked charming somehow. “Sort of hoped you might find a minute to take a look at it for me if I left the Old Girl here. No rush though.”

“No problem, Oats. We’ll get her running properly again in no time. Bet you’re missing little Natalie already,” Hank added sympathetically.

“Ah, you have no idea,” the man, peculiarly-named ‘Oats’, sighed ruefully, shaking his head.

“See she left you with a parting gift though,” Hank snorted, pointing at the bow hair clip.

With a slight frown to his dark eyebrows, Oats reached up and patted at his head until he found it, and then he laughed. It was a loud, delighted, full-bellied sound that reverberated through the space while it lasted, and he left the hair clip where it was with no trace of self-consciousness as he lowered his hand again. “Aye, that she did. Surprised it survived the journey down with my lid on and everything. Oh –” His unusually pale green eyes landed on you, watching him and lurking near the rows of t-shirts on the back wall, and he went still.

Those sea-grey eyes raked you up and down, clearly noting the way your black leggings clung to the curves of your thighs and hips, and the black hoodie, which maybe went some way to hiding the softness of your stomach a bit, and he swallowed visibly. He looked… hungry. That was not the usual reaction you had grown accustomed to from men, and you let the flare of heat lick up your insides for just a moment, daring to hope that maybe he did find you attractive.

“Sorry,” he said in your direction, with a soft, dusky smile. “Didnae mean t’interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” you managed to croak back at him before returning your attention, however reluctantly, to present options for your brother while the older man, Hank, hobbled out around the corner of the wooden counter to chat amicably with the man. You couldn’t hear what was said as the two chatted in lower voices, but it was evident that they were good friends. While they talked, however, you couldn’t help noticing that he stole occasional sidelong glances in your direction, and you felt your face warm pleasantly.

‘Oats’ was certainly an unusual nickname, but then again, almost everyone who rode with your brother also had their own nicknames for one reason or another. As you browsed, you wondered what Oats had done to earn that one. He certainly looked like a snack to you, but you vowed not to let your attraction to the stranger show. Awkward situations (or worse, silences) tended to arise when you let that happen.

He had a tanned, outdoorsy complexion, and longish, black hair that was tied back in a low ponytail that brushed below the collar of his black leather jacket. It looked like it had a tendency to flop into his face when not restrained by that out-of-place pink bow. He filled out the jacket very well, and clearly had a soft paunch, and his thighs looked frankly delectable in those thick, indigo jeans. You prayed you wouldn’t have to see him fully from the back if he turned around, to witness the way he filled out the seat of his jeans too.

Fuck. Concentrate.

Bike gifts for brother, not delicious-looking stranger you’re never going to see again.

“Well, I shouldnae hang about, I suppose.”

Oats’ voice cut through your musings in front of chain degreasers and you jumped a little. Glancing back over at him, you offered him a smile when he too turned to look at you one last time, and a slow, charming smile crept onto his handsome face.

“See you,” he said with a dip of his head. Before he strode from the shop though, he let his eyes roam once more down the length of you and he bit his lower lip, almost regretfully, then turned away abruptly.

Oh yes. He absolutely did fill out the ass of those jeans beautifully.

Quite honestly, you weren’t totally sure what you ended up getting your brother for his birthday. You took whatever it was to the counter in a daze, your mind replaying over and over the way he’d looked at you.

“Must say,” Hank said conspiratorially as he fished your change from the antique cash register and slid it across the polished, wooden counter towards you. “I’ve never seen Oats quite so taken with someone, miss.” He chuckled, his kind, whisky-brown eyes glinting. “You take care now.”

Swallowing, you nodded and left the shop, hoping perhaps to find Oats waiting for you outside on the street, leaning against his motorcycle, but life was not a movie, and wherever he was, he was not lingering in the hopes of seeing you. In fact, the street was completely deserted, so you crossed, clambered into your little hatchback, and drove home with the feeling that you’d let a pivotal moment in your life pass you by.

Your sour mood persisted like a raincloud for the whole week, but by the time you were driving over to your brother’s on Saturday for his birthday ride, you were trying to pull yourself out of it. You had your own helmet with you, secured in the back of the car, and beside it was (now wrapped) the present you’d got him. In fact, it was a chain care kit, and, although you hadn’t noticed at the time, Hank had thrown in a free keychain that said ‘In my defence, I was left unsupervised’ which was very on-brand for your brother. You had planned to go back and thank him for the freebie as soon as you could, but your brother’s birthday ride had been planned for that Saturday, and work had been hell that week, so you’d not had the chance.

Predictably, Alex wasn’t in the house when you rang the doorbell, so you followed the sound of metallic clinking and laughter, and went round the side to find him tinkering with his mad little Honda Grom in the garage, while his two best mates — Eggs and Sparky — were lounging around and either making unhelpful suggestions or lewd comments.

“Yo!” Sparky grinned when he saw you, sitting up straighter and almost falling off the mechanic’s tool chest he was leaning his weight against. At Sparky’s exclamation, your brother sat up and banged his head on the handlebars of the short little Grom with a curse.

“Hey,” you mumbled in Sparky’s general direction. “Happy birthday, Alex.”

Alex scrambled upright and came over to hug you, probably smearing grease and dirt all over your armoured jacket, but since it was black anyway, you didn’t mind too much. Alex was about as opposite to you as it was possible to get — straight up and down like a beanpole, and tall. You took after your mother, inheriting all her thick curves and soft edges. Soft heart too.

“Thought this might come in handy,” you mumbled when Alex released you and you held out the brown paper bag stamped with the logo of Full Moon Motorcycles.

His eyes lit up when he saw the logo, and he tore into it like a chipmunk after a peanut, grinning in delight when he’d dismembered it, and in particular he showed off the keychain to his mates. Eggs snatched it and tried to claim it for himself, but Alex was having none of it, and the three of them scrapped and goofed around while you sat down on an old, metal stool in the corner and waited for the other two of your small party to show up, with a cool, curdling kind of dread in the pit of your stomach when you heard one name in particular. Nooner.

Within an hour though, you were all out on the road.

You took the pillion seat behind Alex, and warded his mates off at red lights when they came for his killswitch to immobilise him. A while later though, Alex zoomed off down the open road that would take you all out of town and towards the somewhat famous biker cafe, ‘Elusive Neutral’, that sat nestled amongst the fragrant heather of the rolling hills surrounding the old market town.

The sky was a gorgeous, autumnal blue and the weather was perfect, neither too hot nor too cold, and as your brother’s Yamaha flew along the winding A-road that was every biker’s dream, you cracked a smile and gently tipped your head back. As much as it had scared you when you’d first ridden behind your mother all those years ago, you did love the feeling of being out on a bike. Not that you were actually brave enough to want to try and learn yourself though. Something always held you back, made you wary and unsure, and then you inevitably felt down about that too. God, you wished you had Alex’s wild confidence.

Nothing good ever seemed to last for you though, and when Alex’s R1 had purred into the car park behind Eggs and Sparky, and you’d hopped off to let him reverse more easily into a space, you caught the conversation drifting over from the other guys who’d arrived just ahead of you.

“…if he didn’t have his fat sister with him, we could have fucking ripped it up along those twisties.” That, of course, had come from Nooner, named for the fact that he rarely stuck to two wheels and always pulled wheelies, or ‘nones’, whenever he got the chance. Out of all of your brother’s friends, he was the one you liked the least, for… obvious reasons.

“Talk about killing the vibes, huh?” Eggs replied, trying to suck up to him, as ever. “More like ‘crushing’!”

The reason Eggs had earned his nickname was that he’d lost a bet and shaved his head when they’d all been about sixteen, and he’d looked like a boiled egg til it grew back. You wished you had the sass to remind him of that every time his spine seemed to crumble in favour of earning a half-hearted snicker out of Nooner.

When Alex joined you, he caught the crestfallen expression on your face and frowned, but you shook your head and walked away from them, heading for the cafe alone.

“Can’t wait to shove some cake in her fat gob already,” Nooner added as an aside to Eggs, and your vision blurred as tears welled along your lashes. Why did people have to be so cruel? To trample all over someone else just to feel a little taller themselves?

You vaguely heard what sounded like Sparky’s voice countering the comment, but you didn't stick around either way. If you mentioned it to your brother again, he’d just say it was banter with the guys and not to take it to heart. Easy for someone who's never been on the end of that kind of comment to shrug it off, after all.

You ducked straight for the toilets when you got inside the airy, modern cafe, not even bothering to look around or find a table first.

After some deep breaths and a check in the mirror to see that you hadn’t turned your eyeliner into a panda cosplay, you headed out again and made for the little bar that doubled as a counter for people who were there solo to sit and eat instead of taking up a whole table to themselves. None of your brother’s friends joined you, and when you glanced back over your shoulder, you saw that they’d settled themselves around a table in the far corner and already had a number for a server to bring their food order over. They hadn’t even waited for you.

“Fuck them,” you hissed through gritted teeth, taking a seat at the bar instead. The stools were made of old tractor seats, and they were surprisingly comfortable, and as you leaned your forearms on the countertop, the young woman behind the counter came over to you with a smile that made you feel a little better.

“Hey,” she said. “What can I get for you?”

You ordered a hot drink, and then took out your phone while you waited for her to make it for you.

For half an hour or so, you sat scrolling through social media and sipping your drink and telling yourself this was your brother’s day and not yours. He did come over a couple of times, but you declined to sit with his friends, and because he’d never had any real reason to doubt you before, he took you at your word when you told him you were happy enough where you were. “I don’t want to get in the way,” you said, and he believed you.

Patting you on the shoulder, he left you for the third time, and you looked down into the dregs of your drink with a heavy sigh. “This sucks.”

Outside, the sound of more bikes arriving made your ears perk up, and you wondered idly what they rode. Elusive Neutral had once been an old cattle barn, but it had been completely redone and the walls on two sides had been replaced with vast picture windows that showed the sweeping expanse of moorland beyond, and a small sliver of the car park at one end. Craning your neck, you saw a group of maybe five or six bikers draw up, some on hipster looking cafe racers and others on racy sports bikes. There was even a Ducati Panigale among them, and behind them followed an old, battered, blue pickup truck.

The door opened a little while later, and you glanced over, eyes drawn instinctively by the movement.

Above the general chatter and merry chinking of china in the room, the energy of the new group of bikers rose like a cloud of dizzy mayflies; buzzing and excited and full of joy. You watched them all with interest from your perch at the counter.

The first through the door was an absolute Amazon of a woman, with her long black hair restrained in a thick braid, and shoulders the width of a barn door. She was lean and tall, and in her biker gear she looked… incredible. Her face was strikingly handsome, but until she glanced down at the woman walking beside her, her features were hard and glowering and unspeakably stern. She held the door open for one of the others to follow her inside, but when she locked eyes again with the brunette by her side, her whole expression melted into unguarded adoration. Your gut twisted briefly with jealousy.

It wouldn’t matter to you who looked at you like that, if only someone would.

You looked away, and by the time you glanced back at the bikers, the whole group had filed in from outside. There was a guy with golden-brown skin and beautiful dark brown eyes who had his arm wrapped possessively around the waist of a pale, skinny guy in black jeans and a moth-eaten, black jumper, with his long hair tied back in a bun, and behind them came a strikingly attractive guy in a manual wheelchair, flanked by a very short biker with slightly anaemic looking skin. You wondered fleetingly if the guy in the wheelchair had ridden a motorbike there, and if so how, before you realised he was probably the most beautiful person you’d ever seen, with long, flowing red hair and dark green eyes, and the kind of mouth that was made for laughing, and for kissing.

Jesus, was it an unwritten rule of being a biker that you had to be unfairly attractive? Even Hank, who you recognised with a start of surprise coming in behind the guy with red hair, wasn’t unattractive, in a bulky, older man kind of way.

The guy walking with him though… he truly made your stomach swoop.

It was Oats.

You looked away before he could spot you, sitting alone at the bar like some pathetic creature waiting for cocktail hour to begin. It was lunchtime on a sunny, autumnal Saturday though, and there you were sitting alone because you didn’t fancy sitting with your brother’s loser mates.

God, the way Oats had looked in his tough-looking leather jacket, with his eyes crinkled mid-laugh at something the guy in the wheelchair had shot back at them over his shoulder… You bit your lip and stared into the bottom of your cold, empty mug like it would divine some kind of solution to your situation for you.

The new group didn’t seem to notice you while they filed up to the counter, jostling and joking, and when they drifted off to another corner of the cafe, you turned back to your phone, trying desperately to resist the almost overwhelming urge to keep turning over your shoulder to watch them.

Before too long however, you startled at a soft tap on your shoulder, and you looked around to find Oats himself stepping back to a polite distance and smiling down at you like he’d found a treasure in an unexpected place.

“Hey there,” he said in that rolling, Scottish accent that did unspeakably indecent things to your insides. “Sorry if I’m intruding, but you were at Full Moon last week, right?”

Mute for a moment, you nodded, and mustered up a slightly dazed smile for him.

“You… here alone?” he asked, eyeing the currently-empty seats to your left and right. In fact, someone had only just gathered up their belongings and left.

“Kind of?” you croaked, letting your eyes slide over to the table where your brother and his friends were hunched over one of their phones, snickering at something. “It’s… It’s my brother’s birthday today. I… tagged along as pillion, but… you know… I’m kind of a spare part really.”

At that, Oats’ dark eyebrows knitted into a scowl and he looked across the room at them before returning his attention to you. Then, his unearthly, almost prismatic, silver-green eyes took in your empty cup and he grinned. “Can I get y’a top up?”

Your instinct was to refuse, but you bit your lip. This didn’t feel real. A cute, handsome, courteous guy was actually taking an interest in you.

“Sure. Thank you.” And the smile that spread itself across your face telegraphed your delight in a way that was impossible to disguise with any kind of suave grace.

Oats, however, seemed equally delighted, and nodded. The barista came back over and he leaned his weight on the counter to talk to her. He seemed to have that enviably easy manner with everybody, and he even charmed a free slice of cake out of her too with what felt like no effort at all.

