#feeling oddly unhappy right now

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[drrden]

‘Nostalgia’ Leon Kennedy x Gender Neutral!Reader

Leon's your husband in this one. It's fluff!

Leon's a patient man. A very patient man. But when the high-end restaurant bails out on your reservation for your tenth wedding anniversary? He's not exactly happy. For what seems to be the hundredth time, he asks the waiter about it. Once again, not wanting to lash out at some teenager trying to earn an extra few bucks by waiting tables, "Can I speak to your manager? Please?" When the waiter shakes his head and keeps his lips firmly shut in a straight line, Leon sighs and turns around - looking at you helplessly. "Sweetheart. I'm not going crazy, am I? Restaurants haven't just suddenly started giving away reserved tables for some sort of special event, right?" Running his fingers through his hair, a shaky sigh escapes his lips and he grumbles to himself about it being unfair to you mainly, rather than him. He even got a suit tailored especially for today, and it just so happens to be pouring outside! So, by the time the two of you get to his Ford Mustang (which, he surprisingly hasn't crashed yet) you'd he absolutely drenched. Therefore unable to go to some other fancy place unless you were willing to get a few weird stares.

With the uncomfortable silence from the server, Leon offers a tight smile and gives up eventually. "Never mind. I get it, this isn't your fault." Nodding, he intertwines his fingers with yours and hesitates before exiting the restaurant, rushing over to one of the parasols outside as to prevent getting you wet - as much as possible, at least. Seeing the look of frustration on his face, you place your free hand on his chest. "Leon, it's fine. I'm not disappointed or anything." Only to be met with his blue eyes boring into yours, looking unhappy. "But I'm disappointed, I want to spend our wedding anniversary together properly." Your attention drifts to a certain golden glow, like a beacon of hope from above. No. You have so much to live for, surely you can't die now-. Ah. Never mind, it's just the golden arches of McDonald's. It takes you back to your first date with him all that time ago, the fresher-faced young man having been so nervous in just proposing the idea of going out to eat somewhere. Anywhere, as long as it was with you.

You'd looked so effortlessly amazing all the time to him, and it made him feel intimidated. Not that you could be at fault, of course. Just his heart and the way he seemed to be drawn to you like a moth to a flame, like the waves of the ocean to the sand on the beach. It was a sudden question, "Go out with me?", that he was just as least expecting of as you were. Like his mouth worked before his mind and he blurted out something that was oddly bold. For him, at least. In some positive turn of luck, you'd accepted without hesitation, whether it being out of pity or not was something only you knew at the time. Or maybe it was those indefinitely soft baby blue eyes of his in which seemed to never fail in reflecting his deepest thoughts and feelings. How desperate he was to spend some time with you outside of your friend group. Having grown a little fed up of the teasing from your mutual friends about his supposed unrequited feelings for you. The memory's a fond one. Even though the date was simple and attended on a whim, it resulted in a lifetime relationship full of love and mutual respect. Turns out, if you're with the right person, then McDonald's can be romantic. A place for feelings and relationships to bloom.

Before you can stop yourself, you're pulling him along excitedly to the fast food restaurant. Footsteps quickened as to not ruin your clothes, unwilling to waste a good expensive new outfit all because of an unfortunate turn of events at that place. The restaurant was pretentious, anyways. Dorsia, or whatever it's called. "Uhh, honey? Where are we going?" Despite having asked so many questions already, it seems Leon's intent on asking a few more - hellbent on not wanting to seem like a failure of a husband in your eyes. He still gets those moments of insecurity. Then, his eyes follow your line of vision and the reflection of the McDonald's sign reflects within his eyes. Those eyes of his that have changed so much. But if you look, just close enough, there's moments where they seem to go back in time. To the bright, youthful young man with a lust for life, an eagerness for chasing whatever dreams he has. The semblance of this almost forgotten version of himself can only be recognised when he looks at you. That same doting expression of adoration, totally and utterly filled to the brim with devotion and love.

