#decrepit white people

[darkgaia2]

playing again for a friend o mine. ive missed him saur much

[skippingthroughfields]

one thing that's missing from these convos about amc not submitting assad zaman for a golden globes nom that makes it 10x more malicious on amc's part is that a nomination isn't just like oh... ~simple appreciation for an actor's performance. even if there's no win, it results in a profile boost for these actors & them being able to command a higher salary when it comes to future projects. it's something that gets notice on their CV. these studios and networks love being able to market their shit with things like "starring golden globe nominee john doe" or "emmy winner jane doe." the emmys are more prestigious than the golden globes which are more prestigious than the critics choice awards (the one they submitted him for with two other actors lol). actors get nominated and have the opportunity to get attention from social media posts, article mentions, attending the red carpet, having their name announced and a little clip of their acting shown. that's not nothing! attention from possible new fans, publications, execs, peers, producers, directors, fashion houses & other industries which could lead to $$$ and sponsorships. I won't make any presumptions about the cast's finances but I do know amc is probably not paying them their worth, least of all the bangladeshi muslim who barely had any major roles in tv/film prior to the show.

there are fees and costs associated with submitting for awards consideration and FYC ads. the network basically took a look at assad's brown skin and name and said they don't think he's worth the money over the white actor who had less screentime and narrative importance (to the season ig) which is absolutely crazy lmao. it shouldn't be controversial to say that and you can't not discuss this without bringing up sam's name. this has nothing to do with whether he "deserved" to be submitted (and even if I said he doesn't deserve it over assad who's gonna beat my ass?). this white man isn't being persecuted by conversations about blatant racism. but I'd expect nothing less from this fanbase x.

[barnacles34]

Momentous Entropy (Yujin x Male Reader)

Yujin x Male Reader

Warning: Smut, 7k+ words

The door accelerated open, showing a peek of a small dorm. Yujin’s head popped out from the door’s side, her face entirely shaped by a beautiful smile— eyes morphed into two crescent moons facing downwards. 

Despite her giggling shyness, she stopped hiding behind the door. She welcomed me in, still with a brilliant smile, “Welcome Professor Eunwoo! Welcome to my dorm.” 

“I know it’s small compared to your penthouse or whatever you were talking about with your coworkers, but it’s great for deep, focused work.” She snuck in the stalker-level information in between two welcoming remarks.

“Thanks for welcoming me here.. Wait.. What?” I only caught the intrusion mid-sentence.

She knew I heard her—word for word. It was mutualistic to not ruin the moment with heedless questions in the specifics, we’d forgotten whatever we talked about a moment ago; rather, focusing on each other's faces.

Of course, I would never let her know. It’s an apprenticeship after all, I’d be brought down with all the academic reputation I have if I even considered anything remotely intimate.

As I entered her dorm, I noticed something unusual. She wore a formal skirt with a white shirt and even her hair seemed to have been carefully molded for a grueling amount of time. Why did she dress up so vibrantly even though all she wore outside were casual clothes? Of course, I would never look her up and down, that would be a grave mistake, my peripheral vision was enough, my imagination did the rest.

I looked away immediately when my imagination went onto a wholly inappropriate tangent, instead I appreciated the clean place, clean of a single speck, the wallpaper matted with a freshness that couldn’t be faked with a single day of cleaning; the nice smell loomed over the place, something flowery, something inherently feminine, I was beginning to feel out of place. 

There’s something poetic about a beautiful person being a beautiful human being as well, though I used two synonyms to describe something inherently different, I’m sure you get what I’m saying. She was good-looking, diligent, smart, clean, the list goes on and on. Sometimes attractive people have some of the most vapid, vanitous, vain lives; sometimes, it’s refreshing to see someone just so contrary to that common belief.

I was walking slowly while she went to her room to set up, I paced my steps to not seem awkward by standing too still or pacing around her entire dorm. 

She came out of the door, her eyes were not morphed by a smile, rather two large pupils akin to a labrador stared straight at me.

Some people’s stares immediately make you uncomfortable, angry even, their voided personality that can only be filled with continued staring. Yujin was rather supplemented by the stare, her intense rich inner-life always apparent, her natural charisma exuding throughout.

The thought was broken when Yujin said, “Mr. Eunwoo, before we get started, I know you forget some of the essential parts of life, like breakfast.” She swiftly went to the countertop, opening some cupboard and pulling out an already-prepared breakfast.

“Why do you have a full meal in the cupboard?” I was completely stumped, there is never anything consistent with Yujin.

“I don’t know, just in case, you know, if you tried to stop me from serving you breakfast.”

“Why do you want to serve me breakfast in the first place? This is inappropriate. Wholly.”

“Please!~ Just try it!” Her eyes glistened, displaying how determined she was to get me to taste it.”

I obliged her for once. The breakfast was great, it was just too foreign, everything was opposite of what I’ve lived on; familiarity lied in the dusty libraries, the cramped, yet cozy study rooms, the decrepit dorms. Yet, I’ve gotten too successful, my quality as an academic has deteriorated too quickly, the distracting throes of fame, money, power however unattractive were always pushed onto me by those I used to hold close. I’ve resented success for however long I’ve held it, never has it ever contributed to my learning.

Yet, could this be an aspect of success? An attractive young lady, serving breakfast, serving a jet black coffee with enough caffeine to sedate rather than stimulate. Hold on, how does she-

“How do you know my coffee preference?” I asked, again, alarmed.

“That’s–um, I don’t know, based on my deduction, you know, like your disheveled appearance, I just assumed you lived off of caffeine.” A smile formed again, this time, a smile of victory over me, a rare enough event for a celebration.

“You’d be right.” Slightly, I scoffed at her remark, gladly sipping the bitter coffee.

Just like that, she already made me feel welcome, warmed up to the most foreign of places.

How could she do that? Is it on purpose? I can’t just ignore the influence she has over me, even if she is a student and I, a professor. I’ve always fought, fought and fought for everything, everything; the simplest of things failed at least a dozen times. Do you understand the disparity of it all? From failing at least a hundred times to now, an empathetic kindness, a warm smile greeting me regularly. I’m aware the description is akin to describing a drug, an addiction, I’m completely aware of it, and I’m desperate. Desperate for this continued exchange, and that’s why I willingly, so perpendicularly of my nature, succumb.

When I snap back to reality, the calm environment filled my sensory world. The white walls are furnished with small plants attached to the wall. I looked back at the kitchen, to check if Yujin was still there—she had planted her elbows on the countertop that I was sitting at, on the other side, her chin held up by her two fists, her cheeks were slightly squished and she was staring directly into my eyes.

“What’re you doing?” I ask.

“Nothing. You were so focused on that wall, I just thought it’d be interesting to stare at you.” That’s right, she’s also adept at mocking.

“Alright. Alright you brat, let’s get on with it. Where did we leave off last time?”

“Something about an assessment for me to continue being your apprentice.”

“Right. Right, I remember.”

“You don’t even carry around notes? For your ‘apprentice’?”

“Don’t need to”

“Ok, well, follow me, you’re gonna have to sit cross-legged on the floor.”

“Fine by me, lead the way.”

“Tired or sitting on gold-plated chairs, Mr. Eunwoooo?” Though her teasing was getting a little obnoxious, maybe the first-time visit to her dorm has her more anxious.

I scoffed at the reply, and followed to sit next to her on the coffee table, with enough distance as to make our apprenticeship obvious.

As do all our sessions, it starts cold, detached, at least compared to the end. Near the end, it becomes a warm haze, a studious discourse turns into something enjoyable, something that genuinely complements your life beneficially.

That’s also a reason why I continue to speak to Yujin. These unforeseen, unconsidered degrees of freedom had gone out of control, and inevitably, the attachment I had to being an academic was on its last string, its last stitch.

Only a fixation, a continued mutualistic companionship with Yujin has seemed to crutch my skill. And, I’m willing to go against all my morals to continue it.

It can be easily inferred that I’d let Yujin pass with flying colors to be my apprentice. Hiding it, though, is an entirely different story that I’d have to consider deeply through the assessment.

Of course, there’s always an optimism to expect in the radius of Yujin, the soft carpet, the flimsy coffee table. 

Despite this, the assessment was rough, she was missing questions on purpose, and I couldn’t call her out for it because I was purposely trying to modify it in a way that she was always somewhat correct; in academia, this was enough, more than enough, even ground-breaking. But, this wasn’t even close to enough for Yujin, she was already suspicious of my bullshittery and in the 5th question, a free-response that I’d modified. She frowned deeply, her eyes glistened in a sort of sadness.

She spoke with disappointment, mostly with herself, “Why are you trying to make me pass? It’s obvious that the answers that I have are completely wrong, I can tell in the glint of your eyes.”

In order to trick Yujin, I’d have to have a near perfect system—a small gear falling out was all it took for Yujin to catch it. 

“Before you freak out, these are questions for my PHD students, you’re a freshman, of course I’d have to modify it.”

“But why are you teaching me, an undergrad, instead of your usual PHD students?”

“Huh?” I was stumped, she was as intelligent as a fox.

Her eyes were melancholic, dark with a sort of sadness, disappointment.

“Why do you teach me?” She added on, then continued, “all your students did nearly the same thing as I did to gain some sort of favor, perhaps I tried slightly harder. I guess I argued with you a little more, challenged your authority, but anyone that did that was swiftly punished by you. I guess I was more insistent to be taught but you shoved off anyone that did that, except me. Why me? You’re not doing it for the money, you have plenty of it and I don’t have any. This doesn’t progress your career as well, you’re teaching a freshman about something that’s so ingrained that you don’t need notes for it.” Slowly her deduction processed what she was saying, and she was getting dangerously close to the answer.

I’d have to go on a tangent to another reason.

“I don’t know, maybe that you’re particularly bright, and I mean it, I know you feel like an idiot sometimes; it’ll never be as bad as how I felt it, god, if I was half as smart as you are when I was a freshman, I might’ve found the philosopher’s stone by now.”

“You’re so bad at giving compliments.” She laughed into her forearms that went to wipe her not-yet flowing tears. 

“I mean it.” I replied quickly.

“No you don’t”

“If I tried to do an apprenticeship with my freshman self I’d be on death row the second day.”

It seemed to brighten the mood, she laughed harder, and.... and cried harder into her knees.

Confused by the contradiction of her actions, I just looked away, trying to offer some measure of comfort by just being present.

“I’m sorry, when I sta-start crying I just can’t stop.”

Even when she’s crying, a torrent of emotions pouring out, I don't feel uncomfortable.

“I’m here, Yujin, I’ll wait.”

“Thank you, Mr. Eunwoo-hick-it’s not your fault, I just feel extra emotional these days…”

Everytime she tried to continue with the assessment, her tears seemed to continue flowing, albeit a little slower.

“Hold my hand Mr. Eunwoo.”

“What?”

She sniffled, “Just hold it, it’ll help me stop crying.”

“Alright, alright.” I said as calmly as possible, not saying anymore, grasping her hand tightly.

She was sniffling—not crying—beside me, the distance that we had had closed a little. To say this was a foreign experience was an understatement, a relevant example would be to compare it to would be: a cat in zero gravity, I’d recommend watching some videos of it.

Yet I didn’t feel any reflexive reaction to this novel experience, I only held harder and felt ever-present in the experience

Suddenly, she whimpered, her hand reflexively moved.

“Ow, sorry, I’m not yet used to the tight grip.” She softly said.

“I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, I like it, continue.” Her head finally seemed to release from her damp forearms, her eyes were slightly red. 

As I grasped her hand to a firm level, she put her head on the couch seat, her hair slightly splaying out, her eyes looking at the ceiling.

She whispered, “I know you like me.”

“I-” A flourish of heat went straight to my face, everything seemed to be burning down today.

“I like you too.” She continued.

“Please, think about what you’re saying.” I sputtered out, trying to adjust her projected advance.

“I can’t hide it anymore, I just can’t. I’m delicate, I have my heart on my sleeve… but I’ve never been so sure of it—nothing else has ever made me feel this way: no friend, no family member, no passion. You can continue saying that I’m naive, that it’s my first time, that it’ll pass…” Her words start becoming a jumble, as if all that she wanted to get out in a short manner wasn’t enough, as if all that crying was because of what she had to say.

She continued, “I know you’re a professional, that no matter what I say, you’ll decline, even if you liked me. I had to cry because of it, not because I was getting things wrong, I could care less about that… It was the fact that I can no longer handle admiring you from afar, I had to vocalize my appreciation, even if it was all for naught.”

After a brief silence, she continued, “I just had to get this off my chest, even if you despise me now, even if you run away now.” 

She looked away, expecting me to walk away while giving her a stare of pure hatred.

She was still looking at the ceiling, trying to prevent more tears from flowing down. I leaned my head back on the couch seat and looked at the ceiling.

“I love you.” I finally said, shaky with a risky determination.

“What?” 

“I love you.”

Her hand gripped tightly, her hands were noticeably shaking.

“What now?” She stuttered out.

“I don’t fucking know.” I sighed—sighing deeper than I’ve ever sighed—I also felt an immense pressure release from something grabbing me from within.

“Why don’t we go ahead with the assessment?” 

“After all that?”

“Yeah, I mean I feel like a huge burden has been lifted, I just wanna see if I perform better.”

“Alright, if that’s what you want.” I pulled my head from the couch seat, and sat—facing her. 

After a lengthy discourse, one that stretched for more than an hour judging by how we both had to correct our posture at least a dozen times. And, within that discourse, Yujin was infallible, every question was answered with lengthy consideration with the nuance, the specificity, the word choice. 

Near the end, it went something like this: “Foucault’s theory states that the evolving system of penal systems aligns, or in parallel, with everything around us. Before, in medieval ages, violent spectacles of blood and gore were prioritized as punishment, no additional consideration for the esotericism within. Whereas, now, the spectacle of violence is wholly shunned and penal systems focus on shaping the soul, rehabilitating the mind. However, the application of this idea has been rather controversial, and it could be explained with the idea of the panopticon: with the growing concern of shaping the mind, which is almost like a black box, penal systems have a growing habit of surveilling more and more.”

Yujin stared at me for some sort of confirmation.

“And?” I waited expectantly.

“And, this panopticon can be applied to anything, schools, hospitals, even changing cultural norms.”

“Wow, I have to say, how much did you prepare prior to this?”

“Prior to this? A lot, a lot of work.” Her voice was confident, a far cry from her whimpering only a moment ago.

“How do you not sleep in my lectures considering the fact that this material is so much more advanced than the class you take?”

“I can just stare at you.” Her head was getting closer—I didn’t care. In the beginning of the assessment, we were separated by plenty of space—enough to clearly show it was a professional exchange. By the end, we were shoulder-to-shoulder, side-by-side, speaking cordially, even despite our physical contact.

“Awfully bold for someone who cried in front of her professor for like half an hour straight.”

“Ugh! Don’t remind me.” Her face cringed.

I bit my lip, looking down—the mood was serene, it’s just that I keep getting reminded that I’m willingly participating in a mutual seduction between professor and student.

Fuck all of it.

I pulled my hand out of her hand—before she could demand that I return my hand—I wrapped my arm around her upper back, with my hand wrapping at the end of her shoulder.

Her posture straightened during the process, of course the forbidden path was still on her mind, still latent and not yet brought to fruition. But she quickly adapted, she looked to her side, at me, smiling warmly.

“It’s so amazing. How many hints have I had to give out?”

“Don’t act like you manipulated me to do this.”

“How else would the great Eunwoo betray his values? Just a wisp in the wind?”

“You brat, don’t forget my honorifics.”

“What? I couldn’t hear you… Eunwoo.”

I quickly pull her in, with my hand shielding the back of her head before I pushed her onto the floor, a soft tuft sound. I was on top of her, between the couch and coffee table, with her legs locked between mine.

Her doe eyes were on full display, her large pupils were somehow dwarfed by her eyelids which opened wider, the whites of her eyes under and above the pupil visible. She was shocked, taboo aside, it’s likely she’s never even experienced something like this.

“Can I kiss you?” Four words. These four words were all that I could think of, fantasize about for these past months. She’d accept of course, they all did—in the past. Still, there’s an immeasurable tension, an uncertainty without even weighing in the consensual agreement. 

Perhaps some part of the tension was the taboo, that a professor was about to ruin the makeup of a freshman; smudge her lipstick, suck her lips until they were swollen; the condensation of love-making staining, blending in the carefully sculpted makeup with her natural beauty.

I didn’t hear the agreement, in part due to the fact that Yujin herself brought her head up to kiss me. Unfortunately, some care was forgotten, the way I had to grab Yujin's head led to a soft collapse onto the carpet, her head making a soft thump, our teeth clicking from the force. A collaborative soft chuckle escaped through the smallest of air leaks between our lips—a testament to our dedication to continue kissing, then it was airtight again, her soft lips glided over mine, her taste so feminine, so ephemeral.

It was obvious she was chaste, perhaps even ‘unclaimed’, her virginal lips were erratic, confused, yet so fucking shamelessly hot. Her low moans vibrated more in my mouth, goading me further, to enter deeper into her soft, welcoming mouth.

Slowly, steadily, our tongues entwined, the kiss was less air tight to allow for a more dynamic, sensual french kiss. Her mouth was begging, I was obliging, there was never a fairer exchange, as if her mouth was made for mine, and hers for mine. 

Suddenly, she managed to push me over, until I was face-up, staring into Yujin’s eyes. This was the first time our eyes met during the makeout session, there wasn’t a single word that could explain what we needed to do; besides, our glazed eyes, slick with lust, spoke more than a one-dimensional tool like language. A small chuckle escaped our lips when our lips met in the middle, her head positioning lower, my head higher in the air, until my goading hands, entwined in her angelic soft hair pulled her head down. Our lips slotted in like perpendicular lines, no matter how awkward it felt, it just felt right, as if it were the most lustful way of expressing our unbridled affectations.

My hands explored her clothed body, exploring the beauty on me—who is restlessly, yet in a fierce, virginal way exploring every inch of my mouth—her beautiful curves were soft, pliant, firm, any press had an opposing force—an illegally soft opposing force. She was an angel—an angel on top of me, unaware of how much I wanted to ruin her.

“You’re going to regret it.” I say, in between wet kisses on Yujin’s lips. “This is the only thing I’ve been sure of.” Yujin replied, her voice husky with a sort of mindlessness that only the kiss could’ve caused. I reply, scaldingly, “I’m going to fucking ruin you.” Still trying to warn her, of course, there was a mind and body separation. I was completely, utterly, under the seduction of Yujin, no matter how much I warned her. We both knew, that I wouldn’t hesitate to fuck her all over the dorm—not even for a millisecond. “Please, huff, that's all I’ve ever wanted, all I could think ever about… to be by your side through it all.” She pressed another kiss, a brief one, “The messy way you keep your desk, and how happy I am to organize it, how obliging I am. You’ve seduced me without knowing, before you ever even thought about me I’ve imagined millions of scenarios with you by my side.” Another kiss, a light peck, “Imagine the pride I felt when I found you left your suitcase by the chair in the library, to serve you measurably. It was just ordinary for you, but, but… it was the seventh heaven for me…”

Yujin was systematically removing every screw, with a perfectly fit screwdriver. Whether Yujin was conscious of it or not; she was kryptonite, the way her soft thighs brush against the sides of your abdomen, the soft feeling of her breasts, dipping onto my chest.