“Chocolate? Or something else?” he asked you.

“Pardon?”

“Cake.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine,” you said, but he frowned.

“You sure? I’m gonna have a bit of their chocolate cake. It’s so good, it’s practically a sin.”

“I…” you faltered.

He didn’t pressure you though and shrugged easily, turning back to the barista. “Gimme two forks with that, love. Just in case.”

“No problem,” she beamed back while she bustled about, and Oats eyed the empty bar stool next to yours.

“May I?”

You swallowed your nerves and nodded. “Please.” And then, because apparently a demon of confidence had temporarily possessed you, you eyed his slightly helmet-flattened forelock and said, “No pink hair clips today?”

He guffawed loudly enough that your brother actually glanced over and frowned when he saw you talking with a stranger.

Oats snorted and shook his head. “No, not today. My daughter is still up in Scotland with her mother.” He fixed you with a more serious look and said, “She and I divorced, before you get the wrong idea about me flirting like this with a beautiful woman.”

The compliment caught you so off-guard that you just froze for a moment, but when the heat of a blush filled your face, you looked away and he chuckled.

“I’m not normally so forward, but I’ve been kicking myself for not talking to you when I first saw you in Full Moon. Hank was telling me just this morning what a muppet I’d made of myself for walking away like that.”

You looked behind you at the group of his friends and then turned back to him. “Won’t they think you’re being rude, ignoring them like this?”

He shook his head and smiled. “They’re probably all taking bets on how quickly you’ll shoot me down.”

“What? I’d have to be an idiot to do that.”

At that, his face split into a huge, handsome grin and he shook his head just a little. “Lucky me,” he said. “You ride?” he added, eyeing your jacket that was obviously a motorcycle jacket.

You shrugged. “Pillion. I’ve never ridden myself, but my brother lets me come out with him sometimes.”

Oats nodded, and then, as the barista set down his coffee, your top-up, and the plate of decadent chocolate cake with two forks, he said, “I’m Euan, by the way, but everyone calls me Oats.”

You introduced yourself, and then said, “Oats?”

He snorted and nodded. “Not the worst nickname, for sure.”

“Can I ask where it came from?”

Oats nodded and shunted the plate towards you first before leaning his elbow on the bar and watching you while he spoke. “I think it’s because I’m a dad, but I’m always prepared for most situations, and when it comes to my Natalie, she’s always hungry. I’ve usually got about a thousand granola bars stashed away about my person —” he said, cutting himself off to pat conspicuously at his jacket pockets. Pulling a slightly dog-eared crunchy bar from his breast pocket, he wielded it like a magic wand at you and said, “Case in point.”

“Hence, Oats,” you said, eyeing the healthy brand name on the packet.

“Exactly. Like I said, it could be worse. See the tall lass over there with the dangerous scowl?”

You didn't need to turn around to know which of his friends he was talking about, but you did anyway. “Yeah.”

“We call her Pixie.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” he chuckled, stowing the granola bar back into his pocket and taking a huge scoop of the chocolate cake with his own fork.

“What do you ride then?” you asked.

“Triumph Bonneville T120,” he said with almost exactly the same intonation and fondness as he’d just said ‘because I’m a dad’, and you couldn’t help smiling. “Can’t be doing with all these glitzy sports bikes and the like,” he added with a laugh, setting his fork down and blinking slowly. His lashes, you noticed, were thick and dark and enticingly long.

Laughing, you smiled. “Don’t say that too loudly — my brother rides an R1.”

“Nice,” Oats grinned back. “But nothing could entice me away from my girl.”

“I’m surprised you’re here, flirting with me then,” you said. Evidently that confidence demon was still lurking.

Again, Oats laughed, though it was more of a low whicker this time, and it rolled right through you and lit you up all over. God, how long had it been since someone had laughed like that for you?

“There are… exceptions,” he said in a rumbling murmur. “Tell me about yourself?” he asked, and you did.

You spent the next hour at least talking in an easy back and forth with him while he charmed a few more refills from the barista and a lot of answers out of you, before one of his friends sidled up shyly and waited for a lull in your conversation.

“Sorry to butt in,” the small, unbelievably beautiful woman said. She was the one who’d been on the receiving end of the adoring look from the Amazon, ‘Pixie’. She had chocolate-brown hair falling in thick ringlets around a gorgeous face, and, you were pleased to note, she had wide hips and a softness to her that a lot of the biker chicks you’d seen online didn’t have.

“Coco,” Oats beamed. “Meet my new friend.” He introduced you by name, and Coco smiled at you, holding out her hand.

When your palms connected, you felt a warmth rush through you and you felt like your heart skipped a beat. The feeling like you could tip forwards and drown in her endless, dark brown eyes almost unseated you, but she let go of you and stepped back with a pretty smile on her Cupid’s-bow lips. “Pleasure to meet you. Just wanted to tell Oats that we’re thinking of heading off soon. Ariel has a photoshoot he wants to get to in an hour or so, and Demon’s keen to get going as well.”

Oats nodded, and you tried not to let your stomach drop down to your boots at the thought of all this coming to such an abrupt end.

Coco turned her head sharply to look at you just as the feeling hit, and she smiled faintly. “You could always stay here though, Oats,” she added with a pretty smile. “We’re only going back to Full Moon, and Demon clearly has no intention of lingering there…” She shot a meaningful glance back at their table. Demon, the guy with dark hair and tanned skin, was seated with the guy he’d entered with now draped in his lap, his skinny legs dangling as he sprawled languidly back against the guy’s muscular chest. Demon whispered something into his ear before he clearly bit the shell of his boyfriend’s ear, which made him sit abruptly upright and flush a vibrant pink.

Oats laughed again and shook his head. “Fuck me,” he chuckled privately. “Never thought I’d see the day. You guys go on. I’m… I’m very much content here.”

“I can see that,” Coco smirked, and walked away.

When she was out of earshot, you turned to Oats with a hot flush of your own in your face and said, “Don’t stay if you don’t want to… I’m sure my brother will be leaving soon anyway…”

Just as you said that, and before Oats could reply, Alex reappeared at your side and jutted his chin in Oats’ direction. “You good?” he chirped at you.

“Fine,” you replied. “This is Oats. I met him at Full Moon Motorcycles when I was buying your birthday present.”

“Oh,” Alex replied, holding out his hand for Oats to shake. “Good to meet you, man. You tell her what to get for me? If you did, it was a good choice.”

“No,” Oats said carefully, his grey-green eyes sliding back to your face even while he shook your brother’s hand amicably. “No, whatever she got you, it was all her.”

“Oh, cool,” Alex said. “Listen, sis, we’re gonna hit the road in a while. Nooner and Eggs want to hit the twisties for a bit, but I can’t really do that with a backpack, so Sparky said he’d give you a ride home, if that’s ok.”

You swallowed. “Um…”

“I can give her a lift,” Oats replied after a swift glance in your direction. “She’s already got her own lid, and there’s room on the Bobber’s double seat for both of us.”

“I don’t know, man,” Alex said with a wary frown.

“Your choice,” Oats shrugged easily, looking at you and holding his hands up just a little.

For a fleeting moment, you weren’t sure, but the idea of wrapping your arms around Oats’ thick middle and sitting astride his gorgeous bike kind of decided it for you. Besides, it was a long time since you’d done anything truly just for yourself; simply because you wanted to. You nodded at your brother. “It’s fine. You go ahead.”

“You sure?”

Nodding to reassure him, you smiled again and Alex backed up a pace. “Cool. Text me later, ok?” he said as he retreated towards his friends, clearly trying to hide his excitement at not having a passenger for the great, twisting section of A-road they were heading for.

“Will do. Have fun, and don’t crash!” you called after him. “Or get a speeding ticket!”

He waved a hand over one shoulder without looking back, and you laughed and returned your attention to Oats. “Brothers.”

“Bikers,” he replied. “You try telling that to any of that lot though —” he gestured towards his own group of friends who were now filtering out of the door. “You ready to head out too or do you want to stay?”

You did want to stay, but the seat wasn’t that comfortable anymore, and you wanted to move around a bit. “No, I’m good to go,” you said and prepared to slide off the stool, but Oats stepped down first and held out his hand to you. You didn't need helping down, and his playful little smirk told you he knew as much, so you rode out the last of that demonic possession and let your fingers slide across his palm and he steadied you off the stool.

“Thank you,” you smiled.

“Pleasure.”

You picked up your helmet from where you’d stowed it on the floor at your feet and straightened to find him waving casually across the room to the good-looking guy with the ethereally pretty boyfriend. Before he stepped away from you and made towards the door though, you cleared your throat and said, “Oats?”

“Mn?” Looking down at you, his entire attention honed in on you, like you were the centre of the universe, and you swallowed back a sudden welling of emotion.

“Listen… Thank you… for… coming over to me today. Like I said, it’s my brother’s birthday, and he was here with his friends, and he only included me so I didn’t feel completely left out, but…” Accursed tears washed over your eyes for a moment but you blinked them away furiously and ploughed on regardless. “I’m really glad I came along today anyway,” you finished rather pathetically.

His full, beautiful lips curled into a gentle smile and he blinked softly and exhaled. When he spoke, his voice was low and his words private, as though you weren’t standing in a busy cafe surrounded by people and the cheerful clatter of coffee cups and laughter. “I’m really glad I did too. I wasn’t going to, you know? I was going to stay at home and edit a boatload of raw photographs for a client, but Demon convinced me to come out. I guess I owe him.”

“‘Demon’? For… For the speed?” you asked, wondering how he came by his nickname.

“For the horns,” Oats replied in deadpan humour. “Have a look if he’s still there when we go outside. You ready?”

You followed him out of the cafe with a nod, and just as you took a deep, indulgent breath of fresh, heathland air, Oats’ group of friends filed out past you on their bikes. The one named Demon was in the lead, and the nickname made immediate sense. Sitting astride a blood-red Panigale, with his boyfriend clinging on behind him like a limpet, the guy had pale, curving horns fixed to the crown of his helmet.

“Yeah, that tracks,” you said, and Oats waggled his dark eyebrows.

The Amazon had a Yamaha R1 like your brother’s, but hers had a pearl-white wrap that made it look almost spectral, and riding out in front of her was Coco on a yellow and black Honda Hornet.

The telltale red plait told you that the guy in the wheelchair was on a modified Kawasaki, with unusual struts at the back that looked like they would come down when he stopped to stabilise him instead of having to take his legs off the foot pegs, where they were currently Velcro-ed in place. Watching the whole group file out was Hank, standing beside a battered old pickup. In the bed of the truck, you could just see that the red-headed biker’s wheelchair secured in place.

Hank waved the last of them off, then glanced over at Oats. The older man lifted his nose just a little, as if he too was enjoying the fresh, moorland wind that whipped across the car park, and he nodded once at Oats, and then at you to your surprise, before clambering stiffly up into his pickup and closing the door. It shut with a raucous yelp of rusty hinges.

You stood there and watched Oats’ friends all file out, all waving at Oats as they passed, before they set off down the road in a roar of revving engines to leave a lonely looking Bonneville waiting patiently near the stone wall of the car park nearby.

“Yours, I presume?” you said, nodding at it.

“Yup.”

“She’s a beauty,” you mumbled, self-consciousness prickling at the sides of your neck for the silly comment.

Oats beamed though, his sea-foam eyes lighting up as the crinkles around his eyes and the slight dimples in his cheeks creased under the force of his obvious pleasure. “Thank you. She’s my pride and joy. You ready? Oh, wait, you should put your address into my phone before we get going,” he laughed.

You nodded, taking the offered phone from him. Your fingers brushed against his warm skin as you took it, and a tiny thrill passed through you that you did your best to quash. With your address plugged in and a route home waiting to be followed, you handed it back to him and looked up into his handsome, rugged face as he smiled.

“Cheers. Let’s go,” he said, and you trailed along beside him over to his bike, heartbeat thudding in your ears with your nerves.

He swung a leg over and turned the key, then pushed the bike upright and nudged the side-stand in with his left foot before flicking the switch and bringing the bike to life. She growled beautifully, the low, thundering rumble of her engine sounding far more visceral and primal than your brother’s sports bike did. Perhaps it was the design of the lower-slung Bonneville, with its visible parts that made you think of a Steampunk aesthetic, but you instantly preferred it. Plus, the double seat looked way more cushioned — and less precarious — than the one you’d perched on to get to the cafe that morning.

Oats got himself comfy while you slid your helmet on, then he looked over his shoulder at you and nodded, so you took that as your cue and got settled on the pillion seat behind him. The footpegs were already down. The pulsing purr of the machine beneath you was almost enough to distract you from the fact that you were entrusting your life to a relative stranger, whom you’d never seen ride before, and as you climbed on and rested your hands politely on his shoulders, you felt a shiver travel through your whole nervous system.

“Do whatever’s comfortable for you, obviously,” Oats said over the noise of his bike, “But if you want to hold my waist — if you can actually get your arms around my middle, that is,” he chuckled self-effacingly, “— feel free. Totally up to you.”

“Thanks,” you yelled back, and, because apparently that pesky demon of confidence was still kicking around, you hugged his torso.

It was wonderful.

Slowly snaking your arms around his middle, you felt your chest press against his back and you caught the way he inhaled slowly and tried not to wonder what it meant. It felt so good to hold him that you had to remind yourself it wasn’t a hug. It was to keep you in place while a gorgeous stranger drove you home on his equally gorgeous bike. With a final thumbs-up to check you were happy, to which you replied with a nod of your head and tried not to clack your helmet against his, he pulled away and your heart leapt for the sheer joy of it.

Where the R1 was built for sleek speed and bursts of power, the Bonneville was build to be enjoyed, and oh gosh, did you enjoy every curve.

And not just the curves in the road, either.

Oats was soft, but he was solid, and the urge to rest one hand on his thick thigh was almost overwhelming, until he took the corners at just the right pace to be exhilarating without you having to worry about your safety, and you clung on instead and laughed behind the safety of your visor.