"Cute." He muses, letting go of your hand and rushing forward, holding the door open for you with a charming grin. Watching you go past him, he follows suit, taking out his card. The least thing he could do for you is pay, right? After all, tonight was supposed to be a treat for you and a display of his unwavering love for you. So, looks like he'll be spoiling you with fast food tonight, as opposed to some overly expensive foreign dish that couldn't even feed a house and keep it happy. Ushering you to sit down, he knows what you like to order at any food place at this point, Leon heads to the counter and places an order. Crossing his arms over his chest, causing his dark blue blazer to strain against the muscle in his upper back. Whilst he does look out of place here, one thing that he never fails to look anywhere is damn gorgeous. Never has the mere sight of him not caused you to go all sappy inside and reminisce on your past whilst fantasizing about your future together. Holding the tray of various food items, he approaches the table and places it gently upon the table. How chivalrous. "Bone apple tea." A wink following the corny pun. Acting like any waiter in a posh dining hall, he bows. And then steals the opportunity from being near your face and brushes his lips against yours in a quick peck. You laugh softly once he crosses over the table and sits opposite you, raising an eyebrow in amusement. "What a gracious waiter. Maybe I'd ought to tip you." Taking your food from your tray, you're met with Leon's hand stopping you, placing his fingers atop yours. As if about to say something potentially life-shaping. Only it's, "I've got a few ideas on how you can tip me, sweetheart."

[bruciemilf]

Now I’m thinking of Alpha Martha scooping in like “is anybody going to love and cherish that omega” and not waiting for an answer. She uses every Wayne gala to flaunt her Omega and later, pup in Carmine’s face. The only reason she hasn’t killed him yet is that seeing his rage and sad plans to get Thomas back is amusing and if it ever comes down to that Thomas deserves the honors.

Gosh, I’m starting to fall in love with that concept. Just imagine stern browed, lethally beautiful Captain Martha Kane, infamously known for her service in the military.

She reeks of bloodied snow, and sweet pomegranate with a note of petrichor. Of gunpowder, grainy and dark and rich, and of something so alluringly nameless Thomas can’t shake off.

The rumors about her hawk like gaze aren’t just rainwater.

Her look is made of storms and winter and Thomas shivers when he sees her for the first time, walking aimlessly around Gotham’s museum. His mother’s museum.

Carmine’s now, legally.

She stops just besides him, — she’s tiny, for an alpha, and he’s big for an omega, and for a moment, Thomas feels vindicated. So they had anomalies, too. Good. They earned it.

“Beautiful.”

She’s referring to the exhibit they’re admiring together. She has to be. Thomas stays quiet.

“What’s your opinion about it? I’ve visited her hundreds of times and I just can’t understand it. Not correctly, I think.”

He scoffs, but otherwise, the silence continues to expand.

Of course no Alpha understands The Good Omega.

Right above them, exposed almost proudly, imprisoned behind a thin layer of glass with rose gold framing, with delicate ivory marbled in, The Good Omega displays an omega women kneeling by her alpha.

It’s not intricate, or complex in composition. It translates well, and it’s just detailed enough.

Her mouth is sewn shut.

It’s a blood painting.

“She used to be an artist, I believe, “ Martha continues, with just the barest twitch of discomfort in her face, but she doesn’t allow her attention to shift. “I thought maybe you’d have a better perspective about it.”

“I’m not allowed to speak to you. As you well know.”

She pauses for a bit. “I apologize. You have no collar on. Your alpha didn’t pick one yet?”

He hums. “He can collar me when I’m in the ground.”

Oddly enough, that answer satisfies her. Pomegranate blossoms on his tongue.

“It’s freedom,” he continues, not really caring about customs. He already defies them daily. “It means freedom.”

Martha listens, but she huffs, half confused, half incredulous. “That doesn’t look like freedom to me. “

“That’s because you’re used to it,” He grits, turning his own gaze on her. He’s been told he smells horrible when he’s angry. He hopes this tiny, beautiful alpha chokes on it.

“Suffering is the only freedom omegas have. It forces you to look, to awknolege. There’s no exits The freedom of existing, that’s all we got.” He scoffs, not even noticing she’s clingy to every little sound.

“ Enjoy it while you can. Its going in the junkyard next week.”

“The junkyard?” She echoes, almost offended by the idea, but the casual insult. “Who’d throw away something like this, omega? It’s too valuable. “

Omega.

Thomas wants to purr and he rages, almost.

His smile is nasty, and full of teeth, and he’s grown to love how alphas cringe at the sight of it. Not this one, thought. This little beast stares at it like it’s living art.

“The same people you fight for. Thank you for your service, alpha.”

Thomas turns, not bothering to bow, excuse himself, or make a respectful exit. One good thing about being a rich omega is that he follows no rules his alpha doesn’t specify.

Nowhere did Carmine say he wasn’t allowed to ditch gorgeous alphas.

