#even if its just a little color and shapes exploration :-)

[codecicle]

Heard this guy made A Tribute to Minecraft (and loves cod, tekkit, and dayz. those are lamer though)

[sincerely-sofie]

*silently slides Twig/Ark content onto your dash* *scurries away into the night*

(Read the rest under the cut!)

[redwritr]

Portrait of a Man Undone

Arthur Morgan x  F!Reader 

smut (18+), nsfw, mdni

3K words

Smut, fluff, and a little pining. Lazy comfort. Experimental role reversal?

Far too long.

There is a fine view from here, in the soft daylight of the room, with your right cheek on his stomach and his fingers lightly combing your hair. In the mirror that you've moved across from the foot of the bed, the light begins to shimmer. 

He is relaxed, on the slippery verge of sleep, while you take in the details of this situation, the arrangement of yourselves, draped and quiet on the bed. Birds of late summer trilling outside in the shade trees. And this sight. A reflection of his inner self in this moment, lying contented and unhidden in a thick gooseneck curving toward his left hip, slightly darker than the skin of his thigh. 

Afternoon sunlight makes a glowing tangle of his curled, dark blond thicket, all wheat-colored waves and shadows. Your breath stirs the trail of hair from his navel down. There is a slight rustle as your fingers comb through it, and your head lifts and lowers with his breath. It is like you are parts of the same whole, a body or a well or an engine, each enticing the other; an arm moves, air begins to draw. You are careful not to move too fast.

With your head at this undeniable proximity, and lulled by the evenness of his breath, you start to consider how long he will remain in this lovely unagitated posture. Perhaps he’s already asleep, and perhaps you will keep him suspended in a half-dream if you begin to slide your hand down his firm and hairy thigh. 

You might be daydreaming too, unsure if what you just saw is an inkling of greater fullness or the mere lift of your angle with his inhalation. You brush the backs of your fingernails light as streamers down his thigh to his knee, and you outline the shieldlike shape of his kneecap as if you have no intention of reversing your path. 

And this, naturally, incites an unmistakable twitch before your eyes. 

His fingers in your hair have stopped. His stomach, for a moment, grows tight.

You blow another light breeze down the trail of his belly to the base of his cock. The smooth reposed curve seems to stretch awake and alive as if he senses your own arousal.

You love his cock in the morning, when it's as its hardest and ruddy and standing against his stomach, revealing the proud throatlike ridge of its underbelly, and he drags you to his front, lazily urging against the muscle of your ass, until he guides himself between your legs, gets his arm under your knee, and slowly fucks into you, stretching to the full extent of his reach inside.

You love it when he walks naked from the bath, still dripping, and his cock hangs long and thick while his mind is on private things and he distractedly dries himself with a towel.

As he did not five minutes ago. The towel lies in a wet fan on the floor.

Against the shaded side of the barn - he would have had you right there. He nearly did, as soon as John walked out of sight, and he took you by the jaw and pinned you to the wall. Your hands between you fought at his fly and he kissed you like he had been starved for your mouth the last hundred miles or more.

And you love his cock now, beginning to grow heavier, straightening toward his hip, the tip of his head budding at the edge of the sheath of foreskin. Its taut swell calls to mind a fish, smooth and strong. There is a light freckle halfway up his shaft, off-center, and you're not sure whether he knows that it marks a spot of deeper sensitivity, or whether you alone hold this secret to his pleasure. You often graze and lick around it at first, until he starts to breathe harder. When kissed, or busked by a finger, it seems to touch him at the very base of his spine, and without fail causes his hips to lift. 

His hair is still damp where your fingers explore and tantalize the firming base of his shaft. Likewise, his fingers spread warm and gentle over your scalp, untangling, combing the length down your back before the distraction of your musing touch is too great.

On all his body, the skin of his cock is softer than any other part, so soft you want to keep your calluses away but he swears he likes your touch more than his own. He likes all parts of your hand. You spider your fingers up and down from his head, his silken foreskin you want to kiss before he nudges himself against your palm. And so you move with him, tunneling your hand lightly overtop, laying him vertical on his stomach, barely touching him with more than the heat of your hand and stroking up and down his changing form. Behind you, he exhales. Your head sinks. The muscles of his ass gather and firm. He pushes up.

But seems to stop himself. All these small tells of his want give him away. Wanting conflicting things. Wanting what comes next. Wanting to prolong this impending goodness and savor your caress as long as possible, after being apart from it so long. Wanting to devour you, fearing the loss of the devoured.

“Come upstairs.” He'd nipped the edge of your ear and left you a little lightheaded around the corner of the barn. 

“You’re exhausted, Arthur. You need a good meal -” Even though you couldn't keep your hands off his chest and his waist and the edge of his fly.

All he did in reply was kiss you so hard he left you panting.

His cock is warm. Becoming full and stiff and large, veins trickling and verging up his thick column to his dark head emerging, blindly seeking sensation. His hips move, slow but strong, asking for your touch. 

It rises, laid angled up his belly, and you halfway wrap him with your hand, petting down the dorsal ridge of his cock, your touch making half contact, then with more weight. Behind you, his exhalation breezes your back as you push harder and feel the low gratified hum in his chest.

An indefinite trepidation ripples from the place between your legs, some primal apprehension that he is nearly too large for you, a little quail in your cunt when you see him fully aroused. His own body senses it, his cock roused from his stomach, levitating, veering between the boundaries of your middle finger and your thumb, and you let him rest in your touch, giving his shaft another adoring pet, and you smile to yourself when it jumps against your palm and slides heavily side to side, and behind you, his breath comes quicker. His hand reaches to the side and takes a handful of your hip and squeezes, letting your flesh spring out of his grip before he lazily, affectionately smacks you and kneads you again.

His muscles thicken in a full body flex, revealing the strong dimple on the side of his hip, one of your favorite landmarks, as your hand teases him, Oh? Oh you want more than this? Is this not quite what you had in mind? Until you finally let him bob, slowly rising vertical in your hovering hand, and he pushes up, thrusting into your fist. Stalling. Again, higher, and then down. Slowly fucking your grip like he wants to linger in this hazy thrill. 

But it is not possible to linger for very long, much as you try. The longer you delay him, and keep your touch soft, the more deeply he will feel his far-approaching arrival. For now, he is distant from himself. His thoughts, like his hand, spreading, circling. About to hunt.

When you see the tight sleeve of his skin slide down from his head and up again, his push and thrust, and the shine of fluid welling at his tip, growing to a drop that wavers and dribbles down and spreads like a gleaming ring on the sliding rim of his foreskin, you nearly move to put your lips on him. To feel the softness of that skin on your love-parched tongue. To savor his bitter salt. To gratify his want completely with the heat of your mouth.

But you want to watch. In a way it’s as if you’ve never seen him. Never looked this closely before being hauled up to his chest, your mouth to his mouth, in the dark, in the shadows while under your clothes, he hooks your drawers to the side, coupling himself to your slippery hole and fucking in.

His hand kneads your ass more aggressively. His calves harden, the chiseled muscles along his shinbones surely burning. The bones of his feet fan up, and his toes spread and contort and crack under this loving torture. His right foot curves inward slightly, suddenly gives way, as if his strength has broken. And his cock fills your hand, huge and rigid with lust, and when you give him a faster stroke he pants, rises to an elbow, trying to drag you onto him like he’s had more than he can take.

We shall be home in seven days. By the time you get this, it should be two. You’re every thought in my mind till then. I get clumsy sometimes, missing you, like I’m out of balance. 

You love how it is a branch of himself, fully born of the rest of himself. Strong. His body fills doorways. In all his features, this aspect of him is suggested. The strength of his nose and jaw and his chin when he's teasing you, daring you to take him on. His neck and throat, the stone of his Adam’s apple. The ropes of his wrists. The rounded ease of his upper back. The cables that gird his sides. He draws attention unavoidably, breathtakingly. You have seen him walk into rooms and heard the volume dim, and seen their eyes go round. You have seen men become jealous and aware of themselves in comparison. You have seen others act threatened and make themselves stand tall, and seen him oblivious to it; he has no need to be concerned about them. He has nothing to prove.

Least of all with you.

On a whim, you resist his arms and slide your leg over him, facing away, your back to his front, your legs on the outside of his, both of your knees out wide. Straddling his spread thighs, leaving an open space beneath you that you know he seeks to enter. It bothers him in some way, like a fruit he can't reach. A job unfinished. In the mirror across from the bed, you watch his eyes rest there, between your open thighs. Wanting to fill and fulfill you in every way. His cock hovers, slides to your inner thigh, waving slightly from every twitch.

In the lambent reflection across from your bed, you watch his half-hidden face behind you, intent, nostrils flared, eyes closed for a moment. Next his quiet gaze on your neck, your ear, your shoulder. He kisses you there.

Before he can reach forward and guide himself into you, you take him underhand, cradled in your fingers from this side, and feel his body become still. 

What is it like? To stretch and widen and grow beyond your thin sheath of skin, to get large and heavy and sensitive? To become full and still need? Need desperately. How does he feel the need beyond what is rational, and to be needed? Does he need to fill a place unfilled before, like to satisfy hunger?

All these long, red roads will drive me crazy. I confess sometimes all I see is your braid in my hand. When I get home I will get between your legs and not leave them for a week. I believe I shall exhaust you or die trying.

From this angle, you’re suddenly curious at the sight of his cock, how it appears to protrude from your pubic hair, resting in your hand but lightening as it stiffens, cantilevered of its own structure, jolting, bobbing when you let go to watch him buck up again. 

Hard as cartilage in your hand. 

Out of curiosity, you stroke him, your hand and arm moving the same as when he strokes himself, and you hold him close to your body as you do it again, and notice his breath gone quiet.

In the mirror you meet his eyes, and feel emboldened as he watches your hand and the luminous picture of you holding him like your own appendage, stroking him, nestled between your lips. There is confusion for a moment, as he puzzles out your meaning, this whim. This dalliance of a thought. As if you were joined beyond separation. Your figures in front of you sit blended like shadows overlapped. You wonder if he is uncomfortable to see it, and for a second you consider letting things progress in the way you are used to.

You look up, half worried that he's had enough of this. Perhaps interrupted by a trick of the eyes. 

But he does not stop you. And his hand slides up to your breast as you hold him more firmly, and when you stroke him in earnest, he grips your flesh and pushes against you, following your lead, to his own seeming surprise turned on by the sight of his strong erection between your legs getting harder yet.

The sounds of his surrendered pleasure at your neck, your shoulder begin to thrill you as you stroke. The roll of his head as he warms to the sight in front of him, his proud cock aimed high between your legs, stroked between your slicking cunt and hand like he's your own. His other hand spreads over your belly and holds you close, rolling his hips with yours, teaching you his way with himself as he strokes your clit like he's been dreaming of it.

Gingerly, he takes your hand and regrips you around his cock. Slung lower. Squeezes your fingers to a certain pressure, and strokes up and down. His skin slides tight and smoothly.

You’ve always loved the way he handles his own cock with the same fluency as his guns, sometimes easy and unhurried, sometimes necessary and firm, and you have always secretly wanted him to bring himself to completion while you watch. The few times you’ve tried, he can’t stand to finish alone. He’ll pull you close, or crawl on top of you, his dick hard and beyond ready, like he must enter your cunt or your mouth or die, pained to be exposed to the air a moment longer.

And in this way, you become an apparatus of combination, each working the other, no longer each or other, but melted inextricably in this friction and this filthy gorgeous feeling.

He pulls you higher up his chest and watches over your shoulder as you guide and press his wet cock up into yourself, staring heatedly as he curves up and disappears between your legs. With a ravenous groan he kisses your neck, but you lean forward to prop your weight on his knees, kneeling on the outside, and raise your hips. In the mirror, he half grins in marvel, but when you rise on his dick and fuck him deeper, his face slackens and he’s mouthing goddamn beholding your ass and the sight of your slit swallowing him whole jesus christ before his forehead rumples and his head falls back in ecstasy.

What longing has done to you, only this can undo, his hands biting into your hips, and later, you will allow yourself the gift of the sight of him concentrating, sweating at your back, and let him take your breath away with the furious ream of his cock, thick and slippery up your cunt, that makes you gape and sob in brainless, jolting bliss. Where you will come, hunching like a wolf, as he rolls you deep and slow on his base, praising you, There's my girl. My god, you come so pretty, holding his own orgasm back until he’s seen you through yours. 

But that is later. You kneel up and let him slip out, wet and trailing a shine like dew, and without giving him a chance to catch his breath, you nestle him between your folds and run yourself down his length, sliding your hand down the underside of his rockhard shaft and watching him watch you in this moving portrait, captive to you stroking and fucking and rocking your clit on his needy curve until his cheeks are flushed and his teeth are bared and he begins to pant, shaky, ragged and rough.

Surprise me with what's on your mind, my girl. As you always do.

You stroke faster and steadier along the beautiful curve of his cock, his hard head soaked in your slick, purple and presented, and despite your burning shoulder you work faster, smacking rhythmic and steady against your mons and feeling the most pleasurable arousal build through your pelvis with every languid slide, and hearing him suffer against your back, hips thrusting and rocking like he can’t help it. The knuckles of his toes crack. 

And as his breath catches, you reach down low and knead the clutch of his balls, and it startles you, how completely he comes apart. His gasps rise in pitch and you feel the pulse unlocked with his broken moan. Between your knees he suddenly discharges spurt after endless spurt on the sheet. You stroke him long and slow back to his base to see the extremity of his strong projection and feel the throb of his ejaculation through your hand milking out his high.

His mouth falls open, shocked. Blue eyes hypnotized by the sight as he comes openly between your knees. The vein in his forehead bulges. 

Dazed, incredulous love swims in his mirrored stare.

When it slows, one more spurt, another dribble, one last jerk of his body beneath you, you glaze a drop of spend over his head with your thumb, and he falls back to an elbow on the mattress, disappearing from you in the glass. You lightly unpalm him, and watch his cock come down, bobbing, relaxing in waves, until it hangs heavy in the cove of your legs, full, sensitive, spent.

Gingerly, you get off him, and lie beside him now, collapsed on the bed, and he groans to stretch his legs out long. For a while he lies there, eyes closed and dozing, and then exhales softly as if newly aroused by a memory so recent it has left its light scent in the room. 

His hand crawls into yours. "My girl, what you do to me." He sighs, shakes his head as he stares at the ceiling.

In the corner of the room, two dark spots mark the floor where the mirror once stood, like the footprints of a departed man, and you glance at it now as he moves onto his side and faces you. In that lucid scene, his hand lifts to your chin and turns your gaze to him, and pulls you close for a sweet and yearning kiss, like a drink that dissolves the pain of longing. After some time, you feel his smile, and the backs of his fingers traveling down your side, over your hip and lower.

"Now you're gonna watch what I do to you."

[1800titz]

HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.

WC: 6.6K

slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency

Clay is innately erotic. 

Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second. 

Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night. 

It’s a cute shop. 

Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort. 

Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery. 

He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.

Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.

“Hello.”

His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.  

“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him. 

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue. 

“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.

The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote. 

“Oh, I’m just looking.” 

The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge. 

“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”

Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples. 

“I think—“ the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.” 

She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.

It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.

“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.” 

He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there. 

“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.” 

He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?” 

The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.” 

One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?” 

Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.” 

Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment. 

Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.” 

Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence. 

“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.” 

Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.

She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels. 

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“ 

“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.” 

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink. 

“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.” 

It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space. 

He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy. 

“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.” 

The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate. 

“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.” 

Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin. 

“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.” 

The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.

She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s. 

Yeah. 

Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay. 

“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.” 

“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.

Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work. 

“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue. 

Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs. 

“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length. 

She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt. 

“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”

Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.

“Take your bracelet off for me.” 

The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”

But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me. 

It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows. 

“Right. Thanks— thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off. 

She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up. 

“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“

Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again. 

“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders. 

Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more. 

“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”

Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones. 

“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”

The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior. 

“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”

Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child. 

“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.” 

He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs. 

“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together. 

As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider. 

Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it. 

“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert. 

Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top. 

“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.” 

Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together. 

“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.” 

The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.” 

She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic. 

“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.” 

She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes. 

“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things. 

“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.” 

“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?” 

He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.” 

“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece. 

“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.” 

As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?” 

Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.” 

“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“

If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin. 

“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”

Y/N swallows.

“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?” 

“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.” 

“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.” 

“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.” 

A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.” 

This is The Turning Point. 

And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—

But then it clicked. 

“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.” 

Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both. 

For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash. 

“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from. 

The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.” 

Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?” 

“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”

His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?” 

Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.” 

Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling. 

“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting. 

Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.” 

Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed. 

“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.” 

Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.” 

“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.” 

“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her. 

Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it. 

“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?” 

“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”

Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.” 

Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights. 

“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”

Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.” 

All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time. 

Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres. 

She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay. 

“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with. 

Christ. 

“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands. 

Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face. 

“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.” 

The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again. 

“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.” 

Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features. 

She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.” 

“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.” 

Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation. 

“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.” 

“Thank you. What now?” 

“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.” 

Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse. 

She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?” 

Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.” 

The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?” 

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“

Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet. 

“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging. 

The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?” 

Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.” 

“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.

The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.  

Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”

[yandere-sins]

Do you still write for yandere omega? That piece was soooo good oml, can you write an aftermath or just a snippet of day to day life with them? Yan omegas are so rare and they are rarely explored and tours really set a tone on what they could do. Its the ultimate ploy, nobody can suspect an omega desiring a simple beta, simply too outrageous to think

I never really stop writing for anything (that might be the actual problem, lol). Thanks for your request!

Warning: Yandere, Sexual Content!!

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Tap, tap, tap.

Their fingers swept over the keyboard on their lap, restless and excited, generating countless words per minute. A smile played on the omega's lips, giddy and amused as they scrolled and replied to endless comments, the flood of new notifications never-ending. The success of their latest video—a video showing you and them immersed in heat and rut for hours to no end—was something that not even they could have expected. Still, they kept their online banking up, watching donations and premium membership fees roll in by the second, putting a wide grin on their face.

Humming in satisfaction, they halted their fanservice, glancing up from the blinding laptop screen to you, sitting on the chair next to them, still dazed as you ate your cereals. You two had been holed up for days in your nest, the whole production of your very first video having ruthlessly dragged you through all emotions known to mankind and leaving you exhausted. Not exhausted enough to refuse the food your omega procured for you, but enough so that you didn't argued or cried anymore while shoveling colorful, animal-shaped cereals and milk into your mouth. 

Even like this—disheveled, still a little crusty (since you didn't want to get out of your curled position and shower with them after they stopped the recording), and sore—you were no less their beautiful beta than you were down in the love nest, ravaging your omega like a goddamn beast. 

You had visibly turned off reality around you, sitting there completely out of it as you ate, heading your omega no mind. What you must be thinking about was as puzzling as it was unconcerning to them, their own thoughts had always been louder in their head. However, as they watched you, they grew antsy, missing your full attention on them like when you two were buried in sheets and in the spotlight of their production, even though it had been painful at times. But even pain was beautiful to some, and your pain was a gift to them, just like your love was. They missed your hands all over them, spit and sweat mixing as your bodies moved in perfect harmony with each other. Now, despite sitting close enough to you that they could easily reach out and hold your hand, it was not close enough.

They hadn't brought you here for you to be away from them. All the money and time that went into building, securing, and completely erasing the location of this mansion had not been so you two would be apart from each other. Not for you to have that kind of freedom, one that the omega didn't want for you or for them. 

It was bittersweet to abandon their beloved fans for you, the very same people who made it possible for you two to be together. Who supported and encouraged the omega, no matter what, as they worked their butt off for more and more of their attention. And yet, the omega announced their farewells for the day, promising more exciting content to come tomorrow before logging off and closing the laptop.

It was your attention they wanted. Only yours. 

It had only ever been you they desired, from kindergarten well into adulthood. They had always clung to you and pleaded for you to claim them long before your diagnosis. It was such a shame that you didn't present as an alpha when the time came; otherwise, their place at your side would have been surely secured. This way, they had to go to drastic lengths to be with you, even though the effort hadn't been in vain. Now they had you right where they wanted. 

Their hand sliding up your arm, you halted your movements, spoon hanging in mid-air with milk dripping from its rim. There was a slight shake in your hand, growing more and more intense the higher the omega's hand traveled. Until they gripped your shoulder, the spoon clattering on the designer table, milk and cereals going everywhere as you winced in pain. 

Their grip was merciless, considering the many, many marks and bruises they left on your body, the pain only now registering that you were out of the drug-induced rut. Your whole body was practically mauled by your omega's teeth and sharp nails, fists they used to get you in position when you were too high to listen to their demands. Everything hurt, and when they climbed on your lap, tears shot back into your eyes, their hands freely roaming your chest and arms without remorse about what they did to you. 

In fact, they were proud feeling the indents through your t-shirt. A shirt they rubbed all over themselves before helping you into, marking you with their scent. Had you been an alpha, it would have been so easy to make sure you smelled like your omega. But you weren't. So they needed to use more drastic methods to mark you. The omega could think about a good handful more ways but decided to keep those for the next time they'd put you in front of a camera. Until then, a shirt and their body rubbing against yours had to suffice. 

"You did so well," they cooed, longing for nothing more than to hear you praise them as well. But perhaps they had to show you first how to take care of an omega, so, once again, they took the lead, just like they always had in this relationship. "Fucked me so good, made me feel so full ~ My pretty little beta. You enjoyed it, too, right? We made such a lovely video; now my fans love you too."

"Ah- No more..." you gasped weakly, gripping the omega's waist and trying to push them off you. They grinned at your little, helpless defiance, the bite you had after arriving in your new home now muzzled after days of fucking. You had so many more beautiful sounds to give them than your screaming and crying—moaning, whimpering, begging. Their hips were grinding over your legs and into yours, the pain etched into your face of no concern to the omega as they kept disturbing all the sore and wounded parts of your body.

God, you were beautiful. 

Day, night, evening, morning, you were always fucking stunning. Happy, smiling, angry, crying, needy, drooling, hurt, and despairing. There was no moment they didn't love you. You were only made for them, your beauty belonged all to the omega. Even god must have meant for you two to be together. 

"Hush, it's okay. There, there..." your omega muttered, leaning forward to kiss your tears away, licking up the salty trails they left behind while their hips picked up speed on top of you, causing some blissful moans from the omega's lips. Nothing in this world turned them on like you did, even sitting at the table, crying pathetically over the pleasure they gave you. You were so seductive, even when you were hurting. Anything they gave you, pain or pleasure, you had to accept it just like the omega did. Pain, acceptance, being close to each other no matter what—all these feelings you harbored for them, you had to accept the same way they did. That's what love meant.

Sliding their hand down your chest, they dug under your waistband, sliding further and further. You let out a beautiful gasp, followed by your body shifting and hands trying to stop the passionate grind of the omega's hips. But latest when they had their hand on your sex, making you flinch at the touch, you slowly stilled, merely trembling as your breath turned ragged. 

"That's it, baby!" the omega cheered, your pleasure becoming their own as they used their hand to get both of you off by grinding against it. "Come for me, Darling! You'll do it, right? Come for me? Come like a good beta from your omega's hand?"

They'd turn all this hurt into more and more love. Your pain would soon cease when you realized they were doing what was right for you. Their hand was slick with your juices, confirming that the omega was right—they were the best and only option for you to thrive in this life, just like the thought of you had driven them to success. It would turn you into an alpha despite your genes, at least one in mind. Now that they had you, they would never let you go. They'd never abandon you and take a real alpha; there was no need for it anymore when they could shape you into what they wanted. 

Slipping their hand out of your shorts again, they licked off the remnants of your orgasm, watching as your body collapsed beneath them. That's right, they thought, just let yourself fall. Once you'd learn to leave behind all the bad thoughts and drown in the pleasure and love they'd give you, everything would get better. You could live your life with them, secluded and confined in your togetherness, in peace and harmony. 

Your omega would do what you needed to realize this.

"I love you," they murmured against your lips, licking over the bloody marks of your own teeth that had bitten into them, kissing away the pain. Soon, there would be no need to hold back like this. No need for hostility against them. Everything would go back to how it was before your diagnosis. You two would finally be happy. 

"I love you so much," they sighed, ignoring the jolt in your body as they began to grind again, not yet done with you. Mouths mixing in a one-sided kiss, the omega moaned into it, ignoring every flinch and your whining when they bit into your lips as well, combining your mark with theirs and tasting what belonged to them. 

They knew they might have to ruin you some more to achieve their goals. Break in the old belief that you two could never be together, and let it crumble like a house of cards by showing you how they could take care of you. Bring out your real potential as their partner. Claim you until you were too weak to refuse them as your bonded partner. 

It was a rocky road until then, littered with more arguments, nights of silence, tears, and them getting what they wanted no matter how much you suffered. But they had gone through much worse to get to where they were now. The extra effort would not stand in the way of your happiness. After all, that's what devotion was.

And your omega would always be the one and only for you. 

[old-daemon-farts]

Is daemonism safe?

Daemonism, when broken down to the bare minimum, is a mental and imaginative exercise. It's not meant to push yourself into anything potentially unhealthy. You are not forcing hallucinations and there shouldn't be any dissociation of identity or losing control of yourself.

Let's Start With Projection

Projection is applying mental images overlaid on your surroundings. It is using your imagination and relying on your ability to visualize outward what is being produced by your mind's eye. With practice, you can make your projections quite vivid, and after a while you may not even register that you are still seeing right through them. The apple exercise is a good example. Lets say you picture an apple on a plate in front of you, but the apple is fleeting and inconsistent. Its shape, colors, and size flickers rapidly or fizzles out entirely. You *know* it's not there. There's little presence or weight to it. If this was glass, it would be described as crystal clear. But, with practice, it becomes more consistent. You can now see one shade of red and the size remains the same. Perhaps you have even added details like a shadow. Now, if this was to be compared to glass it would be glass with a light tint added. You can still see right through it, but you also know something is there. You don't have to be a daemian to be able to project. Concept designers, artists, architects, althetes... projection is a type of visualization. It's a creative tool. It's not a hallucination, nor is it intended to be one.

Extreme vividness can be from hyperphantasia, but if you worry projecting may trigger or influence hallucinations then you are welcome to avoid it! Projection is fun, but not a requirement, and you should do what is most comfortable, healthy, and safest for you. Daemians who experience projection as hallucinations already have a history of them from what I have seen within the community.

Fronting and Dissociation

These are experiences usually seen within DID and other plural spaces. Daemonism doesn't focus on switching with your daemon, and you likely won't find resources specifically about it. Of course, you can switch who's in front, and some plural daemians may have advice for how to accomplish that, but again, that's not the point or focus of daemonism at large. They are usually hands off within our lives. We are the ones in the driver's seat while they are the backseat drivers giving us direction. They aren't expected to take the wheel from us. There isn't anything wrong with wanting to or being able to switch with your daemon, just to be clear. I'm only pointing out that getting daemons to front is not a priority like it is in other plural spaces. This is another reason daemonism is very easy to get into and something I consider much safer and easier to manage for the average Joe.

Dissociation isn't something that is associated with the daemon experience either. Dissociation *can* occur, but there are likely other reasons you would be experiencing these things and not just because you have a daemon. Dissociation from ADHD, stress, illness, or DID are just a few examples. Switching with your daemon could just be masking, or perhaps your mind is already comfortable sliding your daemon into front because you have DID. Again, if you are worried having a daemon could trigger dissociation or a loss of control then please do what is in the best interest for you. You know your health and history best. But, there a *many* daemians who are systems and quite happy and comfortable having daemons. Daemons have even been known to help with dissociation and sense of identity!

Talking to Yourself

Is 100% a normal, human experience. There's been a surge of exploration in self-talk and how it affects us, and talking to yourself in 2nd person even has proven benefits. You also don't *have* to talk out loud to your daemon; you can keep it all internal. Just know that splitting your own mental monologue into a dialogue isn't unhealthy and it's something many of you already do even without a daemon.

TLDR

You do only what you are comfortable with here. If something sounds risky, then don't do it. Daemonism is meant to be a healthy and fun activity.

You want to form find but not separate your daemon from yourself? Awesome.

You want to only talk to your daemon and avoid projection? Neato.

You want to project but not talk to your daemon? Perfect.

You want to learn how to switch with your daemon? We ain't really the community for that but you are free to if you are comfortable!

You do what's best for you. It's meant to fill whatever you need. Healthy mindset, growth, or just straight-up something fun to do.

Topic spawned from a question on Discord over the difference of imposition and projection as well as some differences between us and other techniques out there for headmate creation. Cleaned up and formatted better for Tumblr.

[comicaurora]

Out of curiosity, how far ahead are you on the comic? I mean, you must have it all planned and written out, but I imagine that you are drawing the future of Aurora even while we're reading it.

So is Arc 2 already illustrated and ready for upload while you're on like Arc 5 or something? I'm by no means undermining your need for a break; I'm shocked that you've been uploading continuously for over 4 years at this point. I'm just interested to know how long it takes a person to make something this great. And also if you change any details in the final edit?

Basically: what's the workflow like?

Also I think you low-key inspired me to pick up painting as a hobby. I'm ready to pour so much money into creating things that I know I'll hate. :)

God, arc 5? That's a very generous assessment of how fast I can draw!

Typically, when the comic is updating regularly, I keep a buffer of 10 to 20 completed pages. Right now, in the interest of taking a break, the buffer is 0 completed pages.

Chapter 1 of Arc 2 is completely storyboarded, meaning it's sketched out, the dialog is all mostly finalized barring last-minute rephrasements, etc. It can be read in its current form, it just looks unpretty. In fact, just for fun, here's a sneak peek!

In the next month I'll go through and finalize as many pages from this chapter as possible - which means locking down the panel borders, fleshing out the backgrounds, lining, shading, coloring, polish, etc. - which will be the process of building up a new buffer for when the comic starts back up again in January. During that time, I'll also be storyboarding Chapter 2 and as much of the following parts as I can manage.

I have the next several chapters and sub-arcs planned out in loose timelines - event A happens at location B leading to consequences C and D, stuff like that. Chapter 2, being the closest, is a little more fleshed-out, with a more detailed bullet-pointed timeline and various character ideas I've had that might or might not make it into the final version.

What exactly the chapter breakdown is going to look like is a little more complicated. Initially I'd planned for Chapter 1 to be low-stakes downtime and Chapter 2 to quickly kick off the high-octane adventure again, but when I started bullet-pointing out the stuff I wanted to do in Chapter 2, I ended up with a big pile of slower-paced character moments I thought were well worth exploring, so the runtimes might stretch a little.

Translating those brainstormed notes into storyboards and dialog is what I would classify as the "writing" part of this process. It happens at an erratic pace largely determined by the whims of whatever muse decides to get me in a headlock that day; sometimes I go weeks with no storyboarding progress, sometimes I hammer out fifteen pages in one day.

It's kinda like weaving, to me. The soon-to-be-arriving parts of the story are the most finalized, the most densely woven. A little ways beyond that, things get looser - some patterns may be locked down, but the actual work that'll hold it together hasn't been done yet. And in the far-flung future arcs, it's just the basic bones of the story and a pile of the threads I've planned to use. I know the shape of it, but in order for it to be fun and engaging for me to make it, I need to give myself room to be creative when I'm putting the whole thing together.

I actually have a file called the "Toolbox" that contains every random character or subplot idea I've had, and sometimes when I'm debating where to go with a chunk of story, I'll crack it open and scan through to see if anything jumps out begging to be used. Lotta fun stuff in there that may or may not ever see the light of day. Dropping stuff in the Toolbox is one of the most fun and freeing parts of the process for me!

[ilovejeongintoo]

𝔽𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕎𝕒𝕪

!WARNING NSFW Content ahead! !MDNI!

Genre: Fantasy, Kitsune Mingi x Reader, Smut Wordcount: 3544 words Not proofread

I literally got this idea after making a bunch of Moodboards for Ateez and became kind of obsessed with creating more and more.

Summary: You get lost in the woods, trying to find a way out, you stumble upon something that you only believed existed in legends.

Almost tripping again, you adjusted your backpack for what felt like the nth time. You only wanted to go explore the woods near your grandparents’ lodge, being as it was the middle of summer, nothing bad could happen.

What you didn't account for was, how unfamiliar the terrain would be. You've been here countless of times before, summer vacation, festivities, get-togethers. But none of these dirt trails branched to the house.

It was only after listening through half a playlist and the sun shining even more brightly than when you first left, you noticed. You've tried basically everything, going back the way you think that you came from, marking trees and just straight up yelling for anyone that would be close.

Finally getting enough of all this walking and almost tearing a muscle in your ankle, you sat down on a big root coming up from an even bigger tree.

The sun was thankfully not shining directly onto your skin and frying you, but that didn't help all that much, considering that you were still covered in a thin sheen of your sweat.

Getting your water bottle out to try and calm your heart that wasn't just racing from the exhaustion of climbing a few hills, but also from finally realizing that you might be in actual trouble if you dont find a way back.

Leaning back against the tree with your head and closing your eyes, right hand still holding the open water bottle, you managed to relax a little.You opened them again when you heard a rustle in some bushes right next to you, looking into that direction, nothing was there, absolutely nothing.

Though the leaves rustled again, this time your eyes stayed on the foliage. Then it happened again and again. Curiosity was making your legs itch to go take a look as to whats making all that noise. You stood up, slipping off your backpack and closing that bottle. You slowly stepped up to side, reaching out for the plants planning to look what would be there, when something jumped out.

It startled you so badly, that it caused you to let out a loud shriek and tumble onto the floor. In a very ungraceful manner, great now your shorts were covered in dirt and sweat, just fantastic. You turned your head trying to catch a glimpse of what almost gave you a heart attack, and there it stood. A pure white fox, snow-white fur on display, not a speck of dirt. Which is weid considering it should be a wild animal. It stared right back when your eyes didn't move from its fluffly looking form, deep and dark eyes almost hypnotizing you.