It was all over way too soon, and as the Bonneville chugged into your road like a steam train and halted outside your poky, terraced house with its quaint little kitchen garden out the front in the postage-stamp of space between the pavement and the house, your heart squeezed painfully in your chest. Please don’t let this be it, you thought desperately.

You went through the motions of getting carefully off the bike without staggering or falling, and again, Oats held out his hand to help steady you. You gripped his fingers gratefully and when you gave an extra little squeeze to his hand at the end, you could have sworn he answered with one of his own and a throaty chuckle.

He dismounted too, which surprised you, and you wondered if you were going to have to ask him inside. As much as you wanted that in principle, you desperately didn’t want it to happen today because the house was a mess: laundry was still hanging up all over the place, and you’d cooked a curry the previous night and it was definitely still lingering in the air.

Oats took off his helmet but left his bike idling, which went a little way to reassuring you, and when you looked more closely at his expression, you thought you saw a hint of something familiar lingering in the corners of his eyes. Was he nervous?

Swallowing thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing behind the thick, 5 o’clock shadow that looked like it lingered pretty constantly no matter the time of day, Oats took a deep breath, held it, and then smiled at you. “Fuck,” he exhaled, and laughed. “I’m… very rusty at all this.” He held his helmet in both hands before him, toying with the strap.

“If I gave you my number, would you maybe like to meet up again?” you asked, taking pity on the man.

“Very much,” he said softly. “Like I said, Natalie is with her mum for the holidays, and apart from a wedding I’m covering next week, this is a pretty slow time of year for me. I’m free… mostly whenever.”

The reminder that he had a daughter with someone else did make you wonder what you were letting yourself in for. Children weren’t really something you had any expense of, since neither you nor your brother had shown any parental inclinations yet, and you weren’t particularly close to your cousins who had small kids.

“Ok, let me give you my number and we can figure something out.”

That done, he slid his phone back into his pocket and zipped it up, biting gently at his lower lip for a moment. “I know it’s bold,” he said, “But may I kiss you?”

Your heart skipped and soared. Breathless, you looked up at him and whispered, “Yes.”

His tiny, gentle, lopsided smile heralded the kiss’ approach, and he took your jaw delicately in one, leather-gloved hand as he leaned down and brushed his lips against yours. They were soft but insistent against yours, and you answered with a little moan as your eyes fluttered shut.

He groaned, pulling you closer with a low growl so that you were pressed flush against him for a moment before he stepped back and exhaled roughly. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Thank you. I’ll… I’ll see you soon?”

You nodded, feeling like you were floating inches above the ground.

You watched him re-mount his bike and adjust himself a little once he was settled, then he revved it playfully for you, and rode away after a final look back at you. He flipped his visor down as he pulled away, and you watched the bike and its rider disappear down the road.

‘Soon’ couldn’t come soon enough… 

__

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[spooky-holtz]

I'll Be Home For Christmas

Melissa Schemmenti x reader

Genre: fluff (possibly alludes to smut at one point? If you squint?)

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: I know Christmas was almost two weeks ago but this has been sitting in my drafts for weeks. So enjoy, even if my timing is a little off :)

--------------------

December. Quite easily the best and worst month of the school year. As another calendar year winds down, so do rigorous lesson plans, with most teachers at Abbott choosing to give in to the growing excitement among the students as the holidays draw nearer. 

Less time is spent actually teaching and a lot of allocated lesson time is spent watching movies on huge, outdated TV screens, students gathered around the devices on Eagles rugs that were so generously ‘donated’ by Melissa earlier that year.  

As the month goes on you find yourself spending more time inside your classroom, herding the group of preteens that make up the school choir as successfully as you would herd cats. Needless to say, it’s been a stressful few weeks of carol singing and rehearsals, trying to convince a group of kids that it’s not ‘lame’ or ‘cringe’ to appreciate music the way you do.  

As the resident music teacher at Abbott Elementary, you find it incredibly difficult to get young people inspired in the way you so desperately want them to be, often having to let go of the talent you see among some aspiring young musicians for reasons outside of your control. Though the budget doesn’t stretch to allow much in the way of extracurricular activities, choir practice is the one activity where you have your greatest tool already at your disposal; your voice.  

As much as you adore these kids, getting them to concentrate after a full day of learning is no easy feat, with them often choosing to sit around in groups gossiping or scrolling on Tik Tok rather than join you around the old piano that stands in place of a desk in your classroom, where you sit on your creaky stool, waiting for them to join in with you.  

After a particularly difficult lunchtime choir practice in the middle of December, you find your feet carrying you to the sanctuary you often retreat to during your breaks: the teachers’ lounge. You trudge along the hallway, the heels of your sneakers squeaking slightly against the polished concrete floor as you struggle to find the motivation to get you there, dragging your feet along the floor.  

As your hand wraps around the handle and you pull the door toward you, you’re instantly engulfed with the scent of burnt coffee and the sound of chatter as the little groups that sit around the room carry on their conversations, entirely too distracted to notice the door opening.  

Jim Gardner addresses the room from the small TV that sits on the opposite end, his newscast largely going unnoticed by the audience as they munch on leftovers or pore over today's newspaper. Much like Jim, your entry into the room goes unnoticed save for a pair of emerald eyes that you can’t help but glance toward.  

Melissa is already looking back at you over the rim of her glasses, phone in hand, the slight frown on her features already telling you that she’s noticed the lack of energy you carry. You can’t help but be drawn toward her, almost as if being pulled in by an imaginary force. She’s already pulled the empty chair by her side out by the time you reach her, and you collapse down on to it, sighing heavily, leaning your elbows forward onto the cold surface of the table in front of you for support.  

“Choir practice really that bad today, huh?” she asks, sympathy laced across her face.  

“I swear, these kids are turning me grey even faster,” you groan, bringing your hands up to cradle your forehead, “I mean, seriously, how hard is it to get through ‘Silent Night’ without laughing at the word ‘virgin’?” 

The silence that comes from the redhead is deafening as you turn your head slightly in your hands to catch a glimpse of her expression. Her lips are pursed slightly, and her eyes are a little too focused on your hair, doing everything she can to avoid eye contact; a telltale sign that she’s fighting back a laugh. When she finally reaches enough composure to meet your eye line, she can’t help but snicker.  

The sound makes you take your head out of your hands and throw her the most unimpressed look you can muster, though it’s a halfhearted glare.  

“I’m sorry,” she begins to apologize, “but that word was probably the funniest thing ever when I was that age too. Cut them a little bit of slack.”  

Great, so not only do your students think you’re a ‘nerd’ for making them sing carols but Melissa does too. Because having the woman you have an enormous crush on think that is exactly what you needed to round out your year.  Almost as if she can sense your descent into overthinking, Melissa breaks the silence.  

“Hey, I’m just messing with ya,” she says. She reaches forward, pulling you out of your spiral, and rests her hand on the thigh that sits closest to you, patting gently. “Besides, you’re cute when you’re grumpy.”  

Your eyes dart to hers at the comment and you’re met with a wink. The simple move turns you into putty, melting you to bend to her will. Her hand burns through the material of your slacks where it still lays against your thigh, her thumb rubbing gentle circles in an effort to soothe you. You’re sure your face is matching that same level of heat that radiates from it.  

She smiles back softly before turning back to her phone, leaving her hand resting against the patterned material you wear. The contact grounds you and helps you to think a little more rationally. While she’s distracted on her phone, you reach forward onto the table to grab Melissa’s worn Stanley Tucci mug and steal a swig of the steaming black coffee that sits within. The harsh flavor makes you wince, with you preferring your coffee with milk and an obscene amount of sugar to make it even barely drinkable. The expression you wear causes Melissa to giggle, the redhead having looked up almost knowing that your face would be a picture of extreme disgust.  

As she laughs the hand on your thigh squeezes and she leans into you, the lines around her eyes accentuated by the deep laugh that’s taken over her being. You decide that this is the most beautiful version of Melissa you’ve ever seen. Carefree, happy, and relaxed.  

The moment comes to an abrupt end as Barbara enters the room, both you and Melissa turning to the creaking door as it opens. Her eyes naturally fall to your table, much as your own do when you enter the teachers’ lounge, and her gaze lingers on you before she speaks up, barely giving herself a chance to sit down.  

“Oh sweetheart, you look terrible,” she says, concern laced across her features. She’s not wrong. You know the bags under your eyes are worse than ever, having forgone sleep to choose which Christmas carols are least likely to make a room full of elementary schoolers insult you. You wish you had just chosen to sleep instead because every option you threw at your group of angels ended with nicknames being thrown right back at you.  

“See, I told you that you looked bad,” Melissa says, the playful glint in her eye accompanied with the squeeze of your thigh letting you know she’s kidding.  

“You look like you need this Christmas break,” Barbara adds, “Actually, why don’t you come to the little shindig Melissa and I have here on the last day? Get that break started early for you.”  

It’s worrying how quickly you accept the invitation but Melissa’s hand on your thigh paired with the musky smell of her perfume makes it impossible to decline.  

“Of course, I’ll come! Do I need to bring anything?” You ask.  

“Nothing at all, we’ve got it all covered,” the older teacher replies. “Just bring your dancing shoes.” 

You’ve visibly relaxed at the prospect, which doesn’t go unnoticed by your company. While you’re distracted taking another, albeit smug, sip of Melissa’s coffee, Barbara shoots the redhead a knowing look, quirking her eyebrow as she does so. For a split second, Melissa turns the same shade of red as her hair, caught out by Barb and the confession of a pretty obvious crush she gave a few weeks ago. She quickly manages to regain her composure, hand still resting on your thigh and phone still in hand.  

You would think that a full week later, after hours of Christmas songs later, that you would be sick of carols. But you still find yourself sitting in the teachers’ lounge long after the rest of the faculty has left the building on the final day of school before winter break, with your usual duo and the addition of Mr Johnson. The room is filled with a warmth that doesn’t just come from the school’s subpar heating system, but instead from the situation you find yourself in.  

You feel a slight buzz from the copious amounts of wine you’ve consumed since the end of the school day, your stomach lined with Melissa’s incredible cooking and sweet treats brought in by Barbara. You feel that Mr Johnson is in the same boat as you as he mills around the room, plastic cup filled with what you can only assume is even more wine, swaying by himself to the record that plays from the relic of a radio that sits on one of the many cabinets in the room.  

Your attention is immediately drawn elsewhere when Melissa’s cackle fills the room, her and Barb sharing stories that they’ve no doubt already told each other a few dozen times over the years. You completely miss the anecdote, but you still can’t help a smile from breaking out on your face at the sound of laughter, the noise acting like music to your ears – it’s far better than anything that could possibly be played on that radio right now.  

Almost as if by cue, the pair finish their story and the older of the two decides to rise from her chair, beckoning to you as she does so.  

“Come on, I wanna start to shake my groove thing,” says Barbara, already swaying slightly from the few glasses of wine she’s consumed herself. You raise your eyebrows, incredulous, matching her action and standing from your chair yourself, moving further from the security of the table as a swing version of “Jingle Bell Rock” continues playing. “I need a dance partner and you’re the perfect height so get yourself over here.” 

She doesn’t give you a chance to respond before her hands quickly mold you into shape, moving one of your own to her hip whilst the other grips your open palm.  

“Wow Barb, at least buy a girl a drink first,” you grin as she swats at your shoulder, giggling along herself. The bells on the front of her extremely festive bright red sweater jingle as she does so. The swaying of your ‘dance’ lasts for a mere few seconds before Barbara interrupts it herself.  

“Melissa, I think we may need to swap places,” she says as she glances at where Mr Johnson stands, eyes still closed and nursing his plastic cup of wine. “I have a feeling Mr Johnson may need some assistance.”  

Melissa mumbles her response as she comes nearer to you, seamlessly swapping places with the elder woman. You completely miss the wink that is thrown her way from Barb, eyes still focused on Mr Johnson’s one-man party.  

When you turn your head back to face in front of you, you’re naturally drawn to the bright green eyes that sit slightly below your eyeline. You feel your heart stutter in your chest at the sight, rarely getting to see them this close. It always baffles you how many shades of green, blue and brown come together to create a colour that can only be described as ‘Melissa’. You realize you’ve been staring a little too long when a change of song and her words break you from your thoughts.  

“Come a little closer, you can’t dance properly if you leave enough room for Jesus and the 12 disciples,” she says, her tone playful and smile wide. You can’t help but throw your head back in laughter as her hand snakes from your hip to the small of your back to bring you in closer. There's no mistaking who is leading who.  

When you bring your head back Melissa is considerably closer than before. She’s so close that you can see each individual eyelash under her thick layer of mascara and eyeliner, along with the slightly smudged edge of her lipstick, the deep red of the wine making the colour even richer. The smell of her musky yet floral perfume invades your senses as she looks up toward you. You move your hands from her shoulders to link together behind her neck, her red curls tickling your wrists.  

You can feel every slight movement she makes as Frank Sinatra croons at you both as you sway slightly in place, too scared to move too quickly in case you scare each other. Her thighs almost touch yours and your chests are almost entirely pressed together. You hope she can’t feel your heartbeat; the speed and intensity of it would almost instantly give away your feelings toward her. Her body this close to yours makes your head spin, your mind racing with possibilities of other situations you may find yourself this close to her in.  

You can feel every breath she lets out against your lips, making you aware of how little it would take to connect them with her own. You’re pretty sure she’s noticed too because of the way her eyes keep flicking down to look at them every few seconds. You can feel her hands burning a hole through the material of the shirt against your back. As if she can hear your thoughts, she moves them slightly lower, coming to rest against the waistband of your trousers and dangerously close to your backside. What you wouldn’t give for her to just bite the bullet and slide them into your back pockets to pull you impossibly closer to her.  

“You know, I, uh, never wished you a happy Christmas,” she breaks the tense silence, almost whispering as if anything too loud might startle you. “So Happy Christmas, Hun.”  

She wears a slight smile on her lips, suddenly dropping the hard exterior she always carries to become the softer, more vulnerable version of herself you’ve come to fall madly in love with.  

You can’t help but melt at the sight, your head dropping forward to lean your forehead against hers. She welcomes the move with ease, closing her eyes as you both sway slightly to the music, never moving from your position.  

