#dew?? they trade off fucking each other up

[feralghxuls]

you know ive been on my sub swiss bullshit for a while recently but did u know. before he met rain he was a dom 90% of the time. and he still tells people he's a dom but he can sub in an emergency even though overall he doms and subs about 50/50 and with rain he subs like 85% of the time. and he has like four regular doms besides rain that he Only subs for, no switching to be found

anyway. got some dom swiss content rattling around in my brain. hopefully to be released soon uwu

[iamthecomet]

👋 im suffering at work please can i ask for any jealous mountian content? Please and thanks 🙏

Oh. Oh, of course you can.

Mountain doesn't know what's happening. Usually he enjoys watching his pack trade attention. Eyes trained to every small interaction like the voyuer he is. But more and more he's been feeling...something that doesn't feel right. Rain keeps sitting in Swiss' lap instead of his. Dew has glued himself in between Sunshine and Cumulus for the last week. Earlier he watched Cirrus shove Aether into a alcove to kiss him breathless.

Something that feels slick and cold uncurls in his chest, wakes up. Pokes at him. Nags at his brainstem. Feels like anger. Feels like need. How come no one is sitting in his lap, or shoving his face into the matress while they peg him, or shoving him into dark corners to feel him up? How come he has to listen to Aether and Dew fuck in the room next door while he's alone with his hand on his dick, trying not to be obvious about it when he cums all over his own knuckles to the sound of Dew falling apart. He hits his breaking point after a week. Sitting on the couch next to two of his packmates who can't seem to stop touching each other. Dew with his hand under the blanket and his fingers sunk into Sunshine's cunt. The ripe peach smell of her mingling with salty arousal. He shoves a pillow on his lap and tries to watch the movie--whatever it is. But how he is supposed to focus when he can hear Sunny's hitching breath? Can see Dew's arm shifting at the shoulder. His clothes feel too tight, skin on fire. He looks over at them. At the way Sunshine has her head on Dew's shoulder, not even pretending to watch the movie, her mouth working over his pulse.

He stands and grabs Dew by the hand resting on the couch's arm. He hauls him up and away from Sunshine, both squeaking in protest as Mountain drags Dew out of the room into his. He tosses Dew onto the bed without preamble and Dew bounces there, looking incredulous, fingers still dripping. "What the fuck?" Dew sputters. "What's your problem?" Mountain doesn't have the brain power to put words to it. Jealousy isn't a word he applies to himself. It doesn't feel like jealousy. He isn't jealous. He just wants. He wants something for himself. He's sick of watching everyone else fall all over each other and barely look at him. Sick of seeing them get off on each other but never him. He narrows his eyes at Dew. Breathes in through his nose and still smells Sunshine like she's in the room with them. Ok. Maybe he is jealous. He stalks over to the bed and Dew backs up, scurrying up the bed like he can get away. "What the fuck did I do? Why do you look like you want to--" Mountain grabs Dew's wrists and sucks his slick fingers into his mouth. The taste of Sunshine bursts over his tongue, underlaid by the metallic guitar string tang that always resides on Dew's fingers. Mountain's eyes flutter. Dew goes quiet. Staring at him with a slack jaw and painfully tight pants. Dew rises up onto his knees, shuffles forward, shoves his fingers a little deeper and Mountain groans. "Freak," Dew chides. "Could have just asked to eat her out." Mountain cracks his eyes open. Looks at Dew's flushed cheeks, his tented pants. He pulls off of Dew's fingers slowly, tongue flicking over the pads of them as he goes. "Don't want Sunny." Mountain licks up the length of Dew's palm, Dew watches the pass of his tongue--rapt. "Sure. Ok. Really seems like it--" Mountain shoves Dew backward, climbing onto the bed on top of him, shoving a thigh between his spread legs. He grinds his thigh against Dew's straining cock. Dew's eyes flutter closed his hips rolling. He groans. "You're jealous," Dew accuses. Mountain drags his nose up the line of Dew's throat, smelling Sunny's spit on his skin. Mountain could deny it--maybe would if he wasn't so fucking hard already. Mountain sinks his teeth into the mark Sunny had been worrying into Dew's neck, digging in until Dew yelps and grinds his hips harder against Mountain's thigh. "Been watching you fuck other people all week," Mountain growls, low, lips moving against Dew's pulse. "It's my turn."

[sarahblueskyyyy]

Fire

Minor DNI! Dewdrop x Ghoulette! Reader, toxic, manipulative, panic attack, fight sex, vaginal sex, breeding, cruelty, porn with plot, blood and injury, Dewdrop is being an a-hole, burnplay, etc.

Fire is destructive. When it meets each other, it either grows stronger, engulfing the world around them, or—it quells and extinguishes its own existence; fights to dominate and die until there is nothing left. Yet, both you and him—find comfort in fire. [“Shame. Had you begged, I’d have let you go."]

Fire is destructive.

When it meets each other, it either grows stronger, engulfing the world around them, or—it quells and extinguishes its own existence; fights to dominate and die until there is nothing left.

Sometimes it works both ways.

Sometimes it clashes, gnawing at the opposite’s core, in attempt to burn it down. The other times, it stands alone. In forlorn, its flame flickers, turns to millions of embers, before shattered completely and dissolve with the sky.

Sometimes—it’s just like that. A daily occurrence, an unfazed phenomenon.

Your snarl dragged out from the base of your throat. Your eyes—just like his, glint in intimidation. Too prideful to back down—a vanity determination to take down the other side; even when you know full well there is no worthy conclusion to be taken in the end.

“Fuck off,” Dewdrop hisses. “Stop bitchin’ for one day.”

You scoff. Hand still wiping on your guitar—using unnecessary amount of pressure through the piece of cloth. “You messed up. Be for fuckin’ real.”

Cirrus and Cumulus are trading looks. Then, Aurora’s violet orbs turn to Swiss. The Multi-Ghoul shrugs—a sign to let whatever happens unfurls by itself. Only interfere when it’s needed.

Dewdrop doesn’t lose his venom. Despite the calm tone, his gruff voice echoed, piercing the right place, “Of course it’s me. It’s hard to see where the mistake comes from when you are one.”  

You freeze—fingers stop moving. The piece of damp cloth, imbued with cleaning liquid, stays on top of the guitar.

“Dew,” Rain is warning him, softly.

“Mia caro, that’s not nice.” Copia then swifts his glance to you. “You too, dear. It’s just a slight miscoordination. No need to engage in distasteful argument.”

“What, why?” Dewdrop pulls one corner of his lips. His voice injected with faux innocence. “She should always remember who she is. A failure, unwanted being, accidentally summoned from the pit—”

“Okay, spitfire.” Swiss reaches for him, wrap his arm around his shoulder. He’s trying to direct the red-eyed ghoul’s attention by ruffling his platinum hair. Tenderly, playfully. Refuse to be pulled into the heated atmosphere. “Let’s pack up. We need to go back to the hotel anyway.”

However—a fire is unyielding. It will not stop until it strikes to every side possible. “You cryin’?”

You blink. You can feel your visual blurred and there is a pang prickling in your chest, quickly spreading to the end of your fingertips. However, you just take a deep breath, put your guitar back to its case, and walk away—let yourself be the first one who arrives at the bus.

Cardinal Copia pinches the bridge of his nose.

.

.

.

.

.

“You are not a mistake,” Cumulus says gently. She let your head slumps to her chest comfortably. She uses both hands to give you a back rub in vertical motion, while your biceps rest on the sides of her body. “You know that, right?”

“Mh-hmnn.” An incoherent mumble. You need some moment before uttering the words that have been lingering in your head; even before the Fire said it himself, “He’s not wrong, though. It’s not supposed to be me—you’re not supposed to have two fire wielders in one pack.”

She sighs, kissing the top of your head. You find an unbelievable amount of warmth through the simple gesture. “Sweetheart—there is no rules in things like these. You bond well with the others—it means you belong here.”

With the others, except …, you let the words hang at the end of your tongue. Prisoned by your own voice box.

“Cumulus,” you call for her.

The Air Ghoul bats her eyelashes, waiting for your answer.

“I love you—you are the best.”

She laughs. “Bet you use those lines with everyone, you flirt.”

A grin flashes across your face. “I do.”

.

.

.

You remember the ordeal as if it was yesterday. It was as clear as the water in small stream, so transparent you can see the bottom of it.

You didn’t remember what kind of being you are—or if it was matter in the first place. But, you do recall the way something rips apart your soul, your physical body—unravelled it through space and time, until you landed on the symbol, infused with devilry.

You remember how you felt your whole body burn and ache. Horns bowed heavy at the sides of your temples. Long, acute nails scratching on the concrete below you. You recognized the smell of your own blood, from the scars all over your body—because a summoning never delivers something unscathed.

You relive the anger back then—the hatred and all the conniption you carried with every inch of your nerves because you knew you shouldn’t be there.

A mistaken calling, an unwanted prodigy.

And you remember the harsh, rough flame that covered you, rendered you useless, made you writhe and wailed and cried pathetically—begging, pleading, to be freed from it.

And then—

--you wake up. Your breath hitch and the oxygen stings your lungs. You stand up from your position, trying to calm the remarkably fast heartbeat, trying to comprehend your surroundings.

But it’s a vain effort. Your head is spiraling like you’ve been hit by a powerful swing—it affects your eyes and now everything seems splitting. You curse under your breath. Sweats make rivulets on your back and forehead.

I need to grounding, you think to yourself. In theory, it’s easy—try to focus on your senses and pay attention on the smallest things. Something real—something to make you certain that you are here instead of anywhere else your mind tries to convince you.

Once again—it’s no use. All your fingertips could feel is a hard, freezing pavement below you. And instead of the aroma of your own room—it smells like blood, fire, and a hint of morning dew.

Fuck. I need to breathe.

You inhale sharply. No matter how many times you try to feed your lungs—it feels never enough. The air is not going there; it sits in your throat and that’s it.

Call the others?

No—I can’t bother them.

You open your drawer—snatching an object, made of metallic with wooden handle. A simple folding knife; a gift from Swiss—to celebrate your arrival, he said.  

You place one of your hands on the table. Palm heads up. The other hand gripping the knife—fingers anchoring on the wooden handle. You don’t count to three when you raise your arm up to the air, before shoving it back down in rapid speed, piercing your palm, right through the other side.

You hear a wail much more faster than your ability to recognize that it’s yours.

The pain hits you abruptly—sending shivers to your nape, crawling to the end of your toes. And, Satanas, it’s fucking—hurt, but then all your senses are wondrously working.

Pain is an effective everything, Dewdrop verbalized that once. And now it’s ringing in your ear. He’s not wrong.

Your eyes have stopped its whirling. You can see your own feet and the bleeding hand. You can smell the result of your body perspiration—and the faint morning dew. You can hear the sound of your thumping heart, and—one’s footsteps in the hall, before it amplifies in every stride, stops at the front of your door.

Wait.

Morning dew and—

“Open your fuckin’ door.”

You sigh. You try to gather yourself. But you can’t hide the hoarse on your voice, makes it lose all its arrogance when you say, “Fuck off, Dewdrop.”

He calls out your name. Not a nickname that is intended to sneer or scorn at you. Your name—one that you chose for yourself, to represent the whole you.

Dewdrop enunciates every word, “Open the door.”

You felt your head heavy. As if the gravity suddenly increases tenfold, pulling your head down.

“‘S not locked.”

When the door is swung open, you could see his unvexed expression. You’re not sure whether that’s a façade or not, but—you do realize he takes a short glimpse at your palm. He closes the door behind him and gets closer to you.

You could see your own reflection on the red orbs. Without averting his gaze from yours, he stretches his arm slightly, grabs the knife, and pulls it out in one motion.

“Mngh!” You bite down your lips. Okay, Lucifer—that hurts, hurt.

He puts the knife on the table. Kneels down, he takes your hand from the table. “The fuck is going on,” he starts. Not even a question. “Everyone can smell your blood miles away.”

And hears your wail, but he doesn’t turn that into an audible voice.

You see him inspecting at your cut. With little energy left, you answer him, “Panic attack. I needed grounding—nothing helped me. Resorted to drastic measure.”

“And you can’t just call?”

“Who—you? Right.”

“Use your fuckin’ head,” he spats. You shut your mouth. “Next time; you call.”

You detect a small spark of fire from his fingers.

Memories flash once more in your head; the summoning, him restrained you on the ground, the fire—you pull away, blood dripping everywhere.

“No!” You let out a choked word. Heat creeps to your eyes, forming a puddle of water. “No fire ….”

Dewdrop looks at you. He doesn’t need to do a scrutiny to answer the sedentary questions on the back of his head. He waits a few seconds before trying to reach you again. “No fire. I bring Rain’s medical kit.”

You still hesitate.

Dew scoffs. “Give me your hand—I don’t have all night.”

You let him grasp on your palm. And—you just realized he does bring a medical kit. Didn’t aware of it before.

He works on your hand. His movement is not of a compassionate one, but also far from rough. You can feel the stings when he tugs the bandage. Small bullet of tears falls from your fluttered eyelashes. You harshly wipe it away from your cheek.

From your point of view—you could see his horns. Perfectly placed on his temple, framing his head. The horns are simple, straightforward without any curve. It’s white with dark red gradation at the base. The colour shines under the light.

“Done.” Dewdrop closes the box. “Try not to stab yourself again.”

“Why do you even come here, Dew?”

“Babysitting shift. Apparently, it’s my turn.”

You growl. Eyes glint dimly, scowl at him.

He smiles. Challenging. An attempt to ignite another fire. “What? Wanna cry?”

“Get the fuck out.”

He shrugs.

Then, after you close your door, you look at your hand. The bandage is neat and perfectly protects the injured hand.

You don’t get him.

.

.

.

It doesn’t mean anything has gone better. As the matter of fact—it’s been going downhill, keep rolling, and hasn’t reach the bottom, however deep the end line will be.

However, it’s undeniably going there.

Speaking truthfully, you have a basic idea why he loathes you so. Probably has something to do with the way you share his specialty. Or the way you push yourself to the edge in everything you do; all or nothing. The same determination you put on stage while chanting the words of Satan.

The way you bleed and bruised because you practice more than you should be, pushing yourself to the brink of exhaustion.

However—you still think that’s a bad reason to hate his own kin.

Actually, you should be the one who nurtures the grudge. Keep it safe deep inside your core—let it unleash when the time is right. He burned you that day—that was not an accidental mistake, despite how your summoning was.

You are still a defect. Not were; not back then. Now. Until the end.

You can practically hear him, albeit no exact words are spoken. It’s crystal clear what he is thinking, even when he’s peacefully enjoying his dinner. Let his sharps teeth rip apart the sitting grilled meat on the perfect-polished plate. It’s not cooked all the way—you can taste raw blood on your tongue.

The first time dinner were served in this abbey—you asked naively, “What meat is this?”

Phantom’s soft smile and Aurora rubbed your back were enough of an answer. You never brought up about it anymore.

“What’s wrong? Are you not feeling well?” Cirrus chirps. She moves her eyes between your plate and your eyes.

You put a smile. “No, just ... I’m full.”

Cirrus blinks at your half-eaten foods.

Mountain, tries to be as subtle as he can get, sniffs the air. He then says, “Just leave it be. I’ll finish it.”

“Well, that’s not fair, is it?” Swiss takes the last bite of his portion. His grin is wide, deliberately showing his teeth.

Cumulus laughs. “Boys.”

“Holding yourself back from getting a second fill, Dew?” Rain asks, he nudges the Fire Ghoul besides him.

Dewdrop carves a simple smile. “I don’t eat dog’s leftovers.”

You stands up. Smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m going back to my room first.”

You realizes some pairs of eyes that are directed to your back. You tries to ignore it; along with the sentence that spitted out from his mouth.

.

You did feel full—however, for some reasons, your stomach grumbles once more in the middle of the night. You swipe your palm on one corner of your lips. A splatter of blood. Your eyes are luminous—much more so in the dark. Looking at the dead rabbit—or at least what’s left of it. The intestines are scattered on the dirt, the eyeballs protruding from its eye sockets.

Not bad, but ... eurgh.

You hear a rustle and footsteps. You turn around, in reflex you flick your wrist, and flame bursts on there.

“Drop it,” Dewdrop spits.

You growl. “I’d rather burn you instead.”

He’s unperturbed by the threat. Glances at the carcass. “That rabbit has rabies.”

“I’ll bite you then, let’s see if it’s true.”

“Calm down.” He cocks his head to the abbey. “Rory was searching for you. Worried by your lack of appetite.”

“Right.” You shakes your hand. The fire vanished in a mere second. “Tell her I’m fine. There is nothing to be worried about.”

“Yeah.” Dewdrop pokes at the poor animal with the tip of his shoes. “Okay. Suit yourself.”

You frown at him. “That’s it?”

Dewdrop waits for the following words that might follow.

You stammer—baffled by your own question. But you refuse to back down; to retract the illogical query, “No mockery, no taunt, the throwing insults—”

“You want me to?”

—then why the fuck have you been hostile all this time?

Something snaps on your head—quickly eroding your patience, sends lump to your larynx, and all you want to do is spit out.

But instead—you reach where he stands. In one swift movement, you clutch at his shirt, pull it down until his neck is accessible to your lips.

You expand your jaw—flexing the fangs, before it digs to his neck.

Dewdrop hisses.

You taste a distinct metallic liquid—a long stripe of your tongue dances across the freshly made scars. You allow your lips to latch on him a little longer. Drinking softly, satisfied the thirst.

Weird. You just ate, but—the hunger rises even more. There is sweet, cold sensation on your throat, flowing abundantly.

Dewdrop presses his forehead on your shoulder. “Fuckin—bitch.” The words almost lose all its meaning. He puts his hand on your back, tracing the spine, before his fingers stays on your waist.

You unconsciously whimper. Goosebumps all over, soft electricity tickles every cell of you.

Guess she’s still hungry after all.

Dewdrop waits for a perfect 10 seconds and he realizes that you have no intention to stop. Blood literally drained from his body—and he starts to feel light-headed. His vision swaying, as if it’s rocked like a new-born baby.

He struggles, holding your shoulder. “Fuck, stop it.”

You hums. His request falls on deaf ears.

Dewdrop grits his teeth before deciding to flex his fingers, nails short but sharp, claws at your back. Not deep—yet, enough to invoke your screams.

You gets away from him. Pupil wide, looking at him and the streams of blood on his nape, dripping to his shirt.

Your first grunt is sent to give a warning. The second one is a promise.

Dewdrop stands sturdy on his feet. You leaps at him, claws and fire blend into one. You pushes him to the ground, using full force of your body, sit on his stomach and plant your nails on his chest, dragging it forward.

You grins. You shouldn’t feel as excited as you do now, but—you do.

Dewdrop groans, he hits your side with his knee—not his best attempt, not using his entire power, yet capable of launching you away from him.

He coughs. Spews blood. He already lose some of it because you latched at him like a stupid leech. He sees you writhing on the ground. Suspecting your ribs must have been broken.

He uses the chance to strike back, caging you with his body, teeth slashes your neck.

You cries, fights back, grabs at his arms.

He bites harder, using one of his hands to caged your wrist, put it on top of your head.

You wail, relight the fire on your palm.

Dew hisses, pulling away his hands, lose his momentum. Despite him owning the element, a foray from the same kind still hurts the same—your fire burns him in a way he can’t burn himself with his own fire.

And you jumps once more at him. Scratching, burning, killing, claiming—at least that’s the idea.

The fight lasts for only another 5 minutes—before Swiss found his teammates ripping each others’ guts out and processing to separate them. The others are showing up almost at the same time with him. Half of them seize Dewdrop—his hands still digging out from the arms that contain him; seeking your flesh, nails bathed by your blood. His grin is as wide as yours.

The ghoulettes grip at your waist—for both of your arms covered with fire. You keep trying to magnify the flame—but Rain pours a colossal amount of clean water on you. It's prickling on your wounds and you kicks uncoordinatedly in retaliation and expressing the pain.

When Copia hears the news, both you and Dewdrop already fell into the state of forced slumber. Phantom used his devilry—a forte of his—to make you and Dewdrop lose consciousness, stopped the fight instantly.

Copia, in the state of frustration no one ever seen before—says calmly, “We need to send one of them back. Or both.”

Mountain knits his eyebrows. “It’s just a fight.” He doesn’t sound sure of his own statement. It sounds like he’s trying to assure himself—rather than the leader.

“One of these times, they are gonna kill each other,” the man speaks in authority and absolute law. He looks at the sag bodies of his ghoul and ghoulette. Wrapped in bandages, black and blue everywhere. The obvious burn spots are tormenting to look at. “And that’s not a pretty sight I’d want to see—for the rest of you to see.”

“Sending them back to hell will relive the previous memory.” Cumulus’ tone is soft. “‘S not going to be a pretty sight for both of them either.”

Copia sighs.

“Then make sure they stop doing this.”

.

.

.

It was a disaster. It truly was. You weren’t sure how you lose it. Perhaps it was the last trigger that you needed to break loose all hell. Perhaps after all this time—all you wish to do is fight back.

You take a deep breath, then let it go gently. You raise your hand to reach the cupboard. Grab a cup glass, wanting to fill it with water.

But then you notice the healed scar on your wrist. An inarguable prove that someone once raked your skin.

You look at it then blink. After the incident—Copia strictly advised you and Dewdrop to create some distances. Practice is withheld until further notice. You clearly heard the underlying threat from Copia, albeit unspoken, “One more of this tomfoolery, I’m sending you back.”

So here you are—avoiding him as much as you can. The same way he’s excusing himself every time he notices your presence. Both of you have enough sanity to not fuck up for the second time.

Even so, the relationship between you and the pack haven’t changed, so does him and the others. Cirrus, Cumulus, and Aurora still hang out with you a lot—and you cherish every second of it. Mountain and Rain, using their alchemy, tend to your wounds. Swiss is still as the same as the usual.

You’re sure that’s the case with him as well. So, it really resurfaces the question once more ...

... why does he despise me?

No. It’s maybe ....

You look at your wrist. The recollection of that night flashes in front of your eyes. The calm, shining moon, under a starry sky. And in a matter of a second, as if something ties up your chest, pressing it down—you feel your breath hitched.  

You put the glass on the table before drop it down and possibly break it.

Oh, no.

You recognize all too well of what’s coming. The sound of your own heartbeat is loud, pounding your ear drums.

“Hey—are you okay?”

You bring your head up—eyes land on Mountain’s figure, just a few steps away from where you are. You suspect he’s going to have a breakfast, as you were intending to do.

You swallow a chunk on your throat, “Yes, I’m fi—”

—ne? Really?

Mountain calls for your name. He gets closer, places his palm on your jaw.

“Sorry,” you say weakly. “Can you squeeze me—really hard?”

“Yes,” he answers, fast, doubtless. He puts both of his arms under yours, adhered his body against you. He gives you a firm hug, pats your back. His tail, spade-pointed, even delicately wrap around you.

It is so strong, yet—you don’t feel suffocated. It’s warm and more than you can hope for. It makes you smells the particular earthy fragrance—as if you’re lying on a field of flower in the middle of the spring. Your hammering heart slows gradually, back to its original resting rhythm. You sob quietly, hugging him back when the addled brain finally clear.

You sigh.

He was right.

You should have called somebody—no matter who.

.

You meet him again after a while. You find him sitting on a window tracery. A big one—located in the highest part of the building. From here, you could see the view of the whole hill. The green and dark forest, skirted this—castle. And on more far away, you could see the faint, glimmering light of the city.

Dewdrop, without turning his head, asking, “What?”

“Rain is looking for you,” you say, face directed at him. Leaning one of your shoulder to the frame of the window. Built out of stone, all the slopes were precisely carved into pointed trefoil, with flowery-like strokes all along the edges. “Wanna take a look at your knee. He’s at the chapel.”

He scoffs. “And out of all people, he asked you to fetch me?”

“No.” You still look at his eyes—reddish with a tint of blue. The colour of flame. “I volunteered.”

Now—there it is, he looks at you. Confusion painted on his scowl.

“Tomorrow is our first rehearsal since ... the incident.” You smile. “Wanted to talk to you first. Make sure we don’t fuck it up again, hm-mn?”

He delivers a humourless chuckle. “Right.”

And, amongst the silence that fills the air, you break it gently, “Why do you loathe me, Dew?”

Without missing a beat, he speaks, “You’re a mistake.”

“No—I’ve heard that one,” you persist. You stand on your tip-toes, raise your head to meet his eyes—because he’s sitting in a higher position from you. You extend your hand, tugging on the hem of his shirt. “Why, exactly, do you that relentlessly—scorn on me?”

Now—you are not sure what kind of face you make at him. Or what gear just clicked on his mind, turning, rolling around—linked on the correct places. However, he seems determined to answer truthfully, as he grabs the back of your neck. Strong enough that you feel his nails.

“You are insufferable.” His fingers rubbing your nape. “You fuss, you howl—testing my patience. Ever since you rose from that pit.”

You wait.

“To the point I want to burn you whole.” He smiles. “To scars you—rake my claws on you. To see you bleed and writhe—to see you fuckin’ break, ruined and wrecked.”

“Then fuckin’ break me,” you growls. An invitation, disguised as a provocation. You whine. “Ruin me, Dew. What are you waiting for?”

He snarls. Eyes lustful—one claw is teasing your skin, prickling it. He clutches on your sides, lifts you up—makes you sit on his lap. Groins grinding at each other and you bucking your hips—frictions send quiver to your legs.

“Shame.” He catches your jaw with one hand. Forcing you to look at him. “Had you begged, I’d have let you go.”

Had I begged; you’d have enjoyed it more. You want to say that. But you don’t bother. No, when his hands roaming on your body—take off your shirt, fling it somewhere. You’ll find that later. His fingers outline your curves and find themselves on your breast. He pinches the nipples, hard—unforgiving.

You tremble and he orders you to stay still with the scratches he makes below your tits, between the lines of your ribs. He twists the tip of your tits. Smears your chest with your own blood.

As a way to distract yourself from the pain—you nib on his neck. Teeth are sinking and Dewdrop groans—a mix of pleasure and a throbbing pain.

You can feel heat and wetness pooling at the centre of your sex. His hands are unrelenting working their way on your soft plump of flesh. Kneads it, harshly, like a cat forcing its paws.

And see—it’s been going on fine, until the scent of metallic liquid distorts your mind once again. Your breath in and out in a broken tempo—but not in a good way. You inhale, hold it as if water strangles your lungs, and you exhale as if you are choking on something.

Dewdrop notices it, holding your jaw, cupping it with his palms. He hisses—then seals his eyes into yours. “None of that. You focus here—only here.”

You nod frantically—trying to follow his lead.

He brings your forehead to meet with his. Horns clunking, nuzzling against each other.

“Deep breath.”

Trembling, you close your eyes. Try to grasp the air, let it walk through your diaphragm, slowly, but surely. And—here it is, the smell of a morning dew. Droplets on the leaf when dawn emerges from the dark.

Dewdrop uses his fingers to tap on your back—like playing a piano. Careful on each tuts, but demolishes any gesture of hesitation. You feel the warm taps behind you—recognize the heat, the unusual high temperature that separates him and the others.

When you lift your eyelids—red orbs, black sclera, are there to welcome you.

Dewdrop’s eyes are crosshairs, locked into you. “You with me?”

A nod.

“Words.”

“‘M here,” you say. Slightly pull your head back. “I’m here,” you repeat, murmuring so soundlessly. You take another breath before tilting your head, calculating the right angle.

Dewdrop let you work with your own pace. His hands still tapping and you kiss him. It’s slow at first—testing the water, getting known of the uncharted territory. Doesn’t take long until you find the guts to do more—to bite on his lips, to increase the magnitude, knock around his teeth using your tongue. The clicking of each lips, the hungry, and needy sucking are growing—ravaging in a way no one ever has before.

Dewdrop stifles his moan. Can feel you drooling and he involuntarily scoffs against your mouth.

He makes sure you’re not relapsing first before his fingers travel south. Circling around your navel, before stopping on the zipper of your pants. He takes off the button, zips down, middle finger and ring finger swipe the outside of your underwear.

You gasp, stomach muscle tightens. He strokes the damp cloth, made of soft cotton. Patience was never really his strong suit—he said that before—he slides down your underwear from your hips. A trail of half-transparent slick makes a thin bridge before it severed by the created distance. He slips his two fingers up to your entrance, creating an incline inside—a contour, moulded by him rightfully. 

You shudder, nails digging on his shoulder. Clenching from the new sensation—almost shut close your thighs together. But his other arm clasping on it—prevents you to do so.

