#digging in the dark black pearl

[mrsknowitallll]

Soon As I Get Home

Elias Moore “Stack” x Black Plus Size Reader

Summary - After 7 years of being separated from the love of his life Stack has a lot of making up to do.

Warning: Filthy smut

A/N - For once I don’t have much to say, this speaks for itself, enjoy! 😉

You hummed to yourself, patching up a hole in one of your clients dresses, needle and thread flowing smoothly through fabric.

You owned a small boutique, "Josephine's" named after your late mother who passed it down to you. You sewed all the clothing by hand, just as she did.

You perked up at the sound of the bell on the door ringing, signaling the arrival of a customer.

"Welcome to Josephine's, i'll be right with you." You shouted from the back room, quickly placing your sewing supplies down.

"How can I help you..." You trailed off words getting caught in your throat as you stared at the man before you.

“Elias.” You breathed out.

“Missed me baby? Cause I sure did miss y-” You slapped the words from him mouth.

“7 years and you couldn’t pick up a god damn phone? Write a letter? Then you waltz yo black ass up in here expecting everything to be all sunshine and rainbows, uh uh i ain’t with it Stack.” You brushed past him, flipping the sign in the window to closed.

He approached the door, locking it and pulling down the blinds.

“I left to make something of myself, to make some money so I could build a better life for you, for us.” He narrowed his eyes at you.

“Seems like all you thought about was yourself, you left me in the dust, I waited for you, waited for a sign that i still meant something, that you still thought bout me as much as i thought bout you. The day my mama died I just- I.” You began to get choked up, tears spilling from your eyes.

“Oh baby no, no no no.” He stepped towards you holding your face in his hands, his calloused thumbs brushing away your tears.

“I thought about you every god damn day from the moment I left. There wasn’t a single second that passed where you didn’t cross my mind.” He stared deeply into your eyes, hurt flashing in his own.

“You know what kept me going throughout my darkest days, all those times I thought i’d never make it back here? That i’d just be a distant memory to the Delta? You know what got me through?” He questioned.

You glanced up at him expectantly.

“You baby.” He laughed.

“The sound of your laughter, your smile and the way it’d light up even the dimmest of rooms, that look you’d give me when you’d feel me start to slip away, when i’d start to succumb to the darkness and let it overtake me, that look of determination, like you’d part the heavens and the earth to pull me back up, to keep me from sinking. My love for you, your love for me is what kept me going, it’s what gives me purpose, a purpose to live.” He unleashed his heart, placing it flat on the counter, walls tumbling down.

Tears began to pool in your eyes but this time for a different reason, you were overjoyed, filed with so much love for the man that stood before you that you swore you could burst.

“I don’t know how I could ever question your love for me. Elias Moore I bet you’d snatch the sun from the sky for me if I asked.” You wrapped your arms around his neck, pecking his lips sweetly.

“Damn skippy.” He kissed back, deeper, softer.

“Now will you please let me show you how much I missed you?” He grinned wolfishly showing off his gold grills.

“Do as you please.” You breathed against his mouth.

He waisted no time scooping you up, arms hooking beneath your fat thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh there for a moment before he set you on the counter, hiking your dress up.

He dropped to his knees, fingers hooking onto the waist band of your panties, pulling them off slowly, teasing.

He parted your legs, eyes hooded as he took a glimpse at your core slick with arousal, your clit glistening like a pearl, a little prize just for him.

His fingers circled it gently, your wetness warm and sticky like honey.

“This another thing I couldn’t get off my mind, been dying to taste you again.” He looked up at you for a moment, gaze heavy.

Your breath hitched as he licked a strip through your folds, and another, and another until he was completely ravishing you, licking and sucking on you as if you were his last meal, one he planned on savoring, etching the taste into his memory.

You had his head in a death grip, the tips of your fingers sinking into his kinky tresses, your head thrown back in pleasure, chest rising and falling rapidly, lewd moans leaving your mouth in a chorus.

“Gonna cummm” You managed to get out before you were convulsing against the counter, grinding onto his face, chasing your orgasm as if it’d slip away from you at any given moment.

When you finally did cum Stack didn’t let up, lapping your juices up like a dog dying of thirst, not stopping until he got every. last. drop.

Your eyes followed him as he stood, chin soaked, lips glistening with your essence.

“You know i ain’t done with you yet.” He smirked kissing you again, tongue slipping into your mouth allowing you to taste yourself.

You moaned as he slipped a digit inside of you, stretching you out, warming you up.

You let out a small hiss gripping his forearm as he added another.

He immediately stopped shooting you a worried glance.

“I didn’t hurt you did I?” His brows furrowed in concern.

“A little but it’s not your fault it’s just… been a while.” You looked down in shame, face heating up.

He grabbed ahold of your chin, titling your head back up so you could look at him properly.

“That ain’t nothing to be embarrassed bout, hell it actually got me hot.” He chuckled.

You rolled your eyes at his antics, laughing too.

“No but seriously i’m glad you ain’t just been giving this pussy up to anyone, cause it’s mine and if these other niggas even think about claiming it i’ll kill em where they stand, no hesitation.” His eyes darkened, tone rough.

You bit your lip getting more aroused by the minute.

“That’s right I ain’t been with nobody else, my loyalties have always lied with you but can you say the same?” You quirked a brow.

“I ain’t touched nobody else since i left here and ain’t nobody touched me, honest to god.” He whispered against your lips.

“Oh yeah?” You questioned.

“Yeah, nobody could hold a candle to the way you make me feel, nobody could excite me as much as you.” He grabbed ahold of your hand placing it on his crotch.

His dick was so stiff in his pants you were surprised the seams didn’t burst, his length rock solid and heavy against his thigh.

You felt heat rush over you, words spilling from your lips before you could stop them.

“Fuck me, please I need you.” You begged palming him through his dress pants.

“I wouldn’t dream of denying you.” He kissed you hungrily, mouth trailing down your neck.

“You got way too much on.” He grabbed the hem of your dress slipping it over your head. Fingers unclasping your bra and tearing it off of you in one swift motion, your breast bouncing as the collided with your plush stomach, falling as if they’d been holding up the weight of the world.

Stack gathered them in his hands kneading them, mouth latching onto each nipple and sucking eagerly, biting down softly causing you to whimper.

He grabbed your hips pulling you closer toward the edge of the counter, aligning himself with your entrance and slipping inside of you, groaning as your warmth surrounded him.

“God almighty.” He mumbled peppering kisses along your jaw.

He thrusted into you slow at first, savoring the way he felt inside of you, snug, secure.

He picked the pace up after a while, hips snapping against yours, skin colliding with skin, the sounds of your love making bouncing off the walls.

“So close.” You mumbled breathlessly into his ear.

“Wait for me baby.” He rested his head on your shoulder, mouth nipping at the skin there.

“Gone fill you up real good with my babies, want some mini me’s running round here, hope they have yo eyes, those pretty orbs.” He rambled as he pounded into you.

You whined at his words, the idea of a family with him causing you to choke up, the knot in your stomach loosening bit by bit.

“Cum with me baby, let it all out.”

You squealed as the dam broke again, your orgasm washing over you in waves, eyes rolling back, nails digging into his back, piecing skin.

Stack quickly followed suit, head lolling against your shoulder lazily, chants of groans flowing through your ears as he spilled inside of you.

The two of you huffed and puffed attempting to catch your breath, sweaty bodies clinging together.

“How long you plan on sticking around this time?” You spoke up after a while, fingers kneading through his loose hair.

“For as long as you here, as long as you’ll have me.” He whispered.

“Well it looks like you ain’t ever leaving my side then.” You smiled.

“I wouldn’t even dream of it.” He pecked your lips lifting you off the counter, carrying you toward the back room.

Tags - @eclecticblkgirl @alphabetically-deranged @sinnersappreciation @sassymemoryelixir

[v6quewrlds]

❝ pretty little thing, j. burrow. ❞  ‎ ‎ ┉  

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀summary: it is a rare quiet morning for you and joe. while you plan to sleep in and take it easy, your husband has other more active plans.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀author's note: my first joe fic, everybody cheer!! i did not plan for it to be this long but she's fresh, she's cute, i like her. i hope you all like it <333 requests are open for headcanons, texts, blurbs, fics, etc.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀warnings: smut, please do not interact with my work if you are under 18. language, sexual content, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, penetration, very slight praise kink, fingering, joe is pussy drunk fr fr.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀pairing: joe burrow x black!wife!reader.

‎ ‎ ⁎⠀┉⠀word count: 6.7k.

You stirred in the bed, the morning light creeping through the blinds. The soft hum of the city outside barely registered in your sleep-laden ears. The bed shifted as Joe's arm snaked around your waist, gently pulling you closer. "Morning, beautiful," he murmured, his breath warm against your neck.

Your eyes fluttered open to meet his playful gaze. "Mornin'," you mumbled, still clinging to the last vestiges of sleep.

Joe leaned in, kissing you gently. "No meetings today?"

You yawned, stretching languidly. "Nope, not a single one."

Joe's grin grew wolfish. "Perfect," he said, his hand sliding down to your thigh. His voice was low, his eyes dark with desire.

You giggled, swatting at him playfully. "What are you doing, you hornball?"

Joe's grin only grew wider. "What does it look like I'm doing?" he replied, his hand continuing its journey under the covers.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't hide your smile. "It's barely seven in the morning, Joe."

"Exactly," Joe said, his hand reaching its destination and squeezing at your ass, causing you to gasp. "We've got all day to do whatever we want."

"And what is it that you want to do?" You asked, your voice teasing as you felt his fingers dance along your skin.

Joe's eyes lit up with mischief. "I want to fuck my gorgeous wife," he said bluntly, his voice thick with lust.

You rolled your eyes again, feigned annoyance lacing your tone. "Always so romantic," you teased, even as your body responded to his touch.

"Well, it's been a while since we had a morning like this," Joe said, his hand moving between your legs, stroking you lightly. "I want to make it count."

Your giggles turned into moans as Joe's fingers found their mark, his touch sending waves of pleasure through your body as they danced over your sensitive pearl. "You're insatiable," you murmured, your manicured hands gripping the strands of his blonde hair as your lips found each other again in a heated kiss.

Your foreplay grew more intense, Joe's hand working your body with the precision of a maestro, drawing out your pleasure with every stroke. Your breath hitched as his thumb circled your clit, your legs trembling against his muscular thigh. You could feel him growing hard against you, his arousal pressing into your side.

"Fuck me, Joe," you whispered, your voice needy as the ache between your legs grew.

With a low growl, Joe complied, rolling you onto your back and positioning himself above you. He kissed you deeply, his tongue tangling with yours, as he entered you in one smooth thrust. You arched your back, your nails digging into the bed sheets as Joe began to move. He was rough and unrelenting, your bodies slapping together in a rhythm that filled the room with the sound of passion.

Joe's eyes never left yours, the intensity of his gaze matching the force of his movements. "You're so fucking tight," he murmured, his voice strained with effort. "I can't get enough of you."

Your eyes rolled back in your head as Joe's words sent a jolt of pleasure through you. "You talk too much," you gasped, your own voice laced with desire.

Joe chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Oh, I'm just getting started," he said, leaning down to nip at your earlobe. He knew exactly how to push your buttons, how to make you crazy with want. His hips slammed into yours, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady beat that echoed your passion.

You wrapped your legs around Joe's waist, pulling him deeper, urging him faster. You were wet and ready for him, your body responding to his every touch like a finely tuned instrument. He groaned, the sound vibrating through you as he picked up the pace, your bodies moving in a symphony of need.

Your lovemaking was raw and uninhibited, a dance you'd perfected over the years. You knew each other's bodies so well, every curve and dip, every sensitive spot that could send the other spiraling over the edge. As Joe thrust into you, your eyes locked, a silent communication passing between you that was as intimate as your joined bodies.

“Come on, baby, take this dick,” Joe urged, his voice gruff with desire as he pumped into you with a fervor that left you gasping for air. You could feel the tension building within you, your core tightening around him with every powerful stroke. The bed creaked in protest under your combined weight, the sound melding with your moans and gasps.

“You’re going to make me come, Joey,” you panted, your eyes glazed with passion.

“That’s the plan,” he replied with a wicked smile, increasing his pace. He watched your chest rise and fall rapidly, your breaths growing shallower with each thrust.

Your walls tightened around him, your moans turning into a high-pitched whine. Her nails dug into his back, leaving trails of fire on his skin. The sight of your pleasure, the feel of your body clamping down on his, was too much for Joe to resist. He bit his lip, fighting to hold back his own climax. But as your cries grew louder, he lost all control, driving into you with a fierce growl.

“Shit, baby.” Joe groaned as his climax neared, his hips moving erratically. He felt your body tense, your legs quivering around him. “You gonna come for me?” he asked, his voice thick with passion.

“Fuck yes, Joe, I’m coming!” Your moans only served to push Joe further into his trance. “Wanna come for you,” you whined into his ear.

“You’re gonna come on my cock, be a good girl for me, aren’t you baby?” Joe whispered, his eyes gleaming as he watched the ecstasy play out on your face. You nodded, your breaths coming in short pants, your eyes fluttering closed.

The tension between you grew palpable, until finally, your back arched off the bed with a scream of pleasure. Joe’s eyes rolled back in his head as he felt you tighten around him, your muscles pulsing in a delicious rhythm that sent him hurtling over the edge. He filled you with his seed, your bodies shuddering in unison as you reached your peak.

You lay there for a moment, panting and spent, your hearts racing in sync. Joe’s chest heaved with the exertion, his body slick with sweat, as he collapsed onto yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, savoring the feeling of his warmth against your skin.

"I love you," Joe murmured, kissing your neck softly.

"I love you too," you whispered, your voice still trembling from your orgasm.

As you lay there, Joe’s mind drifted to his morning routine, his thoughts of a hard workout fighting against the post-coital bliss. He propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at you. "You coming to the gym with me?"

You groaned, playing coy. "After that performance, I might need a nap first."

Joe chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Come on," he said, kissing the tip of your nose. "It'll do you good."

You sighed dramatically, but the twinkle in your eye gave you away. "Fine, but you're carrying me there."

With a smirk, Joe didn't need further prompting. He hoisted you over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, your squeals of surprise turning into laughter. Her long coils cascaded down his back as he marched towards your closet, his bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. You playfully slapped at his backside, trying to wriggle free, but his grip was firm.

"You're not getting out of this," he said, his voice filled with good-natured determination.

"Put me down, Joe," you giggled, your cheek pressed against his shoulder as you attempted to squirm away.

"Nope, you said you'd come with me, so you're coming," Joe said with a smug grin, his muscles flexing as he set you down in the walk-in closet, turning to find your workout gear.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't deny the thrill of excitement that shot through you. It had been too long since you'd had the energy to keep up with Joe's intense workout routines. You watched him rummage through your neatly organized space, his toned ass on full display in his boxer briefs. Despite your protests, you felt a familiar stirring of excitement.

He pulled out matching sets of black workout clothes, tossing yours onto the bed. "You can thank me later," he said, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

With a mock pout, you slipped into your gear, your curves hugged tightly by the spandex. You had to admit, it felt good to be out of your business attire and into something that allowed you to move freely. Joe couldn't help but steal glances at you as you made your way to the home gym. You caught him looking and shot him a playful glare, which only made him grin wider.

Once in the gym, Joe turned on his workout playlist, the bass-heavy beats filling the space and setting the mood. You warmed up together, stretching your muscles in a tug of flexibility and strength. You couldn't help but feel a sense of pride as you watched Joe move with such grace and power. He'd always been fit, but his dedication to his career had sculpted him into something truly awe-inspiring.

You began your workout, Joe lifting weights that seemed impossibly heavy while you hit the treadmill. Despite your initial hesitation, you found that your body was responding well to the exertion. You pushed yourself, the endorphins flooding your system as you picked up speed, feeling the burn in your legs. The scent of sweat and effort filled the air, a heady mix that was oddly intoxicating.

Joe caught your eye from across the room, his own workout taking on a more intense edge. You were both so focused on your routines, yet couldn't help but steal glances at each other. The way your breasts bounced with each step on the treadmill, the way Joe's biceps bulged with every curl. You were both aware of the effect you had on each other, the sexual tension building again as the minutes ticked by.

You stepped off the treadmill, your body glistening with sweat. You grabbed a towel from the rack and wiped your face, watching Joe from the corner of your eye. He was doing lunges now, his thighs flexing with each powerful movement. You couldn't help but lick your lips, remembering how those same muscles had felt under your fingertips earlier.

"You okay over there?" Joe called out, a smirk playing on his lips as he caught you ogling him.

You laughed, snapping out of your daze. "Fine, just admiring the view," you said with a wink, grabbing a set of dumbbells.

Joe's smirk grew into a full-blown grin. "Keep that up, and I might have to show you some more of the view," he teased, not missing a beat in his lunges.