I needed to do more, with our mouths still connected, I sat up. Her ass was on my lap, the changing sensory world didn’t matter to her, all she wanted to do was oblige in the kisses. It didn’t even phase her once when I picked her up, standing, only, her legs locked herself in place to continue our mouth-to-mouth connection. I began my march to her bedroom, optimized to the utmost degree, every small peek I had of her bedroom perfectly aiding in this desperate situation—where I have to fuck Yujin for the remaining day, then the next, perhaps even forever; if only time would allow it so.

Her body clung to mine as I pressed her against the bed. This time, I had to pull off the heat of my loins unbearably tight, wanting—of new sensations. I could only imagine how ridiculous I looked, given how swollen Yujin’s lips were, I could only imagine how bad it must be—of course, the imagery was supplemented with Yujin's soft giggle, her eyes staring at my mouth.

I finally got to rid Yujin of her treacherous t-shirt—one that blocked the view of her perfect breasts, her perfect abdomen. Her lithe, firm body was running every gear in my head, on how to perfectly ravish—to perfectly mark with my actions. Yujin could only stare, wide-eyed, she doesn’t know what happens after, a little virgin, there needn't be a single statement clarifying this—I’ve already explored her enough to conclude so. I press into her, my mouth near her ears, “Don’t worry Yujin, you’ll just be under the greatest pleasure of your life, helplessly moaning—squealing on your professor’s face.” All she could reply with was a deep, sensual moan that would seem like someone pressed into her lungs, that’s how deep it was. Slowly, but surely, I shift down, letting my fingers grip onto her godly skin, leaving vertical white trails on her skin until her pelvis; when I hook her skirt, off. 

I could immediately feel the goosebumps on her thighs, where the warmth, the security of the skirt—or the lack thereof—provided some protection of her core, her wet little core. I stare into her eyes again. My stature of a well-respected professional is gone—only an animalistic drive to nail the hottest woman in the world through the bed. The dynamic of professor and student, no matter how fucked up, no matter how morally corrupt—or nefarious; began to turn me on instead of inhibit, it seems so to for Yujin as well, the stain of her arousal clear. 

Her arms seemed to retract to her chest, her forearms squeezed her breasts together; though, I’m sure that wasn’t intended, rather, it was likely to protect her little throbbing heart from the sensations, that heart she had on her sleeve. Despite my raging erection, my raging lust, I was inclined to treat her like porcelain, at least that part of me wasn’t totally exhausted. Except when Yujin said, “I’m not so fragile, daddy, break me.” Uncontrollably, greedily I pressed my mouth against her wetness, kissing around the soft skin. The wetness radiated, even under a layer of cloth, albeit a very flimsy, sexy, cloth. 

Small whimpers rung out, vibrating the surface of her glossy skin around her heat after every small peck I placed on her inner thighs. Her legs were between my head, her thighs rested above my shoulder. As Yujin stared with a dogged innocence, a beautiful hesitance—-I hooked the side of her panty. I pulled—softly, making sure the wet cloth makes as much contact, frictional force with her pink core. The gift wrapping revealed something divine, the lightest pink you can imagine, glossy with something that only be arousal. Slowly, I dipped my tongue into her core—it was unimaginably comfortable, the way her pussy felt on my tongue, a sort of hot soft-serve that got molded by your tongue. But it didn’t taste like anything, that’s when a realization hit: she spent an inordinate amount of time preparing, making sure that every part of her was ripe for a nice fuck, and slowly guided me into her siren-like seduction. I patted the side of her ass, giving a grin—as nasty as I could make it, a sign of things I was about to do, a sort of payback for her masterful manipulation. She stared back, her open mouth, the visible teeth morphed into a half-smile, still focused on how pleasurable my tongue was on her pussy. Immediately, I placed my finger on her clit, pressing softly against it, then circling it before I dipped my tongue deeper into her unimaginably tight hole. Her breathing went faster, her lower-half rubbed softly—even resisting when the pleasure was far too much. Of course, that’s not what she signed up for—she signed up for a grueling fucking, a rough marking by her beloved professor. 

10 seconds, only 10 seconds after the eye-contact, she came all over the bed. Her juices flowed freely, painting her inner thighs in some beautiful glossy coating. Her abdomen tensed in a rough hyperventilation, her cries grew higher and loud before she released into a deep moan. I tried to get as much of her juices on my fingers as possible, before letting her take it in the mouth—making her taste the fruits of her efforts, then spreading the saliva on my fingers over her chin.

“You taste amazing by the way.” I stated, waiting for some explanation.

“This is how I taste, always.” She panted, justifying it all.

“It wasn’t just a carefully constructed ruse to bed me?”

She scoffed, “What kind of evil bitch do you think I am? I’m beginning to worry about what type of woman you bedded before me to make you think pussy tastes bad.” Scoffing, her chest heaving, all glistened up.

“I’m a virgin too, I wouldn’t know.” I replied, jokingly.

This time, she whimpered, “That’s… Ugh” I felt a resistance, then a strong push, she was suddenly saddened at the prospect of being just another lady bedded, another number. While she focused on the sentiment, my eyes, my lustful gaze only landed on her body. Of course, there’s always an opportunity after every resistance—an opposing force against the applied force. Her head was positioned away, stubbornly opposing, but she left her bare neck—her smooth, thin neck—too openly. 

Thus, my lips ended up on her smooth neck---squeezing out her pitiful moans. "Ungh~stop~! I'm still sensitive." She squeaked, her little throat muscles striated in trying to get her meek statement out. Fuel to the fire, it was only fuel to the fire, like a flame retardant---such as water---only strengthening the flame.

I marked her neck full of light bruises, ones that'll be dark tomorrow---dark in how badly I've wanted to possess her. Truly, I've gone insane. My mouth traced a path, from her soft, bruised neck down her bosom. Her nipples were framed with perky breasts, soft with a delicate femininity that she curated so diligently, so meticulously. Her little squeaks, pleads, exited her cute mouth faster, almost as much as when I ate her pussy. It was due to the multi-task that I engaged in, devouring her breast, whilst my hand massaged the other---less fortunate---breast.

Slowly, I released myself from her delicious breasts, still insatiable, pressed down on her breasts, my index fingers gliding, gripping against her nubs as if it were joysticks---literal joy sticks. Her breasts were painted in a beautiful pink hue, from how I used her, how I marked her---initially whitened from the pressure, then pink, then likely to be red for the rest of the day.

"Eunwoo..." she was splayed out on the bed, utterly satisfied---still with an enthusiastic gaze. "I want to suck your cock." She stated, matter of fact. "I want you to paint my mouth in your seed." she continued. "Let your seed fill my belly, the remains coating my chin..." her movements after each statement, in the silence, moved to push me on my back as she got up from her back. "Because, Professor, Eternal Love? Was that the title? And who was the love interest? If I didn't forget, it was... Khujin? As brilliant as you are, your naming conventions leaves a lot to be desired, I mean come on, it sounds oddly familiar." She completely pushed me over; I was slightly paralyzed with the discovery that she read what I was writing---it wasn't remotely family friendly, and perhaps, aimed towards her. Her eyes stared at me with knowing eyes, what exactly I desired from her at that moment; her lithe, perky body was positioned between my legs, kneeling, preparing to dip her mouth into eternal lust.

"From then on... Khujin took the face-fucking, dutifully, sexually, despite the size with which she was confronted with, took it. Her mouth ached, was pained, though, not in a conventional way; it ached in the desire to take him deeper." She just... requoted the entire sequence perfectly word-for-word from the paper.

Fuck!

There's nothing left to protect, nothing left to resist, we were unclothed, our secrets revealed, there was nothing left except our mutual wish to ravage each other until dawn. Our enlarged pupils---almost alien---met each other, glazed in some atypical determination. Finally, her head lowered and lowered before her tongue placed a meek lick on my cock. Then kisses, then a mix of licks while her hands clenched my wrists---signaling some sign that I shouldn't interfere, that I should enjoy this requited vindication.

Her mouth---even if virginal---provided some of the greatest relief. Her soft lips, erratic, still provided relief from my swollen tip. Her rookie mistakes, the slight graze of teeth, the meddling tongue only seemed to heighten the experience.

"You're a naughty fucking professor." She said, slightly biting down on the head, getting the intended reaction out of me---a great spasm. "Writing porn of a character that exactly resembles me. Mmmm naughty... so fucking naughty.."

"You're a horny, good-for-nothing student, Yujin."

We were fighting while she shallowly sucked in between her sentences, listening thoughtfully with a cock between her lips.

"I remember when you left that jacket at the library, I stole it. Then, I smelt it everyday, the cologne, the detergent, the natural smell. When you slept around I could smell it, the faint flowery smell alien to your scent."

She released her grip on my wrists, instead grabbing my dick, to better stimulate---to better punish. Her mouth hollowed out, the suction tremendously pleasing, the way she tongued at the underside of my shaft showing her real-time improvement. Then she popped my shaft out of her mouth again.

Somehow, she was angry again.

"Do you have nothing to say?" Yujin asked---irritatingly.

"I'm here now, Yujin."

"Idiot."

Her mouth went back, into the irresistible motions that she quickly figured out. Her head bobbed faster, I felt immensely relieved, yet I also felt an unbelievable greed, a sort of ripple between two identities in parallel, fighting for ultimate control.

I quickly and harshly gripped her hair, led her mouth down to the hilt---her low choke lubricated the hilt. Her fingers lightly tapped the sides of my thighs, with her perfect nails, the smooth skin, such a brave contrast to what was happening to her mouth. Her mouth suctioned again, not a word needed for preparedness, only the motions of our sexual organs were enough. Slowly, my grip on her hair went down to her scalp, a firmer place to grasp, to debase her identity further.

Her lips dragged long and hard, the suction felt stronger---the feeling of pulling out from her mouth harder than going in at this point. Her lips occasionally touched the base on my cock, only edging me closer. Until, I peaked, I growled as the first rope of cum landed deep into her throat. Even in this constricted, breathless stance where her dick was so deep in her throat that her throat reddened, her glazed puppy eyes stared back, almost a sign of some sort of sick victory over me. Then a second splash, the pressure so strong you'd think the flow was laminar---though I wouldn't know, her sexy throat hid it all. My head flew back, the relief of it all so strong, ropes turned into strings, strings turned into nothing---only the sensation of a suckling swallow could be felt on my sensitive tip.

There was no brief awkward silence, her mouth released in a godly erotic fashion. Her spittle still gathered on my cock, the spit strands coating her chin, her tongue clear and empty of the load I covered the insides of her mouth with.

She smiled so brightly - so happily. Her hands patted me on the thighs, trying to help me reconcile the fact that I throat-fucked a college freshman, the age gap already taboo, the fact that we were professor and student - only worsened it.

Her eyes were slightly red, the hint of tear trails on her face apparent. So badly did I want to hold her dear to my body, let the warmth of my chest keep her snug, let her rest. Yet, her reddened tits, her confused doe-like puppy eyes, her confused face, the slight glistening of her inner thighs goaded me endlessly. From that point on, I hadn't even realized I was hovering over her body. We were really gonna do it, I was gonna fuck her on her own bed, this beautiful, smart student.

"You really are an idiot" I say.

"Why? Because I like you? Because you're some respected higher up that I shouldn't entertain having a relationship with?"

It was that word: relationship. What are we gonna become-

"Eunwoo... master... professor... I don't just offer up my virginity to anyone... if you think I'm that easy to offer myself up to anyone - you're fucking crazy."

"You're a seduction master." I chuckle, letting her know the weakness of my self-control.

"If I'm a seduction master, then you're - I don't know - like Alain Delon." her hands hooked the nape of my neck, she was positioned so delicately, ready for whatever I wanted to do to her.

"I want this because I love you, Eunwoo."

"Who would've thought our little freshman is such a romantic, huh?" As I nuzzled my face into the side of her neck, give soft licks to her soft neck - her soft face a contrast to my stubbled jaw.

"Regardless of whether you insert your shaft inside me or not. I'll still follow you, to the ends of the earth, until you file a restraining order- Ah~!"

a single finger entered her, "Shh Yujin, An Yujin - all that pining to give up after a restraining order? I'll have to get you drunk on my dick, so that even the splitting of the earth won't deter you."

She squeaked, she definitely came, she definitely fucking came - hah. I let the finger exit slow, slowly trailing the wet finger up her abdomen - a sort of trail forming.

Finally, I palmed my dick, staring, realizing that I didn't have a condom. "Oh fuck - I don't have a condom" saying my thought out loud, she butts in, "Doesn't matter, please, anything - please." Her desperation clear in her tone - her fingers gripping dearly onto me.

"Who said anyone's leaving?" This time, her eyes were even wider. It was time, she knew it, I knew it, each step an acceleration to a barrier that we kept raising - was there even a barrier anymore? The depravity... the soulful acknowledgement of this cording relationship rose the hairs on my entire body; the blood in my chest frantically seemed to disperse, trying to control itself, to also control my entire body.

Though, if Yujin is under me, begging to be fucked - so hellbent, her glazed and aroused eyes pleading for some sinful contract. If only she knew - how much I'd do - there needn't be a single contract. I couldn't ever control myself anyway, what's there to deny?

Slowly - slowly - entered her, her sopping wetness gladly parted with some paradoxical resistance. The more I entered, the more her pussy resisted, the more her pussy pulled me in. The most sinful sounds, even more so than those of a minute ago, the squelch of a virgin hole being stretched - fuck, holy fuck.

"Ngghhh~ holy shit, please, more!" She desperately tried to close her mouth, aware of the lack of noise canceling. The way her mewls and moans exited between the tightest clasp of her mouth, the way her twinkled, the exasperation of a different type of pain stretching, beautifying her already goddess-like face. "I love it! Eunwoo~", that earned her a full stroke to the hilt. I grabbed the hand off her mouth - the way her face morphed into fear was beautiful, she was close to her neighbors - those neighbors who were about to hear Yujin's highest shrieks, highest orgasms. Another stroke, then another, I couldn't even describe how sinful her sounds were, shrieks, moans, deep to high - the sheer entropy of her mannerisms clearly showing her arousal. The next door neighbors would know, even the vertical neighbors would know. If they saw me entering her home, then I'm fucked - yet, I can't stop fucking her, the way her hips rotate and drift off my cock, the way her pussy lips wrap so tightly, so snug around my length.

I began pounding away, her thin waist acclimating to my tight grip, the way her breasts bounced when her ass slapped against my loins; who said missionary was boring? The way I kneeled, the way her body angled at a point - true rookie mistake - I kept pounding away at her g-spot. How many times she came - I wouldn't know - but the amount of liquid dispersed all over us, a mix of sweat and whatever else was definitely a clue. The way my length explored her insides so thoroughly, the way I'm pretty sure I bottomed her out, bound to bruise her cervix; the way her moans grew more unhinged, her eyes slowing going back inside her head, her arms almost unresponsive.

Until.

Until, Yujin grabbed onto me, it wasn't an ordinary grip, a nuanced grip that lovers of decades could understand - I'm sure there's some hidden meaning in that. The way her soft fingers grabbed my forearm while she laid down - panting with sweat, the glow of sex, possibly covered in her squirt. I made sure to stop at exactly when the base of my length met with her pussy - immersing myself in her beautiful warmth, sheathed in her velvety walls.

"Eunwoo - please slow down, I'm not going anywhere, by the next half-hour we'll be walking skeletons..."

This time, still plugged with my length I pulled her up, face-to-face where she sat on the slope of my kneel - adjusting myself accordingly to not destroy my knees.

"How could I Yujin? Light of my life, fire of my loin-"

She playfully slapped my shoulder

"Why are you referencing Lolita!?" in a giggling manner, understanding all at once.

"Careful where you slap your hands around, Yujin."

"Hm? What're you gonna do-mm!" A closed reaction to receiving a deep kiss. Slowly, my arms slithered around her back, to make sure that she doesn't fall - but, mostly to ensure that I could fuck her, utterly, fully under my control.

The way her eyes shined, with a deep desire - some atypical lust - yet still somehow looking so innocent, as if brilliant gems were in place of her pupils. Every time I get to stare at her, especially now that our eyes were separated by the width of a nose, I feel glad that someone - just someone like that exists, even better with the fact that we cohabit this area, and even better that our lips slip against each other. The act of exchanging saliva - a deeply disturbing thought - hadn't registered in us at all, only desire and love.

Slowly, her moans left her pretty mouth with emphasis - clearly enjoying the slower pace in which I gave these decrepit kisses to her cervix. Her velvety folds seemed to contract even more spastically - the movement easier, yet tighter, yet harder, parenthetically a paradox.

If only such paradoxes were this pleasurable.

"I'm gonna cum, Yujin." The sounds were absolutely vicious, viscous with the repeated slapping of our loins, the cold strands of her juices landing on my thighs whenever her pink core left the base of my length. "Eunwoo, give it to me, inside, everything." I tried to object; "Eunwoo, shhh, don't try to talk sense with me - it's too late for that, if you don't spill your biggest seed inside me, I'll chase you around the world."

"A restraining order?" I replied, curious for a response.

"And that'll stop me? After getting drunk on your dick, as you said? " She replied back, serious.

"You're right baby." I pumped into her deeper, slanting a little to get topological synchronicity: my chest fully in contact with her chest, the warmth compared to the biting cold of the environment only goading us on further. The way her soft, perky breasts pooled on my chest made my pumps only deeper - kisses more passionate.

"What if I do? What if I cum inside you?" Our eyes were level, engaging in a seriously serious topic. All care should've been granted to the topic - of course, we both knew the pending event.

"Then, presumably, understandably, I'll be by your side - with your favorite tea, massaging your soreness. And maybe, just maybe, nursing a little Eunwoo." Fuck! I hugged her tight - too tight. The small of her back caved in with my tight hug as I mashed my dick inside her swollen pussy. The way she moaned was less noticeable, she was so focused on receiving the load - breathing into the side of my neck, playing with my hair, exacting some stimuli to wring me out dry.

Her body perfectly molded into my force. Her ass molded against my tough thighs, her hard nipples poked my chest expectedly. When, just when, the hypothetical situation with Yujin - of a filial future - flashed in my mind, the first release of semen launched inside her. Ribbons of her deepest desire filled her - indulging her. We kissed - the natural course as expected when I released inside her.