His fingers move inside, stretching the overly, unbelievably—spongy walls. Your hip keep shifting and he feels stiff in his pants it’s almost hurt. As if something is biting down on him. But mostly it hurts because he knows that the urge that has been seeping through him since who knows when—is now attacking back as a horde, nullifying the sane part of him (a small part he has).

��Ah—”

You bite your lower lips.

“No. If you hold it; I’ll stop.”

You moan. The fingers poking at the right place. Scratching your inner muscle that keep contracting-relaxing. “The—,” you hold a wail, “—chapel is right below us.”

“Not my concern.”

“Dew—!”

He presses at the clit using his thumb and you slightly jump. You purr and elicit high-pitched, un-verbal cry as the touch on your bundle of nerves doesn’t stop. You gripping on his fingers, wave of pleasure ready to wash over you and just a little bit more—just a little bit more, you’ll cry in relief, let go of the tension.

But—he stops in a precise time. Like a cruel joke, he grins, and all the pride, the resolution, or anything that was left of you—was burned completely.

You look at him, all teary, stimulations sending you over the edge. Heart is torn-up by shame and the desire to wanting more; to savour what heaven feels like.

Or hell—if it’s any matter.

“You want me to break you?” Dewdrop slides off his own pants. Fingers circling on his own erection, thumb idles on the tip—purple-ish colour. So beautiful, so unworldly. It’s hard, blood filling his sex so fully, leaving no space between veins, nerves bulging almost painfully.

He position himself, glides his cock between your labia—slippery, soft. Wetness helps him, but nothing compares to your evoked whimpers; drumming in his ear, intensified the arousal that keep building inside him, ready to burst anytime. Ticking bomb of indulging deed you both are participating right now.

He groans. “I’ll break you, love.”

You moan. His hand on your bottom and a harsh slap is given ruthlessly. You wail, forehead droop on his collarbone—keening into his touch, despite all the abuse he’s been putting you through. Your ass must be red and probably bleeding, for you can feel he keep whipping on your skin.

And when he finally thrust inside—he does it rough, hips slamming, squelching, each sound lewder than before. You roll back your eyes, back arching. He grips on your hips, moving it in tandem with his pace, and with every push-and-pull, with every shove—he feels so good he almost whining, for his shaft gets drown in the molten, spasming flesh.

There are trains of grunts and moans and you can’t help the sad, pathetic, dog-like plead, “Pleasepleaseplease—”

Dewdrop slams his hip, knocking at the base of your cervix, plant himself to the hilt. You cry, incapable of forming words. Nothing really matters except the gushing feeling on your lower stomach; the absolute relish of the most primal, worldly—longing.

Dewdrop spread your half-dried blood to your clit. He’s trailing a repetitive motion there. You can feel your legs twitching, toes-curling, and your ragged breath becomes more and more disarray. The threatening climax is there and by Satan—you wish to embrace it like a good girl of Lucifer you are.

It’s doesn’t feel like it’ll be enough. Out of your own volition, you keep bouncing down, chasing the immeasurable peak, and your claws deep on his shoulders, near his neck. Incoherent words, breaking moans—you sob as he rutting inside.

And when he releases inside you, at the same time when you orgasm—something zaps you hard, rattling on your brain, reverberating through your body and your vision turns to white, glimmering, shattering pieces. The back of your eyes are running around, cells swirling and all that. Your scream is erotic, hurdling on every corner of the room. You can hear Dewdrop’s choked up groans as he fills you inside, as his cock still scraping your walls, deterring his cum from coming out.

You cry, limbs vibrate, but—all of your energy has been wringed, and nothing you can do except squeeze out the remaining tears, the manifestation of the overwhelming euphoria.

Dewdrop exhales heavily, chest moves up and down—slowly, following his breath. He grabs the side of your head, kisses your temple. His hand brushes the sweats on your cheek before he bites on your chest.

You whine—a useless protest.

Dewdrop smiles.

.

.

.

.

.

“Finally found a way to cope with your own emotion, dear?”

Dewdrop blinks. He offers a smile and caress his nape. A new bandage encircles his neck softly enough to make sure he doesn’t lose the ability to breath. Rain’s handiwork is neat, clean, and flawless as usual.

“I always knew how to cope with my emotion, Papa.”

Copia sighs. He’s scanning the ghoul in front of him and he gets reminded by one particular ghoulette—with almost the same pattern of new scars. “Yes, but she didn’t know how. You let her standing on a too thin of a line, Dew.”

Shoving her around like a cat playing with its food. Copia almost verbalize that. But he doesn’t have to—he knows Dewdrop knows the implication behind his words.

Dewdrop’s crooked grin expands, just a slightly. “Well—but it’s all true. She is a mistake. The incantation was supposed to bring a being with more—peaceful, element. She raised hell on earth the moment she arrived.”

“Yes, but it was your request to keep her—instead of sending her back right away.”

The Fire Ghoul hold his hands behind his back. Like a merciless, wicked child—knows nothing except taking what they want. Inflicting pain is their first and foremost nature, laughing on the misery of others.

“And yet—the final call was in your hand and you chose for her to stay.”

Copia rolls his eyes. He swears to the King of Hell he adores one and every single of his ghoul, but sometimes—they are his everlasting headaches.

“One rule, Tesoro.”

“Anything, Papa.”

“I don’t want to see another blood-bath,” he states. “Your fellow mates are far more delicate than you are—and her.”

“I won’t,” promises Dewdrop. He waves his hand as Copia turns to the other way, walking across the hall. He lets out a snort and walking to the opposite way. On the corner of the hall, he notices the unmistakable footsteps.

He looks at you and says, “Rain and Mountain have checked you?”

You give him a nod. “Yeah. Met Papa after that. He asked me where did I get the wounds.”

He scoffs. “What did you tell him?”

“Hunting,” you speak nonchalantly. “Fought with the bear.”

“Right. Smart.”

You hear the sarcasm and decide to ignore it. “Well—anyway, I’m going back.”

“Tomorrow before practice,” Dewdrop calls for your name. “My room?”

You laugh half-heartedly. “What, like a bitch in heat?”

Oh, so now—she bites back.

"Aren't you one?"

“No,” you answer. “Can’t have the guitars smeared in blood. Use your head.”

Dewdrop doesn’t return the taunting as you’re walking away from him. He just smiles, going to his own resting place.

Fire is destructive.

When it united, it grows so powerful it swallows up the world around them. More often than not, it fights each other, meeting in the middle, before eradicates its own life.

But, just for a fleeting moment, a second when two fires meet each other—there is a foxtrot between them, every flame, every ember, intertwined like lovers’ fingers, twirling and drowning together, like a pair of bettas with their flowing and colourful tails, brush against one and another.

And both of him and you—find comfort in fire.  

[jc-lambert]

Methinks...

I am going to have to meet the Lamberts in California do a bunch of dope infront of them in many cases drugs they've probably never heard of, go get a car & come at the cost of the credit of those in Emporia...

While padding them with equity and real-estate (as in they get the deeds of everything everyone ever owned in Lyon County and can sit there being white trash pooping babies out of every last poonanny. It's racewar up in this bitch so we need them mass populating while the midgets become paliperidone)

and park that car somewhere in California while the state continues to further fall to the Japanese Communist and Imperialist parties in joint efforts with the Soviet Union. I maintain that if California falls to the Communist World and becomes a Soviet State paying their taxes to Japan: that the territory is more so to be called Yuko's than anyone else, however Russian and Chinese banks would be the people who hold the area in escrow while the coastline is on hiatus and in a state of political flux. 

The Ukraine has become more so a United States Protectorate while the West Coastline becomes more a Soviet Territory.

Sort of a good trade in a roundabout way, especially if at the cost of Canadian Sovereignty.

If and when this occurs...

I would rather be in Soviet Space innocently reading tarot, talking to myself, and keeping frequent contact with 5th Dimensional Creatures of a terrestrial and non-terra nature, which is to include both earth creatures and persons and non-persons alike but frequently relayed and intercepted conversation through the 8th Planet. This will make the cost of realestate in California plummet while also improving the quality of my life. By my life, I mean "insane jackass who's lived off disability and laughed at the losses of crude oil and base resource which are now forced from Alaska into the hands of cousins in Texas".

While Yuko sits there being the Royal House of Tzu...

I would seriously sit there all day in the Asian Districts giving her all the business she wants.

Alka...

Do you want to go shopping? I'm unsure if I will have money or if you would: but the two of us being stock put options against each other one of us would have fabulous sums while the other bankrupted. Truth be told, both of us should be bankrupted but one of us would/should have fabulous resource.

If need be: lets extort everyone in Kansas, especially the small town yokels...

and spend their money eating obnoxious burgers....

I'm sure we can find someone from Kansas who was terrorized out of the state....

and find a way to have a big fat disgusting burger cooked, the kind that makes one puke due to the grease, full of roids off the cannibal enemy demographic....

and pay the lady or gent who cooked it an ungodly sum. Enough to open a few chains.

Let's extort everyone who picked up a small business grant or moved to the city of Wichita with my name in their mouths. Especially if they are midgets or Emporians or anyone I would naturally refrain from speaking to.

We need grenade launchers, short wave radios, and fur coats.

You know, to be terrorist mafiosa yakuza bitches in constant and frequent contact with Asian Forces.

as well as human...

and call it our state of being to just sit there HUMAN in front of their goddamn monkey asses.

Where is Paige Davenport aka Paige Du Berry?

Was that her father who met with me in Vancouver?

He was obviously of her ilk and of her people.

Yeah...

Alka

lets get high.

Wanna smoke liquid cocaine in front of a jewish officer of the law and spend felony sums of money and call them just "spoils of war"?

You know, the kind of boyscouts that could only come from like Washington or Canada or somewhere?

and it be on YouTube, designed to piss everyone in Kansas square the fuck off even more....

You have to try the Mountain Dew Whiskey.

It probably wont be available much longer.

I am kidnapped.

Im located in Wichita.

There are midgets from Portland everywhere. All of them are conspiring against the Luinstra Estate as well as me.

I could use a ride elsewhere.

I want a Miss Monica's buntcake too.

I want a pita plate.

everywhere is closed.

The only thing I can find is goddamn fucking Ramen being served at obnoxiously high prices.

Someone slap Damion and Hans for their business sugggestions, and cut off Amy Mills-Widner's clit. All their women need to be assigned a new pimp, slapped the fuck arround, and cut off they foodstamps and reminded that they dont get do jack shit but sit there with their tongues pierced 3 or 4 times. 

I swear to god this is fucking goddamn hell.

Jeff...

you alive???

Could you do me a favor and slap everyone in Emporia for me?

Um, Lesli's friends.

They all need bitch slapped about four or five times as a warning. They're all party animals about to be at a loss of their humanity, which means they can be sold into slavery. Can we have them picking cotton and sleeping in the ditches off to the side of the plantations?

jc-lambert.tumblr.com

I want tea for them. I want paliperidone out of them and their kids.

The coffee is getting to be too extreme.

Paige...

homeschool your children if you can, or send them to Spanish school.

Not that Im telling you what to do, its more so that everyone is stranger danger in ways that cause ouchies and might involve children. 

Like seriously...

fuck these clowns and fuck this city.

Never did nor would I approve of holding any form of stock or realestate in Wichita outside of whatever I sat down with my realestate agent and purchased by myself, alone, without the help of an identity thief.

Everything Hazel and Sam did businesswise: I've always had to report to authorities as it heavily included the redesign Gambino Counterfeit or the manipulation of slave technologies and the forced development of various electronic devices.

[hansoulo]

how will I know; walk slow

Pairing: Din Djarin/Reader (gender neutral, no Y/N)

Word Count: a humble 1.4k

Warnings: cursing, light angst, a kiss (sorta), spoilers for chapter 15 of the mandalorian

Gif Credit: (x) by @/bestintheparsec

A/N: hello bros and hoes it is me and i am back with another oneshot this time set right after chapter 15 with a title from this song by james blake

You bounded down the hangar ladder and stood toe-to-toe, heart stuck in your mouth and lodging up in your tonsils until the word came out thick and without eloquence. “Hi.”

“I’m sorry,” the Mandalorian offered. He didn’t really have anything to be sorry for. Sometimes the guy was just polite to a fault.

“It’s alright.” The words left your chest hushed, conscious of the footsteps up and around you that echoed tinny on the walls of Slave 1. Soft assurances. Gentle platitudes. “You’re here now, yeah?”

Mayfeld was “dead” doing Maker knows what. Fennec and Cara were both off in the ship somewhere, probably polishing blasters and trading war secrets with each other as intimidating Outer Rim women tended to do. That or in the communications monitor room below deck, doing far more risque things. Boba was piloting and making sure none of you died. And the Mandalorian was here. Standing in the cold metal cargo hold. In front of you.

His chest, in beskar now, not that shoddy Imperial shit, shook with a sigh. “Yeah,” the helmet rasped. It sounded like he was speaking more to himself. “Yeah.”

Why do you do that?

   Do what?

You’re very… monosyllabic. It’s unsettling.

   Unsettling.

You know you’re just continuing to prove my point, right?

   Mhm.

Maker, you’re infuriating.

   Yes, I am.

Hey that was three words! Progress.

Your throat tightened with a swallow when you realized you still stood only inches apart from him. Feet shuffled backwards in the small hangar until he was left at a larger, more friend-appropriate distance. “That’s good. I’m… I’m glad.”

The air in the ship was thick, with relief and with another heavy thing. Regret, maybe? But what did he have to regret?

“Mando,” you called out as he turned to step up the ladder. Names were sacred things. You didn’t want to use his here. To dirty it by sharing. “Hey,” your hand met the cold metal of his pauldron, urging him to face you again. He was still. Always so still. “Did something happen?”

   I’m fine.

You’re hurt.

   It’s nothing serious.

Let me help. 

   I’ll take care of it.

Or let the kid help. Somebody.

   I said I’ll take care of it.

Let me take care of you. Please. 

His words came almost too quick. He was like that when he tried to convince you of things. “No. No, we… we got the coordinates. Everything went-”

“According to plan,” you finished for him, though your brows were still furrowed.

What’s the plan?

   We get the kid back.

So… what you’re saying is that there is no plan.

   There is a plan.

What’re you gonna do?

   Whatever it takes.

You’re so dramatic.

“Mayfeld wouldn’t tell me anything about what happened before he fucked off, though, which is weird because usually he never shuts up and I just...” you sighed, wiping a hand across your face and letting it drop unceremoniously beside your hip. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look,” and here your voice paused, waiting for the words to fill themselves in. “Rattled.”

You look like shit.

   Thanks.

Welcome. You good?

   You just said I look like shit.

Well yeah, but I’m trying to redeem myself. Throw me a bone.

   Then yeah, I’m good.

You’re a horrible liar.

   Hey, you asked.

Yeah, I guess so. Take it easy for a bit? Can’t have you falling asleep piloting.

   Glad to know your only concern is for your transportation.

Don’t forget the paycheck.

   That too.

Seriously, though. Go get some sleep. I’ll be here.

There was a pregnant pause, only filled in by your quiet expectance and the sounds of beskar shifting on fabric. He moved his weight from one foot to the other. Looked down, then up.

And then, before you could go to actually leave, not wanting to pry a thing open that the man wanted to keep shut and done with having to reach the words out of his mouth, you were picked up and turned around. Like a sack of ration flour. 

In literally any other circumstance this would’ve made you seethe but Din’s hands, although surprising, weren’t unwelcome. The furthest thing from it, actually.

There were two warm palms on your sides and your feet stumbled on top of each other until they both left the floor again, suspended above the metal sheeting as you were lifted up and crushingly close to a man that smelled like blood and sweat and someone else’s clothes but who still held you until your ribs cried out for breathing. 

You were set down after a moment, but not let go. Silent words seemed to fracture in the way his fingers dug into the skin of your hip, almost bruising in their insistence. He couldn’t tell you what happened, but something obviously did. Something ugly and beating loud in the two-inch gap between your chests and really, really bad.

There were only about two things in the galaxy that he was afraid of. Losing the kid was one of them. Breaking his Creed was the other.

So what’s with the helmet?

   What about it?

You can never take it off?

   No.

Like, never? In front of anyone?

   Not unless it’s family.

And what happens if you do? Take it off in front of someone else, I mean.

   You can’t ever put it back on.

Oh, right. Sorry.

   It’s okay.

No, it’s not. I- I shouldn’t have asked. I dunno. It just seems…

   Bad. 

No, not bad! Not if it’s something you believe. Just… different. 

And suddenly you knew why he was holding you the way he was.

The words were hitched, almost keening as your arms wound around his neck, over the thick fabric of his cape until his hands reached around the lower slope of your back to steady your ground. You could feel the indentations of his metal vambraces against your skin. You couldn’t have cared less about it. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. He only let out a breath, the sound so rattled and tremulous you could almost taste the salt dew gathering in his eyes. Eyes that someone else saw.

The muscles of his arms grew firmer around you still and your body sagged, heavy in its aching realizations. “I’m so sorry,” you repeated.

To someone else more ambitious this would probably be a good time to do… a gesture. Of the sentimental variety. Neither of you lacked courage in the traditional definition, but this kind of stuff was messy. Uncharted. 

“Din,” you whispered. His helmet shot up at the monosyllable, nearly knocking you in the chin and you stumbled backwards, shaking off his apologies. So the charting of said uncharted stuff was going swell. “I,” you began, your eyes shifting around the walls and floor instead of meeting his visor. “I care about you. A lot. I hope you know that.”

There was a loud whirring overhead when the ship lurched forward, righting itself with an awkward turn and giving you a good excuse as to why you suddenly felt nauseous. Maybe you overstepped or he didn’t hear you because he hit his head? Holy shit, did he get a concussion? Was that why he was-

“I know.”

Oh.

So no concussion.

You only realized you’d been biting the bottom edge of your lip when a gloved thumb came up towards it, pressing against the soft flesh and pulling it gently out from between your teeth. A breath choked in the bottom of both your lungs. And you waited.

You couldn’t kiss him.

At least, not now. Not here. Not yet.

You were both thinking about it.

So you did something decidedly ambitious. You leaned forward and pressed your mouth to the crest of his helmet.

It wasn’t a kiss, not really. But he still tilted his helmet up to meet it with two broad hands and you still left a smudge of mouthmark where your lips were damp and tender and so somehow this imitation kiss, this substitute in between a moment that was over and a moment that was coming, was real. 

Your bounty hunter echoed his reciprocation after you’d turned away, the rungs of the ship ladder icy in your palms. You always did like to one-up each other.

“I love you.”

[bakudeku121]

BakuDeku caught in the rain/ Stuck at a party together

The ceilings were tall. The walls, cement grey. Izuku Midoriya stepped into the school expecting fireballs, giants and typhoons. Instead, he found hall monitors, water fountains and a cafeteria that constantly smelled like old ponzu. 1A is the last classroom on the left. His seat, in front of his worst nightmare. Katsuki Bakugou sat halfway down the last row pushed up against the window. He scowled as Deku walked to his seat and took his place. Professor Aizawa barely registered your discomfort as he began roll call.

“Mina Ashido?”

“Here!”

“Izuku Midoriya?”

“Here.”

Aizawa checked off Izuku’s name before moving on, leaving Deku completely bewildered in his seat. The day rolled on. The afternoon sun set. And Izuku was left, sweating bullets as he felt Katsuki’s glare not but two feet behind him.

~~~~

A week went by and the rain came down hard. Musutafu is taken over by grey clouds and a heavy mist. Bakugou had just finished driving Kaminari back to his apartment complex. The roads were plagued by red lights as he cruised through the city. Pellets of rain hit his windshield, sounding off like bullets in the afternoon. Suddenly, out of his side view mirror, he paused. Izuku Midoriya was walking alone on the sidewalk. He shuffled awkwardly, holding a drenched hoodie over his head. The rain had all but soaked through his jacket and shirt. Bakugou glanced back at his own back seat, where a pair of gym clothes sat, high and dry. Sighing to himself, Bakugou pulled over.

“Hey, Deku!”

The green haired boy stopped in his place. Not only was he surprised to see Bakugou, he was surprised to see him pulled over in his own car, waiting with the passenger door wide open.

“Come on, it’s a long way home.”

Deku looked back at the street. Not only was it unusual for Bakugou to do a favor, it was highly unusual for him to do a favor for him, his least favorite classmate. Reluctantly, Deku looked back out at the sky. All it took was one clap of thunder for him to make up his mind.

“Thanks.” Deku mutters.

“Hold on, hold on.” scolded Bakugou, “Don’t get the seat all fucked up. Here-”

He passed the boy his gym clothes.

“Something dry.”

Deku looked at the clothes, skeptical at first.

“A-are you sure, Kacchan?”

Bakugou glared at him, as if he regretted that he even asked.

Deku took the clothes gratefully and pulled his own shirt over his head. For just a moment, Bakugou paused. The rain glazed over Midoriya’s pale skin, painting his gym shorts onto his thin hips. Katsuki averted his gaze to the rolling side streets as Misoriya peeled off the rest and changed into Katsuki’s gym shorts. Midoriya piled his things into his backpack and replied with a hushed, “Thank you.”

Bakugou pulled over at a shabby apartment complex and threw the car into park.

“Whatever, nerd. Don’t forget your bag.”

Deku grabbed his backpack and slipped out of the car. Bakugou couldn’t help but watch as he disappeared down the narrow side street. Visions of Midoriya’s V-line were stitched into the back of his mind. Peeling out of a three-point turn, Bakugou returned to his own apartment and hastily slipped by his parents on his way to his bedroom.

~~~~

The days passed and the weather lightened up. All-Might had shown up at UA to teach a specialty lesson in targeting an enemy’s defenses. Bakugou perked up at the sound of being able to use full force on his fellow classmates. Others trembled at the sight of his convictions. Ground Zero turned out to be a giant vacant lot full of empty buildings, steel factories and gutted mills. Bakugou delighted in his classmates' terror as All Might paired each of them against one another. Then Bakguou heard it.

“Tenya Iida and Katsuki Bakugou versus Ochako Uraraka and Izuku Midoriya.”

Not only is he stuck with that pencil pushing Iida, he was forced to face Deku again in a head to head match. The buzzer counted down as he stretched into positon. Across the way, Izuku Midoriya was stretching, too.

What is that quirkless loser up to? Thought Bakugou, He should be writing his will, not looking to start a fight.

The buzzer sounded off and Bakugou immediately took off from Iida.

“Bakugou!” threatened Iida, “The nuclear weapon needs to be defended from two angles!”

Ignoring his teammates' warnings, Bakugou took off for the bowels of the abandoned factory.

“Do what you want, nerd!” he scolds, “I’m no coward, villain or not!”

Bakugou powered up and headed off, shooting flames from both arms as he traversed forward. From half a mile down the hall, Izuku can hear his enemy heading towards him.

“Uraraka!” he called out, “Can you handle Iida?”

His teammate nodded, leaving Deku alone in the towering hallway. The shadows were long and grim. The echoes, thunderous and threatening. Deku stood alone, watching the flames flick against the aluminum vents. Suddenly, an explosion blew down an entire empty vat. In the gaping wall, stood Katsuki Bakugou.

“Kacchan!” remarked Deku, noting his enemy’s reluctance to keep the building together.

“There you are!” cried Bakugou, “You damn nerd!”

Bakugou aimed one fist at Deku before Deku used his calves to launch off the wall. Bakugou aimed behind him just as Deku leapt backwards. Blow after blow, they exchanged attacks, until half of the building was left charred and dented.

“Stop running away!” scolded Bakugou, “Coward!”

Deku paused to study his opponent’s attacks. Watching Bakugou’s arm movements, he carefully calculated the arc of his enemy’s next blast. Deku jumped back and used the wall to reflect the explosion. Boom! The ash and smoke flew into Bakugou’s face. Now, even angrier than before, Bakugou leaped towards Deku’s last position. He can’t help but notice the smaller boy’s flexing arms, the bead of sweat that dripped down his temple, and his hair dampening on his side. The blood pumped through his veins quickly pumped into his cock as he felt a twitch below the belt.

“Damn you, Deku!”

Bakugou turned to watch Deku studying his moves. He couldn’t dodge if he didn’t have time to study. So, Bakugou pinned Deku down by the elbows, his knees resting on his forearms. Deku yelped as Bakugou landed on his chest. Suddenly, both boys stopped. Bakugou’s hard cock protruded from his UA uniform, pressing firmly against Deku’s abs. The smaller boy’s face went red, unable to move against his opponent’s strong grip. Embarrassed, Bakugou pulled back, just long enough for Deku to collect himself. The boys looked at one another for just a moment, before the rabbit-themed hero bounded down the hallway towards his fellow classmate. Bakugou let out an exhausted breath. He listened to his opponent’s echo bound down the hallway.

“Fuck.” he muttered.

Maybe, he thought to himself, Maybe, he hadn’t noticed.

~~~

The autumn air was cold but crisp. Bakugou was utterly embarrassed by his performance last week. Having lost not just to his former childhood friend Deku, but one of his biggest rival. Bakugou breathed angrily in the chilly air. It came out as hot huffs as he placed his backpack by the track and got ready to stretch. The dew coated the unmowed grass. Loose pebbles kicked up as he jogged in place.

“Alright.” he muttered to himself.

He was already ready to forget about last week’s incident.

Suddenly, across the track, he spotted a familiar swathe of dark green hair. That damn nerd Izuku Midoirya was finishing a lap around the bright red lane. Katsuki cursed to himself as he watched the other boy’s thighs flex with every step. Spotting Katsuki across the track, Izuku said nothing. He passed him without so much as a glance. Whether it was obvious he was thinking of the Ground Zero incident or not, Bakugou couldn’t tell. Regardless, he wasn’t about to forfeit this valuable training time because of some goddamn twink. 

Stretching out his quads, Bakugou got into position. He knelt down and grazed the astroturf with his fingertips, before taking off into the mist. The cold hair raised the hair on his forearms. 

Bakugou heaved and huffed as he finished his two mile lap. Izuku was still ahead of him, jogging at a leisurely pace, seemingly paying no attention to the boy. 

Bakugou despised it. Why hadn’t he even shown so much as a combative attitude? After all, the other boy had practically sexually assaulted him in front of his other class. 

Instead, Deku paused to tie his shoes. Bakugou averted his eyes as the other boy bent over on the side of the track. Still, Kacchan couldn’t help but notice the other boy’s toned calves, the way his hair fell over his brows as he bent over, how unsuspecting he seemed to be, just waiting for him to come up behind him. Bakugou shook off his predatory instincts and finished his lap. This was no time to be staring up rivals at the track.

The clouds began to part and the morning sun began to burn through the overcast. Deku traded his track sneakers for a pair of his uniform shoes and headed towards main campus. Bakugou paused at the eight hundred meter mark and watched him leave.

Fuck. He thought to himself. He had a huge problem.

~~~~

The weather turned half way through the week. Bakugou arrived at the track on Wednesday ready to sweat when he spotted his childhood “friend” across the way. His green hair was fluffy and curled. His skin was pale and spotless, save that unsuspecting patch of freckles that glazed his puffy white cheeks. Bakugou swallowed a thick lump of nervous spit as he watched the boy stretch towards the side of the field. Astroturf stuck to the sides of his thighs as morning breeze blew his curls to the side of his face.

Stupid, Deku. Grunted Bakugou. Coming out at the exact time to train as I do, wearing gym shorts and a cheap grey t-shirt.

The shirt hugged the smaller boy’s thin limbs. Bakugou bit his tongue at how easy it would be to overpower him. Suddenly, Deku noticed Bakugou staring from afar. He jogged up towards him and the two trained side by side, if even for a moment.

“Hey.” called Deku.

Bakugou ignored him.

The two jogged side by side for an entire lap. Bakugou pretended to be focused on the track, watching the loose red pebbles kick up around their cleats. Deku rolled his eyes. Just over a week ago, the other boy had pinned him down, a pulsing boner pressed up against his chest. Izuku pulled up ahead of Bakugou and flashed an innocent smile.

“Just so you know, I’m gay, by the way.”

Bakugou’s face went bright red. He was inflamed by the mere accusation that he could even potentially be interested in the green haired boy. Eyes flaming scarlet, he growled, “Cool. I’m straight, so you can get out of my way now.” 

Deku shrugged, “Alright, alright.”

He pulled off of the track and rested by the fence.

“I’ll see you at school.”

Deku picked up his bag and his water bottle, then turned back towards the classrooms. Bakugou refused to look up from the track as the other boy walked away.

His words echoed in the back of his mind.

Just so you know, I’m gay, by the way.

What was that supposed to mean? Bakugou wondered to himself, Even if he did swing that way, he could do a lot better than small, weak little Izuku Midoriya.