You rolled your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks gave you away. You began your dumbbell routine, the clanking of the weights a metronome to the pounding bass of Joe's playlist. You worked out in tandem, your movements synchronized despite the different exercises. Joe couldn't help but admire your dedication, and the way you pushed yourself despite your initial protests. You'd always been strong, not just physically, but mentally as well. Her resilience was one of the things that had first drawn him to you all those years ago.

The air grew thick with your exertion, the scent of sweat and pheromones a potent cocktail that only added to the tension. As Joe moved to the bench press, he watched your ass dip as you did squats, your toned muscles flexing with each descent. His eyes traced the lines of your body, memorizing every curve, every inch. It was all he could do to focus on his own workout, his thoughts wandering to the delicious ways he'd like to explore your body again once you were done.

You felt his gaze on you, and you couldn't help but push yourself harder, a smirk playing on your lips as you caught his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. You knew exactly what he was thinking, and it only served to stoke the fire within you. You'd always had a bit of an exhibitionist streak, and the idea of Joe watching you, wanting you, was incredibly arousing.

You pushed through your routines, the room echoing with the sound of your breaths and the clank of metal. Your muscles began to burn, but you didn't stop, your eyes never leaving Joe's reflection. You could see his own workout was taking its toll on him, his face a mask of concentration and effort. Yet, you knew he was just as aware of you as you were of him. It was a silent game of seduction played out amidst the grunts and groans of exertion.

As Joe finished his last set of bench presses, he looked over at you, who was now doing some ab work. Her stomach muscles rippled as you worked through the last of your crunches. With the final crunch, you sat up, catching Joe's eye and sticking your tongue out playfully. He chuckled, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. You'd always had this playful, competitive streak in your relationship, and it was clear you was enjoying pushing his buttons as much as he enjoyed pushing yours.

You decided to take a quick break, chugging water and wiping the sweat from your faces. You couldn't help but lean into Joe's side, feeling the heat of his body against yours. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you in tightly. "Shower?” he suggested, his voice low and filled with promise.

Your eyes sparkled with mischief. "Race you," you said, taking off at a sprint towards the bathroom. Joe chuckled, following close behind. You stumbled into the shower, your laughter echoing off the tiles as you both struggled to get the temperature just right. The water cascaded down your bodies, washing away the grime of your workout and leaving you gleaming.

Under the spray, Joe's hands found your body, his touch gentle, cherishing the casual intimacy as the warm water hit your skin. You leaned into him, your head tilting back to allow the water to run down your neck and over your breasts. The shower was a cocoon of steam and sensuality as you took turns washing each other, your eyes locked, smiles playing on your lips.

“Alright, what’s going on up there?” You asked as you looked at Joe, your eyes twinkling with loving concern, and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You’ve been avoiding having any real conversation all morning, Joe.” Her voice was soft, not accusatory, just curious.

Joe sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as he leaned against the shower wall. The hot water beat down on his broad back, the steam obscuring the tension in his face. There was no point in hiding his thoughts from his wife. You knew him better than anyone else, and you’d be the first to call him out on his mood swings. You knew exactly what made him tick.

"It's the team," Joe began, his voice echoing off the tiles. "We're playing like shit." He paused, his eyes closing briefly as the warm spray washed over his face. "The defense is a joke, and the coaching...it's just not there."

Your eyes softened, and you reached out to gently rub his chest. You knew how much the game meant to him, how much he put into it. "You're doing everything you can, Joe," you reassured him, your voice soothing. "Everyone can see that you're playing out of your mind. best QB rating in the league, over 80% completion, anyone with a brain knows you’re not the problem Joe.”

Joe leaned into your touch, his eyes still closed. "It's just...frustrating," he admitted. "I feel like I'm carrying the whole team on my back."

Your hand stilled on his chest, your expression serious. "You know I'm here for you, right?" you said, your voice steady. "Through all of it."

Joe's eyes snapped open, meeting yours. "I do," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And I'm sorry for taking it out on you. I know I’m a dickhead sometimes with my moods. It’s just hard not to let it get to me."

"You are a dickhead sometimes," You teased lightly, your fingers tracing the contours of Joe's abs, eliciting a chuckle from him. "But, unfortunately, I love you for it. I love seeing how passionate you are about your work.”

The warm water cascaded over you, mixing with your laughter as Joe leaned in to kiss you. It was a gentle kiss, one that spoke of your deep connection and understanding. It was moments like these that made you realize how much you'd missed in your usually hectic lives. You pulled away slightly, your gaze searching his.

"Thank you," Joe murmured, his eyes meeting yours with a rare vulnerability. "For everything."

You nodded, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "Always," you said softly. “I’d do anything just to see you at peace. You know that."

Joe's arms tightened around you, his eyes searching yours. "I know," he murmured. "You’ve stuck by me through everything, even when I didn’t deserve it." He leaned in to kiss you again, his hand sliding down to cup your waist, pulling you closer against him.

“From the minute I touched down at LSU, you were there, pushing me to be better, supporting me when I doubted myself,” Joe said, his eyes filled with gratitude. “You’ve been my rock through all the shit, babe.”

Her own eyes misted over, you leaned into him. “And you were there for me when I needed it most,” you whispered. “When my whole world was falling apart.”

Joe nodded, remembering your darkest days, post-surgery. The pain, the doubt, the fear that you’d never play your sport again. He’d held your hand through it all, encouraging you to keep pushing, to find a new passion. And you had, in him and in the success of his football career.

You stood there, bodies entwined, the water beating down on your skin, sharing a moment of quiet understanding. It was in these moments that you felt closest, stripped of your public personas and your individual ambitions, just two people in love.

"You know," you began, your voice still soft, "You could always talk to someone about it. Maybe it's time to have a sit-down with the coaches?"

Joe sighed, his eyes closing briefly. "It's complicated," he said. "I don't want to be the guy who throws the team under the bus."

You nodded, understanding his dilemma. "But Joe, you're not throwing anyone under the bus," you said, your voice firm. "You're expressing your frustration, and that's okay. It's not about blame, it's about finding a solution."

Joe looked at you, his gaze intense. "I just want to win," he admitted. "For the team, for the city, for us."

"I know," you said, your voice soothing. "But you can't carry the weight of everyone's expectations on your shoulders. It's not fair to you when you’re playing your ass off and they can’t give you some help."

Joe nodded, his grip on you tightening slightly. He knew you were right, but it was hard to let go of the pressure he felt. "I'll talk to them," he said, his voice a little defeated. "But I can't promise anything."

You leaned up to kiss his neck, your teeth grazing his skin. "That's all I'm asking, baby," you murmured. "Just talk to them. Maybe it'll help."

Joe nodded, his resolve strengthening as your lips moved down his body. He knew you were right. He couldn't keep carrying the weight of the team's failures on his own. He had to trust that his voice would be heard and that changes could be made.

You stepped out of the shower, the cool air a stark contrast to the steamy warmth you'd just shared. You reached for a towel, wrapping it around your body and releasing your hair from its confines underneath your shower cap. As Joe toweled off, he couldn't help but appreciate the artistry of your singular tattoo, the way it danced over your muscles as you moved. It was a constant reminder of the fierce strength that lay beneath your softness.

"Come on," he said, taking your hand. "Let's get dressed and order some breakfast. I'm starving."

You couldn't help but laugh. "Fine, but no more distractions," you warned, swatting him playfully on the ass.

"Scout's honor," Joe said with a grin, his eyes lighting up mischievously.

In the bedroom, you quickly dried off and threw on your clothes, your bodies still humming with energy from your workout and the passionate kiss you'd shared in the shower. Your mind wandered to the kitchen, picturing the ingredients you had in mind for a hearty breakfast to fuel Joe for the day ahead. Heading downstairs, you felt a thrill of excitement at the prospect of cooking for him. It was a small gesture, but one that you knew meant a lot to Joe, especially when his days were packed with practice and meetings.

Joe followed you, his eyes tracing the way your hips swayed in the oversized LSU Football shirt. Despite his earlier promise to behave, he couldn't resist slipping his hand under the fabric to squeeze your ass as you walked in front of him. You shot him a glare over your shoulder, but your smile gave away your amusement. You knew he was just teasing you, trying to get a rise out of you. It was a dance you'd been doing for years, and you found it both infuriating and endearing.

“Instead of ordering, let me cook for you today," you offered as you descended the stairs, the plush carpet cushioning your bare feet. "It's been too long since I've had the chance to take care of you."

Joe's eyes lit up. "You don't have to, babe," he protested weakly, knowing full well that he'd lost that battle the moment you'd suggested it.

"I know," you said with a smirk. "But I want to make sure my man eats good. You give it to me so good, I wanna reward you. Now sit down, I'll handle it," you instructed as you pushed him onto one of the high-backed chairs at the kitchen island.

Joe obeyed, watching as you tied your hair back in a messy bun, revealing the nape of your neck. He found himself craving another taste of you, but he knew he had to be good for now. He leaned back, his eyes tracing the curves of your body as you moved around the kitchen, pulling out pans and ingredients with the ease of a seasoned chef. The sound of sizzling bacon filled the air, and his stomach growled in anticipation.

You began to prep a feast fit for a king. You whipped up eggs, topped with cheese and chives, crispy bacon, and a side of avocado toast. You knew Joe's diet was strict, but today was a day for indulgence. Plus, you knew he had earned it.

“Ja’Marr’s been complaining about that dinner we had to reschedule last week, says you owe him a home-cooked meal next home game,” Joe said, scrolling through his phone. He watched your expression as you cracked eggs into the sizzling pan, your brows furrowing slightly in concentration.

You chuckled. “Tell him to wait his turn. I’ve got my hands full cooking for one hornball Bengal today. I don’t need another one begging me for food,” you teased, flipping the eggs with a practiced flick of your wrist. “Matter of fact, tell him to bring his child next time he wants to eat my food. Maybe he’ll learn some manners from his son.”

Joe’s laugh echoed through the kitchen, his eyes never leaving his wife as you worked your magic. You had always been so fiery, so full of passion and sass. It was one of the things he loved most about you. “You’re gonna have to text him that yourself, babe,” Joe said, holding up his phone. “But maybe save the hornball comment for when we’re alone. I don’t need to hear it from him all week at practice.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile that played on your lips. You grabbed your phone from the counter and shot a quick text to your friend. “Consider it done,” you said, setting the phone aside to focus on the meal. The kitchen was alive with the sounds of sizzling bacon and the occasional clang of a pan. The smell of breakfast filled the room, a comforting aroma that seemed to melt away the last of Joe’s tension.

As you moved around the kitchen, Joe’s eyes followed you, taking in every movement, every curve. Her body was a testament to your dedication to maintaining your health, your strength and grace evident even in the simple act of cooking. He felt himself growing hard again, his body eager to claim you once more.

"I swear, if you don't stop looking at me like that, this breakfast is going to be ruined," you warned, tossing a piece of bacon at him. He caught it with a grin, popping it into his mouth and chewing slowly, his eyes still glued to you.

Joe couldn’t resist. He slid off the chair and approached you, his bare feet silent on the cool kitchen tiles. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you back against him. You giggled, trying to shoo him away with the spatula, but your protests were weak.

"Joseph," you scolded, but your voice was playful, not stern. You could feel his arousal pressing into your backside, and you had to admit, it was tempting.

"Come on, honey," Joe murmured, his breath hot against your neck. "Just a little taste," he begged, nibbling at your ear.

Your resolve wavered. You could feel his hands roaming over your hips, his fingers inching closer to the apex of your thighs. "Joe," you warned, your voice laced with amusement. "I'm trying to do something for you."

"And I'm trying to do something for you," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He pressed closer, his erection nudging against your backside. "Let me just return the favor."

You felt the heat pool in your belly, the flames of desire flickering back to life. "Baby," you warned again, this time with a hint of a whine.

Joe chuckled, his grip tightening as he kissed your neck. "Please," he whispered, his breath tickling your skin.

You tried to resist, but Joe's hands were already working your magic. He reached around and cupped your breasts, his thumbs circling your hardened nipples. You gasped, dropping the spatula as you leaned back into him. He took that as the invitation it was meant to be and ground his hips against yours, his length pressing into you. "See?" he murmured, his teeth grazing your ear. "I know exactly what you need."

Your body betrayed you, arching into his touch. "You're so annoying," you managed to say, but your voice was thick with need.

Joe chuckled, his hands sliding down your body until they found the hem of your, or rather his, t-shirt. He began to lift it, his knuckles brushing against your bare skin as he revealed your stomach. You squirmed, trying to focus on cooking, but it was a futile effort. His touch was intoxicating, his presence overwhelming.

"Joe," you said, your voice a breathy whisper. "The food."

"Fuck the food," he growled, his hands continuing to lift the shirt from your body. He tossed it aside, revealing your bare breasts and a black g-string he didn’t recognize. His cock twitched with approval. "What’s this? New lingerie for me?"

You turned in his arms, your own desire flaring up at his words. You pushed him back playfully, your eyes dark with passion. "If you want to eat, you'll let me cook," you said, your voice a seductive purr.

Joe's smile didn’t reach his full expression. His blue eyes darkened as he took in the sight of his darling wife, half-dressed and flushed with arousal. He stepped back into his position behind you, giving your ass a firm spank before squeezing a toned cheek in his large hand. Your head fell forward with a gasp as you tried to compose yourself, a moan slipping past your lips involuntarily at the sudden roughness.

If he heard your challenge, he paid it no mind. Hand coming up once more to deliver another smack to your ass, he watched the flesh jiggle before bending down to kiss the tender spot he’d just abused. His tongue darted out to taste your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Your breath hitched, the heat between you palpable as Joe’s hands wandered further down, his fingertips tracing the damp fabric that barely covered your sex.

“We can multitask,” Joe murmured against your skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot where his hand last made contact with your ass. His fingertips danced over the fabric of your underwear, teasing the entrance to your warmth.

Your hands tightened around the handle of the spatula as you bit back a moan. "Joe," you protested again, though your voice was less steady this time. You knew he could feel you tremble against him, could see the way your pussy was already growing wet. You tried to push him away, but your legs felt like jelly, your resolve dissolving with every touch.

"Cut the stove off," Joe said, his voice a low growl. "I'm gonna have to eat something else." His hand slipped the g-string to the side, his fingers finding your slick folds. Your knees nearly buckled as he began to circle your entrance, your eyes fluttering shut. You knew you had lost.

Your hands scrambled to turn the stove off, the sizzle of the bacon fading into the background as Joe’s touch grew more insistent. He didn’t wait for permission, sliding the panties down with a groan of appreciation that echoed through the kitchen. Your slick heat was all he could think about, all he wanted to taste. He dropped to his knees behind you, his eyes feasting on your bare ass and the smell of the glistening pussy he could already see fluttering with desire.

“Put your knee on the counter,” Joe whispered, his breath hot against your skin. You looked over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his intense gaze before you complied, your heart racing. You knew where this was heading and you couldn’t wait.

Joe swore to himself as he watched your pussy spread for him. Your hands grasped at the counter for balance as your pussy continued to flutter with anticipation. He hummed in appreciation as his strong hands gripped your ass, pulling you even further apart. His tongue flicked out, tasting the sweetness of your arousal as you gasped, your body taut with need. He took his time, savoring the moment, exploring every inch of you with his mouth.

You couldn’t help but lean further over the counter. Her pretty little pussy was on full display to him, almost begging for his mouth. Joe took full advantage, burying his face in your wetness. He sucked eagerly at your clit while one of his thumbs circled your entrance, sending waves of pleasure through your body. Your moans grew louder, echoing through the kitchen as you lost yourself in the sensation. Her hand reached back to grip his hair, pulling him closer, silently demanding more.

Joe was more than happy to oblige. His tongue delved into you, tasting you deep, feeling your muscles tighten around his thumb. Your hips began to rock back into him, your moans turning into cries of pleasure. You were so close, so beautifully close to the edge, and Joe could feel his dick throb with the anticipation of watching you fall over the edge. He picked up the pace, his tongue flicking faster against your clit, his thumb pressing deeper into you.

Your legs began to wobble as the intensity grew, your knuckles turning white as you clutched the counter. "Baby," you gasped, your voice strained. "You’re so good."

Joe groaned in response, his mouth never leaving you as he felt your orgasm building. He knew your body like the back of his hand, knew exactly how to push your buttons, how to make you scream his name. And scream you did, your body convulsing as you came, your juices flooding his mouth. He drank you in, loving the taste of you, loving the way you felt as you lost control.

When you finally went still, panting and trembling, Joe stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Fuck, you taste good," he murmured, his voice gruff with desire.

You turned to face him, your eyes glazed over with satisfaction. "Are you going to let me cook now?" you asked, though the playfulness in your tone suggested you didn't really mind the interruption.

“Nope. I need you to squirt that goodness all over me again, baby,” Joe said, his eyes glinting with mischief as he stepped closer to you, his own length straining against his sweatpants.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his audacity. But as he stepped closer, you felt your resolve melt away like butter in the pan. You leaned back against the counter, your body still humming from your orgasm. Joe stepped between your legs, his erection pressing against your stomach as he kissed you deeply. He gently lifted you up onto the counter, laying you back as his hands drew your long legs to rest on his broad shoulders.