Slowly you came to a sit on your haunches, your knees still touching the natural floor, as to not startle the little thing. "Hey, it's okay, I'm sorry for startling you." You called out softly, as if it would somehow understand what you're saying. It continued to stare for a few beats before it turned with a quick whip of its head, running off.

You don't know what possessed you to do it but you immediately got you things not even putting it into your bag, holding it in your hand and going after the little pale fluffball. You were hoping that it didn’t run too far off, and you were right, just in the distance you saw it jumping and climbing a few rocks.

You put your whole body into following, trying not to lose sight of it. Though when it took an unexpected turn into more bushes you scrambled into the same ones a bit later. Instantly you stopped though, faced with a pretty shrine that looked in pretty good shape considering that it was in the middle of nowhere.

There was a long pathway made out of rock pads reaching just up to a flight of indigo-colored stairs. It looked like a traditional Japanese shrine, the ones you saw at historical attractions. From the curved roof to the straw looking walls, it felt so peaceful situated so deeply in the forest. The natural lighting of the sun gave it an almost mystical feel.

You went along the path, looking around your surroundings, taking in everything. Even the air here felt different. The stairs didn't even creek when you put your feet one after another up them. The sliding door in front of you looked very tempting, you paused your hand just before it. Hesitating if it was really such a good idea to go exploring a building like this, abandoned, even if it didn't look like it. Though you quickly shook that thought out of your head when you saw the sun now a deeper orange color gave you an answer.

You opened it, being greeted with the smell of tea, and… the white fox. It rested in a small ball of its own fur, curled into itself, seemingly asleep.

You put your bag down with one hand after quietly sliding the door shut. The inside was just what you expected of the room, traditional looking paintings hung on the wall, some compact plants. There was a round, maroon table situated just on the left of the foxling, it was clearly meant for sitting down at it and enjoying a cup of tea, since there were small utensils to drink and some sweets on a plate on top of it.

They were clearly used a moment before. You decided to wait here, hoping the person that got those snacks would shortly make their way back. Though after a few minutes or so, you grew bored quickly and tried to reach for the fur of the fluffiness next to you now. Though just before your fingertips could brush that same fur the door behind you opened with a loud noise. With it followed a loud scream, which made you yank your head in that direction.

You were greeted by the sight of a tall man, very tall as you dragged your eyes over him. That wasn't what surprised you the most, it was the black ears on top of his head that perfectly matched his hair that left you speechless. A coplayer? A pretty immersed cosplay as he was wearing a traditional Yukata. His outfit was well coordinated, as a whole, dark but it seemed to have lots of layers, or maybe he must have a lot of muscle.

"What the hell is a human doing here" His eyebrows furrowed as he took you in. Okay, now he was even playing up the speech. This was getting weird, no matter how good looking he was. You stood up, noticing the fox left and stayed at the man’s side.

"Hey look, I'm not here to cause any trouble. I got lost in the woods and that little dude over there-" You pointed to the fox, "led me here." "You can continue your little cosplay session, I just wanna ask where the nearest city is? Or if I could use the phone here, if there is one?" You looked around a little. Training your eyes back on him after not getting an answer from him after a while. He was still stood there… now just staring at you.

"I don't know what you're playing at, but I'm not gonna fall for the "I'm lost" scheme, I know people like you."

Like you? What the hell was he going on about? Before you could respond he continued: "You people come here, trying to steal offerings, disrespecting a sacred place." He had his arms crossed now, just radiating an energy that told me to leave. So, you got your backpack, not willing to deal with a weirdo that's cosplaying in the woods and that thought he was some kind of god of this place.

"If you don't want to help, just say so. But I really need to get back to my family, so either you make this fast so I can be out of your hair faster orrrr, you can make this more difficult so I can stay longer." You were starting to get irritated with this guys’ attitude yourself. He gave you another scrutinizing look, trying to figure out if you were lying, before sighing and opening the door. One foot was out the door when he turned his head, jawline on display he asked, "Are you coming, or do you actually want me carry you back to civilization?"

You got the cue to pick up your backpack and followed him out. He even walked like he was straight out of a comic, hands behind his back, weirdly resembling an old grandpa.

Now that you were just keeping up with him, his legs making a big distance with each step, you got the chance to really look at him. Mostly straight only slightly arched dark eyebrows, that were complimented by small but feline looking eyes. And a sharp nose that led to a set of very plump pink lips, angular jaw and smooth skin. He looked more unreal by the second. You snapped out of your thoughts when you remembered, this was a full-grown man, and you were alone here with him. Besides his poor attitude to you kind of trespassing on his property, if it even belonged to him, he didn't seem all that bad. You could slowly start to recognize some flowers that you definitely remembered from your previous stays here, so he must be leading you in the right direction somewhat.

The silence was starting to kill you, kind of starting to feel bad for not trying to deescalate the situation before, now it was becoming awkward.

You pursed your lips before speaking "Look, I'm sorry that I interrupted you with whatever you were doing, clearly it was something important. I've been tracking these paths for hours and I just wanna get back to my house and have shower and get some food."

Your legs ached from the amount of walking you had been doing the whole day, now even more because you had to stay right next to him, to be able to make conversation.

"I'm sure you just wanna get back to taking your cosplay pictures or whatever roleplay you were doing before I showed up, you must get my frustration." You flailed your arms and breathed heavily. At that he fully stopped making you halt a few steps in front of him now.

"Cosplay? You think this is a costume I am wearing?" He let out a laugh and put both of his hands at his waist, which was tiny looking in the outfit and had you distracted for a moment.

"Okay look, enough with the weird behavior, it's one thing that you're wearing something straight out of a historical drama. The way you talk is as if you're fully convinced of being some sort of… I don’t know a fox spirit or anything like that." You shook your head.

He stepped towards you until he was just a step in front of you. He leaned towards you, staring right into your soul. You could smell him, he was that close, pine and straw. A strictly traditional scent. "Why don’t you convince yourself of how real I am dear? if you think I'm so crazy."

Okay he must have actually lost it, your eyes widened. He turned his head to give you better access to his "ears", further encouraging you to touch him.

If it would satisfy him, you'd do it. You reached one hand up, the other gripping your bag for dear life out of nervousness.

You grasped the one ear into your hand, caressing it after feeling how soft it felt. It felt like actual fur, even the inside had the feeling of it resembling skin, even from the looks of it, you couldn’t see a hairband or any clips that would fixate them on his head. You rubbed them until the base, making sure that they were real. You pull your hand back as if it had gotten burned. Stepping away from him backwards, your back hit a tree.

He wasn’t lying about it, He was not lying about it. "Convinced now?" He spoke up ripping you from your thoughts. "I'm the real deal, darling. Everything about me is real. And I make sure little humans like you don't disturb that sacred place I live in." He pointed at you when he said "humans" and then pointed back with his thumb the way that led to the shrine.

He took slow strides towards you, effectively trapping you against the tree. It made you catch your breath, looking up into his eyes from this close proximity, made it more intimidating. You felt something warm stir in your stomach., a tingling sensation.

Your face started heating up, your face for sure a soft pink now. "Now that you know this secret of mine and I should be leading you to your relatives, that deserves some kind of reward on my part, doesn't it?"

He said leaning into your neck breathily whispering. You could feel his lips brush against your skin from time to time. As the words came out of his mouth.

Your heartbeat was quickening by the second out of excitement and pure arousal. Your pupils were filling out and your mouth fell open a little, relaxed.

"I don't typically involve myself with humans but you're so small like a bunny, that it makes me want to devour you." "Makes me want to bury myself into you and see how much you can take"

He kissed your neck after sounding out the last word taking a soft hold of your nape and pulling himself from you a tiny amount, he met your orbs.

"Would you like that pretty? Hmm?" He was gazing down at you, the sheer difference in stature had you in a chokehold. You nodded not trusting your voice to make any non-embarrassing sounds.

"Mingi, that’s my name, remember it well" He said before this time leaning towards your face and kissing you. It was so soft, just how his lips looked. His other hand snuck up to your waist to have a firm grip on it, as he pulled your body more into his. You could feel the hard muscle underneath and you quickly put your hands on his shoulders, arms his neck.

It turned heavy immediately and you could feel Mingi nip on your bottom lip once in a while, when you were catching your breath. He pressed you more into the tree and that's when you felt something hard against your stomach. A shockwave went through your core, and it pulsed. Slicking you up, anticipating what was about to happen.

His big, veiny hand on your nape made its way down your body, to side, to your hip and then went along the waistband of your jean shorts. He popped the button open and slipped into you pants and panties in one swift move, caressing what was inside.

You felt yourself jolt a bit at the first contact, his hand a little cold but quickly warming up as he continued to massage your clit and labia. He moved his lips down to you neck again, kissing and sucking there. His hand never stopping and finally slipping a finger inside after getting a loud frustrated whine from you.

"Patience we have all the time in the world, why the rush?"

He quickly added a second one after pumping the first for quite a bit. You could feel the stretch a little and you were sweating a little from all the closeness combined with the hot weather. It went fast after that quickly adding a fourth finger and making you leak down the inside of your legs. You were so wet, so ready, you needed him inside you. His fingers could fill you up heavenly but his dick seemed to be even bigger hidden by the yukata, was an obvious bulge.

You reached for the tie around his robe, pulling on it and letting it fall open. Than going straight for the draw string as best as you could while Mingi was fingering you pussy to death. It fell down his legs and you couldn't help but admire his length a little, pretty that’s all you could describe it as. And long, it looked like it would just about to reach the perfect place.

If you weren't so intent on having him in your pussy right this second you would have gladly given him the greatest blow job on the dirty forest floor, but you were really just too desperately for that itch in you to get filled up.

You reached for his veiny shaft and planned to align him with you hold yourself. Shrugging your shorts further off of you tried to take him into your hand, just to be get your wrist grabbed by the man himself.

You whined, his fingers stopping their thrusting motion when he grabbed you with his other hand. "Not even going to ask? Pretty rude to me don't you think? Do you believe you deserve this after giving me such a hard time?" "Ask for it"

Your core clenched around his fingers. You were so out of breath from all the kissing and all your emotions were heightened. "Please Mingi, please"

"There you go~~" He smiled, eyes making little crescents and teeth poking out. You didn't even notice how he had aligned himself with your entrance and pushed in, until you felt that familiar stretch not just more. His fingers may have prepped you, but it’s still burned a tiny bit, adding to the pleasure of finally being filled.

He started thrusting in a stable rhythm hitting that spongy spot on your walls, he groaned every now and then. Gripping your waist with both hands he slid them down to your ass, pulling you in, mid thrust. Mingi then picked you up, hands on grasping the back of your knees, pushing you against the tree.

You moaned out loudly at the action, gripping his hair and pushing it back from his forehead, which was sweaty from exertion. Now you were looking down at him, as he thrusted his hips up into you and letting gravity pull you down onto him. Your high was approaching incredibly fast you kept chanting out little omgds and pleads. He changed his pace, making his thrusts harder and faster. He reached down as he noticed your moans picking up in volume, rubbing your clit to get you over that blissful edge.

You felt it build up for so long and then it snapped, you felt yourself tighten up and your toes curled, as your cunt pulsed over and over again. He kept moving throughout your orgasm making it last longer than it ever has before. When you clenched down on him you also felt something warm leak into you, filling you up further than you thought was even possible.

And his hips stuttered a little, groaning and panting against your ear. It took a few moments, but he didn’t directly put you down, he first looked at your face again and closed the distance again. A kiss much softer than the ones shared throughout this whole time.

And then he slipped himself out, you winced still sensitive from your orgasm. And you clung to his shoulders when he started to put your feet down on the grown, wobbly, and barely stable.

You felt his cum trickle out of you and down your thigh, slightly disgusted now. He made quick work of your clothes putting them on without words but a few kisses here and there.

You were still in a slight daze after the whole thing and Mingi woke you up with a gentle hand taking yours and leading you somewhere, which you didn't quite register.

"From here this little path goes straight to your house" You took in his words; this was indeed one of the pathways that would take you back. Now you didn't want to leave that badly anymore though. Grasping his hand, a little tighter in yours. And looking at the ground. "Hey, you'll see me again pretty. Anytime you’re here and ger lost, I’ll be sure to find you and get you safely back"

He pushed your chin up to look at him, his eyes looking a lot softer. "How do I- I mean how do I find you when I want to meet you and not get lost?" A little smirk pulled at his lips, and he said in a hushed tone: "I'll get to you, I'll know." In the distance you could hear your family yelling out to you, probably noticing that you've been missing for a while.

His words made you feel better, and you let go of his hand after stealing a quick kiss from his lips and running off into that direction. "I'll get back Mingi, I'll find my way to you!" You yelled with a big smile turning to him quickly and then back around to go run down the path to the house.

He kept smiling until he couldn't catch sight of you anymore and made his way back to his shrine. He muttered to himself:

"Oh, I know you will."

[thefaiao]

Hi, firstly I just wanted to say that I love your art, especially with the way you use dynamism and angles in character sketches. It's really beautiful and I always look forward to seeing more black and white pieces from you.

I just wanted to ask, as a beginner artist whose been drawing on and off from 2017 onwards and hasn't seen much improvement, are there any resources or books you would recommend for someone still trying to grasp form and shape? Especially in creating 3d forms with line? I'd love to be able to draw characters in a similar way that you do but my cubes and cones never seem to come out correctly and humanoid shapes are even tougher. Thanks again for sharing your art.

Hello! Thank you very much for the compliments. Up until somewhat recently the B&W pieces were my favorite things to draw, so I get you. I did fall in love with coloring eventually though.

Alright, there are lots of things that can be done. I have had some classical training, and done human figure studies live, but honestly not nearly as much as I probably should have. You definitely should still do figure study as much as possible, especially in person. I'm just prefacing to say it may not get you to draw the way I draw I suppose, as its only part of what I've done to improve my drawing ability.

There are a few good resources to start with, notably the Loomis method, which a lot of artists use as a base. That's how you should use it too, ideally. It's not about copying his work exactly, it's about understanding just how the human body is proportioned, and adapting it from there. It doesn't have to define your thinking, it's just a good guideline. It's possible to structure a body quite differently than Loomis (and there are many many books for that), but the truth, which is, the proportions of the human body, is still there in all mindsets. Once you understand that, you can understand the reason for each approach, and even forego them to express something more unique, abstract and visceral.

The biggest thing you should do though, is always be observing the world around you, both online and offline. Figure studies are nice but they remove one of the most important things, and that is context. I find that people who will use those large libraries from people who pose professionally with bows and swords and the like will often draw technically impressive images, but they still feel like a fake pose. It doesn't feel like the person is holding onto the weapon like their life depended on it, or like they have a relationship with the object, that they pose and move in a certain way that reflects their personality. Live study with strangers helps rectify this somewhat.

Online you should also be following lots and lots of different artists! Don't limit yourself, pay attention to how they construct their drawings, how they go about things. It's important you follow a lot of people, see how they evolve. They are not only a point in time, they are also learning and evolving just like you. It's especially good if you can have artists friends to draw and share stuff with. I have a deep-seated belief that we draw art for others, to express ourselves to them, so they need to see it.

It may sound weird for me to say if you want to draw like me try to draw unlike me, but I'm just saying what I've done. I follow a lot of people and draw from a lot of places. Ultimately the main appeal of my forms is their dynamism and volume as you've said, but it's good to be versatile so you can always explore new avenues!

Now, you've done all these things, you are practicing them constantly. Now is the most important part. Keep drawing!!! Just keep drawing no matter what, no matter how bad you think it looks. You have to believe you have something to say, to express, no matter what. You say you haven't improved, but I don't believe you! Maybe you are faster, maybe your technique is better, maybe you have better habits, maybe you are a little more patient. There are a million ways to improve which don't even appear in the image. You have to keep drawing, NO MATTER WHAT!!! You have to believe you were born to do this and you will do it well, don't worry about what others think.

I can only draw such dynamic forms because I have kept drawing and masticating and elaborating this idea that is called my style. When you are drawing you are developing your own little language, and only when you are fluent you can start writing good books with it. Being fluent will take many years, you must accept that. If you take breaks, take breaks so you can keep drawing later. Take care of your health so you can keep drawing. You will only get to see your drawings become beautiful if you live long. To live a long and healthy life is to keep drawing.

That is my ultimate advice really, let that frustration build up, but keep drawing anyway. You will force yourself to find solutions to release that frustration as you do so, and improve. Maybe it's simple, but it's the only thing that is true no matter what. Don't worry about AI or whatever, none of that matters. Just keep drawing!

[noideabutsims]

Donut Co.'s Dream-Build-Play Blocks: Expansion Edition

🚨 Calling All Simmers! The Wait is OVER! 🎉 Donut Co.'s Dream-Build-Play Blocks: Expansion Pack is FINALLY HERE! 🚨

Dust off those creative hats and prepare for a playtime EXPLOSION because the Dream-Build-Play Blocks are back and better than ever! We've crammed a whopping 80 new items into this expansion pack, guaranteed to transform your Sims' homes into vibrant, block-tastic wonderlands.