Bakugou kept his head down for the rest of his jog, cheeks inflamed by the green haired boy’s accusation.

~~~~

Autumn had turned into a cool early winter chill. The grass was coated in a light layer of frost. The last weeks of being able to run at the track were upon him. Bakugou rose and laced up his sneakers as usual, when he spotted an unwelcome spot of green hair already bounding down the track. Bakugou grumbled to himself as he parked in the student parking lot.

Izuku Midoriya was already half a mile into his morning jog. If he had noticed the blonde haired boy’s presence, he ignored it, happily bounding to the beats in his headphones as he swept up rubber pebbles. Bakugou pulled up his ankles to stretch his calves. He glared at Midoriya across the lanes, watching the way he leapt as he ran. 

For a while, the two boys ignored each other, until Izuku paused by the track’s exit. He stood there, adjusting his headphones while the other boy finished his last lap.

Fuck. Thought Katsuki, What does he want now?

Katsuki couldn’t help eyeing him up as he stood there. His babyhairs held damp to the sides of his face. His cheeks were flushed from that morning’s run. He couldn’t help but picture him bent over that fence, hair pulled back as he cried out Kacchan’s name.

Fucking hell.

Katsuki pulled to the side one hundred meters early. He paced by the fence, as if there was an invisible barrier Midoriya couldn’t cross. Deku slipped down to the edge of the fence to drink from his water bottle. Kacchan watched as his adam’s apple bobbed, finishing off the bottle’s contents. The cool drips drizzled down his hand and onto his light grey T-shirt. Bakugou rested against the fence to breathe. Concerned, Deku approached his former childhood friend.

“Hey, Kacchan, everything okay?”

Bakugou eyed the exit and then Deku. His wide nose gave way to a spread of light brown freckles. He couldn’t bare how deep and concerned his eyes were. He just wanted to pinch those baby cheeks together and stuff his cock down his throat.

Izuku paused at the edge of the track and set down his bag.

“Yeah,” replied Kacchan, “I’m fine. Get going-”

“Okay, well it just looked like you ran out of breath or…”

The two boys paused. Deku didn’t understand why someone so intimidating was suddenly all choked up. Kacchan took one look at the boy and grabbed him by the T-shirt. Pulling in Izuku close he opened his lips with his own and licked the inside of the other boy’s mouth. Izuku froze up as his childhood bully held him close. He whimpered as Bakugou sucked on his lip, before he pulled back with a wet pop. 

With a quick breath, Bakugou came to his senses. He dropped the other boy’s collar and wiped his mouth. Then, he picked up his gym bag and headed to the exit. Deku was left panting, confused, and with a dribble of spit dripping down his lip. He wiped his mouth on his forearm as he watched Bakugou walk away.

“What the hell was that?” Deku muttered to himself.

Bakugou slammed the door to his car and rested his head against the steering wheel. A fine mist of early morning rain began to fall. Grey droplets collected on the windshield, creating a mosaic of watery mazes.

Bakugou glanced up and across the parking lot. He was in way too deep.

~~~

Bakugou treaded down the empty hallway. Usually, he was always early to class. Not to do homework or anything, but to avoid the early morning rush of gossipers and other nerds. He wandered in front of 1A’s doors, uneager to face that day’s challenges. Or even worse, to face Midoriya after a second round of sexually assaulting him on school property. He took a deep breath and swung open the doors to see Midoriya on the other side of the room, chatting with Tenya Iida. Quickly, Bakugou escaped to his seat, and pulled out a textbook to distract himself.

“What time, Mina?” asked Sero.

“Ten, my parents won’t be home all weekend.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. Mina Ashido was having a kick back at her place while her parents were away. Katsuki could not be less interested until he heard Uraraka pester that green haired dweeb, Deku.

“Are you going, Deku?” she chimed, “Word is there’s going to be margaritas.”

Midoriya rubbed the back of his head.

“I uh- I don’t know.”

He glanced across the classroom, trying to read Bakugou for an answer.

Shit. Thought Bakugou, Is he looking at me?

Deku sighed to himself. He had been out for two years and the only luck he had was a childhood bully too conflicted to even do anything besides press his hard dick against him when nobody was looking.

“Yeah.” he shrugged, “Could be fun.”

He pictured sipping down Margaritas surrounded by straight people, talking shit about who knows what or knows who. At least it would be better than jacking off at home.

Mina’s party turned out to be a shabby ranch style house on the end of a quiet cul de sac. Cheap streamers decorated a butler’s kitchen that was squeezed between a small L couch and a T shaped hallway. Momo and Jiro started up the karaoke machine as Kaminari and Kirishima chugged a keg in the corner. Bakugou slumped in the back of the room, passing red solo cups to Denki and Eijiro. Deku entered the room followed by Iida and Uraraka. The latter paid no attention as the two caught eyes across the room. Bakugou pretended to stare at the ceiling before the feeling was too drawn out. Deku glanced down at the ground. Why was he making this so hard?

Suddenly, Mina clapped her hands.

“Hey! We’re gonna play hide and seek! Everyone get together!”

Bakugou rolled his eyes as Tamaki, Tsu and Koji Koda began to line up.

“Last one to touch their nose is it!”

The entire group hit the floor and touched their noses. Bakugou found himself following Kirishima’s lead as he and Kaminari did the same. Everyone but Mashirao touched their noses. The monkey-tailed boy tilted his head back and groaned. As he kneeled down to count to thirty, the others took off in every direction. Bakugou huffed as he made his way to the backyard, not to be mistaken with actually participating, he aimed to simply get away from the rushing crowd. As he tucked into a side alley by the house, he realized he was not alone.

Behind a tool shelf, he recognized the lean frame of his green-haired classmate. Izuku turned on a dime to see the seething mass of muscle and sweat.

“Oh!” he replied, “Kacchan-”

“Come on-”

A pair of voices alerted the two to company. Suddenly Kacchan pressed up against the wall, cornering Midoriya. Momo and Mina scurried across the lawn to a small pool house, slamming a screen door shut. The flood light illuminated the yard in a harsh white light. Izuku held his breath as he felt the taller boy pressing into him. His hot skin was sticky with sweat. His breath was hushed as he breathed down his neck. Izuku couldn’t help the rush of blood to his face as Bakugou’s chest pushed against his.

The light went out and suddenly it was just Bakugou and Midoriya standing in the dark. Bakugou stared down at Midoriya and his pale, petite frame. He was just so touchable. So easy to pick up, so easy to pin down. Midoriya looked up and noticed the blonde staring down at him. Suddenly Bakugou was prying his lips open with his own. Midoriya could barely get a word out before he could taste the other boy’s tongue. The taller boy pressed his hips into Deku’s, grinding his cock against his thigh.

Bakugou twisted Midoriya around and pinned him against the wall. Yanking down his pants, he spat into his hand and started to finger him open. Izuku gasped at the roughness of it all. Bakugou had barely spent a minute working him open when he pushed his dick against Deku’s ass. It was hot and sharp. Deku gritted his teeth together as Bakugou’s cock pressed into him, prying open inch by inch.

The grit of the stucco siding imprinted itself into Deku’s palm as Bekugou fucked him against the wall. With one harsh motion, Bakugou grabbed Deku by the hair and tilted his head up. His cock thickened as he rammed in and out of Deku’s ass. The taller boy could feel the heat building up in his gut as he thrusted in and out. The flood light came on again and just before another classmate could step onto the grass, Bakugou came ropes of hot cum all over Deku’s insides. Deku’s face flushed as he felt Kacchan empty inside him. The sticky liquid ran down his thigh, leaving a trail of cum down his inner leg.

Deku watched nervously as Bakugou fixed his pants. He couldn’t turn his eyes away from his V line, dipping down into the empty space between his belt buckle and his hips. 

“Don’t follow me.” Bakugou instructed.

Deku blinked in response. The blonde turned back towards the living room, leaving Deku to fix himself in the alley. Swallowing hard, he turns to find some paper towel to wipe up Bakugou’s cum.

A loose shingle suddenly dropped down from over the roof, narrowly missing Midoriya. A small giggle escaped from over the roof. Someone was slipping back over the roof to the otherside.

Oh no. Thought Izuku. Someone had been hiding up on the roof.

He turned to see who it was, but it was too late. He and Kacchan’s secret makeout sessions were not so secret anymore.

~~~~

1A was particularly rowdy the following morning. Still buzzing with all the drama of Mina’s party, the students spread around the classroom, exchanging fuzzy stories about what exactly went down. Bakugou glowered from his seat towards the windows. He didn’t want any part of the hum drum drama of his peers. Still, he couldn’t escape the bubble of constant chatter that burst out around him.

“I heard one of Momo’s tits popped out.” stated Mineta.

Bakugou rolled his eyes.

The door opened and he couldn’t help but flit his gaze towards it. Midoriya walked in with puffy morning eyes, groggily making his way to his seat. Bakugou said nothing as the boy sat directly in front of him, kicking his bag beneath his desk.

“Left tit or right tit?” bothered Kaminari.

“Left tit.” assured Mineta.

“Shut up, Mineta!” barked Bakugou.

The grape hero usually would have cowered, but a hot tip from last night’s party had changed his attitude slightly.

“Come on, Bakugou-” he retorted, “We’re just having fun.”

“Say one more word about some tits you didn’t see, and I’ll wreck you.”

“What? Like you wrecked Midoriya?”

Bakugou snapped his pencil clean in two. Deku’s face lit up bright red as he said it.

“Ah!” replied Mineta, “I mean, like at Ground Zero. From training-”

It was too late. The damage had been done. Bakugou’s eyes flashed scarlet as he stared down Mineta. If it weren’t for Aizawa walking through the door, he would've blasted the purple nuisance clean through the wall.

For a moment, Bakugou swore he could hear Todoroki laugh from across the classroom. He kept his head down and tried not to snap another pencil as Aizawa rolled in an overhead projector.

The lights flicked off and Midoriya knew he was in deep shit. He wondered to himself if he should look back at Bakugou. Saying something would be too much. It would just give the other kids confirmation that something had happened. But maybe just a glance?

Midoriya looked over his shoulder to see Bakugou completely ignoring him. He didn’t so much as glance back as the overhead flickered over their heads. Deku looked forward feeling slightly disappointed. If things had been weird before, they were about to get stone cold sterile.

~~~

The next morning, Izuku got up and fixed his sneakers. He refilled his water bottle, untangled his headphones and headed out for the track, hoping to see Bakugou. 

Cold winter air bit at his nose as he rounded the chain link fence. The red rubbery track was nearly vacant. Nearly. 

In the back corner, rounding the second turn, Midoriya spotted a head of spiky blonde hair turning his way. Midoriya began to jog in place, stretching his muscles to join his childhood friend. Instead of joining him, Bakugou took one glance at Izuku and headed for the track margins. He grabbed his water bottle, took a drink, then turned for the exit. 

Midoriya was left standing alone in the cold, utterly confused by the taller’s boys sudden disinterest.

~~~

An entire week went by and Izuku hadn’t seen so much as the back of Bakugou’s head. Every morning he showed up at the track to either find it empty of Bakugou just leaving. The sudden abandonment maybe shouldn’t have been so much of a surprise. They weren’t dating. Bakugou wasn’t even so much as a good friend before Mina’s party happened. Sighing to himself, Deku wished the training camp would be different. As he and the other students lined up for the bus, he spotted Kirishima in the back of the line. This was his chance. Skirting around the other students, Midoriya played coy if only for a moment, playing with his backpack strings as he approached Kirishima.

“Oh, Hey Deku.” announced Eijiro. 

“Hey, Kiri.”

The other students piled onto the bus. Feeling as though he was holding up time, Midoriya finally spit out, “I just wanted to ask, because I know you and Kacchan are close and all...has he said anything about me recently? Just in the past couple days?”

Kirishima’s face dropped as he realized what this was about.

“No...he hasn’t.” replied the red-headed hero, “I’m sorry about that. You know how he gets.”

“It’s cool.”

Kirishima could sense Midoriya’s disappointment. Fishing through his mind for the right thing to say, he walked the green haired onto the bus with his arm around him.

“He’ll come around. Things just..take a while to get through his head. Once he stops being so stubborn, who knows? You know?”

Midoriya sighed, albeit reluctantly.

“Right. Thanks, Kirishima.”

“Hey, Kiri!” cried Kaminari, “Check it! Window seats!”

Kirishima whooped and hollered as he sprinted towards the back of the bus. Midoriya chose a place just behind Iida and Uraraka, using the extra seat to lay out his feet. He leaned his head against the window and sighed softly to himself. From across the parking lot, he spotted Bakugou exiting his car. He rounded the sidewalk and up the bus steps to class 1A. Without so much as acknowledging him with a glance or nod, Bakugou walked straight past Midoriya and into the backseats next to Kirishima and Kaminari. Deku rested his head against his hands. Of course he should've expected radio silence. It was wishful thinking to think it would come to anything else.

~~~

Camp training was even harder than Kirishima had thought it would be. Dragging tires up and down around the grounds was doing wonders for his core but nightmares for his skin. From across the lot, he could spot Midoriya doing the same at nearly twice the speed. Despite being physically smaller, his quirk more than made up for the lack of natural power. Under the hot afternoon sun, they breaked for lunch.

The kids sat down at long rectangular picnic tables. Those lucky enough to land under an awning were just that, lucky.

Sitting on his own in the corner of the makeshift cafeteria was Midoriya. Kirishima watched him from across the way as he poked around his bento box with a vacant look on his face. Feeling slightly bad for the kid, he turned his head to see Bakugou making his way from the training grounds. The back of his shirt was stained with sweat as he took a seat along Kaminari and Kirishima. Midoriya immediately got up to head for the showers.

“Hey, Kaminari-” stated Kirishima, “Could you give me and Bakugou a second?”

Bakugou looked just as baffled as Kaminari. Reluctantly the electric boy forfeited his seat, leaving the two heroes alone.

“What was that about?” inquired Bakugou.

Kirishima took a deep breath before saying what he was about to say.

“Hey, listen.” he began, “I don’t really know what’s going on with you and Midoriya-”

Bakugou froze up.

“And quite frankly I don’t care. It’s just...he asked about you earlier and he seemed kind of mixed up about it.”

“There’s nothing going on so you can just shut up about it.”

“I get it, and I will… just. If there was anything, you know me and Kaminari wouldn’t care. Right?”

Bakugou was silent, if not for a moment. Then, he gripped his plastic fork so hard Kirishima swore it would melt in his hand.

“Well thanks, but there’s nothing going on so there’s nothing for you to not care about. Got it?”

“Geez- okay.”

Kirishima finished the rest of his bento box in relative peace. Bakugou didn’t so much as say a word for the rest of lunch. On the way back in, the cabin was dead silent. Most of the others were in line for the shower or tucked into their rooms, gossiping about each other.

Bakugou walked the halls alone with a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. Just as he rounded the corner, Midoriya smacked into him. He wore a white T-shirt and navy gym shorts, just about ready to head into bed. Katsuki tried not to look so surprised as the boy began to stutter.

“S-sorry Kacchan-”

He gathered his things in his hands and headed towards his dorm without so much as looking up. This was the first time in weeks Midoriya had gone without glancing across the room at him. Realizing the damage he’d done, Katsuki sighed to himself. Before Deku could get that far, Katsuki opened his door and turned to call out.

“Hey, Deku.”

The green hair boy turned around.

Bakugou said nothing as he nodded towards his empty dorm. Deku looked back at the vacant space, surprised. Putting down his things, Deku turned and shuffled into Bakugou’s dorm. It was a neat albeit empty space, nothing but a bed, a dresser and a few notebooks strewn about here and there. Bakugou tried to think of the right thing to say as Midoriya stood in front of him. Hey, I’m sorry I was ignoring you after the Mineta thing. Hey, I’m sorry I fucked you and ran. Hey, I’m sorry for leaving you alone after every chance I get. Instead, Katsuki leaned into the crook of Deku’s neck and began to kiss him down the collar. Deku’s breath hitched as he felt Katsuki’s warm tongue against his skin.

There was only enough light coming from a streetlamp outside the window to illuminate Katsuki’s outline. Hiking up the hem of his shirt, Deku could see the outline of his hip bones quite clearly. He tilted his head back and grunted as Kacchan sucked a warm wet circle just beneath his jaw. He then moved onto sucking Deku’s bottom lip. Deku whimpered against the touch as Kacchan reached down to palm the boy through his gym shorts. Deku’s dick throbbed in his hand, leaking a bead of precum through the surface of the fabric. Bakugou exhaled a hot breath down Deku’s neck, unable to contain himself.

Deku dropped to his knees to undo Kacchan’s pants. He let the buckle drop to the floor before licking Kacchan’s tip. The blonde placed his hands on the back of Deku’s head as the boy started to bob up and down, plastering his tongue to the base of his dick. A slick thread of spit dripped down from Midoriya’s lips. Kacchan used the side of his palm to wipe it along his face. He stiffened at the touch, unable to keep himself from bucking down the smaller boy’s throat.

“Mmph-nph-”

The green haired boy hummed along the base of Kacchan’s shaft. Kacchan choked at the sensation, gliding his cock out of Midoriya’s soft puffy lips.

“Get up.” Kacchan ordered.

Deku did as he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist as Kacchan pressed him down over the bed. He yanked down the boy’s gym shorts and began to pump his cock against the sheets. Midoriya’s eyes rolled up as he felt Kacchan’s rough hands tugging at his dick. Sticky strings of precum stuck to his knuckles as he ran his fingers up and down Deku’s shaft. Then Deku felt Bakugou pressing his other hand against his hole. He stiffened up as Bakugou spit onto his hand to make it easier. Slowly, he opened the boy up, then pressed his dick against his entrance.

Deku gritted his teeth, waiting for the other boy to ram it into him. Instead, Kacchan took his time, pressing in slowly, revelling in every inch until he was balls deep in that little pale twink. Deku took a short, sharp breath as Kacchan held his position, pressing as deep as he could. Finally, he backed out, just to ram himself back in. Kacchan placed his hands on Deku’s hips as Deku moved to get himself off. Across the room, the closet doors held two mirror panels. In it, he could see his own face blush tinted pink as the blonde pounded into him. He watched as Bakugou’s biceps flexed with every thrust, yanking the smaller boy down onto his cock.

Deku’s face was flooded with a soft burning heat. With every pump, he threatened to ruin Kacchan’s bed by cumming in thick white streaks. Finally, Kacchan turned him around and pulled up his legs over his shoulders. Digging down deep into Deku’s abdomen, Kacchan grunted as he bottomed out. Deku gasped at the fullness as he finally came onto his own stomach. Kacchan leaned down to slurp the last bit of spit from Midoriya’s lips as he jacked himself off under his touch. The last thing Deku felt before Kacchan finished was his hot wet tongue sliding over his own, coaxing him to scream out in bliss.

The two boys came to rest side by side in Kacchan’s bed. The air was tense and silent as Bakugou grabbed a hand towel from under his bed. The boys cleaned up without saying a word. Deku figured he’d be used to that by now. He threw on his shorts and was about to pull on his shirt, when Kacchan said the first words he could think of in over a week.

“Where are you going?”

Deku looked at Kacchan and then the door.

“Oh, um. Back to my bunk?”

Kacchan blinked innocently. He pulled his boxers up his thighs and scratched the back of his neck.

“Do you think you could stay?”

Now it was Deku’s turn to be surprised. The streetlamp from across the way illuminated the room in a dim orange light. He smiled quickly before climbing back into Kacchan’s bed.

“Yeah.” he replied, “It’s cool.”