He slid your thighs apart, revealing your glistening pussy to his hungry gaze. His cock throbbed in anticipation as he leaned in to kiss you again, his tongue delving into your mouth. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your hips raising to meet his as he rubbed his clothes cock against your wet folds.

With a groan, Joe reached into his sweatpants and freed his erection, the tip already slick with pre-cum. He positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes glued to your pussy. You nodded, your breath coming in ragged pants as you gave him the unspoken permission he needed. With one swift movement, he slid into you, filling you completely. You both gasped as your bodies connected, the heat and friction setting off sparks that seemed to light up the kitchen.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so wet for me,” Joe growled, his voice thick with need as he began to move, his cock sliding in and out of you with ease. Your eyes rolled back in your head, your hands reaching for your breasts to pinch and squeeze your nipples as Joe’s rhythm grew more intense. You could feel your orgasm building again, the sensation coiling in your belly like a tight spring.

Joe’s grip on your thighs tightened, his hips moving faster, the slap of your bodies filling the kitchen. He leaned down to whisper dirty words in your ear, his breath hot and ragged, his eyes never leaving yours. "You like that, don’t you? Being fucked like this?"

“Yes, baby, yes,” you moaned, your eyes fluttering closed as Joe’s cock filled you completely, his strokes hitting all the right spots. You felt your climax approaching, your body tightening around him like a vice. “Fuck me.”

Joe’s eyes darkened at your words, his pace quickening as he pounded into you. He could feel your pussy grip him, your walls pulsing with each thrust. The sight of you spread out before him, your legs trembling with pleasure, was almost too much to handle. He leaned in to kiss your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin as he whispered more dirty words into your ear.

“Come for me, baby,” Joe urged, his voice strained with his own need. His strokes grew faster, more erratic, as he felt himself approaching the brink. “I wanna feel you come around me again."

Your eyes snapped open, your gaze locking onto Joe’s. You could feel the tension in his arms, the way his muscles flexed with each thrust. You knew he was close, and that knowledge only served to push you closer to the edge. With a cry, you shattered, your pussy clamping down on Joe’s cock as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

Joe groaned, his eyes squeezed shut as he felt your orgasm wash over him. He didn’t hold back, giving in to his own need as he thrust into you one final time, his cock pulsing with his release. You held onto each other for a moment, your breathing ragged, your bodies slick with sweat and desire.

Finally, Joe pulled out, his cock glistening with your combined juices. He stepped back, his eyes raking over your flushed body, still sprawled out on the kitchen counter. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride at the sight of you, so beautifully wrecked by his touch. "Fuck," he murmured, his voice filled with awe. “You’re so sexy when you come like that, babe."

You couldn’t help the smug smile that curved your lips as you watched Joe try to compose himself. You knew you looked a mess, your hair sticking to your face, your body flushed and trembling, but you felt alive, more alive than you had in a long time.

"You think so?" you asked, your voice teasing. "Maybe I should just stay like this all day."

Joe chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped closer to you. "As tempting as that is, we both know we’d never get anything done if you stayed naked all day," he said, his eyes traveling over your body with a mix of admiration and desire. He reached for your hand, helping you hop off the counter. "But I'm not saying we can't revisit the idea another day.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, your body still humming with the aftershocks of your orgasm. "Maybe next time, you can actually let me cook breakfast," you said, though the smile on your face suggested you didn’t mind the detour.

Joe leaned in for a kiss, his lips capturing yours in a passionate embrace. "Deal," he murmured against your mouth. "But only if you promise to let me eat you out again."

Your cheeks flushed, a giggle escaping you as you swatted his shoulder. "You're so horny all the time," you accused, though the spark in your eyes suggested you liked it.

"Can you blame me?" Joe retorted, his gaze roving over your naked body with a hunger that hadn’t been sated. "Look at you”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t keep the smile from your lips as you bent down to pick up your discarded underwear. "You're so annoying," you teased, tossing the garment at him.

Joe caught it in midair, holding it up with a grin. "But you love it," he said, stepping closer to you. He stepped into your space, his own body still flushed from your recent activity. "And I'll never get enough of you."

You couldn't argue with that. You stepped into him, your body fitting against his perfectly as your mouths met in a kiss that was as sweet as it was passionate. You felt the heat of his body, the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm as you wrapped your arms around his neck. For a moment, the kitchen and the world outside it faded away, and all that mattered was the two of you, your love and your desire.

When you broke apart, your smile was soft, your eyes warm with affection. "Let's get cleaned up and then eat," you said, your voice still breathless. "I didn’t make this food for nothing."

Joe nodded, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before he turned to help you plate the food. He placed a delicate kiss on your shoulder, the warmth of his breath making you shiver. You ate at the island, leaning into Joe’s muscular body as you stood naked together.

The scent of the crispy bacon and the eggs filled the kitchen, making your stomachs growl. You took your first bites, savoring the flavors that melded together perfectly. Despite your earlier distraction, the breakfast was heavenly, a testament to your culinary skills.

[phantomwithbreakfast]

DANNYMAY DAY 09: Underground

Day 08 • Day 10

⟢ I was getting confused with this prompt. As—underground could mean so many things, depending on the context. But one idea kept clawing back into my brain—corpse AU. And oh, dude. I got way too hyped about it. Turns out, @ghostlyglimmer and I had the same deliciously dreadful idea! Go check out her hauntingly good work here! As for mine? Uhh, well—I turned Danny into uhh—something a little more post-mortem than usual (duhh). Think like—half-dead, half-ghost, full-on corpse aesthetic. Possessed corpse? Danny as a ghostly remnant that crawled his way out of his grave. (More under the cut)

Genre: Angst / Horror • TW/CW: Death — Memory Loss — Identity Loss — Emotional Distress • AU — OOC

Danny was dead. He just didn’t know.

His eyes snapped open to pitch black—thick, suffocating, endless. The silence was too loud.

Then—

A green eerie light. A flickering glow bloomed somewhere in the dark. Acidic light pushed into retinas that no longer needed to see, searing across nerves that shouldn’t be burning. He gasped, or… he tried to. But his lungs didn’t move. His heart didn’t beat. No air, no space. Just… cold.

There was nothing. No memory. No name. No life.

All he knew he was trapped.

I need to get out.

He reached upward, lifting his trembling hands—and they met something rough. Wooden. Dry. Pressed against his palms like a lid. A box. Too small, too tight.

A memory sliced through the fog—white light, searing heat and pain. A scream that never ended.

His.

“No,” he rasped, his voice cracked like brittle glass. “No, no—”

Panic shot through him. His fingers clawed upward again, splinters digging in—except… they didn’t. His hand passed through the lid. Not touching it. Just… slipping.

“The fuck…?”

His breathing quickened—but there was nothing to breath. His chest rose on instinct, not oxygen. There was no warmth, no blood. But something churned inside him, rising from deep within the center of his chest. Something icy. Wild. Terrified.

Realization crept in—this was a coffin. A grave. He was underground, sealed in silence and death.

Six feet under. Buried. Gone.

“I’m not—I’m not dead!”

His body shuddered. A jolt of agony ripped through his spine.

He screamed, and then—something changed.

His clothes tore into black and white in a blur of flickering energy. He didn’t feel it happen. He didn’t mean to. He just panicked—and something inside him answered.

He clawed his way upward, intangible, through dirt and soil and death. His body no longer felt like his own. Cold. Weightless. Wrong.

He burst out of the earth and soil with a gasp he couldn’t feel. And when he looked down at his hands—they weren’t the same. They were covered with white gloves, faintly glowing, trembling. His hair was pearl-white, catching the corner of his glowing green eyes.

And finally, he understood.

He was a ghost.

But he didn’t know who he’d been, didn’t know what he’d lost, didn’t know how he got here or why his bones felt weightless and hollow. Didn’t know what came next.

All he knew was that he’d died… and death hadn’t stuck.

They’d buried him alive—or so it felt. But no… he’d been dead. Truly dead. And now he was back—aware, conscious, no longer rotting in silence. No longer sleeping in that box meant to hold him forever. And now? He was alone, hollow, lost. With no memories, no name, and nothing but the weight of death clinging to his… skin, he had to piece together a life he couldn’t remember.

“I’m not… I’m not dead. I’m here. I’m still here. But I don’t feel anything. I don’t need to breathe—I don’t need oxygen. There’s nothing inside me. No heartbeat. No warmth. Just this… silence and… cold. I’m a ghost. I’m a fucking ghost. Fuck. No. Why? Why wouldn’t you just let me die? Why couldn’t you let me rest in peace?”

He swallowed hard, even though he didn’t need to.

“What do I remember? I remember… a flash—no, a blast—of… of white light, ripping through me. I remember the pain—so much pain—tearing through every nerve like… like fire. I don’t… that’s all. That’s all I have left. There’s… there’s nothing else.”

He grabbed his hair with both hands, pulling so hard like it might help him get his memories back. Confused… he was so confused. Panic consumed him again. He could still feel—but it was hollow, empty. Feeling devastated. Like remembering emotions he couldn’t place. The physical sensations were gone. No pain, no nerves. Just… nothing.

Or at least, that’s what he thought.

The only thing he felt was weightlessness. Like gravity had let go of him. Like the world no longer needed to hold him down.

He let go of his head, lowering his translucent arms as he slowly turned around. His eyes landed on the stone sticking out of the earth—the one he’d just crawled from.

There was a name carved into it.

“Daniel James Fenton.”

He stared. The letters made sense. He could read. So… not all of his memory was gone. But the name—it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t feel like his. He could still speak. That was something.

“The fuck is happening to me?”

His knees gave out. He sank to the ground, one hand sliding up to the gravestone. His gloved fingers traced the curved lettering with a kind of detached reverence.

“Was that… me?”

He asked himself. But no answer came. He sighed—a useless motion, but it came anyway. Muscle memory, maybe. A mimic of something human.

His fingers hovered over the name like it might spark something—some memory, some feeling. But there was nothing. Just letters. Just stone. Just silence.

“That… is me?”

He whispered again, quieter this time. But the wind didn’t answer either. He stared at the name like it belonged to someone else. Someone real. Someone who was loved, who laughed, who had a life. Someone human.

But that wasn’t him anymore.

Whoever Daniel James Fenton was… he’d been buried six feet under. And what clawed out of that grave wasn’t the same.

He sat back, knees sinking into the soil, the chill of death wrapping around him like a second skin. His white hair drifted in the still night air. His chest didn’t rise. His body didn’t ache. His heart didn’t beat.

But something deep inside him did hurt. And he didn’t even know why.

“I don’t… I don’t know who I am.”

He said, voice barely above the wind, like a broken echo. But the grave didn’t answer.

And neither did the boy… who once lived.

⟢ That second part wasn’t planned—it just came out of nowhere. And I really needed to stop myself before I ended up writing an entire phic about it, lol.

[littlejoels]

synopsis: loosely based on smokey and the bandit..reader is a runaway bride!

word count: 1,3k words

warnings: +18, strangers, cursing, public sex, please let me know if i have missed anything!

notes: at all credit goes to @wintfleur for putting me on to the movie!!!

you were running. dirt and gravel chew up your heels as you leap down the embankment, the plastic soles of your shoes— stupid white heels with pearls on the straps—snapping off mid-sprint. your veil was tangled in branches like the forest itself tried to catch you, and not to mention, your thighs are burning, scraped red with scratches as your silk dress clings to every inch of your sweat-covered skin.

you heard shouting behind you as you're boots crashed through brush.

but you don’t look back. no no no no no—

as you run, the road emerges ahead—gleaming, almost celestial, like the gates of heaven thrown open. the forest parts for it, while your breath catches in the hollow of your chest, lungs ablaze with the fire of your pace.

finally, there it is .. a car.

a loud, shiny black, beastly car—it was a 70s trans am convertible purring as it rumbles around the bend. chrome teeth gleaming, soft-top folded down, wind hissing in the air. you don’t hesitate. you launch yourself forward, wedding dress and all, practically hurling your body onto the road like roadkill.

the brakes screech as the car comes to a halt.

you see him behind the wheel. sharp-lined face. beard grizzled, sun-worn, scowl buried so deep between his brows, and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

he slams the door open. you barely hear the other guy in the passenger seat as the driver’s boots hit the pavement. “what the fuck—?” he rasps, dragging his eyes over the full horror of you.

a runaway bride.

white dress stained with dirt, veil half-ripped off, mascara flowing down your sweat-covered cheeks.

“please,” you pant. “please just drive. they’ll find me if you don’t—i swear to god i’ll suck your dick if you just drive—”

his eyebrow twitches at the offer.

there was something about his gaze that made your stomach clench. so incredibly sexy, with his deep brown eyes and salt and pepper hair all around his face. and, now he’s got them on you, one gripping your arm, the other bracing your waist.

“get in,” he mutters, shoving the door open.

you climb into the back seat in a flurry of white lace and panic, heart jackhammering as the car peels out, tires screaming across the asphalt. the guy in the passenger seat—longish hair, pulled into a low ponytail and dark brown, thick mustache—glances over his shoulder. “joel—who the hell is this—”

“none of your fuckin’ business,” the driver snaps.

joel. that’s his name.

your fingers dig into the warm leather of the seat as the trans am eats the road and finally feel like you can breath .. well, barely.

༒

twenty minutes later, the woods are behind you. farmland yawns open in gold and green, rusted signs half-swallowed by ivy flashing past. you explain everything in between gasps.

“he—he was the leader .. of our town, and my dad .. the last surviving preacher of my town—made me say yes. i didn’t want to. i’m not even thirty yet. and he’s .. he’s old, like really old. and for some reason, kept calling me his 'salvation.'”

joel doesn't look at you through the mirror but his knuckles tighten on the wheel listening to your every word. 'what sick batard does that shit,' he thinks to himself.

༒

he drops the the passenger off first—whose name you now know is tommy, joel's brother—at some outpost where he's supposed to meet with other members of their town jackson, before heading back home.

the trans am, now with you and joel, thunders down the open highway, as the silence of the abandoned world settles in. moving your position, you put your legs kicked over the backseat with your dress bunched up at your thighs.

his voice finally cuts through the air, “you meant it?”

you blink at him through the mirror. “meant what?”

“what you said .. back when you flagged me down. about suckin’ my dick.”

your mouth’s gone dry, just thinking about the way he looked when he first opened the door, making you wet with anticipation. the lace panties beneath your dress scrape against bare skin as you press your legs together, chasing some friction. you glance up at him with a slow, knowing smirk. “you gonna cash in that IOU or what?”

he doesn’t answer but his hand drifts down, palm covering the bulge in his jeans. your eyes are glued to it, to the thick shape of him pressing against the denim.

the next turn he makes is off the main road, down a stretch of cracked pavement with weeds growing through it, and the trees hang heavy overhead.

he pulls off, kills the engine, and then he turns to face you.

God, he’s so much bigger up close. his presence fills the car, shoulders, thighs, and that sharp slant to his mouth that says he’s gonna ruin you slow and you're going to thank him all the way through it.

“get in the front,” he mutters. you crawl over the seat, dress catching on the gearshift, and land in his lap. joel leans back, legs spreading, and thick, calloused hands gripping your hips. “gonna do it or were you talkin’ outta your pretty little mouth?”

your eyes flutter closed, climbing down gently out of the car and on to the ground. you sink down to your knees in front of him, the pavement rough against your shins as you fumble with the button on his jeans. his big cock springs free like a beast untethered.

you drag your tongue along the underside of it, taking your time savoring every moment you could. “fuckin’ hell, darlin' ..” he growls, voice breaking.

you kiss the tip, lips parting as you suck him deep into your throat. joel’s hands find your head, tangling in your hair as you choke on him, spit already spilling down your chin. “Jesus Christ, baby, look at you ..”

you moan around him, pressing your tongue down as you suck him in along his length; so deep, you could feel your throat stretching. he rocks his hips once, making you gag.

“mmhmm, perfect fuckin’ mouth. all this sweet little attitude, and now you’re droolin’ all over my cock ..”

after the next 10 minutes, he's dragging you off him before he spills down your throat. he hauls you up into his lap,“dress stays on,” he growls.