Ropes of semen turned into strings, then finally - nothing. We embraced each other, I still hugged her just as tight, she hugged back with the delicacy of an angel.

"Yujin..."

"Holy shit." She replied.

Holy shit was right.

"-Like holy fucking shit." I emphatically replied.

Her gem-like pupils looked at me, her entire face turned into a smile.

"You'll have to call me wife from now on."

"Hm?" Fully not processing her request.

"Call me wife behind closed doors."

"Why?"

"Because.. why not?"

After a swift thought - one that didn't really have any substance at all - "Wife... wife... rolls off the tongue nicely."

She gave a peck on my lips, "make sure that it rolls off the tongue as easy as it does now... I'll want to hear it everyday."

"Wifey... who's cleaning the bed?" I jokingly inquired - of course, the truth was that the bed wouldn't dry in a day, and the way we are right now: the overflowing semen was still plugged inside her - with my cock.

Though, that would be a worry that could be taken care of later. Right now, the half-life of our post-sex fatigue finished - the other half to be finished when our lips met again.

Fin.

[elexaria]

we all know johnny would happily let simon fuck his girl bc they’re best friends, but when simon finally settles down, he’s a little hesitant.

simon is a man whore, he enjoys being balls deep in a pretty thing, mindlessly feeling each pulse of the ridged warmth that sucks his dick in so nicely. his eyes can white over, blood rushing to his face because he’s got a bad habit of holding his breath when he’s having sex.

but when he meets someone who he actually cares about, someone who’s more than a nice face and a pretty pair of legs— he feels drawn to them. he’s… whipped. before, he wouldn’t really mind sleeping around behind people’s backs— hey, it’s not a real commitment, it’s only fucking! but when he really finds himself stuck on that someone, he begins going out less and less— he’s actually committing.

and it SHOCKS johnny. “whit d’ye mean yer not goin oot?” he whines, eyebrows furrowed as he watches simon relax in the rec room, feet propped up on the coffee table as he enjoys the man u match. “am bringin’ ma wee lass out, ye can even bring—“ johnny’s cut off by simon glaring at him, a look that reads ‘drop it, i’m not interested’

it’s not the same when johnny goes out by himself, no sleezy simon by his side! and simon BITES when johnny proposes a foursome between the four of you, your cheeks bright red. he starts going off on one, about how he doesn’t want to do that shit anymore— it’s gay, blah blah blah. and johnny’s all like ?? “its nawt gay ye stupid eejit, its no like we’re shaggin each other! yer just pussy whipped!”

and then johnny goes through a breakup— it’s like the world comes crashing down. he’s moping around, melting into the rec room couch with a decrepit look as he holds his second beer of the night, not amused even in the slightest when you and simon try and get him to smile :( but he soon perks up when you’re on your hands and knees between his legs, one hand cupping the shaft of his aching cock, while your tongue dances and traverses each vein and pulse point. he almost cums right then and there when you tease his slit, his honey coloured eyes twinkling with restraint. “just this once.” simon grumbles, kneeling behind you as he teases your dripping wet cunt with the pads of his calloused fingertips, his other hand rubbing through his boxers to tease his erection :((

“just this once” he says, but simon gets fed up of johnny pulling the “am heartbroken, simon! :(“ and accepts that it’s more fun fucking a girl when its with ur bestie <3

[hellfirecvnt]

Don't Piss me Off (Pt. 2)

John Q. (Simon) X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut, oral (female receiving), "public" sex, unprotected sex (don't do that), poor life choices.

Summary: You still can't stand sticking around your parents for too long, but you stay in town for a while longer just to see him play. PART ONE IS HERE!!

Notes: I love him. I'm gonna write a million versions of the same story I stg. I didn't proof read. I got like 6 ideas at once and they're all getting written at the same time.

In the basement of a warehouse you'd assume abandoned, Simon and his band consisting of a handful of less ill-tempered, but just as dirty and dead-looking men set up for their performance. They're all spitting insults at each other as they scramble to plug in each meticulous piece of shoddy equipment they've acquired.

Simon's preoccupied. Clearly stuck on the thought of you. He realized hours ago that he never told you about the show tonight. He's wrapping the wire of the mic around his fist when he overhears the stagehands. "I didn't make it to Y/N's last party, I figured there would at least be one more before she bolted."

"She went back home?" Simon interrupts.

"Yeah, man. She left today, I'm pretty sure." The stagehands hoist a large amp to its spot, leaving Simon in the silence of realizing you two have no way of contacting each other. That's it. He shrugs his shoulders, brushing off any disappointment, as he's used to things falling through. Nothing's special to someone like him, or that's what he tells himself. He reaches into his back pocket and reveals a pair of underwear that had gotten tangled with his clothes when you did his laundry. He chuckles at the thought of how he would've made you think he stole them on purpose. He stuffs them back into his pocket and gets ready to perform as people start piling in the small venue.

You're nearly flooring it back to that gas station. Once inside, you leap over the counter and snatch the poster from the wall. "God damn! You could've just asked for the fucking flyer, man!" The cashier exclaims, certain you were attempting to rob the store.

"I don't have time!" You yell behind you as you sprint out the door. "Old fuckin' Mill building? Where the fuck is that?" You mumble to yourself, frustrated. You read that Psyops isn't set to play for another 30 minutes, so you speed around town to every old and decrepit site you can find. Four failures before you find the warehouse hosting the show tonight. "Finally!" You slam the van in park before bolting to the door.

"It's $10 to get in," a nonchalant man at the door huffs. You shove the money into his hand and he opens the large, black, graffitied door behind him. You're not shy in a crowd, so when you hear the boisterous speakers blasting the sound of guitar riffs through the building, you start shoving. The vibration sends the decently sized crowd into a wave of cheers and you finally make your way toward the front. You can hear a voice over the speakers, Simon. It's hard to make out what he's saying, but once the song starts, the crowd starts moving.

You're being jostled around for most of the set. Song after song, you try to force yourself to the front, but to no avail. Finally, once Simon takes one step off the slightly raised platform on which they're performing, you can reach him. His grip is white-knuckled around the microphone, now's your chance. You lunge forward and wrap a hand around the mic, pulling yourself forward. Confused and annoyed by the sudden tugging, Simon pulls back, effectively breaking through the wall of people blocking you. The moment your eyes meet his, under his ski mask, he grins. In the moment bringing you before him, he'd missed a few bars of the song, but effortlessly picks back up once you're front and center.

It feels like his eyes are locked on you for the rest of their set. You hate to admit it, but it's a hell of a show. The energy of the crowd, their presence on stage. No wonder Simon feels so strongly about it. He's a different person when he's John Q. An alias you found out about when you were seniors, and you hoped staying quiet about it would've shown him you weren't the snitch, but instead it took a coke bender several, several years later. Plus, he wasn't much less of a loser than you were. Who fucking cared back then that he has a stage name?

After Psyops' set, you and Simon slip outside for a smoke. Riled up from the show, he's too abuzz to make sure his face matches the angry stare he usually wears. "Someone said you were headed home already, didn't think I'd see you at a show any time soon," he says, lighting a cigarette.

"Said I would," you echo his words from his promise to back you up next time you got yourself into an altercation. "Can't let fucking John Q. be more trustworthy than me." Simon laughs at the mention of his stage persona. "I like the mask, though."

"Oh, yeah? That do somethin' for you?" He teases, reaching into his pocket for the mask, but pulling out a different wad of fabric. "Oops," he laughs, dangling your panties in front of you.

"Is that my fuckin' underwear, you god damn pervert?" You curl your lip, put off by the invasive behavior.

"They might be yours, I don't know. I get a lot pussy." Simon smirks with his eyes darkened on you.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck-" you're ready to lay into him, too violated to make any excuses despite how attractive he looks with messy hair and drying sweat.

"Calm the fuck down, they got mixed up with my shit when you washed my clothes at your house," he laughs. You roll your eyes and jump to grab them, but he's too quick. You miss the swipe and are now a great deal closer to him. "I'm gonna hold on to these," he says with a low voice as he scoops you against him with a hand placed on the small of your back. A second passes like an eternity and the two of you lock lips as he stuffs your underwear into his pocket again, allowing some of the silk and lace detail to hang out. As the kiss deepens, his hands move down your body, to your thighs before he grips your ass roughly. Soft moans escape against his lips as he gropes various parts of your curves.

"Do you know how worked up you get me?" He whispers between the press of your kiss. "Thought you left before I could get a taste." He reaches for your eyelet belt, but you stop him.

"Someone's gonna see us."

"Call it an encore," he mumbles before going back at your belt, but you swat him away again.

"At least take me around back, dumbass." You grab a fistful of his shirt and nearly drag him around the corner. It's dark and concealed from any passerby. He lifts you up onto a pad-mounted transformer and wraps your legs around him, still moving his head in sync with yours as each of your tongues explore each other's mouths.

"I guess I was kind of a prick to you back in the day, huh?" He whispers, running his hand through your hair.

"You were an angry piece of shit, yeah. We fuckin' or having a breakthrough?"

"Shut the fuck up for a second," he snaps. "I'm trying to apologize." He slips your denim shorts off your legs and all but falls to his knees in front of the large metal, green box you're sat on. His nimble index finger hooks around your thong and pulls it to the side. You barely have time to process what his "apology" will be before he plunges his head between your thighs. You fight to stifle a surprised moan as he conducts his skillful movements against your sensitive skin.

"Simon, oh, my God!" You whine, arching your back against the friction. He laughs against your skin sending waves of vibrations through your legs. One of his hands is occupied holding your panties to the side, the other is hooked around your hip, holding you securely in place as he meticulously works you over the edge.

"You want me to stop?" He asks, lips framed with drenched facial hair.

"No! No, I-" he cuts off your plea, resuming his position.

"Then stop fighting me," he snaps, harshly pinning you to the metal with the hand he had hooked on your hip. The stimulation quickly builds up, becoming too much, too quickly. You throw your head back and tangle a fist in his hair as he guides you through the high. Your legs shake and threaten to close around him, but his grip is too strong. You remain exactly where he wants you until you've ridden out your orgasm. You're slumped back on your elbows with your head down, breathing heavily as you return to reality.

Simon towers over you where you lay, staring down at you with his dark-circled eyes. You look up and watch him teasingly wipe his mouth, licking his lips like you're the first thing he's devoured in months. He slips your shorts halfway up your legs for you, leaving the rest of the work for whenever you can feel your legs again. "Um," you sigh. "Apology accepted."

"Tits."

"Is 'tits' good?" You furrow your eyebrows. He sighs, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

"You're leaving tonight, huh?" Simon lights a cigarette.

"Well... That's the plan." You feel a pit in your stomach when you think about going back home. The place is nice, it's far away. It's what you wanted, but life is full and meaningless. You don't have friends out there, it didn't strike you how hard it'd be to meet people in your mid 20s.

"You don't sound so sure about that plan, Y/N." He exhales a cloud that illuminates under the street lamp's orange glow.

"It's boring out there, but it's quiet. It's peaceful. My parents aren't in my ear telling me trying something new could kill me." You shrug.

"That's why you're running? Because of your frigid bitch mom and dad?" Simon laughs as if it's the funniest thing he's ever heard.

"Okay, well. You know, maybe don't call them that or I'll lay you the fuck out, but yeah." You stand and fasten your shorts and belt, knees still threatening to buckle. "You had a hand in me leaving too."

"I know, I apologized!" He gestures to your trembling legs and you laugh.

"Yeah, yeah," you wave your hand at him. "Where'd you go? I was in town for weeks. I thought you were in the pin."

"I didn't want to overstay my welcome," he chuckles. "Or watch another fuckin' 80s movie with the volume on ten." He turns to look at you and he smirks.

"Well, my parents are in town now. I still have the rest of this week off. I was gonna spend it getting unpacked, but-"

"Fuck that. Let's go, you're driving." He walks off around the building toward the parking lot and you're dumbfounded for a moment.

"Of course I'm driving, it's my van!" You scramble after him. He hops in your passenger seat and you pull out of the lot, leaving his disgruntled band mates to pack up their own equipment. "You're not gonna help them?"

"What for? My shit's in the van. It's a microphone."

"Yeesh, sorry. Forgot you're actually kind of the worst when your head's not between my legs," you tease and Simon can't suppress a smile. As you cruise down the dark road, bright blue lights ignite in your mirrors. "Fuck. Get it the back." Simon wastes no time, he throws himself in the spacious rear area of the van as you pull over. You both wait anxiously for the cop to approach the window. Everything feels silent, until you finally hear the footsteps.

"I'm gonna run," Simon whispers, hand on the rear door latch.

"Don't." You demand sharply, rolling down your window for the cop. The air feels still and tight. It seems like it takes hours for the cop to speak, but when he does it's a routine traffic stop. He asks you if you knew how fast you were going and you innocently explain the floating nature of your speedometer. The officer laughs when he reads your ID and sees your last name.

"You're Frank's kid, right?"

"Yeah, his one and only." You beam, proudly. Happy to name drop your wealthy family.

"You just try to slow it down and tell your dad I said hello, alright?" The cop taps your door twice and sends you on your way. As you pull off, Simon peeks out from under the blankets and sighs with relief.

"Holy shit, with the way this thing looks, you should've been strip searched." Simon tosses himself back into the passenger seat.

"Don't shit-talk my van," you hiss. Simon proceeds to tell you where to go, each turn and shortcut, until you reach a large white house, almost as status defining as your parents'.

"My parents are out of town." He points to a concealed area to park and leads you to a basement door. He fights with a key for a moment before leading you inside. It's a messy basement room with red walls and posters from ceiling to floor. Instruments take up most of the space, aside from the bed.

"Do you avoid your parents like me, or do your parents avoid you?" You ask, bluntly, not considering the weight of that question.

"Both, I guess." He says after a long pause.

"You... Wanna smoke?" You ask, unsure how to navigate the silence.

"Can't. Fucks with my motivation," he grins. You shrug, rolling and smoking a joint by yourself while Simon works on some songs. He's got an ear for every instrument in his room, and he layers them over each other, creating complex instrumentals. It's nice to listen to while you lie on his bed and watch the swirling tendrils of smoke twist into the light and air above you.

"It sounds nice," you hum, settling into the cozy divot in the center of his mattress-on-the-floor.

"Write something for it," he commands, tossing a notepad and pen at you.

"Like lyrics? Why?" You stare at the blank page, unable to read the layers and layers of writing indented into it from Simon's heavy, angry hand.

"You need an out, I'm giving you one." He leans back in the rolling chair he resides in, staring me down like a hawk.

"I don't think I'm a very musical person. I think I'm more of a doodler, really," you argue, scribbling in the corner of the paper.

"Just fuckin' write something down and stop being a pussy." He snatches the pen from you and tosses it onto the pad.

"Bitch- How does that make me a pussy?" Your eyes narrow at him.

"It'd be too vulnerable. You're no tougher than that kid you were in high school. It's all fake now." It's clear he's taunting you. Making a fair attempt at reverse psychology.

"Fuck you, give me a minute," you huff, writing a line or two to start with. "Play your shit again." And he does. Restarting the instrumental he put together just for you. After a while, you've written something and you sling the notepad at Simon. He takes a moment to read through it a few times, almost trying to decode the melody of how I'd sang it in my head.

"Perfect. Now sing it." He nods toward his microphone stand.

"Fuck's sake, dude. Are you serious?" You whine, pushed further and further out of your comfort zone.

"Come on, let's see what you got," he says in a tone that lets me know I've already lost the argument.

"It doesn't feel good to be vulnerable to you."

"Tough it out." You roll your eyes at his demand, but you do it. You tough it out and recite your song over the music he provided. He hits 'restart,' and then 'record,' and then he points to you. After a measure you begin to sing. Low effort, but still angelic. Your song is about the feeling of being homesick no matter where you end up. It's about running and putting up a face as a defense mechanism. It's about wearing a mask.

When you're done singing and the music fades out, Simon slides the headphones off his ears. "That... Was tits." He looks elated. Like a poor painter with a new pallet.

"Is 'tits' good?" You ask again, emphasizing the lack of answer last time you asked.

"Yeah, 'tits' is good." He grins. "That was good."

"Fuck you. Who's not vulnerable?" You curl your lip, clearly more moved by the challenge than the release he was offering. Simon just shakes his head.

"Let's mix it." He beelines for the computer and begins fine tuning the song. You're watching in awe of his quick skill at this craft. As if watching him play all those instruments wasn't impressive enough. The night grows older. Simon offers you your favorite party favor, but you're over it. So the two of you share a joint.

"You don't ever get tired of living in a circle?" You ask through a cloud of smoke.

"A fuckin' circle?" He looks at you.

"Just, still in this town, still avoiding your parents, still making music alone in your room."

"Fuck," he huffs, offended but acknowledging the truth in your words. "Do you ever get tired of running from it?"

"Touché." You bring the joint to your lips as you lie in his disheveled bed. His arm snaked around you ages ago, slowly pulling you closer and closer to him. Like he's worried you'll float away.

"If our only two options are run away or get sucked into this shit hole of a town, I think we're a little fucked, don't you?" He chuckles to himself.

"Maybe those aren't the only options. We just don't have all the answers yet. I don't think anyone does." Your voice is wistful and quiet. You can feel Simon's eyes on you, but you stare at his dark ceiling. He rolls his eyes at your corny words, but he knows you're right. "It's funny, because if I could run from the uncertainty too, I would." You giggle, aware of your vices and poor coping skills.

"Yeah, you would," Simon mocks.

"And you? You're just going to live with it? Sit right beside the discomfort and accept that for yourself? Have you ever tried to give yourself more, even if it meant running?" You're slowly building up a sense of passion behind your words and Simon just listens, staring deeply into your eyes as you speak. Suddenly, you're cut off when he wraps a hand around the back of your head and pulls you into a kiss. His lips crash into yours and the two of you melt into each other.

You can't even remember what you were saying, you just know you don't want to stop touching him. The heat of the kiss begins to swell as Simon's hands trail up and down your body. He's grabbing at you in a specific order, like he's been waiting to get his hands on it. Really get his hands on it. You grasp at the hem of his shirt, tugging in semblance to take it the fuck off, and he does.

His broad, pale chest rises and falls with anticipation as you strip off the same article of clothing. "Jesus Christ," he moans, pulling you to him to shove his face directly between your breasts. He breathes deeply, taking you in. With one swift motion, he's hoisted you on top of him, your legs straddling his waist. Simon unfastens the button on your jeans before tossing you to the side to undress you.

You're both naked and greatly anticipating the next moment your skin will touch. Seconds feel like hours until you're pressed against each other again. Simon buries his face in the crook of your neck as he guides his throbbing erection to your entrance. You're squirming and arching beneath him, and he releases a breathy laugh as he watches you writhe. "You're aching for it," he groans.