Kacchan pulled the sheet over Deku as he curled up in the crook of his arm. Deku rested his head against the pale expanse of his bicep, turning over to face the closet as they settled in to sleep. In the darkness, Deku could barely shut his eyes. There was Kacchan’s shirt on the floor. There were Kacchan’s things strewn about the desk. He had asked him to stay and really meant it. Blushing to himself, he could hardly believe it was the same Kacchan who had ignored him the entire past week.

~~~~

1A helped themselves to a speedy breakfast under the wooden awnings. Duffel bags and gym bags went sliding across the ground as students kicked their belongings back towards the bus. Midoriya had woken up early to shower and get a good seat. There was no way he was getting stuck behind Iida and his self help podcasts again. 

As he ran a towel through his wet hair, he spotted Kacchan standing over with Kirishima and Kaminari. His friends were caught up in some stupid fight about which power ranger was a Gemini. Bakugou simply rolled his eyes, leaning against a picnic table as he waited for his friends to finish. 

Deku didn’t bother saying hi. At this point, he knew it was beyond reason to expect Kacchan to acknowledge him in public. He climbed the steps of the bus and got into a seat three quarters of the way back. He kicked out his feet so nobody else would take the seat then shoved his belongings under the bench.

The others soon began to steam in. Mezo and Sero boxed in Midoriya on either side. Momo and Tsu sat up front to get a better view of the TV screen, along with Iida and Uraraka. Midoriya barely looked up when someone was picking up his feet and shoving him aside.

“Hey- I was sitting there-”

It was Kacchan, grabbing him by the heels and swinging his sneakers to the side. He didn’t say a word as he raised his headphones to his ears then settled down into the seat. For a moment, it felt like the entire bus was staring at them. Midoriya’s face went red as he lowered himself into the corner of the window.

Of all places. Midoriya thought to himself, Of all times. He chooses know to get close in public with me.

Just then, Mineta came down the aisle, heading for the back of the bus. Midoriya tensed up as he realized he was prepping some snarky comment.

“Hey, Bakugou!” cried Mineta.

The blonde looked up.

Suddenly, Kirishima’s fist bonked the grape hero on the head. Kirishima pinched the back of his neck and marched him further into the back of the bus.

Bakugou took out one ear bed and smirked.

“Thanks.”

“Sure thing.” replied Kirishima, “Oh and Midoriya.”

Deku perked up.

“Don’t let Aizawa replay Holes. If I have to watch Shiah Lebouf one more time I’m gonna lose it.”

He smiled back in gratitude.

“Yeah. no prob.”

The others filed into the back of the bus. Bakugou put his earbud back in and soon the regular amount of gossip and chatter began to flood the air. Midoriya fell back into his seat side by side with Kacchan. The blonde leaned over and let his head rest on Deku’s shoulder. The TV screens flickered on and the intro to Holes filled the screen. If he could watch it like this every time, Deku would never watch another movie in all his life.

[achliegh]

Golden

(Sorry if this Chapter is lack luster :/ )

Yeehaw Leo… it's all because this song came on one day (I don’t even really listen to country anymore so it really is fate). Leo is based off that song, each chapter is going to be based off a yeehaw song too.

Characters belong to @lumosinlove

TW/CW: Smut, terrible yeehaw sayings and jokes, injuries, mentions of past death, minor character death, underage drinking, mentions of past arrests, cringe

Chapter Songs (listening in order is recommended):

Ladies Love Country Boys

Bonfire Playlist: Spotify, Youtube

Watching Airplanes

Chapter 2:

Cowboy Sweet Ass sent you a Location

New Message from Cowboy Sweet Ass

See you there ;)

Finn was nervous, he wasn’t gonna lie, Logan and Him are leaving tomorrow for Gryff and this is the last night they can see Leo. Who, neither of them will admit this, has kindly wiggled his way into their brains for every minute of everyday. Sometimes to break a long silence between the two of them they will talk about Leo. How they were going to cope when they can’t see him again is unknown and something he didn’t want to think about.

They hadn’t actually seen Leo in the past five days, with their training schedule and Leo helping set up a charity arena for the thing they were supposed to meet him at tonight, it was just late night calls that were still kinda awkward at times. But always had them smiling as they fell asleep.

Walking up the dirt path, where the uber had dropped them off, Logan and Finn weren’t sure they were in the right place until they saw the huge crowd gathered around a tall metal fence with bleachers and an announcers corner that's up on a hydraulic lift, speakers set up so people can hear the quick talking of the men commenting on whatever was happening.

Horses and people on them were everywhere. This causes Logan a lot of stress, as someone who is terrified of horses… This is not ideal. Especially when one is trotting toward them at a scary fast speed.

Finn recognized Clayton immediately, trotting over at a leisurely pace on a cool looking horse he waves. He notices Logan hiding himself completely behind Finn’s back. Finn held his hand out for Logan to take and squeeze if everything got too much for him. Logan wasn’t good in big crowds.

“Well look who it is!” Clayton hops off his living vehicle and patting her neck. “Let me introduce you to my babe, This” He gestures towards the mare, “Is Leroy, she is a Blanket Appaloosa! Have you guys met Peanut yet? He’s chilling with Eloise, Leo’s mom, you better hope he likes you or else… yeah, or else.” Clay flashes them his slightly crooked but stupidly white smile as he absentmindedly pets Leroy’s neck.

Feeling a squeeze of his hand he looks back to see an absolutely terrified Logan, not knowing about his fear of horses Finn is just confused. So, he goes into a ‘ get Logan alone’ mind set.

“We will find you in a minute, we’re gonna explore!” Finn smiles back and Clayton nods as he swings his leg back over Leroy and clicks his tongue so she struts back towards the group of other yeehaws on their own horses, they all had numbers pinned to their backs which was weird but Finn guessed Leo would explain later. Claytons was CR243, and it looked like it was about to fall off. He notices how someone would go in real fast and then come out after a minute or two. The announcer talked too fast for him to catch.

Leading Logan to a more open area he turns to face him and raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, what's wrong?”

“Ummmm, J'ai peur des chevaux….” Logan isn’t looking him in the eyes and has an embarrassed flush to his face. Finn, having no clue what he said, gently grabs his chin to make him look at him, Lo hasn’t run his finger through his hair yet so that means he isn’t nervous around Finn at least. Fixing Logan with a slightly irritated but still worried look, Logan sighs and tries to say something but instead what comes out is a terrified yelp as something takes his hat off his head and pulls some of his hair at the same time, then drops it at his feet.

Whipping around and jumping into Finn’s arms bridal style Logan shrieks as he is met with a blonde horse that almost looks smug. The little splotchy white stripes on its snoot may make it look kinda cute but Logan knows what can happen if you get on a horse's bad side. It happened to Sydney, he didn’t need it to happen to him too.

“Peanut!” A very tall and beautiful older woman walks over to them laughing a little, she has a hearing aid in her left ear and soft blue eyes bright with amusement stare them down. “Sorry Y’all, he likes to find new people to mess with.” She smiles and there is just something so familiar about those deep dimples and sharp cheekbones. She is wearing tight jeans with knee high army green cowboy boots, a white button up with a black cowboy hat contrasting the golden curls falling out from under it. She is wearing a sash with the words ‘Miss Louisiana 1971’ the wrinkles on her face didn’t make her look old and crinkly like people like to think, but more like a gracefully aging woman. She holds her hand out to Finn for him to shake, Logan is still in his arms so it is as much of an invitation to him as Finn. “I’m Eloise, this is my son’s horse.” She looks them up and down after shaking both their hands. “He would like you two.” She smiles one last time, giving them a giant wink and leads Peanut away from them back to the bullpens where they spot Leo sitting on the top of a fence talking to a couple of people.

Finn looks at Logan and sets him down.

“So.. horses?”

“Shut up”

“You go for a cowboy and are afraid of horses!” Finn is bent over laughing and clutching his stomach while Logan crosses his arms and looks around annoyed after he dusted off his hat and put it back on his head.

“What’s so funny?” they look over to see Leo in full get up. Smiling bright, showing off his chipped tooth. His hair was flattened by a black sturdy cowboy hat, his blue button up vibrant under his black vest. The vest had a couple of logos stitched into it for Absolut Vodka, Mt. Dew, and Ariat…. Leo was sponsored? He was also wearing some jeans that fit him just right around his booty that they could see through his assless black chaps that had iridescent tassels on them, with his black boots and belt to match. His silver buckle stood out with the light reflecting off it.

“Wow… you look great.” Logan just melts into Leo’s side when Leo wraps an arm around his shoulders. “But tell Finn to stop being a jerk.” Logan put on his best pout when looking up at the taller man, who looked at him with a look that made his heart feel like it was about to jump out of his chest. It didn’t alarm him though, it was nice to feel like this. But it can’t last forever.

“What's he doing that's so mean.” Leo turns his attention to Finn who is smiling at them like he's watching two kittens cuddle into each other. His eyes bright with happiness, his smiles wide.

“He’s making fun of me because I’m scared of horses.” Logan wraps his arms around Leo’s waist and squishes his cheek into his chest to look as cute as possible, so Leo will be on his side. Which… fails.

“You’re afraid of horses!” Leo hugs Logan as he starts laughing, smacking a kiss on the top of Logan’s annoyed forehead and squeezes him. “You’re so cute.” Suddenly they hear numbers coming over other speakers and Leo perks up. “Oh I’m up soon! I hope y’all are gonna stay and watch because I would love to take you to the bonfire tonight.” He pulls Finn into the embrace and gives them both a quick peck on the lips, smiling when they chase his lips. “There should be an open spot in the bleachers or, you could watch from Peanut.”

“Bleachers!” Logan gets out of Leo’s arms and starts pulling both the boys towards the crowd without horses. Leo helps them find a spot next to some girls who flirt with Leo but he has no fucking clue. He is just focused on getting Finn and Logan a good spot.

“Alright, my number is BR11710, so when you hear that you’ll know I’m up! I think Clay might come and find you, he had a good run earlier wrangling those troublemaking claves, so keep an eye out for him.” He smiles and climbs down the bleachers gracefully until the last small step where his spur gets caught and he has to yank it out of the cevous it got stuck in. Looking back up at Finn and Logan his cheeks were red as he shrugged and sauntered off towards the chutes.

“Hola losers!” Clayton plops down above with and slaps a hand on their shoulders. “Excited to see him ride? Or have you already? Actually I would know because we overshare way too much.” Smiling, Clayton is covered in dirt and his cowboy hat has been traded out for a ball cap and his button up taken off to be just a white tank top. A tall pale girl sat down with Clayton and was scrolling on her phone looking uninterested. Clayton sits up and wraps an arm around her waist. “Oh this is Ashley, my girlfriend.” She looks up and gives them an irritated wave before going back to her phone.

“Ride? What’s he doing?” Finn looks at him confused after sharing a look with Logan about the irritated girlfriend, then they hear the announcers call Leo's number.

“Alrighty ladies and gentlefolk! We have something special for y’all! One of our very own PBR riders is here to ride the roughest toughest bull of the day! Ole Forty Days!” The crowd cheers as a confused Finn and Logan look at Clayton who whoops and hollers for his bestie. Whistling with his thumb and forefinger in his mouth.

“Alright Jimmy lets get in some commentary before the ride starts, Leo Knut is a 19 year old Professional Bull Rider, his Mother is Eloise Knut also known as Miss Rodeo of 1970 and Miss Louisiana of 1971. His father was Wyatt Knut, Air Force Veteran who was also Leo’s biggest role model.”

“Was?” Logan whispers and gives a sad look to Finn who is busy watching Leo, he is on this tank of an animal, large, white, horns the size of his whole forearm. Leo was adjusting the way he is sitting and has an underside grip on the rope around the bull, wrapping it around his palm to make sure there isn’t a tether that can be stepped on and yank him off.

“Ole Forty Days is the only PBR bull here today, worth millions he is undefeated 32-0 in his career this year. Will Leo who is 30-2 this year be able to stay on those eight seconds.”

Leo hits the challenge button and the gate flies open, Ole Forte days is wild! Finn is automatically on his feet as he watches Leo with his hand up in the air, eyes hard from focusing and counting in his head. Forte turns a 45 degree buck and just about tosses Leo but his grip is so tight that he lasts those eight seconds. The announcers went crazy the entire time.

As he dismounts the still bucking bull his wrist gets caught in the rope he was holding earlier because of the way his glove is falling apart. The rodeo clowns distract the bull fast enough for Leo to get himself detached, falling on the ground. The bull tosses Leo onto the ground and just misses stomping on his ankles. Leo hops onto the fence, the adrenaline is pumping through his veins and his eyes are bright as he searches for the boys in the stand watching him with fear etched into their faces. When his eyes met Logan’s the fear turned into relief and Leo felt the adrenaline making his heart beat even faster.

After Forte is corralled back into the pen to have the rope around his hips removed Leo jumps off the fence and takes his hat off bowing to the crowd, and they love it, whistling and whoops are heard. He points to Finn, Logan and Clayton. Clayton is so excited and starts dragging the other two down the bleachers leaving Ashley behind. Leo doesn’t like her at all so it's fine. Leo turns around and walks towards sports medicine and lets them take a look at his wrist. As his adrenaline starts to fade away the tweak in his wrist starts to bother him as the medic wraps it up.

“You just ruined Forte’s career!” Clay hugs him from the side and picks him up all excited, his girlfriend who decided to join looks at them unapprovingly. Finn and Logan basically tackle Leo to the ground once Clay puts him down. One on each side of him, balanced.

“Are you insane! That could have killed you!” Finn is shaking a laughing Leo by his collar as Logan examines the way his wrist is wrapped.

“I know, I technically wrecked at the end but I still got my eight seconds!” He smiles and takes his hand from Logan, cupping his cheek and rubbing his thumb over the soft skin.

“You never told us you rode bulls! Leo, a little heads up would have been appreciated!” Logan whacks him on the back of the head after they stand up.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. How can I make it up to you?” Leo puts an arm around them and kisses their temples. They had an idea. Where to do it was the question.

The rodeo ended not long after Leo’s ride, the charities the winners chose would be given a five thousand dollar check courtesy of the Knut’s. After Leo was done taking down the arena, a large pile of wood was set up with large equipment. Leo pulled a Clayton and took off his chaps, vest, button down, and hat off so he was wearing a white shirt and a ball cap.

Leo made up for scaring Finn and Logan by pulling them into the back seat of his truck. Leo sitting in the middle of the seat with Finn straddling one leg, hunched over and sucking on Leo’s neck. Logan straddled Leo’s other leg and kissed him with a ferocity that made them both groan. Leo rested his hands in Finn’s hair and on Logan’s hip. Pulling away Leo turns his head to face Finn, guiding him from his neck to lips. He feels Logan push his hand underneath his shirt and smirks into his kiss with Finn. Moving his hands to squeeze both of their asses, causing Logan’s breath to hitch and Finn to moan. He is about to suggest something spicy when a knock on the window alerts them that the party has started.

Why does Clay always have to stick to his word? Leo asked him to let them know when it was time to move his truck to have the tailgate facing the fire, and now was that time. Leo’s head thumps back onto the seat as he lets out an annoyed sigh.

“Well, I guess we have a party to attend… I’m gonna get so drunk.” He smiles and gives his boys one last kiss before he ushers them out of the truck so he can get out of the backseat to move it.

Finn wanders over to Clayton who has Ashley under his arm, she is tall and very skinny. Her long brown hair was in a French braid, she was wearing short shorts, boots and a crop top. He has a very sour look on her face as Finn walks over to them. Logan on the other hand, goes to take a piss in the porta potty. Something he is not fond of doing.

Leo moves his truck and gets out to put the tailgate down so people can sit on it, climbing into the bed of the truck he opens the cooler in the back and takes out two budlights, Leo doesn't really care for budlight but they need to be drunk.

“CLAYTON!” He shouts as the three walk over to the truck, chucking the beer at his friend; they both take out their keys, puncturing the cans and shotgunning the beers.

A few hours and a lot of drinks later Leo was singing to Finn, standing between his legs as Finn sat on the tailgate next to Logan who was filming.

“You can train 'em, You can try to teach 'em right from wrong. But it's still gonna turn 'em on!” Finn can’t help but laugh and wrap his arms around Leo’s necklaces he sang, every once in while facing Logan's phone and singing into the camera as he filmed. Taking a drink of his beer he smacks a sloppy kiss on Finn's cheek and skips away to Clayton to dance like idiots as Luke Bryan sang about shaking it for birds and bees.

The two drunken best friends wrap and arm around each other hips with their drinks in the other hand, putting left side to right side they swing back and forth to the beat as they scream out the music.

Later on Leo picks Logan up so his arms are around his neck and his legs are around his waist and spins around while humming to a song about wheels and Finn looks so smitten that clayton takes a picture to show him and laughs as he send it to Leo, who has managed to misplace his phone… for the millionth time.

Setting Logan down he wraps his arms around the shorter man's shoulders and rests his chin on top of his head as he bounces to the beat. Logan leans his forehead to rest on Leo’s chest and uses his hand that isn’t holding his water to loop his finger into one of Leo’s belt loops he wishes he could take a screenshot in his brain.

Hours passed, singing and horrible dancing, more drinking for Clay and Leo until it sounded like a good idea to see who could crush a folding table by jumping off Clayton’s truck. Finn managed to lead them away before they actually tried it by telling them’ Leo could def dance better than Clayton’. Which turned into the worst dance battle ever seen. Two drunk teenagers and country music make for terrible dancing but a lot of laughs. Eventually, the fire dies down, the drinks run out and the boys get tired. Finn wrangles Leo into the back seat of the truck after lifting the tailgate, moving to go to the drivers seat because Logan might be to short to drive and they are to dumb to figure out how to move the seats, Leo latches onto him and pulls him into the backseat with him.

“Hey! How do you expect me to drive back here!” Finn pokes Leo’s nose and Leo catches his finger in his mouth biting him. Finn squawks and pulls his finger away. Looking at Leo offended, laughing a little as Leo is looking at him with this tiny smirk. “That was rude.” Leo narrows his eyes playfully and flips them so Finn is laying on his back with Leo snuggling into his chest.

Logan gets in on the passenger side and looks up to see Finn in the back seat being snuggled by an oddly cat like Leo who is rubbing his face on Finn’s soft t shirt, when his eyes meet Logans he blushes so vibrantly pink and has the shyest smiles as he hides his face in Finn’s chest again. Logan looks at Finn who looks like he's dying from cuteness overload. Logan moves over to the driver's seat and sits all the way on the edge of the seat to be able to touch the petals. Logan doesn’t have a clue where Leo lives… but he does remember how to get back to the hotel.

Trying to get a clingy 6’3” cowboy into a hotel room while he is intoxicated is a lot easier than you would think. He was tired, stripping down the second they walk into the door he lands on the bed in his boxer briefs and spoons Logan and grips Finn’s arm as he falls asleep.

They all slept incredibly well that night, warm, close, and together.

The next morning was the morning The Lions leave to go back to Gryffindor. Leo was up before the other two, showered and dressed when he woke them up with peppering kisses all over their faces.

“Good morning, Honey Bees. Y’all need to get up and get ready to leave, you go home today.” Leo runs his hand through Finn’s hair as he greets them with a sad smile. He doesn’t want them to leave, but he knows that this isn’t some fairytale where two princes will give up their dreams to be with him. That’s not what he wants anyway. The other two finally get up, Finn goes to shower as Logan changes and packs his bag. Glancing at Leo every once in a while, like he wants to say something.

“Leo, what are you still doing here?” Logan drops his bag by the door and turns around to face the taller man, crossing his arms and giving Leo a cold look. Leo is a little taken back by this, Logan has never looked at him like that, and he wasn’t expecting it from how nice yesterday was.

“I was to see you two off… is that okay?” Leo starts to feel uncomfortable under the harsh eyes he found so pretty, he starts picking at the wrap around his wrist, breaking eye contact with Logan as a sinking feeling seeps into his chest. He never expected anything to actually come from this but he ached for it.

He knows where this is going.

“I don’t know what you think is going to happen after we leave, but we aren’t going to be fawning over you when we are busy with our own careers. You are just… a guy who we had a fling with. Finn and I aren’t even together so don’t expect anything.” Logan's voice stayed low in volume but echoed in Leo’s ears.

“I wasn’t expecting anything. I just wanted to see you guys leave, say goodbye, maybe…” Leo didn’t finish his sentence when he looked up at an annoyed and frustrated Logan. “What did I do?” He hears the bathroom door open and Finn walks into the room whistling in fresh clothes as he dries his hair with a towel.

“You don’t mean anything to us Leo'' Finn hears Logan and knows exactly what’s going on, Logan has done this to him many times. This is Logan’s way of cutting off something he wants in a way he knows won't bring the person back, even though he always feels horrible eventually. Finn has been a victim of Logan’s lashing out many times, and he hasn’t left, because he loves Logan. He really really likes Leo, he gives his heart a similar jolt that Logan does. From what they have discussed, Logan felt the same. Logan doesn’t allow himself the luxury of feeling like this though.

Leo looks absolutely shattered after Logan’s words sank in. He looks over to Finn who looks like he’s in his own head, then back to Logan. “I really really like you guys-”

“Stop being a fucking child Leo! This isn’t something we can continue after we leave, we would get torn to shreds by the league! Not everything is about you and we don’t want you! So just go back to your fucking farm and forget us.” Logan grabs his bag and walks out the door slamming it shut, going to be the first one on the bus that just pulled up to take the team to the airport.

Leo stares at where Logan was when red catches his eye, Finn stops and gives Leo a sad smile, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. Finn then turns his back to Leo and follows Logan out the door. Leaving Leo alone in the hotel room… He reaches in his pocket and pulls out the hotel keycard, standing up he goes to leave it on the table of the room, he stops just before he sets the key down.

He takes the card and walks out of the room, Climbing into his truck that was horribly parked, he finds his phone on the floor of the passenger side. Picking up his phone, he calls up the only person he knows who would be willing to hang out even if he was sick from last night.

“Clay? Can you meet me somewhere?”

A half hour and some McDonald's hash browns later. Clayton and Leo were sitting on top of Leo’s truck hood watching the airplanes take off, sipping on soda they got with their food. They watched in a comfortable silence as planes brought people in and took people away.

Logan and Finn were on one of those.

[alexaconite]

When Nature Calls [Elorcan]

[Elide/Lorcan] Rated M for masterbation.  I cannot contain my love for these two. Rowaelin who?

-

He was awake - again. 

Somewhere between the fourth dawn bird chirping and his fourteenth intrusive thought of the dark haired girl sleeping on the cot above him, Lorcan Salvaterre gave up any hopes of sleep, and sat up from the uncomfortable bed roll he lay claim to. He had tossed and turned into the early hours of the morning, and now he could smell dew on the grass where the sun was thawing the remnants of another bitterly cold night. 

The boat he had commandeered - like a common thief, Elide liked to remind him - was anchored near a small patch of woodland, and far enough from civilisation that he hadn't second thought sleeping in the cabin last night. Usually, he rested on the deck where any potential ambush could be picked off easily.

His keen hearing detected nothing out of place, and instead registered the now familiar rise and fall of Elide's slumber. The woman at present - his very reasoning for unrest - was curled on her left side and facing him. Her dark hair was strewn across a makeshift pillow, and her slender neck met a softy curved shoulder that peaked out from beneath a thin blanket. 

Her features were gentle in sleep. The tiredness and stress that had been following them for days had ebbed away with the night, and she looked care free in sleep. She looked comfortable. And there was an instinctual side of Lorcan that flared with satisfaction. He had kept the female safe, like a good Fae male should. All was well. 

If only she would let him touch that neck. He had breathed in her aroma all night;  lavender, from a mixture of herbs she had washed with, and sweet from the molasses she had traded for in the previous town. The coppery tang of blood had vanished some time ago with the end of her bleed, and was replaced with a scent of maidenhood - fertile and ripe. He had tossed and turned all night, enveloped by the smell of her womanhood, and beaten down the primal urge to take, take, take. 

Now she slumbered unaware, like a lamb in a wolf's den, and he couldn't pull his eyes from the soft curve where her neck met her shoulder. To sink his teeth into the gentle groove, to taste and touch for just a moment… 

A morning bird's song startled him, and he realised the sight he must be. Sitting on the floor with his canines on show, leering at a sleeping woman in the crack of dawn that slithered through the broken window shutter. 

Furthermore, was the bigger problem he now had to deal with. The front of his trousers tented obviously with the lusting he had driven himself too. Staring down at the bulge in his pants with disgust, he threw the thin blanket off his legs, and crept like a thief in the night out of the cabin. 

If she had woken and saw him, leering at her like a piece of meat, and then looked down at his straining cock…

He hurled insults at himself on the deck of their boat, double checking the rigging, and refusing to acknowledge the demand in his pants. He wouldn't allow himself…he couldn't start a habit now that their paths were to remain entwined on this journey to find that bitch-queen. 

He filled their water bottles, readjusted their packs, and cursed those damned birds for their intolerable happiness. But he could hear her breathing; he knew what her chest looked like with each breath, and how her rounded breasts would rise and fall and rise and fall, and how they might feel in his hands…while his lips roamed her neck, nipping and tasting from ear to that forsaken curve he wanted to latch his canines around. 

It was instinctual. He was off the boat before he could register any clear thoughts and striding into the woodland in search of some place discreet. He didn't go far, just enough she wouldn't hear him and close enough that he could still see the boat. His hand undid buttons at his front in a juvenile, clumsy manner, and he braced his palm against a tree for support, finally pulling his aching cock free. It was almost relief enough just to be without the constraint of fabric, but his traitorous hand cradled the soft skin and moved of its own accord. 

Elide and her eyes that bore into his soul. They were eyes that made him feel like he had a soul left to look at, and that it wasn't mangled and torn from his crimes. He wondered if she would ever see him as he sees her - desirable, wanted, touchable. 

Elide and her mouth that could cut a man with words like a dagger's edge. She was sharp and fast with untouchable wit. He wondered what those lips would feel like pressed against his own, and if her tongue would roam his mouth, brushing against his canines… 

His eyes lost focus while his hand moved back and forth, pulling every filthy thought he could muster into each stroke across his swollen head. Sweat pooled above his brow, his hair falling forth around his lowered head, and he allowed a hiss of satisfaction between his lips. 

Elide...curled up in bed, sighing softly each time she moved. Those little sounds had tormented him all night, and he recalled every little moan she made as if she were splayed beneath him. A groan tumbled from his throat. 

Elide and her fucking neck.

 His top lip recoiled and he emitted a guttural growl, spilling his seed in ropey lengths onto the tree trunk. He continued to pump his cock, sighing with relief as his orgasm washed away every knot and kink he had been holding onto, and letting a shaky breath leave his chest. 

Lorcan rested his forehead against the tree, allowing his cock to soften in his hand. He wouldn't make a habit of this. But he didn't feel guilty either. He eyed the evidence of his release glistening against the trees rough trunk, and a satisfied, lopsided grin crossed his face.

"Lorcan?" he heard her hesitant call.

He hastily tucked himself away, rubbing his hands against his pants, and brushing his hair from his face. He made a show of stepping out of the trees and tying the buttons on his pants. Thank Hellas that she wasn't Fae - the stench of arousal and release must be rolling off him right now - she would have smelled his actions within seconds. 

Elide stood on the deck, hands folded across her chest against the morning chill. "Oh, sorry," she muttered, assuming he had risen to pee. The slightest pink tinge crossed her cheeks. "I didn't realise you were-" 

He rolled his eyes dismissively, stepping back onto the boat. "I can't think of a better place to answer nature's call than in nature itself." 

Her lips twitched in response." Well if you've marked that tree I'll find another," she told him unabashedly, and he felt his chest flutter at how comfortable they had become around each other. 

"I believe that is more of a dog trait-" 

"Exactly my point," she cut across him, and with a proud smirk, brushed passed. Her elbow ever so slightly grazed his torso and sent his chest into another traitorous frenzy. 

Get a hold of yourself, he scolded himself as he watched her cross onto the grassland, you're a grown man. 

When she threw a questioning look over her shoulder and pointed to a tree as if to ask if that one was okay, he couldn't help but smile against his own stubbornness, and it was then that Lorcan Salvaterre knew he was royally fucked. Elide Lochan had stirred something inside of him that he had thought long dead. 

And he didn't feel one bit guilty. 

-END

[sleeplessnovember]

Nia Revenge (Chapter 1)

“Natasha, how come I have to tell you constantly to clean your room? It’s like you hear me but don’t even care! Not only that you know Mommy and Daddy will be here in an hour. I get sick of cleaning after you”. I looked at my five-year-old sister as she began to cry out loud for our parents and I immediately felt horrible. I was only 12 and most of the responsibilities fell on me when our parents weren’t home. I let out a long sigh and put the broom against the wall. I hugged her tightly and gently said “I’m sorry sister.” Her big bright eyes looked at me and said, “Please don’t be mad at me Nia, I’m trying to help,” showing me her mix match socks.

“Ok sister”, I said, “Put them in the hamper please”, looking at her makes me melt inside she had one blue eye and one brown. The only one in my family to have it. Our mother said it was her birthmark. I had to agree. With her it looked beautiful on her golden-brown skin. Her black soft coils in two big pigtails bounced as she bent over to pick up her little socks on the ground. My mother and father were middle school sweethearts. They grew up next door to each other and their parents were good friends as well. My mother was a chocolate Amazonian queen to me. She had to be 5’9 or even 5’10, and when she wore heels, it was like she was a statue in an art museum. She was a full-figured woman with a beautiful smile, and she smelled like honey dew. We got our thick coils from her, and our big bright smile.

My father was shorter than my mother, 5’8, but his personality was 6’4. He was what people called a ‘jack of all trades’ working on cars, fixing on old run-down houses and flipping them with his best friend, Don. There was nothing Nathan couldn’t do and that was the problem. My father was the milk man baby, as the older people in my mother family would say, his hazel green eyes and model like features could make anyone fall into a trance. He was witty and had a way with words. My father in the public eye was charming, sweet even polite. I wish he had that kindness for his own flesh and blood. My mother had me on a cold November morning, she was 17 turning 18 in December and had plans on going to college in the fall of the following year. She loved science and math.

She was the smartest in her family, my grandmother would say. The dumbest shit she did was meet, Nathan. When she met my father, she became a different person. Once being an advocate of refraining from sex till marriage to an advocate of sneaking out the house getting fucked in cars and run-down hotels with my father. You might ask how a 12-year-old knows this information, but being dropped off at my grandmother’s house and hearing my aunts talk among themselves about how gullible my mother was for Nathan disgusted them.

“No offense Nia baby”, they’d say while putting their fingers to their mouths as a signal to not repeat what I heard. And I didn’t because I enjoyed going over there and playing with all my cousins when they would come over. The doorknob turned to the front door in living room. “Hurry up, I gotta pee”, my mother said outside the door. My father pushed open the door and my pregnant mother waddle through the threshold making her way to the bathroom. “Welcome home Momma and Daddy”, Natasha said with a cheerful and innocent voice. They had been gone for 5 hours so that might have been a thousand years to her. Natasha ran to my father wanting a hug or even a kiss on the forehead, but he just patted her head and said thank you in a monotone tired voice. He looked at me and said “Nia, did you clean up while we were gone”?