“Happy Christmas, Mel.” 

[melonba11s]

Another Glass (Strade/MC fanfic)

You're thirsty, so Strade gets you something to drink!

CW: Coerced Participation, forced ingestion/ coerced Ingestion of Non-Food Items, Vomit, Nose bleed (minor), Canon Typical Behavior.

You were thirsty. Really thirsty. So when Strade came down into the basement, you begged. 

“Please, just something to drink…” Your voice cracked as you spoke. You cut off your begging short. Talking just made your mouth more dry. Strade cocked an eyebrow at you, grinning. 

“Sure buddy, I’ll get you something to drink!” You perked up just a bit, as much as being bound and half naked in some guy's basement would allow. Water. Juice? Maybe a Beer. It didn’t matter. You just needed something liquid down your throat. 

He was at the counter now, humming and glancing back, as if to make sure you couldn’t see what he was doing. Everytime he glanced back he’d give you a grin and turn away. 

You took this opportunity to look around the basement, usually when the lights were on and Strade was here you were… too occupied to get a proper look. 

The floor had some weird brown stains across it. You decided to ignore the floor. There were all sorts of tools hanging off the walls. Including a saw. You found yourself staring at the saw. 

Each of its teeth polished and sharpened, it shone. It could probably go through bone like nothing. 

“Here you go, Buddy!” Your attention snapped back to Strade. He had a glass of some yellowish looking liquid. It looked sort of like apple juice. 

“Admiring my… ah… what's the word?... M��nnergarten? … Man Cave?” He shook his head a little. Something he did when something wasn’t a direct translation, but it was close enough. Assuring himself he did great.  

He reached forward with the glass. Warm apple juice wouldn’t be your first choice but you had to take what you could get. You opened your mouth, eying it. It moved… too slowly to be apple juice. Too thick. It clung to the glass too, and it wasn’t until he tipped it into your mouth did you have the brains to think “wait who would keep apple juice in the basement?” 

The liquid that hit your tongue was thick, it coated it instantly. You gagged as the taste of chemicals hit the roof of your mouth and you turned your head away from the glass instantly, spitting and choking. 

Strade was laughing. 

“Wh-What the fuck was that?” you managed to ask, your entire mouth filled with the burning acrid taste. 

“Motor oil!” Strade said, cheerfully. He still had most of the glass left over. Its contents were threatening to spill over the sides as his body shook from his laugh. 

“Th-That’s not… edible…” Your voice faltered, as you gasped for breath, continuing to spit to try and get the taste out of your mouth. Strade just kept an eye on you, grinning. 

“Not thirsty anymore then? I noticed you admiring my saw, wanna get a… closer look?” It felt like your heart stopped for a moment. He was moving towards that fucking saw. You know what he could do with it. 

“No! I’m still thirsty!” You gasped, leaning forward. “Just… I’ll drink it.” You had to be going insane. The idea of drinking more made your stomach lurch. Strade however, seemed pleased. 

“Sure thing, tell ya what… I’ll even let you hold the glass yourself.” Was he going to free your hands? Thoughts raced, of action movie scenes. Smashing his head into the concrete, making your getaway while he was dazed. 

But all he did was free one hand from the rope, before making sure the other was tied securely to the pole. With that, he set the glass down in front of you and backed off, arms crossed, watching. 

You swallowed thickly. This would do nothing to quench your thirst. If anything it would make it worse… But it had to be better than whatever else he was thinking about doing. 

You grabbed the glass, listening to the small “tink” of it on the concrete. Just… Hold your breath and guzzle it down. It would be easy. It had to be easy. 

You raised the lip of the glass to your mouth, and squeezed your eyes shut before tilting your head back. 

The taste of chemicals flooded your mouth again, irritating and grating against all your nerves. Your instincts were screaming at you to spit it out, as the oil slipped between your molars and under your tongue, coated your gums. 

You suppressed your gag reflex and swallowed it. You fucking swallowed it. 

The second gulp wasn’t any easier, your stomach twisting as the foreign contents splashed inside it. You had to fight down another gag as you forced a third mouthful down your throat. 

Then the glass was smacking against the concrete, a small crack forming in it from the force as you hunched over, gasping for air, tears filling your eyes and overflowing. 

It was empty though. You were safe. You did it. You looked up at Strade, blinking tears from your eyes. 

Strade whistled, looking impressed. You’d impressed him. That had to be good. 

“You really seemed to enjoy that, buddy!” You didn’t. Strade reached behind him and pulled a bottle off the counter. You squinted at it, some kind of brand name… 10W-30… 

The fucking motor oil. 

“I bet you’d like another glass.” He was approaching, looking at the cup, shaking the bottle of motor oil. He was teasing you. He was fucking with you. 

He had to be. He knelt down again, looking at the cup, then at you. 

“Don’t you?” he pressed. You what? Strade made a show of looking over at the wall, and you followed his gaze. The saw stared back at you, teeth glinting in the light. 

“Yes!” You answered before you could even understand what you were doing. “Please! I’ll take another glass.”  

His laugh echoed off the walls. It bounced around inside your head. The “glug” sound of oil being poured went straight to your spine, it sent horrible shudders down it. Another glass. Another glass. Another glass.

“Bon Appetit” His accent made you think he’d spoken German again, before you recognized the words. Words you’d heard at french restaurants and from romantic movies. 

Enjoy your meal. 

Somehow you didn’t think you’d find this on the menu at Mirazur. 

Your hand was shaking annoyingly as you grabbed the glass again. The oil spilt over the sides, down your hand. You’d wasted some. 

This time as you brought it to your lips you smelt it. It had an odd sweet smell to it. Something coppery as well. 

You inhaled the scent deeply, it wasn’t all too bad. Then you took another sip. 

A gag. A choke. You began to cough. The glass fell from your hands and shattered across the floor. 

The honey colored liquid spread across the floor, taking shards of glass with it. Something was running from your nose. Something was leaving specks of red in the puddle. Strade was whistling, saying something. 

Your nose was bleeding. You raised your free hand to wipe it, before your stomach gave another horrible lurch. You swallowed back the rising bile. You couldn’t. He’d count it as erased progress. You couldn’t. 

It rose again, and you nearly swallowed your own tongue to keep it back. An odd choking noise, then hot and foamy liquid began to spew from your mouth. You hunched forward. 

You couldn’t keep it down. It spread like the waves at the beach did across sand. Thinning as it got farther away from its source, pushing whatever was in its path, splattering and splashing. 

The taste of acid and chemicals and oil made your head spin. Or was that just because you were unable to breath, your stomach continuously cramping and forcing you to continue. 

You used your free hand to support yourself, feeling some of the stray glass from the cup cut into your fingers. A stream of red to join the foul yellow sea that had begun to grow in the basement. 

Boots stomping through it, not caring about the muck, approaching you. You gave a final hiccup, your stomach cramping one last time, having given all it had to give. 

You expected a hand in your hair, pushed forward into your own mess. Demanding you to clean it up. A boot into your stomach maybe, forcing you to continue to vomit despite your emptied stomach. 

Instead there was just a hand on your back, it was rubbing slowly. Strade was making a “tut tut” sound with his tongue. 

He was kneeling next to you, careful to keep his pants out of the vomit. Another hand on your shoulder, sitting you up. Sitting up made it easier to breathe, the back of your head hitting the pole as you raised your nose to the ceiling. 

The force of your vomit had caused you to break out in sweat, and you shivered at the sudden cold of the basement. 

“Want me to help you with that?” Strade asked. He didn’t wait for a reply, you didn’t know what he wanted to help with, until he was pinching your nose. Brief panic, then realization. He was talking about your bloody nose. 

You stared at him, he looked mildly amused, but there was something else in his expression. Something you hadn’t seen before. You both stared at each other for a few minutes before Strade let go of your nose. 

“I better get this place hosed down.” he muttered, standing and shaking the mess off his boots. “Tell you what, I’ll let you have a drink from the hose! As a reward.” He grinned, ruffling your hair. 

You could barely speak, your tongue felt like sandpaper, your throat like a dessert. 

“Water?” you asked, the effort to say a single word making your vocal chords crackle and pop. 

“Water.” Strade replied, with a smile and a nod of his head.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Rain or Snow, Sleet or Shine

Rollo time? 😇 Rollo time. Now featuring 100% more Gargoyle-kun (I think he, Rollo, and the NBC mob students should all be one big happy found family to mirror Diasomnia 😌). I took a lot of writing inspiration from this collection of illustrations; please check out the artist!

IT MAKES ME MAD SAD THAT WE DON'T GET TO SEE ROLLO GROW LONG TERM LIKE THE OB BOYS DO BECAUSE HE'S JUST AN EVENT CHARACTER 🤡 SO LET ME HAVE THIS, LET MY FIRST PROPER FIC OF 2023 BE THIS.......... . . ....... .. ..... . .... . . . . .. . ....

“No matter what the weather, Flamme-kun has always diligently ascended the tower to polish the Bell of Salvation to a fine shine.”

***This fic contains massive Glorious Masquerade spoilers!!***

Imagine this…

Twelve o’clock on the dot.

Like clockwork, the familiar footsteps sounded--a soft, concise pitter-patter upon a rickety stairwell. A hatch somewhere creaked open, and a human cloaked in fluttering fabric appeared at the top of the bell tower. His fingers were carefully folded together, a diamond-cut crimson gem crowning his left middle finger.

A passing breeze raked its fingers along the strip of red that trailed out from his voluminous hat as he made his way toward a great brass bell--the crowning jewel of his school and the city. He came to a halt a foot before it and, with a respectful incline of his head, he let his words resound off of the magical tool.

“Good afternoon. Do pardon the intrusion. I have come to tend to you once again.”

“... Right on time, Flamme-kun.”

The deep, gravelly voice came from one of the many stone statues flanking the perimeter of the bell. It boasted the broad, muscular torso of a human, yet the horns, wide nose, and wings of something decidedly animalistic. Eyes the color of concrete twinkled with life.

Rollo smiled dryly at the gargoyle. “You are up early today, sir.”

“Ah, the others like to sleep late in their old age.” The gargoyle waved a hand. “Me though, I’m fit as a fiddle!”

There was a pause as the gargoyle picked out a few strands of residual bird’s nest from between his teeth. “Shouldn’t have slept with my mouth open,” he grumbled. “Those darn things set up shop wherever they please. No respect for their elders!”

“Yes.” Rollo gave a brisk nod to pair with his polite affirmation. “Then, if you will excuse me…”

He turned away, presenting his back to the gargoyle. Producing a small container of paste and a cloth, he went about his work.

Rollo had gotten the routine down by now; slathering a mixture of equal parts vinegar, salt, and flour over brass and letting it sit would eat away at the accumulated grime. He'd rinse the bell clean with soapy water and dry it with a cloth. All of this, he did by hand, using only a stepping stool to reach the crevices and the highest points.

With the bell refreshed for the day, its afternoon toll would reverberate ever clearer throughout the city. The air swelling with magic, the people roused from their rituals.

He would do the very same tomorrow, and the day after that, and the following day, and for every day until the end of time. Through rain and sleet, sleet or shine.

And then...

His hand stilled as the truth of monotony finally set in.

Then what?

Rollo’s fingers curled, sinking into the fabric of his dishcloth. His expression was a cold, slight grimace reflected back to him in the brass. Half of his face was sharp and clear, the other half clouded by his cleaning paste.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Memories tinted in crimson flared up in his head. Petals ablaze, like live embers, dancing against a midnight sky. Flowers scorched to an untimely, ashen end.

Light suddenly snuffed out.

A dream dying before his very eyes, punctuated by the solemn toll of a bell. His most heartfelt wish burning to a crisp in a dark fire. The crushing devastation and despair that followed.

Him, crumpling to his knees. A desperate cry ringing out, falling upon deaf ears and the ignorant masses.

In seeking that salvation, I failed.

Flames lit beneath Rollo’s skin. Blood became molten fire in his veins. A great storm of emotions, both highwater and hellfire, raged inside of him, fighting for dominance.

His frown deepened into a scowl, his reflection in the bell mimicking the look.

“... Flamme-kun.”

A figure emerged beside him.

“We’ve been blessed with such beautiful weather today,” the gargoyle chirped, resting a clawed hand on Rollo’s back. He indicated the sky--cerulean, lightly peppered with puffy white clouds. “Don’t you think?”

Rollo eyed the gargoyle suspiciously, not deigning to turn to properly face him. He met the images cast in the Bell of Salvation. “... What are you doing?”

“What? Can’t an old man keep you company for a while?” the gargoyle joked, digging an elbow into Rollo’s side. He didn't earn a grin.

"I can assure you that I am need of no such company. I am perfectly capable of fulfilling this task without a self-appointed assistant."

"Just as you always have. I believe you. You're a very diligent and thoughtful young man."

Eyes carved out of rock bore into Rollo. They were sturdy, resolute--and where there should have been no heart instead bled into a pool of sadness.

Rollo stiffened, as though his own flesh was turning into stone, and his veins like the ones that threaded marble. A flash fire tore through the cracks, letting hated memories slip.

A horned man with a noble visage rose from clouds of swirling, dark smoke. Everything about him was lethal, piercing. Like a demon come to claim lost souls.

The demon's lip curled, suddenly both man and monster. Emerald flames coiled at his teeth.

Rollo's stomach dropped.

"Lie, if you must. It will make it easy for you to deceive others, perhaps even deceive yourself."

Stop.

"However, you cannot fool the Bell of Salvation. You cannot run, nor hide, from the eyes which see the entire city."

Don't look at me.

"It has always been watching over you, judging your every action."

Not with those damnable eyes...!!

Rollo brought his cloth across the gargoyle's reflection, smearing him beyond recognition. Out of his sight, but not out of his mind.

“If you truly believed that, you wouldn’t shower me with such pity.” Rollo’s tone was a harsh, glacial whisper, his stare burning as cold as ice.

“Pity? No, it’s not anything like that.”

He scoffed bitterly. "As though stone could possibly understand sentiment."