"Fuck you," you hiss, pulling him closer to you by his shoulders. All he does is chuckle before slowly slipping inside you. You moan loudly as you adjust to his size. Something about a lanky, dead-eyed man. His pace is steady as he rocks his hips against yours, picking up speed as you gush around him. Soon his thrusts are hard and rough, and your loud, vulgar moans echo off his bedroom walls.

"God, you're so fuckin' tight," he huffs, pulling out of you and tossing you aside. Simon quickly repositions you in front of him, on all fours. You let your back arch naturally, putting on a bit of a show for him as he watches you. His eyes are darkened and his smirk sends chills down your spine. You can't help but smile wide in excitement. With two round hands, he grabs your waist and positions you at the perfect height. His hands wander the soft flesh of your ass as you press up against him. "You drive me fucking crazy..." He sighs as he slips inside you.

Simon digs the tips of his fingers into your skin, pulling you against him with every violent thrust. You do everything you can to contort your body to give him more of you. He throws his head back, falling into a sloppy, unsteady pace. His breathing is wild and primal all the way up until the point of climax. You release a loud, fluttering moan as he fucks you through your high, quickly withdrawing to finish on your back and ass. You're both breathless for a while, the room is silent but for the sound of your lungs filling and deflating.

Simon climbs off the bed, but you're too fucked out to even raise your head up to watch where he's going. Moments later, he returns, towel in hand. He cleans you up and lands a hard smack on your right ass cheek. The sound is thunderous against the silence. You yelp and break into quiet chuckles.

Finally, you have the strength to roll over. You sit up against the mess of pillows that became a sort of headboard for his bed, feeling beautiful and bare before him. It's a nice feeling that you're not used to. Sure you've had your flings, but it's never occurred to you how quickly you tend to leave or cover up after. Not this time. You're both fully exposed and Simon's eyes drink you in, one last time before he speaks. "Don't go back." You stare at him for a long while, silent.

"I won't," you gasp, surprised by your own promise. As soon as the words leave your mouth, his lips are on yours. In the next few days, you quit your job and Simon rides with you to go back and get the most important of your shit. The rest goes with the trailer when you sell it. You don't run a single thing past your parents and you don't tell them you're coming back to town. It's a new sense of peace and adventure, though it feels like abandoning your old life.

After a month of van living, you and Simon get an apartment and constantly receive complaints about the noise, but nothing stops the music overflowing from your floor of the building. A new sense of bliss. It's comfortable now.

[izzystizzys]

Half the jobs Fox is sent on are not within his jurisdiction. This certainly isn’t.

Planetary protection unit, they said. Military police. Orbital security force.

And now Fox is being pointed at Count Dooku on some backwater planet and told to fetch. How the mighty have fallen.

He’s pretty sure Kenobi, Skywalker and their units could’ve karked this all up perfectly fine on their lonesome; they don’t need three Guardsmen there to watch them do it. But the Chancellor says jump and Fox surpressed the urge to bash his head in with a durasteel chair. So it goes.

Which is when things start going terribly, terribly wrong, of course.

“Is that Spinder?!”, Skywalker exclaims, arms wheeling out in the air wildly to try and catch his balance. “The Count fucks?!”

Across the room, Cody rips his helmet off, several shades redder than a baseline human should be. “The Count fucks my brother?!”

Two lightsticks hover uselessly in the air, Skywalker’s zig-zagging in a relentless hum with his gesturing. Fox stands stock-still, in the hope that maybe he’ll spontaneously turn invisible if he does. Around them, 501st and 212th troopers gape through helmets. Behind him, Nuisance gasps for air amidst screaming laughter.

Ping, went Fox’s comm unit, in that unmistakeable lascivious jingle sound. Ping, answered Count Dooku’s within a split second. Match found close by.

For a moment, Fox considers what it would be like to run at the Count’s lightsaber at full speed.

…not like that.

“Count”, Kenobi says, with a face like he’s bitten into a rotten fruit. Not that Fox knows what fruit tastes like. “This is a highly… unexpected development.��� He fwoosh-es his lightsaber shut, obviously having given up on fighting. “I’d call it a conflict of interest, but I’m not sure that applies?”

“Oh, it’s gonna be a conflict of something, for sure”, Cody hisses, fists clenched at his sides. He looks about ready to boil over, with Crys and Waxer inching closer in preparation. “What have you done to my brother, you monster?!”

“I don’t think you want to know that, Commander”, Nuisance gasps out between barks of laughter, proving why he’s eternally Fox’s least favourite. Cody’s splotchy red complexion slowly fades into ghostly white as a sheen of horror settles over the room. “Thanks for the fancy chocolate bouquet last week, Count!”

Dooku, who has been thus far staring at the floor with an empty thousand-klick stare, looks up at that. Fox has seldom seen a man that defeated outside of the mirror, he has to admit - but shudders when he remembers exactly what the chocolates were for.

Oh Force, he’s sexted Count Dooku into buying him gifts. Does that make him a Seppie spy? Traitor by proxy?

“I feel”, says the Count, gravely, still holding his long red laserknife in a white-knuckled death-grip, “that I have been taken for a fool.”

“Uh”, says Fox, nervously. All eyes snap to him. Oh Force, oh Force, oh Force. They’re going to invent a whole new kind of decommissioning for this and name it after Fox.

“Is it really scamming if you actually get what you pay for?”, asks Grids, considering. Fox slowly pulls off his helmet just for the comforting feeling of burying his head in his gloved palms. The sounds of a struggle ensue, and Kenobi makes a choked-off noise. Maybe if he’s embarrassed enough he’ll give himself an aneurysm.

“Grandmaster, why are you paying people for naked pictures of themselves on the holonet?!” Kenobi asks, despairingly. “Aren’t you a little old for that?”

“Oi, no one said I was naked!”, Fox exclaims, head whipping up.

“So naked”, Nuisance laughs, palm thumping against the floor. He might be crying.

“I’m not decrepit”, the Count blusters, and Skywalker makes a gagging noise. “I have - there are needs, and they are perfectly natural!” It takes three troopers to restrain Cody from launching himself at the Count.

[natewriteslol]

Rumors: pt.1

Vil Schoenheit x Reader

Enemies to Lovers

Word Count: 3.7K

Summary: Vil and you have had a semi one sided rivalry as soon as your time at NRC began. However, the feud soon has to be put aside to stop an anonymous gossip blog attempting to ruin yours and possibly other students’ reputation. Will you and Vil be able to find whoever is behind this? Or will you be a fallen victim to those who call themselves, ‘The Catacombs?’ 

══════════════════════════════

Ever since your explosive introduction at Night Raven, you always had the tendency to stick out like a sore thumb, captivating everyone with minimal effort. You didn’t belong here amongst wizards, beastmen,merfolk and royals, yet you managed to fit right in.

 I think that was what really pissed him off, especially since he had worked so hard in order to accomplish what you do, impressing others and having eyes on him. However Vil had quickly got over it, his success wasn’t measured by popularity and validation from others, and he shouldn’t worry about a measly nobody that could never hold a candle to him. Instead, the dorm leader focused on keeping peace within his life, enjoying the routine and tranquility. 

Which just wasn’t your thing.

You were clumsy, loud and did things your own way with no regard for how others felt. He did give you credit for you having the confidence to be yourself and being extremely empathetic to those who needed it. 

Maybe the tipping point was you seeing him in his most vulnerable state, watching him overblot and lose control in envy against one of the people he hated the most. You were there to solve the issue and stop him alongside your friends. And worst of all he heard you point it out to them, believing that no one could hear your whispers. 

But he heard every word. 

‘He completely lost it over Neige, I’m glad we got it under control,’ he heard you say quietly to Ace and Deuce. 

Later on, you decided to offer him a juicebox as he sat on the empty auditorium stage…

Apple flavored.

Which he swears on his unique magic  that you did that on purpose to spite him, a sick joke that only made his distaste for you stronger. It felt like you knew exactly what to do at every moment to make him lose it, like yelling “on accident” when he needs to master a potion formula, saying something crude in the lunch room, the way it seems everyone is obsessed with you.

 And of course it was extremely shocking to Rook when his dorm leader had begun re-explaining his disdain for the new kid at school. Despite laying back on the dark purple bedding that would make anyone relax and the sunset pink lighting from the lamp, Vil was far from calm. He had to recount the latest anger-inducing incident to his friend during their “sleepovers” on a Friday night, being wary of his not yet fully dried mauve nail polish as he talked with his hands. 

It was this day that really made him angry, his last straw as some would say. He held his pen as he wrote notes busily into his notebook, heavily invested in order to pass the upcoming exam. It was wonderful, as the class was quiet just as he liked it, allowing him to fully concentrate and absorb the contents of the slide show created by Professor Crewel. 

However, it was easy to hear a decrepit wooden door close in the pin-drop silent classroom. As the black and white man’s back was turned to the class, reading out the text of the slides to the class, you, Y/N L/N thought you could be slick enough to be unscathed by Crewel’s wrath

You being late was more set in stone than the heat within the land of the Scalding Sands it seems. Your satchel was barely slung on your shoulder with your weird, round cat creature barely catching up behind, and it was just Vil’s luck that he had to be the poor sap that had the only seat that was available amongst the many wooden tables. Crewel began scolding you as you fumbled in your seat, and whilst onlookers found it hilarious they wouldn’t dare look or let out a snicker at the scene. Your nervousness  made you fumble your belongings in your bag as you attempted to get out your pen and notebook, your arm would touch his. 

Making him neglect his usual manners and his side-eye of judgment fell upon you. Of course you didn’t notice as he began to study your features, the look of panic flooding your face. Although, this moment of looking at you ended up being a grave mistake.

“Mr. Schoenheit, if there is a huge problem with L/N being late to the point where your eyes can’t be bothered to take notes on the slides vital for your final then you will be delighted to join us in a discussion after class,” Crewell spat, his anger piercing the air. 

His lilac eyes quickly reverted to the projector placed in front of the usual chalkboard. He was embarrassed yet no one could judge him or usually break out in whispers, in fear that they would be included in the punishment. Vil cursed at himself internally but that damn out of season, raggedy bag you carried was enough of a distraction, not counting the person attached to it. 

All throughout the lecture, the actor had prayed that Crewell would forget about the mishap completely as there was an hour of class remaining, yet it had appeared that luck was not on his side at all.

He had tried to flee with the crowd of students rushing out the door, hoping no one would pay him any mind. But after he made one sharp movement to get out of his seat- 

“Mr. Schoenheit!”

Shit. 

Everyone had completely rushed out, with some snickering at the scene, not wanting to be there when the scolding would ensue as entertaining as it may be to see. 

“Care to join us in the conversation like I suggested earlier?” Obviously this was not a yes or no question and Vil had no choice in the matter, but nodded out of courtesy. 

“Yes, Professor,” Vil replied, coming down the short steps from his seat in the front row, not making even a hint of eye contact with you. 

“I understand that the action of lateness pesters you heavily, Mr. Schoenheit. Does it not?”

“...Well, yes it does, Mr. Crewel. However, I promise that another incident like this will never happen again and I will be sure to mind my business more when it comes to fellow students,” Vil said, wanting to spit out some words that could please his teacher into letting him go off the hook. 

“Despite being an actor, lying truly isn’t your area of expertise, young pup,” Crewel replied quickly, keeping a hand steady on the pointer he held. He then turned to you, his look softening as despite you not being an astounding student, Crewel favored you very much. Once again your formula of minimal efforts yet good results was absolutely infuriating to him. 

“I truly worry about you Y/N, as along with your grades, your attendance along with Grim’s as a default are. I will be having a meeting with Crowley about the extra work he has you doing on campus to allow you to live here as well. However, I will be suggesting a partner assignment that is extra credit for the both of you.”

“I mean no disrespect Mr. Crewel, but I personally am in need of no extra credit whatsoever. I have a 99.5 percent in this class which will obviously be rounded by the grading admin,” Vil explained with a slight laugh in his voice. You rolled your eyes as it was plain to see that the blonde was putting you down. Sure you may not have a 90 something percent, but he didn’t have gnomes gnawing on his ankles this morning that he had to take care of himself with no magic. 

But Crewel just looked at him with a concerned look, he was no stranger to shade being thrown and he was not about to tolerate that disrespect. He then explained as he moved to his desk organizing papers , “Oh dear, it looks like you have a bit of incorrect info dear pup. The grading admin stopped rounding this year due to academic dishonesty and such. Also I must add that you and Y/N had gotten the exact same test score, a C- if I remember. And with this being a huge difference from your usual scores, this will drag you down, I fear.” 

The blonde’s breath hitched, he would be fucked for this semester and although not royally, that lack of satisfaction would eat him alive. That last exam Vil had little to no time to study due to his role as a villain in “Love Conquers All” on MovieFlix but of course karma stops for no one.

“A way we could solve this though is through our extra credit tutor program. Both of you enroll, Schonheit tutors you and makes sure you get to class on time, and if there is improvement then both of you benefit. And Mr. Schonheit will get the satisfaction he craves for his grades.”

"Does that sound like a plan?" Crewel had waited for a nod from the both of you, but Vil quickly rejected that notion faster than Ruggie could snatch someone’s wallet.  

"How do I know that they will honor their promise, Professor? I am a very busy person and I do not wish to waste my time with someone who does not take things seriously,"

But you found his cocky attitude completely unbearable at this point. There was no way you were going to allow him to speak as if you weren’t standing right next to him. “I actually do take things seriously, please don't act as though you know me,” you said blankly, actually looking at Vil while talking for once.

"Excuse me?" Vil replied, he was thrown off completely due to you being completely silent this entire conversation. 

"Listen, I don't flunk because I don't want to and I don't show up late because I want to. I'm willing to fix it if Crowley changes the work schedule because it's virtually impossible to be a handyman and student all at once sometimes," you clarified. 

`

"I am an honorable person," you held out your hand to Crewel "and I swear I will change. I just need some help."

  Crewel smiled, enjoying the fire in your spirit to stand up for yourself. You then turned to Vil, holding out your hand with a stern expression and as unsettled as he was he took your hand in his gloved one and shook it.

"Good choice my pups, I know you both won't regret this."

But despite having many differences, you both thought the same thing.

‘Yeah right.’

~~~

After the dramatic retelling, the man grabbed the golden, hand held mirror on his night stand to pluck his eyebrows, carrying on his irritated commentary, “So now I have to watch over them like a babysitter. Can you believe this?” 

“Ah, Roi du Poison I do feel sorry for this causing you so much stress, but don’t you believe the little Trickster could hold their end of the bargain?” Rook questioned, as afterall, you were a good friend of his and he knew you of all people could keep a promise. It was always in your heart to get things done, regardless of how you feel about it. 

“Oh please, I will give it a week, Rook,” he replied, hyper fixated on evening the arches of his brows only for Epel with sleepiness intertwined still in his walk, wondering what the cause of the angry tone of voice from Vil was for. 

“What’s going on, you guys?” Epel questioned with a yawn. 

But Vil snapped his fingers in recall, completely ignoring the question, “Ah, Epel you just reminded me, remember when we were walking to class and L/N had come up to you, ruffled your hair and such and was very curt with me? What even was that?”

“...”

“What is it?”

“Vil, Y/N is really aware you don’t like them. They actually talked to me about it today,” Epel explained bluntly. 

Rook nodded in agreement, facing the vanity mirror as he peeled off his face mask“Oui, they try their best to not look at you even.”

Vil paused in thought, he didn’t think he made his dislike toward you so obvious but I guess it was quite the contrary.

“They don’t go spreadin’ but they told us, they’re cool about it though,” the lavender haired boy quickly added, not wanting to make anything worse for you. 

But it didn’t necessarily matter whether or not you both liked one another, what mattered is that you got the job done by solving your faulty grades and attendance. Dislike is just a small hiccup, plus there were plenty of justifiable reasons as to why Vil did not like you, despite being told otherwise from everyone. However, he didn’t face repercussions nor are there heavy consequences for an opinion after all. 

BUZZ.

The trio’s phones either vibrated or let out a cheery notification. Even from the door open ajar to the rest of the dorm, you could hear the different sound effects from student’s devices. The odd coincidence made them all look at their phones at the same time to look at what it was. 

“This just in for some hot new gossip! I heard from a little birdy that the fairest of them all is viciously bullying the new transfer from a whole new world. But…they’re being partnered up to tutor by Crewel! Looks like all beauty doesn’t come with grace :( 

-The Catacombs” 

“The hell is this?” Epel said quietly, staring at the anonymous text message. It wasn’t a registered number, instead it was an auto programming since it was only five numbers reading: 88709. 

“Oh mon dieu, Roi du poisson,” Rook uttered, unknowing of what to say, going from looking horrified at his phone to his dorm leader for any type of response. 

By then the phone notification of Vil’s was ringing out of control, and he could hear Pomefiore members’ reactions to such an appalling message. He was receiving texts non-stop from multiple people asking him all the same questions,

Is it true? 

 Why he would put someone down like that?

 Why does he have a problem with Y/N? 

But a text from one specific person ate him alive completely.  

Jack:

Hey, I don’t know if you saw the message

He quickly typed to the beastman in attempt to defend himself, knowing what they both went through together as children. Vil couldn’t let Jack of all people misinterpret him as this bully to his good friend. 

Vil:

I would never bully anyone, nor do I waste my energy on people I don’t like. The stress ages you too much 

Are you seriously going to believe this anonymous crap over me Jack?

Jack:

I’ll talk to you later.

It’s not that I don’t believe you, but I have never heard the nicest things about you from them.

Something like this absolutely could not get out to the public, bullying scandals can completely drag down a career as almost everyone goes through that traumatic experience of being casted aside because you’re different. And he would never be a monster like that toward someone, but playing villains in countless movies and tv shows would make it seem completely believable. 

It was them who most definitely put out that rumor, and Vil didn’t care whether it was late at night, or if Rook and Epel wanted him to stop.

He was paying a visit. 

~~~

With nothing planned and being extremely exhausted, this might’ve been the slowest moving Friday night you’ve ever experienced. And while you haven’t been inclined to care too much about what people say about you, to say you weren’t haunted by your encounter with Vil would be an understatement. Of course you were well aware of his distaste for you, but today it just felt as though it reached a boiling point with the way he was acting. But to take your mind off of it, you freshened up after a long day in class, slipped on something comfortable, put your phone on “Do Not Disturb” and decided to watch some movies on your laptop whilst eating snacks with Grim. After all, you deserved a reward as it would be the last day of relaxation before you had to lock down completely on your education. 

Your cat and yourself ended up nodding off to sleep on your couch easily due to the calming environment of your house, as the ghosts decided to take a hint on the mood you were in and were extremely quiet. As both of you were catching up on needed rest, you heard an excessive pounding on your door.  Whoever this was, it felt like they were about to break down your door with how aggressive they were knocking. 

Grim nearly attached to the ceiling with fear, making you yelp in fear, naturally frightened to answer the door to see who was behind that hostility. Your eyes bolted to your tall case clock, the time reading 10:32pm, the late time didn’t ease your anxiety whatsoever.