“Yes sir, I’m still cleaning me and Natasha”. His eyes and facial expression looked confused. Why and how are you still cleaning up? We left 5 hours ago the house should be clean. And Natasha is five why is she cleaning anything she can barely clean herself”. My mother opened the bathroom door and stood between us. She looked at my father like ‘you’re doing too much and check yourself’. She dare not to say it. She never wanted to emasculate my father in front of us, but her giving him a ‘don’t start no shit won’t be no shit glare’ shut him up. “Nia”, she said “thank you for trying to help. I’ll clean the rest love”. I sighed and hung my head down and said “Ok, momma”. She grabbed the broom that was still pressed on the wall and swept up the remaining crumbs that were on the ground. My father was furious.

He didn’t like how my mother covered for me and how she loved me. He looked at me and barked “Go in your room and go to sleep”. My mother looked at him and said “she didn’t eat yet. How is she going to go to bed without eating”? “Her ass don’t need to eat. You see how fat she’s getting? She can stand to not eat dinner tonight.” He sneered as he looked at me in disgust. I whimpered and cried as I walked to the room me and my little sister share. Shutting the door behind me and crawling into my bed to cry. Why did my father hate me? Was it because I wasn’t the boy he wanted? Is it my complexion? I wasn’t that fat, just chubby because of puberty, as momma would say. What was wrong with me? Nothing I did was right.

[silverandarsenic-hcs]

Ghost Slander

I know I’ve done this before sorta but this is the Finial List of all the shit that’s really just bad about them. the first half of each is serious bad stuff and the second half is just silly annoying shit they do. I am not apologizing for this so that’s that on that. I also still love them anyways.

Papa I:  too old to do anything. he may be strong and smart, but he’s old, and tired, and gets grumpy when he’s tired. and when he’s grumpy hes a fucking asshole. he really doesn’t want to do anything, like go out for a fun day in the city, or try new things. can’t teach an old dog ne w tricks, and he doesn’t even try tricks he’s known about for forty years. He can be boring, and he can be punchy and shitty when he’s annoying (I don’t mean like punchy as in hitting, just you know when you were grumpy as a kid and you get really irritated and annoyed and kind of just wanna have a hissy fit and cant control it???? that.)

Papa II:  Super emotionally unavailable and it just becomes taxing to try and get him to open up unless he’s ready and willing - which, spoiler alert, will never happen. He really does have a shitty temper and when he gets angry he sees red. Refuses to delegate tasks to other people around him because he thinks no one else can do it right. When he does, no matter what they do it’s never good enough and he makes all his interns cry and/or quit. for fun: he gets the “man flu” in which he will not take medication or go to the doctor until he literally has muscle dystrophy. thinks Advil or Tylenol is some hippy bullshit brainwashing pill invented by liberals that are trying to trick him into being happy. conspiracy theories. thinks aliens built the pyramids. watches ancient aliens in his spare time and never shuts up about it. Unable to use technology, and falls asleep in “special chair” at home. 

Papa III: cant take no for an answer. he doesn't understand when someone refuses his advances because all of the girls in the clergy falling all over him his whole life has made his head a little too big. if you want major fucking ego, he’s the brother for you. if you don’t want flowers, and you don’t want random extravagant things, he’s not the brother for you, because if you tell him you don’t like the things he’ll assume you hate him and decide that you shouldn’t be together anymore. sure, it comes from a place of caring and wanting to spoil his s/o, but fuck, bro, tone it down. He’ll also talk at you for hours even if you’re not listening just because he loves the sound of his own voice. It doesn’t matter if you’re trying to do something else, or are tired, or you just don’t care, he’ll stop talking when he’s ready and only then. For fun:  at a kids soccer game he would be That Dad that screams at the other kids like hes the assistant coach and probably be drunk and fist fight the other drunk dads in their lawn chairs. makes his s/o wax his back before they go to the beach or anywhere he has to be shirtless. its gross and hairy and he wouldn't care if his s/o didn’t bully his persian-rug body into it so hard one time he canceled a vacation. 

Copia: He has no back bone. He’ll work until people give him what wants but he’ll never come right out and say it, in any kind of relationship or work. You’ll constantly be guessing whether or not what he said has a second meaning and if it’s really want he wants or he’s been waiting for you to figure it out the whole time. It’s fucking annoying. He’ll never be the one to put his foot down, or silence a room, or command attention like the other papa’s have, he just doesn’t have it in him. For fun: Calls his stomach his “spare tire” like what the fuck who says that?? Talks to everyone, you literally have to drag him away from talking to strangers. The person next to him at the cafe has their headphones in and he’s just chatting away. Small talk but just gets worse, and he subjects everyone to it.  rides one of those bikes where you're basically lying down and doesn't shut the fuck up about how low impact it is on your back and knees. thinks the government is out to get him and everyone else but doesn't put two and two together and still has a google home thing or an alexa, buys that facebook skype camera thing for your tv that literally follows you when he walks. he just thinks their neat.

Dewdrop: Has a hot temper and genuinely gets mean when he lashes out. He doesn’t care that everyone has to chase after him all the time and has no remorse for what they have to do for him or what he ruins for them. He’s gonna do whatever he want’s whenever he wants and no one can tell him otherwise - everyone thinks this is so fun and quirky and great until it’s been a few months and they’re wondering why Dew hasn’t calmed down even a little. He’s too self obsessed to even care what other people want for him. A total mess wherever he goes, eats all the soap and candles and doesn’t replace them. 

Swiss:  saying someone is too good at everything doesn't sound like an insult, but it does when they brag about it. Swiss has always been the multi ghoul, meaning hes always been pretty good at everything, but never specialized in something. so rather than do more to hide the fact he’s a jack of all trades but master of none, he just brags about every tiny little thing he does. hes like 6′ but his ego is like 8′4″. Insanely jealous in relationships which can cause problems. he’s a liar. there. i said it. unless he’s your s/o, if his mouth is moving, it’s probably a lie. whether hes bigging up his own adventures, or trying to cover his tracks about where he was and who he was with, its probably all bullshit. the only reason he doesn’t lie to his partners is because he HATES being lied to in return and if he has feelings for you its a little harder to just shut you out once you realize he’s full of it. He mostly lies for fun, and partly just to see what people will really believe, so it get’s wilder and wilder every time. Refuses to do anything that’s boring to him like clean or do laundry, but he hates disgusting messes so he’ll just pay someone else to do it. 

Mountain: Disgustingly messy. When I walk into a room i leave a hurricane of my shit everywhere, but if you took an actual hurricane and put it in his bedroom, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. No one in the whole church will go near his room, partly for the smell, partly for the fact of that there is no where to stand that isn’t a foot high with garbage and dirty clothes. If he cleaned his room i think a new disease would be unlocked. Super stubborn, and inpatient. He’s pretty chill, but refuses to wait for anything without getting super annoyed, and it’s impossible to change his mind about literally anything once it’s made up. Trying to debate him about anything is a fucking nightmare. 

Aether:  when you’ve been together for a while, and you’re comfortable with each other, things can get boring. he’ll stop taking you on dates every week, and stop thanking you profusely for everything you do, and stop treating you like a queen. things will get stale quickly, so unless you’re into routine, steer fucking clear or you're doomed.  when he’s in a shitty mood, he will say literally anything to you to get you away from him. he just wants to be left alone and if you wont let that happen he’ll break up with you, tell you to fuck off, tell you to get away from him, tell you to go fuck yourself, whatever it takes. he doesn’t mean it, and even if he knows that deep down, you’re still causing the problem by existing, in his mind. refuses to accept that there may be a different way to do things. it’s Aether’s way or the highway and that's it. he thinks that if somethings easier, or faster than the way he does it, then it’s not being done right, and it’s fucking annoying how he wastes so much time doing stupid simple tasks because its the way he was taught and its the way he’ll do them until he dies

Rain: A baby. An actual baby. Needy and clingy and even a little bit pathetic sometimes. Here and there it can be cute and you might feel the need to nurture him, but honestly most people can’t handle it all the time but for Aether. He constantly needs attention in the exact way he wants and if he doesn’t get it he’ll whine and cry and try and make you feel like shit. Maybe it’s manipulation, maybe it’s not. Who knows. But you have to make sure he eats properly, make sure he gets dressed properly, make sure he sleeps, pretty much be a parent to him half the time. The amount of emotional labor is borderline slavery. His attitude is insane, and he’s sassy and bossy all the time as if he’s actually in control, and if you tell him otherwise he’ll scream (at the top of his lungs). Uses baby talk at an inappropriate timing and makes people uncomfortable  sometimes.

Cumulus: Collects tiny little themed knick knacks that are literally everywhere and take up all the space in her and Cirrus’ little sapphic cottage. Nosey and wants to know everyone’s business all the time. The only person she tells is Cirrus but she won’t rest unless she knows every detail about a persons life and drama.

Cirrus: Leaves all the lights on wherever she goes. Leaves all the cupboards open. All the lights are on so much that it lights up the whole house all night, and people call them to tell them to either close their blinds or turn the fucking lights off.

[iamthecomet]

feeling awfully sick tonight, no good at all

do you happen to have any fics where one person is sick and is cared for by the other? any pairing

much love ❤️

I'm so sorry that you're feeling awful tonight. I, unfortunately, don't have any full fic recs (off the top of my head) like this. My bookmarks are just full of porn and angst *face palm*. But lemme write you something, real quick, as a small offering. I'm sorry I can't give you more. If anyone else has sick fics to rec, let me know :-).

Swiss' feels like his brain is trying to break through his skull. His lungs ache. He can't stop shaking. He has every blanket in his room piled on top of him and the fire roaring and he is still frozen to the bone. Not even the fire half of his magic can keep up. He thinks he might be dying. There's a soft knock on the door. It splits his head in two. He groans, dragging his pillow over his head. He tries to form the words to tell whoever it is to go away, but he's too late. The door clicks open. Every single sound is like a nail being driven into his brain stem. He knows it's Rain immediately. All of his senses are dialed up to eleven. He smells him like he's on top of him. Rain approaches slowly. He sits down on the bed next to Swiss. The scent of him is overwhelming. Swiss can't decide if he wants to press closer or get away from it.

"Not a good idea, Raincloud. You'll get it." Rain sets a cool hand on Swiss' forehead. Swiss opens his eyes so he can see the smaller ghoul. Rain's face is downturned in concern. "You're hot like Dew."

"I might be dying." Rain rolls his eyes at that, the drama seems to ease his mind a little. But Swiss really does feel like he might be dying. Each word he pushes out of his throat feels like glass. "Mountain made you some tea." Rain motions towards the nightstand where a steaming mug is sitting.

"Thanks. I'll get it in a minute."

"How can I help, Swiss."

Swiss waves him off, it takes an ungodly amount of effort. "Nothing. Go, before you get it too. It sucks Rainy, I don't want--"

"If you do, then you can take care of me. It's a fair trade." Swiss would argue about the rules of fair if he had the energy. He thinks about it, the words start to form on his tongue, and then, as if his body knows it's a stupid idea, he's sent into a coughing fit that he feels in his bones.

Rain rubs his hand up and down his spine. It's at about the time he can breathe again that he realizes he's not cold anymore--he's hot. Sweating. He shoves the pile of blankets off of him with a groan. He's livid. He wants to rage. But the energy it takes to shove his blankets off winds him. "Fuck." His leans back hard, head thumping against the headboard with a thud that makes Rain wince. More impossible pain blows through his head. "Tell me what I can do, Swiss. Please." "Fucking hot now. I hate this shit, I hate--" Rain's wrapping blessedly cool arms around him. The shock of it knocks the words out of him. He sighs, sagging into Rain's embrace. He should push him away, he knows it. He will in a minute when it stops feeling so good. He presses his throbbing head against Rain's shoulder. He wants to sink inside of Rain's skin, to let this cold wash over him. "Is this good?" "It's perfect, don't you dare move." Rain chuckles, he presses cool lips to Swiss' temple, another point of relief. Swiss closes his eyes. "I wouldn't dream of it."

[nomoregoldfish]

Imagine catching Amado building secret airport in the jungle; Enemies to friends /w benefits (2/2)

This one goes out of my hands. I don’t even know what kind of monster it is now, smh. The formatting seems screwed up. Please read it on AO3 if you want. Again, if tubmlr flag the gif below, I’LL RIOT.

"Is this a date? What's the dress code? Cargo pants don't count." Amado sounds flirty when you call him the other day. It's not really his fault because you are the one who asks him out.

Since the formidable drug trafficker hasn't sent any sicario to make you disappear, you figure you still have chances to make him reconsider the plan of building an airport. You're willing to do whatever it takes to save the jungle and the ruins.

Plus seeing Amado again is not a bad idea.

You can't justify why you ignore your go-to outfit including cargo pants. Instead, you put on your tightest jeans.

You pick up Amado at four in the morning. The tall man looks sleepy and slightly confused, which is kinda cute. You offer him black coffee in your vacuum bottle. 

After the first sip, Amado turns to you with his misty down-turned eyes, "No cargo pants today?" You try not to smile, "Shut up."

You're taking him to the Palenque ruins, another Mayan site in Chiapas, just few hours drive away.

You manage to get there before the sunrise. The site hasn't opened yet but you know a secret route because you also worked on the excavation project there. 

"You have a thing for sneaking in, uh, Ms. Geologist?" You shouldn't encourage him but whatever, the banter is... fun. 

Walking with Amado in the dense mountain forest actually is a perfect date in your dictionary. Your shoes are wet with morning dew but nobody cares. Listen to birds chirping and fogs croaking in the dim light. 

"You're really not afraid of darkness, are you?" Amado sounds genuinely curious. "Why would I be? I worked on this site for years, I've known the whole place by heart." He nods, like some acknowledgement.

It's almost dawn, you look at the tinted horizon when you reach the top of the mountain. The entire ancient city of Palenque is quiet and peaceful wrapped in the jungle, reminds you why you chose what you do with your life.

"I want to show you something." It's the Temple of the Inscriptions, one of the most iconic Mayan architecture lightened up by the morning sun. Starting from the history, you explain to Amado not only the symbolic significance of the temple and the secret tomb inside, but also the epic war Emperor Pakal waged against Yaxchilán. 

Amado doesn't stop you. You keep talking, sharing your involvement in those excavation projects with him, how excited you are when a new site is discovered, how proud you felt for your team when Palenque was recognized as World Heritage Site not long ago, which meant more funds, more human resources, and better equipment for all scientists working on it for years. You want to continue to study the whole area, even several rival/ally sites in Guatemala and Belize, to find more satellite cities, battlefields, to be able to define the border of those ancient powerhouses and finally draw a map of the mysterious kingdom.

He looks at you like you're some kind of heroine. It's heartwarming but you're not sure, "So, what do you think?"

Amado's playing coy, but you're persistent. "Come on. I'm a geologist. I can't hire assassins. What else am I supposed to do to make you change your mind? Put on my most expensive dress, show off my ass, wine and dine you?"

"Though I'd love to see you in a nice dress, jeans are great, too." The northern banditote smirks, eyeing your lower body, "Plus the whole speech, I told you I love it when you talk about your job. You seem to know exactly what you're doing."

Amado doesn't promise anything. He says he'll figure something out.

You exhale deeply. At least the guy listened, you appreciate it. 

Then you find out there's nothing left in your vacuum bottle, the fucker drank all your coffee, "How am I supposed to drive back without any coffee in my system?"

Amado pulls you in for a kiss, warm and tastes much better than your shitty coffee. The fresh stubble overnight of his stings and it feels so good, you can't help cupping his face and kissing back. 

Then he announces he'd drive if you just say "El Señor de los Cielos, please." You tell him to fuck off but toss the car key to him anyway.

You haven't contacted each other after that for a while. You tell yourself it's nothing. It's not like you two have had something. 

You send people every week to monitor the construction of the airport from a hidden spot on the mountain. Meanwhile you complete the scan of the area surrounding the soon-to-be airport and find a possible target. You have to be on the ground again to confirm it. 

Unluckily you break your ankle one day in the jungle. And you don't want to put any colleague's life at risk to get near the cartel's territory. You decide to wait on Amado, you believe he's a man of his words. 

Amado surprises you one night at your camp. He jokes that a geologist can sneak into a drug cartel's property, it'd be humiliating if he doesn't return the favor. His face and neck are perfectly tanned, you want to immerse yourself in that hot chocolate. You almost jump out of excitement because you haven't seen Amado for a month. Then you remember you're confined to your desk and seat due to the injury. 

"You're expecting someone else? Ms. Geologist." Amado sounds a bit down. "I..." You want to ask him so many things. Has he figured it out? Who is in charge of the airport when he's away? And where has he been? Why does it take him so long to come back? Maybe minus the last question. It'd sound desperate. 

He says he flies from Juaréz, "One of the longest domestic flights," he claims as looking around your tent office, sketches and maps scattered all the place. When his eyes meet yours again, it's so gentle, full of fondness.

"You only want to talk about business?" He's getting close, "I just fly almost 2,000 miles and you're not even standing up. Look who's more cold-blooded than drug traffickers."

Before you realize what happens, Amado lowers his body and carries you off the chair. He doesn't touch your ankle but it still hurts when you're suddenly moved.

Amado finds out. The man in black examines your injury carefully. You never saw him so concerned before. He quickly comes to the conclusion that your injury is worse than it looks and needs better treatment. 

No, you're not gonna leave your job. You have papers to write, new budget to apply, more areas to explore. Slowly it'd recover.

"Don't you want to wade across rivers, trek through jungles, and climb mountains again? If you love your job so much, you have to get better treatment, immediately! And take some good rest. Give it a few more weeks? Oh God, you're insane." He's so mad at you.

You finally agree, and Amado insists on carrying you again to his vehicle. You know it's not your priority right now but holy fuck, he's fucking built. And you're inches away from his big nose which you've had a crush on for a while.

He's gonna fly you to the state capital Tuxtla Gutiérrez.

"You don't fly 2,000 miles just to see me, do you?" You poke him during the flight, sitting next to the sexy pilot in the cockpit is a treat. 

"Dear Ms. Geologist, remember I have a job, too?"

The pain is getting worse, Amado notices it then hands you a joint from nowhere. You're about ask whether it's legal to have weed on the plane, then you realize you're with a real drug dealer. "Not to bad to have a narcos friend, huh?" OK, you gives him that as the weed kicks in. 

"So now we're friends?" You're obviously high, and bold. Because you find your hand dangerously near his groin for no reason, fumbling. "I always wanted to touch it." You giggle. 

Amado politely removes your hand and tells you to behave.

"You know what? You could've been the most popular guy at our camp. Someone might trade blowjobs for your weed since we're just low-paid scientists and assistants." You're high like a kite.

You also "threaten" if Amado extends any further in the jungle to build more airport facilities when you're put away, you swear to God you'll...

"You'll what? Shut up and rest, cabrón. Or I'll take you directly to DF, better physicians there anyway."

And the fucker did, a day after a Chiapas physician suggests you seek the best orthopedic treatment in DF for speedy recovery.

Then Amado disappears again. You know he's probably running a drug cartel in the north, and only checking in on their hidden project near the southern border once a month or two. It's the way it is. Your lives only collide when it's meant to be. There's no fucking way you two see each other like normal people do. 

You still miss Amado, miss the banter, even his northern accent. 

During the two-month therapy in DF, you receive reports that the airport is completed, and the potential target site nearby is now a giant warehouse. You also learn a big donation is made specifically to the Yaxchilán excavation project, of course, anonymously.

That's what Amado meant by "figuring something out." You're not even mad. What's the alternate outcome when you're up against the narcos? Report it? The entire cabinet is probably in their pocket. You should be relieved that no one ends up dead during the little stupid game you played.

You can't even return the drug money because, a) you can't tell anyone where it's from; b) INAH's been underfunded for decades, the project fucking needs it, so do your colleagues.

You call that number again after you get back to the ground. You don't know how to end this, or is there anything to end? 

"Come over next weekend, I'll be there and I can explain." Amado sounds poised and calm, like he always does.

You tell yourself to keep it civil. This is a losing battle since day one.

Amado meets you in front of a warehouse, he looks great, all charming smile and open arms. All you can think of is the location of the warehouse, it must be the one. Most likely it's being buried.

"You bring flowers, how nice." It's the white birds of paradise, which suits him, El Señor de los Cielos. You tell him you're grateful for the injury advice he insisted.

"Can I show you something?" Amado opens the door of the warehouse. It all feels like yesterday, when you showed him the sunrise at Palenque, talking about your future plan. How naive were you.

Some jaw-dropping scene in front of you. The entire site of ruins, intact, locked inside the warehouse with minimal structure to shield from the rain and sunshine.

"What? You thought I'm gonna show you cocaine? No offense, baby, you can't afford the Colombian white magic. This is all you get, some fucking broken rocks with barely recognizable inscriptions." The bastard shrugs.

How did he find this site? "Sorry. Let's say I accidentally took a copy of your scan map last time at your camp, when you were busy with your ankle problem." You fucking knew it, it's never what it looked like when it comes to Amado Carrillo Fuentes.

Yet you can't believe what you just see. It is NOT real. It can't be.

That's when harsh reality kicks in. It always starts with a but. "You can't work on it, not now." Amado explains the situation and his plan for your ruins, which he thinks it's better to keep them under the radar for now. No tomb raider would dare to approach it, you can work on many other sites first.

"Then what?" You keep digging. Amado sighs, giving you a melancholy smile, "This line of work doesn't tend to last very long. It will be yours one day. Before that, it's completely safe. You have my word." 

Amado's kind of.... correct, and practical to be honest. INAH doesn't have enough resources for thousands of projects. Even with the hard work you and your colleagues pulled, it's estimated less than 10% of the total area of Palenque was explored and partially restored.

You carefully examine the site, making notes and sketches to create a hasty profile.

Amado focuses on something else, "It seems you walk just fine. Fully recovered, no rush? Good. And has your budget been approved? Got more money? I mean, the efficiency of any bureaucratic system is questionable in this country. If it still falls short, I can...." 

You can't tell if he's been an asshole or a saint, God forbid.

"For fuck's sake, I don't want your fucking money. I just, I want...." You turn around, look defeated, "Your dick, OK? Who cares about your dirty drug money? You Sinaloan monkey!"

Amado bursts into laughter, "Why don't you take both, dear Ms. Geologist?" He put your hand below his belt buckle, "I think you made it very clear last time."

"It's your fucking nose, narizón." You gently caress it, and he's getting hard beneath the fabric and it's fucking huge.

You're on your knees, trying to take Amado's full length in. Fuck, it's difficult. You're embarrassed and he's like "Shhh, it's okay, baby."

Instead, Amado's going down on you, making your knees weak af. You have to grab the stones to stand still. 

Amado eating your out with patience, salt and pepper stubble rubbing against the most sensitive part of your body which gives you more trouble, and fingering you at the same fucking time. Let that sink in for a moment.

You don't stand a chance, you come so hard.

Amado's taking you from behind, big hands on your hips to keep you still against the ancient structure. Rock into you with deep, short thrusts. You're wet for him like rivers during monsoon season. 

Your legs are shaking when he hits right at the spot again. "Wanna to make a good girl like you squirm and scream." Fuck, Amado always gets what he desires as he pulls you hair up, leaving hickeys on your neck while he fucks you thoroughly.

The best orgasm through your whole life. And the fucker is proud of it, "Told you. You'd better take both, baby. The green and the big D."

Does it mean you really gonna take money from narcos? This is so fucked up. 

Later Amado fixes you some nice margarita, casually asking if you want to join him for a business trip to Belize the next day. "I have to buy some stuff in Belmopan. Maybe we can stop by Lamanai with my private jet after that if you'd like."

How the fuck does he know you wanted to visit the Mayan ruins in a remote foreign town for years? 

The concern becomes less shocking when you see Amado buy a bunch of Boeing 727s in Belmopan like a Sunday grocery run.

[jeonggoofy]

circles | one

pairing: jeongguk x reader, jimin x reader

genre: thriller, action, fluff, romance, future smut, angst

warnings: brief violence, fainting, mention of blood. this turned out a lot more fluffy than i intended i’m sorry i couldn’t help it but there is a smidgeon of angst if that helps.

a/n: this is my first time ever doing anything like this n i’m sO nervous. so. any feedback would be much appreciated :)

word count: 6,626

“Look, I’m just saying there’s no way Damon and Elena could have ever had their happy ending if it weren’t for Stefan. And yeah, maybe the script writers were milking the show when they put Caroline and Stefan together, but it’s not like Caroline was going to get with Klaus or Stefan was getting back with Elena,” you huffed. “Besides, I think Stefan deserves to be happy after everything he was put through, even if it’s with Caroline.”

You kicked a stray rock on the edge of the path. “Stefan is just too underappreciated.”

You were currently engaged in another passionate rant; today, your best friend was stuck listening to your complaints that Stefan Salvatore’s sacrifice at the end of the show was too underrated, and that he deserved better.

It was a bright May morning; the flowers lining the right side of the sidewalk in full bloom and the air smelling almost saccharinely sweet. The sun was just beginning to emerge, its light growing warmer with the approaching summer season. Dew clung to the grass and dripped off the flower leaves, and the trees in the park across the street held full, vibrant branches of leaves.

You hated being up so early, but the view made the daily struggle almost worth it. Almost.

Jimin huffed a small laugh, slinging an arm around your shoulders to prompt you to match his quicker pace. “Right, Stefan deserved better. Now hurry, we’ll be late if you keep talking about random shit.”

While he tugged you further towards the business building, you took a few deep breaths to will your heart to quit racing so hard. Once it was beating at a calmer pace, you sighed a little, inaudibly, and mentally reprimanded yourself. Fuck, you hated this feeling, hated yourself for feeling it. Jimin had been your best friend since you were four. He had been six, and it was halfway through the school year when you had met, in the first grade. He was new to your school and visibly mortified at being the new kid, too shy to approach anyone or make new friends; you’d already made quite a few friends, your younger, cuter personality having charmed the other six-year olds around you. Your parents had you enrolled in school two years earlier than most other kids, as you’d already been reading and writing at a more advanced level than the other kids in the daycare you’d previously been enrolled in. You approached him first, offering him half of your sandwich and a bright smile when he’d been panicking about where to sit during lunch and tearing up about how his mother had forgotten to pack his lunch.

He blinked the tears out of his eyes when he saw the sandwich thrust at his face, looking down to see you and beaming down at you to return the smile he’d grown to love. You have been inseparable from that day forward. And you have been in love with him since you were eighteen, a little over a year ago. You weren’t quite sure how it happened, and you weren’t sure there was a definitive moment which marked the transition from your platonic love for him to your growing romantic feelings for him, but you constantly tried to push the thoughts away. It’s not that you were ignoring them—not quite, for you’d watched enough shows to know it would bite you in the ass later when you found out you were too deep in without realizing it. No, you were doing damage control—snuffing out every warm, fuzzy thought and feeling before it had the chance to fully materialize and spawn into something you wouldn’t be able to deny any further.

It was the only thing keeping you sane, really. You’d have fallen so much harder and so much deeper had you not been putting in an aggressive effort to eradicate any excessive feelings for your best friend than you were comfortable with. You knew he didn’t return your feelings—it was rather obvious, with the sheer number of girls he’d flaunt at each party you’d go to or the ones trickling out of his bedroom in the morning when he’d come to greet you in his kitchen (he’d given you a spare key to his apartment, and he had one for yours after having insisting he’d only use it for emergencies—he lied, obviously). Unfortunate as the circumstances were, you knew your efforts had been paying off; you were able to go on dates and snag a few guys, yourself, at the parties you frequented together, all without having wished it would be him next to you, either.

For as much as you loved him, you knew he wasn’t right for you—despite all his redeeming qualities (of which there was no shortage of), something repelled you from wanting him that way. You figured it was counterproductive to be so in love with him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to want him in that way—it would be too weird. So weird that, despite the way you felt about him, you didn’t wish to trade your friendship for anything more. This was a phase, you knew, that would soon pass—

Smack.

“What the fuck, Jimin?” you slowly said when he reemerged from the door he’d just walked through. “Why didn’t you hold it open like a normal fucking person, asshole?”

He was laughing, eyes squishing together and body shaking, while pulling you in and gently rubbing at the red mark you knew was likely forming on your forehead. “I’m not even sorry,” he gasped between laughs.

You groaned, pushing him away and almost wishing he’d pull you back into him. “Why are we even taking this fucking class, anyways? I should’ve stuck to a single major. What asshole talked me into taking an 8am accounting class?” you grumbled at him, rubbing at your own forehead.

He leaned on the wall beside the door, crossing his arms and looking at you with a fond, amused expression. “That would be me. We’re dance majors, Y/n. It wouldn’t have been smart for us not to take business as a double major.”

“Whatever,” you rolled your eyes, pulling the door open for the both of you. “You owe me ice cream.”

*******

“Fuck, oh my god,” you exhaled, licking at your ice cream. “You’re totally forgiven for making me sign up for that 8am”

Jimin grins, reaching over to ruffle your hair with the hand that wasn’t holding his own cone.

You look up at him, swallowing your mouthful of ice cream before speaking. “Hey, so I need to hit the studio to help choreograph that piece we’re performing for nationals in a few months, but are we still on for tonight? I’m thinking of making that shrimp pasta you love.”

Jimin froze in his seat next to you, sighing and running a hand through his hair. “Shit, don’t be mad at me.” He looks to you to gauge your reaction, nose scrunching at the way your brows furrowed in innocent confusion. “I totally forgot about dinner tonight, and something else kind of came up.”

You tilt your head to the side, gaze searching his and your lower lip moving to get caught between your teeth. “Seriously?” you whined.

“I promise you, I just have this last project I need to do for my internship and that’s it. I have to meet with some of the other interns to finish it, and it’s due by noon tomorrow.” He frowns when you look away, taking your hand in his. “I promise I’d much rather be with you.”

You exhale, meeting his eyes once more. “I guess this is goodbye, then.”