“why?”

he grins with a crooked smile. “’cause i wanna fuck the preacher’s little girl in her weddin’ dress.”

he flips you over onto the hood before you can reply. you yelp at the hotness of the metal hood, and within seconds, he’s on you, dragging your thighs apart, ripping the lace panties clean down the middle.

you gasp as the warm breeze hits your bare cunt. “already drippin’,” he mutters. “fuckin’ knew you were a slut the second i saw you.”

you arch your back, shoving your breast toward him. “yeah?” you hiss. “you like that?”

his laugh is a sexy mix of sweet and rough. “like it?” his fingers slip between your folds, stroking right over your swollen clit. “i fuckin’ love it.”

after some time toying with you, he pushes inside with no warning. “oh shit— joel—”

“shhh,” he purrs, teeth grazing your ear, almost nibbling on the earlobe. “take it .. take every inch.”

he grabs your hips and starts to fucking you hard—the sound of his skin slapping yours echoing across the highway even the birds above begin to scatter. “God—feels .. feels so good—so deep—”

he growls behind you, fucking you harder, cock driving into your soaked cunt. “tight little pussy .. fuckin’ squeezin’ me like it’s beggin’ to be bred.”

you clench around him, cheering him on. “do it, baby,” you gasp. “fuck, do it—fill me the fuck up—goodness, joel—”

his thrusts start to ragged as you feel him pulse deep inside you, thick ropes of his sticky cum flooding your cunt. you collapse onto the hood, breathless, skin slick completely covered in sweat and cum and montana sun.

joel leans over you, mustache brushing your cheek. “runaway bride, huh?”

you smirk, eyes fluttering closed. “not runnin’ anymore.”

special tags: @inbred-eater , @wintfleur , @lowrisemiller

[harlotsforcinnamon]

“Hey.” Ronan’s voice was rough from lack of sleep, small in the vastness of Monmouth Manufacturing. It took Gansey a second to carefully set aside a piece of cardboard and peel his eyes away from his model of Henrietta, removing his glasses and rubbing one dry and tired eye with the heel of his hand.

Ronan was a blur in the darkness, lit softly blue by the screen of his Gameboy DS, abandoned in a tangle of sheets. He floated above the darkness, Gansey’s bed turned ship in a moonlit sea.

Gansey unfolded his limbs and stretched, wincing at the stiffness of his joints, and picked his way down Main Street, joining Ronan on the bed, leaning back on one arm.

Ronan, lying on his belly, craned over one shoulder to watch him out of the corner of his eye.

Daringly, Gansey stretched out a hand and traced the cruel hooks of Ronan’s tattoo, thrusting its claws up past the collar of his friend’s shirt, grasping at jugulars. It was a move Gansey would never have attempted in the daytime, but way out here on their little life raft in the middle of a vast sea, time didn’t count, somehow.

Gansey had never told him, but sometimes in the great silent void of his warehome, he could hear Ronan crying in his sleep.

Gansey skated the pads of his fingers up over the close-shorn stubble of Ronan’s scalp. Ronan leaned his mouth against his own shoulder and closed his eyes, a vulnerable slice of a boy in quarter-profile, his lashes a sooty smudge against his cheekbone.

Ronan’s voice was almost swallowed up by the vastness of the space, a soft-edged scrap of blue-gray silk in a world where light only served to accentuate the darkness.

“What was I like? Before?”

The question caught Gansey off-guard, and his fingers stilled. He was used to the question, put to him by his parents, too polite to more than imply their disapproval of his feral animal. He was used to it from teachers, those who had a man-to-man way of speaking to him, who brought him articles on archeological digs and cast nervous and disbelieving glances at Ronan, slumped in his seat with his tie looped loosely around his throat, like just enough rope to hang himself with. He was used to it from Adam, who’d put the question to him time and again in his exasperation, nursing scraped knuckles and raw feelings, flinging out the question as Ronan charged off in his father’s BMW, music a burnt-rubber-black obscenity against the backdrop of a shattered afternoon.

The question always made Gansey’s heart clench. The answer was a pearl, and Gansey had always thought it would take a knife to prise it from him.

But what was Ronan Lynch if not a knife in the guise of a boy?

Oh, Ronan.

As Gansey considered, Ronan winched his way across the bed until he was curled on his side around the crook of Gansey’s knee. As if the two of them lay before a roaring fire, exchanging ghost stories, perhaps, hilarious in their flimsiness under the onslaught of light and warmth, two lazy princes of Virginia, each peerless but for the other.

“Well,” Gansey said slowly, nerves jangling bright and sharp. “You’ve always had a mouth on you.”

Ronan pressed a thumb to the full bow of his lower lip, a ghost of Gansey’s habitual gesture, and snorted. “Thank my dad. I was encouraged to pick up swearing at a young age.”

Gansey closed his eyes. He felt clear-headed in that way that sometimes came with sleep-deprivation. He wanted to press his own thumb to Ronan’s lower lip. He leaned back on both hands instead and tipped his chin up, letting his head hang back between his shoulders.

“You used to tell me stories,” Gansey addressed the rafters. “That summer we spent hauling trash out of this place. You’d tease me with stories about heroes and shapeshifters to get me to take breaks.”

“I used to spin ‘em out longer just so we could sit in the shade another few minutes.” Ronan’s voice sounded brittle, and Gansey kept his eyes closed, his head tipped back. Privacy was a gift judiciously meted out.

“You had a truck. You used to drive it out into the fields and we’d lie on the truck bed after the sun went down and you’d make up the names of constellations.”

“And you’d tell me all the real ones. All the ones you could see from the ley lines in England and Wales. All their stories. Except the ones I already knew.” Ronan cleared his throat.

Gansey let the memory wash over himself for a moment. It was something he rarely allowed himself these days, because hot of the heels of that little seizure of joy, the last brilliant gasp of sunset light over the horizon, always came a wave of darkness, of pain, now knowing what was to come, overwritten over the memories of before–

Before.

But still, Gansey remembered the heat of the truck bed, almost uncomfortably hot after a sunny day sitting out on the cracked, weedy tarmac of the Monmouth Manufacturing parking lot. He remembered sweat sticking his tee shirt to his back, even as the descending darkness coaxed goosebumps out along his skin. He remembered his arm growing tired and his voice pleasantly hoarse as he pointed up into the vast smear of stars above them, glorious in their multitude, telling Ronan about the Seven Sisters, the Bear, the Dragon.

He remembered Ronan leaning up on one elbow, Gansey’s voice dying in his throat as Ronan had gazed down at him, unguarded, bold as a firework and twice as bright.

The kiss had tasted clean as a mountain spring, cold and melting.

A week later, Ronan had stepped out onto the front porch and frowned at the purple-gray gravel of the Barns’ driveway. It’d looked wrong in the early-morning light, dark and sticky.

Some blood never washed off.

Ronan’s voice ached in the close darkness. “I was more, then.”

“No.” The denial sprang to Gansey’s lips so quickly that it was only after his ears registered it that he realized the truth of it. Ronan Before had known contentment that Ronan After could only access like this, with his nose pressed against the plate glass windows of Gansey’s memories.

But Ronan After was a complex creature, who’d lived and died and been buried alongside his father and had come back to Gansey a twisted mirror version of himself, sharpened by grief, all edges and hard lines.

Gansey knew for every talon blazed across his skin there was another hooked into his heart, a hair's-breadth from exsanguination.

“That version of me–” Ronan’s voice caught. “Do you miss him?”

Gansey opened his eyes. Ronan was a misery in the darkness. He could taste it in the back of his throat.

“Sometimes,” Gansey admitted. “But I’ve never wished that he was here instead of you.”

There was a beat, and then Ronan surged to his knees and Gansey was pulling him forward by the front of his shirt.

Kissing Ronan was a forest fire, a car crash, a broken bone. It was new growth poking hopeful green leaves up toward a sun that hadn’t found its way to the forest floor in ages. It was perfect strangers clutching each other on their knees in the middle of the road, eyes stinging with blood and tears, babbling thank God, thank God, thank God. It was the place where a bone healed stronger for the break, forever marked by it, forever altered.

Gansey leaned his forehead against Ronan’s and tried to transmit his thoughts without words.

I am not leaving you. Even if you try to push me away, I will stand by you.

[lady-of-glass-and-bone]

Sway The Stars Which Dazzle Like Pearls

Pairing: Din Djarin x female!reader

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Warnings: reader is mute due to trauma that isn't specified and uses sign language taught to her by Din, everything in italics is being signed.

A/N: I feel like I haven't written anything in forever and I was worried about not being able to get this done in time and that if I did that it wouldn't be good enough anyway. But, here it is, good or bad. If I got anything wrong as far as communicating via sign language, let me know so I can do better! My fic for the Summer Lovin' 2024 writing challenge. @pedgito @chaotic-mystery

The planet they land on seems to have an eternal night, a never ending full moon and black sand beaches. Here, the stars reflect perfectly in the still waters, a mirror image of the galaxy spread out above. She walks down the Razor Crest's ramp silently, assessing these surroundings with a sharp eye.

He watches her squat down on her haunches to scoop up a handful of the dark sand, crushing it around between her fingers like she's feeling for the quality of an expensive fabric woven on a far off planet. Her face gives little away of what she is thinking.

Din doesn't know much about her past, about what happened before he found her stowed away on the Crest and petrified of her own shadow after his (first) explosive departure from Nevarro, the tiny green kid in tow.

All he knows is that she can't talk. The words are there, he can see them tumbling around behind her eyes, but they seem to get clogged up in her throat, like a gummed up hyperdrive. So he'd started teaching her to sign.

Her footsteps crunch the gravel-sand as she makes her way over to his side, brushing her hands together to clean off the excess sand but some grains still cling to the creases between her fingers, almost sparkling in the moonlight like jewelry. She pins him with a questioning gaze and signs

'Why?'

"Why what?" he motions backs and she fumbles another word, face scrunched in frustration until she finds her rhythm

'Why are we here? Bounty?"

Din shakes his head, considering what he would call this little excursion between jobs before he replies with

"Pitstop, for fun"

"You do fun?" she pulls her mouth into a smirk, pleased at her little joke.

Din tries not to sigh. He's glad they can communicate so freely now, it's light-years better than their rough early days where any movement to sudden or big had her flinching away violently. But he has no idea how she learned to put so much sarcasm into her gestures. Not that he minds now. Anything is better than seeing that unfiltered terror in her eyes.

"Come" he turns and takes a step toward the gently lapping waters edge but doesn't hear her follow, he turns back with a questioning tilt of his helmet

"What is it?" she asks, expression concerned, still rooted in place

"Something good" he assures

"Promise?"

"Yes."

When they reach the water, the ship and the sleeping green child inside it are only a few yards away, a hulking silhouette jutting out of the otherwise flat landscape.

Pulling off his gloves and tucking them safely away, Din crouches down, the toes of his boots touching the water. His companion mimics him, watching carefully as he slowly submerges his hands in the water before carefully feeling around in the wet sand below.

She taps her knuckles into the soft place just below his beskar pauldron, knowing from unfortunate experience not to catch the armor with her bare hands, furrowing her brows when he turns to look at her, seeing her ask

"What are you looking for?"

"Just wait" Din says aloud and she leans back to sit properly on the ground, still curiously watching him dig around, one of her own hands drawing meaningless shapes in the sand beside her.

It takes him a few tries before he finds it, a small orb made and shaped by time and natural forces until it was washed ashore, waiting to be found.

Sitting back beside her, Din holds out his find nestled in the palm of his hand. It stands out stark white and shining in the odd moonlight.

She signs something he doesn't recognize at first, she watches him for a moment, waiting, and then tries again

"Diamond"

"No, pearl" he says out loud and signs it once, twice, then watches her repeat the motion.

The first few times are uncertain as her eyes dart between her hands and his, studying the movement he makes which shapes this new word. Then a couple more times, each with more confidence until

"Pearl" she signs, grinning over at him

"Good" Din smiles beneath his helmet, holding out the pearl to her, an offering.

"Mine?" she quirks a brow at him, still uneasy with receiving things she doesn't feel she has earned.

Din just watches her, hand outstretched and waiting patiently for her to accept this small gratitude.

Eventually, with the barest brush of her fingertips across his naked palm, she takes the pearl. Holding it reverently, worry flashing across her face before she curls her hand around the gifted treasure.

Din had learned to sit with silence long before he met her, so he turns his head out toward the water, then upward just a little, like he's watching the stars.

He isn't. He is giving her the privacy to feel those sometimes tumultuous emotions that come with receiving a gift.

She frowns at her closed fist, lips pulled down in a deep scowl. If her eyes look a bit glossy, she would never admit it. There's a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, a roiling feeling that urges her to not accept this. Not to trust.

But she can see the Mandalorian from the corner of her eye, pretending to watch the stars, nervously rubbing the tips of his fingers together and smearing the gritty sand there until it sloughs off and back onto the beach.

Her courage feels like a finite thing, urgently flopping around in her chest like a gasping fish on land. She leans over closer to the Mandalorian, sees his helmet shift but not quite turn fully toward her as she wraps her arms around his bicep, the pauldron on his shoulder cold even through her shirt.

Hugging him feels like a monumental leap, her cheek pressed against the mudhorn sigil on his beskar shoulder. Her courage has waned and she feels weak, vulnerable, but the little pearl clutched in her hand reminds her that it isn't gone for good.

That it is okay to lean into her companion, her friend, who seems like a forever sturdy rock in the storm that has eclipsed her life.

Awkwardly, arms still wrapped around her Mandalorian's arm, she tells him

"Thank you."

Din makes a sound of acknowledgement, smiling gently beneath his helmet and watching her from the corner of his eye. Her face seems content and his chest constricts in pride, to see that he has hopefully earned her trust enough for her to relax in his presence.

"You're not even looking at the stars" she softly accuses, leaning forward to fully grab his attention

"Neither are you" he retorts.

She huffs a small laugh, tilting her head and raising a hand slowly toward the smooth metal cheek of his helmet. She guides him so they are face to face. Sort of.

They stare, her watching the reflection of the stars in the visor of his helmet, wondering just a little if his eyes are bright beneath all this beskar. If he's looking at her as gratefully as she is him.

Din watches her face, unsure about the hand she has on his helmet, but far more distracted with trying to decipher her expression. Joy seems too big, maybe contentment?

Either way, neither one of them is watching the stars turn above them, a precious pearl clutched between them, a symbol of more. Of hope.

[merakidoll]

him eating you out.

the rain tapped against the windows harshly, the dark grey skies making the penthouse home dark, candles lit all around you setting a certain comfy mood. the large oversized graphics t clung to your hot skin, legs parted over his firm muscler shoulders, white toes digging into his lower back, and babydoll pink bonnet slipping off to reveal your maine.

“y-you’re s’good- shittt” the soft voice echoed out into the room, hands running through his hair and grabbing a big chunk stuffing his face deeper into your wet cunt. he still maintained eye contact with you, lips sucking against your pearl, white cream dripping out of you and going down to your ass that was quickly licked up and savored into his mouth.

“mm” he hmmed closing his eyes and licking his lips chest flexing, “more” he said it so quickly that you couldn’t register, only feeling when his tongue dipped deep into your hole licking all in it trying to get anything you offered him like a starved man.

he grunted and growled deep into you, cream and slick sticking to his face, your thighs clenching around him quivering profusely, “n-nomoreee” you cried, ears ringing and stars beginning to show in your black eyesight. before you could even say that you were cumming, you had already squirted all over his face creating a mess on the sheet’s and the man, body going limp from the powerful orgasms.

rising from between your legs, he licked his lips, a goofy smile precent on his dripping face that he wouldn’t dear waste on a napkin. “so, how was my first time?”

choso, sukuna, gojo, armin, eren, draken, tengen

[naffeclipse]

I've been musing over a few thoughts inspired by this ask about a mafia-ish style of Apex Polarity without it being too close to Pearl Eye, and after watching a few videos of Orcas hunting their prey (which included dolphins), landed on a sort of Mafia inspired Apex Polarity AU

Also not to add another Y/N to Orclipse's growing collection but this Y/N is a white-beaked dolphin. Look! They're so beautiful!

Sirens are cunning, brutal, and take everything with teeth and claws. The strongest kill and maim at a whim. As a siren who's not particularly strong, though incredibly agile, with a tail streamlined and dark gray with white patches, fins curved and mostly black, you're somewhere at the bottom. You're doing your best to survive and avoid trouble. You pick your battles and you pick your escapes, and most importantly, you stay alive.

But then you do something really stupid: you venture where you shouldn't have.

You don't usually swim so far up north but you're hungry, and the thought of a few tasty squids distracts you from the silent waters and vast, blue emptiness. You realize a bit too late that you're not the only one hunting.

You catch the first orca siren in the distance as a dark figure, and then another. Two who immediately cut through the water, charging straight for you like shadows. Though you turn tail and bolt, you quickly spot them in the corner of your vision. They easily keep pace, their size and strength overwhelming as they flank you on both sides, wide grins flashing their deadly teeth. You can hardly look at the mismatched color of their eyes as you dodge and weave, diving down only to be cut off by one with midnight blue colors at the tip of his flukes, and shooting off to the left just to almost be snatched by the black-bone claws of a siren with bright yellow fins framing his head.

They're toying with you. You know that for a fact in how they just barely keep back, corraling you onwards, draining your already spent energy, and picking at your panicking pulse. You have no choice but to avoid the edges of their jaws and the tips of their talons, and swim in the direction they want.

You near a field of ice floes floating on the water, and though you cut into the jagged structures dipping into the sea, the orca sirens never lose you. A desperate need for air pushes you onward. One small drop of hope still burns in your chest. Despite the aching of your muscles, you steal a gulp of oxygen and dip back down once more, charging away—

Only to run smack into a third orca siren.