However, after adjusting to your surroundings, you decided that you needed to answer as to whoever was continuing to hammer on your door as it was giving you a headache. Neglecting your human world instincts of not opening doors to strangers, you walked up to your tall mahogany door, only to find your favorite person on the other side.  

Vil Schoenheit. 

His face was painted with true anger that you’ve only seen during his overblot, “You have some goddamn nerve writing that shit about me.”

You were absolutely frazzled and confused overall, “What even are you talking about? And why are you at my house?”

“Answer your fucking phone and you will find out,” the blonde replied noxiously, watching your every move believing that you were trying to play stupid with him. 

As you opened your phone screen, your eyes were lit up by notifications, as everyone and their mother had texted and called you in a matter of minutes. 

But one message sat completely unfamiliar coming from that fateful, 5 digit number. 

It was horrible and beyond untrue, even though he didn’t like you, you would never stretch it to bullying. Maybe as a joke amongst friends but never to be taken seriously. And as you digested that everyone had gotten this text message and with him being a celebrity this would do heavy damage. And whoever wrote this was out to get you both as many are absolutely in love with Vil, others hate bullying and hearing a glorified superstar being accused of such horrible things would make tabloids run with this story. 

This was a complete lose lose situation. 

You looked up to see Vil hovering over you, watching you like a hawk, you swore you saw his eye twitch with irritation, “I would never write something like this. And listen I am so sorry-”

“Who else would write something like this? Do you think I’m a damn fool-?” A small hand on his shoulder cut off his angry tirade progressing as he was about to move forward.

“Vil, we are going to get nowhere if you just get angry and lose control, now Y/N do you have any clue as to who would write something like this?” your friend Epel questioned kindly, juxtaposing his dorm leader completely. 

“Not exactly, I don’t hate Vil at all like that and I wouldn’t spend my Friday night making up shit like that and you can check all of my technology,” you defended, offering your phone.

His suspicion got the better of him, snatching it out of your phone Vil scrolled through your phone messaging history. And despite going against his suspicion, he didn’t have any concrete proof that you were the culprit.

So until then, he guessed that you were just as wronged as him.

~~~

You all quickly moved to the inside of your house, both to get away from the cold night air, but also to get out of sight as to anyone who could be watching all of you right now. To say that this made all of you, especially you and Vil paranoid wasn’t an over exaggeration. Beginning to theorize with your two friends as to who would write something like this about you two. But unfortunately, every possible “lead” you had was just a dead end, no clear motive, but then again who would need a motive for a stunt like this. It was obvious that attention was what they craved, to drive both of you up the wall and unfortunately they succeeded.  

“All they gave is a nickname, but any phone number could be tracked to a specific device used,” You said, as student announcements used 5 digit numbers all of the time, this person had to be skilled in tech. 

Vil leached off of your theory, “The catacombs is quite a gothic name afterall, we need to search Ignihyde or Diasomnia.” 

“Why them? That seems stereotypical” you asked, feeling argumentative on such a baseless theory. 

“Because, Ignihyde is the most technologically advanced dorm, and Diasomnia students seem like the type to enjoy playing tricks like this anyway,” Vil explained as if it were obvious, his sharp gaze never leaving yours as he spoke.

While the flames of his anger had been flamed, it seemed as though his disdain for you was more permanent than a wine stain on a wedding dress. Never fleeting even during this moment of vulnerability from both ends, but you had no energy to begin bickering about it.

“Roi du poisson et mon Trickster, if we want to find whoever is doing this cruel joke, you must put aside your differences and work together,” Rook said, cutting the tension and bringing the platinum blonde back to Earth. 

Whilst both of you didn’t want to admit it, the archer was right. If you wanted to figure this out you couldn’t be at each other's throats, fighting one another constantly. Otherwise you would accomplish little to nothing. 

And there was no way ‘The Catacombs’ could be hidden forever, and you would make sure to uncover the skeletons within it. 

~~~

A/N: Hi everyone! This fic takes inspo from an amazing novel that I read called "Ace of Spades" please read it its absolutely fantastic and the author is a genius. Thank you for bearing with me for the long time it takes to pump out content, you guys are amazing and it's always great to have opportunities to write.

xoxo, Nate <3

Taglist: (pls let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part!!)

[hurtspideyparker]

Emotional Support Intern Peter Parker

Tony and Peter finally arrive in the large room, polished leather Oxfords and stained-lace Converse making their way through the crowd of professionals. Tony has a hand on Peter's back guiding him, because no matter how many meetings, conferences, and office buildings they traverse together, Peter always manages to get lost the second Tony lets go. 

Thankfully Pepper is easy to spot, shaking hands with some blah blah from wee woo Industries. Her hair is the only splash of colour in the constant white black grey of everyone's pencil skirts and collared shirts. 

"Hi Ms. Potts!" Peter greets as soon as the woman turns and spots them. 

"Hi Peter—Tony. I told you to stop bringing the kid to these things. No offense Peter."

"None taken! You look lovely, did you get your hair done?"

Pepper's hair cascades over her shoulder in perfect curls, splayed out over her white button-up. 

"Yes actually, a trim and some highlights. I think she went shorter than I asked though, because I always get half an inch, and this does not look like half an inch."

Peter steps a bit closer and squints at the piece of copper hair she's holding out. 

"I think it's just because she curled it. You usually get it blow dried after."

"Hm. I think you're right actually."

Tony rolls his eyes, "I'm so glad you guys are having such a great slumber party. C'mon kid I have to avoid that senator and he's starting to glance this way." He tries to head over to some tall plants that happen to be great blind spots. 

"Ah ah ah Tony! We are talking about this. I told you to stop dragging Peter to all of your work responsibilities. I'm sure he's bored to death with these meetings and work events."

"Pep, he's an intern, he's supposed to be bored and taken advantage of. Besides, if you take away my emotional support intern then I simply wouldn't show up! So."

"You aren't even paying him for his time!" Pepper says at the same time Peter mumbles "emotional support intern?"

"Um excuse me, that 3 million dollar suit he stuffs between his math homework and Go-Gurt begs to differ. And anyways, I pay him with experience. I brought him to that seminar in LA on Saturday, and he's following me to Tokyo for that week long conference in July. I highly doubt he's complaining," he squeezes the boy's shoulders, Peter looking up and beaming at him and Pepper. 

"I'm really fine with it Ms. Potts. Besides, the more of these things I go to the more lab time I get!" Peter pipes in.

Pepper glares at Tony. "Really, bribery?" 

"Okay well, if us grown adults don't want to be here how else am I supposed to get a 15 year old to talk about environmental reform to people who don't even believe in climate change." 

Pepper and Tony hold each other's stares.

"You mean he spoke to Mr. Ellis about the generator you designed for his carbon plant, and it didn't end with him calling us a pansy corporation and you calling him a decrepit geezer who's business is the only thing that's going to die quicker than he is?"

There's barely stiffled hope supressed under Pepper's professionalism. 

Tony smirks. "Yep, I think Mr. Ellis even smiled. The kid's got charm! Who knew."

Pepper glances at Peter in consideration. 

"Peter have you ever considered pursuing anything further in business? Engineering is great, but if you really want to be successful it's incredibly important to build interpersonal skills, leadership, and even current market and finance knowledge. I mean you might want to sell your designs one day, or start a company." 

"Oh, I haven't really-"

"You could shadow me! I mean interning with a CEO is a once in a lifetime opportunity, it would give you a glowing resume, and I know a lot more about this stuff than Tony. He didn't even perform his executive duties when he actually was the CEO."

Pepper has that gleam in her eyes, the one she gets when men call her sweetheart, or when Tony isn't even dressed for their reservation that started ten minutes ago. 

It means she's already had the argument in her head. 

Peter is still stuttering, flustered with this side of Pepper. Her business face isn't usually directed at him, and it's a far cry from the woman who sends him home with leftovers from dinner. 

"Wait wait wait, are you trying to steal my intern?" Tony asks incredulously. 

"If anyone even needs an intern Tony it would be me. I have to babysit you and the company, meanwhile you just need him to hand you wrenches. Competent help is hard to find these days and you're wasting his talents." 

"Um, excuse me, he's the only thing keeping me together. You already have your fancy day planner and Excel spreadsheets, I need him to get me out of the house. He's the only thing keeping me a responsible adult, if you take away my emotional support intern then I will not attend a single meeting for the rest of the quarter." 

"You are such a man child!"

"La la la la can't hear youuu," Tony says with his fingers in his ears.

"Um, guys, I think people are staring."

Peter tugs on the corner of Tony's sleeve to get him to unplug his ears, glancing nervously at the groups of people sending them judgemental stares. The three of them give a wave and pleasant smile, most of the crowd continuing to move along on the grey carpet at the sight of their unsettling synchronicity and false turn of the lips. 

Pepper speaks through her teeth, a grin still presented at passers-by. "Fine, you can keep him, but only because he's doing half my job for me. The only person you can emotionally regulate around and it's a teenager. I'm glad you finally found someone who can keep you entertained." 

"Love you too honey," Tony says while putting a hand on the small of her back and kissing her cheek. He sighs, looking around the room at all the government officials who think these tech companies are spying on them. 

Apparently a surveillance state is only cool when they do it to manipulate their incarceration numbers, rig elections and lobby votes, and not for data mining and targeted ads. 

"I say we hit the cheese and crackers, take an awkward amount of sips from those tiny water bottles, and then speak to some old ladies till we have to do our presentation."

"Sounds great Mr. Stark. Will you make sure they don't grab my face again? I smelled like old lady perfume at school and Flash started making fun of me for stealing people's grandmas."

Tony looks into Peter's eyes questioningly and finds nothing but sincerity and resignation in them. 

"Well. Not my fault your cheeks are so gosh darn cute. But I'll do my best," he wraps an arm around the shorter and starts heading through the room again. 

The weight is comforting. Peter used to get anxious at these events, but Tony never leaves his side and is always looking at him like he's the Michaelangelo in the center of every room. He became accustomed to being Mr. Stark's favourite part of the event. While that may not seem difficult, especially considering the droning lectures and snooty company, it always feels special making jokes about people's ridiculous work jargon, and comparing the staleness of crackers at conferences. 

"Emotional support intern huh?" he says smugly. 

Tony glances at him, but instead of scoffing or denying anything, he just speaks with honesty. "You and Pepper are the best, most important things to this company. And to me. I'm really glad you're here kid."

Peter doesn't know what to say. The words stick in his throat while Tony hands him a water bottle with the lid already cracked. 

Peter has super strength; It's completely unnecessary to open his bottle for him. He doesn't point this out. Tony will do it at the next meeting, just like he did at the last one, and Peter will never mention it.

[pedrosbish]

Logan f*cking Howlett

pairing: (old!man) Logan x reader

outline: you somehow get roped into looking after Charles and end up falling in love with the grumpy man who you barely see around

warnings: very brief descriptions of smut, swearing, angst

He found you standing by the beat up gas station, a pathetic cardboard sign advertising for any job people were willing to offer.

You looked young, a pretty thing still full of life but your eyes didn't have that glint in them anymore, something that Logan recognised all too well after spending so long staring at what he had become over the years.

He was getting old - could feel it in the way his bones cracked when getting up, the wrinkles on his face spreading out and crinkling whenever he showed any other facial expression, and how his healing isn't how it used to be.

"I'm not a prostitute." Your voice snaps him out of it and he realises that he must've been staring at you for quite a bit now. "So you can fuck off to your buddies over there if that's what your after."

He glances over his shoulder at the group of men, crowding around a pickup truck, eyes ogling you and whistles reaching across the parking lot.

"I'm not-" He sighs, eyes closing for a split second before he turns back to you. "Are you good with old people?"

He had taken you to the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dirt and train tracks and for a split second you had a moment of panic surge through you. What if he was a serial killer? He had the blood on him already for that role, red spots dotted all over his fancy white shirt and on his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel.

But then he had stopped in front of an old decrepit building and a calming presence had suddenly clouded around you. Logan had led you around the back to a decommissioned water tank, littered with thousands of tiny holes.

Eyeing him wearily as he opened the hatch, he stood to the side as you walked past him, eyes falling to an old man sitting in a wheel chair before a chess table.

"Good evening." The old man's voice echoed around the large space. "Do you like chess?"

Wake him up at 8 every morning with breakfast and two tablets. Bathroom, wash him up, chess. Lunch then nap, followed by dinner with two more tablets and sleep.

It was an easy job, although a little too boring for your liking sometimes. Logan had stressed on the tablets everyday before leaving to go and work for the night, making you weary of what you were actually giving the old man.

You cleaned every day, the dirt and dust from outside always finding its way inside. The TV worked but only occasionally when you hit the specific spot on the back. You read a lot, either by yourself or to Charles.

"Such a soothing voice." He had murmured after you had tucked him in, eyes drooping closed. You had been looking after him for 4 months by that point and had placed a gentle kiss to his forehead for the first time, missing the small smile on his face as you left the tank.

Logan was still an enigma to you, his time mostly spent either working or sleeping. He usually came back once you had gone to bed, too anxious to actually fall asleep until his return. You usually peeked your head around the open door to see if he needed patching up, blood covering his bruised knuckles and red staining his shirt.

This was a common occurrence, one that made you feel nervous. Who had he been fighting that night? Why did your heart always flutter when you had to stand between his legs to stitch up a wound that would heal up entirely after a couple of days?

The first time you kissed him, he had pushed you away, hands a little rougher than either of you were expecting. Silent cusses had poured from his mouth as he stood up from the chair, stumbling off to his room where the door slammed loudly behind him.

That ache in your chest when you looked at him that night was growing ever so slowly into a large cavity that only he could fill.

By the time you woke up the next morning, he had already left for the day - to pick up Charles' medication, supplies, to work and to do whatever else gave him those wounds. Ignoring that ache in your heart, you had tried to go about your day, Charles' gaze holding a certain sorrow that made the lump in your throat harder to swallow around.

He hadn't come back for dinner, your own food having grown cold as you waited for him. After covering it up and putting it in a place where he would be able to see it, you had gone to bed, drifting away uneasily.

The sound of your door opening woke you, and you watched as the light from the next room poured in, casting the shadow of Logan onto your wall. Turning around slowly, you looked at him standing in your doorway, an almost nervous look on his face.

"I, uh," he winces, hand clutching at the red patch slowly staining his shirt. "Need your help again."

You were quiet, which made in all honesty Logan nervous as he looked up at you, your gaze locked onto stitching his stab wound back up. Usually he could never get you to shut up.

Throwing away the cloth which you had used to wipe away the rest of the blood, you turned your back without a word, ready to go back to your bed. Without thinking, Logan had grabbed onto your wrist, standing up and looming over you.

It was difficult to look at nothing but him. Even though he was old, Logan was still possibly the most handsome man you had ever seen. Watching silently, you waited for him to say something, to say anything.

"Fuck it." He murmurs under his breath, the hand on your wrist tugging you forward so that he can crash his lips to yours.

It's not a loving touch. His hands are rough and hard against your skin, desperation coursing through him as he takes you right there on the kitchen table, shorts tugged down to your ankles and shirt hanging low enough for him to stare at your chest.

He collapses against you, a low groan reverberating through his chest. In this moment of intimacy, you allow your fingers to gently scrape against his scalp and you smile at how he melts against you.

He silently lifts you, placing you gently down onto his bed where he climbs in after you, hand dangling around your waist as he places a quick kiss to the back of your shoulder.

Your heart soars, a giddy smile spreading across your lips, so much that your cheeks ache. He's warm, snuggling back into him in the cold air of the old building, your hand tangling with his own as your eyes droop.

Wake him up at 8 every morning with breakfast and two tablets. Bathroom, wash him up, chess. Lunch then nap, followed by dinner with two more tablets and sleep. Make dinner, patch up and fuck Logan.

It always hurt after. He treated you as if you didn't exist or that you were simply not there the following morning. He usually left for work before you were awake but on the rare occasion where he didn't need to leave in the morning, his replies mainly consisted of grunts.

For now, Logan seeking you out for relief was enough. But in those rare moments of intimacy following after sex, you could almost picture a different life for you two. One where he wouldn't return from work with holes and blood covering his shirt, or the energy being sucked out from him to the point where he was almost losing himself and who he used to be.

After a particularly gruelling day with Charles, one where it had taken him a lot longer to remember who you were and where he was, you decided to talk to Logan properly. You needed more from him.

This night, he hadn't gotten into trouble and returned with no blood on him or his shirt. It was a small victory for the both of you at least.

He had snuck up behind you as you were washing the dinner plates, hand snaking its way down from your stomach to between your legs. It was easy to forget that you were meant to simply talk to him, to ask him what you were to him when his touch could be so distracting.

Laying down next to him that night, your hand on his chest which was beginning to slow, you had quietly murmured your question into the dark.

He had tensed up immediately, shifting away and sitting up, legs swinging over the side of the bed.

"Please, Logan." It's almost embarrassing at the way your voice cracks, wet tears pouring over your cheeks. "I-I love you."

"Don't fuckin' say that." His voice is sad, head hung low in his hands as he hears you move from your side of the bed, sitting beside him. "You think you do but you don't."

That ache in your heart burns with intensity at the way his voice sounds, almost as if he feels bad for you.

"I'm pretty sure I know how I feel, Logan." Your hand reaches out, gently moving his hand from his face. "What are you so scared of? Why can't you believe that I love you?"

"I'm not talkin' about this."

He shoots up, slipping his clothes and boots on and stalking towards the front door. You follow behind him, trying to match his stride as you call after him, voice cracking as you watch him grab his keys.

The sun is just rising beyond the horizon, painting the sky a beautiful hue of pink and orange. His car engine starts up just as you step outside, the dirt staining your feet as you watch him speed away.

You may not have known Logan that well or for that long but you did know some things about him. He was scared of caring for people again, having lost so many throughout the years. He thought that he was incapable of being loved, his years of ageing souring his thoughts of himself.

You knew that he cared for you, in whatever capacity and way he was capable of. And you hoped that he would come back to you and accept that he was worthy of your love.

But he was just a man.

_______________________________________

a/n: hey...so it's been awhile since I've posted any of my own work (and by awhile I mean 3 years oop) but thankfully seeing Hugh Jackman has gotten me sitting up again. I don't know if that means I'll be back but have a crumb for now...