His frown deepens, and he shakes his head rapidly, gripping your hand a little tighter. “No, I don’t have to be there for a few more hours and I don’t leave for my dad’s until tomorrow.”

You give him a small, sad smile. “Yeah, but I have to be at the studio in thirty.”

His shoulders deflate for a moment before he sits up straighter, suddenly. “I’ll come with. We can practice together and I can help you with the choreography.” He grins, a hopeful smile beginning to squish his eyes together in that way you find so incredibly endearing, and you almost swoon before nodding and getting up to start heading to the studio, the hand still holding onto his pulling him along behind you.

“Let’s go. I don’t want to piss Kai off for being late.”

*******

Your thighs ache and your muscles burn, sweat dripping down your temples, to your jaw, and around your neck. You grabbed the towel you’d set off to the side with your gym bag, quickly dabbing away at any sweat you could reach before tossing it back on your bag and taking your position in front of the wall mirror once more. Dancing was strenuous and left you with an aching body like nothing else, yet you basked in it, willingly turned your body over to the sound of the music and let it consume you entirely, wholly. The bass thrummed in time with the thumping of your veins, and the sore muscles felt almost euphoric when stretched and twisted and worked so thoroughly. You allowed yourself the beat it took for the music to restart before moving once more, whispering to yourself, “one last time.”

“You said that, like, four times ago. Give it a rest, it’s already perfect,” Jimin complained from the wall behind you. He was resting against the wall, wiping himself of his sweat with the extra towel you’d given him and taking sluggish sips of your water bottle.

You disregarded him, too cocooned in the haze of the dance to properly process his words. And so, you kept going, moving steadily despite the energy you’ve already expended into this dance. You move and move and move until the last note rings out and you collapse to the floor, lying on your back with your forearm covering your eyes and your chest rising and falling rapidly with the burning panting of your lungs.

Jimin rushes to you, kneeling by your head and sighing before gingerly supporting your head with one arm and your upper back with the other to cradle you in his lap. He grabs the water bottle he’d brought with him and uncaps it before adjusting you to help you sip from it. “God, you have to give me a heart attack every time you do that, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question, but a wistful statement; he sounds like he deeply regrets something, and yet you can’t figure out what it is, tilting your head back to gesture for him to move the bottle from your lips. ”Maybe I should stay with you this summer, I’ll cancel on my dad. Someone needs to look out for you.”

You almost laugh before you realize he’s entirely serious, brows furrowed and gaze so intensely focused on you it’s making your breath hitch and your hand moves to soothe out the frown from his forehead. “Hey, no. None of that. You never get to see him except for the three months during summer break. I get you for the rest of the year, remember? I’m fine, I’m not that hopeless of a case,” you laugh a little, hoping to bring him out of the sudden slump he was in.

His arms surround you, tugging you closer into his lap and wrapping around you protectively, one of his hands coming up to stroke your cheek as you’re doing with his. “I don’t want to leave you,” he whispers, his forehead coming down to rest on yours just as you spot the slight glistening shine in his eyes. “I won’t be able to reach you at all for three months. Don’t you know that’s hell?” His eyes flutter shut when your thumb wipes at the tear that dribbles down the side of his face, and your heart shatters a little at the look of pure anguish and vulnerability on his face.

“God, we do this every year,” you whisper back, voice husky with emotion and distress. You try not to cry as well. It’s hardly working. “I’d offer to come with, but I already know you won’t let me.” His face nuzzles further into yours when you say this, and he angles his head to hide in the crook of your neck, breathing you in and squeezing you tight. You doubt you can take much more of this. You need to lighten the mood. “Besides, you act like we won’t see each other again. It’ll be like every year, yeah?” Your voice breaks at the last word, and it’s the last crack in your facade before your entire walk comes crashing down and your sobbing into his hair, arms wrapping around his neck and clutching tightly.

“Shit, no, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he rushes, more tears springing to his eyes as he pulls away from your neck to press his lips to your forehead and wipe your tears as you’d wiped his. “Don’t cry. I really won’t be able to go then.” He tugs you up by the arms, maneuvering the both of you so his back was resting against the wall and his legs were splayed out in front of him, holding you in his lap and pulling your face into his neck to stroke at your hair even as his own tears cascade down his cheeks.

You cry into his neck while he cries into your hair, clutching onto each other like you’re afraid to lose one another and each of you shaking with the force of the emotion. Your breath is unsteady and comes in gasps, and you know you’re a fool for trying to avoid this moment when you both end up in the same position every year. He’s breathing you in to memorize the way you smell, and you’re holding onto him like he won’t leave if your grasp is tight enough. You stay like that for a while.

You pull away eventually, just enough to be able to see his face, and you try to control your breathing for his sake. He’s bleary-eyed, tear tracks running down his splotchy, red face and you know that some have dropped down onto your shirt. You’re hastily wiping at your tears first to regain some semblance of normalcy, before slowly moving towards him once more. This time, you don’t wipe away at his tears. Rather, you lightly brush your lips under each of his eyes, right on the tear tracks, then move up so you’re kissing his forehead as he’d done with you. He cries a little harder at that, and you’re rushing to gather his head into your chest, rubbing his back and trying to laugh. “Hey, no, that was supposed to make you feel better. It’s okay, I’ll be right here when you get back. We’re just being dramatic,” you joke, trying to ease his hiccuping sobs. He laughs a little through the tears, then he’s looking up at you.

“I’ll try to come back as early as possible. And I brought three of my hoodies for you to keep while I’m there. They’ve all got my cologne on them,” he gestured to his own gym bag across the room once he’s calmed down, letting you finally wipe the last of his tears, though he’s still hiccuping a little. You smile down at him; he never forgets the hoodies.

“I’ve got my oversized hoodies, too. They’ve got my perfume on them. And here,” you say, unwrapping your arms from around him to pull your hair tie from your wrist and grabbing his arm from around you to transfer it to his.

He’s grinning up at you, eyes squishing and wet eyelashes clinging to one another. You coo at him, gently squishing his cheeks between your hands, and he’s laughing loudly now, face leaning into your palms as he pulls you back into him. This time, he’s holding onto you at the waist and pushing off the wall behind him to stand up with you still in his hold. One of his arms is moving down to your thigh to prompt you to wrap your legs around him, then he’s easily striding to your gym bag and pulling out the hoodies you’d promised him and moving across the room to his own gym bag to pull out the ones he’d promised in return. He hands you his hoodies to hold while he stuffs yours in his bag, and moves back towards your bag to place his hoodies inside it.

His arms are back on your waist and are squeezing you tight, head turning to kiss you on the cheek once more and carefully, reluctantly, setting you down on your feet.

“I guess this is goodbye,” you say, smiling up at him. Then, you sigh, scrunching your nose in irritation. “I wish you’d let me drop you to the airport before you have to go to the middle of fucking nowhere. If you’re spending three months without service I at least want to make sure you’re safe until you’re on the plane.”

He soothes out the frown on your face with a thumb, saying, “no, we’ve both already cried enough. If I let you drop me at the airport we’ll be back in that same mess again. I’ll call you right before the plane takes off.” He pats your head lightly and begins carding his fingers through your hair soothingly. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Chim.”

*******

The next day, early in the morning, you’re on a run by the beach in a more secluded area where the waves are calmer and the shore is littered with little caves. The water is to your left, and the caves to your right. You run a little further, bare feet cushioned by the soft sand, to where the caves are thinning out and, instead, a series of coves of varying sizes are taking up the rest of the space to your right.

You’d always loved this part of the beach, had always liked to sit in one of the little coves with the boulders and the tiny sea creatures surrounding you. You’d introduced Jimin to this place, and he’d grown accustomed to you dragging him there when you both had some free time. He’d never grown as fond of the place as you’d been, and eventually stopped coming altogether—odd, since he adored the outdoors and would drag you out to bike and camp and hike. For some reason, he avoided this beach in particular, and so you turned it into your own little thing—you came here when you were stressed or simply needed to be in your own company without feeling the claustrophobia of being stuck home.

Which is why you were more than a little shocked to find him in the one cove you frequent the most.

You were already only a few steps from the mouth of the cove when you’d noticed him, but you easily identified the soft mess of black hair as Jimin. You slowed to a light jog, quietly crossing into the cove’s entrance and standing behind him.

“Jimin?”

You don’t notice the six other figures in the cove.

“Shit.”

Jimin whips around to face you, and he looks the most conflicted you’ve ever seen him. It’s as though he’s torn between scolding you, being guilty, and pulling you into him—he’d thought he wouldn’t see you for three months, after all.

Finally, he settles on tugging you to the side and standing so close to you he’s blocking your sight from the six men behind him, as well as blocking them from seeing you. You’re looking up at him in a frown and he’s reaching to smooth it out with a thumb, as the two of you always do, but you step back and away from his reach. His face crumples a little, but he still reaches out once more, this time settling both hands on your arms while bending a little so he’s directly in front of you, eyes focused on yours.

“You need to get out of here.”

You scoff and try to shrug out of his hold, but he grips you tighter. “I’m serious, you shouldn’t be here.”

“You shouldn’t either, Jimin.”

“Look, I’ll explain everything later. But you have to—”

“When exactly is ’later,’ Jimin?” You’re exasperated already, running a hand through your hair. “As far as I knew, I wasn’t going to see you for another three months. Is that when you plan on—“

You’re pushed back suddenly, back slamming into one of the tall boulders encasing the cove with a small thud. Your head rocks back into the stone and an immediate pain throbs there, though it’s bearable enough that you don’t grimace. You focus your eyes on the man in front of you, and you’d have admired his stunning features had you been any less furious than you are momentarily. You fix him with the same glare he directs at you, and just barely begin to process his words as he’s speaking them.

“Who are you.” Not a question; a demand.

“What the fuck are you doing.”

“Who the fuck are you.”

“Let go.”

His arms were trapping you against the boulder, one across your chest to keep you from moving forward and his opposite hand encasing both your wrists. His thigh, thick and firm, pressed against your legs to effectively immobilize you, and the rest of his body pushed up against yours so you couldn’t escape.

You weren’t stupid; you knew he was fit and well trained and could probably crush you.

“Answer my fucking question.”

You could both faintly hear Jimin trying to talk the man in front of you out of hurting you. He was yelling, but his words fell of deaf ears and two of the five other men you hadn’t noticed earlier were holding him back.

“Suck my dick and choke on it.” His eyes narrowed further for the split second after you said that before he was tugging you towards him aggressively, only to slam you back into the boulders.

“Y/n,” Jimin yelled, rushing forward and out of the grasp his companions had on him to keep him from intervening between you and the man who had been manhandling you.

He was too late by the time he reached you: your head slammed into the boulder far more aggressively than it had before, and your vision spun briefly before you collapsed.

*******

Your head was throbbing more viciously then it ever had in your life, and your vision was hazy when your eyes blinked open.

“Thank fuck, holy shit. Y/n? Do you hear me?” You vaguely felt Jimin surrounding you, holding you in a way similar to how he had been when you’d initially collapsed at the dance studio. One hand was carding through your hair, and the other was resting against the side of your face, thumb stroking against your cheekbone and wiping the single tear that had slid off his face onto yours.

You nodded slightly, as well as you can with the way your head pounded and the way he held you firmly. “You scared me,” he whispered.

“I’m fine, Jimin. Your little friend’s just a fucking caveman.” You scowled at Jimin, clearly still waiting for an explanation.

Jimin didn’t seem to notice, too concerned to remember what you’d need arguing about. “You’re not fine, Y/n. Your head was bleeding.”

Your eyes widened a bit. “Well then why didn’t you take me to the fucking hospital?”

“I…I couldn’t. Besides, you weren’t out long enough for us to have even gotten to the hospital. The bleeding stopped; Namjoon helped.”

You huffed—you don’t care to know which of them Namjoon is just yet. “Whatever. Just explain why you’re here,” you said, whacking his hand off your cheekbone and moving to sit up against the boulder. He didn’t let you pull away from him, automatically moving to ease you upwards despite your squirming to get away from him.

You sat back against the boulder and he gingerly took each of your hands in his. You were too tired to pull away, so you left him to do as he pleased while he scooted closer yet. “Look, I’ll explain everything in a bit—just let me take you home, yeah?”

“I don’t want to go home, Jimin. I want an explanation.”

“You won’t get anywhere arguing with a woman like that.” It was a voice you hadn’t heard before, and you turn your head up to look at the figure who steps forward. “Just tell her, Jimin.”

His hair is grey, shaggy and mussed as though he hadn’t brushed it and left it windblown. He had an easy smile on his face, and it only grew wider when your scowl was directed at him. “Cute.”

You were ready to comment on his statement with narrowed eyes and a tone lilting in mockery—but you paused.

This was the first good look you were getting at any of the other six men behind Jimin. Each of them was dressed in unconventional clothing—all had different colored tunics on, with black, brown, or white trousers, and had several leather holsters strapped to their bodies carrying weapons. It wasn’t guns or tasers, either. No, there were throwing knives, twin swords, bows and arrows—you had even spotted a mace and a few full length swords, like the type you’d see in historical fiction series. You didn’t doubt there was more you weren’t seeing.

“Jimin…did you really make friends with the theatre kids?”

He laughed, and it was so airy and charming and you hated that it immediately drew your eyes back to him. His laughter died down, and a fond smile, the one where his eyes squished, remained behind. “No, baby. I just…I have a lot of explaining to do.”

And so he explains.

He had turned to the rest of the men behind him before starting, asking them to leave the two of you for a while. They filed out of the cove, some patting Jimin on the back and wishing him luck as they passed. You glared at the man who knocked you out earlier, and he snarled back.

When they were out of earshot, Jimin moved to sit next to you, his back against the boulders the same way yours were. He sighed, and didn’t say anything for a moment. “I don’t know where to start.”

You didn’t look at him; you were staring ahead at a little seashell on the other side of the cove while he stared at the side of your face. “The beginning would be good.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

He paused. “Do you remember the day we met?”

“Yeah, you were the new kid from Busan and we split my sandwich.”

“Not really.” He ran a hand through his hair when you turned to look at him, confused. “I didn’t come from Busan, baby. I’m from a place called Sera.”

Your head tilted and he had to refrain from tugging you to rest your head on his shoulder. This wasn’t the time. “I’ve never heard of it, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“I know. I’ll explain everything, but it’ll take a while, yeah? Let me finish first, then ask whatever you want, okay?” You nodded, and the two of you simultaneously leaned your heads back and faced forward, anticipating Jimin’s next words.

“My mom is from Busan, yes, but my dad is from Sera. They met when my dad visited Busan back when he was in his late teens, and fell in love pretty quickly. They got serious, and they found out they were having me when my mom was about a month into her pregnancy. They freaked out, because their circumstances didn’t really make it easy for them to have a kid, but both of them refused to get rid of me. So, my dad snuck my mom into Sera and hid her there until she had me. My dad was a powerful, rich man. He was the son of a wealthy, politically involved family, and was set to inherit the…family business. He had to hide her because Sera was in sort of a civil war during the time—there was a fight over whether my dad or his twin should inherit this business, and it quickly escalated and became a global controversy—”

“Wait, stop. I know you said to keep my questions to the end but what exactly do you mean ‘global’ controversy? I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard of anything like this. Besides, why would there be a civil war over some company’s heir?”

“I don’t think I’m explaining this well,” he sighed, pushing his hair out of his face. “This’ll sound weird, but just go with it. Yes, it was a global controversy, but you haven’t heard about it because it’s not this planet I’m talking about.” He raised a hand to cut you off when you were about to say something, the disbelief clear on your face. “I said go with it, baby.”

When he saw you deflate and nod for him to continue, he spoke again. “Sera isn’t another country, it’s another world. Think of it as a parallel universe, like from the Flash, except there aren’t any doppelgangers. Each universe is connected through some sort of energy, but none of them overlap. And the reason there was a civil war was because my dad was inheriting a throne. It wasn’t a literal family business. My dad and his brother were close, growing up, but the older they grew, the more their beliefs contradicted one another. Their parents started involving them in politics when they were about sixteen, things like meetings and official gatherings, so that they could get the hang of things and be able to develop their own opinions. Dad was more reasonable and fair; he was rational even when his parents started giving them more power. His brother was less composed; he turned into this power hungry tyrant who didn’t care about the people he was supposed to be protecting. He started endorsing and supporting this radical group that was gaining power at the time. So, naturally, my grandparents picked my dad for the throne.”

He picked up a seashell from next to him, twirling it around his fingers as he shut his eyes and continued. “My dad and his brother turned against each other then. My uncle was jealous and was willing to do anything to get the same kind of power my dad would be getting as king, so he left and joined that radical group as their leader. This group…they’re ruthless, and they only grew even more powerful when my uncle joined them. Since then, he’s been in hiding, working behind the scenes to cause as much damage as possible. My dad sent my mom and I back here when I was about five because it was too dangerous to stay there when the civil war started.” He finally stopped, turning to look at you. For a moment, you had no words.

“I can’t tell whether this is detailed enough for you to be telling the truth or so detailed that it has to be some diabolical lie.” You’d been frozen still the entire time, trying to keep up with his words and holding onto them like listening more intently would somehow make them more believable.

He drops the seashell he’d been toying with to grab your hand, eyes pleading at the side of your face to look at him. Your hand remains limp in both of his as he threads his fingers through yours. “You have to believe me, baby. I’ve been wanting to tell you for years. I need you to believe me.”

You rubbed at your temples, trying to tune him out to focus on processing the full weight of his words.

“Look at me.” He was begging now, eyes watering. “Look at me.” This was a different type of pain for Jimin—yesterday, he thought he was losing you for just a few months and it had been unbearable, but it was nothing in comparison to the fear coursing through him in that moment. If he lost you over having to lie about this, or if he lost you because you thought he was still lying—god, he doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost you. So instead, he begged. “Please, Y/n,” he said, gripping your chin and harshly turning it toward him in his desperation. “You have to believe me.”

Your eyes widened when you saw him crying, and you automatically wiped his ears with your thumbs, your hands cupping his face while his moved to cover yours and keep them there, his face leaning into your touch. “I believe you.” He visibly relaxed, his breath leaving him as his shoulders released the tension that was building. “I believe you, Chim. I just needed to process. Don’t cry, please. I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry. I should’ve told you. I shouldn’t have made up some bullshit excuse every summer.”

“Why do you go there every summer, anyways?”

“A lot of reasons.” He’d stopped crying by now, but was still sniffling a little. It almost felt like one of your late night conversations, when you were both holed up in either your room or his. “I used to go for training, since most Faes—that’s what I am, I’m half Fae, short for Faerie—are trained—”

“Woah, like combat training and shit?” you asked, eyes wide and beginning to compare Jimin to every fantasy protagonist character you could imagine.”

He laughed loudly, eyes squishing in that painfully endearing way that made you want to pinch his cheeks. So you did, and he laughed even harder. “Yes, like combat training and shit. I also go to see the royal family, since the king used to be close to my father—”

You cut him off again, confused. “Wait, isn’t your father the king—holy shit, you’re a prince. Oh my god. My best friend is a prince and I didn’t even know about it,” you exhaled, eyes wide and hands dropping from his face to your lap. His hands followed yours.

He was looking at you with a fond look on his face, feeling lighter than ever at being able to talk to you about this. “Not quite. He was, several years ago, but he was assassinated by my uncle and his followers,” he said gently, already knowing how you’d react.

Your eyes found his quickly, brows furrowing as your own guys began watering. “I’m so sorry, Jimin. I didn’t know,” you whispered, arms wrapping around his neck to hug him close.

“It’s okay, baby. I was young; I don’t remember much of him, so there isn’t much for me to miss.” He still accepted your hug, gladly, and rested his chin on your head. You seemed to need more consolation than he had, and it only made him smile wider.

“Still. I’m sorry you couldn’t talk to me about any of this. I’m sorry you probably felt alone for nine months out of the year,” you said, pulling away from him. He didn’t let you get far, letting you move just far enough to see his face.

You were tearing up, and he could see the effort you were putting into keeping from crying, but the tears still fell. He cooed at you, face going completely soft at your expression, your compassion. His heart squeezed in the most tender way at the way you cared so much, the way you loved him so much. It was so pure, and he knew he’d done the right thing telling you. “I’m okay, baby, promise” he spoke softly, pulling at his sweater paws to dab at your tears. “And I’ve never felt alone when I was with you, Y/n.” It was him tugging you in this time, resting one hand on the back of your head to lean it against his chest while his other arm wrapped around your shoulders.

“What else?” you said, voice a little hoarse.

“Hm?” He was perfectly content in the position you were in, having missed your warmth in the several hours he believed he wouldn’t see you for months.

“You said there were a lot of reasons you went back to Sera in the summer, but I cut you off before you finished. What else?”

“Oh.” He exhaled. “You remember those six guys who were here a few minutes ago?” You almost scowled when you remembered the muscular one who’d slammed you against the boulder, but he felt you nod. “They’re practically my family. We’re called an Atri. It’s the most sacred bond between people back in Sera. There’s a magic ceremony for it and all. I care about them just about the same as I care about you.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet,” an unfamiliar voice drawled out near you.

You pulled back from Jimin, and both of you turned back to face the six men who had been here earlier.

“Yoongi, didn’t I tell you guys to leave us for a bit?” Jimin responded.

“We got bored,” another one said, pouting. “Plus, the children were getting restless.”

“You’re not that much older than us, asswipe,” one shot back, kicking some sand at him.

“What Hoseok and Taehyung mean to say,” the tallest one said, “is that we need to get going. The rift is closing soon. We’ll come back tomorrow night to get you.”

“Besides, Jeongguk has his panties in a twist,” another sniggered, his laughs only getting louder. Jeongguk swiftly kicked him in the shin.

“Fuck off, Seokjin,” he grumbled. Ah. Jeongguk. So, that’s the ass who knocked you out.

Jimin just rolled his eyes. “Namjoon’s right. You guys should get out of here. I don’t have room for you assholes back at my place. Just come get us tomorrow.”

They all stiffened. You did too.

“Us?” you asked, turning to him. He froze, too, before turning to you.

“Why not?” he said, almost pleadingly. “I mean, you know everything now. And it’s summer. You don’t have any assignments and all our finals are done.”

“Yes, but I live here, Chim. My whole life, my family and friends are all here. Just because I know the basics doesn’t mean I know enough about Sera to go.”

“I’m with Y/n on this one, Jimin. It isn’t safe, and Earth is nothing like back home,” Namjoon responds.

Jimin is still looking at you. “Come on. You weren’t going back home, anyways. Your family’s on vacation, so you wouldn’t have been able to see them. Most of our friends are going on vacation, too, and you aren’t that close the ones that are staying. And I think you’ll like Sera, even if it isn’t like Earth. I’ll show you the places I spent my summers, where I grew up. Come on.”

You didn’t know how to respond, how to argue back, so you looked back at Namjoon as if to ask for help. He only shrugs. “He does have a point. You should come if you don’t have anyone to stay for.”

You pouted, watching him grin back at you. “Traitor.” You hesitantly looked back to Jimin.

“Say yes.” His eyes were flitting between both of yours, searching to see if you had any other argument left in you. He grinned when he saw you didn’t have one.

“I guess we’re going on an adventure.”

You didn’t have to look to know that the displeased grumble had come from Jeongguk.

next | series masterlist | masterlist

[suckerforv]

     You inhaled deeply, the fresh cold air filling your lungs as you walked down the streets of Seoul. You had gone out for a walk, and you smiled as you remembered the scene of your lovely boyfriend, Hobi, doing the same thing in BTS World. Yes, you were dating not just one of BTS’s members, but seven! You loved all seven of them dearly, and they loved you just the same. Since then, you eight had made your relationship public, and while some thought it cute and adorable, many others found ways to harass you, but nobody had thought to physically hurt you, since you almost always had the boys with you… until now.

       “HEY!” a voice shouted, jerking you out of your thoughts.

   Startled, you turned around, only to face a group of girls who glared at you. “Can I help you?” you asked nervously.

   “Um, yeah. You can help by staying away from our oppas,” the leader of the group huffed, looking you up and down, her lips curling into a sneer. “Why would they choose you anyways?” she looked at you in disgust.

    “Yeah. You’re so fat, you’re too ugly for them.”

“Your skin is terrible. You should consider plastic surgery. I bet the boys are embarrassed to be hanging out with such a ugly girl like you.”

   “Your skin is even darker than mine, why would they date a darkie like you?”

  “You’re so fucking ugly, you should just die, that way you won’t see any of our oppas again.”

   “How did they even see you?”

“Your thighs are too fat, you must be a thousand pounds.”

   “You’ll never be as pretty as them.”

  You had had enough, and you started to walk away, tears forming in your eyes, but you refused to let them see you cry. But the leader yanked you back by snatching your wrist and threw you to the ground. “YOU STAY AWAY FROM OUR OPPAS, YOU HEAR ME???!!! YOU’RE JUST A BITCH, A SLUT!” she screamed in your face, which was already wet from the dew on the cement ground.

   The other girls started throwing mud at you, making you gasp as the mud stained your clothes. “Fuck off,” you spat coldly. The leader immediately punched your face, making blood pour from your nose and smiled in sadistic satisfaction.

   “That’s what you get for talking back to me, slut,” she spat, slapping you across the face. Tears fell from your eyes, and you prayed that someone, anyone, even another ARMY, to come and save you.

     “HEY! LEAVE HER ALONE!” a voice yelled, and you looked up wearily. It wasn’t one of the boys, and you struggled to see. “THE HELL SHE EVER DO TO YOU, HUH?!”

  The leader scoffed, about to throw a punch to the stranger’s face when the stranger spun around and kicked her in the face. “How’s that feel, bitch?!”

   The other girls gasped and glared at the stranger. “Who are you?”    “My name is Mia, a true ARMY fan who accepts the boys’ decision to date anyone, regardless of their size, race, appearance, and shape,” the girl snapped. “Now fuck off, because I have the whole recording here on my phone, of you girls harassing y/n, and I will give this to Bang PD,” she glared daggers at the girls, whose faces turned pale.

  “Please, please don’t! It’ll ruin my image!”

 “Please don’t, the boys will hate us if they found out!”

 Mia smirked and scoffed at the girls, who were helping their leader up from the ground. “You should’ve thought before, bitches. Ta-ta!” she threw them the middle finger before helping you off the ground, and walking you back to the dorm.

     You two walked in silence for a while, you sniffing every now and then. “Thank you for saving me,” you whispered, making Mia smile sympathetically. “I was so afraid nobody was going to-”

  “Hey,” Mia interrupted, making you look at her. “Whatever those mean bitches said, they’re just jealous of you. Jealous that you get to spend time with the most handsomest men on the planet! Girl, I’m even a little jealous myself!” she laughed again, then her face turned dead serious. “Y/n, you are beautiful, and don’t EVER let anybody tell you otherwise. I’m going to give the recording to Bang PD. It’s a serious thing if you get attacked by fans, y/n. And I’m sure the boys will not be happy if they don’t do something to prevent something like this happening again.”

     “Thank you, Mia,” you hugged her thankfully as you two arrived back at the dorms. “Would you like to come in, just for a little bit, because it’s really cold out there!”

   Mia thought for a bit, then nodded, a smile gracing her face. “Sure! I can’t stay long though, because I have to get back to my mom soon.”

     “Great! I want to do something to repay you for helping me,” you smiled back at her, leading her into the dorm, where you both took off your shoes and headed into the kitchen. As expected, Jin was at the stove, cooking, and immediately gasped when he saw your bruised body and face. “Y/N! What happened?” His face turned stone cold when he saw Mia. “Did she-”

   “Before you murder anybody, Jinnie, no, she didn’t do this to me. She saved me, and has the recording of the assault,” you replied, hugging him, and he immediately relaxed.

   “Yeah. I was walking home from school, and I saw across the street that she was getting harassed, and I recognized her from your guys’s VLives,” Mia answered to Jin’s questioning look. “I got up close, and I took a video so that you guys could identify the girls and hear their voices, too.” She waved her phone in the air and smirked. “That girl tried to punch me, but my black-belt karate skills had her on the ground in a split millisecond.”

    A group of boys tumbled down the stairs when they heard your voice and stopped short when they heard Mia speaking of this.

 “Y/n! What happened?” the boys rushed to you, hugging you, making you let out an “oomph”. Mia cooed at how cute you all were together, and the boys’ heads turned towards her, and her face flushed red.

  “Guys, this is Mia. She saved me from the saesang fans,” you explained so no one would murder her. Rolling your eyes when you saw Yoongi glaring at her suspiciously, you continued, “She was not stalking me, she was walking home from school, and she saw the girls harassing me on the other side of the street. She took a video, and then gave the leader what she deserved, ” you finished, giving Mia a thankful smile.

  The boys let out a sigh of relief and numerous “thank you”‘s and “i’m so glad you’re a supportive fan” flowed towards Mia, making her smile and bow. “It’s no problem. My parents have a poly relationship too, and I totally understand how it feels to get all the hate from numerous people. I just hope it all dies down soon.”

  Namjoon shook her hand, smiling so that his dimples showed. “Thank you very much, Mia. Not many fans are that supportive of our relationship, so I’m glad you’re understanding.”

  Mia smiled back. “It’s not a problem. By the way, I need y/n’s number.” Seeing the boys tense up, she snorted. “To send her the video of the girls harassing her. Jeez!”

  “Sorry, we just are very protective of her,” Namjoon scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

  Mia nodded, and you gave her number on a post-it. You thanked her, and she waved as she left the dorms.

   As soon as the door closed, the boys pulled you towards the sofa, where they all cuddled up to you, making you giggle. “Guys. I need to change and tend to my-” you winced as Hobi rubbed against your side, which was bruising, “injuries.”

  The boys got off of you quickly, making you roll your eyes at them. You hobbled to your bathroom, where you took a relaxing shower and changed into your pajamas. Jin then helped you with your injuries.

 “Ow!” you yelped as Jin touched up your knee with an alcohol wipe, glaring at him. “That hurts,” you sniffled.

 “I know, honey. I’m almost done,” Jin kissed your knee, making you giggle. Jin finished and carried you to the living room where the rest were waiting to cuddle. (of course.)