—

“You’re back rather early, Madame,” Alfred greets her with a kiss on one of her brow, soft as anything, his like tea, blueberry and dark chocolate scent hugging her deeply.

He takes a whiff of her, frowns, both in intrigue and concern. “…Why do you smell like unhappy omega?”

“Alfred,” She says, “I want to retire. Would you be a darling and contact my lawyer?”

“Oh, thank heavens. Anything else?”

Martha’s gaze bleeds blue, her thighs buzzing with the sneer of Thomas’ anger still, “Can you ask him if I can legally kidnap a taken omega?”

[taintandviolent]

So, I saw that you write Gambit, and I fell in LOVE with your style and portrayal. I also saw your smut list? Could I maybe request Gambit with a female S/O? I can't decide between 100, 117, 127, 144. So uh.... You pick? I'm honestly a sucker for first times/possessive/protective/ would burn the world down to protect troupes. If it's too much though, feel free to ignore me. I don't mean to bother you about my hyper fixation crush xD

warnings: smut (female receiving), fingering, remy being selfless and concerned with your pleasure only, uhhhhh I think that's it. I'm sorry my smut drabbles have been kinda mild lately, I haven't got the braincell during the work week lmao.

The sound of the world outside your window fades away as he touches you. Your back arches against the mattress, pushing your chest up into the air and as it does, Remy’s hands trail over your ample cleavage, admiring it as his fingertips ghost over the flesh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. 

Every ragged breath has your tits bouncing, jiggling underneath his touch, and Remy gobbles up the visual like it’s dinner. Everything he does seems to elicit lewd reactions from your body, actually – not that you’re complaining. At all. In fact, you’re just about blissed out with the way he’s touching you. A shiver erupts down your spine, shaking your entire body. He smiles a half-smile as he watches your reactions.

He has you whining at the attentive way his hands move over your body, tracing every inch of it like he’s trying to remember it in case he never gets to touch it again. One hand traces the curve of your stomach, while the other is slotted between your legs, fingering you masterfully. You swallow, laboriously lifting your head to look down at his hands. He’s been going at you for God knows how long, you’ve lost track. You can feel the outline of his erection on your leg, yet he oddly hasn’t insisted upon anything. 

“You feel so good… but…”  He looks at you with concern in his eyes, as if he’s suddenly realized that you’re unhappy. Remy’s fingers slow their pace, ready for whatever comes next. He’d do anything to please you, even if that meant stopping. 

“B-But what about you?” you continue, worried.

Relieved, he chuckles low, and slides his finger down to your entrance, ready to resume. “We can worry about Remy later. It’s alla’ ‘bout you right now.”

His selfless response floors you… or maybe it’s the way that his middle finger breaches your dripping slit, and crooks up inside to find your G-spot with ease, while the wide pad of thumb continues swiping at your clit. Maybe it’s both. You’re going with both. 

You’re used to being pleasured. You’ve felt all this before – well, not this, specifically, because no man has ever pleasured you the way that Remy Lebeau is pleasuring you currently. From the way his finger encircles your clit, applying just enough pressure to drive you crazy, but not enough to make you orgasm yet to the way that he leans down every so often, kissing along your collarbone.

“Remy,” you plead. “I want you to feel good, too…” 

“Oh, don’t you worry ‘bout ‘dat, chere… I feel just fine right now.”

Serving as punctuation, Remy thrusts his hips into the meat of your thigh, bumping his swollen, aching cock against your leg. You can feel the heat of it through your pants, and long to touch it, to stroke it, to taste it… but he has you whipped underneath his grasp, he’s in control and you’re certainly not about to test his strength.

[carisisrolledupsleeves]

8. I can’t sleep without you here and 10. do you need a place to stay tonight? with sonny x reader maybe he and Amanda aren’t working out

thank you sm for the request! hope you enjoy :)

You’re about to fall asleep when your phone vibrates on silent. For a moment you contemplate whether to pick up or not but seeing Sonny’s name on the display, you decide to take it. He usually texts, unless it’s really important.

‘Sonny?’ you answer.

‘Hey…sorry, I know it’s late. I just-...umm…’ he sounds like he regrets the phone call already.

‘What’s up?’ you sit up in your bed.

‘Can I come over?’ he asks anxiously.

‘Now? Sonny, just tell me what’s going on.’ 

‘I sorta just packed up my shit and left.’ he finally admits after a few seconds of silence.