This one grabs you, his burning red and orange colors filling your vision. The other two orcas join to help their kin keep you in place long enough for you to truly regret ever venturing here. Between the three of what you can only assume are brothers, hands hooked over you shoulders, claws clutching your wrists, and palms pressing into your hips, you're a fish caught in a net.

You brace for a voilent end. It never arrives. Instead of digging into your sweet meat, the sirens offer you a deal. The tips of sharp fingertips trace your jawline and the soft inside of your arms and down your slick tail while they explain.

You keep watch for human ships and report back when they're getting close, and in exchange, you get the best food you can imagine, the entire Arctic Ocean to swim, and anything else you'd like. The best benefit? You're under their protection. Of course, they expect utter loyalty from you. You are no one else's. Failure to devote yourself to this work and the brothers would mean a grisly fate, but hey, you're nothing if not eager to not be torn apart. So you agree.

You have a few questions about this whole arrangement, struggling to understand why they, powerful orca sirens, bother with a smaller fish like you when they could rip you limb from limb and be done. What's with the human ships? Why task you to this? Are you just fodder so they can keep their fins nice and unscabbed? They reassure you that they'll explain in due time (the sunny one booping your nose, much to your chagrin), but for now, all you know to know is that the human ships are a problem, and you are their solution for it. You've never really encountered humans before, but they've never really encountered sirens, or so you thought.

The burning red one lets you go, but you don't slip away too far before he tugs on your flukes and tells you to follow him. It's not a request. The darker blue one leaves for a moment, jetting away as the other two guide you to a nice resting place on an icy shore. They introduce themselves, and then their brother reappears with a squid in hand, half dead, and an insistence that you eat—they could tell during the chase that you didn't have all your energy.

And that's how you unwittingly join a very powerful pod of orca brothers who may or may not be teasing and taunting you simultaneously.

[ceratedfish24]

People REALLY liked my Scottho post, which I thought might get maybe 17 notes if even that, so, uh, here’s a dabble based on literally one line towards the end of Etho’s 5th episode of Wild Life.

—————

“Best Decision I’ve Ever Made” -Etho

The rain lashed against the cobblestone roof above Scott’s head. For the sake of privacy and as a defense mechanism against Impulse and Cleo’s snoring, Pearl and Scott had put up cherry wood walls between the four color coordinated beds in the small base. Scott had thought about putting a window by his bed, but he figured it was best to keep his enemies from being able to see into his base in a death game. The blankets were heavy, and Scott was lying on his stomach, completely limp. His cerulean eyes drooped. Grian’s games were fun, but they were also exhausting. If he was being honest, his favorite part came after the games, when he was curling up in his bed with his cat and sleeping for hours and hours after a whole pot of pasta.

There was a knock on the door.

Scott’s shoulders had just settled into the mattress, but he shoved himself up from the bed. His chest was heaving just from pulling himself onto his knees on his bed, and he took a moment to decompress from that effort alone. Nobody else was going to answer the door. Scott is nothing if not selfless. He puts his weight onto his left hand, feeling it sink into the sheets, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

The teal haired man stumbled his way to the door of his room and leaned against the frame, running his hands through his bed head. If he was going to answer the door in the middle of the night, he may as well look the best he can manage to represent his team. Scott’s feet dragged themselves to the front of their base, shoulders sagging. Impulse’s snores were faint, but they were audible. Scott pulled his head up to look through the small window in the door. A black eye and a red eye looked back at him. The blue haired man shot upright.

“Etho?” Scott swung the door open towards himself. The poor man’s white hair dripped and sagged over his headband, covering it completely. Etho’s eyes were as sunken in as Scott’s, and they were almost hidden in the dark of the night. Water rushed down his skin, dappled with sun and age. The torches covering the base were like a bonfire outlining Etho’s lean frame. Scott was starting to think he had overdone it with the mob spawn-proofing.

“I know this-” Etho couldn’t finish his sentence, before Scott was dragging him inside by his dripping vest. Scott was too tired to notice how Etho’s eyes dropped to look at his lips, momentarily confused as to the blue boy’s intentions.

“What are you doing out here?” Scott slammed the door shut behind them and practically threw himself into his team’s storage. He fished out the thickest wool blankets they had. Cleo had prepared them for the team during the early days of the game, before they had walls and a roof over their heads to keep out the wind. They didn’t need such heavy blankets now that they were in a safe little abode, but Scott was a hoarder. This was exactly why. He wrapped them securely around Etho’s shoulders, and his hands brushed Etho’s neck. The white haired man was ice cold, but he wasn’t shaking. Scott knew cold like nobody else. Etho should be freezing. His teeth should be chattering, and his nose should be running. Maybe Scott would never understand how Etho had managed to reach such a point in his life that such conditions were normal to him.

“Bdubs stole my bed,” Etho shrugged, hugging the blankets closer to him, digging his fingers into the fabric. “You have- uh. Thank you,” Scott would not have been surprised if Etho was about to admit that he hadn’t seen a blanket in weeks. “I know that I was the one who said that we- uh, that we would keep it, keep this alliance on the downlow, but…”

Scott blew on his hands several times and pressed them against Etho’s masked jaw. It was tense. That must be why his teeth weren’t chattering. Etho stared at Scott. The tension in his shoulders, even under the thick wool, visibly relaxed, and his head dropped into Scott’s palms, which felt like a fireplace on Etho’s face. The stiffened joints in Etho’s neck audibly cracked, and Scott could practically feel the knots in Etho’s shoulders and upper back unraveling.

“You don’t have to apologize for wanting to be warm,” Scott murmured. Thumbs rubbed Etho’s cheekbones, which seemed to jut from his face. The blue haired boy made a mental note to feed this lanky man.

Part of Scott wanted to pull Etho’s head into his neck and cradle his shoulders, letting the man put all his, admittedly very minimal for such a tall survivalist of a man, weight on him. He pulled away instead. Scott pulled a towel out from the chest monster and draped it over Etho’s head. A surprised little “oh!” squeaked out of Etho’s throat, as Scott dug his hands into the towel and mussed Etho’s soaked hair, doing his best to dry it. Trying his best to keep his head still, Etho squeezed his eyes closed, as Scott bunched the towel in his hands on Etho’s scalp. The redstoner’s hair was pretty short. Scott didn’t have to try too hard to get it dry enough.

“Uh, do you have an extra, an extra bed?” Etho shuffled in place and rolled his shoulders. Scott did not have an extra bed, nor did he have the resources to make one. The G’s had yet to move their livestock, so shearing sheep would require a fifteen minute run to and from the island far from the rest of the bases in the rain and darkness.

“Yeah. It’s in that room,” Scott handed Etho a water bottle and nodded to his own room, pulling the blanket off of Etho. “You go ahead. I should set up a hook in here to dry this.”

Reluctantly, Etho pulled his mask down. Scott turned away respectfully, but he could hear Etho drinking. He sounded like he hadn’t had fresh water in a year, before he made his way to the ‘spare’ room. He stood in the doorway for a moment and looked back at Scott. The dry man did his best to ignore it, pretending everything was normal. Scott wrung the water out of the blanket in his hands and draped it over his shoulder, opening the chests to look for the materials for a tripwire hook. Etho’s eyes softened, and he crossed his arms, leaning against the wall.

“This is your room,” Etho stated. Scott huffed and half-heartedly picked through a chest for string.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Scott tried.

“I’m tired, Scott. I’m not clueless. The whole room is blue,” Etho argued. Scott threw the blanket onto the chests.

“We don’t have a fifth bed,” Scott mumbled, defeated, and looked up at the taller man. Etho shrugged nonchalantly. He hadn’t pulled his wet mask up. His lips had a scar running through them. It looked like it might have been from the same attack that scarred over his eye. Scott ignored that he was looking at Etho’s lips.

“So I’ll sleep on the blanket.”

“Absolutely not.” The blue haired boy sped over to Etho and practically tossed him onto the teal sheets. Scott closed the bedroom door behind him. “You’re not a stray fighting for scraps on the street anymore, sir. You’re my teammate, and no less.”

Scott tugged the blankets from under Etho and tossed them onto his frozen form. The warmth from when Scott was still under the sheets not too long ago seeped into Etho’s muscles. The older man had little time to react before Scott climbed in next to him, wrapping his arms around Etho’s neck and tucking Etho’s damp head under his chin. Etho didn’t know what to do with his cold hands. It seemed rude to press them against Scott’s warm shoulder blades. Scott’s neck felt scorching against Etho’s frozen nose. He doesn’t know when he had begun to let his body shiver.

“...If you insist,” Etho whispered. Scott’s hands ran through his damp hair. They felt like a mug of hot chocolate after a day in the snow. He felt like he was melting. “This is, like, the best decision I’ve ever made, I think.”

—————

Thanks for reading my little drabble!!🩵

[sparxwrites]

It’s two in the morning when Gem wakes up to screaming in her castle.

The noise is coming from the entrance hall, and it sounds like neither a wither nor a warden, so she figures she’s good to head down in just her pyjamas and her little silk house-robe. Her sword is a comforting not-weight in her inventory, visible a half-dimension away when she lets her attention slip to the peripheral of her vision. Whatever it is, she’ll be fine. It’s probably some bugged zombie or something – if it’s not just some new god-awful prank from Grian, or Scar, or both. 

(She’s heard that thing under Scar’s base. It’s horrible. If they’ve put one of those in her castle, she’s going to kill both of them. Even if it was just one of them that put it there, she’s going to kill both of them. On principle.)

It’s not a bugged zombie, or a prank. It’s Pearl – also in her pyjamas, red flannel and a button-up shirt – hunched over, pulling at her own hair, howling. Her eyes are huge, wet, the pupils blown so large they’re almost black. There’s dark bags under her eyes, no colour in her skin other than high spots of red in her cheeks, the red of her nose where it’s running.

She’s barefoot – and that shouldn’t be what makes Gem’s heart break in two, but it is.

“Hey, Pearl,” she says, gently, raising her voice to carry over the wounded wailing. “Pearl! Hey. Can you look at me?”

She feels like she should have expected this, really. She’d heard from Mumbo what Grian had been like, after that first game, the one he’d won. She’d not been close enough to experience it first-hand, but she knew it’d been bad. She knows that winning those games is really more of a loss, than anything.

Pearl’s head snaps up. The howling stops, or rather transitions, turns into a choked gurgling, a gasping, this awful and wrenching sobbing like she’s gagging on her own saliva and desperately trying to swallow her screams. Her eyes are hollow, empty, nothing behind them but fear, pain. There’s something else there, too, some kind of deep and welling existential terror that makes Gem want to take a step back. 

She doesn’t, but it’s a close thing. The back of her neck prickles, the hairs on the back of her arms standing on end. She swallows, instead, and forces herself to take a step forward, towards the fear.

“That’s good,” she praises, “that’s great, Pearl, good job. Well done. Now. Can you tell me what’s going on? Seems like you’re having a bit of a rough time, huh?”

When Pearl rushes at her – hunched, animal, too-fast and skittering and staggering – she still doesn’t back up. 

She does, however, flinch. Her gaze slides to the peripheral, again, to the sword there. Just for a moment.

Pearl doesn’t seem to notice. “Tilly,” she gasps, grabs at Gem’s wrists. Her nails dig in, overlong, and draw blood. “Where’s– Tilly, what did they–” Her gaze sharpens, but only for a moment, and there’s still no sense in it. “What did you do to Tilly–”

Like this, this close, skin-on-skin contact between them, Gem can feel how hard she’s shaking.

“I’m sure she’s around here somewhere,” says Gem, as calmly as she can. “Can you tell me where you think you are, Pearl?”

Pearl gurgles, an awful noise. and tips forward. She’s still clutching hard enough to draw blood and, when she falls into Gem’s chest, she’s as cold as the night air outside. Her shaking rattles Gem’s ribs.

“He left,” she says, wet, like a child. “He left, he– he killed, he died, he killed himself, rather than– than be with me. He hates me. He wanted to get away from me so bad that he, he, he–”

She howls again, then, a noise of raw and ragged pain that seems to tear its way out of her like a living thing. 

There are tears soaking through Gem’s pyjamas, and her heart breaks a little with it as she carefully, carefully, shifts a hand to cradle the back of Pearl’s head. Her wrists are bloody with nail marks, and some of it catches, smears in Pearl’s wild hair. She tries not to worry about it. They can wash it out later.

“Shh, shh,” she murmurs, pets at the tangled mess beneath her hand, holds Pearl close while she works through another bout of screaming. “Shh, shh, shh.” She takes them both to the floor, slowly, legs going out from under them as Gem lowers them down. “I’m here, I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

“He hated me,” moans Pearl, between sobs, when the wailing has passed. The shaking is slowing, easing a little, the agony giving way to a slower, bone-deep hurt, the madness passing into grief. “He wanted to die rather than stay.”

That’s not true, Gem thinks, and she thinks Pearl knows that too. But she doesn’t say that. Now is not the time for saying that.

What she says, instead, is just, “I’m here. And I don’t hate you.” She hesitates, for a moment, and then leans forward, curls over Pearl where they’re sat tangled together on the floor. Presses her lips to the top of Pearl’s head. “I’m here,” she says, and means it, “and I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”

[princesssszzzz]

Scent of Desire

Rhaena x Aemond

Warnings: Targcest & Infidelity

Word count: 2.5k

Rhaena is married but still enjoys her encounters with Aemond

Read on AO3

Upon her return, she smelled him in her chambers before she saw him. His familiar scent of leather, smoke, and Vhagar. Rhaena's pulse quickened as she secured the latch on her door, her fingers lingering longer than necessary on the cool metal. She couldn’t let her handmaidens interrupt or catch her.

Outside, far beyond her window, she could still see the small procession of her husband's retinue growing smaller along the King's Road withdust trailing behind them like a comet's tail.

Three weeks. He would be gone three weeks to spend time with his brother. Three weeks of freedom.

Rhaena smoothed her silver hair, tucking a loc behind her ear as she turned slowly, pretending not to notice the dark shadow that shifted in the corner where her dressing screen stood. She moved to her vanity dresser, deliberately slow, removing her earrings one by one.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she placed her mother’s old pearls onto the polished wood. The silence between them stretched like a bowstring. She could feel his eyes on her, burning trails across the nape of her neck and down the curve of her spine.

This was a game they had played countless times before. It was exciting and they were never caught.

The wooden chair in the corner creaked, and Rhaena held her breath. He was rising. Yet no footfalls followed, as though he moved like smoke itself across her bedroom floor. Years of training with blade had made him silent as death, a skill that served him well in these forbidden visits.

Like a predator who had chosen his moment to strike.

Rhaena kept her eyes fixed on her reflection in a small looking glass, watching as her pupils dilated in anticipation. A flush crept up her neck, warming her cheeks and making the room suddenly too stifling. The layers of her black dress suddenly felt constricting against her heated skin.

She removed her Valyrian steel necklace with trembling hands and twirled it, an excuse to keep her hands busy while her mind raced with forbidden thoughts. Then she felt him. The heat of his body suddenly close behind her, not yet touching, but near enough that the fine silver hairs on her arms stood at attention. His breath, warm and steady, caressed the exposed skin of her shoulder where her gown had slipped.

Time seemed to slow as he placed his hands on the dresser, one on either side of her, caging her in. She was trapped between the solid oak and his firm body in a delicious prison of warm flesh and musky scent. Rhaena inhaled sharply, her chest rising and falling with increasing urgency as he leaned in closer, still not touching her directly but hovering just a breath away.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the dresser until her knuckles whitened, anchoring herself while desire threatened to overwhelm her. He hadn't even properly touched her yet, and already her breath came in shallow gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath her bodice.

When he finally pressed against her, it was with agonizing restraint. First, the brush of his doublet against her back, then the hard planes of his chest molding to her form. His hips pinned her against the dresser, the edge digging into her thighs, the ornate carvings pressing patterns into her soft flesh. She welcomed the discomfort. It anchored her to reality when his presence threatened to sweep her into fantasy.

How different this was already from their usual hasty encounters. Stolen moments in shadowed alcoves, hurried kisses behind tapestries, desperate touches in forgotten corners of the keep. Always rushed, always alert for approaching footsteps or voices. But now, with her husband's party disappearing into the horizon, they had time. Real time.

His hands moved from the dresser to her waist, his calloused fingers tracing the intricate dragon embroidery of her gown before settling on her hips. Her breath hitched as he pressed his face into her hair, inhaling deeply, as though memorizing her scent.

Rhaena's eyes fluttered closed. How many times had she imagined this very scenario during the endless feasts where she sat beside her husband, dutiful and demure?

Aemond's left hand moved slowly from the dresser to her waist, his fingers splaying across her ribcage. The leather of his glove creaked softly as he tightened his grip, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast. Rhaena's eyes fluttered closed at the contact, her lips parting in silent anticipation.