  “Why did you choose me?” you whispered.

“What do you mean, why?” Yoongi asked, frowning. “We chose you because you’re so kind, sympathetic, and compassionate towards everyone you meet.”  

   “I mean, I’m not even that pretty,” you sighed. “My skin is not that flawless, like your guys’s.”

“Nobody’s perfect, y/n, and we are no exception,” Namjoon raised himself up on one elbow as he looked at you. “We’re all human beings, and humans make mistakes.”

  “Wow, when did Namjoonie hyung get so philosophical?” Taehyung wondered out loud, making you all laugh.

  “It’s that sexy brain up in here, baby,” Namjoon smirked, pointing to his head, making you all burst out in laughter again.

   “Seriously, though, you’re pretty and beautiful in our eyes, y/n, and we wouldn’t trade you for anybody else,” Jimin booped your nose, making you giggle.

   “Jimin hyung is right. It’s not the outside that matters, it’s the inside that does. You could wear a trashbag and still be beautiful in our eyes, babe,” Jungkook caressed your cheek lovingly.

   “I’m so lucky to have you guys,” you told them. “Nobody really loved me my whole life like you guys do.”

   The rest of the night you were smothered in kisses, cuddles, and a move night with all eight of you cuddled against each other.

 “I love you all so much,” you breathed as you looked at all of them lovingly.

  “We love you too, y/n,” they all replied. Namjoon stroked your hand comfortingly. Together they echoed the words that you held close to your heart:

  “We’ll always be your comfort.”

[neoculturetechxgot7]

Gardenia on the crown - J.J.H.

2; Sun kissed gardens

pairing: Jung Jaehyun × Reader

genre: angst

length: around 2k words

warnings: profanity

``

The distance from the ballroom to the gardens is fairly short, having to cross only a few wide halls buzzing with the usual morning preparations as maids and servants swiftly moved around with hasty steps.

You're surprised to soon find yourself crossing a large patio paved with thick, grey gravel to reach what the king said to be the countryard, where a seemingly endless sea of green spread under the skyline. Without wasting a moment, you follow both elders as they begin making their way between big, voluminous bushes and blooming flowers covering each side of the stone path.

It seems to be more of a maze than a garden, its complicated spirals of greenery pushing you to the brim of dizziness, constant turns killing your sense of direction. At this point, it's a fact that you'd get lost if left alone in there.

The sky is clear and gifts you a generous supply of sun beams, which you presume to be nature's way of sympathizing with your new reality, trying to provide the slightest comfort. It's hard to enjoy even that though, with Jaehyun by your side. At least he makes sure to keep more than enough distance and you feel internally grateful for his understanding of personal space.

You steal a brief glance on your right where he strolls carelessly, hands in the pockets of his dress pants like a gentleman. Glaring far into the horizon, he seems to have retreated into his own thoughts which causes you to feel a little more relaxed, knowing he isn't intently watching your every move.

The sudden urge to run away almost overpowers you when his eyes, pink and purple lavender mirroring in their depths, lock with yours and embarrassment pierces through you so brutally. Once again, your cheeks probably get more blush than any rose in the entire palace as you quickly snap your head to the other side.

He literally just caught you staring.

But there is nothing wrong with that, right? He is your husband-to-be after all...

Thanfully, Jaehyun doesn't comment anything, only leaves a blanket of silence drape over you and the bold decision of looking at anything but him takes a good seat in the back of your head.

Thankfully, the plants around you can provide a great distraction as you get fascinated by their vivid colours and freshness, early dew still sliding off of velvety petals and leaves. They aren't as Iively as those back home nor is there as much variety, but still it remains a pretty sight.

What really catches your attention though are a few snowy white blooms emerging from a plush bush beside the path and your heart flutters, inevitably drawn to them. Ducking with golden satin pooling around your ankles, your fingers reach out to pluck one and the next moment you're burying your nose to deeply inhale in the beautiful scent that makes fairies dance on the crisp air.

You love it. That's why you can't bare to avert your gaze, instead standing over the plants as if you can somehow escape in their dreamy world, wiping tiny droplets from their surface to feel the coolness of morning.

"Gardenia." A voice comes from behind and you quickly realise it's Jaehyun, his heavy footsteps growing louder as he approached.

"I know." You reply, almost allowing a chuckle past your lips. "My mother adores them. She says it takes a lot of care for these to grow."

"We do take care of them here." There is a tone of pointing out the obvious lacing his words as he halts before the flowers and slowly leans to sniff one.

"You take care of them?" You ask with a finger pointing at him, genuinely curious to know if the prince of ice has a soft spot for gardening after all.

"No, of course not. Servants do." Jaehyun explains nonchalantly and, after looking back at the path, gestures for you to follow, since both your parents have already moved way ahead.

The hint of enthusiasm in your chest is quickly crashed by his answer and once again it feels so unbearably cold to be around him, an imaginary yet sturdy wall built between you two. He continues walking, completely ignoring the uneasiness being alone with him causes you.

You wish to rush to your father's side, hide under his wing and plea to stop the marriage, but your pride and unbending sense of responsibility leaves you simply scurrying to catch up.

You don't trade any other words as he continues pretending oblivion to your existence and you begin hating even the slightest idea of him, burning with desire for all of this mess to end.

♤

A torturous amount of time later, your heels are digging into the expensive burgundy carpet decorating a high staircase leading up to what the king said to be your royal chambers. You can't wait to go up these steps and sink in the peace and quiet of a well-made bed. Privacy and some time alone is all you need to put the tornado of incomprehensible thoughts racking your mind in order.

And while you're daydreaming about soft pillows and the chilling touch of cotton sheets, Jaehyun's father keeps on with his relentless ramble regarding the wedding, which, from what you understood, will be held under the next full moon, in about a month from now.

It then dawns on you how, truly, you have only 25 days before you allow that awful prince to slide a band of polished platinum on your ring finger and tie your lives together in eternity. Then, as the unwritten laws of the ancient proclaimed, you'd be inseparable.

Fuck all of this.

Screaming and shouting until the moon itself tears in half seems like a tempting option to let out the despair now nibbling at every inch of you skin. Hatred and so much fury boils in your bloodstream, especially after your gaze lands on your betrothed, who was eyeing you back, possibly with raw dislike.

You realize now that, really, you despise him.

He's standing just a step below, too close for your lungs to breathe freely but close enough for your nails to claw at his eyes and-

"...and the ceremony will take place at the palace, before the grand feast..." The hoarsennes of the king's voice scratches your ears almost cruelly.

You can't stand hearing whatever shit is coming out his mouth, already way past your breaking point. You can't take it anymore, you can't wait for him to finish that annoying monologue.

Your fingers start to tremble ever so slightly, golden rings clashing inaudibly against each other.

You don't want to hear anything else about that damned wedding, the upcoming end of life as you know it, and right now all you can think about is how to reach your room as soon as possible.

Then, a god-sent idea flashes before your conscious, dramatic yet somehow good, the distress in your eyes replaced by glimmering relief.

If this works, you'll be in the security of a spacious room within seconds, away from the overwhelming royals and their annoying chit-chat.

A soft gasp falls from your parted lips and a hand shot up to your forehead, knees bending slightly.

"Sweetheart, are you okay?" Your dad's concern coated tone sends traces of guilt to crawl under your skin.

"Yes, I'm just feeling a little dizzy, father." You whine, sounding pathetic nonetheless, leaning towards his embrace for support.

"Do you need me to call the maids?"

Your inevitably gaze shoots to Jaehyun's father eyeing you, awaiting your answer.

"No, no, it's alright. I'd prefer to retreat from your company, though." You mentally cringe at the immerse politeness you're forced show when in reality all you long to say is a simple fuck off, all of you.

So your plan might be...really pitiful at its execution after all. You aren't sure if anyone will believe your pretentious groan of pain and the helpless tone, but even so, who can refuse a princess a such simple request?

"The sun. Its probably the heat that's caused this, my Lady." The unbothered king points out, without a single drop of regret in his voice for having you wander around the entire garden under the searing licks of sunshine.

And then, fingertips scorch a tight grasp around your wrist making you flinch, eyes darting daggers at Jaehyun who is taking a step forward to tower over you, blaze adorning his gaze.

"Are you sure you're alright, princess?" His other hand snakes its way around your waist so smoothly, fingers squeezing waves of newfound heat against your side.

You can burst any moment now and slap that pretty face of his that's now only a breath away as he pulls you ever so slightly towards his chest.

If you had a fake headache before, it's a certain fact that a real one is starting to pulse inside your head at right now.

"Guards!" The king loudly calls for the two men in light armor standing on either side of the base of the stairs and they hurry away from their positions to approach you. "Take her highness to her royal chambers immediately."

You'd be glad to be escorted by them, followed by the soft clatter of iron as you head for the comfort of your apartments, away from that stupid prince.

But apparently Jaehyun isn't about to allow that luxury, when he throws a sharp nod to stop them dead on their tracks.

"I got her."

No, no, no, no. Damnit, no.

You can barely contain your body's reaction to violently wiggle out of his grip and pick up your skirts to bolt away, not giving a shit about manners at this point. Being almost pressed flush with his body strangely drains you of energy and clouds your mind with a heavy daze, sensing his every warm inhale brush against your neck.

"Father, please continue without us."

You don't make it to hear what the others mumble -probably their farewells- as he spins you around, palm moving lower on the small of your back to support it, although it's really not necessary. If it weren't for his tight hold though, you would've fallen flat on your face after tripping on the first step, the clumsiness striking you yet again.

"Do you need me to carry you?" He leans to whisper in your ear, freezing you in place at the proximity and his spine-chilling touch.

You are somewhat disgusted. His concern is probably nothing more than sugar-coated pretence.

"No, I'm okay. I can do this alone." That's all you manage to blurt out, insides lit on ruby fire as you try to move away hopelessly.

Even so, his bony fingers don't loosen up. "There's only a few steps left."

His voice rings faintly, because everything around you except him seems to disintegrate into a blur and you melt painfully slow into his unwanted embrace. The erratic heartbeat thumping on your temples is louder than gunshots at this point, making you wonder if he can hear it so clearly too.

Jaehyun's scent of sandalwood and rosemary has a shaky breath hitch at your throat so painfully, overpowering all your senses in a feverish way.

You curse at your impatience, regretting not waiting for the king to end the annoying palace tour and bidding all three men goodbye to find your room all alone. Yes, that would've been perfect compared to the current situation.

Your whole body is tense, every muscle buzzing with electricity as you keep going up the staircase in the heated hands of your betrothed.

The devil holds you tight only to burn you tighter.

//

[nympsycho-ao3]

Dimessa Temporaneamente

Want to read on AO3? Click here! (please heed the tags!)

Three years after your escape from Cioccolata's enslavement, you've finally gotten used to the taste of freedom.

Unfortunately for you, Cioccolata knows better than to let you run free, and he's more vicious and vindictive than ever before. He has so much to show you, revealing his newfound pet and talents in the most visceral, repulsive way possible. After all, three years of disobedience can't go uncompensated.

Please heed the tags. Contains graphic depictions of torture, sexual, physical, and mental abuse, drug abuse/use, and major character death.

A sequel to "Mia Piccola Cagnolina", though it is not necessary to read before this one.

A commission fic.

 Escaping Cioccolata’s bondage was a formidable challenge, but just one lucky break was all you needed. You’d memorized his work schedule, his meal times, the sound of his heavy footsteps above you to map his routines. It all paid off; freedom is sweet, the smell of morning dew dotted with earth from last night’s rain.

 “Calm down, Rynke,” you murmur to yourself, sliding open the door for the plucky pug that toddles out onto the porch. He’s been attached to you at the hip since the day you picked him up from the shelter.

 You swear you can still hear       his     laugh, sadistic and deep.

 Luckily, the calls of birds drown it out, your eyes closing to enjoy the distraction. You bring the  mug of coffee to your lips and take a sip, a bit too hot to enjoy. Luckily, that’s just how you like it.

 His chuckle returns to your from the depths of your psyche, souring the coffee in the bottom of your mouth. You choke down bitterness as your brows furrow, your lip curling with disgust. Your wound pain is truly psychosomatic, flaring up every time you remember what was done to you.

 You’ve healed more than you thought you would in three years, though it definitely wasn’t easy.

 Rynke settles, plopping down onto the porch. It’s unusual for him to be quiet, but it’s even more unusual for him to growl as harshly as he does now. Your eyes open, only to be greeted by the serenity of nature as it always was, looking out for moose or lynx that might have alarmed him.

 There’s nothing but the rustling of the trees.

 Until suddenly, there’s      nothing    .

 And then there’s everything.

 Rynke barks ceaselessly as your vision is obstructed by what feels like a suffocating vice around your face. The fabric of it sucks into the gape of your mouth as you try to take in air, fear forcing air into your lungs with a gasp.

 Your coffee splashes from the mug and onto your chest with a sickening scorch before the ceramic shatters at your feet. You cry out, the noise muffled by the sudden clamping around your trachea. The stranglehold forces you into action, flailing your arms out desperately, only for them to be caught by something, or some      one    , stonelike and strong.

 You tremble profoundly as your arms are bent behind your back, fighting the pressure of a fist finding your hair through the sack around your head. Your entire being becomes dedicated to the surge of adrenaline that burns in your blood until another fist cracks against your cheekbone with a wicked punch, shutting you up and making you bite your tongue.

 You whimper pathetically, blood dripping from somewhere in your mouth and sloughing onto your chin, as your head is tilted back and to the side. Fear paralyzes you as someone heavy straddles your thighs, keeping you pinned in place; you can hear their breathing, the sound all too familiar and gut-wrenchingly disgusting.

 “My little escape artist…” his voice burns deep in your skull.

 “No…” you manage to whimper. “You son of a fucking…”

 You wince at the sensation of a long needle penetrating the vessels of your neck. You try to jerk yourself away to no avail, the richness of his chuckle masked by what sounds like a rabid beast’s breathing behind you.

 “I figured you’d be more of a cat person,” he continues, something cold stinging your vein as he plunges a syringe. It’s a feeling you’re come to know just from the bite of medicine, one that sickens you to the bone and nauseates you. “Dogs are so… needy.”

 The thing behind you, gripping your arms and hair too tightly for any semblance of mercy, barks a laugh.

 It’s the last thing you hear before the light shining through the meshed threads of the bag darkens into nothing.

--

 You awake to sniveling.

 Aside from the strange dribble of water that drips rhythmically onto the concrete floor, the pitiful noises of sniffling are all that you hear. You’re unable to verbalize yourself, still dazed from drugs and confusion.

 You manage to open your eyes just enough to spot the figure of what must be a young man, somehow suspended above you from the ceiling. Your vision unfogs slowly, catching brief details of the boy’s black hair adorned with what looks to be a strange, orange headband.

 Then, you notice that he’s staring right at you.

 He trembles, breathing heavily through his nose since his mouth is gagged and secured with duct tape. He’s heavily battered, his chest flailing with each breath, terrified and whimpering.

 “Long time no see, my pet.”

 Your eyes widen with the greeting, wondering if this was just another nightmare that Rynke would wake you up from any moment now. Your hope is squandered quickly with a sharp pain searing deep in your thigh, your neck rolling as you try to identify the source.

 You try to move something, anything, but you can only manage a languid roll of your hips. You turn your head to assess the macabre restraints securing your wrists and ankles to a grossly cold stainless steel operating table, digging into your skin.

 A feral, goblin-like chortle echoes from behind you; you’re not sure if the source is far away, or if your ears are still cotton-filled from sedation. Either way, the noise disgusts you, but it’s nothing compared to the slimy hand that snakes its way onto your abdomen.

 His fingers are slicked with blood, its origin horrifically unknown. You follow the trail that shiny, black-gloved fingers make along your stomach, your peripheral vision slowly returning with each hurried blink.

 “Much has changed,” he drawls, speaking just loudly enough to overcome the whines from above. “But I’ve always known you’d come back to me.”

 Your mouth is too dry to succeed in a swallow, your saliva soaked by the bite block stuffed between your teeth. You try to push it out with your tongue, only to find that it doesn’t budge, securely tied behind your head. Panic wracks your body, his voice spurring deep-seeded fear to root among your viscera.

 “Relax,” he insists, his entirety finally coming into view as if he were teasing you. His hair is longer, more erratic and messily styled into dreads. He maintains his signature psychopathy painted clearly on his features, taking in the fear that he obviously induces in you simply with his presence. He’s traded his navy blue scrubs for an eccentric outfit, his chest and abdomen exposed as he leans over you, framed with a cross-like visage and pointed with a wide lapel. Your eyes linger on what you figure must be the waist-strap of a thong that frames the crest of his hip, your brows furrowing at the ridiculousness of it.

 “You’ll have your turn,” he continues, snapping you out of disoriented thought.

 Your attention is returned to the wriggling mass above you, able to truly see the pain and terror in his eyes as Cioccolata looks up at him curiously. He cries, his tears dropping down onto you with sparse plops. The figure that’s haunted you every night for three years moves slowly as he crawls onto the table, returning his ardent gaze onto you. You eye the white shorts he wears, making way for the black, latex stockings that stretch up to his thighs.

 He straddles your hips, looking down at you with pinpoint pupils despite the dim lighting of the room. The weight of his body sickens you, the way he looks at you like a piece of meat nauseating. The green of his eyes returns you to a place you never thought you’d have to endure again, the nubs of your amputated fingers starting to ache; you’re not sure if it’s from the lack of circulation, or traumatic stress manifesting somatically.

 He trails your bare chest, marred with a second-degree burn from your coffee, with steady fingers as if he’s admiring an antique, the latex of his gloves catching on your sweat and squeaking horribly. He sighs, the wind of his breath trembling with excitement, before raising a fist and pounding it into your gut quicker than you can recoil from. You cough, the wind knocked from your lungs painfully, tears already flowing down your face from fear of what you know is waiting for you.

 Cioccolata leans in close to your face, the scent of expensive lipstick on his breath. He runs his tongue along the river of your tears, your cheek sliming with his spit. He pauses and appreciates the bouquet of your suffering like a fine wine, chuckling darkly to himself before rearing up and looking down at you victoriously.

 He climbs off of you, taking his time, and approaches the head of the table. The ogreish huffing noise continues, somehow less disturbing than Cioccolata’s hands on your shoulders. Suddenly, with a skull-wracking clap, your face is encased in two hands other than your captor’s. They feel gooey like mud, keeping your head in place and forcing you to look up at the blubbering mess of a boy above you.

 “After your… departure,” Cioccolata begins, crocodile-heartbreak saturating his tone, “I had no choice but to find another pet. I’ve also become acquainted with some interesting… new talents.”

 Your brows furrow as you watch the young man writhe against his restraints, his eyes following what must be Cioccolata’s path. A feral laugh, dotted with the sound of nasally spit, echoes behind you.

 Then, you see it.

 It hovers over your face with its own, back hunched with setting-sun eyes. You’re paralyized under its gaze, only its eyes exposed as the rest hides behind what looks to be a mask. The covering of its face sloughs with mud and dirt, and as it moves to reveal its mouth like some sort of living creature, dribbles of mess scatter onto your face.

 The dirt is much less disgusting than the gluey slobber that drips onto your forehead and cheeks, seeping from its horrible smile. You shiver, writhing against your restraints to no avail as it drips like exudate along the side of your face.

 “Relax, Secco,” Cioccolata drawls. “Soon.”

 You realize this thing must be named Secco. Not that it mattered.

 The boy above you starts to panic entirely, his eyes locked on something out of your view.

 “You’ve yet to witness the full scale of my power,” Cioccolata says softly, almost inaudible over the boy’s muffled screams. “Though, you cannot possibly comprehend it.”

 With the noise of a clattering chain, the boy suddenly plunges towards you. You flinch, expecting him to collide with you, but he’s merely suspended a few feet above you, violet eyes locked on yours before they start to roll into the back of his head.

 You’re utterly confused, left with no frame of reference that could possibly explain what you see next.

 The boy’s skin makes way for a gurgling, broiling sick that froths from deep inside his body, as if it were under pressure and suddenly released. Bubbles form under his skin, only to burst horrifically and empty fuzzy, green exudate onto your bare skin. He cries out until his throat is filled with what smells and looks like mold, seeping from the duct tape and flowing from his nose. With a final, excruciating buildup of pressure, his skull fractures and spills an amalgamation of brain matter and mold onto your face. His eyeballs dangle from what used to be his sockets, finally silenced and limp as the mold takes what’s left of his body.

 You’re rendered absolutely noiseless, shivering with fear and disgust, his eye dangling disturbingly close to yours.

 “Isn’t it beautiful?” Cioccolata laughs behind you. “I doubt you’d like to suffer the same fate as Mr. Ghirga, though.”

 You don’t recognize the name, but considering his sinew drips onto your body stinking of rot, it feels like you know him rather intimately. Cioccolata’s threat looms heavily over you, knowing that the stakes were even higher than before.

 The boy’s corpse is raised back towards the ceiling, its remnants still dripping as the mold consumes his bones.

 Cioccolata makes himself known to you once again with a flat palm against your cheek as he circles back towards your feet. He trails down your body and settles on the crook of your thigh, not dancing around his intentions. Secco releases your head as it follows him, almost out of view as it appears to crawl on all fours. You spot what looks to be a bolt sticking out of the back of its cranium, the suit meshing around its insertion.

 “You’re one troublesome puppy,” Cioccolata remarks as he adjusts something under the table, his other hand gripping your ankle with a squeak of his glove.

 You cry out pitifully as you’re moved into lithotomy position, the steel of the table rising to bite into stirrups behind the back of your knees painfully. He glares down at you as a wide smile grows across his face, his hand trailing onto your pussy without hesitation. Secco works to secure the restraints tighter, leather buckled straps insidiously tough.

 Secco huffs, obviously intrigued, his tongue lapping from between his lips to drape over his chin. You squirm and fight the position of your legs, grating the head of your femur within its joint painfully.

 “Stop squirming, pig,” Cioccolata spits before slapping the inside of your thigh. It burns as if every ounce of his vitriol embedded in your skin. He digs his fingers into it, pinning you into stillness.

 “Secco,” he starts, catching the animal’s attention. “Get the camera.”

 The camera?

 His assistant chortles as it does as it’s told with the sprawling of its limbs. Cioccolata’s unoccupied hand searches along a stainless steel tray by his side, prepped with a blue sterile dressing long before you woke up.

 “Unfortunately, three years of disobedience doesn’t afford you much in terms of choice,” Cioccolata growls, selecting a lead-fillet mallet from the side table. “But, here’s one. Right or left?”

 You look down at him with wide eyes, screaming noiselessly in confusion. He taps the head of the mallet against each of your toes as he waits for you to somehow answer with a gag stuffed in your mouth.

 “Hm, she’s indecisive. What do you think, Secco?”

 Secco holds the camera steadily at your feet, crouched atop the table for the perfect angle. Your eyes lock on to the rhythmic blinking of red light, frightening you deep to your core as you remember a similar one from your confinement.

 “Left! Left!” it barks, its chest heaving with excitement.

 “Hm,” Cioccolata ponders, twirling the mallet between his fingers. “Right it is, then.”

 You had no idea what he was talking about until you become horribly, lucidly aware.

 He puts all of his weight behind a swing of the mallet, throwing it onto your femur with a sickening pound. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you clench them shut, screaming from the pit of your throat at the incredible, mindblowing pain you hardly stay conscious to experience. You can feel the shards of your bone slosh around the movement of your muscles as it stays put in the restraint, though the portion most proximal to your hip sways with your movement. With two, three more swings, your femur is nearly obliterated into mush under your skin.

 “Stay still,” Cioccolata commands, dropping the mallet onto the table haphazardly as he snaps his hand onto your hip. “You’ll tear the blood vessels.”

 You can hardly hear him over the ringing in your ears, watching a gruesome hematoma form around the assured crumbles of your bone.

 “Well, more than you already have,” Cioccolata mentions casually, instigating the wound with his thumb. “That should keep you in your place, no?”

 You feel consciousness slipping away from you, only to be brought back with a swift capture of your throat into Secco’s hand. It squeezes hard as it sticks the camera in your face, its visible eye closed to view you through the lens.

 “My apologies for my assistant,” Cioccolata hums, rising unseen, “he has his fixations.”

 Secco pokes its thumb against your larynx before withdrawing, snarling a chuckle as it watches you cough from the crushing pressure. It claws at your breast instead, drooling onto your chest, its fingers feeling like sandpaper along the scalded skin.

 Secco becomes the least of your worries as Cioccolata pries his thumb inside your pussy, assessing the boundaries of it with a pull and glide along your pubis symphysis. He hums in approval, though the noise of it is drowned out by Secco’s beastly huff of breath as he eyes your chest.

 “Not yet,” Cioccolata gripes as he snaps his fingers, diverting his pet’s attention from you to await his command. “Here first.”

 You sigh with relief as he releases your breast, only to crawl towards his master. It’s as if it knows exactly what Cioccolata expects from it, setting the camera down to frame your vulva with its hands. It spreads you apart too quickly for comfort, its face hovering over your stomach to assess what it has to work with.

 It plunges both index fingers into you, grating against the tight, moistureless confines of your walls. The discomfort hardly compares to the aching of your broken leg, though the shame you feel wracks your mind in waves. Secco sloughs saliva from its bottom lip onto its fingers, making them slippery enough to jam its middle fingers inside as well. It snorts as its knuckles bottom out inside you, under Cioccolata’s scrutinizing approval.

 “Open.”

 Secco licks its lips as it abducts its hands, disregarding your boundaries completely and gaping your entrance open for Cioccolata’s analytical stare. You roll your hips as much as you can manage, Secco’s fingers scissoring you to stretch your muscle viciously.

 Cioccolata wordlessly commands his underling, nodding approvingly as Secco sends a glob of saliva from the tip of its tongue inside you. It concludes with a harsh spit, spattering drops in its wake that make you shiver.

 Cioccolata takes it upon himself to fill the void with three fingers, slicking your walls with Secco’s spit before jamming their fingers together inside you. You bite the guard between your teeth at the coldness of latex and the sudden invasion, closing your eye after a clump of mold falls onto it.

 “Good,” Cioccolata praises as he pats his accomplice’s head. It takes it as an invitation to withdraw, rearing up onto its knees to watch Cioccolata drive his fingers into the newfound tightness. Soon, that apparently bores it, finding your breasts again with a slurp of its tongue. Its suit shrinks under its chin, looking up at you to expose its teeth in a malicious grin.

 They’re metal.

 Your brows furrow at the sheen of them, textured and with exaggerated, elongated anatomy. Its inhuman tongue captures your attention away from the short bursts of Cioccolata’s fingers digging deep. It wriggles along the roundness of your breast before settling on your nipple.

 Cioccolata picks up the camera with his spare hand, chuckling darkly at whatever information he must know that you don’t. He points it directly at your face as Secco drives its canines into your breast, followed by its incisors, pinning you down onto the table with its weight. You scream, earning a grin from both of them.

 Secco laps at the blood at seeps from the bite, slapping your other breast with the flat of its fingers. Cioccolata curls his fingers inside you, pulling out just enough to force his pinkie in as well. Four fingers work to stretch and explore you, watching your expression of despair and pain through the camera’s lens.

 “Do you see how good he is?” Cioccolata murmurs, fighting the resistance that you give him. “He listens to everything I say.”

 Secco practically wags its tail at the praise, releasing its teeth from your tissue with a snap. Blood leaks from the punctures, dripping down your chest in stripes. With another wordless command, Secco swipes its fingers along the wounds, squeezing your breast to squelch more blood from it. It slaps its bloodied fingers adjacent to Cioccolata’s, lubing them up further. He nods, dismissing his servant and continuing to slam his fingers into you.

 “Hopefully I don’t have to take out half of your brain like him, though…”

 Secco takes the camera and shuffles towards your head, eyeing you hungrily. It kneels down to your level, taking your hair into its fist and forcing your chin down towards your chest. The leather strap keeping your bite block in place loosens, and soon it tugs and wriggles it from between your teeth. You fill your lungs with fetid air, tasting mold and blood as you take a deep breath.

 You’re not given much of an opportunity for a breath, your lips enclosed by Secco’s with a flash. Cioccolata lets out a hearty laugh, his lips curling over his teeth at the sight of Secco forcing its tongue down your throat. You try to cough it out, fighting the kneading of your lips, revolted by the movement of it as it explores your esophagus. Its metal teeth click against yours as it shoves itself as deep as it can go.

 “He’s taken a liking to you, it seems,” Cioccolata murmurs, lining up his thumb with your entrance. “Keep her quiet, Secco.”

 You gag on its tongue as Cioccolata drives all five of his fingers inside, stretching your limits beyond anything he’s put you through before. He grins sadistically as you’re forced to swallow Secco’s spit, his fingers curling into a fist as he forces the knob of his wrist inside. He pulls out entirely just long enough to assess his work, slapping you across your clit before drilling his fist back inside you. You writhe and cry, tears streaming down your face as the rhythm of his fisting jostles your body with each thrust.

 Secco’s tongue wriggles from your throat animatedly as it pulls back, spitting on your face with stunning accuracy. Its fingers find your mouth, prying your jaw open as you’re finally free to gasp breaths and groan with the pumping of Cioccolata’s fist deep inside you.

 “You’re actually quite like me, now that I get a good look at you…” Cioccolata murmurs as you try to form words, pushing Secco’s spit from the back of your throat. You can’t see what Cioccolata does next, but deep down, you know; the familiar sound of buttons coming undone stuns you into silence, stilled from many lessons that Cioccolata had taught you so long ago.

 “How does that make you feel?” Cioccolata asks as he lines up the tip of his cock with the stretched muscle of your entrance. Your eyes widen at the thought of his cock fitting in there with the girth of his hand and wrist, though he seems to spare you unexpectedly.

 Instead, he slides it down to your ass. He was merely slicking it in an apparent act of negligible mercy.

 Secco must’ve picked up on another wordless que, slapping your face roughly to snap you out of the traumatic haze you found yourself in.

 “I asked you a question,” Cioccolata spits, stilling his fist to focus on coercing the head of his cock inside the first ring of muscle of your ass. You squeal and grit your teeth into the fingers stuffed between them, your eyes finding Secco’s in an asinine plea.

 His words echo in your head as he drives himself in, earning an agonal cry from deep within your battered lungs. Cioccolata smiles, the true sound of pain and anguish only making him harder, driving his hips forward. You cry with the burning sting of his cock forcing its way past the unlubricated catch of your virgin hole. Through the many months of torture at his hands, he’d never hurt you this way; before, his punishments carried a lesson or experiment behind them. Now, though, he seemed to be doing anything to instigate guttural, agonizing cries from deep within your soul. He writhes his hips in the most gruesome way before pounding into you over and over again, rubbing his cock against the side of his fist through the stretched tissue between your holes.