🚀 Blast Off to Imagination Station:

20 Unique Dollhouses: Prepare to be WOWED. From towering castles to bustling town centers, there's a miniature masterpiece for every Sim's imagination. Race cars on the Runaway Racetrack, explore the cosmos with the Rocket Up-and-Away, or rule the kingdom from the majestic Clock Tower! Each dollhouse is a portal to a world of endless possibilities.

🏡 Build-Your-Own Clubhouse Kit: Calling all aspiring architects! This kit is your Sim kid's blank canvas. Plop down the invisible base, then let their creativity run wild with 20 colorful building blocks. Design sprawling clubhouses with secret entrances, cozy reading nooks, or even a mini stage for impromptu dance parties!

🏰 2 Pre-Built Playhouses: Need a little inspiration? We've got you covered with two pre-built clubhouses that showcase the endless possibilities of the Build-Your-Own Clubhouse Kit. (Psst... Dreamhouse Decorator required!)

🌈 13 Decor Block Piles & 10 Single Decor Blocks: These aren't just blocks, they're instant bursts of personality! Scatter these colorful creations around your Sims' homes for a playful touch. Or, unleash your inner builder with the single blocks and the magical "bb.moveobjects" cheat – the sky's the limit!

👶 14 Nesting Blocks: Tiny hands, meet big fun! These soft, colorful blocks are perfect for your littlest Sims. Watch them giggle with glee as they stack, nest, and explore a world of shapes and textures. Learning and development have never been so adorable!

🎉 A Rainbow of Possibilities:

We're celebrating creativity in all its forms with two vibrant color options for EVERY block item. Choose from classic brights for a burst of energy, or soft pastels for a touch of dreamy sweetness.

💖 Why You'll LOVE It:

Endless Fun: This set is PACKED with play value, guaranteeing hours of entertainment for Sims of all ages.

Sparks Creativity: Encourage your Sims to think outside the block with open-ended building and imaginative play.

Kid-Approved: We designed this set with little ones in mind, ensuring safety, durability, and maximum fun!

So What Are You Waiting For?

The Dream-Build-Play Blocks: Expansion Pack is available NOW! Let the building bonanza begin! Don't forget to share your Sims' amazing creations with us – we can't wait to see what you build! ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Downloading: If you download the zip, pick EITHER the merged file, or the unmerged packages in the folders - you cant have both, they're the same. The merged file has EVERYTHING! For other refrence images, and to see all 80 items laid out - you can check the preview here: https://www.tumblr.com/noideabutsims/760676067863412736/simmers-get-ready-to-unleash-a-world-of?source=share There are 2 functional playhouses (Dream home decorator required), a playhouse base, 20 functional dollhouses, 43 décor items, and 14 nesting blocks. All ages can play with the dollhouses, toddlers and up can play with the playhouses. Dream home decorator is REQUIRED to use the playhouses, the merged file includes them automatically so if you do not have it - please use the unmerged files HUGE thank you goes out to@TaurusDesigns because they have continuously helped me out with my meshing/making of objects, and they're a wonderful CC creator! Make sure to check em out! <3 (All of our CC can be found by typing " Donut " into the search bar!) All 80 items are New meshes, and have all shadows and LODs. There is a slight glitch in the shadows on a few objects, but it only occurs BEFORE placing them down in game. Once they are placed, they are perfectly fine! Same as the last set! <3 If you wanna check out our other block sets, you can find them here: https://www.tumblr.com/noideabutsims/754033695218909184/8-new-fun-toys-for-sims-4-infantstoddlers?source=share https://www.tumblr.com/noideabutsims/754032309525774336/tons-of-functional-new-items-for-sims-4-toys?source=share

Infants that can sit up can play with all dollhouse block items, toddlers and kids can play too! Most of my images have my reshade on - it changes the color minimally, so white may look a little off in photos, but in game it will look white/normal!! In images you can find the non-reshade example! <3 You can size them up and down using the bracket keys. [ ] <- these ones.  I personally, use the tool mod to size my items up and down, and specifically with these if you are wanting them to be "perfectly sized" i would recommend you grab the tool mod by twistedmexi! If you would like to use it in build-buy mode, you'll need BBB!) Re-colors, and using this item as a mesh/base is fully allowed! you can include the mesh, and do what you please with the item, as long as you link back to the original. There are posts for all of our cc on our main 3 platforms (Tumblr, curseforge, patreon. ), So there is no reason not to link back!

Will be releasing more content soon! stay tuned! ❤️ (NOT affiliated with EA or Maxis in any way! We just make CC! ) DOWNLOAD: ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CurseForge: curseforge.com/sims4/build-buy/donut-co-s-dream-build-play-blocks-expansion Google Drive: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1E2ELomt_YIWhofi4wC4niJHzvkKNlMpx/view?usp=sharing

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/posts/111578246?pr=true ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**** Small tidbit about support, we really appreciate the read if you don't mind!**** We would love to be able to do this full time, but sadly without it bringing in an income, we can only do so part time. We LOVE making CC, but we NEVER want to force our supporters to pay us - just to access some items we made. Due to our items NEVER being paywalled, we have to now ask that if any of you could, we hoped you would consider downloading on Curseforge - if you do, you can help us be able to afford to keep making CC! If all or even a majority of the people who always download our items were to download on curseforge or sub to our $1 teir on Patreon - we could afford to turn this into a job. I know not everyone can, and that's ok, but if its possible it really really does help us out. It funds fixing our computers to be able to continue making cc, helps pay our bills, and even helps us fix our car and bike, and just in general when things happen. It really does mean alot to us, so supporting our patreon, or downloading via curseforge are amazing ways that you guys can help us! Thanks so much for all of your support!

[tourettesdog]

Concept:

Danny and his friends go missing and Jazz (werewolf, cause vibes) starts exploring the GZ to find him. She's never been there before and only has a journal Danny left behind to go off of as she tries to navigate who is friend and foe. 

Wulf eventually becomes her travel companion.

I also wrote a story blurb to go with this (using speech to text while I worked on the shading lol) Word count: 1532 Warnings: isolation

A frigid wind wrapped around her, stirring the snow and ice. Jazz had never much liked the cold, always preferring relaxing spring days and warm summer nights. Always a bit too cold in their house, where the chill from the lab seemed to creep its way into each corner.

The cold didn't bother her as much now. It hadn't for a long while, not with thick fur to guard against the chill. Still, in the endless field of snow, even her thick pelt did very little to ward off the freezing temperature. 

It stung at her ears, lashed at her snout, and worked its way through the tough pads of her feet until they were numb. The specter speeder lay behind her, the metal hull already being swept beneath the wind-tossed snow.

This was it, Jazz thought. She had finally found her most promising lead, made her way to the far icy reaches of the Far Frozen that Danny's journal mentioned with such reverence, and here she would fall.

Lost in an endless expanse of snow. Buried where none would find her. Forgotten, even by the ghosts.

Lost like Danny was.

Jazz stumbled onward, focusing only on putting one foot before the other. It was all she could do. She could see nothing, save for the white glare of snow, dappled with a green and blue hue that swirled and rippled with the flow of the ectoplasmic sky.

It was beautiful, in its own way. In the strange way that an abstract painting could be beautiful, with its hapless array of colors and shapes. Jazz stared up at it, wondering if it would be the very last thing she ever saw.

Wondering if it was the last thing Danny might have seen.

She still didn't even know if he was in the Ghost Zone. She still didn't know where to start looking for him. Every ghost she had met so far, from the cruel to the kind, had no leads.

No one had seen Danny and his friends, or at least no one was willing to say that they had.

Her legs ached with the effort of sifting through the snow. Great weights dragged at her each step, and it was all Jazz could do to make another. She wanted to rest. She wanted to turn around and go back to the specter speeder, sinking into the seats where she might find at least a trace of warmth.

Jazz turned her head to look for the speeder, but she could no longer see it. She hadn't gone very far, yet the one thing tethering her to the outside world had left,  lost to the swirling white snow.

She took another step.

When jazz was ten-years-old there had been a large blizzard in Amity Park. It happened in late February, just after Valentine's Day, and had buried the town in a sea of snow. Jazz remembered how excited Danny was when it first started to snow. He was gleeful that they had a few days off of school and was prepared to throw himself into the snow with Tucker and Sam for the duration of it.

He hadn't had much time to enjoy that snow.

(Not that Time ever cared how much it gave to Danny.)

The ice on the power lines had left them without power, and without a stove to cook on the already-questionable meals that Maddie prepared became even more so. They huddled up by the fireplace with blankets, staying as warm as they could, but Danny still managed to get sick .

(He was never very lucky.)

Those five days off of school hadn't meant much when Danny spent the majority of them lying in bed, shivering and coughing, and Jazz spent that time worrying over him while their parents worked by candlelight in the lab.

Tears welled at the corners of Jazz's eyes and she couldn't be sure if they were from the sting of the wind or the ache in her chest. 

She took another step.

Jazz wondered what the Far Frozen yetis were like. Danny had described them quite a lot in his journal, much more than many of the other ghosts, and much more kindly at that. He had mentioned a Frostbite, a massive yeti with a frozen arm. He sounded nice, though the name 'Frostbite' felt awfully cruel and ironic to her now.

Maybe they would find her, at least. If she couldn't find Danny, if she was truly doomed to freeze, maybe this Frostbite would find her and be able to give Danny some closure.

(The same closure Jazz so desperately sought now, if nothing else.)

Jazz's chest constricted with a cold that had nothing to do with the frozen tundra around her, just imagining Danny endlessly searching for her.

(Following in her lost footsteps, she supposed.)

Jazz would sooner consign herself to endlessly wander the Far Frozen than she would have Danny fruitlessly search for her.

(And what if her own search was fruitless to begin with? What if she had thrown her life away searching for not even a ghost?)

The horizon blurred together, the crisp white snow melting with the hazy green of the sky until it was all a swirl in her mind. Ectoplasm and ice, every bit a reminder of who she had failed to protect.

Jazz tried to take another step, but her knees buckled.

She hoped that, wherever Danny was, he still had Sam and Tucker beside him. They were always close. Always willing to have each other's backs, no matter what stakes they were facing. 

Jazz wished she could have been a part of that more. Maybe then she would have found Danny sooner. 

They could have been home already, wherever home was now.

The snow piled around Jazz. She no longer had the energy to stand, and hardly had enough to sit up.

Maybe she'd return as a ghost, at least. There was certainly enough ectoplasm to sustain her as one here, and Jazz felt enough aching desire to keep going that she thought it more than possible.

Maybe she'd just rest for a little while. Sink into the snow, which was already blanketing her more and more as she slumped into the drift.

Surely, Danny was never this cold. A cold beyond cold, sinking into a hollow numbness that had Jazz's mind drifting with the wind.

The sky shifted, the sea of green above flickering with streaks of deep blue, an aurora borealis if ever she saw one. 

She remembered how Danny had described it in his journal. He hadn't done it much justice .

The snow shifted, warping, moving. Jazz could hardly keep her eyes open, her thoughts slipping with the drifts of snow.

She wondered what sort of ghost a werewolf would make. Danny had mentioned a wolf ghost in his journal, though Jazz couldn't be sure if he was a werewolf in life or had simply taken that form upon his death. Ghosts could be strange like that.

The roar of the wind was distant, hardly more than a whisper now. Jazz thought she could hear the crunch of snow and the echo of voices lost on the wind.

At least she would get to rest. Maybe not for a long while, but enough time to shut her eyes before she accepted whatever form fate would give her.

Eyes shut, numb to the strange world around her, the snow swallowed Jazz whole.

Warmth. She couldn't remember the last time she felt warm, lost in the zone without a sun to warm her back. Jazz had grown used to the cold, even before the snow of the Far Frozen claimed her. 

And yet she was warm. 

Jazz could remember falling into the snow, accepting her fate… and yet she was warm .

Opening her eyelids was a Herculean task, made no easier by the bright glare that welcomed her bleary sight. Jazz shut her eyes tight again, groaning as she turned her head to the side.

A murmured voice reached her ears, followed by another. Jazz heard a creaking sound and felt the air shift beside her.

She tried once again to open her eyes, this time squinting and finding that the glare had diminished somewhat.

"I'm pleased to see that you are awake at last," a voice said. It was a low rumble, almost more of a growl than a humanoid voice, but the words rang through clearly, as kind and gentle as any voice so deep could be.

Slowly, aching moments that stretched on for ages, the world swam into view. Rich blue hues, underscored by vibrant whites. Fractals of ice, deliberately shaped around dark stone. It looked as though they were in some sort of cave, though it had been altered into a living space with draping furs and woven tapestries.

A hulking form sat beside her. If Jazz ever thought that there was a creature fit to be called a yeti, it was them. He had snowy fur with gray markings, a cloak of deep blue, and icy horns that matched a frozen arm. 

Frostbite. The name suited him; he was every bit the ghost Danny described in his journal. 

[toadslug]

Sapphires: Chapter 1

A fanfic/AU/whatever you want to call it I'm going to explore with Orca's statue! I've never really done writing like this before, so we'll see how this goes. Might try out websites like AO3 to host this on??? But I'm sticking to what I know right now. Anyways!! Here's what I've got so far.

"She was so young..."

The heavy stone doors of the Royal Hatchery scraped open. The grating noise was by design, ensuring intruders could not sneak in.

Dim blue light traced the silhouettes of two dragons at the entrance.

"I don't know why she didn't wait a couple more years." One of the dragons conveyed through flashes and gestures, paddling forward.

"Mm." The other lazily flickered back, straining to shut the doors behind them and sealing the room into inky darkness.

One by one, the dragons lit their bioluminescent patterns. The electric teal glow discovered dips in the floor where clusters of eggs awaited, comfortably tucked into tidy seaweed nests. The shells appeared as a muddied grayish-blue, but under proper lighting, they would have glimmered like droplets of brilliant amber. They were arranged by sex—males on one side of the room, females on the other—in spiral shapes.

"Looks like they're all here." The tired SeaWing gestured, turning to leave.

"Looks like you're begging to get your teeth smashed out." The other gestured back, peeking at each nest and counting the eggs. That was meant to be a joke, but they both knew it was hardly far from reality. The queen was fiercely protective of her eggs. The tired SeaWing grumbled but wearily set to work.

There was a lapse of silence. The chatty SeaWing gave small talk another shot: "... That statue is a lot creepier now, huh." His voice was a little stiff.

The tired SeaWing did not answer.

The coral heating tubes that twisted along the walls quietly bubbled.

Hesitant at first, the chatty SeaWing drifted towards the sculpture at the center of the hatchery. He wasn't sure why.

It had been installed less than a week ago. She had insisted it be placed here.

He brought the light from the banded patterns on his arm up to the statue, squinting at its features. It was regal; imposingly majestic. Masterfully chiseled from empress marble; frighteningly realistic. He angled the light further up, revealing an astute face. Various undersea plants intricately weaved around its curving horns—the webbing that flowed down its spine and wing membrane also followed this design.

And the eyes.

They looked just like her eyes.

He rarely saw her eyes. Partially because none of the royals really bothered with him. But her eyes were always elsewhere. Always focused on her next masterpiece or her mother (though, in hindsight, she had probably been focusing more on the throne her mother sat on); however, the few times her eyes parted, he found himself both intrigued and perturbed by them. They were a divine blue. An enchanting blue that compelled you to unlock their secrets, but a haunting blue that would curse you if you ever found the key. A distant blue, but a blue that lingered with you forever.

Her fathomless ocean filled those sapphire eyes.

"Done checking?" The tired SeaWing flashed, startling the chatty SeaWing. "Almost." He forced himself to quickly regain his composure, though his even face betrayed how unnerved he was all of the sudden. Before resuming his duties, he felt drawn to give the statue one more glance.

His eyes fell to the glittering pedestal it perched on. To the name engraved upon it.

Orca.

Couple of headcanons I worked into this (in case you were confused):

• SeaWings eggs look a little more like fish eggs (round and orange). Since deep water filters colors like red, they appear more blue here.

• SeaWings use sign language along with their bioluminescent scales to communicate.

[mysweetpoisons]

Deep below the surface

Pairing: Namor/ K’uk’ulkan x reader

Warnings: smut without plot, +18, spit, dominant namor, oral, p in v

Word count: +2700

The massive crafted stone doors are pushed shut behind you, confining you from the stern looks of the Talokanil guards.

The underwater cave is massive, spacious enough to be carved into a formidable palace, the place continues to amaze you each passing day as you explore it through your assigned chores. 

This room, however, you have never been privy to. The majestic throne room that has witnessed uncountable meetings and hearings over the centuries. And, in the center of the blue-illuminated salon is him. K’uk’ulkan. The name his people chant in reverent prayers, dancing salons and upcoming battles. 

The feathered serpent god is sitting proudly on his throne, the halo of sharp teeth at his back adding a literal extra edge to his posture.  

He's wearing that attire. The ceremonial helmet that has excitement running through your veins. You had only caught glimpses of it before, the mesmerizing movement of the colored feathers, the vivid red, green and blue contrasting against the dark gold and the soft glinting of the encrusted jewels. 