[godgoku]

being the only person under 50 in a neurology clinic like being on exhibit at the zoo

i have to go to the neurologist today yipppeeeeee

[externalmemorycomic]

Image description: A black and white illustration, designed to look like a book cover. On a decorative ribbon, the title at the top reads “External Memory”. A scroll work border of leaves and flowers divides the illustration into three rounded panels. The largest panel is in the center and shows a caravan surrounded by greenery, puddles and potted plants. The two smaller panels beneath it show a cartoon cat and mouse respectively, facing each other. At the bottom is another decorative ribbon with the text “a diary comic by My Murphy”. After the cover follows an 8 page comic. The style is cartoonish and the colours are soft pastels. Page one: An orange cat waves and says “Hello! I’m My.” The cat holds up a white mouse and says “This is Mouse, my girlfriend.” Caption: My name is actually My, but Mouse is a nickname for comic and privacy purposes. Caption: When I started this project, me and Mouse lived on a little island off the Swedish coast. The panel shows a stylised, tiny island with a lighthouse, spruce and birch trees, leaning houses and a little dock with a row boat tied to it. The cat and mouse are standing on the cliffs and a swan floats on the water in the foreground. Page two: Caption: Now we’ve moved to Ireland where we live in a caravan in the middle of nowhere. A small caravan, surrounded by greenery, overgrown trees, rocks, puddles and potted plants. The caravan has two windows and the cat and the mouse are looking out of one window each. Caption: We lived on the island to be close to my family. A ribbon with writing on it separates and labels four characters: “mom”, an ermine, “dad”, a wolverine, “brother”, a marmot and “step mom”, a squirrel. The ribbon has been torn in between “mom” and “dad”. Caption: and we moved to Ireland to be close to Mouse’s family. Three characters are shown, each with their own ribbon label. “mother-in-law”, a deer, “sister-in-law”, a jack russell terrier and “brother-in-law”, a hedgehog. Page three: Caption: Me and the mouse are currently in our thirties. The cat lounges on an antique fainting couch and the mouse sleeps on a cushion on the floor. On the floor is an open bag of “let’s” crisps and a laptop. Caption: We’re both pretty decrepit in various ways, so for this comic I draw couches and beds as often as I draw people. Caption: Disability isn’t especially interesting to me, but if a fish made an autobiographical comic… A fish under water paints a four panel comic with a brush held in its mouth. The panels the fish has painted show bubbles, waves and splashing water. Caption: …it’d probably be partly about water, whether the fish cared about water or not. Page four: Caption: My memory has always been pretty crappy. If a friend asks me: “do you remember when...” The question is shown asked by a red robin Caption: I usually have to answer: “no, I don’t.” The panel shows the cat giving this answer while looking away and blushing. Caption: There are many things in my life I’d like to remember. Mom the ermine watches as the cat opens a Christmas gift in front of a Christmas tree. The cat is much smaller than usual, its tail is bushy with excitement and it holds up a big book, “Mort”, with a skull on the cover. Caption: This comic is my EXTERNAL MEMORY so I can capture some of those moments… The cat admires a butterfly hovering above its outstretched paw Caption: …great or small. Page five: Caption: I try to make one strip per day, give or take. Pages with dates written on them blow off of a daily wall calendar by a strong breeze. As they turn over, comic pages are revealed to be drawn on the back. One comic shows the mouse with long fangs, biting the face of the cat and then hissing behind a bat wing. One comic is a pastiche of Tim Buckley’s “Loss” comic and one features a portrait of Frasier Crane and the Seattle skyline. Caption: and on the days when nothing interesting happens A close up shows the cat’s paw drawing a comic panel. In this panel a smaller, rounder version of the cat runs happily in the sunshine carrying a backpack. Caption: I reach back and draw something from my past. Caption: If you read this comic and wonder: A coyote looks at the comic on its phone, strokes its chin suspiciously and asks “did that really happen?” Caption: the answer is always yes. Caption: If you read this comic and wonder: A monkey reads the comic in zine form and think “did they really say that?” Caption: the answer is usually yes. Page six: Caption: When a specific phrase is the point of the strip, it’s recorded verbatim. The mouse says “you’re marching to the beat of the potato drum.” Caption: is a direct quote. Caption: When the point is something else, I sometimes take small liberties to make the memory fit well inside four panels. The cat sits at its drawing table, holding a pair of scissors in one hand and a paper with two comic panels in the other. Caption: Usually that means I make myself or the mouse play the part of the straight man because it will improve a joke. The cat and the mouse, dressed as clowns, stand in a circus tent. The cat pulls the clown nose from the mouse’s face and holds up a pie, ready to strike. Caption: In reality, neither of us is much of a straight man, but all art demands some sacrifices. Caption: In every way that matters, this comic always tells the truth. The cat looks up at a large, glowing, winged sphinx statue version of itself. The statue and framing is a reference to the all knowing Southern Oracle from the film adaptation of “The Neverending Story”. Caption: I am doing this to aid my memory after all, so it wouldn’t be very helpful to make my life seem more funny, interesting or relatable than it really is. The cat draws a comic while watching paint dry on the wall. Caption: That would be a pretty cruel joke to play on my future, more confused self. The cat scratches its head at a drawing of themselves as the winner of a beauty contest, wearing a sash and crown, waving to the crowd and holding flowers. Caption: She’ll probably have enough to contend with… The cat looks suspiciously at its own reflection in the mirror, not recognising it. The drawing is a pastiche of a panel from the webcomic “Gunshow” by KC Green. Caption: Maybe some of my comics will be funny or interesting or relatable to you anyway. That would make me very happy. The cat smiles and presses its paws to its face in joy, seeing that a bear and a horse are reading the comic together and laughing. Cartoon hearts float over the cat. Caption: Some of the comics probably won’t do much for anybody but me, but that’s okay too. The cat presses a page of the comic to its chest, looking contented and protective. In the last panel, the cat and the mouse are floating on air with a blue sky and white clouds behind them. The cat is smiling and twirling around, holding a paint brush out like a wand. From the brush flows paint that swirls around the two figures and making shapes of green leaves and orange and yellow flowers. On two looping blue ribbons appear the last captions: This is a record of my silly little life. Good or bad, I’m glad I get to share it. End ID.

Here’s a little introduction to External Memory! It was fun to make a proper neat and full colour comic - it’s been a while ^^

(If you like this project, please reblog this post! You can also subscribe to my patreon where I post one comic every day ^^)

[justlookfrightened]

Old dogs and new tricks

Prompt fill from @goddess47: MooMaw comes to visit Jack and Bitty

Lorraine Phelps settled back into her seat and sighed.

She was on the plane. The first part of her journey was done.

It hadn’t been so bad, really. Suzanne had driven her to the airport in Atlanta, parked and walked her into the airport, made sure her new suitcase got checked, escorted her all the way to the security line.

“I wish you’d let me get a gate pass so I could stay with you,” Suzanne fussed. “Or arranged a wheelchair.”

“I’ll be fine,” Lorraine had rejoined. “I’m not a child, and I’m not decrepit.”

Not yet, anyway.

This trip to Providence was an adventure for Lorraine, her first time in years on an airplane, her first time ever flying by herself.

When Dicky had traveled to Madison for her “surprise” 75th birthday party, the gift had been a huge box, a box that turned out to contain a new suitcase, one of the ones with wheels on the bottom and a smaller bag inside, and a picture of an airplane.

“Well, this is lovely,” Lorraine had said to her favorite grandson. Yes, he was her favorite, not that she’d ever admit it to anyone. But all those hours they’d spent in the kitchen together … it was like their own flavors melded and complemented one another. “But I don’t know —”

And Dicky had cut her off, because of course he knew what she was going to say.

“The suitcase isn’t the present, Moomaw,” he’d said. “The present is … me ’n’ Jack want you to come to Providence to visit. We didn’t get flights yet, because we have to decide when is the best time and all, but we want you to come stay with us. And this way you can’t say that you don’t have a bag to pack.”

“As if I would!” Lorraine had said.

But truth be told, she might have.

She knew plenty of people traveled all the time, flew all over the country, all over the world even. Jack with his team — he must be flying two, three, even four times a week. Even Dicky had flown back and forth from college after the first year, for breaks too, and Suzanne and Rick flew to visit him even now.

They all knew how to do it, though, with their tickets on their phones and showing identification in the security lines, and understanding what to leave in their bags and take out before they went through the machine.

She shouldn’t have worried.

Dicky had sent videos showing what the screening area was like at Hartsfield, and all kinds of explanations.

“If you’re 75, you don’t have to take your shoes off, and you can leave your sweater on to go through the metal detector,” he’d said in an email. “You don’t have to worry about a laptop or tablet, so just make sure you don’t have anything liquid in your carryon. We can get any toiletries you need here, and you can put your makeup in your checked bag. Otherwise, liquids need to be in small containers and fit in one small plastic bag, which you might or might not have to take out of your carryon.”

As it turned out, Lorraine didn’t even need a carryon. Her purse was large enough for her wallet and phone, a magazine, a paperback book, lipstick and some chewing gum (recommended by Dicky for takeoff and landing).

And it turned out that being a 5-foot-nothing grandmother type with a cloud of white hair meant that the security people wanted nothing more than to help her on her way, with one even coming over to her after she collected her bag to point her towards the correct gate.

Then the first-class (first class!) ticket Dicky and Jack sent meant that she was escorted aboard the flight early, and all she had to do was sit and look out the window and sip the water they gave her.

She texted Dicky: On the plane! Everything is lovely! See you when I get there!

Coach passengers, most of them laden down with roller bags or backpacks and food and pillows and whatnot, were still shuffling past her seat when Dicky replied, “Great! I’ll be at baggage claim when you get here!”

Lorraine carefully put her phone into airplane mode — she’d never had to do that before — before tucking it into her purse and pulling out the magazine. She was too excited to focus on her book.

She spent the flight alternating between reading and looking out the window, enjoying a quite tasty smoked chicken salad. They didn’t have sweet tea; Lorraine toyed with the idea of having a glass of wine, but decided it wouldn’t be a good idea. There was too much she had to pay attention to today. But she did indulge in a Coke.

When the plane landed, she waited while most of the people behind her on the plane bumped and jostled their way out. Once she got her phone reconnected, she found a text from Dicky telling her what baggage carousel to look for.

On my way! she texted back, then stood to wait for a break in the traffic in the aisle.

“Can I help you?” the nice flight attendant asked. “Is there someone meeting you at the gate?”

“No, my grandson is at baggage claim,” Lorraine said. “I’ll be fine. Just follow the signs, right?”

It turned out to be as simple as following the people. Dicky was standing at the bottom of the escalator, all but vibrating as he craned his neck to look for her. As soon as he caught sight of her, Dicky gave her a broad smile and a little wave.

“How was your flight?” he asked as soon as the escalator deposited her on the ground floor. “No trouble? You don’t have anything besides your purse?”

“My suitcase should be coming,” she said.

“I mean, besides that? Do you want to sit down while I wait for it? I know what it looks like.”

“I can wait with you,” Lorraine said. “It feels good to stand after sitting on the plane.”

When the purple case came, Dicky picked it up and rolled it towards the exit.

“I’m not parked too far away,” he said.

The ride in Dicky’s little red car started with a long time in a tunnel, then a long time on an interstate through suburban subdivisions and then finally some woodland and fields. It could have been driving out of Atlanta, except the dirt was a different color, and the leaves were different.

Before she would have thought it possible, they were back in suburbs, then getting off the interstate onto city streets.

The whole time, Bitty prattled about everything they could do in the week Lorraine was spending in Providence. He was full of museums and restaurants and farmer’s markets and parks in a way that sounded, frankly, exhausting.

“So,” Dicky finally said, turning the car into a driveway that led to a garage under a high-rise, “any of that sound good to you?”

“It all sounds wonderful,” Lorraine said. “But I didn’t come to see Providence. I came to see you. And, of course, Jack.”

“He’s home by now,” Dicky said. “He had a meeting this morning about some sponsorship things.”

Dicky pulled into a numbered spot and once again took Lorraine’s suitcase, leading her towards an elevator where he pressed the button for the top floor.

“Wait until you see the view,” he said.

Lorraine smiled, because she already had the view she wanted.

Jack, as promised, was in the condo, all solicitousness.

“Bits made some sweet tea this morning,” he said as soon as she was fairly in the door. “Can I pour you a glass? Are you hungry?”

“I ate just fine on the plane,” Lorraine said. “But yes, some sweet tea would be lovely. Let me go freshen up, then some tea, And then maybe a rest?”

“Of course,” Dicky said. “I’m sorry — I should have thought. The bathroom is here —” he opened the first door in the hallway off the kitchen “ — and your room is right next door. I’ll put your suitcase in there.”

Once the door closed on her in the bathroom, Lorraine let out a deep sigh. This was the first time since Suzanne picked her up that she’d been alone, truly alone, and it was a relief. But she knew she only had a couple of minutes before Dicky would get worried about her in here.

That was one of the things no one ever warned you about when you got old. She’d lived alone for years now, and quite liked her own company. Suzanne called most days, of course, and Judy came around, and Lorraine had an active social life, what with church and her book group, but most of the time she saw other people on her own terms.

But then when she did spend time with family, they worried if she spent too long in the bathroom or wanted to go off on her own for a while.

She couldn’t blame them, really. She’d lost Walker years ago now, and no one had expected him to pass when he did. They worried over her. And she did have more aches and pains, not that she complained.

Lorraine washed her hands and refreshed her lipstick before going back to the main living area, able to appreciate the wide windows with a view over the city. Dicky and Jack were in the kitchen, a large tiled area that was separated from the dining room by a counter with high chairs. The dining room wasn’t really separated at all from the living room, except by the furniture that made the use of each area obvious.

Dicky and Jack were speaking in low voices, and Dicky stopped as soon as he saw her. Jack offered her the glass of tea he’d poured while Dicky picked up a plate of cookies and gestured towards the sofa.

“How’s everyone in Madison?” he asked as they settled in.

Lorraine passed along news and greetings — Judy’s oldest boy’s wife was pregnant, and the younger one had dropped out of Georgia Tech and started working as a mechanic, and gotten engaged to his high school sweetheart.

“Your Aunt Judy isn’t thrilled, I can tell you that,” she said. “But she is going on about what a lovely wedding it will be, especially in front of your mother.”

“MooMaw, you know Jack and I are getting married up here,” Dicky said. “I know Mama wants a wedding in Georgia, but that would be a huge mess. Everyone is nice to my face when I’m there, but I know they’re still talking behind my back about me marrying Jack, and why would I want to do that to myself? Never mind that Jack’s folks are in Montreal, and most of our friends are here.”

“Oh, I don’t disagree,” MooMaw said. “I think you made the right decision. I just wanted to let you know.”

“So I wouldn’t be surprised when Mama brings it up again?” Dicky asked. “I do think that this way the only relatives who’ll come will be the ones who really want to. You’re coming, right?”

“You couldn’t keep me away,” MooMaw said. “Especially now that I know how easy the flight is. I suppose I’ll have to travel with your mother and father.”

“I was thinking you would,” Bitty said. “You don’t want to?”

“To tell you the truth, I kind of like first class,” MooMaw said. “Even though you shouldn’t have.”

“Of course we should have,” Jack said. “We can fly you all up first-class for the wedding.”

“Jack —” Dicky said.

“What?” Jack said. “It’s not that much. We could charter a private plane for your relatives if you want —”

“Jack. We are not chartering a private plane.”

Lorraine hid her smile behind a cookie. Her Dicky had found a good one. What was it her mother had told her when she brought Walker home? It would be just as easy to fall in love with a rich man?

Walker had never been rich, but they’d done all right. They’d both taught school, Lorraine in the primary grades and Walker at the high school, until the girls came along, and then Lorraine stayed home. Walker had worked a series of second jobs in the summer and side jobs all year, and they’d never wanted for anything.

Now Suzanne’s Rick made near as much as the high school principal as the football coach, so they were fine. But it wasn’t “we’ll just charter a plane” money. Or “top-floor condo with a view of the city money” either.

Still, Jack didn’t strike her as spoiled. He had a good head on his shoulders, and he loved Dicky. That was obvious from the first time she saw the two of them together.

“So,” Dicky said, obviously changing the subject. “Do you want to go out for dinner tonight? Or go do anything this afternoon?”

“I think I’d like to have a lie-down,” Lorraine said. “For at least a while. If y’all don’t want to cook, we could go out — but maybe just for a bite? And then tomorrow, if you’re not busy, Dicky, you could show me around the neighborhood?”

“We don’t mind cooking,” Jack answered. “We have some steaks and some chicken we can grill, if that sounds all right to you?”

“And tomorrow we’ll hit up the market,” Dicky said. “You don’t mind being a special guest on my vlog? But maybe after we go to the farmer’s market Saturday. Jack has meetings tomorrow, but he’s free Friday — we thought we’d go to Newport and maybe take the ferry to Jamestown or Block Island?”

“That all sounds fine,” Lorraine said.

Jack stood as she got to her feet, and she smiled at the manners his parents had clearly instilled in him.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just a little worn out.”

The visit proceeded more or less as Lorraine expected, with Dicky planning daily outings and events, which Lorraine enjoyed immensely — especially ones like the ferry, where she could sit down — and Jack joining them when he was able.

She and Dicky also baked and cooked together, both on camera and off; she sampled foods including stuffed clams and lobster rolls; and she and Jack started an ongoing penny-a-point series of gin rummy games, mostly out on the terrace while Dicky was busy on the computer.

Jack turned out to be a worthy competitor.

The surprise of the visit, and a pleasant one, was the way Jack warmed up to her. She’d obviously liked the boy from the beginning for his devotion to Dicky if nothing else. Now that they had more time together, she came to like his sly sense of humor, the way he observed the world and even the way he helped Dicky moderate his impulses to try to do everything all at once.

Dicky had told her that Jack suffered from anxiety and sometimes had panic attacks, although she didn’t see anything like that during her week in Rhode Island. She hoped that meant he was comfortable with her. He was comfortable enough, at any rate, to mention going to therapy, which she supposed was a good thing.

Would probably be a good thing for Dicky too, if she was honest. God knew the boy had a rough enough time growing up, and he always had been a bit of a whirlwind. Maybe those two things weren’t related, but you never knew.

“So,” Dicky said, when he drove her to the airport for her flight home. “When do you want to come back? If you come during the season I can bring you to one of Jack’s games — I can send you the schedule and maybe you want to pick out a weekend with a day game?”

“I couldn’t ask for —”

“You’re not asking, I’m inviting,” Dicky said. “Actually, it was Jack’s idea. If you want Mama and Coach to come with you, I can try —”

“No, that’s fine,” Lorraine said. “I’d like very much to come.”

After all, she thought, as she got in the line for security, this was something she knew how to do now.

[demonslayerunhinged]

Unhinged rant >:(

Demon Slayer fandom discourse

I want to start this by saying, I know that Demon Slayer isn't an explicitly queer manga/anime because Shōnen Jump, but I believe that Demon Slayer is for the queers and has lots of themes that we can identify with like love, acceptance, loss, guilt and strength.

Despite what these stupid, smelly, ignorant, power-scaling, non-ass-washing, Cheetos-dust-snorting, once-a-month-showering, dude-bros would have you believe, Demon Slayer isn't just another battle Shōnen anime/manga, it's a love story and about the perseverance of the human spirit and if that doesn't speak to the queer experience then I don't know what does.