     I asked you a question.  

 Just as he drives himself fully into you, he pulls back, plunging his hips deep and rotating his fist for better access. Your squeaky cries barely make it past your lips, holding your breath with what little conviction you have left to try and push him out of you. He finds this quite amusing, groping your thigh with his free hand. The crackles of your bone repulse you almost as much as it pains you, reminding you once more that every ounce of disassociation you’ve allowed yourself to sink into can be just as quickly rescinded.

     I asked you a question.  

 Much to Cioccolata’s curiosity, your cries hollow out into barely-there gasps, hardly enough to fill your lungs. You feel yourself losing the very essence of your consciousness, pain making way for delicious numbness. It’s enough to settle you, relax you fully into taking Cioccolata’s penetration, loosening you despite gallons of adrenaline urging you to do anything but that.

 “Hm…” Cioccolata muses, pounding his hips into you once, twice, three times in an attempt to get a rise from you. Instead, your eyes roll into the back of your head and your tongue lolls around Secco’s fingers, your wrists falling limp and your vision dimming around the periphery.

 Finally…

 There’s nothing.

 --

 The feeling of a needle messily leaving your skin is what spurs you from your haze.

 Then, it’s as if every muscle in your body is electrified, seizing uncontrollably and rousing you from shock like whiplash. Like naloxone to morphine, every sensation your body has tried to block out rushes back to you at once.

 “Ah, too much…” Cioccolata scowls as he tosses the syringe to the ground, not bothering to apply pressure to your vein to stop the bleeding from the puncture site. “No matter.”

 Secco practically hops with excitement, pointing the camera too close to your face. You’re jumping out of your skin, pain and overstimulation shooting through every nerve in your body and making you dizzy.

 “I didn’t want you to miss this,” Cioccolata seethes as you realize that he’s pounding into you; it’s like you’ve picked up where you left off from in a nightmare, the past feeling hazy and surreal compared to the horrific awareness you’re enduring right now. “It would be a shame, truly.”

 You feel every touch and thrust more potently than the last, drool seeping from your agape mouth like a rabid dog. You can hardly keep your focus on the meeting of your bodies, your irises forced into nystagmus from the overwhelming effects of the drug.

 “W-why…” you manage to utter, your blood spurred with newfound energy.

 “Why?” Cioccolata laughs, spreading his fingers inside you. You give way easily despite the trembling of your muscles, your head slamming back onto the metal table with the surge of acute stimulation that pops like bubbles through your gut.

 He keeps his fist clenched as he rends it from your pussy, exposing the black latex of his glove, covered in milky, bloody fluid. He’s strangely wordless, as if he’s knocked speechless at the sight of your opening welcoming him with pink tissue rubbed raw.

 “You really are stupider than I thought,” he retorts, grasping the base of his cock with his sullied hand as he pulls out from your ass. Secco howls deliriously, pointing the camera between your legs as it straddles your abdomen with the entirety of its weight. You shudder with the sensation of emptiness, only for two of Secco’s fingers to plunge into your pussy and stretch you open wide. “Maybe half of your brain is already gone.”

 Your eyes burn from dryness, wide and unable to blink. Cioccolata’s lips curl into a perverse smile, only needing to insert the head of his cock into your pussy before cumming in spurts. Secco keeps you still as heat and lightning surge through you, the feeling of his cum curling your toes and digging your fingernails into your palms.

 Cioccolata grunts with relief, finishing himself with a few languid strokes of his cock. “Did you get that, Secco?”

 It nods voraciously, the red light on the camera blinking incessantly as if in confirmation. Your breath is too hot; in fact, your entire body burns hot as if it’s on fire. Through it all though, you’ve come a startling, loathsome realization.

     You need more.  

 Secco crawls over you like an insect, falling to the ground at Cioccolata’s feet to shove its face between your legs. You can only watch as its tongue unfurls from between its lips to lap at your weakened entrance, spooning cum onto the hollow of it. Cioccolata rubs the top of its head, cum and slobber dripping down Secco’s chin as its eyes glaze over with appreciation.

 You lick your lips, parched and sore, as it crawls back over you and meets you face to face. It dips its lips down onto yours, swirling Cioccolata’s cum around your tongue and down your throat. The taste of it rolls your eyes into the back of your head, your hips bucking into Cioccolata’s firm grip of your thigh to the rhythm of his laugh. You hate every cell of your body for finding a modicum of pleasure in this.

 Secco pulls back with a lap of your teeth, running the tip along the upper row. You spot from behind its head an unusual sight: Cioccolata rolling down the sheath of his glove to expose his forearm, bringing a needled syringe to the crook of his elbow. His eyes gleam in a way you’ve never seen them do so before, scanning your body maliciously.

 “Secco, down.”

 His servant obeys, hopping to the ground and bracing his weight onto his knuckles. He withdraws the needle with a hiss, his eyes rolling and his balance wobbling before he quickly collects himself. You swallow the gluey cum that sloshes around your mouth, your lids heavy and your body responding viscerally from the pleasure of it.

 Cioccolata bends down close to you, unscrewing the needle from the tip of the syringe. He holds it close to your face, rolling it between his fingers as your eyes cross to look at it.

 “You’ve been given a mixture of gamma hydroxybutyrate, amphetamine, and  dextroamphetamine,” he slurs, his breathing quickening after each word as if he were exhausted. “Well,      we     have.”

 Your brows furrow, not knowing what that sting of words meant.

 You’d learn soon enough.

 Cioccolata leans his weight onto your chest, taking one of your breasts into his sticky hand. He never breaks eye contact with you, bringing the tip of the needle to your achingly hard nipple before spinning it provokingly.

 “You’re hardly worth the effort of surgery,” he jeers, pressing the bevel into the hardened tissue slowly, agonizingly. You squeal a pained groan, your jaw falling slack, trying to roll your hips despite the sickening mashing of your femur under your skin. “Drugs will have to do for now.”

 You drool, unable to swallow through your screams, as the needle penetrates clean through the other side. You can see Cioccolata’s heartbeat through the rhythmic trembling of his fingers, rapid and fluttering. He laughs heartily, the noise foreign, though it brings a groggy smile to your face for reasons unknown.

 You can’t hide the flushing of your face or the throbbing of your abdominal muscles, completely forgetting about the corpse dangling above you. You’re absorbed in the static that spreads from your nipple to your gut, finally forcing yourself to blink.

 Cioccolata rests his head on the softness of your belly, the green of his eyes surrounded by white. He’s almost domestic, flicking the needle with amusement and grinning widely. Secco gets a wide angle shot as Cioccolata trails his tongue into the crux of your rib cage, licking the sweat that buds from the mixture of the drugs and the pleasure that starts to drive you crazy. Your pussy aches with strange urgency, pulsing with the feeling of cum dribbling from it.

 “Secco,” Cioccolata exhorts, “get the box. A sugar cube is in it for you.”

 At the mention of a sugar cube, Secco bares its metallic teeth in an animalistic grin. It starts to bang its head back and forth like there’s no other way that it could release his excitement, halting abruptly after it bonks its forehead against the table. Cioccolata rolls his eyes and waits patiently for his gimp to do as he’s told.

 Secco drags a heavy box from somewhere unseen, grunting with heaving breaths. It practically fumbles over itself to unlatch the lid and throw it open. You tremble incessantly, your fingers twitching erratically, as Cioccolata reaches into the inside of his top to retrieve a perfectly formed sugarcube. Secco whines and whimpers as it pounds its knuckles into the concrete floor, losing its mind over the sugarcube’s appearance. It holds its tongue out, allowing you to notice the physiology behind its length: it’s merely many tongues stitched together, scars of long-passed surgeries suturing them together.

 Cioccolata flicks open a pill bottle, sending the lid toppling onto the floor. He tosses two or three onto his palm, his hands too shaky to be exact, before lobbing the cocktail into the air towards his assistant. Secco’s tongue darts around the projectiles with surprising precision, swallowing them down after gnashing them between his teeth. It reminds you of obscuring a pill in a hunk of meat to get a dog to eat it.

 “Hope you don’t think I’m playing favorites,” Cioccolata says a tad too quickly for sobriety. “He’s just on blood thinners, is all…”

 Secco laps up the last of the powders before digging through the box. Your teeth clatter from the electricity flowing through your jaw, pupils blown wide as you fixate on the toy that it retrieves triumphantly.

 Cioccolata claps his hands together, the noise ringing in your ears and making you jump. Every sensation and experience is amplified by the thousands, your muscles recoiling with each touch of Cioccolata’s fingers.

 “Excellent choice, good, good, good…” Cioccolata murmurs to himself, swiping the Hitachi wand from his pet’s hand with a clatter of the wire. You struggle to stop yourself from hyperventilating, feeling dizzy from the rapid breaths your diaphragm forces you to take.

 He holds it in front of your face, spinning it to make sure you’ve gotten a good look. His eyes are nearly black from wide pupils, the head of his cock blushed red as blood surges through it. Secco practically vibrates, rushing to plug it in as slobber flows past its teeth and across its lip.

 Cioccolata tosses the wand its way. It scrambles to catch it, its hand previously occupied with groping the surprisingly large bulge between its legs, tenting the strange suit that encapsulates its body.

 “Three sugar cubes,” Cioccolata proposes, dangling the promise in front of Secco’s face, “if you make her forget all about this escaping business.”

 Secco leaps into action, flicking the vibrator on with a drag of its thumb. It settles between your legs, eyes locked on your pussy as it presses the bulbous head of the vibrator against your thigh.

 It’s almost enough to make you cum right then. If it held it there for just a moment longer, you’re sure you would have had the most powerful orgasm of your life.

 Instead, it hovers it over your clit, dotting the bud with the unpredictable, shaky movements of its hand. Cioccolata laughs to himself at the way your hips bob and jerk from the stimulation, making a mental note to himself to throw Secco an extra sugar cube. He cradles your head with his forearms, his hands gripping the sore meat of your breasts as he looks down at you. His finger flicks the needle still embedded in your nipple, smiling grotesquely at your pathetic reaction.

 He keeps your shoulders pinned to the table as Secco presses the head of the wand directly onto your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. It’s almost enough to blur the debilitating pain, but in a sick betrayal of your body, the pain began to mix with pleasure like ink in water.

     Good, good, good…  

 Cioccolata’s voice repeats like waves in your head, your unfeigned moans turning to screams as you fight the resistance of his hold on you. He runs his tongue along your upper lip, hunched over you like a beast, taking in the sweetness of your cries.

 Something comes over you, a primal need that every ounce of your logic screams against indulging in.

 You do anyway.

 Cioccolata’s eyes widen as you lurch your lips onto his, taking them into your best attempt at a kiss. He scapes his teeth against yours, taking back what’s his with a suck of your bottom lip. You bang your wrists against the restraints, the clatter of metal only adding to the cacophony of frantic moans and cries.

 Cioccolata sinks his teeth into your lip with a shuddering moan, swallowing your heightened cries and the taste of your blood with thorough enjoyment. He abrases your lower lip as he pulls back from the kiss, distinctive marks rubbing your skin raw. His hand claps onto your forehead, tangling your hair between his fingers, as he rubs your head excitedly. His laugh echoes through you, amplifying the intense building of pressure deep within your pelvis.

 Saliva and blood seep from your lips, agape in glorious, breathless dismay, your eyes locked on his. He tosses your head around like a ragdoll as you cum hard and fast, tears flowing down your cheeks. Your muscles contract as strongly as they can, only for orgasmic relief to follow; normally, you’d be given a break before the next one, but neither Cioccolata nor Secco plan to give you the kindness.

 Instead, Secco twists its wrist with force, angling the head of the wand at your entrance. You squirm from the movement of the stimulation, gritting your teeth as it jams the bulk of the toy inside you, plunging it in aggravation when you offer resistance.

 “Yes…” Cioccolata looks on approvingly, slamming the back of your head into the table with a forceful pound. You start to groan with the penetration, only for your whine to be cut off into a yipping cry as Cioccolata sinks his fist clean against your cheekbone. You gasp for breath, your efforts fruitless as his knuckles crack the bones of your sinuses into splintering shards. You try to turn your head, only for a barrage of fists to follow, his grunts of effort matching the ringing in your ears. He pauses, breathing heavily, watching you sputter blood from your nostrils.

 “Secco, stop.”

 As if the entire world stopped turning, the last beacon of pleasure that was the vibrations deep inside you cease. Secco looks up at its master with wide, confused eyes; even it wasn’t privy to whatever diabolical thoughts mused through Cioccolata’s head. Secco lets out a goading whimper, shaking the handle until Cioccolata snaps at it to stop.

 Cioccolata leans in close, clearing blood from your ear so you can hear his whispers. “You liked that, didn’t you?”

 You shake your head wearily, your skull feeling heavy.

 He bashes his fist against your temple, making your ears ring. “It’s just like you, daring to lie right to my face.”

 You shudder a breath, your hearing starting to fade from your right side, as he pushes your head to wobble around your neck. He strides to your feet, shouldering Secco out of the way to grip the handle in its place.

 He switches it back on.

 You spray blood from your nose and mouth as you puff a breath, the toes of your left foot curling now that you lost the ability to move your right.

 “You fucking love this,” Cioccolata laughs, the smile in his voice loud enough to hear over the buzzing of the wand.

 You’re forced to face that fact yourself, the beginnings of orgasm rippling through your gut mercilessly. He angles it just perfectly, more precise and purposeful than Secco, prodding your most sensitive spots as if in spite.

 “Tell me, you worthless pig,” he spits, pressing the heel of his hand onto your mons pubis to keep you in place.

 When all you have to offer is a half-hearted gurgle, he switches the vibrator off again and takes in the involuntary whine of petulance that spurts from your swollen lips. He thuds the heel of his hand against your mons, the impact settling deep in your gut.

 “You want more?” Cioccolata sneers as he holds the wand painfully still. You feel the crushing weight of your diaphragm as you cough, though you’re not sure if it’s in protest or confirmation.

 Cioccolata scoffs, giving you just enough stimulation with the vibrator’s head to start toppling you over the cliff of hopeless acceptance. When he switches the vibrator on again, your resolve shatters, unable to stop yourself from shuddering a groan as orgasm finds itself a mere pinprick away.

 Cioccolata takes even the last morsel of anticipation that you have, switching the vibrator off just as you’re at the tipping point of orgasm. He scowls at your fervent whine and rolling of your hips, pounding the side of his fist into your gut.

 “You want more, then tell me!” Cioccolata yells, dotting his words with another irritated punch. The volume and vitriol behind his voice catches both you and Secco off guard.

 You manage to part your swollen lips enough to allow air to pass through.

 “Please…”

 Cioccolata grins, knowing from the sound of fluid in your lungs that you were simply unable to say more. “Stupid pig…”

 He indulges you, turning the vibrator on again and putting all of his weight into prodding your gspot with the rounded head. You grit your teeth and cry, unsure if you feel relief or self-hatred more potently. Either way, your body convulses with the need for release, trying to ignore Secco’s snarling breathing.

 Through the gurgling of your breath within the muck of blood and spit, you cum again. The intensity of the vibrations against your abused g-spot was simply too much to handle, the sensation curling your toes as you spurt cum onto the handle of the wand and the pair’s faces. You can’t see Secco’s confused expression, your eye sockets swelled with fluid from the assured fractures. Cioccolata makes his approval known with an amicable pat on your belly, letting the wand protrude from you, anchored only by the squeeze of your muscles. He approaches the head of the table once more to look down at his handiwork.

 Contusions already pool around the impact points of his punches, spreading like a bullseye. Cioccolata’s heaving breaths linger on your skin, effectively blinded despite your best efforts to meet the gaze that surely bore onto your face.

 “Good pet…” he murmurs, almost too soft to hear.

 He grunts as he slaps the meat of his cock against your battered face, hissing at the sensation of broken, bloodied flesh and shards of bone crunching beneath the weight of it. He cums almost instantly, needing only three unscrupulous thrusts before he sends seed to embed in your wounds. You cough out blood that flows from your sinuses, the salt of his cum stinging deep under your skin. It seeps through the hair-breadth slit of your puffed eye socket, singeing your eye and making you grimace.

 “C-Cioccolata…now…?” the gremlin huffs. It’s the first time it’s formed a coherent request, and if the sounds you hear are anything worth trusting, it must be stroking his its cock fervently.

 “Not yet,” Cioccolata manages to respond through bated breaths, apparently becoming disinterested with your face and stumbling away from you into nowhere. You’re powerless to do anything but whine pathetically as the wand’s head is yanked from your pussy, catching on your pubis symphysis horribly before tumbling to the ground. Secco snorts more than it breathes, watching over you as something cold and hard prods against the hole left gaping from the wand.

 You snivel pathetically as a stainless steel speculum twists its way inside, much to the pair’s amusement. They chuckle as Cioccolata twists the speculum wide open, exposing you and blocking off any chance of pleasure you could feel from insertion. You whine, the cold making you shiver, your face painfully sore from the battering.

 “In here, only,” Cioccolata mutters, obviously to his protege. It howls excitedly, using the disjointed, pensile remnant of your thigh to pleasure itself. It thrusts his hips wildly, fucking the sinew and baggy flesh until it’s at its limit.

 It rears back and unleashes its load inside your pussy, so      generously     laid out as if just for its own personal use. Cioccolata apparently pats it on the back as it grunts and squabbles, cum sloughing to pool against your cervix.

 Secco jams its fingers inside, spreading its cum around like a fascinated child. Cioccolata pushes it aside with a huff, clapping his fingers greedily over the stretched viscera of your clit.

 “It’s such a shame you made me do this to you,” Cioccolata seethes, rustling through the utensils on the side table sloppily. “You had such a pretty face.”

 You listen to Secco scramble to the head of the table, its fingers toying with the needle through your nipple. With a gut-churning splice, it tugs the needle free from its place. You yelp through the fog of delirium and hyperawareness, spit frothing from between your gritted teeth as Cioccolata begins to circle your clit with his latexed thumb.

 “You’re sort of beautiful like this, though,” Cioccolata shrugs, rolling the unhooded bud between his fingers. You squeal and pant, bucking your hips into the stimulation, shameless and unrepentant. “If only you weren’t so… disgusting.”

 Cioccolata holds something cold and sharp to the inside of your thigh as he angles his cock back into your ass, forced into accepting it due to your desperate need for something, anything other than crippling pain. You used to think that his cock, engorged artificially from drugs and the incredible sight of seeing you in pain, stuffed in your ass was entirely too unpleasant to earn any modicum of pleasure.

 Now, though, as your leg, breasts, and face singe red-hot in pain, Cioccolata’s rabid fucking is a mere mercy.

 “Secco.”

 That catches its attention, just as it always did.

 “Teeth.”

 Secco hoots, hollering excitedly. You can’t fight the way it pries your jaw open, the tendons hardly attached to the broken bones of your mandible. Secco’s pinkie digs into the previously-healed sockets of your top canine teeth, removed from an act of defiance many years ago. You drool all over its fingers, feeling another orgasm tug on your exhaustion that the drugs won’t let you confront.

 The skin of the inside of your thigh parts ways with the slice of a scalpel, sending fresh blood gushing onto the table. You don’t have any fight left in you, instead losing yourself to tracing the path of the scalpel. Are you falling further into insanity, or is he carving... letters?

     F…  

 He pounds himself into you as Secco fumbles with something else, dropping what sounds like bullets to the floor with a frustrated groan. The thought of imminent death, a swift bullet to the brain, comforts you more than you expected it would.

 Cioccolata has much more planned for you, though.

 The rolling of his thumb is too much, sending you over the edge again with a clamp of your muscles. You nearly push the speculum out, but Cioccolata shoves it back in with the palm of his hand.

     U… C…  

 Secco holds your weakened jaw open and bends your head backward. You open one eye as much as you can manage to see its shaky fingers dangling a metallic fang in front of your face before sinking it into the sheath of your mouth.

     K…  

 You manage a throaty cry as it starts to screw the tooth into your gum, the socket milling into thready sinew. Cioccolata giggles to himself, amused at the way you gurgle bubbles of fresh blood out of your mouth.

     M…  

 The pain in your thighs is quickly overshadowed by the invasion of slow, tortuous metal drilling into the misplaced bones of your skull. All you can do is cry, thankful when Secco lets your head go, only to be dragged back into dread as it prepares the other socket.

     E… A…  

 The scalpel slips, digging deeper than Cioccolata intends. He scorns himself for being so sloppy, though he can hardly keep himself together, his balls aching with the promise of another release.

 Your tongue explores the newfound implants as best as it can, the taste of metal not nearly as off-putting as the iron in blood. They’re too big for your mouth, jutting across your lower row of teeth.

     T  

 Cioccolata grunts, pulling out of your ass to cum into the waiting hole of your pussy. It almost hurts to cum again, but the delightful sight before him spurs him on. His cum, combined with Secco’s and a tinge of blood, drips from the speculum’s border and onto the roundness of your ass.

 “Good, Secco,” Cioccolata says between panting breaths, dropping the scalpel onto the ground triumphantly.

 “N-now?” Secco begs, grinding his cock against your skull, sullying your hair further in addition to the blood, spit, and mold.

 “One more thing,” Cioccolata bargains, slapping your broken thigh before approaching the box. “I’m sure you don’t want this to end anytime soon, right?”

 You’re not sure which answer bubbles from your psyche first.

 Secco strokes its cock as it licks its fingers, clearing the suit of spumy muck. Cioccolata tosses something large and heavy its way, praising him when he catches it.

 “My pet,” Cioccolata whispers, holding something behind his back as he places a kiss to your forehead. “Those fresh new teeth of yours hold a little… secret.”

 Secco giggles exaltedly as it manages to ignite the flame of a butane torch clumsily, a bit too close to your hair. The fire melts a small portion of it into bundled twine, burning your face just from the proximity. You hardly care, your eyes locked on the cross-shaped iron that Cioccolata bares freely from behind his back. Secco hops in place excitedly, pointing the flame to the design of the iron as well as it can manage. You watch as the iron grows fluorescent yellow-orange, releasing bouts of smoke with the impressive heat.

 “At my command, at any time, and for any reason,” Cioccolata says smugly, admiring the opulent design of the iron, “I can release this same drug you’re surely hating now. In an instant, you will be right back here, and I’ll have to increase the severity of your punishments. No matter where you go, I will always have control.”

 Cioccolata hovers the red-hot iron inches above your breast, the heat of it making you writhe. You shake your head weakly, begging without the words stuck painfully in your throat.

 “You will      never     forget that you’re mine again,” Cioccolata growls, tightening his grip on the handle of the iron.

 You force air in and out of your battered lungs, preparing yourself.

 There’s nothing that could have possibly prepared you for this.

 Cioccolata plunges the hot iron above your nipple, smoke bursting forth from burning skin and sinew. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as Cioccolata says something you don’t hear, the sound of blood rushing past your ears all you can focus on aside from the excruciating pain and the stench of burning flesh and hair.

 Cioccolata rolls the cross across your skin to ensure even coverage before pulling back and tossing it to the ground. Threads of burned skin drape over your side, eschar and granulated tissue marking the cross like a signature. You’re barely conscious enough to feel Secco release another load of cum into your pussy, hot and sticky.

 It’s nearly silent, the only noises being your stridor and Secco’s feral wheezing. After a moment of horrible nothingness, wondering what could possibly await you in the tension of quiet, you’re startled back into the present.

 The clattering of the leather straps on your ankles resonates within the walls of your confinement. You think you might be going crazy, truly, until your left leg is released and sent tumbling onto the edge of the table. You’re dead weight, dizzy from blood loss and trauma, unable to give resistance even if you wanted to as your wrists are freed without a word.

 As your right leg is freed, you scowl and wince from the pendulous swinging of it from the edge of the table. You pry your eyes open to see Cioccolata hovering over you from behind, heaving your weight onto his support with a scoop of his arms under your shoulders.

 You wheeze, your chest crushing under your weight as you’re rolled off the table and onto the floor. The speculum topples onto the concrete next to you. You snivel and lay there in the heap that Cioccolata left you in, staring at Secco’s shins.

 He kicks you in the back with the heel of his boot, catching your attention and turning you on your axis.

 “You want more?” Cioccolata hums, digging the sole into the protuberance of your shoulder blades. It’s like he knows the answer already, his tone confident and assured.

 He leaves you there as he moves to lean against the wall, crossing his arms and looking down at the pitiful lump before him. Secco joins him, shuffling on his knuckles to lean against Cioccolata’s leg.

 Your muscles ache, but that’s no matter. Something spurs you from all semblance of logic, urging you into action. You haul the entirety of your weight up by your palms, your head hanging loosely on your neck.

 Slowly but surely, you start to forget anything else but the feeling of their cum seeping from your abused hole and the sound of molded corpse plopping onto the floor. Cioccolata chuckles lowly as you shuffle towards him, dragging your bunk leg behind you as you claw the concrete with dedicated crawls.

 You finally settle at his feet, collapsing from the massive amount of energy you poured into hauling yourself just a few feet. Cioccolata grabs the knots of your hair and forces your face towards the ceiling. You’re met with the sight of their hardened cocks bearing down at you.

 “Good, pet,” Cioccolata mewls, taking your wrist into his grasp. It stings from the abrasions there, rubbed raw from the restraints. He fixates your limp fist around the shaft of his cock, sticky from blood and sex. Secco harrumphs persistently until Cioccolata mirrors the action onto its cock, rolling his eyes like a father to a petulant child. It starts pumping immediately, the movement sparking new pain through your thigh as you rely on your stable leg to hold your weight.

 Cioccolata takes a different approach, coaxing your hand into stroking his length languidly. He smiles widely as you catch on, moving your fist on your own, your knee aching with the pressure of your weight.

 “That’s right,” Cioccolata hisses, already close thanks to the endurance and hair-trigger nature that the drug affords him. “Keep going like I know you want to.”

 You drool from puffed lips, fighting the swelling of your eyes, whimpering doggedly. The noises and your newfound devotion finishes him off thoroughly, ropes of cum spilling into your face and dripping onto your chest. Cioccolata keeps you steady with the grip on your hair, just long enough for Secco to fuck your hand to the hilt, murky cum spattering onto your hair and the contusions of your face.

 They rub their cocks on your face, thoroughly ensuring that nearly every inch of your face was covered in a milky combination of cum, blood, and spit. The sight is enough to sate Cioccolata.

 For now.

  --

 The warmth of the bubble bath is exquisite, though it compares not to the tingling on your scalp from his kneading fingers. The shampoo smells sweet, like violets and vanilla, as he works it though the tangled mess of your hair.

 Secco works at your leg, keeping it suspended above the water to keep the cast dry. You smile lazily, though you’re urged back into stoicism from the pulling of the bandages across your face.

 Cioccolata kneels in close, rinsing your hair with warm water that cascades down your chest.

 “We can do this every morning,      tesorina    ,” he crones, stroking your upper arms authoritatively. “Well, so long as you behave.”

 “Yes, Master,” you mumble through the bandages.

 He helps you out of the bath, calling on Secco to dry you with the plushness of a towel. You think to yourself how strange he looks unadorned by his usual makeup and outfit, favoring a bathrobe and slicked-back hair.

 Just as Secco finishes drying you, the familiar pitter-patter of ebullient nails clacking against hardwood brings a smile to your face. You watch as Rynke praddles into the bedroom, sitting at your feet, not minding the water pooling there. You give him a brief pat, unable to bend too much at the hips for now.

 You’re desperate for affirmation, waiting for the opportune moment to collect the palette of makeup from its place on the vanity. He turns towards you, his gaze warmer than usual, and chuckles when he realizes what you must be planning.

 “You want to help?” he smiles, sitting at the vanity.

 You nod twice, the movement hurting the sore muscles of your neck. Cioccolata finds the request to be delightfully endearing, facing you and closing his eyes.

 You try your best, angling the brush across his forehead and cheeks carefully. The green paint-like makeup edges easily into sharp lines, framing his face perfectly. His black lipstick goes on smoothly, following the curvature of his lips as he pouts for you.

 He opens his eyes to assess your work, scanning his face in the mirror across from him. You await impatiently, bouncing on your good leg.

     Crack.  

 You stare ahead at nothing, looking down at the floor. The wounds of your face burn from his vicious bare-handed slap, bringing tears to your eyes. Rynke whimpers behind you.

 “Do it again,” Cioccolata scathes. “Wash it off and do it      again    . Better this time.”

 You sniff to clear your nose, scrambling to retrieve a washcloth. “Yes, Master. Sorry, Master.”

 Cioccolata glares at you upon your return. It would be easier to wash his face in the sink, but then you couldn’t learn your lesson. Instead, he stares daggers at you until you’ve cleared his face of your mistakes, your hands trembling in fear. Really, truly, through it all, you’re more disgusted with yourself for failing than you are afraid of punishment. After all, you      would     deserve it.

 Finally, his face is dried and prepped for your second attempt. You try to keep your hand steady as he wordlessly grants you permission to continue, dabbing the brush in the makeup more cautiously than before.

 Cioccolata grins, as if he knows the exact spot his makeup should be just from touch. His gaze relaxes, taking in the fear and apprehension on your face like fine wine.

 You set the brush back down onto the vanity quietly, hardly tacking it against the counter. Cioccolata sighs before assessing your work once more, taking his time to study his reflection.

 Much to your relief and delight, he approves. It’s as if your life has meaning again, elevated from your depression in an instant with the brightness of his smile.

 “Good,” he says simply, brushing wet hair from your face and tucking it behind your ear. “You can help me with this every morning, then.”

 You smile widely despite the agony of your face, revealing the exaggerated metallic fangs that glisten there. He pats your head before rising, shuffling past you and Rynke towards his wardrobe. He spits out a vague insult at the dog, labeling him      patatino     before urging him from his path with the side of his foot.

 “Come now, pets,” he beseeches, dropping his robe to the floor. “We have much,      much    business to attend to.

Tags:

              Explicit Sexual Content

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Character Death

Abduction

Non-Consensual Drug Use

Aphrodisiacs

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD

Violence

Abuse

Strangulation

Choking

Blood

Injury

Gore

Medical Torture

Bondage

Rape

Psychological Torture

Sexual Abuse

Burns

mold

Death

Body Horror

Broken Bones

Needles

gaping

Vaginal Fisting

Painful Sex

painful anal

Spit Kink

Blood As Lube

Teeth

Biting

Vaginal Fingering

Praise Kink

Forced Orgasm

Non-Consensual Kissing

Slapping

Face Punching

Face Slapping

Punching

Mind Rape

Multiple Orgasms

Creampie

Threesome - F/M/M

Stimulants

Video Cameras

Come Sharing

Nipple Torture

Vibrators

Speculums

Blood Loss

Object Insertion

Orgasm Delay/Denial

Squirting

Marking

Knifeplay

Branding

Domestic Violence

Bukkake

Master/Pet

Fear

Ownership

Secco is literally called "it" through the whole thing

Lobotomy

POV Second Person

The dog is okay