Vibrant colors, brown golden skin and rich brown eyes as exhilarating as fresh coffee beans.

No soul is immune to such beauty, especially not yours. But this? Looking at him feels like looking at the sun without glasses. His burning rays weaken your steps so much so that you almost end up toppling over when your knees meet the cold floor.

" My king " you greet with a soft voice and your head lowering in respect. 

" Come closer, surface dweller " 

Feeling a little bold, you decide to crawl to him until your hands reach the step where his feet rest. Your body is perfectly aligned with his middle.

Namor reaches down to cradle your face in his large hand. The gesture is almost sweet until the rough skin of his thumb taps your chin, directing your eyes up to his and sending a shiver to travel down your spine. 

" You have kept me waiting. Tell me, have you forgotten your place?" 

"I'm so-" your apology is cut out short by his tsk of disapproval.

Without speaking, Namor spreads his legs even wider for you to accommodate between them. A silent message that you get straight away: actions speak louder than words.

Instantly, your hands move up his legs, adoring the feeling of his hard muscles beneath your fingers, his skin wet yet still so warm.. exactly like that day.

That day, when the storm clouds had crushed the sky, the thunder struck in a deafening blast and freed the rain to flood. He had appeared among the waves, cloaked as another part of the wreck.  Then surfaced again, on the other side of the tattered board you had been sustaining yourself on. The tempest in his eyes, a mirror of the one surrounding you.

The offer was simple: die to become seafood or live to never come back. While the ship drowned behind your back, you were holding your arms out, surrendering to the cold angry waves to be caught and carried away by warm arms.  

Warm spreads all over your body just like that day as you slide your hands up his thighs slowly. Your fingers toy with the fraying edges of the loincloth he's wearing and then flick it to the side revealing his barely concealed bulge. A sight that never fails to have you licking your lips, those tight and short shorts are as much of a menace as he is. 

You palm his cock through the green fabric, feeling it stir at your touch. You can almost feel his fingers twitching with impatience, the need to fist your hair and urge you on. You continue to tease him, this time with your tongue darting out to lick the straining fabric around his half-hard-on, then nuzzling your nose along the way, following its shape. 

It isn't wise to provoke a god but the truth is that he needn't be demanding because a moment after your own desire to please him has you freeing his thick cock and fisting it almost urgently.  

As precum escapes its head, the tip of your tongue rushes out to taste it, swirling it in your mouth and spitting it right out, the mixed fluids dripping down his shaft as he hisses. You keep your tongue pressing slightly on the leaking slit, opening your lips to bring his head inside your mouth, sucking on it lightly. His large girth already sets an uncomfortable sting in your lower jaw. Your eyes climb up to his, finding two black pools of burning lust that make you squeeze your legs together looking for some kind of release from the kick of arousal in your stomach.

"Is that all you can take?" he mocks " You disappoint me, surface dweller" 

Oh, he knew you could take much much more, he was just being cruel.

Working him down your throat was always a challenge, a challenge you were gladly accepting each time.

So you renew your efforts to fit more of him, setting a pace that has saliva rolling down your chin, willing your throat to reach as far as you can while your tongue continues to trace each vein and ridge of his hard cock, leaving no trace of skin unexplored. Even when you gag and sputter around him you keep going, jerking off what you can't fit in your mouth.

You can see he's close, his chest is heaving, betraying his agitated state, his knuckles clutching the rudimental armrests while his legs part widely, twitching with the need to thrust up and choke you even more. 

To imagine that he wants this almost as much as you do, to think that he needs this, he needs you.. is … intoxicating. 

Having one goal in mind, you start to suck harder, bobbing up and down until tears fall from your eyes and your throat burns. His hand shoots out to fist your hair, catching you mid bob and pushing you even further down when he cums, filling your mouth and throat with his spend and groaning his release while you moan messily around his length, the vibration adding an extra stimulation that prolongs his orgasm, spilling even more cum into your awaiting throat.

Your pussy throbs needily while you clean him off, swallowing audibly any drop that could have escaped your mouth. 

After you have finished, his hand drops down to cradle the side of your face as you catch your breath against his thigh.

His thumb is drawing the line of your jaw when he commands huskily "Open", your mouth obeys him immediately showing that you have dutifully swallowed everything he gave you "Good. You did so good. Now, you think you deserve a reward ?" the rough pad of his thumb pulls down your lower lip admiring the soft pillowy skin as he continues to taunt you seductively "Think your pretty little body can take it?" 

You nod, waiting at his feet for doing it all over again. At least it was what you expected from that very first time. That time (not so far from your arrival to Talokan) when you had hunted Namor, fell to your knees before him and begged to release him from those hideously tempting shorts to please him with your mouth. Since then, he has never been satisfied with cumming once nor seeing you once a day and the sentiment was mutual. You have become insatiable, your desire to touch more of him, to elicit groans or any kind of unrestrictedly lustful reaction from him growing each passing day.

That's why a surprised yet pleased gasp escapes you when he joists you up into his lap.

Namor chuckles and bares you unceremoniously, untying the knot at your neck that holds your dress up. His eyes devour you as his large hands trace your body starting by your neck, following your pulse point down to your collarbone and lower to the sides of your breasts, touching every erogenous zone delicately. He stops at the top of your thighs to spread his fingers, thumbs moving up and down the line of your venus, digging into the flesh where your legs and pelvis meet and sending electric thrills to your core. 

"So soft and warm" his murmur is barely audible, almost as if his words aren't destined for your ears

You feel his hand cupping your heat next, the heel pressing against your bundle of nerves as his fingers easily slide down your slit and press at your sopping entrance.

Your hole clenches and sucks them in greedily, your entire body curling into the abyss of early ecstasy. He must realize this at the same time as you do because his smirk turns devilish.

"Haven't even touched you yet and you've already made a mess of yourself" his fingers sink into your heat, steadily coaxing you open "What's caught you so excited huh?" 

Swift as the snake he's been compared to over the centuries, he catches your eyes rising to his headdress and hears the erratic flutter of your beating heart. 

"Oh, you like this mmm.."- the torture of his fingers dragging languidly over your walls never stopping "Go on, tell me what you think"

"It's so..." you extend your hand tracing the curves of the golden beast up to the feathers and green aquatic leaves, not daring to touch any of it, afraid you will tarnish them somehow just by being so close " magnificent.." your eyes turning back to the god facing you, watching closely and unexpectedly quiet. Sometimes, he can even read your thoughts, but right now you're sure he can read your eyes. He sees through the praise, the amazement and reverence that lie beyond are not purely directed to what sits above his head.

He kisses you then. Pulling from your hair, he connects his lips with yours to capture you in a voracious kiss. His kisses used to be angry, long but measured. Now, they have morphed into life-consuming spells. One kiss was enough to have you drowning in desire, your body invaded by a thirst that could only be quenched by him: his lips, his hands, his cock.

His tongue breaches the seam of your lips, tasting them as he does so, then invades your mouth to fight and defeat yours. Each breath you take against his open mouth burns, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip adding another log to the pyre. It's enough to make you lose your mind, shamelessly mewling while your hips move up and down, fucking yourself on his thick fingers. He parts his mouth from yours and your moans fill the room unobstructedly.

"Hold it" the warning is whispered into your ear, his dark voice electric like the thunder before a storm.

The single tear that falls from your eye at the effort is snatched by his finger, the pearly bubble dissolving in his skin.

"Poor, desperate surface dweller." the chocolate in his eyes is now completely melted "You're so lucky you taste so sweet."

The world seems to fold upside down when you're lifted and turned around, your butt landing on the throne with your legs parted wide open by strong hands.

Next thing you know Namor kneels and plunges his tongue inside you, then drags it out, licking up your slit once, twice and finally, his entire mouth takes as much flesh as he can and sucks, pulling deliciously on your clit and slurping your essence as if he was eating his favorite fruit. You completely forget how to breathe, as your legs start to shake uncontrollably around him and your head hits his throne. 

The mere image of him sucking on your pussy like a maniac at the feet of his own throne is enough to send you over the edge. Your hands wildly reach out to hold onto something as the pleasure turns unbearable. Denied of his lush hair they land instead on the gold shoulder plates, scraping needily on the metal as you cum, crying silently in shock at the suddenness of the white burning bliss that crushes you. He sucks your abused folds one more time and raises.

His hand brings you back to consciousness, squeezing your cheeks and prying your lips open only to spit in your mouth. He doesn't have to say a word, you swallow it all instinctively. 

"You're so dirty " he chuckles satisfied "and you're about to get dirtier, surface dweller"

He engulfs your lips yet again, sharing the remnants of your taste on his tongue as he manhandles you into a position he likes, yanking you down and pushing your knees up your chest with firm arms.

Moaning into the kiss, you feel the blunt tip of his already hard cock rubbing on your sensitive folds, parting them to push against your entrance. Slowly, he eases his head inside allowing you some reprieve before his mercy runs thin and he continues on, burying himself in one powerful thrust, reaching your limit and knocking all of the air from your lungs. The stretch overwhelms you with stinging pleasure, like thorns pricking on your nerves with shocks of bliss.

"Always so warm" he groans, his words fueling the heat in your belly as his lips part from yours moving down to mark your throat.

He drives his hips into yours, setting an unforgiving pace while searching and finding that spongy spot behind your front wall. Guided by your lewd moans he rams his cock into it fascinated by your body fitting more and more of his large cock and squeezing so hard around him. 

He makes you cum for the second and third time of the day, driving into you with such fervor and precision that scrambles your brain and rattles your bones. Slick drips down your cunt and soaks his lower abdomen as wet sloshing sounds fill the room. 

You feel utterly delirious, your gaze dropping to where your bodies are joined, the wide base of his cock splitting you open eliciting another wave of arousal, pushing another horizon of unbridled gratification. 

"Look at me " the pressure of his hand wrapped around your throat snaps your attention back up. His jawline is tense almost as if it was carved on stone, his lips look swollen and biteable and his eyes are so dark you feel like you're falling, your stomach trembling once more as he thrusts hard.

The golden face of the roaring beast seems to goad your febrile state.

"It is said that if you look too much, its eyes can trap your soul for eternity." the playful warning falls from his lips like honey when he notices you're staring "Tell me, is yours mine already?" his final chuckle earning another pained moan from you.

You can't even fathom how to answer that. You hope he doesn't expect a coherent response because the truth is, you haven't been able to think rationally since you had set foot in this room.  

Your walls cling to him and your back arches as you drink every sinful word he keeps bombarding you with. Every taunt, every smile, every chuckle, every hitched breath and moan between you both is vitally consumed as water in the desert. 

The grip on your throat tenses, your pulse point deliciously stroked by his fingers, causing your hand to shoot up grasping his wrist as the pressure in your lower belly starts to rise. Your chest touches his muscular one, your knees getting squished between your chests as he drives his cock even deeper inside you. 

He keeps pounding into you relentlessly until you feel him throbbing, the muscles in his lower abdomen tensing and you're choking on feverish words, the desire for him to fill you up once again maddening.

"That's it" he praises, his voice pierced by want "Keep begging for my cum. How much do you need it?"

You can't control yourself, the pleas that fall from your lips are intelligible, your voice breaking between moans. It only takes two more thrusts for him to reach his peak, his cock swelling and stretching you impossibly, pumping you full of his cum. As he groans his euphoria, his other hand reaches down to draw circles around your sensitive nub. The crease of the wave starts to fall on you too as he's still spilling generously inside you. The orgasm rips you apart. You come so hard you think your soul leaves your body, the only thing it remains is his name on your lips. 

He examines the image before him with voracious yet pleased eyes. Eyes closed, shallow breaths, skin shining with sweat and still stretched around him. You're a fucked senseless mess, just how he liked it.

Thoroughly ruined, a fleeting thought of quiet complaint stuck in your mind: how is it fair that he looks like he hasn't broken a sweat in his entire life when you feel so completely undone, the post-orgasmic haze gripping your mind and body with exhaustion.

He plays with what has leaked out of you, smearing it, making more of a mess and earning a raspy whine from you. 

"You look so good beneath me" Namor whispers while leaning forward, nuzzling your nose with his " This might be your new place. Would you like that? To have me holding you down, filling this greedy pussy forever?"

Your wrecked moan is answering enough.

🌊🌊🌊

Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed it, it would make my day! ❤️

[wannabe-fic-writer]

Carol Danvers x Reader : Wherever You Are

Summary: Going the extra mile for your girlfriend is never a problem. Covers the ‘Flannel PJs’ square of Holiday Bingo.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1k

* * * * * * * *

With a smile, you grab the bag off the counter, and say,“ Thank you so much. Have a wonderful night.”

The shop owner returns the sentiment, thanking you for your patronage as you leave the shop and step onto the pathway. Just like when you came in, the sky is painted brilliant shades of purple, blue, and pink. Jellyfish shaped clouds are scattered about as the smoky pink moon shines its light. 

Pulling your hood up, you begin your walk down the wooden, bridge-like pathways that are suspended above the ground. The alien city is practically split in two levels, the ground floor connected by stairs which you take down and head to the ship.

You landed on this planet with your girlfriend the other day as she received a message from an old friend of hers who needed her help and while she handled her business, you were off on a mission of your own.

It’s been almost three years since you and Carol were back on Earth and you could see the toll it was taking on your girlfriend. At first she was fine, obviously missing family but she wasn’t too down as she believed she’d be back soon enough. However, as it usually plays out, she gets caught up in being a hero, saving lives and the like, and gets so far out in the universe that she loses track of time.

Still, she eventually feels the effects of the distance between her and the people she calls family. Almost a week ago, the sadness she felt over being away nearly doubled as she realized that Christmas was literally two days away.

She had missed so much time with Monica and Fury already, so many holidays, and she now was more than fond of Kamala Khan. Her wish was to be on Earth, participating in cheesy, cliche traditions with her family and instead she was millions of lightyears away.

That night, while she thought you were sleeping, she’d broken down. Her soft sobs filled the silence of the ship and broke your heart in two. 

At the time you let her have her personal moment since being locked on a ship with someone doesn’t grant much of that. While you didn’t say anything to her at the moment, you promised yourself that you’d do everything you could to make her feel even a fraction better than she did. Which is why your exploring yesterday and your shopping today was so important. 

Now, with the necessary supplies, you boarded the ship and got to work, knowing Carol would be preoccupied until much later in the day.

A good hour or so later and the ship was, in your opinion, a masterpiece.

Having used the materials you were able to find and scrounge together, you made the ship as festive as you possibly could. 

Some makeshift tinsel was hung about with multi-colored lights attached. Handmade ornaments and more lights decorate the little Christmas tree you and Carol acquired last year. Stacked beside it are a few wrapped presents. Lastly, hanging from the ceiling, are custom mistletoes, your favorite part.

Knowing Carol was likely on her way back, you dimmed the main lights in the ship, turned on the multicolored ones, and pulled on a pair of pajamas. The warm, comfy, red flannel pants complimented with one of Carol’s band shirts set the perfect vibe and you made sure to set a matching outfit on the bed for her.

With all the craziness that accompanies space travel Carol is always more than thrilled to come back to you. The ship had become her safe space but with you there it became home and she quickly realized that her home was always wherever you are.

She couldn’t describe how she felt having your arms to fall into after a long day but this, coming back to a fully decorated ship and you standing in the middle of it, mug of hot chocolate in hand with a smile on your face, multiplied that feeling.

“What is all this?” Her question follows her stepping further onto the ship, eyes drifting over every square inch in an impressed manner.

“This,” you emphasize with a few steps closer to her,“ is the beginning of a very Merry Christmas.”

Shoulders sagging and a sigh falling from her lips, she looks at you with pure adoration and love in her eyes.“ Y/n, baby, you did not have to do all this.”

“I know I didn’t have to, but I wanted to.” 

You set the mug on a nearby table, then pull her into a hug with your arms around her neck. The blonde doesn’t hesitate to reciprocate the embrace, her own arms wounding around your waist to pull you even closer. Her warm breath fanned across your neck and you could tell your gesture made her a little emotional from the way said breath stuttered ever so slightly.

After a moment you speak.“ I know how much you wish you could be on Earth and I know how much it sucks to not be surrounded by the people you love, especially this time of year, but I wanted today to be as special for you as it could be.”

“Y/n,” she practically whimpers, holding you tighter.“ I-” Her words are cut off by choked sob.

“Please don’t cry, babe.” You whisper, feeling tears of your own gathering at your waterline.“ You mean the world to me so doing this was nothing. I just- I want you happy, always.”

Slipping away just a little, her hands cup your cheeks and teary brown eyes lock with yours.“ I love you so much.” She says, a tear escaping that you’re quick to swipe away.“ You make me so happy. The fact that you did all of this just adds to the already infinite reasons why I love you.”

“Well I love you too. As long as you know that every day that we’re together, I’m happy.”

She rapidly blinks away the tears in her eyes, sniffling a little before she pulls you into an intense kiss. Gentle hands slip up into your hair to hold you close, even after it becomes a little hard to breathe.

Eventually though, you part, dorky grins on both your faces. Despite trying to fight them off, a few more tears had fallen down her cheeks.