It doesn’t surprise you to hear that. For weeks now Sonny had seemed unhappy, on edge, had confessed that he had doubts about starting this relationship in the first place. Being a supportive friend, you had listened and offered advice, even though deep down you couldn’t help but feel hopeful. Of course you wanted him to be happy but you also weren’t able to ignore the pull you felt toward him any longer. You tried not to let it show, had locked all these thoughts away inside a box which you had buried deep down, too afraid to ruin your friendship, too scared of unrequited feelings. 

‘Do you need a place to stay tonight?’ as soon as the words leave your mouth you wish you could take them back. Why the fuck would you invite him over? 

‘Yeah, hmm. I know it’s weird but I’m already here. Started walking and well, for some reason I ended up outside your door.’ Sonny says, sounding very much embarrassed and nervous. 

And you swear your heart skips a beat. You jump up, and more or less run down the corridor to buzz him in.

An hour and a few drinks later you hand him fresh sheets and pillows for the couch, his makeshift bed for the night. Sonny seems oddly cheery, almost as if a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. You had talked for a while and shared half a bottle of whiskey, just enough for you both to loosen up and say some things you probably wouldn’t have said in a sober state. 

‘I knew it was a bad idea. I was just tired of being alone, y’know?’ Sonny had admitted.

‘Well, better to be alone than miserable, right? I’m sure you’ll find the right person eventually.’ you had replied and he had looked at you in a way that almost made you feel as if he knew. 

Now you’re in your bed, unable to fall asleep. The fact that he’s just outside your bedroom door, wrapped up in your sheets, the fact that he had come to you for comfort, it all keeps you awake. All these thoughts are back, swimming through your head, and this feeling deep within you, as if someone had punched you in the gut. As soon as you close your eyes, these scenarios take over. You don’t even remember when it had started but for months now you had imagined him and you, together. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol that makes you brave. Maybe it’s the things he said. Maybe it doesn’t matter. And when you open your bedroom door, you find him looking at you as if he anticipated you coming back.

‘I can’t sleep without you here.’ you confess with a lump in your throat. Here it is, the box unearthed, and opened. 

Sonny gets up from the couch and walks over to you until he’s so close you can feel the heat of his body. You look up at him, and the way he looks at you makes you more confident. Inhaling his scent, you lean closer. 

‘Will you come to bed with me?’ you ask and he nods without hesitation, softly taking your hand. 

And the kiss he places on your cheek is even softer. Sonny’s lips linger there for a moment before they travel up to your temple, your forehead, down the bridge of your nose, the corner of your mouth, and then, finally, your lips. The tenderness of it all makes your entire body shake, and you reach out to touch his chest, feeling his fast heartbeat beneath your hands. You grab at his shirt, willing him to take it off and he does, breaking the kiss just for a split second before you pull him against you again. Everything feels like a fever dream as his tongue slips into your mouth, his desperate need for you utterly palpable. Suddenly it’s all obvious. All those moments you had shared in the past, people thinking you were involved, even his now ex-girlfriend always looking at you with a hint of jealousy. 

‘I’ve wanted you for such a long time.’ Sonny breathes as you guide him toward the bed, pushing him down on it. 

You give him a knowing smile, covering his body with yours and he runs his hands up the side of your thighs, under your oversized shirt, making you shudder as he pulls your hips down onto his. Your wetness begins to soak through your panties as you feel Sonny’s arousal against you, and he moans, realizing just how mutual the feeling is. 

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ you want to know and Sonny blushes.

‘I always thought you were too good for me.’ he replies and you can’t believe what he’s saying.

‘Too good for you? Sonny, you are perfect. So perfect.’ you run your hands over his body, kissing him again deeply as he sighs at your words. 

It’s a slow burn. Even though the urgency is apparent, you relish each other’s touches, kisses; exploring and discovering every inch of newly exposed skin. His neck is his favorite place to be kissed, you find out, and your mouth would have lingered there for an eternity if he hadn’t flipped you over, his hands beginning a journey over your body that soon has you panting his name. You can’t help but arch your back as he slips into your panties, fingers finding your clit and he presses down into your damp folds. 

‘I love how wet you are for me.’ Sonny mumbles, leaning his forehead against yours, eyes staring into yours as he begins to circle your most sensitive spot.

‘I thought about this so many times.’ you moan, meeting his lips again for a heated kiss. Fuck, his touch feels amazing. 