Plus, I don't know how Gotogue-sensei is as a person, but I think the fact that she managed to make one of the kindest mcs in shōnen speaks volumes about her disposition. I don't think she would be one to reject queer fans identifying with her story so well.

In these recent times, it seems like everything is going to shit, the world is slowly regressing into the dark ages destroying decades of progress and trying to distract ourselves from all this by engaging with the fandoms we love is hard because everything seems to cater to cis, straight, white men.

To be honest, I created this blog mostly out of spite, but I also wanted to carve out a tiny space for myself where I can talk out of my ass and not have some decrepit reddit dude bro go all 'well, ackshually ☝🤓' on me, and I'm happy to have met so many like-minded people.

So, I've compiled a list of answers to the common types of nonsense drivel these fuckers post in response to shipping and queer discussions and theories about Demon Slayer. You can copy and paste whenever and wherever you encounter these black holes of ignorance and stupidity if you want.

In the Taisho era, there were no gay/queer people: This is one of the dumbest statements I've ever heard, and the fact that it's a really common response really shows how we've failed as a society. Queer people have existed for ages all over the world, Japan has an extensive queer history. Demon Slayer is based on samurai culture and samurai culture was really, really, really, really, really, really, really gay. Sure, it had rigid roles, but that doesn't make it any less queer. A quick Google search would go a long way to nourish that dried-out, shrivelled husk you call a brain. Go read a book you walking condom ad, your parents and education system have obviously failed you.

It's forcing sexuality into the story: We literally had a whole season dedicated to the mcs going to the 'entertainment district', we have a sexy man with three wives who talks about 'loving' them all equally, we have the abundant male fanservice, one of the mcs talks about women on the daily, we have a boy who eats demons and is horny shy around girls all the time, we have his brother who exposes his tits because he's proud of them, we have a demon who was essentially a sexual predator that targeted 16-year-old girls and ate them, the main villain shape-shifts into a woman to 'get' information as a Geisha, we have a girl who literally lusts after almost everyone she meets but yea no lets not force sexuality into it 🙄.

I don't care: Okay cool, but I value your opinion as much as I value the shit I took this morning.

It's who they are as a character that matters: Sexuality is a part of a person's character. Your sexuality defines your experiences, decisions, options and outlook on life. That's why you as a straight man can be so ignorant.

It's forced*(I really hate this one): Honestly, fuck you. Why is it that you only think something is forced when it doesn't revolve around you and your experiences? You guys are fine with tons of anime/manga that sexualize women and girls to an insane degree even when it doesn't make sense, but that doesn't stop you from consuming and glazing the hell out of the authors, but when we talk about including queer characters suddenly it's forced? Your existence is forced, and you can just eat shit.

I don't like it: Who the fuck do you think you are dictating how other people consume and interpret the media they consume? How about you go hump your smelly, cum-encrusted anime body pillow.

Men can be touchy/emotional with each other without it being gay, it's just our western standards: No it isn't the majority of shipping activities and works come from Japan, which wouldn't happen if it was just part of their culture. We're not stupid, we know men and boys can be friends without it being sexual, and we know when a friendship is just that, and then we know when two guys are straight up pining for one another.

It's not canon/the mangaka didn't explicitly state it: They can't because of Shōnen Jump, so a lot of them pass off information about a character through subtext, metaphors and allegories. They also don't have to, things don't have to outright stated or 'canon' for them to make sense and if you need them to be so for you to understand or enjoy the story then a moment of silence for your head since it's without a brain.

It's not common: Despite Shōnen Jump, there are lots of mainstream anime/manga that have queer characters: One Punch Man, Hunter x Hunter, Dr. Stone, Windbreaker, Jojo's Bizarre Adventure, Naruto, Gintama, Dragon Ball Z, My Hero Academia, Fairy Tail, One Piece, Attack on Titan, Tokyo Ghoul, Jujutsu Kaisen, Chainsaw Man, Blue Period and that's not to talk of the ones with queer subtext like I dunno ALL Sports anime/manga to ever exist!

Why do you look for LGBTQ in everything?: It might be hard for straights to understand but growing up queer and looking for a connection causes us to develop what we call a gaydar that helps us identify characteristics, mannerisms, features and vibes from a person that screams 'ONE OF US! ONE OF US!'. It's only natural, and our gaydar doesn't suddenly turn off when we're consuming media, especially when it's media that we love and hold dear to our hearts. It doesn't matter if the mangaka inserted these characteristics intentionally or not, that doesn't stop us from picking up on them, and why should it?

Shipping is stupid: So is power-scaling, but that doesn't stop you assholes from making thousands of posts, creating YouTube channels and sharing content about it and cramming it down our throats. It's even worse because it's from grown-ass men.

The characters have no chemistry/they hate each other: A lot of queer ships have more chemistry, history, interactions, personality and development than a lot of 'canon' straight couples. It's literally a trope in media that all a man and a woman need to be in a relationship is to be in close proximity to each other, then their relationship goes on to be drier than salted crackers in silicone packets scattered in the Sahara desert. Well, I guess you can't blame the creators, you write what you know after all.

I know this is a lot and I know how angry I sound right now, but I'm so sick and so tired of all these guys who are as useful to the human race as pieces of freshly shat out dog turds that have been thrown in the grass by the sidewalk in a hot summer afternoon, who can't see past their lice-infested neck beards trying to make something as colorful, interesting, joyful and queer as anime and the fandoms fit their own boring, stupid and misogynistic worldview.

In Conclusion, Demon Slayer is amazing, horny* and unbelievably queer.

*I'm talking about the male fanservice btw :)

[adrift-in-thyme]

@kikker-oma your Twilight art for Whumptober has been living rent-free in my head since you posted it and I FINALLY wrote something for it. I hope you enjoy <33

Fic beneath the cut (you can also find it on ao3!)

TW for blood and injury, needles/stitches, drugging, and kidnapping

No one asks if he needs help.

Not that Twilight expects anything more. This town is a rough one. That much is painfully clear to him. And not just in the worn woods of the buildings splotched with aged crimson, or in the hardened faces of the people that leer as he stumbles down the worn street. No, from the moment he was dragged here he knew it was a haven for evil.

Cruel hands pushing at his shoulders, fingernails digging into his wounds. Ropes around his wrists, his neck.

The pain isn’t enough to make him move faster.

They yank at his bindings. Choking, he trips over his own stumbling feet. Laughter collides with his pounding skull.

“What’s wrong, wolf boy? Lost your balance?”

Another tug on the makeshift collar. His vision goes white.

Twilight drags in a haggard breath. The taste of blood is still pungent on his tongue. Whether it is his own or that of the people who had sought to pawn him off, he no longer knows. Regardless, it makes him want to gag.

That is not the only place it has taken up residence either. Thick rivers of crimson slither down his right arm, curving gracefully along the deep, jagged gash there. Downward they plunge in large droplets that splatter onto the dusty cobblestones.

A woman passes him just a bit too close, and her gaze locks onto his wound. Twilight knows the look that comes into her eyes. Hunger. Unbridled, animalistic hunger.

He has been a wolf for long enough now to know the laws of nature. Injury means weakness. And weakness spells death.

Clutching his arm, he veers left, toward the inn that rises, a single crooked tooth among the many that form a disjointed line in this gaping maw. Nowhere is safe here. Nowhere is friendly. But his brothers are eons away for all he knows. And there are no heroes in this Hyrule.

Perhaps that’s why the Shadow had hurled him into it.

…or perhaps he had known what Twilight has learned time and time again.

No place is safe for someone like him.

One mistake, one quick, accidental portrayal of the power he holds…and the next thing he knows a dagger is slicing his arm, a needle piercing his neck, ropes encircling him like the arms of a redead, constricting until he is suffocating, until his sword clatters to the ground, his vision turning to little more than kaleidoscope explosions of light.

“Oh, the money we’ll get for this one. A wolf that can become a man? People would pay anything to see somethin’ such as that.”

Bile rises in his throat. Twilight chokes it back down. He needs a place to lay low and he needs it now.

The woman is not the only one to have taken note of his condition. He can feel others ghosting the space around him and behind, breathing down his neck, reaching toward him with skeletal hands, purring that he, “come, little one. We feel your magic. Come, and let us devour it.”

He can’t breathe though the collar is gone. His hands tremble as he grips the rail, fighting not to fall as he climbs the handful of stairs leading to the decrepit structure. His knees are weak. Pain pounds through his veins, mixing with the surging fear until they are entwined in an endless waltz of mind-numbing agony. It is all he can do to walk through the double doors and into the lobby; all he can do to stagger up to the front desk.

“I need a room,” he grits out between clenched teeth. Blood runs down the side of his mouth and he lacks the will to wipe it away. “How much?”

The innkeeper regards him, pointed disinterest in his bloodshot eyes. He looks Twilight up and down, taking in his disheveled clothing, the pelt lying defeatedly across his shoulders, the gash raining ruby-red droplets of life upon the battered floorboards. Then, he folds his bony fingers and sets them calmly before him.

“50 rupees for one night.”

Twilight plunges a hand into his pouch and draws it out trembling and blood-soaked. The rupees clatter on the table, shining like precious gemstones. Just as quickly as they are set free, their glow is snuffed out by the innkeeper’s clawed hand. With agonizing slowness, he places them in a locked box beneath the desk. Then, he slides a large key towards Twilight.

“Room eight,” he growls. “Supposin’ you make it long enough to get there.”

There is laughter in his voice, rumbling thunder of an oncoming storm. Twilight turns away.

He limps up the stairs and stumbles down the hall, leaving gore-adorned handprints on the walls and railing as he goes. They glare in his peripheral vision, splotched and jagged and fierce. He squints and they blur. The colors meld before his eyes. Swirling and sparkling, they close in, envelope him, heavy with the scent of death.

Again, his stomach revolts. Again, he bites his tongue before anything can escape.

The door comes into view, the number 8 carved in two looping circles upon its ashen surface. He collapses against it, catching himself on the frame, and with shaking hands levels the key toward the lock.

It takes several tries to get it open. But once he’s managed it, he practically falls into the room. The door slides closed of its own accord and he allows himself to slump against it.

There is a bed in the far corner, a sad little object he supposes is meant to be a nightstand beside it. He lacks the strength to reach either one of them. Twilight can hardly keep his eyes open as it is, can hardly resist the intoxicating pull of unconsciousness. The rush in his ears blankets his senses. Darkness spreads its jaws beneath him. To the beat of his heart, it chants its promises, promises of freedom from the burning pain, from the terror of being hunted.

He is sinking beneath a surface thicker, deeper, heavier than Lake Hylia. Viciously, he kicks toward the light.

One more mistake will land him in the musty basement he had hardly managed to escape, bound and gagged, drifting in a daze of remnant drugs, waiting for the moment when he will be hauled up into the blinding sun and handed off to whoever has scrounged up enough money to purchase him.

He won’t go back. He won’t.

Dragging in a sharp breath, he reaches into his pouch, rifling past bottles long drained and items that do him little good in this situation. The objects he is searching for are far duller than his spinner or his gale boomerang. But they are all he has.

He pulls them out, gazes at them. A sewing needle still threaded from the last time he had needed to darn his clothes, and some fabric thread, dark and thick. Sturdy.

The needle glints in the hazy streaks of sunlight that shine through the filthy window panes. The tremble of his hands causes the reflections to enlarge and shrink, darkness and light dancing across the slender, metallic surface. Never before has it looked quite so threatening.

Twilight clutches it in one hand and with the other, fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket. The sight of it conjures memories of a small hand brushing tears from his cheek, of a soft cloth being wound gently about his burns, hesitant vulnerability in the crimson eye that gazes into his.

“Hey, don’t cry, alright? Your family doesn’t hate you. They’re afraid.”

“Of me, Midna. They think I’m a monster.”

“You? A monster? Nah. A monstrous softy maybe. And a monstrous idiot. But never an actual monster. Believe me…I know monsters better than most.”

His next breath is more akin to a sob. Twilight wads up the cloth, shoves it in his mouth, and bites down hard. He allows himself a moment to get the needle into a somewhat secure grip. Then, he angles it towards the place where his skin begins to split.

Pushing it through hurts far worse than he ever imagined it would. The needle burrows through his flesh with agonizing slowness, emerging from one side of the divide only for him to plunge it into the other in the next second. And the thread follows dutifully, snaking lazily along and dragging his skin with it. Like a worn workhorse pulling a cart home after a long day, it treads its set path. He hardly has the strength to keep it from veering completely off.

Tears rush hot and eager into his eyes. They spill over, coursing in salty rivulets down his cheeks. His body screams with agony. His head pounds, blood roaring in his ears, stomach roiling. Crimson liquid streams from his wound, coating his fingers, turning the needle slick, darkening the thread into the deepest obsidian.

One stitch is finished, then two, three, four…a series of inelegant dashes waltzing along on rivers of gore.

He loses count of them at some point. His world narrows and simplifies until it is nothing more than this moment, this seemingly endless struggle to keep himself afloat in an ocean of agony, to keep from screaming or swooning, his fingers from slipping from their death grip on the needle.

More than once, the dismal fog that clouds his vision grows so overwhelming he nearly plummets into it. More than once, a strangled whine tears up his aching throat. More than once, he pierces uninjured skin on accident, bringing fresh bubbles of blood to the surface.

But never does the cloth slip from between his tightly clenched teeth. The jolt of pain in his jaw is hardly noticeable amongst the bone-deep agony that grips his arm.

It is only when at last, the final stitch is in place and he has blinked the traitorous gleam of stars from his vision, that he lets it fall. It flops onto the floor, a sodden mess of tears and blood, sweat and saliva. Twilight stares at it for a moment, then at the line of clumsy stitching weeping red.

He leans sideways and retches.

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

By the time Twilight stumbles out onto the road, he is shivering.

He wraps one arm protectively around himself. The other hangs at his side, leaden with pain.

The shadowed alleyways leer, caverns of ravenous black. The surrounding buildings reach out with their claws to drag him into their terrible embrace. Passerby stare at him with those same hungry eyes as before, whispering, murmuring.

He is glad the unrelenting ring in his ears blocks out their words.

The innkeeper had laughed at him again when he had returned the blood-stained key.

“Still alive, are you? Well, you won’t be for much longer. Not in your state.”

Twilight hadn’t been certain whether he was referring to his declining health or the willingness of the townspeople to take advantage of it. Regardless, that statement is more than enough to have bouncing about in his pounding skull.

More than enough to keep him moving forward.

Out. He needs to get out of this town. Then, he can stop. Then, he can allow his aching legs to give way beneath him, his half-lidded eyes to slip shut. Then, he can finally sleep.

Until that moment, this is the reality he must battle through — pain and feverish confusion and a haze of oddly distant fear.

He bites out a thin exhale from between chattering teeth. The ground bucks and heaves in waves beneath his failing feet. The genial afternoon sky whirls in patterns he cannot comprehend.

Should’ve cleaned that wound, he thinks, blurrily.

But there hadn’t been anything to clean it with. No potions or blessed objects to drive away the infection, or flames to disinfect and cauterize, or water to wash away the blood and grime…

Water.

Twilight swallows, forcing the walls of his throat apart.

He needs water. He’s so thirsty.

Two more shuffling half-steps and his body decides it has had enough. Twilight goes down in a heap of bloodied limbs, fingers scraping along a nearby wall as he attempts to catch himself.

Get up! He orders himself as he has so many times before in dungeons and forests and caves miles deep, caverns miles long. Come on, Link, you can’t give up now. Not when you’ve made it so far.

“Oh, what have we here?”

He raises his head, stares into the drifting faces of several sizable men. He cannot make out their expressions, blurred as they are. But he can see their eyes. He can see the metal that glints in their hands.

And though he doesn’t recognize them, he knows them. They have the same look about them as his captors had. They too had gazed at him as though he was meat to slice up and sell at the market.

“Looks like we’ve got a wounded one. Tried to mend that all on your own did ya?”

Twilight’s lips lift in a snarl, showcasing jagged, pointy canines.

“Leave me alone,” he croaks. His voice cracks over the last word, hitched into something dangerously close to a sob.

Desperation rises hot and fast within him. He tries to shove himself to his feet.

They grab his arms before he can.

“Not so fast.”

The largest of them — a burly man he guesses is their leader — grasps his chin, roughly angling his head up so Twilight has no choice but to look him in the eye.

“You’re not going anywhere. I smell magic on you, boy.”

A growl rumbles in his throat. Twilight yanks his face away, struggling weakly in their unforgiving grips.

“What do ya say?” The leader turns from him to grin at his companions. “How many rupees is he worth?”

“Get him to show us what all that magic can do and we’ll get at least a thousand.”

Greedy chuckles go up from the huddle. Twilight sucks in a failed attempt at an inhale. Yet another series of shivers race through him, and he crumples in their wake. It is all too much — the pain, the fear, the laughter echoing around him. It surrounds him, encompassing him in an unending nightmare.

He needs to fight. He needs to run. He can’t find the strength to do either one.

After everything, everything, he is here once more. His attempts at a struggle are nothing to these men. They will bind him, they will drag him away. And he will be helpless to do anything more than hang limply in their iron grasp.

“Alright then, boy, show us what you can do.” The leader grins. It is a sharp, bitter thing. “Give us a proper performance and we won’t hurt you. But withhold that power and, well…you won’t live to regret it.”

A knife caresses the curve of his neck. Twilight raises his head, narrows his eyes. Terror turns feverish heat to an icy chill that settles deep in his bones and races through him in violent shudders.

“No.”

The word is bitten out between shaky inhales. But he pours what little might he has left into it.

If he is going to go down, he will do so with pride. Pride that at the very least, he tried.

“No?” The knife digs deeper, seeking its prey. “That’s not the kind of thing you spit in the face of the man holding a weapon to your throat.”

He leans in. Twilight holds his gaze, even as black splotches encroach on his line of sight, ebbing and flowing like a river lapping gently at the bank.

“I’ll only ask this one more time. Show us your power.”

“You may not like it if he does,” pipes up a voice from somewhere behind the group.

Twilight’s eyes go wide.

Warriors? His scrambled brain cries.

But it can’t be, it can’t…

An arrow flies out of nowhere and pierces the leader’s hand with a nauseating thunk. The knife clatters to the ground.

“My friend happens to be a skilled marksman,” comes Warriors’ voice again. It echoes over the sound of agonized screams. “But he has other talents too…and little mercy. Get back. Let him go. Or you’ll regret it.”

“No!”

The grip on his shoulders tightens. Another dagger is pressed to his throat. Twilight hardly has the energy to fear it this time.

But there is no reason to. Another second and the clawing grasp disappears entirely. The chilled metal falls, useless beside its mate.