Softly squeezing her waist you tell her,“ I do have a few gifts for you but you're only allowed to open them after you put your PJs on.” She giggles at your words, eyes rolling playfully.

Before she can respond however, the familiar tune of her ship receiving an incoming call sounds through the space.

“Oh, that’s your first gift, hurry up and go change.” You lightly pat her butt, rushing over to sit and accept the call.

“Wh- what gift do you have-”

“Go change and come find out, Danvers.” Fury’s voice sounds from the call, followed by the familiar sounds of Monica and Kamala laughing.

Carol’s jaw drops slightly, tears welling up in her eyes again as she looks at you.“ You’re so getting a ring on your finger.”

Heat rushes onto your face at the looks you receive from Nick, Monica, and Kamala and you can do nothing but grin like an idiot.

* * * * * * * *

Taglist: @owloftheshadows @blackxwidowsxwife @b-5by5 @lostandsearching @iliketozoneout @alotofpockets @storiesofsvu

[merakiui]

ALIEN SCARAMOUCHE WITH OVIPOSITION MERA ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME 😭 I need more, what would he look like, what are his motivations... Omg... Maybe some kidnapping going on...some experiments on humans...him studying how humans reproduce and if his race can use them... Aaaa my mind is going crazy with ideas, please do share yours too! <3

What if he doesn’t have a form of his own (something that sort of ties into canon Scaramouche’s obsession with wanting a heart and a purpose)? And maybe he’s more like a shadowy mass that can take the form of anything so long as he’s encountered said thing (i.e. made contact with it? Or maybe he has to kill the original in order to take its form? Or it’s something like a reflection where if you happen to look at him long enough he’ll have a good enough idea of how to replicate your form from staring and analyzing it.) and since he’s so dedicated to having a form that really fits, that truly feels like him, he’s continued to adapt and evolve as the years pass throughout every planet in the solar system.

Perhaps he does have a few features of his own, but maybe they’re sort of scattered?? Or they aren’t really features his species is known to have? He’s like a mixture of various things he’s observed over the time he’s spent on your planet in an effort to shape himself into something beyond the formless shadow he’s lived as for so long. Like a patchwork copycat composed of so many different parts because he’s desperately trying to understand all of these things. It’s like his version of trying on clothes and new fashion styles. So maybe he has horns or maybe cat ears because he’s seen so many stray cats and they’ve always fascinated him for some unexplainable reason (maybe in order to have these features he’s had to ingest part of the living thing he wants to replicate??? Just something a little extra horrifying for our beloved alien mouchey. <3) And maybe the only thing he has from the one who created him (Ei) is the same piercing stare in a pair of brilliantly colored eyes she graciously bestowed upon him.

Maybe Scaramouche can’t understand human emotion in the usual sense that other humans might, so he assigns flavors to these unusual feelings. When he hurts the things he likes or is interested in (cats, the human he stole his current appearance from (i.e. Kabukimono; let’s pretend they’re two separate individuals hehe), and even other gentle things or creatures who are completely innocent), the taste in his mouth is sour or bitter or so very intolerable. I think over time he hardens himself and learns to live with the foul flavors he often encounters when he attempts to blend in with humans and utterly fails because he can never replicate their emotions as well as he can copy behaviors or appearances. He starts his journey so curious and sweetly innocent, albeit murderous and eerie, and he tries so hard to learn and be good and explore the world with the eyes his mother gifted him and yet he always finds himself hurting. He hates it. It tastes terrible. It feels terrible, and he has never truly felt before. This is new.

When Scaramouche is captured by Dottore, a human scientist who is a little too dedicated to the pursuit of forbidden knowledge, he finally tastes the cruelty of humankind—learns of the lengths they’ll go to in the name of scientific breakthroughs. The researchers run dozens of tests on him. He can’t feel external or internal pain from wounds or injuries; he’s sturdy, birthed from a substance foreign to humans, intended to survive the harshest conditions. But Scaramouche feels pain—the emotional kind. He’s never felt fear; he’s what humans would call an apex predator. He’s strong. He’s never needed to feel fear, and so he doesn’t fear the unknown. He isn’t scared of the sharp tools, of the peculiar creatures he’s shown in hopes that he might replicate them and their features, nor does he fear the trajectory of this new life. The concept of ethical practices means nothing to him even though he’s aware he’s a lab rat, a grotesque curiosity that doctors poke and prod at. He reacts to everything in unique, defensive ways. He impaled a doctor through the throat with a strange shadowy spike. It moved as though it were liquid, yet it struck very solidly, sharply, deadly efficient. Dottore likens its movements and behaviors to that of an octopus’s tentacle; Scaramouche is unsure of this comparison. This is merely a shadow of something he has observed—a reflection. A cheap copy. He has never been original.

You’re the first human he meets who isn’t adorned in sterile white. No lab coat, no gloves, no goggles, no protective gear. Just clothes. Normal clothes. The both of you are separated by indestructible glass, placed in two very white rooms, and you can see one another so clearly. Scaramouche hates the purity of white because he knows that when he’s forced into a white backdrop he’s meant to stain it red. And lately he doesn’t want to break things that are undeserving of it. Perhaps he’s feeling too much. Perhaps he ought to tear these human feelings out and go back to the blank, shadowy slate he once was. How he intends to accomplish that, he has no idea.

He’s uninterested in you at first. You’re a human. He’s seen humans. He interacts with them daily. He’s killed plenty. But you spend nights in that white room and he watches you sleep. He tries to sleep in the same way you do; he has no need for sleep. He regulates his energy differently. He tries to breathe like you. He blinks at the same times you blink—or he comes awfully close. He tries to copy your movements and mannerisms. One night he presses himself to the glass and takes your form and watches you, counting every rise and fall of your chest as you lie so comfortably on the very uncomfortable cot. With hands that mirror yours, he pokes at these human features. He fits one hand in the other and pretends he’s holding your actual hand. There is no warmth, though. Humans are warm; Scaramouche is not. He’s frigid. His home planet is gloomy and cold and desolate. He thinks humans are lucky for cyclical days—for being in close proximity to the sun. There is no sunshine where he hails from. He likes the way the sun feels on him. It used to burn terribly when he first arrived on this planet. Now it’s like a hug—a hug that still singes, but a hug nonetheless. He’s never known what a hug is, but he thinks this is what it must feel like—like the burning warmth of a sun.

Scaramouche feels true, raw, animalistic, paralyzing fear when you’re taken out of the room after two weeks and replaced with a new human. You’re gone. Replaced. Are you dead? Did he kill you? Did he stare too long? He’s distraught, overcome with a horrifying emotion that has him curled and trembling in the corner of his white room (a cage if he’s ever known one). Why aren’t you here? And why is he so…restless? He can’t call it fear because he doesn’t know that word. But oh he’s scared. He’s so scared. You were the first human to smile at him, to put your hand on the glass where his rested, to sit close to the glass and eat meals alongside him. You were like the stray cats he’s interacted with: kind, soft, gentle, sweet. He’s so scared he loses the ability to remain in his human skin, and he practically melts into a shadow, clinging to the corner like glue or slime. He’s empty and alone. It tastes terrible. It feels terrible.

The humans that follow are terrified of him. Either that or they’re disgusted, baffled, cautious. He hates every one of them, so much so that he’s tried to break through the glass numerous times to dispose of them. Weeks pass; he’s forgetting your features. There are no mirrors here, so he must rely on the reflections shown in the glass. Some days he thinks he looks just like you; other days he’s certain he’s a monstrosity—a sloppily stitched version of you. The you he saw did not have pointed fangs or curling horns. He hates his reflection because it isn’t you. Most importantly, he hates that the humans he’s forced to look at are protected by this thick layer of glass. If it wasn’t so indestructible, he’d tear through every human nuisance until he reaches you.

Scaramouche is not sure how many months pass, but you return. And when you do the fear ebbs away. He feels…happy? Is that the right term? He’s pleased to see you, and for the first time in a while he returns to his human appearance—to the one he took from a young man many centuries ago. You’re back. You’re here. He’s so happy. He detaches himself from his corner and he tries to smile in the way you do. And, though it’s awkward and strange and sharp-toothed, you smile right back.

Dottore decides then that you are to be the next subject in this experiment. He’s observed Scaramouche’s reactions to you and compared them to reactions to the other humans and found that you are the best suited to this role. If anything, the alien couldn’t have picked a better specimen to adore. You’re helpless and so naïve. You need the money; it’s why you allowed yourself to live in that room for a few weeks. You were paid handsomely for it. He’ll pay you beyond handsomely if you agree to what’s next. And, really, when you’re in between a predator’s jaws do you really have much of a choice?

Scaramouche needs a human match, and the scientists need to study more than just the social biology of an alien. They promise you he won’t hurt you, and if he does it’s all right. They’re kind enough to respect the wishes of the dead. You must let Dottore know if you’d prefer a burial or a cremation. There’s nothing special in this distinction; it’s just a precautionary measure. You’ll agree to participate in this experiment whether or not you want to.

Your new home is the white room that faces Scaramouche, and after some more time and observations to ensure you won’t be killed the moment you step foot in his space the glass barrier will be lifted. Dottore wonders how Scaramouche’s kind mates and reproduces.

There’s only one way to find out.

[tswwwit]

I had a dumb idea based on this ask, and then I wrote it!

Short Reincarnation thing where Bill gets his stupid body killed before meeting Dipper, and years later DIpper stumbles across him anyway.

When Dipper sees the faint golden glow in the distance, he staggers up to his feet.

Finally, after endless gray and black and white. After aimless wandering, with nobody to see or hear, nobody to call - 

There’s a light.

Dipper walks towards the light slowly. Cautiously. Then faster. Soon he’s running, eager to see what’s in front of him for the first time in the last probably-four-hours.

Who cares what’s ahead of him? It’s different from everything else around; it has color.

Maybe it’s a way out of here.

He never should have gone to Gravity Falls. Not even with his semi-new confidence with his still-new magic, hoping he would find answers, not even to look for The Thing. Leaving Seattle to explore the infamously magical, dangerous, and nearly impenetrable woods here has to be the dumbest idea he’s ever had.

The glow in the clearing stays steady as he approaches, a steady unflickering light. A beacon. 

Dipper stumbles into the patch of grass between the trees. Nearly trips, before he stands still, chest heaving.

What is it? He doesn’t see anything around. There’s a fallen log, and plants, an old shove leaning against a nearby tree, and. 

There. 

The bright gold light is coming from the ground. 

Dipper takes a few, slow steps closer. Arching his neck, leaning into see what might be emitting that light, in the patch of soft bare ground underneath the grass. There’s - 

A triangle. 

Dipper frowns at it.

 Whatever happened to send him into weird gray not-time, it was obviously magic, These woods are magic, this entire thing is because of magic. Obviously this thing is magic, too. 

That can’t be great. 

But while Dipper doesn’t know what this thing is, it’s the only thing around that’s not monochrome besides himself. That has to be a sign. Good or bad, he’s not sure.

He crouches down nearby. Not getting too close, yet. 

Yeah. Definitely super magical. This close, it’s a bright light even in Dipper’s magical senses, and he’s pretty shit at those even for an amateur. 

The object’s made of… gold? Maybe. At least it looks metallic now that he’s close enough to get an idea of the texture. Larger than Dipper thought at first glance, but small enough to theoretically pick up if he dared. And for some reason there’s a miniature top hat rolled off to the side, which is like. What. 

Also, it’s chained to the ground. 

A very thick yellow metal chain - gold again? Maybe - that’s linked to one of the corners. It’s long enough to meander around the clearing and pile in a neat coil near the fallen log, then back to the center before abruptly delving into the soil.

Hesitantly, Dipper edges a little closer. Nothing happens. 

He waves a hand, and gives it a vague magical poke. Looking for movement, or like, big flashy stuff, or a reaction.

Nothing.

Okay. Big magic inside, but not reactive. Possibly inert. Dipper’s filing that under ‘good’ in terms of signs, but he’s ready to revise at a moment’s notice. 

Since the triangle isn’t doing anything, it’s up to Dipper to take action. Fumbling at his side, he keeps his eye on the shape. Just in case it - he doesn’t know, explodes or catches fire or something. 

Dipper finds what he’s searching for, and grips it tight. Nodding, once.

When in doubt, poke it with a stick.

He pokes it. 

In a flash, the shape leaps from the ground, opens one huge, slit-pupiled eye and gets right in his face with a huge noise that Dipper will later remember is ‘BLARG’. 

Despite himself, Dipper screams. The thing screams back at him, thin black arms flailing wildly, inches away. Dipper screams even louder, making a failed leap backward to hit the ground on his butt.

“AHHHH - HA! Ah ha ha ha ha!” The yelling devolves into wild, delighted laughter. The triangle crosses an arm over its front as it cackles, smacking a hand against one of its legs. “Whoo! Oh man! You shoulda seen the look on your face!”

Dipper stares. His heart is pounding, he’s trying to catch his breath. He lets go of his shirt, patting vaguely on the ground for the stick. 

“You were all like ‘Aaaugh’!’” The triangle flails dramatically again, then starts laughing harder. It  wipes under its eye. It looks, as much as any shape can, both totally thrilled and completely unrepentant. “Totally worth it.”

“You asshole.” Dipper sits up, trying to calm down. Unfortunately he truly has lost track of the stick, because he wants to throw something at this jerk.

“Ah, c’mon! You made that way too easy.” The triangle shrugs, lifting up two hands. It flaps a hand in Dipper’s direction. “Some guy all alone in the woods? No backup? No idea what he’s doing?” Its lower eyelid turns up. “You’re a tempting little opportunity, kid!”

Dipper says nothing. He simply glares, and flips it off.

And okay, that is a point, if you look at the situation in a totally twisted way. Dipper is kind of stranded and ignorant and - 

Wait, shit, he is.all of those things, and if this kind of thing is around, then what else is. 

Dipper pushes himself to his feet, and glances around quickly - but, no. Besides the jerk in front of him, nothing’s changed. Nobody and nothing around. Still very… still.

There’s a tap on his shoulder and he jumps - 

But it’s the jerk. Again. One noodly arm extending unnaturally, just to bother Dipper with a poke or two.

“Easy, sapling, there’s nobody here but us.” It says, tugging Dipper closer with one hand, and flapping the other in a semi-reassuring way.. “You can tone down the jumpiness for the moment! Believe it or not, I ain’t got any plans to hurt ya.”

Dipper shrugs, still examining the woods. It’s as silent and unmoving as always, so. Maybe they are alone here. One point in that thing’s favor. 

For lack of anything to say, Dipper flips it off for a second time.  It starts laughing again, clasping its surface.

Weirdly enough, Dipper kind of does believe it. That it doesn’t want to hurt him. Hell knows It had the jump on him, he had no defenses and didn’t expect anything to defend against. And it used that to be annoying, instead of harmful.

He looks it over anyway, still skeptical. It waves back, looking oddly cheerful and glowing slightly brighter.

Alright. No creature Dipper knows about fits this description. There’s magic, sure, but he doesn’t have enough experience to get a gist of it there. All he can tell is that it feels a lot more powerful than it looks, and that makes him vaguely uneasy.

Since he can’t get a read on it, and doesn’t know what to do with it - 

Fuck it. Dipper just asks. “What are you?”

“Usually it’s ‘who’, not ‘what’, kid.  Way to make a guy feel appreciated.” It - he - chides, sounding annoyed. One  of this creature’s arms goes down in a curve to grab the hat on the ground, setting it on his top point. “But since you insist, I’m the local demon in these parts.”

Demon. Great. 

And an even greater sign for where Dipper somehow ended up, if this is the type of creature he’s running into.

Where the hell is he, anyway? How the hell did he get here. What does he do with this thing? And most importantly -  

How quickly can he get the fuck out. 

“What, chupacabra got your tongue? Introductions are in order!” The demon shoves his other arm at Dipper, palm up. Like he’s offering a handshake. “Name’s Bill.”

Dipper nearly shakes its hand - the first stupid move - and nearly speaks his own name, then stops. Glaring at this creature with suspicion. 

Which is when the rest of the information hits home like an arrow. 

Dipper drops his arms, holding them stiff at his sides. “Wait. Bill, like. Bill Cipher?”  He shrinks back in alarm. 

“Wow. Really?” ‘Bill’ says, looking grumpy now. “Now that’s rich. I don’t go around assuming every human named ‘John’ is the same guy, now do I?” He floats away a bit, slightly turned to the side. Eyeing Dipper with clear disapproval. “Real classy of ya, kid.”

“Okay, okay, sorry.” Dipper grimaces. He pats the air a bit, awkward. Bill turns slightly back towards him. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

He guesses that was a bit dumb, anyway. Bill Cipher has a totally different MO. 

That guy’s powerful demon who can wander around reality. Arson and murder and mayhem are his favorite hobbies. He travels around wearing a handsome human form, adding chaos to the life of whichever mortal he’s picked that time around, with terrible delight.

Not exactly the same level as this Bill, who’s stuck in the middle of nowhere, pulling prank-level jumpscares. 