His other hand, ungloved, slid up to sweep her locs aside, exposing the vulnerable curve where neck met shoulder. The contrast between his warm fingers and the cool air made her shiver. For a moment, he simply breathed her in, his nose tracing the shell of her ear without touching it, savoring her scent of lavender and cinnamon.

He finally let his lips descend upon her, pressing into the curve of Rhaena’s neck with deliberate slowness. The initial contact sent a jolt through her body, a lightning strike of pleasure that traveled down her spine and pooled low in her belly. Rhaena's fingers curled tighter around the edge of the vanity, her knuckles bloodless with the strain of restraining herself.

Aemond's mouth worked against her flesh, alternating between gentle kisses and the scrape of teeth that threatened to mark but never quite did. He knew from habit better than to leave evidence, though sometimes Rhaena secretly wished he would.

Her head fell back against his shoulder as his ungloved hand traced the intricate lacing of her dragon embroidery, following the pattern down, down to where the fabric cinched at her waist. His movements were measured, each touch calculated to heighten her senses without providing the release she craved.

Rhaena felt herself melting against him, her body betraying her with every passing second. The carefully constructed walls she'd built around her desires crumbled with each press of his lips, each stroke of his hands. A soft sound escaped her throat. Not quite a whimper, not quite a moan, as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot behind her ear.

Aemond's response was immediate. The sound triggered something primal within him, and his hands tightened their grip on her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath her gown. Her reaction emboldened him further, his touch becoming more insistent, more demanding.

His lips curled into a wicked smile against her skin, and then his tongue swept a hot, wet path from the hollow of her collarbone to the sensitive spot just below her ear. The sensation sent a tremor through her entire body, her knees weakening beneath her skirts.

Aemond whispered, his voice rough as dragonglass against her flesh, "he doesn't know how to touch you."

His hands gathered the heavy black fabric of her gown, slowly drawing it upward and bunching the fabric at her hips. The weight of silk and embroidery created a barrier between them, and Rhaena found herself growing impatient with the layers separating his skin from hers. As if sensing her thoughts, Aemond's fingers worked with practiced efficiency, loosening the ties of her undergarments until they, too, were pushed aside.

A thought flickered across Rhaena's mind as she felt his fingers trace the curve of her thigh. His wife likely believed him at some brothel in Flea Bottom, spending his coin on painted women with perfumed hair and practiced moans. How little she knew. Rhaena felt a perverse satisfaction in this knowledge, that it was her chambers Aemond sought, her body he craved. No purchased pleasure could compare to what they shared in these stolen hours in the Keep.

The irony wasn't lost on Rhaena as his hand slipped pass her lace, finding her already slick with want for him. One finger traced her folds with agonizing slowness, mapping her like a territory he meant to conquer. She bit her lower lip to stifle the moan threatening to escape as he pressed one finger inside her, then another, stretching her with deliberate care.

His fingers worked with maddening precision, stroking that secret place within her that made her vision blur at the edges. The rhythm was torturous, slow, deliberate, a counterpoint to her now racing heartbeat. Rhaena's head fell back against his shoulder, her eyes half-lidded as pleasure coiled tighter in her core. The vanity's edge pressed sharply against her thighs, the discomfort only enhancing the mounting ecstasy as his skilled fingers continued their relentless exploration.

With his ungloved hand still working between her thighs, Aemond's leather-clad palm pressed firmly against the small of her back, guiding her forward until she was bent slightly over the vanity so he could see her better. Her palms flattened against the polished surface, scattering hairpins and sending her mother's pearls rolling across the wood like tiny moons in orbit. His fingers withdrew from her slick heat with slowness that left her whimpering at the sudden emptiness.

With his free hand, he gathered her locs, wrapping them once around his fist and using the gentle tension to guide her arch back up.

He savored the way her spine curved like a question mark against his chest, the sweet scent rising from her skin in the candlelit room.

“That boy you call husband," Aemond murmured against her skin, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her, "cannot possibly know how to please you. You need a man, Rhaena.”

One hand remained tangled in her silver-gold locs, maintaining that delicious tension that forced her back to arch deeper, while his other hand gripped her hip with possessive intensity. The leather of his glove creaked as his fingers dug into her flesh, sure to leave marks that would bloom like violets by morning in secret badges of their forbidden union.

He entered her slowly, stretching her, and filling her inch by inch until she felt impossibly full. The sensation bordered on pain, a sweet ache that made her gasp and grip the vanity's edge harder. Her reflection stared back at her from the looking glass. Cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide with desire, lips parted in silent ecstasy. Behind her, Aemond's face was a study in concentrated pleasure, his eye half-lidded.

For a moment he remained still, buried to the hilt inside her, his chest pressed against her back. She could feel his heartbeat hammering against her spine, matching her own frantic rhythm. His breath came in controlled, measured exhales against her ear, evidence of his iron self-restraint.

Then he began to move. The first thrust nearly buckled her knees, sending ripples of pleasure cascading through her body like wildfire through a summer-dry field. Her fingers scrambled for purchase on the polished wood as he established a rhythm, each powerful stroke driving her forward only to pull her back against him with the hand still wrapped in her hair. The vanity rattled beneath their combined weight, the looking glass reflecting fragments of their union in flashes of pale skin and black leather.

Rhaena bit down on her lower lip until she tasted copper, desperate to contain the sounds threatening to spill from her throat. Even with her handmaidens dismissed and her husband finally away, years of secrecy had taught her caution. The walls of the Keep had ears, and whispers traveled faster than ravens between its ancient stones.

Aemond's pace increased, his control slipping as pleasure overtook calculation. His thrusts quickly grew more erratic, more desperate. The vanity creaked beneath their weight, threatening to collapse with every powerful snap of his hips. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back, his lips grazing the shell of her ear as he tightened his grip on her hair. The slight pain sent shockwaves of pleasure through her body, heightening every sensation.

Rhaena's resolve crumbled. A moan tore from her throat, loud and unrestrained, echoing off the tall stone walls of her chamber. The sound startled even her, so raw and primal that it seemed to belong to another woman entirely. Not the dutiful wife, and not the careful Princess.

She felt Aemond falter for a heartbeat, his rhythm disrupted by the sudden vocalization. His hand released her hair to grip her hip, his fingers digging deeper, bruising. Behind her, she felt him tensing, his muscles coiling tight as a crossbow. His breathing grew ragged against her neck, hot and damp as summer rain.

With each thrust, the vanity inched forward against the stone floor, scraping softly with their rhythm. The sound of skin against skin filled the chamber, punctuated by the creak of leather and the muffled whimpers escaping.

Rhaena felt the familiar tension building deep within her core, a gathering storm of sensation that threatened to consume her entirely. The thought suddenly flashed unbidden through her mind. Her courses had ended just days ago. The perfect time for seed to take root. The dangerous possibility sent a thrill through her body that was equal parts terror and exhilaration.

A fortnight past her moonblood, her body ripe and ready. Unlike the dutiful coupling with her husband where she took special teas afterward, here she wanted no barriers, no precautions. The risk only heightened her pleasure, making her inner walls clench around him in anticipation.

With one final, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, a strangled groan escaping his throat as he spilled himself inside her.

The thought of bearing his child, growing a secret dragon within her, sent a fresh wave of heat through Rhaena's body. Her inner muscles clenched around him, drawing him deeper as his rhythm faltered.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, bruising marks that would bloom by morning like dark violets beneath her skin. He pulled her harder against him, her back arching impossibly as he drove into her with renewed desperation.

The sensation built within her, a tightening coil that wound tighter with each thrust. Rhaena's vision blurred at the edges.

Her release crashed through her with the force of a summer storm. Her body convulsed, inner walls pulsing around his length as pleasure radiated outward from her core in waves of ecstasy. Her weakened knees threatened to buckle beneath her, but Aemond's strong arms held her upright, his body a solid anchor as she shattered against him. Their world narrowed to pinpoints of sensation, his fingers digging into her flesh, his breath hot against her neck, the fullness of him still pulsing inside her.

As their breathing gradually steadied, Rhaena remained motionless, savoring the weight of him against her back, the lingering sensation of fullness and completion.

She was not the dutiful princess raised to make a political match. Not the meek wife who endured her husband's fumbling attentions.

Rhaena let her hand slide to her belly, fingers splaying across the flat plane where his seed now rested. A slow smile spread across her face, not the polite curve of lips she wore at court functions, but something genuine now.

How little they all understood her. None witnessed these moments.

[vodika-vibes]

A Sudden Realization

Summary: Tup realizes that he has a crush on his best friend and does something about it.

Pairing: Clone Trooper Tup x F!Reader

Warnings: ridiculously fluffy

A/N: I typed this on my phone, so it's not going to have a taglist until later. (If I remember)

"Because I am an amazing person," Tup chokes on his water when he hears the sudden and familiar voice of his closest friend behind him, "I bring you gifts."

She drops in the chair across from him and sets three massive bags on the table.

"No, please. Sit." Tup says sarcastically.

"Thanks! I will." She reaches across the table and steals a fry, earning her a disgruntled look.

"I was eating that," he wraps his arm protectively around his plate, "I'm sure you have enough money to buy fries of your own."

She grins, "I only wanted one. Anyway! Ask me what I bought you." She almost bounces in her seat, "Go on. Ask."

Tup sighs and uncurls his arm. He takes one more sip of his soda, and then sets the cup on the table, "What did you buy me?" He asks, dutifully.

"I'm so glad you asked!" She shifts on her chair so she's resting on a knee and digs through a bag, "First, the hair salon I get my shampoo from was having a sale so I bought you your own bottles of the same shampoo and conditioner that I use, and I saw some cute scrunchies so I bought a couple so we can match—"

"Isn't your shampoo and conditioner, like, 50 credits a pop? With crushed pearls or some shit like that?"

"80, actually. And yes, it is." She grins at him as she lifts a bottle and shows him before setting it back in the bag. "And then I popped into the store next door and they had those boots that you really liked in your size, so I bought you a pair of brown and black—"

"...the 125 credit boots?"

"—And they're rated for use on military ships, so you won't have to worry about that." She continues as if he hadn't spoken, "And since they were having a buy two get one free sale, I got myself the cutest sandals, they were originally only 40 credits, but it seemed excessive to spend that much on shoes, you know—"

"...so you spend nearly three times that amount on shoes for me?" Tup asks dryly.

Again, she ignores him, "—and then, across the lot, they had the clothing store that I really like and I bought you a couple of shirts in colors you look good in and some jeans."

"This is excessive, don't you think?"

"Not really?" She glances at him for a moment before she digs through the biggest bag, "oh! I also got you some dress clothes, like for a date or an interview or whatever. A dark blue button up and some black slacks and nice shoes—"

"Uh...who am I dating?"

"Tup, you need nice clothes if you're going to woo someone. Trust me. I'm the voice of experience."

"You've never been on a date in your life." Tup points out.

"Excuse your whore mouth," she presses a hand to her chest in mock offense, "I'll have you know that I got married under the slide when I was 3."

"Yeah? And where's your husband at?"

Her lips twitch like she's trying not to laugh, "A deadbeat, apparently."

At that, Tup let's out a loud laugh. She holds out a moment longer before she also dissolves into laughter.

Once she's managed to calm her giggles, she favors him with a warm smile, "All joking aside, Tup, I want you to have the best shot at happiness. I just hope that some of this stuff helps."

"You didn't have to waste all this money on me," Tup says as he leans back in his chair.

"I wanted to. You're important to me, after all."

Tup's heart does a flip in his chest, and he takes a moment to look at her. To really look at her.

From her crooked smile that she has a tendency to cover with a hand because it's 'not pretty', up her slightly turned up nose, to her eyes that crinkle when she's genuinely happy.

Tup realizes that the only future he wants for himself is one when she's standing next to him.

She tilts her head to the side, like a curious tooka, "Tup? Everything alright?"

"Yeah...yeah, I'm fine. Thank you, angel. Really."

Her bright smile becomes smaller, gentler almost, and she averts her gaze as she absently plays with the end of her braid.

How had he never noticed the way she looked at him? The way she softens when he praises her? The way she averts her gaze when he's trying to be sincere with her?

How is it that he's seen her every day for months...and yet this is the first time he's ever actually seen her?

Tup makes a split second decision, and hopes, beyond all hope, that he's reading her right. "Hey, angel?"

"Yeah? What's up?" She casts her pretty gaze back to his face, and then her breath catches, audibly, when he leans in and kisses the corner of her lips. "You--I--um..."

This might be the first time he's ever seen her properly speechless. "Was that okay?"

"No! I mean, yes! I mean—" she groans and presses a hand over her face, "Can we start again?"

He laughs, unable to help himself, "By all means. Let me start." Tup takes the hand covering her face and threads his fingers with hers, "It seems that I now how clothes that are acceptable to wear on a date. So how about we go out tonight? Just you and me. And we can figure out if you like my kisses or not."

She stares at her the joined hands for a moment, and then she huffs out a slightly flustered laugh, "I have nothing to wear."

"Well then, we can start our date now. With a well-deserved shopping spree." Tup replies, "If you don't mind showing off for me?"

And, finally, that tiny pretty smile comes back to her face, "Have I ever?"

[lustfullyloud]

Vibration of the Night

The backstage room smells like clean wood and a little bit of dust. You can hear the soft noise of the crowd through the walls. The room is small and not very bright. A shiny grand piano sits in the corner, catching the light. But the man in front of you feels even more powerful.

He steps closer, his dark eyes burning into yours. “You want me bad, don’t you?” His voice is low, smooth, but with a dirty edge that sends heat through you. His rough fingers, tough from playing the piano, slide up your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. He pushes you against the wall, not hard, but firm enough to make you gasp. His body’s so close you feel the warmth rolling off him.

Wonpil’s in a tight black suit that fits him like a glove, showing off every line of his body. His heat makes your breath catch. “Couldn’t wait till my show’s done, huh?” he teases, his lips curling into a wicked grin. His knee slips between your thighs, pressing just enough to make your legs weak. His hand grabs your hip, fingers digging into the yellow dress he bought you for his big performance tonight.

Your hands flatten against the wall, trying to stay steady. “Wonpil…” you start, but his intense stare shuts you up fast.

“Shh,” he whispers, his voice sharp but playful. His fingers tighten on your hip, scrunching the dress. “You come here, looking this damn hot, fucking with my head right before my show?” His thumb brushes the thin silver necklace around your neck — a small pearl dangling from it, a gift from his last show. He tugs the chain, pulling you closer, his breath hot on your skin.

“Who got you this?” he asks, voice low and rough, his fingers playing with the pearl.

“You,” you murmur, your heart slamming in your chest as his touch lingers near your throat.

“Damn right,” he growls, his lips brushing your ear, making you shiver. “It makes you look so fucking sexy.” His hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face so you’re forced to meet his eyes. " I miss you so much."

Your pulse is racing, but you push back a little, smirking. “You’re the one who ditched me all day, lost in your music,” you say, keeping your voice soft but bold.

He laughs, low and dark, his breath tickling your cheek. “Oh, so you’re desperate for me now?” His knee presses harder between your legs, making you bite your lip. “Wearing this dress, the necklace, looking like you’re begging for me in my private room. Tell me what you want, baby. You know how hard it is to think straight with you standing here like this?”

Before you can answer, he steps back, all smooth confidence, like he’s already owning the stage. “Was gonna save this for later, but you’re too needy.” He pulls a small black box from his pocket and hands it to you. “Open it.”

"Why do you always give me a gift at your recital when you’re the one who deserves to be celebrated?"

You fumble with the box, heart pounding, and pop it open. Inside is a sleek, small egg vibrator. Your eyes go wide, and you laugh, half-shocked. “Seriously, Wonpil?”

His grin is pure trouble. “Put it in. Right now.”

“What?” you say, cheeks burning. “You’re insane.”

He steps closer, taking the vibrator from the box and pressing it into your hand. His voice drops, commanding. “Do it. I wanna see.”

Your face is on fire, but the way he’s staring — hungry, in control — makes your body hum with want. You glance at him, then slowly slide your hands under your dress, slipping the vibrator inside. It feels slick and strange, and you gasp softly as it settles, your thighs pressing together.

Wonpil’s smirk grows, his eyes dark with satisfaction. He pulls out his phone, taps a few buttons, and the vibrator buzzes to life inside you. You moan, grabbing the wall as a sharp wave of pleasure hits you, making your knees shake.

“Wonpil!” you gasp, half-laughing, half-begging. “Turn it off!”

He taps the phone, and the buzzing stops. “Keep it in till my show’s over,” he says, voice low and dirty. “Don’t you dare take it out.” He winks, grabs his music sheets from a table, and flips through them like he didn’t just set your body on fire. You’re left against the wall, annoyed but so turned on, your panties already wet.

The stage manager calls him. Wonpil glances back, his eyes gleaming. “Be a good girl out there,” he teases. “I’ll know if you’re not.” Then he’s gone, leaving you hot and bothered.