Even better than in your wildest fantasies, and in your head you’ve had him in every way possible. You thought about things you had never thought about before. And while your pleasure starts to build, you can’t believe this is really happening. Finally. 

‘How was it? In your thoughts? Tell me every little detail.’ he whispers as he gets rid of his underwear before pulling off yours. 

So you tell him. And he follows your lead step-by-step. It’s incredibly thrilling to watch and feel him fulfill your fantasies, making it an even better reality. You’re close to your first orgasm when he kneels between your thighs, pulling you up, open and ready for him. When Sonny is finally pushing inside you, the sensation is almost too much, a whimper leaving your mouth as he holds your waist with one hand, the other one still busy with your clit. Your eyes roll back, your thoughts in disarray as you feel him hard and throbbing so deep within you. 

‘Fuck.’ he groans, looking down at you as your legs wrap around him. ‘You are so damn gorgeous.’ 

You do feel gorgeous with him. No shyness, no self-consciousness. Even though you’ve never been this exposed, in every sense of the word, you don’t feel vulnerable, on the contrary. Sonny pulls back, just to plunge into you again, slowly but deliberately, with just the right amount of force. 

‘Yes, just like that.’ you cry out, one hand reaching for his arm for hold, the other one gripping the sheets in absolute bliss. 

He feels wonderful, his cock plunging into you, stretching you, hitting your gspot at the most perfect angle. Sonny increases his pressure on your swollen clit, his thumb circling faster, expertly bringing you closer and closer to the edge. Just watching him burying himself into your pussy is enough to send you over but you hold back, digging your heels into his back to get him even deeper. He moans your name, and you can feel his thighs tense under you with each thrust.

‘You’re so hot, baby. Shit! It feels so good to finally be inside you.’ Sonny leans down to kiss you before sitting back again, pulling your hips toward him to pick up the pace a bit more.  

You love it, being handled by him, being fucked by him. And you’ve always wanted to see him come undone like this, to lose control. 

‘Fuck me harder.’ you beg, voice shaky, and Sonny obliges, withdrawing his fingers from your clit to grab your waist with both hands and tilting your pelvis for even better access before bucking his hips against you harder and faster.

Holy shit! You don’t know if you’re able to hold back for much longer, having him pound into you like this, the ache between your thighs almost unbearable. You want this to last but you want to come, want him to come. And you know he’s right there with you as you hear his breath hitch, and he pauses for a moment, his cock swallowed by your tight, wet warmth. 

‘Sonny!’ you sound more frantic than you had anticipated, being so close to bursting, your walls already fluttering around him.

‘I love you.’ he gasps, eyes lost in yours. 

‘I love you, too.’ you reply, reaching out to touch him. 

He smiles, still not moving, and you are getting desperate now, grinding your hips against him. Sonny gets the hint, his fingers back on your pulsing clit, starting to pump into your glistening cunt again. His movements are erratic now, and he’s close to his own orgasm, as you whimper, your velvety walls squeezing him. You come hard, almost choking on your own breath, and as your body convulses you feel him jerk, flooding your hole with his release. 

‘F-fuckkk, Sonny! Yes, yes, yes!’ you cry out as you see stars, shaking around him. 

‘Jesus, fuck!’ he curses, pumping his cum into your twitching cunt, making you shudder again and again. 

Sonny lets go of your hips, collapsing on top of you, capturing your lips in an exhausted kiss, his body still trembling. You wrap your arms around him, relishing the intimacy of more skin contact. You can’t believe he is really yours. 

‘I hope that was even better than in your thoughts.’ he whispers after a while, still a little out of breath.

You smile as you continue to run your fingers through his hair, your heart pounding in your chest which you’re certain he can feel. If someone had told you the night would end with Sonny and you, not only naked in bed together but confessing your love to each other, you wouldn’t have believed it. It doesn’t feel real but at the same time it’s the realest thing you have ever experienced in your life. 

‘So much better. And there’s so much more I’ve been thinking about.’ you smirk as Sonny lifts his head to meet your gaze, biting his lip.

‘I can’t wait for you to tell me.’ 

request a prompt from the smut prompt list 🔥

[gassyandnasty]

The Jock Formula 2.1 - Living with JongHo

Sorry for the long wait, guys. Finally, the chapter I promised with the Jock you chose in the poll is here.

_________________________________________

Dohyun's POV

Being a nerd in this campus in a complete hell. We get constantly harassed by Josh and his gang, and everything got even worse when my friend George invented the "Jock Formula".