If a demon like Cipher could be chained up in some weird gray pocket dimension, one of his mortals would have done it ages ago.

“Hey, no biggie!” Bill brightens up, facing Dipper again. He must not have taken the assumption too harshly; he almost looks pleased. “Not a bad guy to be compared to, all things considered.”

Dipper can’t help but make a mental note. Kind of interesting, that Cipher’s well known even outside of reality. That being compared to him is flattering, too, he didn’t expect that. Aren’t there books about this sort of thing? Dipper kind of wishes he’d studied more about demons, even though he never thought he’d need to - 

But this isn’t the time to get sidetracked. No matter how interesting it is.

“Uh, I’m Dipper.” He gives Bill a little wave, instead of taking the again-offered hand to shake. He knows better. Bill drops his hand, thwarted for the moment. “It’s. Interesting to see you.”

Which is true. In that Dipper, finally, has met another… ‘person’ in the place he’s ended up, and that means…

Time to get information.

“Where am I?”

“First time visiting, huh?” Bill floats over, the chain making a strange tinkling sound as it drags behind him. He slings an arm over Dipper’s shoulder in a companionable way, and Dipper tenses. “Lemme introduce you!

“Welcome to the liminal space between dreams and waking! The infinite realm of thought! The Nightmare Realm - or Mindscape, if ya like.” Bill waves over the woods in a broad gesture - then sighs, letting his arm drop. “Though since we’re in the extra liminal bit near your place, it’s not nearly as fun.”

That… makes precisely zero sense. Dipper waits, but Bill’s started glaring at their surroundings instead. Hardly helpful.

Dipper tries to squirm out from under his arm, but it’s oddly difficult to shake off. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It means we’re stuck in the outskirts, kid. The blendy-in part! Specifically the bit where it’s real solid, cause it’s closest to your usual digs.” Bill flaps a hand over the monochrome scenery, looking annoyed at the scene. “The reality-adjacent burnt edge of pie crust, instead of the golden-brown, juicy, gory middle. Not the best part by miles..”

One bit of information, then. Dipper’s not quite in a different realm, or outside of reality. No, that would be too simple. 

Instead, he’s wound up in the spot where reality bleeds into another dimension. Where things aren’t one place or another, not one thing or another, and there’s probably a lot of magical theory that has a ton to explain all of it, except he hasn’t finished reading those books.

In theory, Dipper would take his time, and try to figure it out. Piece together the bits he’s learned. Maybe even ask Bill for input, since he seems to know about all of this stuff - 

In practice, he keeps running over the words Bill used earlier. 

‘We’re,’ Bill said. Including himself in the previous term, even though he’s an actual, literal demon.

And, ‘Stuck’. Bill said.

“So….” Dipper lets the word trail for a while, palms sweating. He rubs them on his jeans, trying for a smile. “Is there a way out of these… edges?”

“Unless you’re an advanced expert in interdimensional dynamics? Probably not!” Bill shrugs, sounding cheerful despite the horrible news he imparts, or maybe because of it. “Hope you enjoy silence and stillness, Pine Tree.” He pats his surface, eye shut with pride. “But if ya don’t, you’re welcome to hang with yours truly!”

Two horrible options. Dipper stares at Bill for a long moment, not sure what to say. 

He’s not an expert, not at all. He has magic, a lot, apparently, but he barely knows what he’s doing with it, doesn’t know how he has it, and mostly it just makes stuff explode. He can barely light a candle without consequences, much less escape the borderlands of a realm of freakin’ thought.

“Oh,” He says instead. All the air seems like it’s come out of his lungs. “Have a seat, kid.” Bill darts over towards the log, gesturing Dipper closer. He pats the wood invitingly. “After all, misery loves company!”

Feeling numb, Dipper walks over. He turns around, and sits down. 

After a moment, he rests his face in his hands. 

“So! I already know you’re not from around Gravity Falls,” Bill says, floating a few inches over the log and right next to Dipper. Patting thigh, which would almost be reassuring except for everything, ever, and the way he gives it a weird squeeze. “I woulda seen it!”

“Yeah.” Dipper glances over, briefly. Then looks forward again.. 

“Boy, you’re turning out to be a great conversationalist! How lucky for me.” Bill says, very dry. He throws his arms in the air. “Figures. You’d have to be brain-damaged to wander these woods for no reason.”

“I had a reason,” Dipper protests. One he didn’t understand, sure. But he had one.

“Oh yeah? What?”

“I just - I had to.” Dipper folds his arms, looking away. Somehow it makes even less sense when he says it out loud.

Bill shrugs, and says nothing. For a while, actually. Dipper does the same, mouth shut.

Maybe Bill’s planning something, or maybe he’s hoping to hear about Dipper’s vulnerabilities - but Dipper wasn’t born yesterday. He might not have had magic until a  few years ago, but he’s still not an idiot.  He’s not blabbing about his life to a demon of all creatures - 

For about five seconds. 

He can’t help it. The silence feels so deeply wrong that he has to break it. “I don’t know. I just felt-” 

Like he was being drawn here. Like there was an invisible thread, tugging gently at him until he couldn’t ignore it. Whispering, in quiet words, that he might find what he wanted.

A subtle, but effective temptation. Dipper did the stupid thing. He came here on that idiotic whim, and now look what’s happened. 

Maybe he should have known better. But.

For the longest time, Dipper has felt like something’s missing. Nothing he could ever really explain, or make sense of. When he lets himself think about it, which is rarely, it’s The Thing; a feeling so vague he can’t even put a name to it. 

All he knows is that something’s gone and it sucks. Like a piece is missing in his own personal puzzle, maybe dropped off the table or skimmed across the floor, and now he can’t find the stupid thing for the life of him. Doubly infuriating because it was the one last piece he needed, right before it went and fucked off.

When he got his magic, that helped with The Thing, a little. When he started actively looking for The Thing, that helped, too. 

But he still doesn’t know what it is, much less where it is, and he might never find the answer.

Not that he’s telling Bill any of that.  

“I had an impulse, and a stupid idea.” Dipper shrugs. “You know how it is.” Hopefully he does. If not, Bill will find out how annoying getting no explanation is.

“Bet you have a lot of those.” Bill says, amused. He stalks over the log, prodding Dipper in the side. “Probably famous for it!”

“Shut up.” Now Dipper flicks Bill on the side, annoyed. He’s not the only one included in that terrible adjective.  “What about you? What brought you here?”

“None of your beeswax.” Bill sets his fists on his edges, looking proud. “I’m doing exactly what I wanna be doing.”

Dipper casts a long, deliberate glance over the chain, and raises an eyebrow. Bill glares at him.

“Yeah, yeah, things could be a little more lively, whatever.” Another dismissive wave. Bill hops from the log onto Dipper’s leg, and drops down with a surprisingly heavy feel. He shrugs. “But hey, you’re gonna be with me for the foreseeable future! I can work with that.”

So Bill is trapped. He’s come as close to admitting it as Dipper’s likely to get. 

On an impulse, he pats Bill on his weird, metal back. If it’s a back; Dipper’s guessing because it’s the surface that doesn’t have his eye on it. Bill makes a pleased sound, so it must not be too weird.

“I’m guessing your whole deal is, what, mystery hunting? You don’t seem the monster hunter type.” Bill prods his arm, squeezing his bicep with a narrowed eye. “Or hey! Maybe you were just dumb enough to poke around for no reason!” Oh for - Dipper just said he had one. Bill knows that, he’s just being a dick. “I’m not dumb.” He sits up a little straighter, jabbing a thumb at his chest. Lifting his chin in defiance. “At least I’ve never been chained up.”

“Ah, a real vanilla guy.” Bill rubs under his eye thoughtfully. Dipper feels his face warm with embarrassment, waving his hands. That’s not what he meant - and Bill brightens up.. “Guess ‘adventurous’ only goes so far, huh?”

Dipper splutters, not sure how to respond. Bill waggles his upper eyelid, nudging him in the side - and Dipper can’t not respond to this asshole.

Unfortunately, Bill’s ready with a retort for every protest. Dipper can’t let that lie, so he has to accuse him of his own stupidity back, and forth, and back again.

They actually keep at it, for… longer than Dipper expected. More easily than expected.

He kind of thought that being trapped here, trying to keep up conversation with Bill, would trail off into awkward silence more often than not. Dipper’s never been great with small talk, he has to plan, like, half of his conversations in his head before they happen. 

Turns out it’s hard to feel awkward when you really want to make the other guy shut up first.

Bill’s still a jerk, sure. Dipper's known that from moment one. He starts arguments without a purpose, delighting himself with stupid puns, and it turns out he finds it hard to resist a double entendre. That’s a weak point; Dipper can use it. He has to think on his feet to keep up with him, there’s no time to get mired down. 

It’s all pointless, stupid bickering. Bill prodding at him, Dipper responding and prodding back. Bill’s pretty cagey; Dipper doesn’t get much from him.

Bill, though. Gets a lot. Probably more than he wanted, because Dipper finds once he starts talking about some things, he has a lot more to say about them than he thought.

He’s not sure why he’s doing it. Or how he started. He knows Bill hasn’t used magic on him, he can feel that much, it’s just….

Bill keeps asking pointed questions, so he’s asking for it. Dipper hasn’t been able to talk about some of this before, and Bill’s a literally captive audience. Possibly because Bill couldn’t tell anyone else Dipper knows, and partly… because he’s a terrible listener, which kind of helps. Like it doesn’t matter what Dipper says, because Bill won’t care enough to use it against him.

“Not to mention going through magical puberty, like a decade too late.” Dipper finishes, after going over a long, long list of complaints. About his shitty life. About how much things suck. He waves over the air for emphasis. Bill, sitting on his thigh, leans back so his hat isn’t knocked off. “Do you know what that’s like?”

“Likely hilarious! But so what?” Bill sits back up, kicking his legs idly. Which also means he’s lightly kicking Dipper’s other leg. “What’s wrong with more power?”

Dipper opens his mouth to argue. Then stops. 

It makes sense that a demon wouldn’t get it, due to, well. Being a demon. They’re all power hungry. To Bill, this could only seem like a good thing. He wouldn’t understand how-

“More power means solving some problems, alright.” Dipper changes tactics, rubbing at his eyes. There’s a headache coming on, he can feel it. “But now I have different problems. Bigger ones.”

“Aha! Inexperience.” Bill brightens up a bit more, waving off the rest of Dipper’s concerns. “Easy, kid, that’s all temporary. Once you get used to blasting things to pieces, you’d be amazed how many problems are flammable!”

Dipper feels his mouth draw into a thin line. He doesn’t know what he expected. 

He drops back onto the log, resting his chin in his hand. Bill pats his lower back, and starts rambling on about optimal targeting techniques, but Dipper’s not paying attention.

Different experiences, and different problems. He’s in a different place, which has totally eclipsed the Thing problem. Bill’s here too, but he doesn’t seem like the major issue.

The big one, right now, is going home, and how the hell Dipper’s going to do that.

“There has to be a way out of here.”. He’s not going to give up. Not now.

“Well,” Bill draws out the word, slow and with a detectable hint of smugness. “There might be one way to get your butt back to reality.”

Dipper tenses up. 

Right. He should have seen this coming, because Bill’s a demon. He hadn’t forgotten that fact, but he’d put it out of the front of his mind. 

“I see where this is going.” Dipper folds his arms, and gives Bill an unimpressed look. “Let me guess. You’re an expert in interdimensional dynamics.” 

“Never said I wasn’t!” Bill’s lower eyelid is raised in amusement. “To tell the truth, sapling, I’m one of the best in the biz.” He throws in a wink, even with one eye. “You really lucked out meeting me.”

Another thing Dipper should have expected. Bill might be stuck, but he never said the why, only implied it. The chain should have been a clue. A demon would know how to handle dimensions, too, since they can be summoned and dismissed. And trapped.

Demons are also notorious for another thing. Dipper’s not looking forward to it.

Escape isn’t going to come without a cost.

“What do you want,” He says, flat. 

“Make a deal with me!” Bill floats up and in front of Dipper, arms spread invitingly. “I’ll show you how to get out of here in seconds, no problem.”

“What’s the cost.” Dipper remains stern. Glaring, now. Bill hasn’t gotten to it yet, but there’s going to be a catch. 

“Yeesh, way to rush things.” Bill wags a finger, almost chiding. “A jaunt back home can’t be all you want! Think about what you’d really want out of life. ‘Cause I’ve got more magic to work with than you could comprehend!”

Bill waves his arm, and this time - 

Okay. Dipper has to admit it’s impressive.

Wherever Bill gestures, a small scene plays out, like a movie. Bright and colorful, standing out against the bland background. 

“You could ask for fame!” A brief shot of Dipper, being lauded by a crowd. Bill snaps his fingers. “For riches!” Piles of gold tumble around fake-Dipper’s feet, burying him to the ankles -  another snap. “Or hell, even True Love!” 

And a shadowy figure sneaks up on fake-Dipper, then seizes him by the waist, lifting him up. Fake-Dipper looks surprised, then annoyed. He struggles, kicking out helplessly, right before he’s dragged off into nothingness.

Dipper stares at the lingering void left until the ‘screen’ vanishes. Then, incredulously, at Bill.

Bill pops up in front of him again, fists set on his sides with pride. “Name it, kid, and it’s on offer. I could get you all that crap that humans like and more!” 

“I’ll pass.” Dipper flips Bill off, much to his amusement. 

“What, too intimidating?” Bill leans in, nudging Dipper with an elbow-adjacent bend of his arm. “Be reasonable, Pine Tree. You’re gonna make a deal anyway. Why not get something cool while you’re at it?”

Okay, fair point. If Dipper’s risking his soul, he might as well get something else while he’s at it. 

But it’s also dangerous. Bill’s going to cheat, and lie, and according to what he showed Dipper has a totally different view of what’s actually appealing to humans. Making this deal too complicated could only end poorly. 

Everything he’s offering probably comes with a catch, anyway. Fame would probably be for, like, accidentally exploding a building, money from a murder or whatever. Bill’s idea of ‘love’ is just. Yeah, Dipper’s going to pass. And even if there weren’t a huge pitfall waiting for him - Bill certainly couldn’t give Dipper what he’s really looking for, especially when even Dipper’s not sure what it is.  

For a moment, then, Dipper lingers on the image of his shitty apartment. How cold it’s going to be when fall turns into winter, and how his car is starting to make unnerving sounds when -

He shakes his head to clear it.

“Just get me out of here.”

Bill groans, clearly disappointed. “Yeah yeah, stubbornness. But ya gotta sweeten the deal for me, too.” He rubs his fingers together, eye narrowed. “Make it worth my while.”

Of freaking course there’s a minimum buy-in. Dipper groans, rubbing at his eyes. If he has to add onto this - 

“Alright, fine.” He throws his hands in the air.. “Like, enough gas money to get home.” That shouldn’t cost too much. Hopefully.

Bill remains undeterred. He narrows his eye, skeptical. “That’s it? I get skipping over the ‘fame’ one, alright, that can be a pain. When everyone knows who you are, they get all up in your business! But you’re not gonna ask for any affection?” He blinks for a moment, spreading his hands and somewhat incredulous himself. “‘Cause I got-”

“Some really bad ideas.” Dipper says. Bill looks miffed, crossing his arms over his golden front. “Are we doing this deal or not?”

“Hmph. You got no idea what you’re missing out on.” Bill sniffs, which is weird because he doesn’t have a nose -  “Fine, we’ll do it your way. Spoilsport.”

Dipper straightens up, feeling a sudden burst of pride. Bill’s bothered, which means Dipper avoided a trap. He’s in a little less danger. 

“Now, about getting you back to reality. That’s some tricky business there, but I got ideas.” Bill taps under his eye, thoughtful. He stares off into space, pupil changing shape and size, flickering for a moment before it snaps back to ‘normal’. “You’re gonna need a life spell.”

“What?”

Dipper’s experience is pretty limited, in that he’s only had magic for a few years, but he’s not stupid. To change back dimensions, and get home, life magic doesn’t fit. All it deals with is flesh and blood and a bit with spirit, but that can’t apply here. He thinks..

“What do you mean, what? Who’s the expert here, anyway?” Brightening up, Bill swings an arm around DIpper’s shoulder again, half-guiding and half-dragging him into the middle of the clearing. “You got the magic for it, you got the talent for it. You lack the education for it, but I can walk you through the basics, and we can cram everything into the same spell! One and done, easy.”

“That’s… convenient.” And concerning. Dipper stares at the bare earth under his feet, shifting under Bill’s arm. “So how do I-”

“Ahem.” Bill clears his nonexistent throat, tapping a fist against his surface. He gives Dipper a meaningful look, though what it’s trying to convey is impossible to parse.

Dipper glares at him. Another catch, probably. “What now.”

“You called it earlier, kid! Before we start rifling through the guts of it,” Bill drifts closer, until his eye is right up near Dipper’s face. He pokes him on the cheek with amusement. “We gotta discuss my price.”

Right. There was always going to be one, wasn’t there. 

Dealing with a demon. The stupidest thing possible. 