You stumble to the concert hall, sinking into a soft chair. The lights dim, and the crowd quiets. Wonpil steps onto the stage, his suit looking sharper than ever in the spotlight. He sits at the grand piano, fingers ready, and the first notes pour out — strong, beautiful, filling the room. His music is incredible, but the vibrator inside you keeps you distracted, a dirty secret tying you to him.

You squirm in your seat, the dress clinging to your skin, the pearl necklace cool against your flushed chest. You think of his hands, his mouth, the way he pinned you earlier. Your body’s buzzing, and you try to breathe slow to stay calm.

Twenty minutes into the set, during a soft, haunting ballad, the vibrator buzzes to life — slow and teasing at first. You bite your lip hard, stifling a whimper as the gentle hum pulses through your core, making you clench around it. Your thighs press together, but it only makes you wetter. You glance at Wonpil, his fingers gliding over the keys, his face calm, but his lips twitch like he’s fighting a smirk. He’s controlling it from the stage, with an app on his phone.

The buzzing stops, and you exhale, trembling. But then, during a loud, dramatic piece, it starts again — harder, faster, relentless. You grip the chair, nails digging into the fabric, a soft moan slipping out before you can stop it. The woman next to you glances over, and you fake a cough, cheeks burning. Your pussy’s throbbing, dripping, every nerve on fire. Wonpil’s eyes flick to the crowd, finding yours for a split second, and his grin is pure evil. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

The teasing doesn’t stop. For the next hour, he plays you like his fucking piano — random bursts of vibration, some soft and torturous, others so intense you have to bite your cheek to stay quiet. One time, during a quiet interlude, the buzzing hits so hard you nearly come right there, your hips shifting, thighs squeezing as you fight to keep it together. Your panties are ruined, your body shaking with need. You glare at him, but the sight of him — little hair falling over his forehead, fingers flying, a white shirt hugging his frame — only makes you want him more.

The show ends with a perfect, heart-stopping chord, the crowd roaring as Wonpil stands and bows. His eyes lock on yours, dark and promising, and you know he’s not done with you.

You slip out to the parking lot, legs wobbly, pussy still throbbing from his game. The cool night air does nothing to calm the heat in your body.

You lean against his car, trying to catch your breath. Wonpil appears with his jacket slung over his arm, looking like a fucking superstar. He stops, eyeing you up and down — the dress, the necklace, the way you’re trembling with need.

“Enjoy my show, baby?” he asks, voice low and filthy, stepping so close you feel his breath on your lips.

“You’re a really,” you say, but you’re smiling, your body screaming for him.

He laughs, unlocking the car and opening the back door. “Get in.”

You don’t even hesitate, sliding into the backseat, the leather cool against your thighs. He follows, slamming the door, and the car feels like a damn cage, the air thick with lust. Before you can speak, he’s on you, kissing you hard, his tongue plunging into your mouth, tasting you like he’s starving. His hands grab your face, then slide to your hair, yanking just enough to make you moan loud.

“You were such a good little slut out there,” he growls, his voice rough as he bites your lower lip. “Squirming in your seat, soaking your panties while I played with your pussy from the stage.” His hand slides under your dress, finding your drenched panties. He groans, feeling how wet you are, and rips them off in one quick tug, the fabric tearing. “Fuck, you’re dripping for me.”

His fingers brush the vibrator still inside you, and you whimper, hips bucking as he teases it. “You like my gift, don’t you?” he says, his lips grazing your neck, teeth sinking into the skin near the pearl necklace. “Tell me how much you want my cock.”

“Wonpil,” you gasp, voice shaky as his fingers press harder, making you throb. “I need you. Please.”

He smirks, loving how desperate you sound. “Not yet, baby.” He pulls the vibrator out slowly, making you moan as it slides through your slickness. He tosses it aside, then pushes two fingers inside you, curling them deep, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. You cry out, head falling back as he pumps them fast, his thumb rubbing your clit in tight circles.

“Look at this wet pussy,” he says, voice dripping with filth. “All mine.” His free hand grabs your ass, squeezing hard, pulling you closer as he fingers you relentless, the wet sounds filling the car. You’re shaking, so close to coming, but he pulls his fingers out, leaving you whining.

“Don’t stop,” you beg, grabbing his shirt, wrinkling it as you pull him closer.

He laughs, dark and dirty, and unzips his pants, freeing his cock — hard, thick, already leaking. You lick your lips, desperate. “You want this?” he teases, stroking himself slowly, his eyes locked on yours.

“Yes,” you whimper

He grabs your hips, pulling you onto his lap, your dripping pussy hovering over him. “Beg for it,” he says, his voice low, one hand wrapping around your throat, not tight but enough to make you shiver.

“Please, Wonpil,” you moan, grinding against him, feeling his cock brush your entrance. “Fuck me. I need you inside me.”

“That’s my good girl,” he growls, and slams you down onto his cock, filling you in one deep thrust. You scream, the stretch burning but so fucking good, your walls clenching tight around him. He groans, hands gripping your ass, guiding you as you ride him, hard and fast. The car shakes, windows fogged, the air thick with the smell of sex.

“Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough as he thrusts up into you, hitting deep. His hand slides to your clit, rubbing fast, making you shake. “Come on baby. Let me feel you.”

You’re a mess, moaning loud, nails digging into his shoulders as you bounce on him, your tits nearly spilling out of the dress. He leans forward, biting your neck, leaving marks you know will bruise. His other hand smacks your ass, hard, the sting pushing you closer to the edge.

“Wonpil!” you cry, your pussy throbbing, so close to breaking. He turns on the vibrator again, pressing it against your clit this time, and the double sensation — his cock inside you, the buzzing on your sensitive bud — sends you over. You come hard, screaming his name, your body shaking as your orgasm rips through you, your pussy squeezing him tight.

He curses, thrusting harder, and spills inside you, hot and thick, his groans loud in your ear. You collapse against him, both of you panting, sweaty, tangled in the backseat. He kisses you, slow and deep, his hands stroking your thighs, your back, like he’s claiming every inch of you.

“Fuck, I love you so much.” he murmurs, still catching his breath.

You laugh, shaky, still buzzing from the high. “You’re gonna pay for torturing me out there.”

He grins, kissing you again, his tongue teasing yours. “Oh, baby, I’m just getting started.” He shifts, pulling out slowly, making you whimper as his cum leaks down your thighs. He grabs your torn panties, wiping you gently, but his eyes are still dark with want. “Keep these legs spread for me later, okay?”

You blush, swatting his chest, but before you can reply, his phone buzzes. He glances at it, sighing. “Shit, I gotta go back inside,” he says, running a hand through his messy hair. “Gotta meet the crew and hit the after-party. The tradition, you know. Wanna come?”

You pout, still catching your breath, your body too spent to deal with a crowded party. “No,” you say, voice firm but soft. “I’m a mess, and I just wanna go home.”

Wonpil chuckles, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Fair enough, baby. You’ve been through enough tonight.” He leans in, kissing your forehead, then your lips, soft but lingering. “I’ll get my manager to drive you home.”

You nod, adjusting your dress as he pulls his pants up, looking unfairly hot even post-sex. He steps out of the car, helping you out because your legs still shaky. He flags down his manager, a quiet guy who’s always nearby, and murmurs something to him. The manager nods, heading to the car to wait for you.

Wonpil turns back, pulling you close one last time. “Get some rest,” he whispers, his voice low and teasing. “But don’t think I’m done with you. I’ll be over tomorrow to finish what we started.” He winks, smacking your ass lightly before heading back to the venue.

You slide into the manager’s car, your body still humming, and a smile tugging at your lips. Wonpil’s gonna be the death of you, but damn, it’s worth it.

[tunastime]

no place for strangers

in which BigB realizes that there are a significant number of difference sbetween him and his friends, and in which BigB decides he doesn’t really care that much.

(2333 words)

A portion of the night sky, night for only a fraction of time, is blotted out by the shape of two dark, mottled-grey wings. 

He supposes he's a little jealous of that, the wings, how they shed loose feathers, how they flutter and swish and practically make no noise at all when extended. He's a bit jealous of Grian, known Watcher, much more powerful, hands twisted in the reigns of his own creation—the games. He's as much a pawn in this one as he has been in the others. But unlike BigB, he's hungry. The killing doesn't do it for him. Neither does the dying. Grian’s new—the Watchers don’t let him stay full. They chastise him for a million things and make sure he suffers, and at this point, BigB watches it happen. There isn’t much left he can do. He does less Watching and more supervising.

Maybe he's jealous of Pearl, with thin black and gold wings like a moth, ears wispy and pointed up toward the sky. The way her drooping eyes never dim, the way they both glow, silver and gold. She’s got it just as good as him, doesn’t she? Secretive and distant. Away enough to matter but not enough to cause a fuss.

But maybe he isn't. Isn't there something lurking behind his eyes when he stares at his reflection too long? Wouldn't redstone glow in his presence? Wouldn't the forest go silent and the earth hold its breath as he waited, as he watched? Wasn't there the purple remnant of where he once stood?

It doesn't matter. BigB stares up at the messy splotch that is Grian against the night sky and sighs something profound. He tried to understand him. To love him. But Grian is a widow, and everyone that loves him suffers the same. They just have, actually. Joel and Jimmy. And now Grian perches and watches and BigB watches him and there's a muted sting behind his eyes as he does. Grian doesn't turn. But his wings flutter.

"Good to know that some things stay the same," BigB says, cutting through the warm night air with a voice he hopes matches it, but he isn't sure. Grian hums, mostly questioning. His feet stay planted. BigB starts to scale the wall.

"Don't know what you mean by that," Grian questions. He turns his head slightly to the sound of BigB climbing the ladder to the top, but doesn't do much else.

"You," BigB huffs. He rests his hands on the top of the wall, pulling himself over the flat edge. He swings his legs over, and his heels bounce against the cobbles. It’s an uncomfortable resting place. He watches Grian shift from foot to foot, and wonders if the same cobbles are digging into the soles of his feet, the same way they dig into the underside of BigB’s thighs. 

“Me?” Grian parrots. His eyes flick over to BigB, quick, but not so quick that BigB doesn’t catch the nervous glint of them. He rests back on his hands. The rough rock presses back against his palms, cold and uncomfortable. Luckily, the air around them is thick with humidity, heat, and a faint metallic smell. And the hum of cicadas. Their drone blocks out everything else, except the words bouncing around in BigB’s head.

"You're still no good at the emotions thing, are you?" he asks. He tilts his head as he says it, cocking it to one side as he looks over at Grian. He watches Grian’s nose wrinkle, the beginnings of his teeth baring back, as if he could bite and make anything more than an impression. BigB almost laughs. He gets it, he really does. 

The thing about Grian is that he’s not an easy shape to love, and an even less easy shape to hold. Like every bird, he fears being caged, and arms are no more than a cage, and someone holding his heart is no more than a cage, so he can’t sit still, even now, even on the edge of a wall. BigB watches his wings twitch. They’re gorgeous, but there’s a sharp line through them where the flight feathers should be. They’re not much more than deadweight. Anyway—where was he? Right. Grian. Impossible to love, impossible to hold. A widow, of sorts. The words tumbled out of Scar’s mouth one time, scorned and scoffed. Grian was no more than a widow mourning the first partner he took—Scar—trying to find someone who fit the hole but wasn’t him. 

But Grian kills. Who could say it was even his fault? Scar. BigB. Jimmy. Joel. Everyone he tries to love, in any shape, dies. He’s forced to starve. He’s forced to feed a higher cause. 

BigB can see Grian’s calloused fingers from here, at least the pale shape of them, balanced over his shins as his wrists drape over the sharp edge of his knee. He studies him in the dim lighting before he looks away, feeling something curdling in his stomach. BigB knows his time is short. Unremarkable. And normally forgotten. That doesn’t really bother him, though. He knows the importance of his impression, here. But he wants to tug this string, just once. He knows where all the strings lie—even his own, unfortunately. Maybe that’s the one thing he knows better than Grian—he’s aware of the outcome before it happens. He doesn’t have to stop to wonder what his odds are.

“That’s not nice,” Grian begins, and BigB shrugs. The cicadas stop singing. BigB’s voice cuts through the night like a knife, cool and even.

“I’m just being honest,” he starts. He watches the stone of the clock tower for movement, eyes flicking over the shape in the dark. “Jimmy and Joel just died and you’re already trying to replace them.”

Grian huffs. He sounds indignant, almost twinged with hurt. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

BigB raises his eyebrows, tilts his head again. Grian catches his eye for a second longer, this time, and his eyes are dark and wide. His jaw is tightly set. He looks like, at any moment, his lips might curl back and expose blunt, powerless teeth. BigB wonders what that might feel like—surely unpleasant, to have someone bite down on you with the intent to do harm, but he wonders if Grian could kill him on purpose and if it might rid him of anything. It might make the smell of guilt worse, actually.

“I think you do,” BigB says.

“Enlighten me, then,” Grian grits out, teeth closing around the words with a sharp snap. “Since I can feel you trying to figure me out.”

“Not me,” BigB says. Grian shuts his eyes, pinching his eyebrows together, before he twists his body around, fast enough to hear the slight pop of his spine as it cracks. BigB can feel the hair rise on the back of his neck as Grian searches, eyes scorching the earth for any sign of—

“Pearl—”

BigB hums, but it sounds more like a laugh.

“You’re just no good at it,” he says after a beat. Grian resettles, but his wings stay fluffed, body tight with tension. He radiates energy like a coil tightly wound. BigB can feel it seeping into the seams of him, and shifts as it prickles over his skin. He leans back on his hands a little further, hoping they can carry the weight. He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know what that means, BigB,” Grian sighs, short and through his nose. His hair blows into his face. “What d’you—” He sighs again, cutting himself off with a wave of his hand. 

He seems annoyed about the whole prospect of their conversation. It’s not unfounded, honestly. BigB did just climb up the ladder and start unpacking years worth of issues in front of Grian, trying to dig at the soft, bleeding center of the thing. He’s pretty sure Joel’s blood is still under his fingernails. He’s not sure if he saw it all happen. He definitely didn’t see Jimmy’s body hit the ground. Lucky, that. He’s not sure if he could watch people so used to flying be unable to use their wings when they needed it most. He thinks he might’ve seen Joel in the moment before Jimmy disappeared—Joel who was never one to let fear and grief trump anger. Or maybe the anger was his grief, like it was Tango’s, or Scar’s. Not that he saw much of that, either. Stories, mostly, things that get passed around a dim campfire at the end of the world. 

Jimmy was probably just a near-lifeless body in Joel's arms, right before he was gone. Poor guy. Grian didn’t even get to them in time before it was too late. He was too late for Joel, too. Joel was ash before Grian could even make his mouth into the shape of his name. BigB wonders if they got a grave. Grian was good at building graves, so he’d like to think so. It only made sense. Grian seemed to get over it faster when there was something to mourn to.

BigB takes a second to think, pressing his tongue between his back teeth. The air is quiet around them, still, like it, too, holds the tension in Grian’s spine, like it might be twisting it taut. 

“You just don’t understand how it works, you’re not good at grieving, and you’re not good at the whole grief thing, either.” BigB shrugs again, shoulders lifting just enough to be visible. He’s still not watching Grian, as much as Grian isn’t watching him, aside from the hum of them both, something wholly inhuman brushing shoulders with something that craved humanity more than anything else in the world, but could never figure out how to get it. 

“You don’t get it.”

“I do.” Grian starts.

“No, you don’t,” BigB turns toward him, finally, furrowing his eyebrows. “Grian, dude—you’re faking this whole human thing to begin with, and it’s not working—”

Grian whips around to face him. His face is sharp, jaw set. “Stop—”

BigB waves him off. His voice, unlike Grian’s, stays level, twinged with annoyance, rather than anything else. 

“You don’t understand what you should be guilty of, but you’re feeling it like it’s like…rotting something inside of you but you still don’t know why, and jeez, Grian, you’ve made it a crime for you to feel something.” 

He sighs, waving his hands around as if it could help bolster his point any further. He feels something ache in his chest—something aching to explain it in a way that Grian could understand, in a way that he wouldn’t just fight. Grian visibly bristles, feathers on his ears rising, the red and yellow tips of them stark in the night, even in the lantern light. 

“You’re on this planet too, you know, you’re allowed to let yourself feel. Messy and gross as it is. I mean, they died, man, is that anything?”

Grian swallows. BigB doesn’t watch the bob of his throat, or the way his feathers are still raised in alert as he jerks his head away. He follows Grian’s line of sight down the clock tower, where Bdubs and Cleo are talking. Bdubs looks over after a second. BigB feels a cold line run down his spine, but refuses to break his gaze. There are no sounds now, not even of his own heartbeat.

“No,” Grian manages.

BigB relaxes. Something of an easy smile finds his face, softening the shape of his eyes and the line of his jaw. He shakes his head. Grian shies away from him, but his feathers lower, and his posture sinks. He finally lowers himself to a sit, throwing his legs over the side of the wall. His hands cradle in his lap, and he stares into the palms of them. BigB remembers them as calloused, cold, and hard to hold properly. But he’s sure someone out there enjoys them. 