It was supposed to save us, but Andrew got everything for him and now is joining this hell of a frat. It can be sad for the rest of our friend group, but for me it's worse, as it has always been.

I'm JongHo's twin brother. Yes, that big and burly guy actually has a nerdy relative that he is quite ashamed of. We were supposed to be the same, but I was never inclined to sports, and those gross eating competitions, so while he kept growing, I stayed the same.

My place isn't in this frat at all, but our strict parents didn't want us living apart on college so Jongho only moved to the frat with the condition that I went together. And I've been unhappy since.

They treat me like a maid. I have to wake up earlier to cook breakfast for them, clean ALL of their mess. And it's a hell of a mess. Apart from the dirty and cruel pranks that they pull on me constantly. On top of all that, I have to endure my big and brainless brother everyday, since we share the same room.

They are having a hazing ceremony today, I won't even go downstairs to say anything to that traitor, but I can hear the loudest burps and farts ever, and all kinds of noise those meatheads produce. Happily, those ceremonies take a lot, so I'm having crumbs of peace this night.

I put my headphones on and put some ASMR to muffle the outside noise. I feel I can sleep like an angel without him here, so when I close my eyes, I loose no time in getting asleep.

Unconsciously, the peaceful time is feeling oddly long, when It's interrupted by a loud thud in the door, followed by it's opening:

"Think I missed the handle again haha damn, tonight was fun."

It was Jongho. Peace ended. He can't even come in the room quietly in the middle of the night. I heard him opening the fridge and grab a bottle of something.

"Ugh, so thirsty..." loud gulps followed by heavy steps. "You there?" I can FEEL his massive frame over me, maybe if I keep pretending that I'm asleep, he leaves me alone.

"Wake up, princess." He says, poking my face with his heavy finger, but I won't budge. I hear his stomach rumbling as he states "Gosh, I'm so full... I know what will wake you up."

With that, I fell his heavy weight smothering my head. I know this feeling too well, his huge and sweaty cheeks mold all around my face, while he adjusts himself to get his crack right above my nose. Im cooked.

"Shouldn't have eaten that many hot-dogs... HNNNGG" I feel him straining and forcing out a a fart.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

It slapped like a punch on my face, as it stink intoxicated my senses, while the explosive noise overpowered my ears. It was long, loud and deep, not losing power once, while it rumbled all over my face.

*COUGH* MMPHMMPPBMM *COUGH*

I tried to scream and got muffled by his massive ass. And the taste of his fart invading my mouth after was demonic. He started to rub his butt on my face as I felt him laughing above me.

"Hahaha that can waken the dead, right?" He dumbly stated, almost killing me. I managed to push him over my face, making him land on my chest. Suffocating me all the same.

"What do you want, you JERK?" I ask with the remaining force I have, while he grins and sniffs his own fart.

"Damn, that was a monster, happy that wasn't on my face haha" he thumped on his full belly. "Ate so much this night, only your friend Drew could beat me, you know? He is part of the group now, loser."

"Don't mention that TRAITOR near me. I don't want to hear about Andrew, may he gags on his own gas." I curse him. It boils my blood to know that a guy I called friend is now joining my biggest enemies.

"I don't know about Drew, but you're gagging on this..." Jongho scooted a little to the side, bending his ass towards me, and forced out another fart:

FRFRFRFRFRFRFRFRFRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRFTFTFRFTFTTTTTTTT

I gagged.

"Hahahaha, I can't wait for the new pranks we are going to pull on you, loser. Now, I gotta sleep" Jongho got up and I finally felt the relief of his weight leaving my chest. But I didn't see him going to the bathroom to change or shower. He is stinking of beer and hot sauce.

"Aren't you missing something? Are you gonna sleep reeking like this?" I ask, trying to save work for me tomorrow, if he changes, I don't have to wash the sheets.

He looks at me with an uncomfortable face, aa he brings his head to his stomach, I hear it rumbling when he answers: "Yeah... I think I'm missing something..." he gives his belly a strong push and bend his face over mine, opening his mouth wide, letting it all rip:

gOOOOoooOOOOOOOOOOOOooooOOODDDDDD-NNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEUUUUUUUUUUURRRPPPPPPPPPPP

As he answers me with an ungodly belch, that covers my face with saliva, bits of food and a sickly smell of soda and sausage. He grins as he jumps on his bed and I turn light headed, passing out.