"This 'stone' understands much more than you give it credit for," the gargoyle tutted. "I may not know the entire story of what happened the night fire swallowed the city--"

Rollo didn't look at him. Couldn't.

He wrested his gaze away, focusing on his view of the City of Flowers.

It was busy at this time of day, bustling with townspeople and their indistinctive chatter, which rose high above the rooftops and flying buttresses. The pointed arches, spires, and angular stained glass windows of Noble Bell appeared distinctly harsh next to the soft, welcoming homes and shops laid beside it, lined in the silver of sunlight catching in the rivers.

Delicious smells of lunchtime--baking bread, rich butter, cheeses and fruits and nuts--tempted adults and children alike to part with their coin for a morsel. The streets were vivid with flowers in full bloom, all colors and shapes, as though they, too, were delicacies to be brought to waiting lips. Tantalizing and intoxicating.

A blue sky blanketed the picturesque afternoon, the few clouds within it now stretched thin, like pieces of sugar melting upon the tongue.

Rollo cursed them. How dare they plague him.

My conscience is clear, he insisted. I've committed no sin.

"--but surely it could be sorted out? I'm happy to lend an ear, or a horn." The gargoyle tapped at his noggin. "Whatever you need."

Rollo's face hardened. "The world is cruel and wicked, full of fools that are easily tempted, gorging themselves on vice. That I was not able to correct it... Tsk. Truly, reprehensible. Yet you would have me confess to no real fault?"

He clasped himself, bracing against the wind. This high up, it reached only him, chilling him down to the bone.

He had witnessed it firsthand; how magic enticed others with its warmth, its brilliance--before spiraling, consuming everything in its path. A heavenly light turned into hellfire, a blessing revealed to be a curse.

That was the truth... Wasn't it?

“... You always do these things by your lonesome," the gargoyle said at last. "I wish you would rely on us a little more--that you would let us save you."

"Hmph. You said the very same thing that night."

"Oh?" The gargoyle perked up at that. "You remembered."

"Not fondly, mind you. Just the nonsense words of a stone statue."

"You're surprisingly blunt," the gargoyle remarked, his kindly, wizened smile still firmly in place. "But... I know you're a good boy deep down. You wouldn't dedicate yourself to looking after the Bell if you weren't. No matter what the weather, you never missed a single day.”

He raised his head, looking up at the magical artifact looming over them. The curve to its body, its dullened shine.

The sheer magnitude of it.

A twinge--fear? Guilt?--struck Rollo's soul. He hurried to brush it off.

"It is my sincerest hope that, someday, whatever is ailing you lifts away, just like the clouds parting after a storm. You'll be able to face the sun, and life will be fairer then."

Fairer...

And yet it hadn't been quite so far for him. It would never be.

He was no longer here.

“To this day, many pray and offer their desires up to the Bell of Salvation—but never did I think that I would hear a wish from a gargoyle. Your only purpose is to ward off rainwater."

"Even gargoyles can dream in the night and soak up sun in the daytime. You're capable of it too."

“The coming days will be dark and bitter. Storms are an inevitable part of life," Rollo countered icily.

"Ah, but there are more sunny days than there are stormy ones. We weather those storms to see the sun again. The Bell of Salvation shall see us through it all.”

In spite of himself, Rollo grimaced. He covered his mouth with a handkerchief. Its pattern of moons and stars quieted him, brought him temporary peace.

“The Bell…”

It sees all.

Rollo startled at the thought, like a chill had dragged itself across the coals in his heart. He hastily tucked his handkerchief away and shook his head.

I'm losing myself.

Such was the danger of being bewitched.

Magic worked like that. It had a way of promising youths their hopes and dreams, wishes and potential. Then its iron jaws would clamp shut, snagging an arm, a leg, a heart. Fresh fuel for the entangling flames.

The child caged within, calling out for help as the fire constricted, consuming him. A curtain of smoke, the smell of burning flesh.

Standing there, powerless, as the child became cinders.

It would be late to turn back time.

Visceral fear churned his stomach. Wave after wave, aligned with each haunting toll of the bells.

“Enough of this drivel," Rollo snapped. "I have a schedule to keep. I shouldn’t be wasting my lunch hour making conversation.”

"You're right," the gargoyle laughed. Perhaps a little too easily for Rollo's liking. How can he afford to be so lackadaisical? "Here I am, talking your ear off when you're hard at work. You should finish up your chores and have a hearty meal with your friends. Your vice president and aide, was it?"

His friends?

He had never thought of them in that way. Colleagues, at best.

And yet when he closed his eyes, he could so clearly picture their faces. The vice president with his wavy, tawny tresses. The aide with long, deep green locks that tumbled down his back.

Their eyes rapt and adoring as they regarded him.

"You sensed the danger and came running up the bell tower too?!"

"That's our President...! You worked with the NRC boys saved the whole city!"

"You're so amazing, sir! You always know the right thing to do. It's like you're our very own Just Judge from the legends."

"I'm so honored that you're at the helm at Noble Bell College, President Rollo--and that we have the opportunity to work with someone of your caliber!"

"We're all so proud of you."

Rollo said nothing, forcefully shunting them out of his mind.

He silently wiped at the Bell of Salvation, restoring its beautiful shine one stroke at a time. Before long, it was glistening in the midday sun, as bright as any star.

In the beginning, his muscles had ached by the time the task was complete. But the burn in his blood came no longer.

Now there was only emptiness, and the doubt that rang within it.

Rollo expelled a sigh, his hand reaching for the nearby Sally--the rope which sounded the bells. One tug with considerable strength, and familiar tolls would resound in the town.

Big bells as loud as thunder. Small bells as soft as a psalm. But the sound of the Bell of Salvation...

Cleansing.

His fingers closed around the rope.

"Say, Rollo."

He froze at his name.

The gargoyle beamed at him, clear as day, in the brass of the bell. "We can always talk some other time, whenever you're ready to. That offer's always on the table."

"... If you'll excuse me."

He tugged.

And a myriad of colors and moods, magic and sound, flooded the city. It was as though the sky had been split open, raining music upon the world, washing everything away and birthing new miracle in its place.

There was laughter from below, the atmosphere lifting with levity. Townspeople and students swelling with joy. A warm tingle of some enchantment filled their lungs took to their breath.

Look at them, Rollo sneered, his expression twisting in disgust. Practically drunk on magic, ignorant to the perils posed by their overindulgence.

His brows creased.

So many eyes that fixated on the bell that overlooked their city, entrusting it, and its magic, to pave the way forward. From up on high, they appeared like ants, they eyes mere dots. But up close, he’d seen that they were wide and sparkling, brimming with hope.

If such eyes were directed at him…

The hero and savior from the night of the crimson flowers. The man as virtuous and fair as the Just Judge.

All the things they said he was.

Am I truly deserving of that praise?

Rollo harshly clasped his hands together, his forehead creasing further. To his dismay, the swirling storm clouds of uncertainty stayed.

The tolls called out to him in their wordless song, reverberating off the rooftops. Their echoes, almost taunts.

“This is the punishment that is best suited for you, Flamme. To tell your truth, or to continue to live a lie… The decision is yours. You will suffer regardless.”

“You… You’re skilled in tormenting others, are you? I should have expected nothing less of you villains, wicked to the very core."

"Perhaps, if you were to properly glimpse into a mirror, you would come to see the wickedness within yourself, rather than that of the world."

He set his jaw firmly. His blood, boiling. His hands curled into clenched fists.

Curse him. Curse that Malleus Draconia. Curse them all, every last one of the charlatans of Night Raven College…!

Thunder rumbled, a sharp crack against the dull bells. Dampness—the aroma of ozone—hit his nose.

A plip of rain coloring the ground at his feet with a spot of darkness.

This is...

Rollo stared into the sky.

It had noticeably darkened, and the clouds had come back with reinforcements, looming menacingly in the distance. A chill picked up, and the sun wavered.

What…? It was so clear not a moment ago. He shivered, wrapping himself up in the excessive cloth of his uniform. Such a sudden storm. I’d best get back inside before I’m caught in it.

Rollo hurried to the stairwell, casting a glance at the gargoyles as he passed. The one that had spoken to him had wedged himself back among the others, safe and comfortable among friends. He snagged in Rollo's sight and waved.

“Until tomorrow.”

"... Until then.”

The door closed, obscuring Rollo behind it.

The cold and the wind and the dreary light were shut out. The wooden floorboards groaned in protest as he slipped inside. Away from the elements, and, more importantly, away from prying eyes.

Yet he felt the heat of them upon his back and crawling across his skin. Someone, something watching him in that dimly lit room.

From beyond the windows? Or…

From within?

He jerked away from the sunlight trickling in. Gaze averted, he focused his eyes on the creaking, worn stairs as he descended.

The walls were suffocating, squeezing him tight. The air, too thin.

There, in that rickety and narrow little space, he was trapped between heaven above and the waiting hell below.

Denied his sun and salvation, unable to escape from the tempest raging within himself.

[urdreamgirls-dreamgirl]

watching the “go flip yourself” episode of wwdits and like.

imagine robin just gets extremely into hgtv over the pandemic and she’s over the freakin moon when the daltry brothers finally respond to her fan letters and agree to fix up the mansion and nancy just keeps sighing and rolling her eyes—she’s already accidentally killed one of the brothers when they snuck up behind her to surprise them all as she was polishing her antique guns—but of course she lets robin do whatever she wants. and when the crew tells her she’ll be getting her own weapons room, well. okay, she might be on board now.

but eddie fuckin hates this whole thing because he likes the house the way it is. he likes the crumbling walls and the mismatched sconces and the flickering hall lights and the half-flooded basement. he doesn’t want it to change. so steve’s tasked with keeping an eye on eddie and trying to keep him from sabotaging the construction crew at every turn.

robin is wearing flannel after flannel, constantly looking over the crews shoulders, trying to pry their tools from their hands so she can have a turn. eddie almost loses his shit when the crew surprises steve with a new room, much more comfortable and spacious than the walk-in closet off of eddie’s bedroom that he sleeps in now. it’s on the other side of the house. by the end of filming, a concrete pour has mysteriously found its way through the window of the new room, completely destroying all the progress made. steve’s stuck back in the closet off of eddie’s room again. the camera lingers on the way eddie grins to himself but when he catches sight of lucas and dustin filming him, he flashes his fangs and tells them to keep their mouths shut or else (they’ve been here long enough to know eddie never follows through with his threats).

after the week is over, the remaining daltry brother reveals himself to be murray bauman, robin’s (and by extension eddie’s) arch nemesis—no one can remember what, exactly, they’ve been fighting about for the last 57 years.

the only person happy by the end of it all is nancy, who locks herself away in the actual weapons room they’ve built her in the attic.

jonathan and argyle return from a week long camping trip to find jonathan’s room in the basement completely caved in.

more wwdits steddie au here

[voraciousvore]

The Giant and the Princess (3/10)

Part 1 | Part 2

Content Warning: soft, fatal, unwilling g/t vore, digestion mentions

Word Count: 2.1 k

------ Part 3 ------

As Iris expected, nobody at the castle noticed she was missing. She dismissed her servants prior to sneaking out and requested a few hours of privacy, so they respected her wishes. Her parents, the king and queen, were always too busy in their stately duties to attend to her or give her any attention, so she wasn’t worried about them finding out. Nobody really cared about her as a person, beyond the fact that she was the royal heir.  

Despite being neglected by her parents, she was rarely alone. Even when she was always swarmed with servants, however, she still felt lonely. The servants weren’t unkind, but they were aware of their inferior station, and treated her with the appropriate respect and deference due to royalty. She could never tell if they actually liked her, or were just being polite while they carried out their assigned duties—most likely the latter. All her interactions with other people were impersonal, cold, out of responsibility rather than friendliness. Even worse were those who tried to gain royal favor through flattery, offering empty compliments or insincere words in the hopes of earning something concrete in return. 

To be surrounded by people all the time, yet so alone, was torture. She craved genuine human connection more than anything. She wanted friends to share interests with, family to love her, people who cared about her. She wanted to be treated as a person, not a useful tool for the construction of a kingdom. She wished her parents would talk to her more often, not merely to check up on her progress in her lessons. She wanted them, or anybody really, to give her a hug, or hold her hand—but such things weren’t appropriate for a princess, especially with commoners. 

She knew she was a disappointment. Her parents desired a male heir, of course, not her. Her mother had trouble conceiving, though, and her other attempts resulted in miscarriages. So they were stuck with a princess. With hopes to marry her to a prince from another kingdom, they put her through rigorous classes on various subjects of importance, including etiquette, speech, writing, affairs of state, politics, literature, and history. They needed her to be polished, perfect, and noble: the ideal mate to attract a prince. The future of the kingdom rested on her weary shoulders. 

Iris found her life in the castle to be insufferably boring. Her preferences and interests didn’t matter in the least; she had to learn and memorize whatever subject she was taught. She spent a huge amount of her time with strict personal tutors, engaging in lessons that felt pointless and unending. She yearned for excitement, and adventure, and yes, maybe even a little romantic fling. She fantasized about running away from it all. 

However, running away would mean abdicating her crown, which she was nothing without. She knew her only worth was in her royal blood. If she abandoned her station and responsibilities, she’d have nowhere to go, nobody to take care of her, and not a penny to her name. She’d be worthless, living on the streets and lacking the skills to survive on her own.  

Inevitably, she found herself thinking about the giant who’d helped her twice now. She was still frightened of him, since she witnessed him eating people alive, but his kind actions toward her were notable, and revealed a softer core of compassion within him. She had to admit, she enjoyed the thrill of meeting him and engaging with him, despite the potential danger. She liked being held so casually and intimately, and talked to like it was no big deal. He didn’t treat her like a flawless statue up on a pedestal that was untouchable, like so many others did. He treated her like a normal person. 

When she thought about him, her heart beat faster. In the short time that she had interacted with him, he’d provided her with a fundamental need that she was sorely lacking in all other facets of her life. She had a longing to be with him, to be spirited away to a far different place, away from the nightmare she was living in now. She was fully aware her hopes were nothing more than a puerile fantasy, yet she still wanted to seek him out again, to be touched and held. She needed it. She decided she’d sneak out again tomorrow, if she could. 