“You’re a really bad liar,” he laughs. Grian shakes his head. His voice is much quieter as he speaks.

“I don’t care. I don’t care.”

BigB turns his head. There, for a short moment in the moonlight, he watches the shape of Grian’s left shoulder turned toward him. They rise and fall as he breathes, shudder when he sniffs and sighs, move as he shifts his body, likely feeling those same, cold, hard cobbles pressing into the soft back of his legs. He sees where the back meets the wing, where the wing relaxes down and where feathers brush stone. He sees where they rest against the cobbles, half held and half upright, as if he wants to be ready to leap at a moment's notice. As if he doesn’t know that he, too, would die on impact. BigB reaches out, settling one soft hand on his shoulder. Grian tenses, but does not jump. 

“‘S alright, buddy.”

Instead, Grian deflates. BigB runs his thumb over the side of his shoulder, a friendly, comforting thing, as Grian leans back to his hand. His posture sinks to the touch, muscles weakening, wings folding back and down. Every molecule of his body, and BigB almost feels this in the air, grows heavy and tired at the subtle comfort. Grian draws what he can from it before he speaks. His voice sounds even, now, and tired.

“I miss them…” He starts. He swallows. “I missed you, too. I missed Scar.”

BigB sighs, giving Grian’s shoulder a long, warm squeeze before he lets go. Grian sways but catches himself on his hands. His body stays curved into itself. 

“I know,” BigB says. “But you’ll never be over it if you never break that cycle.”

Grian shrugs. The steel starts to slip back into his voice, firm. 

“I will when I win.”

BigB smiles.

“Maybe,” he says. He’s not sure he can see the end of that string yet, but the results don’t exactly look promising. “Who knows what’s in the cards?”

[ellarose2045]

Prologue: The Perfect Doll

London, 2045

The television crackles to life in the dimly lit store window, its cheerful jingle cutting through the continual patter of acid rain on the pavement outside. The ancient cathode tube display – an intentional vintage touch in the neo-Victorian boutique – casts an eerie blue-white glow across the rows of glass cases. Inside each meticulously polished hexagonal prism, living things no taller than thirty centimetres maintain frozen poses, their eyes following passing pedestrians with careful, measured movements. The screen flickers with oversaturated colours, showing a 1960s-style advertisement that's been modernised for the current era, film grain effects deliberately superimposed over digital perfection.

"Welcome to a world of wonder!" a saccharine voice chirps over footage of dolls in pristine environments, the tone calibrated to evoke nostalgia while masking the clinical reality beneath. "Where dreams come true, and perfection comes in pocket size!"

The camera pans across serene scenes: a pale, porcelain-skinned doll with auburn ringlets in a hand-stitched frilly pink dress serving Earl Grey from a miniature silver tea set to a delighted child whose eyes sparkle with possessive joy. Another doll – male, with unnaturally symmetrical features – performs a flawless grand jete across a custom-built stage, his shadow elongated against the wall of an impressed family's opulent living room. A collector with jewelled fingers proudly displays their "living art" in crystal cases illuminated by pinpoint LED lights that make the tiny captive's shimmer like precious gems.

"Our dolls are expertly trained to bring joy to your home," the voice continues as the image shifts to a classroom bathed in harsh fluorescent light where rows of tiny figures sit perfectly still at miniature desks, their faces frozen in pleasant smiles despite the visible tension in their diminutive shoulders. A human instructor looms over them, a correction baton tapping rhythmically against her palm. "Each one carefully selected and conditioned to meet our exacting standards of deportment, talent and temperament."

Behind the staged perfection, a shadow passes across one doll's face – a flicker of fear as the baton passes near her, gone so quickly it might have been imagined. Her fingers, barely the size of a staple end, tremble almost imperceptibly against the polished wood of her desk.

"Remember," the voice continues, its sweetness taking on an edge like honey mixed with glass shards, "they exist for your pleasure. Your entertainment. Your collection."

The camera focuses on a doll in a glass case. This is Nyah, a ballerina with rich dark brown skin and curly black hair pulled into a tight bun, secured with pearl-tipped pins that dig slightly into her scalp. Her blush pink and pale blue tutu is hand-embroidered with silver threading that catches the light with every breath she tries to minimise. Her smile never wavers, her arabesque position held with such painful precision, the muscles in her calf visibly straining beneath the sheer tights. But her warm brown eyes... her eyes tell a different story. Deep within them, a memory flickers: the scent of lemon polish on wooden floors mingling with resin dust and sweat, the gentle encouragement of Thomas, her former teacher, his weathered hand steadying her as she practised – his calloused palm warm against the small of her back before she was seen as just something small, before she became property. The faint echo of Tchaikovsky's notes still haunts her, a ghostly reminder of when dance meant freedom instead of display, when applause meant appreciation rather than validation of a purchase.

Her limbs, arranged in perfect form, tremble almost imperceptibly beneath the weight of constant observation. To the casual observer, she is flawless art frozen in mid-motion. To the discerning eye, her stance holds too much tension, her pointed toes curled too rigidly, her smile a fraction too wide with teeth clenched behind parted lips – the telltale signs of someone performing under duress, of muscles held beyond endurance. Behind the blush-pink pale-blue tutu, she longs for the autumn-coloured clothes she crochets in secret – reds, oranges, and browns that remind her of freedom rather than this garnish performance costume.

Suddenly, the peaceful montage is interrupted. A doll – a young male with cropped blonde hair and a sailor suit – breaks character, his pleasant expression cracking like porcelain as his face contorts with desperate fury. He pounds his tiny fists against the glass, each impact making a sound no louder than a raindrop.

"We're not your toys!" he screams, voice tiny but fierce, barely audible through the thick display case. "We're- "

Technical difficulties. Please stand by.

The screen fractures into static, jagged lines cutting across the now-missing doll's face. In the brief chaos that follows, snippets of a heated debate flash across the screen like digital ghosts. A woman in a crisp charcoal suit with a company logo embroidered in gold thread gestures empathetically, her manicured nails gleaming under studio lights: " - legal rights would devastate the entire industry and the economy – think of thousands employed -" Cut to a silver-haired professor surrounded by holographic research papers, his augmented glasses reflecting scrolling data: " -cognitive studies clearly indicate sentience and emotional capacity equivalent to humans prior to genetic reduction procedure-" Another voice, a politician with a face smoothed by expensive rejuvenation treatments: "-property rights must be protected – the precedent would be catastrophic for other ownership-" And finally, a protester on rain-slick streets, her face partially hidden by a breather mask, holding a sign reading "DOLLS ARE PEOPLE TOO" illuminated by the harsh glow of streetlights: "-how can we call ourselves civilised when we literally enslave living beings to make them collectibles-"

The broadcast resumes moments later, showing different dolls, all smiling, all perfect. They stand in formation, a living display of compliant art pieces in varying costumes representing different eras and professions. The first doll is nowhere to be seen, the space he occupied now filled by a replacement with identical features but more docile eyes.

"Remember," the voice concludes, warm but warning, maternal yet menacing, "they belong to you. Forever."

The screen fades to black, reflecting the empty store window and the silhouettes of passersby who barely glance at the display, too accustomed to the sight to find it remarkable. But in the darkness behind the glass, tiny movements can be seen in the display cases – brief, frightened shifts of living beings trying to maintain their poses, knowing the cost of imperfection. A miniature hand presses against glass for an instant before withdrawing. A microscopic tear falls, quickly wiped away before it can be noticed.

Behind the scenes, in a back room hidden from public view, a small body lies broken on a sterile metal tray, limbs twisted at impossible angles, the sailor suit stained crimson. His wide-open eyes reflect the harsh overhead light but see nothing. A lesson to the others watching from translucent holding cells: perfection isn't optional. Compliance isn't negotiable. Their diminished size makes them easy to replace, easier still to discard.

And in her glass prison, Nyah holds her pose, muscles screaming, smile unwavering, as Walter – the store owner with his cold, calculating expression and slicked-back grey hair – watches a well-dressed couple pause to admire her form, the price tag glittering beside her case. Her thoughts drift momentarily to her brothers – Aneurin and Isaiah, tiny at just 2 inches tall – somewhere else in the shop, forced into outfits they hate, waiting in their own glass prisons. The weight of responsibility for them presses on her heavier than any dance pose could. 

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Thank you so much for reading this chapter! It means the world to me that you took the time to step into this story. Dolls is deeply personal, exploring themes that I hope resonate differently with every reader—whether it reminds you of something real, something imagined, or something in between. If it made you feel anything at all, I’m grateful.

Comments, thoughts, or even quiet reads are always appreciated. Thank you for being here. ♡

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

DDDNE ‼️

Father Paul Hill x Reader SMUT • Oral (m receiving) blood / violence • themes of nonconsent and murder, slightly sadist Father Paul (not gonna sugarcoat it, this one’s 50 shades of fucked up) Blood. Blood! BLOOD! 😱

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The pearl beads of your rosary dig lightly into your skin as your priest tugs you closer. Leashed around your throat, the holy item currently serves an unholy purpose. Father Paul clutches the remaining beads in a tight fist, ensuring his full control over your head’s movements.

His free hand comes to rest atop your head, fingers deftly threading your hair. You look up from between his feet and catch his eyes, impossibly dark and craving. The tip of your tongue ventures over your lips, wetting them seductively. The priest swallows, jaw tense, his nostrils flared as he exhales the last breath of self control he has left…

──────── † ─────────

Tugging you forward slightly, he commands you onto his cock without a word. His tip is firm yet spongy, soft in texture but stiff with arousal. He pulses on your tongue, his cock swelling between your cheeks. Father Paul’s fingers form a loose fist in your hair. His breath over you grows deeper, relaxed.

In the warm comfort of your mouth, the priest’s tension melts away. The walls of your throat quiver and contract around him, tugging with a consistent suction. As his tip crests the base of your throat, the priest’s hips falter and a growl leaves his chest. The rosary looped around your throat digs marks into the back of your neck as Father Paul tugs it, his cock buried to the base inside your throat.

The inky hair of his bush presses your nose flat. His natural masculine scent is like an aphrodisiac, musk and sweat and the scent of soap. Precum smears over your tastebuds, making your throat an even wetter sleeve for the priest to use. The spongy pressure of his tip bumps the back of your throat in easy thrusts, even as his grip on the rosary tightens. With a snap! the strand of pearls gives way to pressure and breaks.

Beads fall to the floor, bouncing and scattering around the room. Father Paul briefly wonders if he should apologize-he wants to-but words are impossible for him to conjure while your throat is milking him. He’ll help you clean up the scattered beads later of course-but first, he’s going to make a different kind of mess inside your mouth…

He’s so gentle with you, even as his cock pummels the back of your throat. He brushes strands of hair from your forehead as it bumps his stomach each thrust. His other hand travels the shape of your face, cradling your cheek in his palm. The veins wrapping his shaft throb and pulse against your inner cheeks, puffing them full at the end of each thrust. With every descent of Father Paul’s hips, he smears a slick pattern of precum and saliva across your tongue. He tastes mildly of salt and it reminds you fleetingly of the lightly-flavored wafers he places on your tongue during communion.

You look up to see Father Paul’s expression; the look you’re met with would take your breath away, if his cock wasn’t already. Father Paul’s jet black hair hangs in loose stands across his forehead, his brow tensed and damp with sweat. The lips you’ve watched preach countless Sunday mornings are now fixed in a flat line, unable to speak a single word.

He watches you with the focus of a man possessed by something he can’t control, his cheeks flushed crimson, nostrils flaring with every breath. Sinking his sins into the temptation of your throat, Father Paul feels something akin to the presence of God inside your mouth. He knows that as a member of the priesthood, he’s called to a life of celibacy. But in this moment, buried to his balls in the sheer heaven of your throat, Father Paul doesn’t think he can ever go back.

It’s the little sounds you make that push him over the edge, the stunted gurgles and sputtering noises jutting from your throat as he fucks you. Father Paul doesn’t want to hurt you, not really; but causing you a mild degree of discomfort is arousing him unexpectedly…watching his cock choke you, hearing the wet, sloppy sounds you make being bounced on it…knowing that the same mouth he’s stuffing has whispered sins beside him in confessional, that the tongue he’s stroking his length across has sang words of praise with him at mass…

Now you’re on your knees worshiping his cock, still in subservience to a power higher than yourself. Father Paul’s thrusts grow sharper, pointed; with a broken moan of surrender, he paints his release against the back of your throat. His movements are disorganized and frenetic, as sloppy as the frothy mix of semen and saliva dripping down your chin. His usually-graceful hands now grope impatiently for your shoulders, bracing against you as he empties his sins inside your throat. You pull back and catch your breath, then immediately wrap your lips around the priest’s cock again. Father Paul pants above you, shivering a little when you swipe your tongue across his tender, leaking slit.

He crouches to your level and presses a tender kiss against your forehead. The priest’s fair skin is flushed and warm, sheened lightly with sweat. Crinkles form in the corners of his eyes as a warm grin spreads his lips. “For the first time in awhile,” he chuckles. “I find myself, uncharacteristically lost for words.” You return Father Paul’s smile, nestling into his palm when he caresses your cheek. “You gave me something precious tonight,” he tells you. “Which is, partially, the reason I feel so terrible taking something else from you.”

The change in his voice is subtle but you hear it, the quiet shift to a darker tone. He gently pulls you inward and you allow his warm embrace to consume you. Father Paul cradles you in the curve of his forearm, swaying you gently, lightly humming a melody against your ear. At first, its sounds like a lullaby you can’t quite place. A few seconds later, you recognize it as a song from church. “There let the way appear,” Father Paul croons softly, cradling your head against his arm. “Steps unto heaven…” He dips your head slightly, making you giggle. If you could only see the priest’s face right now, you’d know his expression lacks any semblance of joy. He is in anguish, despising himself already for what he’s about to do. In any other circumstances, Father Paul would lay you back and make himself at home between your thighs, licking you to climax again and again till his tongue gave out. But since his visit to the Holy Land, things have…changed. The priest in him regrets what he’s about to do…but the man in him must be fed.

“Angels to beckon me,” your priest sings softly, watching your pulse throb deliciously beneath your skin. He clutches the cross of your rosary between his knuckles and presses it to your throat; your body tenses in the cage of his arms, twisting in discomfort. “Nearer my God-,” he continues to hum, spearing the sharp end of the cross inside your flesh. “-to Thee…”

A stream of blood spurts from your throat and you immediately reach to cover the wound. Your priest’s movements are quicker. He drops the cross and forces your hands back, latching his mouth over the gushing wound instead. Searing pain overwhelms every inch of your body. You convulse and try to scream, but the pain is so intense, the shock so extreme, you realize you can’t make a sound.

Father Paul’s legs outstretch and he pulls you into the space between them, locking his arms around your flailing body. He crushes you against his lap as his lips attack your throat, licking your wound like a starving animal. The blood he misses trickles down your chest like red ribbons, saturating your clothes. Father Paul presses his tongue inside your flesh, lapping inside the wound for more, more. You taste so good, better than any drug he could ever access. Your thrashing abates and you let the priest consume you, realizing you have no other choice. Father Paul’s embrace fixes you firmly in his lap, your ass pressed to his crotch. He feels his cock jump against the curves of your ass, growing stiffer and needier by the second. A dark realization washes over the priest, filling him with disgust. Drinking your blood is getting him hard again.

He doesn’t want to be aroused right now. Not when he’s literally draining the life from a woman he loves, who may never forgive him for changing her once she wakes up again. His wandering hands close over the mounds of your breasts, kneading them firmly. Father Paul doesn’t want to assault you like this, when you’re as vulnerable as a woman could possibly be. But he does. With his mouth sealed over your wound and his hands wandering your body, the priest’s lusts for blood and sex are both selfishly fed. He grinds his erection against your ass, humping you through your clothes in a puddle of your own blood. Life drains from you slowly, painfully. Father Paul doesn’t know if you’ll remember any of this later…once you’ve come back. He uses the sharp end of the cross to make a deep cut across his palm. Blood gushes from the wound on Father Paul’s hand and he covers your mouth with it. You instinctively reject the metallic syrup spilling over your tongue, spitting the priest’s blood back in his face. He growls frustratedly, fearing that he’ll lose you. Father Paul pinches your nostrils closed with his thumb and index finger. Your lips part to take in air and when they do, you have no choice but to allow his blood inside your mouth. He holds your jaw closed and your nose pinched till he’s sure you’ve swallowed.

The last thing you remember before losing consciousness is being laid flat with a pillow placed under your head. That was an hour ago. Now, your priest sits beside you and watches you sleep, waiting for you to be born again. He knows that when you wake up, you’ll have questions. And like the good priest he is, Father Paul will offer you what answers he can. He only hopes that when you do wake up, you’ll find grace in your heart to forgive him for everything he took, when he took your life…