_________________________________________

I wake up feeling sick in the day after. Gosh, I hate them so much. Our room is still stinking, and I'm tired just to think of how much cleaning work I have to do as they messed everything up on that hazing.

I turn to my side and Jongho's bed is empty. Bad sign. He NEVER wakes up early, that can only mean that I'm... late.

I fear for my life.

I get ready fast and go downstairs, maybe I can make up for the time lost, and the first thing I see when I arrive at the kitchen the scene I see is terrifying.

Empty plates all over, with Jongho, Josh, Sal and Andrew sat at the table, looking at me.

"Forgot about breakfast today?" Josh asks, not giving me a good morning even.

"I-I..." I was about to say, when Sal added: "So we had to do it for ourselves..."

Gosh I'm so screwed...

"But no worries, you didn't cook us breakfast, but we will give yours. Sit" Jongho said. I wanted to run but there was no escape. The only place left was between my brother and Andrew, they already wanted to tease me.

As I sat, Andrew said: "Morning, loser." Putting his arm around me, his pits were already stinking.

"I have a name and you know that, Andrew. How could you?" My blood boiled.

"I have a name and it is Drew now. I can address you by how I want though, whimp." The boys laughed at his response and I gritted my teeth.

I was hungry cause I didnt have dinner yesterday. The hazing kept everything busy so I only had some snacks, my stomach rumbled, making them laugh.

"Hahaha, he is hungry guys, why don't we give him his meal already?" Josh commands.

"I will begin with the appetizer" "Drew" says. Gosh I hate to even think calling him that.

"Open your mouth." He says.

"No way! I'm not doing that!" As I thought of getting up, Josh held me, and Drew pinched my cheeks, forcing my mouth open.

"Now we get it haha eat that!" He starts to swallow air and get close, very close. As my open mouth is in line with his, he rips a nasty belch in it, making me taste what he had for breakfast

BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRPPPPP!! *phwooooshhh*

He even blows afterwards, making me teary eyed.

They all high five and laugh, as I see Sal getting in front of me next.

"Now for the entreé, baked beans with a pinch of..." Sal turned around and bent over, displaying his huge bubbly ass on my face. I felt his hand grabbing the back of my head, making me land with my open mouth right in front of his crack. "...my stink... HNNGG"

PBPBPBPBPPBPBPBPBPBPBPBPBPBPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTFTFTFTTFTTTTFTFTFTFTTTTTT

And it stunk to high heavens. All of their gas is potent, but Sal's has twisted smell, making the worse. And I had to swallow.

As I gagged, the guys laughed about him making me eat his fart. I felt some movement, and now Jongho is holding me while Josh got in front of me.

"Let me see if I got your order right, you wanted a double... UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRPPP" He added with a nauseating belch on my face. As I didn't have time to process this, I saw him turning around and lifting his leg:

"With a side of... FRFRFRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTRTRRRRRRRTRTRTTTTT!!"

They couldn't contain themselves with so much laughing at his stupid joke. At least, it's finished... they got "my order".

"What a restaurant will he think this is?" I hear Jongho say behind me. "If we don't give his dessert?" That got the guys expecting something. In a swift move, he let go of the hold on me and pressed his ass on my face, pinning me against the chair.

"A full cake, as you ordered, sir" Jongho said, rubbing his colossal ass on my face. I could hear some flashes now, bet they are recording it.

I heard him grunt, and it happened:

PBPBPBPBPPBPBPBPBPBPBPBPBPBPBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBPBPBPBPBPPBPBPBPBPBPBPBPBPBPBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBFFFFTTTT!!

A powerful and huge fart rumbled my face, and went straight down my throat. I could taste the twisted flavour of his breakfast as he filled me with his gas.

"Aaaaahhh, bon appetit!" Jongho sighs in relief, high-fiving his friends. They leave the room as I'm too weak to stand up.

Uuurrpp- I burp as some of their gas come back.

I hate my life.

[rita-repulsa-ke]

scars

still on an agatha/rio kick, episode 8 give me backstory and lore or I will continue to make up my own. This one is a little bloody, very romantic and there’s kissing. Agatha tries a spell that goes wrong and learns some important things about Rio.

(feel free to comment/reblog if you like this sort of thing, it might inspire me to write more of it.)

Rio doesn’t scar (on the outside, in the flesh). Agatha learns this by unhappy accident.