While the princess was obsessing over him, Ajax was thinking more about how empty his stomach was. He was deeply conflicted. He regretted not eating those humans earlier, and he wondered to himself if he’d made a bad decision, not eating the princess too. He’d come so close, but her relief and happiness at seeing him again had stayed his jaws. He was forced to admit, for whatever reason, he had a soft spot for her. She was intriguing, and unusual, for a human. 

With his hunting excursion for the day a failure, Ajax decided to return home to his clan in the mountains. Giants like him tended to live in small family groups, in isolated areas where large prey animals were more prevalent. Ajax was reaching the age when he would soon leave home to seek out a giantess mate, and either return to his clan or start a new family elsewhere. 

He had hopes that perhaps his other family members had been more successful in finding food, and he wasn’t disappointed. He was greeted by the mouth-watering aroma of cooking meat as he approached his family home. They lived in a house constructed high up on the mountainside, that extended into a natural cave dug into the rock. A fire roared in the hearth, with gigantic chunks of fresh dripping meat roasting on spits. When he walked in, his father came up and gave him a jovial slap on the back. He was a hairy, broad, cheery giant with cheeks as round and red as tomatoes and a big jiggly gut. 

“Are you hungry, son? Your mother caught a snow dragon! She’s cooking him up now!” he announced. Snow dragons were large, muscular, quadrupedal beasts with shaggy white fur. They weren’t true dragons, and lacked wings, but resembled them in general form, with claws, fangs, and long thick tails. Their meat was tough and greasy, requiring cooking before consumption, but reasonably edible for a giant. 

“I’m famished,” Ajax admitted, kneading his belly with his fingers. 

His father sniffed him curiously. “Smells like you snagged yourself a few humans.” His brow wrinkled with uncertainty. “One of those scents seems familiar.” 

Ajax blanched, but quickly recovered. “Oh, you must be mistaken. Anyways, I almost caught them, but they got away,” he lied through his teeth. 

“Oh, well, you’re in luck!” his father proclaimed. “I’ve been busy too! I caught a whole caravan of human merchants today, way too many to eat on my own!” He lumbered over to a corner of the room, where a small cage was set up for keeping human or animal stock. Shrill screams pierced the air as he unlocked the door, reached in, and pulled a writhing figure out. 

Ajax gulped. “Wow, uh, you’re sharing with me? How generous...” Normally, his father did not share his human prey, not even with his own son, and would force Ajax to hunt for his own, but he seemed to be in an unusually generous mood. His temperament made sense, considering his ridiculously successful hunt for the day. 

“Eh, why not? I caught so many, I couldn’t eat them all!” his father laughed, shoving the human into Ajax’s hand. The giant looked down at the scrawny, stringy little man struggling against his fingers. Ah, no wonder his father was sharing. He probably saved all the pudgy ones for himself and was giving away the scraps. Nonetheless, the human looked appetizing to him, when he was starving. 

Ordinarily, Ajax wouldn’t hesitate to shove the human through his lips, slurp on him, and gulp him down. Especially when his belly was grumbling like an earthquake, his salivary glands were pumping out juices, and the intoxicating smell was so, so irresistible. He hadn’t eaten all day, and giants always had an extremely strong craving for human flesh, their intended primary food source. With humans being so rare to find and catch, it was virtually unfeasible to resist the urge when live prey presented itself so readily. 

“Did you... share with mom yet?” Ajax asked, rubbing his tongue along his teeth. His entrails growled in objection to his stalling, voracious for a meal. 

“Oh, don’t worry about me, sweetie, I had one already,” his mother called out from the kitchen. “Enjoy yourself.” 

The human bit and scratched uselessly at his fingers as Ajax stared down at him. Without consciously realizing it, he was raising the man up to his drooling mouth, his tongue straining for a taste. The man screamed and pleaded for clemency, but his supplications fell on deaf ears. Ajax figured one human couldn’t hurt. The little man was already caught: If he didn’t eat him, another giant would. Releasing such a tasty snack would be unacceptable. He was fated to be lunch. Ajax was just so hungry; he couldn’t possibly deny himself the pleasure. 

Smacking his lips, he opened his mouth and tossed the man inside. The human’s screams were cut off as his teeth clicked shut. His mouth exploded with a rich, delectable flavor, as sumptuous as the most tender steak, as he rolled the squirming man around on his tongue. He rubbed him along his teeth, his gums, his palate, and the wet flesh of his cheeks, humming with pleasure. How was it possible that he’d let go those other humans earlier, when they tasted so superlative? No other creature could compare. 

He tilted his head back slightly, and felt the man slide headfirst back along his wet tongue into his gullet. He let out a soft moan as he swallowed, stroking the lump traveling through his neck with his fingers. The human slipped down his throat with velvety smoothness, in spite of his desperate struggles. He massaged his stomach soothingly as the human dropped inside. His tiny kicks from within brought the giant such enormous gratification that he couldn’t even properly regret his decision. His irksome hunger that had been nagging him all day was banished. 

Ajax lowered his huge frame into the cushioned couch, which was stitched together with furs, and sighed contentedly. His belly felt so good. He laid his head back and closed his eyes. His father stoked the fire before taking a seat alongside him, patting his own bulging gut full of humans. Their movements had already waned to the faintest fluttering as they churned and digested in his stomach. 

“I think something is going on between the two nearby human kingdoms,” Ajax’s mother remarked. “I noticed lately there’s been a lot more humans out in the open, unprotected.” She brought her husband and son each a sizable hunk of cooked snow dragon meat. Ajax gnawed on his share. It tasted fine, but the roast couldn’t hold a candle to the human he just swallowed. 

Ajax’s father shrugged. “Probably. Who knows with those humans? They do strange things sometimes.” He belched, poking his belly before tearing off a chunk of meat with his teeth. “More vittles for us, I suppose. It’s a good thing, because food is becoming more and more scarce around these parts. I’m getting tired of eating the same dumb animals over and over.” 

His parents continued to talk, but Ajax wasn’t really listening to their conversation as he separated shreds of meat from the larger whole and gulped them down. He was more focused on the thrashing in his innards, as his live prey’s resistance became more spastic and feeble. The human was dying inside him. He was killing the small man, gradually absorbing him into his body bit by bit. 

As the sensations died off, a trickle of remorse wormed into his heart. He tried to suppress the meddlesome emotion, but it persisted like the itch of a mosquito bite, not enough to cause him pain, but irritating nonetheless. He disliked the feeling. His thoughts turned to Iris. If she’d been the one in his clutches at that moment, would he have eaten her? Could he even have stopped himself from eating her? He honestly wasn’t sure. 

He couldn’t so easily quash his true nature, his powerful instincts, and his visceral desires. They were a fundamental part of him, as a giant. He ate humans, whether it was morally correct or not. And his compulsions were too strong for him to withstand for long. 

Part 4

[aufucker]

Biohazard.

Strade / Billie Jean (OC)

I don't write often but. Wanted to do a Billie Jean @ Strade's basement thots thing

CW: insect mentions, dirty/gross environmental vibes,

☆☆☆

It wasn't polished concrete.

The floor, cold and porous, scraped lightly against your skin with every shift. If it was polished, it wouldn't be stained so.

It made your skin itch. It made you want to claw it off every time you thought of it; blood, old and soaked long into the stony floor, staining it with spatters and streaks of countless others from countless times.

In your brain, it was a biohazard. It was decomp. It was crawling into your skin like the maggots you've scraped away from floors, from walls, from furniture carefully carved away.

Even now as your eye drifted along the floor and the cabinets of tools used against your skin and bone, you could visualize the ethereal glow of luminol covering every inch of the room, brighter than Cherenkov radiation. The foam of enzyme solutions so plentiful it would seem like the ocean itself clawed through these walls in desperation for freedom.

Just like you.

You thought of the cabinets and the tools he had used on you, on others, both large and small, each having to be meticulously cut away and taken apart.

Separate the bio from the clean. The red and the black.

Separate the rot. You can't, anymore. It was becoming part of you. Burrowing into you like maggots.

Just like him.

[monstersandmaw]

Oats the kelpie (single dad, dad-bod, absolute softie sweetheart) is now up on Patreon on early release! You can read it right now for $3, or for $5 you can have access to everything pre-2020 mothballing.

Background info post on the Full Moon Motorcycles group here Oats Appreciation post here

Featuring a plus-size, bisexual, not very confident reader, and a divorced, Scottish, single-dad, biker kelpie with a soft-dad bod and a heart as big as his bike’s engine (possibly bigger).

Wordcount: 7562

Preview:

You pushed open the glass door of Full Moon Motorcycles and willed yourself not to feel self-conscious or out of place.

Having both an older brother and a mother who rode motorbikes had at least given you a fair bit of familiarity with bikes and the general ‘biker culture’, but it was mostly the fact that almost all the ‘biker girls’ you saw posing on social media were slim and toned, which you were decidedly not.

From the utterly foetid takes in the comments section of the one post your brother had shared on his page with you in it, you’d also got the impression that the biker community was not particularly kind to any woman with a waist over 25 inches. It probably wasn’t the case, but your one experience with it had been enough to make you very wary.

And yet, as you made your way towards the bike shop’s counter and the older man with floppy, greying hair and warm brown eyes looked up, you were greeted with an open, welcoming smile.

“Hi there,” he said, standing up with a grunt from the comfy chair where he’d been sitting in the corner near the shop’s antique cash register. “What can I do for you?”

You smiled shyly and glanced along the wooden countertop before returning your gaze to him. “I’m looking for a present for my brother, but I’m kind of on a budget…”

“Gotcha. We’ve got some silly key fobs there,” he said, indicating a rotating display rack at one end of the counter, with mottoes that ranged from funny to explicit, “But if they like working on their bike themselves, you can’t go wrong with some maintenance supplies… Not the most glamorous but I promise they’ll be grateful to you all the same.”

“Could always tie a festive ribbon round it,” you said, and he chuckled and nodded.

“That’s the spirit.”

You eyed the reasonable price of the fobs with some relief, and then followed his gesture towards the various bottles of chain degreaser and the like, and a few other useful tools and kits that were stacked on shelves on the back wall to the right of a door that presumably led into the back and store rooms.

The right hand side of the shop had the counter and some shiny, new bikes that had been parked in a row around the perimeter of the space, and the left hand side was more open with a bench or two against the brick walls, and some red, mechanics’ tool-chests tucked against the back wall. A number of leather two- and one-piece suits hung in racks at the furthest end though, with helmets on shelves and a few rows of t-shirts, jeans, gloves, and boots displayed too. There were oil stains in the centre of the polished concrete floor, and you suspected that tinkering took place there outside of the shop’s usual opening hours.

The whole vibe of Full Moon Motorcycles was friendly and cosy, with a slightly industrial, grungy note for some flavour.

In short, you loved it.

“There are also some fun helmet covers –” the older man chuckled, and added, “A number of the regulars here have them, and there are also some earplugs, or perhaps a tough phone case and mount? A chain care kit? There are some vinyl stickers too, and t-shirts, socks, neck warmers, balaclavas, mugs, helmet care kits, thermals…”

Laughing, you held up your hands for him to stop, and he started to chuckle too.

“I’ll let you browse in peace, sweetheart,” he said, his whisky brown eyes twinkling. Even his un-looked-for endearment came across as kindly instead of creepy, and not many men could pull that off. “You just holler if you have questions and I’ll be happy to –”

The door opened behind you and he broke off as his attention was snagged by the arrival of a heavy-set guy in dark jeans and a softly-worn, black leather jacket. He held a black helmet with a tinted visor in his large hands, and he looked more than a little wind-blown and rumpled.

Incongruous with his rather roguish-dishevelment, a lock of his long, thick, slightly grizzled, black hair was held back by a little hair-clip with a Barbie-pink, fabric bow. It didn’t fit with the dark scruff of stubble on his jaw or the piercing green-blue eyes at all, but he seemed completely unfazed by its presence.

“Oats!” the older man exclaimed with obvious joy, clapping his hands. “It’s been a while, my boy! How was the trip to Scotland? You make it round the NC500 this time?”

The ‘boy’ looked to be in his mid to late thirties…

“Ach, no’ a chance this time, Hank,” the man chuckled with a heavy, Scottish accent lacing his rich, rough baritone. Exactly where in Scotland he was from, you couldn’t tell, but it was lyrical and attractive all the same.

“Ah, next time, next time. And is Natalie well?

“Oh aye, my wee Loch Ness Monster is doing just fine. She’ll be terrorising her mother for the Christmas holidays. I came straight from the road though — clutch started playing up just south of Birmingham.” He grimaced, but even that looked charming somehow. “Sort of hoped you might find a minute to take a look at it for me if I left the Old Girl here. No rush though.”

“No problem, Oats. We’ll get her running properly again in no time. Bet you’re missing little Natalie already,” Hank added sympathetically.

“Ah, you have no idea,” the man, peculiarly-named ‘Oats’, sighed ruefully, shaking his head.

“See she left you with a parting gift though,” Hank snorted, pointing at the bow hair clip.

With a slight frown to his dark eyebrows, Oats reached up and patted at his head until he found it, and then he laughed. It was a loud, delighted, full-bellied sound that reverberated through the space while it lasted, and he left the hair clip where it was with no trace of self-consciousness as he lowered his hand again. “Aye, that she did. Surprised it survived the journey down with my lid on and everything. Oh –” His unusually pale green eyes landed on you, watching him and lurking near the rows of t-shirts on the back wall, and he went still.

Those sea-grey eyes raked you up and down, clearly noting the way your black leggings clung to the curves of your thighs and hips, and the black hoodie, which maybe went some way to hiding the softness of your stomach a bit, and he swallowed visibly. He looked… hungry. That was not the usual reaction you had grown accustomed to from men, and you let the flare of heat lick up your insides for just a moment, daring to hope that maybe he did find you attractive.

“Sorry,” he said in your direction, with a soft, dusky smile. “Didnae mean t’interrupt.”