There is no scream. Only the dull, slick sound of a blade forcing through skin, then retreating as fast as it came. At the same time, another arrow soars past. It is every bit as precise as before. And this time, it strikes the leader through the heart.

Two bodies fall with a thud that echoes through Twilight’s ears. He slouches sideways, sinking enveloped in the melody of anguish.

Warriors catapults into view, a whirl of emeralds and fierce royal blues. One swift movement and Twilight collapses onto his shoulder rather than the blood-slicked ground.

“W-wars,” he starts to say, but the captain is already pulling him to his feet with a grunt of effort.

“Can you walk?” He asks and the tone of his voice is one Twilight has only heard him use when he is leading.

Arduously, he nods.

The others fall one by one as Warriors half-ushers, half-drags him forward. Where they are going, he hasn’t a clue and he lacks the will to ask. He merely follows, stumbling on fumbling feet and hanging onto the miraculous dream he has wandered into.

At some point, they emerge from the confines of the shoddy town into a blessedly wooded area. Twilight sinks down as soon as they come to a stop. Warriors helps him lean back against one of the large trees.

Only then does the captain truly take him in. His gaze before had been calculating and distant, thoughts and cares locked behind an impenetrable barrier. But now that wall lowers just enough for Twilight to see the darkness shine through it.

“What did they do to you?” It is a mere hiss, not even directed at him. But Twilight feels an empty reply rising in his throat anyway.

All that comes out is a thick cough.

Aether eyes find his. A handkerchief slips into his grasp.

“Don’t speak, save your energy.” Practiced fingers ghost his most severe wound. “You stitched this up yourself?”

Twilight doesn’t need to even attempt to reply. The captain answers the question himself with a nod of his head.

“Yeah, I’m going to have to remove those stitches, clean it, then stitch it up again.”

He speaks fast, words tumbling in an unending stream Twilight is hopeless to follow. He watches dumbly as Warriors digs into his pouch, sets a pristine cloth on the ground, and lines several objects up upon it.

“Here.” He presses a bottle into Twilight’s hands. Liquid the color of maple syrup glitters inside. “Take a few drinks. I won’t pretend this won’t hurt. You’re going to need something to dull the pain.”

Twilight watches him press a small dagger against the molten tip of a fire rod, and suddenly, a streak of gut-rending dread pierces through the fog. Dutifully, he lifts the bottle to his lips, chokes back a few scalding swallows, and tries to breathe as it melts its way into his veins.

“How’d-how’d you find me?” He grits out. Fuzzy thoughts become almost unintelligible beneath the touch of alcohol. But this, at least, he must know.

Somewhere behind him, frantic footsteps crunch on fallen leaves. Warriors glances up from his work, hand flying to his sword for a split second before he lowers it with a grim smile.

“It wasn’t me,” he says. “Turns out your cub is good at tracking. I’m lucky we ended up together when we were separated from the others.”

Wild comes racing into view like a shooting star, hair flying out behind him, bow held tightly in one hand. He slings it over his shoulder as he skids to a halt.

“Twi! Are you okay — oh Hylia, what did they do to you?” The words pour out of him in a waterfall of emotion.

There is blood on his cheek, Twilight realizes dimly. He is too far gone to know whether it is his own or not.

“You ‘lright, cub?” He slurs, reaching to try to wipe it away.

Wild catches his flailing hand and lowers it, with trembling care.

“You idiot.” There is no heat in his tone, only fear. Exasperated, terrible fear. “You need to be worrying about yourself! You look like a hynox sat on you!”

An insane giggle erupts from the rancher, born of pain and anguish and giddy relief. He lists sideways, and Wild wraps his arms around him, drawing his head to his chest.

“Champion.” Warriors has a dagger in his hand now. A needle and thread rest on the cloth beside him. “Hold him tight. I’ve got to mend this wound.”

Fingers press against his screaming skin, gentle yet firm. Metal gleams in the setting sun. Wild’s heart beats fast in his ear. Fingers card through his matted hair.

The captain meets his eyes.

“And rancher, take a deep breath. We’re going to take care of you now.”

Wild’s hand envelopes his, heedless of the blood that turns Twilight’s fingers sticky. He grasps it like his life depends upon it. And as Warriors begins his terrible work, he closes his eyes.

[ink-n-shadow]

What mythical creatures would the 141 be? I’m not talking about the standard kind of creatures like werewolves, and vampires. Something more creative if you get what I mean.

oooo anon o_O you’re getting the worms WORMIN (if we want to expand more on this headcanons, just let me know u3u)

ghost just gives wraith vibes, all wispy and decrepit in appearance and showing up before/after creatures in the realm die. it’s not as though he was a villain by any means—in fact, he was rather comforting to the creatures he encountered before and after their passing, petting the soft fur of a fawn about to pass in the cold dead of winter or comforting the soul of a young boy who passed from a sickness he just couldn’t shake. it wasn’t his fault that his existence revolved around death, because without ghost, who would comfort and guide pretty little creatures like you between existential planes?

soap would be a kelpie, which is a creature from scottish folklore that lives in the water and entices humans to their demise. most of the time, soap would remain in his horse-like appearance, a murky grey horse with swirls of sea green spots dotting along his hind legs. but when he sees a pretty little thing like you walking along the water's edge, sandals in one hand and your fingers skimming the water surface, he wouldn't be able to help but shift into his human-like form, all thick bulging muscle and bits of seaweed lodged in his dark mousy hair. and who were you to turn down a late night swim with a beautiful looking man like soap? even if you've heard all the stories of people going to the lake-edge and never returning.

price just screams dragon. like that man exudes dragon energy, thick muscled body rippling with shimmering gold scales that extend down his forearms and to the white claws of his nails. he’d definitely occupy an old, crumbling castle, spending his days flying around the sprawling towers and rumbling hills on the castle estate, keeping knights and bandits alike from breaking into his home and taking what’s his (even if that includes the pretty little prince/princess held captive in the tallest tower).

gaz would be a griffin to me, seen as a symbol of resilience, bravery, power, and prestige. the body of a lion and the expansive wings of an eagle paired with sharp talons and a feathery head. he would be the prize pet of some noble old king, who tasked him with protecting the kingdom from outsiders and intruders hellbent on bringing down the monarchy as gaz knows it. he’d be fiercely loyal, ready at beck and call to rip creatures to shreds if it meant getting the praise and recognition he deserved. maybe one day, if he works hard enough, he’ll get a pretty little thing to call his own.

©️ ink-n-shadow 2024

do not copy, plagiarize, steal, borrow, or repost any of my work without my expressed permission

[ultram0th]

31 Days of Derek Hale

Day 23: Ghost Possession

Info │ 01 │ 02 │ 03 │ 04 │ 05 │ 06 │ 07 │ 08 │ 09 │ 10 │ 11 │ 12 │ 13 │ 14 │ 15 │ 16 │ 17 │ 18 │ 19 │ 20 │ 21 │ 22 │ 23

Despite being a werewolf, Derek didn’t believe in ghosts. In his opinion, they were the cheap product of Hollywood trying to advertise uncreative horror films. He would scoff at the young adults who’d dared one another to sneak into McFadden Manor, only to hear them swear up and down that they’d seen a ghost. Lies, Derek figured.

Still, when Stiles had made up his mind to investigate the ghost stories surrounding McFadden Manor for Halloween, Derek had instantly jumped at the chance to tag along in an attempt to look brave and woo the hyperactive human. 

Unfortunately, Derek couldn’t hide the grimace as he walked through the deserted McFadden Manor. The abandoned mansion was the center of numerous spooky, Halloween-themed tales— all of them focusing on a mischievous trio of ghosts who liked to mess with unsuspecting people. The wide smile on Stiles’s face deeply contrasted with Derek’s scowl.

He eagerly held up an ancient-looking camera. “We should split up and cover more ground,” he said. “I’ll go down towards the garden while you inspect the bedrooms. Radio me if you see anything.” He shoved a large, dinosaur era walkie talkie towards the werewolf.

“I can just text you…” Derek muttered, studying the heavy tech in his hands.

“Thanks for coming with me again, Der,” Stiles said, offering the usually grumpy werewolf a sincere smile, making the alpha’s heart flutter in his chest.

In response, Derek puffed out his muscular chest with pride, his pecs pressing teasingly against his thin, white t-shirt. “S’no problem,” he grunted, trying to play it cool, but he could feel his cheeks grow hot as he blushed. Plus, he couldn’t help but crunch his stomach to make his abs pop against his shirt too, his muscular bod being his best form of flirting since he wasn’t really good at wooing orally.

Stiles happily ran down one of the dark hallways towards his destination, Derek not-so-subtly watching his perky butt as it disappeared.

“Damn,” Derek admired before frowning at the sight of the decrepit mansion. “Damn it.”

Frowning again, he shrugged his broad shoulders and lumbered throughout the dark, cobweb-filled halls. To humor himself, Derek sniffed at the air, smelling nothing in the air except for dust and rats. He rolled his eyes at himself participating in this foolish activity, yet, he forced himself to focus on the endgame: Stiles and him getting together… and then heatedly fucking in his Camaro.

That last thought put a little more pep in Derek’s steps as he explored the empty rooms in the mansion.

*Thud!

Derek tensed up at the sound that echoed out from one of the bedrooms. Following the source, Derek entered a room near the end of the hallway. The room turned out to be a bathroom, the rusty toilet giving it away. There was a dust-covered sink with a dirty mirror near the entryway, and in the far end was a standing tub with a yellow curtain closed over it.

Derek cocked his eyebrow in confusion over the fact that the water seemed to be running in the tub, steam even billowing out from the curtain.

“What the hell?” Derek wondered aloud, knowing that there was no way this house was occupied given its dilapidated state. Still, the running water left the werewolf deeply confused. He grabbed the edge of the shower curtain and ripped it to the side.

Inside of the tub was a portly bluish figure that was slightly transparent. Looking like a caricature ripped out of a cartoon, the ghost had a little tail that seemingly phased in and out of existence as the creature showered. When it noticed that it was being watched, the ghostly figure looked over at Derek and gasped, covering its lower half with its hands… despite there being really nothing to see.

“Do you mind?” the ghost scoffed.

Derek was stunned silent for a moment, his eyes wide as he stared at an actual ghost that was floating before him. “Holy shit,” he finally breathed. “You’re a fuckin’ ghost!”

The ghost exaggeratedly rolled its eyes at Derek. “No shit,” it huffed in a baritone-filled voice that only emphasized its rotund girth. A sly grin formed on its translucent face and its eyes sparkled. “You know, most fleshies tend to avoid this place because of me and my brothers, but here you are.” He sniffed at the air, his smile growing wider. “A werewolf?”

Derek flinched and took a cautious step back.

The ghost continued. “We don’t get a lot of your kind here,” he chuckled. “Your bodies tend to be a little more sturdy. This should be fun!”

The ghost lurched forward at lightening speed, much faster than Derek’s werewolf instincts could react. Since his jaw was still hanging low in shock, the ghost aimed right for the alpha’s agape mouth. 

Derek felt his mouth being stretched to the limit as the ghost squeezed himself inside of him. It was a difficult sensation to describe. Thanks to the ghost’s vapor-like body, it felt as if there was a gust of air that was keeping Derek’s jaw thrusted down as it shoved itself in. Cartoonish stretching noises, like rubber, sounded out as the ghost entered the werewolf. Derek felt himself getting fuller and fuller, feeling as if he’d just eaten a multi-course meal and was stuffed to the brim.

With a simple pop, the ghost finished his entrance and successfully squeezed his rotund body deep inside of Derek.

The werewolf felt full, his stomach and even lower end of his throat feeling as if there was a thick soup trapped in it. Derek stumbled around on shaky feet, trying to piece together what had just happened. The ghost squirmed a little as he settled in under Derek’s skin, the werewolf wincing at the sensation. 

“Damn, I can’t believe that worked!” Derek heard himself exclaim. “I usually have trouble fitting inside tiny bodies.”

Tiny? Derek balked.

Derek’s tingling limbs appeared out of his control, and the more Derek tried his best to strain and walk on his own accord, the more horrified the werewolf grew as it dawned on him that he wasn’t in control of his body. He even attempted to open up his mouth and demand that the ghost leave his body, but he couldn’t even do that— instead, Derek was more so a passenger inside of his own body. He could still experience every sense, smelling and feeling everything around himself, but he couldn’t move or speak on his own.

He felt his legs propel him forward, turning around to look into the mirror. Derek bristled at his own reflection which only smiled back at him, his smile eerily similar to that of the ghost’s.

What the fuck are you doing to me?! Derek roared on the inside. Get the fuck out!

The ghost only shook Derek’s head mockingly. “No way,” he said, making Derek’s body and voice say it on his behalf. “I kinda miss having a body so I’m gonna hang onto yours for a bit. The name’s Fatso, by the way.”

That’s a stupid name.

The ghost shrugged. “And this is a stupid body,” he countered, exploring Derek’s body, running his hands over it. Derek could feel every touch, unable to stop feeling himself up. “There’s barely any room inside of here. Let’s fix that.”

Derek screamed on the inside as he witnessed his stomach shudder before it expanded outwards. His gut grew in size and it rounded out as Fatso forced it to bubble out. Derek’s chiseled abs disappeared as a thick layer of fat appeared over them, going from firm to large and jiggly. It grew bigger and bigger, becoming huge and bulbous as it jutted far out in front of Derek, looking as if he’d swallowed a yoga ball instead of a ghost. To add to the inflation, even Derek’s pecs packed on some fat. They lost some of their tone as they grew larger and saggier, resting atop his enormous belly. There was still some traces of Derek’s large muscles underneath his new girth, but instead of looking like he lived in a gym, he looked more like some ex-jock who was in the middle of a perpetual bulking phase.

What the fuck did you do to me?! Derek roared on the inside, wincing as he examined his new body in the mirror. He must’ve gained well over fifty pounds, with most of it centered on his new gut. His mysterious growth had torn his t-shirt to shreds, forcing him to see all of his girth at once. Despite looking hard and solid, Derek winced at the way his gut hung over his jeans, sagging slightly.

Fatso mock-frowned. “Don’t be like that,” he taunted, putting both of his hands on the sides of Derek’s new belly and giving it a playful shake, causing it to bounce wildly. “I think you look much better with some more meat on our bones. Now there’s some food in the kitchen that we can eat.”

Eat? You mean you want me to get even fatter? Derek protested, unable to prevent his body from waddling out of the bathroom and down the hallway. His thicker thighs rolled over one another as he moved, and his rotund belly stuck so far out in front of himself that he couldn’t even see his feet. He inwardly flinched every time his foot thudded against the hardwood floor, sending a ripple through his belly and pecs.

Fatso forced Derek into the kitchen, where he made him lumber towards the fridge. Derek was surprised that when it opened, it was stocked full of food that looked like it’d just been bought earlier that day as opposed to sitting for years untouched.

Derek felt his arms lurch forward, grabbing fistfuls of various treats and snacks. 

“The only downside to being a ghost is that you can’t eat a lot of food,” Fatso lamented. “But the good thing about possessing a werewolf fleshie is that you can gorge on tons and tons of junk food. Much, much more than a human can!”

No! Wait! Derek pleaded.

His pleas fell on deaf ears as Fatso eagerly shoved loads of food into Derek’s mouth, moaning loudly as he tasted all sorts of flavors. Salty, sweet, savory— all kinds of different foods were shoved down Derek’s eager throat, none of them low-calorie.

The entire time, the werewolf inwardly begged Fatso to stop gorging on so much junk food. However, the ghost was paying no attention to him, moaning loudly as he devoured everything in the fridge.

In the center of the fridge was a delicious looking, three-tiered cake with bright pink frosting. Derek could feel his mouth salivating as his eyes honed in on the monstrous dessert. 

Before Derek could uselessly plead with Fatso again, his hands grabbed at the cake as he greedily gobbled it down. All he could taste was the sugary frosting and the chocolate center of the cake, grimacing at the sweetness, yet Fatso loved it.

Derek inwardly froze when he felt something horrible: his pants felt like they were getting tighter.

It was hard to tell since Fatso controlled his line of sight, but Derek could barely make out his gut growing more and more into his field of vision. It didn’t take long for the werewolf to put two and two together to figure out that, thanks to Fatso’s overeating, he was getting even bigger.

His big belly was starting to jut even further away from his torso as it packed on even more size from the delectable cake. His pecs felt heavier as they grew in size, his nipples even stretching out from the sheer expanse of his enlarged chest. Love handles formed and drooped slightly over the edges of Derek’s pants, which felt painfully tight by now.

Pop!

The button on Derek’s pants finally gave out, ricocheting off and landing on the floor. Derek felt a sense of relief as he continued to fill out, his ass puffing out as his cheeks ballooned out and became large and squishy. To account for his larger rear, Derek could even feel his thighs starting to push closer together as they blew up. As Fatso continued to eat, Derek’s body went from bulky to chunky linebacker status, looking incredibly large as if two of him were shoved together into one body.

Fatso fit the last few bits of the cake into his mouth, swallowing it down loudly and straightening back up. He patted his large gut, satisfied, before letting out a loud burp.

“I always gotta get a big cake before every Halloween thanks to silly guys like you who want to come play detective,” he smiled, rubbing his hand up and down his distended belly. “This was nice. See ya next year?”

Derek let out another loud belch, this one accompanied by a flash of blue as Fatso left his body to fly somewhere else in the manor.

Finally in control of his body, Derek gasped loudly as he ran his shaky hands all over his enlarged form. For some strange reason, even with Fatso gone, Derek was left with his added weight, looking massive and round. He took an awkward step forward, blushing as his entire body seemed to jiggle. He couldn’t see anything past his large belly which definitely wouldn’t fit in any of his clothes anymore.

“Damn it,” Derek huffed, giving his gut a tentative poke. “I have to do so many crunches to get this down to size…” He trailed off when his stomach growled, a deep hunger taking over him.

“Hey, Der,” Stiles called out, his footsteps approaching, “still no sign of any ghosts. I’m starting to think that they’re just stories.” Stiles froze when he reached the kitchen, his eyes nearly falling out of his head at the sight of the fatter Derek.

“Um,” Derek blushed, scratching the back of his head nervously, “I think I found a ghost—” He paused when Stiles stepped forward and placed a soft hand on his rotund belly, rubbing it up and down.

A smile forming on his face, Stiles couldn’t help but look up at the large werewolf. “Do you like belly rubs?” he asked, playfully rubbing Derek’s gut.

Although he couldn’t see it thanks to his big gut blocking his view, Derek could feel his cock rocket to attention, already oozing as Stiles gave him a belly rub. “Y-yeah,” he breathed. He blushed again as his stomach growled a second time.

“Big boy’s hungry?” Stiles teased.

Derek just eagerly nodded, looking forward to eating cake and getting more belly rubs from Stiles. 

All in all, it turned out to be the best Halloween of Derek’s life.