“How much?” Dipper asks, voice flat. Adding, before Bill can speak up - “I don’t really have much, uh. To me.”

It won’t be cash. Even inexperienced, Dipper knows that much. Whatever Bill asks for, Dipper’s soul’s not going to be on the table; he’d rather be trapped than do that. Maybe Bill will request a demonic thing, but Dipper doesn’t have any connections to other magical beings, any cool relics, or any secret knowledge. 

He really hopes this isn’t going to be painful, or traumatic. Or anything physical, for that matter. Dying in the process of escaping kind of defeats the point.

“Hm. Lemme think.” Bill hums for a moment, eye narrowed. “One spell, complete with escape from the realm you accidentally stumbled your ignorant ass into, and one dose of obscene wealth-” Dipper clears his throat, loud. “Alright, minor wealth, loser. That should run ya…”

Dipper stuffs his hands in his pockets, waiting with growing unease. Bill’s rubbing under his eye in thought, like he’s trying to see how much he can gouge Dipper for. Hopefully it’s not flesh. 

Then Bill stops, and holds up a finger. “One kiss. Seems fair to me!”

Dipper stares at this… thing for a moment. “What.”

Bill glows brighter, seemingly pleased with himself. “Pretty great deal, am I right?” 

“Very funny.” Dipper gives him a derisive look. “What do you actually want?”

“A kiss, kid. With tongue.” Bill says, very seriously. He shuts his eye and wags a finger in the air.. “We’re talking a real tonsil-tickler here, none of that chaste peck crap.”

“With who?” Dipper has a dreadful suspicion. Which isn’t helped by the way Bill gleefully points two thumbs at himself. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious, sapling.” Bill spreads his arms wide, lower eyelid rises in a simulacrum of a smile. “One frenching for one freedom. You couldn’t find a better bargain even if you did have options!”

The worst part is that’s probably right. What Bill’s asking for sounds like it’s the cheapest thing on offer. Most demons would put the price point so much higher - flesh, souls, family, mass slaughter - that it wouldn’t be worth considering. 

Dipper can’t believe he’s considering this.

“And it’s not going to like, burn my mouth with acid, or suck out all my organs, or-”

“Boy, are you paranoid. Typical,” Bill says, sounding exasperated. He rolls his eye in its socket, around and around, before settling back on Dipper. “You can’t kiss back if you pass away, kid! I want active participation, and you’re only up for some lip action right now.”

Dipper remains skeptical. He leans back a bit, making a face.

But the request’s bizarre enough to feel honest, and technically it’s better than the other things Dipper was imagining. All in all, a quick kiss actually does seem like a bargain.

Which means Dipper shouldn’t trust it one bit.

Thinking about it, Bill’s been stuck here, for who knows how long, without access to much. No hanging out with other demons, no manipulating humans. Lacking anyone to talk to, or -  have other mouth actions with, or anything. He’s not operating on standard demon motivations. Likely this has a different angle. Something else he can use to exploit.

Why would Bill want this?

Dipper looks him up and down slowly, lips drawn tight. Trying to figure him out.

Bill clearly takes his attention as interest, because he straightens his hat, and adjusts his tie with obvious pride. He wipes at his surface, hums a little tune, and there’s a squeaking sound as he rubs a wrist against his side. Like he’s polishing it.

Or…. maybe  it’s a bargain because Bill actually wants to make out. The primping can’t be anything but alarmingly sincere.

“Okay.” Dipper gives in, and lets his shoulders drop. Being trapped has obviously tanked Bill’s standards - or his uses for pounds of flesh. Either way, it’s worked out in his favor.  “Let’s do this.”

“Glad to hear it!” Bill floats closer, cupping Dipper’s face in his weird hands. They're oddly soft for a guy who’s mostly made of metal. “Now pucker up, buttercup, and we’ll seal the deal.”

“Don’t call me that,” Dipper says. Bill squishes his cheeks a few times, until Dipper smacks his front.

“Eh, I got other nicknames to use,” Bill says, and draws Dipper in.

Dipper shuts his eyes. He doesn’t want to see this. Whatever’s about to touch his face, it’s probably terrifying. 

For a moment he’s tempted to call it off, but then Bill will protest and maybe cut the deal off, leaving him right back at square one and with less bargaining power. Too late to back out.

Sterning himself, Dipper lets it happen.

There’s… a mouth? Against his mouth. Something, anyway, and it’s not soft but not sharp or stinging, and for the moment his face isn’t melting off. Dipper can work with that. 

There’s a tug on his shirt, and Bill makes an insistent ‘mmh!’. Right, he has to participate. Damn it. 

Kissing Bill back isn’t hard, if he pretends he’s not holding onto the edges of a demonic shape. And forgets the fact that he’s buying his freedom with a makeout session. When a few seconds pass and Dipper hasn’t exploded or turned into a monster, he even manages to relax. 

Yeah. He can get through this. It’s not too bad. Honestly, Bill’s handling this pretty well, all things considered. It’s not slimy or sloppy, or particularly rough.Their teeth haven’t clicked together once, if Bill even has any -  and he doesn’t smell bad. Or like anything, really. 

So, surprisingly, it’s not the worst kiss Dipper’s ever had. Bill, apparently, has some experience in this area. That raises so many questions.

Something wet flickers against his lips, and very reluctantly, Dipper lets them part. This could be - 

 Huh. Bill tastes like…. basil? Of all the things Dipper was expecting, that wasn’t even on the list. And while he’s made of metal and sharp corners, he’s warm, too, and his hand cupping the back of Dipper’s neck runs up and down in a way that’s almost. Nice. Tonsils remain uninvolved, too. If Bill’s forgotten that part, then Dipper’s not going to bring it up.

He’s not sure how long they spend like that, because - well, after a while it’s kind of interesting? That Bill can do this at all. That needs investigating. If Dipper needs to take a weird route to study it, well, that’s acceptable losses. He can deal.

Until there’s a slow slide up his thigh, and a hand squeezes Dipper’s butt.

Dipper shoves this jerk away, grimacing. That wasn’t part of the deal. “Hey! Hands off.”

“What hands? They’re right here!” Bill blinks innocently, and offers them up for Dipper’s inspection.

Now that’s just bullshit. DIpper reaches behind himself, seizes the offending limb, and shoves it right at Bill’s surface. “What about this?”

“Oh wow, what a surprise!” While Bill’s third arm gives Dipper a jaunty wave, he shrugs with the other two. A fourth one pops out and smacks against his edge in mock surprise.  “Where’d that come from?”

Yep. Still, absolutely, one hundred percent asshole. He doesn’t know what he expected.

Dipper flips him off. Again. He wishes he knew more obscene gestures, because this one just makes Bill laugh. 

“I’ll call that a deal fulfilled, sapling. Very nice, by the way! You really went for it!” Bill’s glowing bright, unperturbed. Glossing over the fact that he’s been caught being a pervert. “Even I can’t claim you didn’t pay up.”

Dipper wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and shrugs. “Just show me the spell.”

“Aw, but it was a fun time, am I right?” Bill tickles Dipper under the chin, lower eyelid raised. He gives Dipper double finger guns, beaming.. ”Next one’s on the house.” 

Dipper rubs at his eyes. Honestly. It’s a good reminder. 

If it weren’t for Bill’s sheer dickishness, he might have said something nearly positive, and that would have been a huge mistake. 

A deal, done. A payment, made. 

Now, to actually get Dipper’s portion. 

Though it takes some arguing. Or rather, a lot of arguing, and a relative armload of innuendoes, only half of which make sense - Dipper, eventually, steers Bill back onto the right track. 

Turns out the trick is questioning whether or not he can actually do it. Questioning Bill’s competence, or knowledge, lights a fire under his nonexistent ass. 

Pride, Dipper notes, is a weak point for Bill. Though he’s not likely to ever need it again, it’s still nice to know.

Bill’s also surprisingly okay to work with. Kind of like the kiss, Dipper expected it to be painful, but Bill actually, amazingly, knows what he’s doing. Albeit without making Dipper have questions he’s not sure he wants the answers to. 

Bill projects an outline of the circle that needs to be drawn, Dipper can easily trace it. His knowledge truly is deep, too; Bill has an encyclopedic knowledge of sigils and runes, and only minorly goes on tangents about destructive and chaotic energy. 

And, though it sucks to admit - he was right again. 

The spell Dipper needs to cast truly is simple. At least on Dipper’s end. All he needs to do is power the thing, and channel it with some theory that Bill described in gory yet helpful terms. 

But the spell *is* life magic. Magic’s not enough; it needs a little more, as Bill put it, ‘oomph’ to get it going.

Dipper flicks the pocketknife open, ready to draw it across his palm. He steadies himself with a deep breath.

Blood is connected to it, magically. A few drops is all it should take. Then it’s over. He’ll be done here.

He’ll get to go home.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Bill grabs Dipper’s wrist before he makes the cut. “Piss poor placing, kid. You want the back of the arm or a leg or something.” He wags a chiding finger. “More blood, and more convenient if you wanna grab anything later.”

Dipper honestly hadn’t thought of that. In movies and stuff, everyone goes for - but. Yeah. 

Yet again, Bill’s been oddly helpful. 

In fact, this entire time he’s been oddly, annoyingly helpful. When Dipper was stuck. When he wanted to complain, and the deal really could have been worse. Maybe it’s only because Bill’s been bored, and he doesn’t have anyone else to mess with. Or because he kind of thinks Dipper’s… worth kissing. 

In any case. It’s the sort of thing he should probably mention.

“Uh. Thanks.” Dipper says, feeling awkward. “You’ve been kind of cool. For a demon.”

“Ha! Now that’s rare!” Bill drifts upwards, fists on his edges. He looks supremely amused. “Glad you spoke up, sapling.” Somehow, he winks with only one eye. “I won’t ever let you forget it.”

Back to ominous, then. Dipper’s going to try and ignore it

“Okay, well. See you… hopefully never again.” He states, and draws the knife over the back of his arm. Just a nick, but enough to draw a few drops.

As Bill starts laughing, Dipper shuts his eyes for a second time, kneeling on the ground, and muttering the chant. He’s already memorized it, no need to listen to Bill anymore. 

Goodbye, demon, goodbye, awful grey realm - 

He draws on the magic, that deep and infinite pool inside him, and pushes.

There’s a strange, clinking sound. A rush of magic out of him,more than he’s used before, it almost leaves him dizzy, and the spell itself clicks into place, complete.

That’s it. He’s done. He’s - 

Dipper looks up.

Everything’s still monochrome, so. That’s not good. 

He gets to his feet slowly, checking - but no, no change. Still stuck, in this impossible liminal realm. 

With a start, he realizes that nothing’s glowing in the clearing, either.

Dipper looks around, suddenly alert, but he doesn’t hear anything. Not a laugh, or a mocking comment. No matter how he looks, there’s no chain. No gold. No freaking Bill around, completely vanished from sight - 

“That son of a bitch.” Dipper clenches his fists at his sides. 

Goddamn it, he should have realized. That entire thing was incredibly, recklessly stupid. It was a trick, Bill’s been freed - and Dipper’s still trapped. 

But you know what? Fuck Bill. Dipper doesn’t need him. 

He’s smart. He got here to begin with, and he didn’t need some asshole to help him with that; he can get out as well. He’s going to figure this out, learn a hell a lot more about demons, get really great at magic, and - and all sorts of other things, too, all out of sheer spite. He’s going to get out of here-

As he clenches his fists, jaw tightening, color washes over the scene.

Dipper blinks again. Then waves his arms, suddenly confused.

That was fast. Almost as fast as thought. 

There’s a breeze on his skin, the smell of the forest in the air. The sky is less dark, though it’s nearly sunset. Dipper spends a long tense minute, watching the sun relative to the horizon, tension tight in his chest. Feeling a huge shudder of relief, as it does, in fact, move. Time’s moving. Time’s normal, and the world is normal, and real.

The spell did work. On a delay that Bill never mentioned.

Dipper taps his foot on the loose earth beneath him, folding his arms.

Great. Now he can’t be mad at Bill. He was as good as his word. 

All in all, Dipper could have made a worse deal, if he doesn’t think too hard about Bill and what he might be up to. The trade, such as it was, did end up fair. 

A freedom for a freedom. That’s about as fair as a demon can be, and all for the low, low cost of. Some lip action.

For some reason, Dipper’s still really annoyed. 

If he knew Bill was going to get out too, well. A heads up would have been nice. Not to mention that Bill just went and fucked off somewhere without so much as a ‘see ya’, or a ‘goodbye’, or - 

But it’s good, really. That they won’t meet again. Better for both of them.

Because If they did, Dipper would have to tell him he’s a jerk, and a bastard. Bill seems like he needs that reminder every once in a while. Or every few days. Or hours. 

So again, good that he’s gone; Dipper’d probably lose his voice if he had to be around him too long. Good riddance.

Dipper stands in the clearing for a while, watching the light fade as evening sets in. Alone in the forest again. Safe in reality. 

After a while, it’s starting to get chilly; he wraps an arm over himself, squeezing the opposite bicep. .

It’s been a very long day. 

He takes a deep breath, and slowly lets it out.

Then the soft earth shifts under his feet, and something grabs his ankle. 

For the second time in a day, Dipper screams. 

A sudden yank makes Dipper lose his balance, but he catches himself before he hits the ground, braced on his elbows. He swears, pulling his leg away on impulse, kicking at the tight grasp on his leg -

And stares in horror as a dirty yet well-manicured hand pulls him closer, impossibly strong. Dragging him down into the earth it burst out from. A few more urgent kicks gets the thing off him, and Dipper scrambles back.

The hand pats around for him, searching, then pushes against the ground. Bringing out an arm, then a chest, a full head that shakes off the dirt. An eye rolls around in one socket, while the other is missing or covered with dirt, and it wears a wide, rictus grin. With very sharp, very white teeth. 

Dipper struggles to his knees. Sweat is breaking out on his forehead, as whole human man - thing pulls itself out of a shallow grave right in front of him. There’s no time to react; it’s up on its feet before he can gain his own. Too steady, and way too fast for the living dead.

Shit. Life magic, of course.

So It wasn’t a trick after all. It was a trap. 

Dipper not only set BIll free but raised, like, a zombie, or something, to take care of the rest. It’s going to finish him off and leave no evidence but a bloody smear on the grass. He tries to leap back but it's already got him by the shirt in a tight grip, dragging him in.

Okay, no time. Last resort. DIpper hates to do this, but. He tenses up, holding his arms out and reaching for his magic. Pulling on it, hard. 

The fire rages, it lights up the whole clearing as it spreads. Dipper can feel it engulf himself, spread around the clearing, and engulf his assailant - 

To absolutely zero effect. Not even a sizzle, what the hell. 

Dipper spends a moment to be indignant as the creature lifts him up, and up, until his feet don’t even touch the ground. What the hell. He’s always been able to explode stuff, and the one time he actually wanted to, it doesn’t work?

“Trying to heat things up, huh? Nice try, sapling, but it won’t work.” Says the man holding him, sounding delightedly amused. “As a guy once said - I’m extremely cool!”

Dipper snaps his gaze downwards, towards that voice. “That’s not what I-”

He stops. Stares. 

Then glares.

A golden eye winks back at him. Some of the dirt has dried from the fire; now it flakes off in patches, revealing an eyepatch instead of an empty socket, and a suit instead of the yellow of lividity. Dipper’s idly tempted to insult his fashion, before he remembers he still can’t touch the freakin’ ground.

While the other shape didn’t have a literal smile, if you plastered it on a human face it would be a one-to-one match.

“You’re kidding me.” Dipper says. Somehow he’s not surprised.

He gets an eyebrow wiggle, and a brighter smile. The man lifts him up like a carnival prize; his suit really is tacky, Dipper should tell him that. And that his voice is so annoying, and he has a very handsome, very awful face. 

Bill cackles. Clearly thrilled.

“Really? Dipper says. Then, feeling tired. “Oh, come on, Bill. That was a dick move.” He lets his arms drop to his sides.

So obvious, when you think about it. So clear, when you know what’s up. 

There were so many chances to spot it, and Dipper was so dumb.

Bill Cipher, dream demon. Infamous for a lot of things, power and insanity and all of that - but mostly for wandering reality, tied to a mortal. While wearing a human shape. Obviously he has another form, being a demon and all, but it’s not like there are many depictions. Bill Cipher doesn’t stride around Earth without wearing his skin suit.

Well. Guess who just went and made him one. 

Dipper should be more upset. He should be furious. But mostly?

He’s thinking about how he’ll get Bill back for this. 

“What’s with the long face?” Bill Cipher asks, looking absurdly pleased with himself. A huge grin as he bounces Dipper in his grip, sharp teeth bared. “Everything went according to plan!”

“I’m an idiot,” Dipper states, before kicking Bill once. It doesn’t work, but it was mostly a gesture, anyway. “And you’re an asshole.”

“Sure am! But you’re my idiot now, sapling.” Bill says, cheerful as anything. He swings Dipper around, then over his shoulder like he weighs nothing. Throwing in a pat on the back, presumably for insult. “Good to see ya again!”