Read the whole thing right now over on Patreon, as well as everything else in my exclusive masterlist, plus February's story involving a holiday romance with a naga in Starfall Springs...

[whatwewrotepodcast]

Trouble in the Docks

               It was deep dark in Max’s garage, deep dark like cracking your shinbone on the edge of a table in the middle of the night, dark. Wasn’t quiet though, which was a good thing to cover my quick breathing and the scuffing of my boots. It was never quiet down the docks, not really. All hours of the day and night there was banging and clanging as people did their working and ships came in and out. There was a crooning too, a soft, crackly voice from one of them old school transistor radios. Real trendy to have stuff like that which pretends to be old analogue earth-side tech but really it’s not. I wouldn’t have figured old Max to be the type, but that just goes to show you never really know what’s in people’s inside parts.

               Upside of the lack of quiet was no one would hear me, probably. Downside was, I wouldn’t hear no one either. I had cracked the lock on the front door easy enough, squeezed under the roller door without having to push it too far up. I didn’t think Max would be in the garage this late, and with all the lights off, but couldn’t be too careful so I stayed in the dark as I creepied my way across the polished concrete floor. What a wanker. This shit was just asking to get covered in scratches. The shapes of ship parts loomed up around me like beasts out of story tales, and I could almost feel them breathing. Hard to tell what they were with it so dark though. I’d heard tell my buddy Max here had a real genuine portside plasma rifle in here. I didn’t have any real use for a flashy, shiny ass gun like that myself, but the thing could be sold for big credits on the black market. People liked to have a bit of artillery when they were heading into Wildspace. If I could get my hands on it, sit on it for a few cycles and offload it, I might be able to get the credits I needed for my jump drive. Maybe.

               Time was ticking on by and I still had no right idea where the rifle was, so I figured I’d better give myself some light. Pulled out my hand torch and covered the end with my palm as I flicked it on. Slowly pulled it away and let the little beam of light flick around the space. Heart was fair pounding in my ears, but I couldn’t hear anything. No sign of movement. Time to get moving. I’d need a gravlift to get the damn thing out of here as well. Thankfully I could see a pile of them stacked neatly near the door. Thanking the big star for Max being a gotdamned neat freak. I walked briskly through the garage, flicking my torch over the neatly stacked racks of tools, the labelled drawers of bolts and resistors. Getting nervous, thinking maybe it wasn’t here at all, my info had been dud but then – there! I spotted it resting against the wall. Perfect.

               Jogged back to the gravlifts and grabbed one of the smaller ones, tucking the control into my pocket. Back to the rifle. I put the gravlift on the ground and pulled out the control, flicking it on. Guided up to about halfway up the length of the rifle, just below where I judged the centre of gravity to be. Kept looking over my shoulder, my neck hairs prickling, but there was no one there. Just the scratchy old radio and the sound of my own breaths. I flicked the gravlift to hold, then grabbed the top of the rifle and pulled it down, letting the gravlift act as a fulcrum so I could tip it onto the platform. It wasn’t real heavy like, but big and unwieldly. Plus, couldn’t really be waltzing down the street with a hot plasma rifle under my arm. I grabbed a tarp and threw it over the top, tucking the edges in around the gun. Heart still racing like a two-penny girl in church, I guided the gravlift back towards the garage door. This was going to be the sketch part. If I was gonna get caught, it’d be now. I was gonna have to lift the roller up higher to get the rifle out – and roller doors weren’t renowned for their sneaky. But then I’d be home safe – just a four hundo stroll down the road and back into my own garage.

               I took a pause before the door, straining to hear a sound, but there was nothing. I scootched back under the door and checked the street was empty before squatting down and carefully, carefully lifting the door. Inch by inch, until it was high enough. I used the control to drop the gravlift down a smidge and scooted the rifle under the door. Slid through easy as a well-oiled piston. I quickly slid the door shut and started off down the street like I had all the time and nowhere to be. Kept my limbs loose and let the rifle trail along behind me. I was sweating like a lobster in a pot, but there wasn’t anyone else about. Five minutes later I was standing outside my own shop, fumbling my keys into the lock and kicking the roller up to the roof. I hurried the gravlift in and pulled the chain to bring the door closed. It was deep dark here too but I knew my way around this place like the freckles on my arm. The old one too, not the new one.

               I flicked on the light switch, revealing my chaotic workspace. I wasn’t quite as neat as Max was, but that was okay. I sure knew where everything was and I got the job done. Genuine clients didn’t give a shit if I had shiny floors. They know better than to think a flash garage gets their ships repaired any quicker. I sent the gravlift scooting over towards the back room, following along behind. I tucked the controller under my arm so I could open the flap on the underside of my cyber arm, and pulled out the cable that coiled around the metallic muscles. Plugged it into the door and waited a second while it processed the code, then the light flashed green and the door opened. It was pretty hectic security for a storeroom, but I didn’t trust folks hereabouts and I trusted the empire less. Especially when I was moving hot tech. It’d be a coupla cycles at least before I could sell the damn rifle, and I couldn’t have it sitting around the shop. All it would take is one snitch and old Max ‘The Redeemer’ would be knocking down my damn door. No thank you. I kicked the door open and drove the gravlift inside, parked it and tossed the control on top. The rest could wait.

               I backed out and locked the door behind me. I still felt jazzed and twitchy from my crime and I knew even though it was damn near morning I wouldn’t sleep. Instead I headed down into the dry dock, where the Aethon was waiting for me. I breathed a deep sigh from deep in my belly. She always brought me a feeling of calm inside, a peace feeling that I couldn’t find any other place. Not even fixing on other people’s ships. She had a magic – the magic of memories. It had been a long time, true like, since my rents had died and left me the rickety old shell of a broken down ship, and I’d gone to bed with a starving belly more than once to afford parts for her. But she was nearly finished now. All I needed was the jump drive and I’d be back out in the deep black, nothing around me but stars. Leaving Area 3 way back behind me, and all its shit. Maybe I’d go Wildspace, cut the empire’s claws right out of me. Truth being, I didn’t care much where I went. Just away from here. Somewhere I could be free of the stink of everything I’d suffered here.

               I walked along the bridge and climbed the stairs to her underbelly where all her soft parts were exposed. Twiddled a wire or two, tightened a bolt with my cyberarm but truth being she didn’t need it. She spent more time being worked on than flown, and she’d never gone far enough for things to get loose. One day though. If I could get a good price for that plasma rifle maybe I could find a jump somewhere. True hard to get your hands on, especially if you weren’t imperial. Had to find someone illegally junking a ship, or coming back off salvage. They were rare though, so the price was always sky high. There was always some other fancy cur with cash to burn and I never got a look in. But one day. I would get out of here or die trying. I wasn’t going to let my parent’s end, skint broke in this backwater hell, be where I washed up. There had to be a way. And I’d find it. Sure as breathing.

[highflysourcing]

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[kennys-confessional]

I remember kneeling. I remember kneeling on beautiful pews. I remember kneeling on the red leather; I remember how sticky they got after 5 minutes on the summer days. I remember kneeling on the easter day mass; I had those beautiful puffy dresses with all the tooling and how that would pierce into my skin the longer I stayed on my knees. Sometimes, I would fold my dress over to the soft polyester and kneel on that, or I would lift my dress to kneel on the red leather. Sometimes, when there was no leather, we would kneel on the polished wood; when there was no wood, we kneeled on the floor. My dad would remove his jacket and place it on the floor so we could kneel on it. My dad would kneel on the concrete floor, although he disliked attending church. I remember the smell of the humidity of the swollen wood mixed with the incense and the old books. I remember church.

[pinkiepiebones]

if it’s ok can I request gardener renfield opening up a greenhouse :-)

Years after the death of Dracula, Robert Montague Renfield buys his first home. Well, technically it's his second home, but the first one was purchased well over a hundred years ago and for all he knows might have been knocked down and paved over to create a new by-pass.

Anyway.

Robert's settled in New Orleans, because it is where Dracula was dismembered and mixed with concrete and dumped into the sewer system and he'd like to keep an eye out for any vampiric shenanigans that may arise, but also because he's just tired of moving. He sells most of the objects d'art he's been lugging around the past century. He puts some in a storage unit though, out of a sour mix of nostalgia and dread- the stuffed raven, the stuffed albino fox, a few paintings, some bolts of fabric. The coffin.

"Dude, someone would pay millions for that coffin," his best friend Rebecca Quincy asserted the day Robert wheeled it out of the rented U-Haul and into storage. "There's some weird old rich guy out there who would totally want it. You don't have to keep it."

Robert swiped his arm across his brow. "Who'd buy this thing? Honestly? It's a lead box lined with the fur of some extinct animal. Give me a name."

Rebecca thought a moment. "Nicholas Cage?"

"Hasn't he already got a pyramid tomb?"

"Oh yeah... Well maybe he'd use Dracula's coffin as a coffee table or somethin'."

Robert shook his head. "Even if I had a way to contact Mister Cage, I doubt even someone of his, ah, eccentricity would want this." Robert shoved the coffin into the darkest corner of the storage unit. "No, it'll do just fine tucked back here."

Robert's new home is small-but bigger than his apartment with two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, and a full acre of yard space- and what the home renovation shows would call a "fixer upper" with "good bones." It makes him happy to work on it. He listens to music and the occasional psychology podcast as he polishes the original wood floors or paints the walls or rewires the light switches. It's therapeutic- he's gone from caring for a monster to caring for himself, and he has found that he enjoys making things bright.

The yard is a paradise for Robert. In the front yard he sticks a couple of those cheery plastic flamingoes he'd wanted for decades and puts in a white picket fence. He gives his home what the home renovation shows would call "great curb appeal." Perhaps superstitiously now, Robert makes sure to not buy a "welcome" mat, and he plants wolfsbane just inside the fence's perimeter. In his head he plays a very old memory of Doctor Van Helsing waving the wolfsbane in his face. It turned out that the man had been right- Dracula fucking hated this stuff.

His backyard is the bigger of the two yards and he decides quite early on he wants a greenhouse. Rebecca helps him build it (mostly because he promises to take her out somewhere nice for dinner, but also because she's his friend and she loves how happy he is). It's small, maybe a bit bigger than two tool sheds, but the inside walls have sturdy, wide shelves where he can start seeds, there's a toolbox with drawers for labels and waterproof markers and seed packets. Bags of soil and watering cans are carefully tucked under the shelves and garden spades varying in length hang from a little cork board propped up against a wall. Robert even refurbished an old battery powered radio and has it set to a station playing classical music, since that seems to be what plants like the most. There's fresh white gravel making up the floor and a thermometer hangs from a string of fairy lights tacked to the wooden frame of the glass door. Plans for a garden are scribbled on a pad of paper beside the toolbox.

Robert and Rebecca are on his little patio one evening, sitting in refurbished mid-century lawn chairs and drinking fizzy alcoholic drinks. Rebecca gestures to the greenhouse. "That turned out pretty good, didn't it?"

Robert nods.

"You ever think about scaling it up?"

"What do you mean?"

Rebecca sets her drink down to gesticulate as she talks. "I mean, you still own the hospital, right? If you pay someone to demolish the building, that'd be a great place to build a greenhouse that people could come buy stuff from." She picks up her drink and sips. "You could even have classes, y'know, on proper plant care. People would love that shit."

Robert smiles. "I guess I never really thought about it. Might feel good to share what I do," he pauses to take a drink, "especially now that what I do isn't, you know, terrible."

Rebecca chuckles.

[cyb3rscoups]

The Glory AU (pt 2)

Warnings: Mentions of suicide, blood, gore, fight clubs, burn wounds and scars

Our fated lovers finally meet 🤧 Full collection

If you want to be added to the taglist please lmk

She hated going to school that year. From the day she transferred into the private institution, she knew it would be something ingrained in her memories forever.

From the start it seemed like her fate was inevitable. Her first day was when Valentina had chosen her.

Okoye had sat in the only seat left in the classroom, blissful and unknowing as the other students would turn to their friends and whisper about her; where she came from and why she was there.

The first day, she found out she had chosen her previous victim's seat. The same girl that drowned herself the night before.

From the first day, Okoye had no choice and everyday would be a cycle of agony.

“Ko-Ko!” Valentina’s shrill tone would call to Okoye from across the empty gymnasium as soon as the doors creaked open and she walked through. “I missed you girl!”

Okoye would curse in her head as she dragged her feet across the polished floor to where the trio stood. Valentina would always look her over in disgust before giving W'Kabi permission to do what he pleased.

“Oh come on, Okoye. Why the long face?” He would tease as he reached forward to grab her jacket and yanked her flush against him.

She would yelp and squeeze her eyes shut when he dipped his head to kiss her.

“You are disgusting.” Valentina would scoff at his vile attempts as she twirled a strand of fiery red hair around her finger, watching as Erik bounced and threw a basketball he had found. The dull and incessant thudding always irritating her quickly.

“Erik! Quit throwing that ball before I bash it through your skull!”

He caught the basketball as it bounced off the concrete wall and held it to his hip.

“Fuck you, white girl.” He rolled his eyes.

Erik always loved to hate Valentina. It was baffling to Okoye. How someone like Erik could put up with the girl, let alone allow himself to love her as deeply as he did. Nobody knew that back then, nobody but him.

Dogs both the boys were. Her dogs. She had trained the mutts and she controlled them well. They managed to drop everything to be at her beck and call. Carrying out all her dirty work so she wouldn't be tied to anything that happened back then. To hell for how they would end up.

“Ko-Ko! I need your help with something today.” She skipped over to her book bag. “I bought a new flat iron last night but I really need to make sure it works good.”

Out of her peripheral, she could see Erik roll his eyes. “Good luck getting it through.” He snickered, side eyeing the puff of curls atop Okoye’s head.

Right. The boys hadn’t been present to witness how Valentina got her last time. They'd actually gone to class for once and no one was able to smell her burning skin or hear her shrieks of pain.

So no. A failed press out was hardly what she intended to do with the new tool and Okoye knew it. As soon as the iron was plugged in and set to the highest heat, she could feel her heart plunge.

“No..Please! Not again!” Okoye broke W’Kabi’s lethal hold and dropped to her knees

“Oh come on!” Valentina stooped down, a lively glimmer dancing in her eyes. “Don’t be a bitch about it!”

“Please..Valentina. I swear I’ll do anything!”

The teen just stared at her, watching her break down and cry. Tears streaming down her cheeks as she mumbled incoherently. Valentina could feel a tingle in her finger tips as a crude smile found its way on her lips.

“You know what you can do for me, Okoye?” She reached for the girl, wiping her tears on the back of her hand before gripping her chin up and digging her stiletto nails into Okoye’s cheeks. “Kill yourself.”

A chill covered the room. Erik and W’Kabi felt it too. The basketball fell from Erik’s hold as he took a step towards the pair, his shoes squeaking against the hardwood.

“Val…it’s not that deep. Calm-“

“Don’t tell me what to do!” She shrieked.

Valentina released Okoye’s face, opting to yank off her cardigan instead. The material piled to the floor as she marched to the iron and yanked it from its plug. “Neither one of you are shit! She's nothing and neither was Aneka, god rest her pathetic soul!"

Erik hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from Okoye and her exposed arms, her previous burns still fresh and blistering.

“Don't get soft on me now Erik. Hold her down!”

———

After getting out of the hospital, Attuma was back in the gym making up for the days he’d missed while stuck to a hospital bed thanks to Namora.

“Take it easy.” She had said and let him go with an unauthorized prescription for his migraines.

Well, he wouldn’t be doing that for sure. He was in the underground fight club a week later, taking a shot of tequila with a wince as people crowded around the going fight inside the cage behind him. Curses and dollar bills were thrown at the amateurs as they barely stood to each other in the bloody match. He couldn't wait to get back in the mix.

“Warrior! You are fighting tonight!” A hand was smacked across his back followed by a hearty chuckle.

“M’Baku! Of course I am!” Attuma delivered an equally harsh punch to the man's bicep.

“Good. I want a rematch.” The burly 6'7" human shook the bar ledge as he slammed his fist against it in a fit of excitement.

“Nah. Not you.” Attuma scoffed. “You won fair and square. Accept it.”

“Fuck no! You passed out so it doesn't count. If I'm winning, it's because I knocked you out my self." M'Baku gave him a shove that would've sent the average man to his ass but Attuma, given his matching build to M'baku, stood firm and shook his head.

"Fine. You'll get your rematch tonight. 30 minutes. Get us on the list." Attuma watched the bartender as he replaced his shot glass.

"10 minutes and we already are!" M'Baku laughed as he left his comrade to down his drink at the bar.

It took a total of 30 seconds for word to spread through the club that Attuma was back in the cage. It took another minute for the pair to be moved up thanks to the flood of bets towards the fight.

In no time, the cage was crowded with spectators around as M'Baku and Attuma entered its bloody space with the top half of their bodies bare, bruises from their last fight still purple and blue.

"Alright, alright, alright." The announcer started as they strapped their gloves and adjusted their mouthpieces.

"We got the notorious M'Baku and the indestructible Attuma going head to head once again! The betting window closes in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1! Gentlemen! Touch gloves and say a prayer!"

Attuma scoffed as M'Baku forced his gloves against his. "Don't hit me in the fucking face. I'll kill you."

"Okay pretty boy. Want me to call your mommy and tell her you love her too?" M'Baku laughed as the deafening bell rang through the club and their first round commenced.

Just like that, the crowd was in uproar and Okoye could barely muddle her way to the bar without colliding with men twice her size, yelling obscene profanities at each other.

Once she managed to get to the bar, she yelled her order to the bartender and settled. From where she was, she could clearly see the fight. Two substantial men connecting every punch and hit that was thrown til they were both a bloody mess. Yet neither of them seemed to grow weak.

The bell rung out a minute later and the two men parted with a shove. Attuma chuckled before gathering the blood in his mouth and spitting it into a bucket.

"The fuck did I say about my face?!" He growled out as a cut to his eyebrow began to split.

"Calm down, pretty boy. You ain't getting any uglier." M'baku stuck his tongue out in a childish sneer. Okoye let her self smile at the interaction as she went to sip her drink.

"Tired yet?" Attuma provoked with bloodstained smile as he fixed the bun on the back of his neck.

"Yeah you fucking wish." M'baku scoffed as the bell rang again. As if a switch had flipped, the two were done with friendly banter and back at each others throats.

Quite literally at that. M'baku managed to move faster than Attuma and get behind him, locking his thick arm around the other mans neck. Attuma yelled spit fire at his friend as the other laughed in amusement.

"Let go you asshole!"

"Tap out, pussy!" M'Baku tightened his grip and kicked his foot to the back of Attuma's legs, sending him to his knees as he gasped. "Tap out!"

"Fuck you!"

Okoye was entranced. Maybe because she didn't see cage matches often. Maybe because she found herself craving Attuma's victory. Maybe because if he won, that meant she could too.

The anxiety caused her arms to itch and she scratched at them mindlessly. Attuma's eyes started to water as his air flow was constricted to the arm around his neck. Through his tears, he spotted Okoye, her eyes focused on his withering physique, her eyes darting as her body shifted in the small bar stool.

Their eyes locked into each other and he swore he could see her mouth form around the words. "Get up."

"Shit.." He gasped as the strength in his body returned and he jabbed his arm to M'Baku's side, the hold on his neck loosening with every hit he sent to the other.

Once he was free, he punched his way to the finish line and M'Baku surrendered with a roll of his eyes and a roar from the crowd.

Attuma suddenly had no interest in the money he would win or the popularity it would gain him. He just needed to see this woman up close. She stayed put in her spot, finally being able to tend to her alcoholic desires now that the apprehensive match was over and the energy in the club had died down.

He kept his eyes trained on her figure as he weeded through the crowd, patting his back and shouting their congratulations. He saw her ready to depart and get up from the bar, setting down a 20 and shrugging her jacket on.

Attuma's strides got longer as he tried to catch her before she disperse and he lost her in the chaos. "Oh shit! Wait a minute!" He pushed past the last person in his way, grabbing her arm roughly so she wouldn't slip from him too soon.

"Ow! What the hell?!" She pulled at her limb until he released it with apologetic eyes contrasting her deep frown.

"I'm sorry! I really didn't mean to grab you so hard. I just saw you from the cage and-"

"You fight good. Congrats." Okoye rubbed her arm soothing the ache Attuma had unintentionally caused. Her compliment sent a boyish blush across his cheeks.

"Thanks. I'm Attuma."

"Cool." Okoye gave him a tight lipped smile before she attempted to walk away again. His hand, with a much softer force, was on her shoulder before she could turn.

"Well I mean- I- Will you tell me your name? I mean, that is how you get to know someone isn't it?" Attuma stuttered as he snatched his hand back before she could scowl at him again.

"Maybe you should worry more about not getting choked out within an inch of your life during a fight. Then you can know my name." Okoye smirked.

"Damn you're harsh." He sighed, only finding the fact that more enticing.

"I practice."

Okoye turned away again, maneuvering herself away from the bar.

"I'll see you around?" Attuma yelled after her.

"No thank you!"

@xblackreader @loeysaeri @hottie-hotch @faatxma

[juliekitsune]

The Absence of a Halo

"Hey, doll? It's okay. Try again next time when we'll get the chance." A dissapointment. That's what it was. It wronged the last entity it should wrong. It must punish itself. It must attune for its sins, to not provoke the infinite wrath that's closing in on it.

An ex-angel, converted small doll is walking downstairs. Shaken, barely able to keep itself upright. A total mess - irregular ticking echoes throughout the walls of the corridor. A small screwdriver is hiding in its hand, held like a knife in prime stabbing position. Finally, the doll is in the basement. Clearly a storage room, large shelves on every wall with countless objects on each. One wall houses some trinkets mended by the witch for sentimental value. Another is completely filled with old books on magic and travelling. And yet, there's still plenty space. The walls and the floor aren't pretty at all, but they are functional. Melancholy and nostalgia fills the atmosphere, a new but today it's completely overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of dread. Fear. Impending doom.

The doll lied down on the cold concrete floor in the centre of the basement, shaking still, panicking. And yet its hands moved with like its composure was perfect, unscrewing, and then prying its lower torso plate out like it's done that countless times. Shiny metal gears that are driving it are now completely exposed. All of them were colour-coded to what function each had, from the tiniest ones barely visible with the naked eye, to majestic, faintly glowing ones, rotating about a polished amethyst sphere at their core. A moment of hesitation, as the doll stares into the abyss of its own mind, with its eyes showing and pointed towards its open abdomen. "Isn't this one safe? Isn't this one freed from its halo? Isn't this one free from the divine obligations?.." it whispers to itself.

"No. This one could never be. This one will never be."

The witch was relaxing after a long day. She spent most of her time today instructing some of her dolls about how to operate the new coffee machine she got. A mess was made, but she hopes at least the dolls had fun learning something new. She doesn't just drink tea after all. Such is life, and resting is necessary in order to be productive in the long run. The witch gently half-slept on the sofa, with a raccoon plush in her hands, and a shark plush used as a pillow. A calm mind, a cosy mind, thinking of comfort. A pleasant weekend evening.

A distant chilling scream breaks the warm silence. She wakes up from her meditation immediately, plushies thrown to the ground, quickly running towards the source. She heard it from the direction of the staircase to the rest of the house... Oh. Oh no. Again. She runs down into the basement, nearly falling down the narrow stairs, with a faint glow coming from the slightly ajar door. Urgent. She entered the storage room and ran towards the ex-angel, stuck repeating the same sound quietly as its gears tried to move, and couldn't. She immediately began pulling on the screwdriver to get it out, frantically moving it about. Near panic - but not actually panicking. Agitated - but focused, chanting spells while barely moving her mouth. The tool finally flies out, pulled out with considerable strength, hitting one of the walls with a loud CLANK. And the witch holds its doll close, picking it up and hiding it under its sweater, as it cries into her chest. And cries. They both sob together. Hours pass.

"this one, dissapointed you, it, doesn't want to do it again, it please, please punish me, please, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,,,,,,,," "It's okay, Anne. It's okay." "it's not,,, why do you want to keep such a broken mess? why didn't you throw me in the dumpster?" "It's because you deserve a better future. To be free." ",,,,i don't,," "And you didn't dissapoint me. I can just buy a new cup, you know?" ",,,but, you said, you, liked it, and, i, don't want to be a burden, and, just,,," The doll hides its face, sobbing quietly. And the witch gives reassuring pats. "Your halo is gone. No "divinity" will ever hurt you again. You're safe here. And always will be."

The witch finally carries the doll up the stairs, gently holding and putting the plate that was missing back in place in the meantime. The other dolls saw the witch carrying Anne up, and prepared chamomile tea - for them, as well for themselves. "We're going to spend the night together. Anne wanted some alone time with me after... everything." The witch told the other dolls. They all knew what it was. Not the first time, not the second it's happened. They all nod and leave them alone for the night.

"mistress?" - The doll whispers quietly as they're both in bed. "hm?" "i'm, sorry about, you know, just, this whole," A gentle smooch on the forehead defuses another spiralling. "You're safe. You're not a burden and won't be. I love you, and I'll always protect you, doll." "always?" "Always."

[mattadrawing]

Square Profile Bar - Everything Need To Know

Square Profile Bars are steel rods that are mainly used in auto and construction projects. The stainless steel square profile bars are anti-abrasive and anti-corrosive which makes them appropriate for joints in commercial medical environments. Preferred applications of square profile barsinclude mounting decorative ironwork, gates, and safety barriers around establishments.

If you are in search of stainless steel square profile bars of the highest quality, please look no further. Matta Drawing Works is India’s leading manufacturer of highly durable stainless steel square profile bars in dozens of grades and sizes, including 304l, 316l, and 303.

What is a square profile bar?

A square profile bar, also known as square steel, squares, and the square metal bar is a multipurpose steel section highly used for manufacturing and repairs. The general-purpose square profile bar is a part of our light and re-rolled section, making it suitable for most commercial projects.

If you are looking for great quality Stainless Steel square profile bars then you have come to the right place. We are equipped with a variety of grades, sizes, and finishes to suit all your requirements whether you are a commercial business owner or a domestic customer. Matta Drawing Works is the No.1 provider of square profile bars and other products, in Grades 304, 316, and 303, providing a cutting service with a quick turnaround and 1st class polishing service.

What Makes Stainless Steel Square Profile Bar Irreplaceable?

Several reasons make stainless steel bright square profile bar irreplaceable. Whether concrete, wood, or other synthetic fibers are found in the surrounding area, the anti-corrosion qualities, durability, strength, and dependability make the stainless steel square profile bar remain unmatched. The size of the square profile bars determines its application space. These bars have a wide range of uses and are available in various grades.

Some Major Properties Of Stainless Square Bar

●       Strength to withstand any physical or chemical conditions.

●       High resistance against extreme climatic conditions.

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Features

The Stainless Steel square profile bars are used because of the high strength of the bar. The square shape is geometrically stronger and is able to handle stress more than the round bars. Therefore, the material is used in pressure vessel applications and general corrosive services under specifications like the ASTM A276 Stainless Steel 316 squareprofile bar. The different polishes such as the bright, black, and polished square profilebars give them unique application abilities. The weight of the material depends on the width, diameter, length, and density of the grade of material used. The 304 and 316 grades of square profile barshave 8 grams per centimeter cube density. Major features of square profile bar include,

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Square profile bars made out of stainless steel, a strong and sturdy metal resistant to corrosion. They are also used for many purposes due to their flexibility and how easily they can be shaped.

Applications

Square profile bars is a solid metal bar that has a square cross-section. They are widely used in multiple industries for general assembly or manufacturing. Square profilebars are also used for general repairs of plant equipment and railings. Common applications of square profile barsinclude ornamental ironwork, gates, and protective barriers on windows. Other applications include,

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●       Heavy engineering

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Conclusion

Matta Drawing Works is a stainless steel bright square profile bar...