“I can control it!” she says, fighting magic she clearly can’t control, jagged shards of crimson that swirl around her with increasing fury.

“I really don’t think you can,” Rio says, oddly peaceful, watching the maelstrom of violence from where she is lying on her stomach next to their campfire. She observes with interest as the storm of magic intensifies further, the edge of each shard lengthening, sharpening. She can see her own smiling reflection in them. “Sweetheart, I think it’s responding to your emotions.”

“Then stop making me angry!” Agatha snarls, fighting tooth and nail to keep her own spell from tearing her apart. She can master this, she will, she must. She did so many unpleasant things to gain control of this spellbook, to herself and others. She will not fail now, at the final hour.

“Right,” Rio says, slightly skeptical. “Any suggestions?”

Agatha voices a frustrated growl and one of the shards breaks free, slices her cheek almost to the bone, a sudden outpouring of blood that makes her cry out, as much fury as pain.

Rio is on her feet in an instant.

The spell quivers, hungry for more.

Agatha shuts her eyes, grounds herself, but she can feel her control slipping, her own fear rising, the throbbing pain in her cheek a portent of what is to come.

Then something enters the circle.

Her eyes snap open, meet Rio’s, far closer than they should be. “No!” she says, but the magic is so very hungry and she is scared and now there is another target within easy reach. It isn’t a decision, just an incremental loosening of tension, but it is enough. The system overbalances and the spell slips free, a whirlwind of crimson death slamming into Rio from all sides.

Rio staggers, pierced a hundred times over, remains upright despite the improbability, cups Agatha’s unmarred cheek and runs her tongue up the injured one, tasting her lover’s lifeblood, a heady mix of copper, magic and fear.

Then, of course, she collapses.

When she returns, from sleep, from the earth, from wherever such things take her, it is to chanting. She keeps her eyes closed for a minute, savors Agatha’s voice in her ears, the way it contains a shaky note of genuine concern. Agatha, afraid for someone other than herself.

Then she stretches, biiiiig stretch, opens her eyes to look up at Agatha, crouched above her, staring down. She’s in a circle, surrounded by herbs and flowers, including a few unlikely ones, things she might have described as ‘not from around here’, where ‘here’ was anywhere on this plane.

“Were you worried?” she asks, nonchalant, grinning.

Agatha looks down at her, eyes red, cheek caked with dried blood, she hasn’t even healed herself yet. She should get on that, it could leave a scar. “I thought—“ her voice has a rusty note, the creak of an unoiled door hinge. Rio wonders exactly how long she’s been chanting.

“Even knowing what I am?”

“I didn’t know,” Agatha answers, some of the tension slipping from her. “I didn’t know,” she repeats, rubbing a hand roughly over her eyes. “You could maybe have mentioned it.” There’s no bite to it, her relief is too palpable.

Rio sits up, slides her arms around the other woman, mouths her hair for a moment. “Surprise!” she says and Agatha manages a snort, but she’s slowly collapsing, falling apart, burying her face against Rio’s shoulder.

“I thought I’d killed you,” she whispers.

“Death can’t die,” Rio lies. There’s more nuance than that, but Agatha doesn’t need to know the ins-and-outs. A girl should have some secrets, even from the woman she loves.

Only now Agatha’s head is up again, studying Rio. There’s a worrisomely speculative look in her eyes. “Does it hurt?”

Rio shrugs. “Kind of tickles.”

Agatha catches her jaw, runs her thumb down Rio’s cheek, smooth, unscarred. “Not even a scratch.”

“Ags,” Rio says.

“Hmm?” Agatha says, her previous grief replaced by something more contemplative.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You are thinking, I could do a lot of really interesting magical experiments with someone who can’t die.”

Agatha’s eyes meet hers and her lips twitch, curl upward, a smile that could take on the world. One giggle escapes her, then another. “Okay, okay, you got me,” she says, with a small shrug. “So what if I am?”

Rio meets that smile with one of her own. Leans forward and puts her lips against the shell of Agatha’s ear. Opens her mouth and lets her true voice spill from her chest, from her throat, from the soil and the grave and the end of all things.

“Stop thinking that,” Death says.

Agatha goes rigid, hands clutching Rio’s sides. Rio pulls back, eyes sparkling, leans in to steal a kiss.

Agatha’s lips meet hers, fierce, impassioned, her fingers through Rio’s hair, dragging her closer, demanding, devouring. Her mouth makes promises against Rio’s, stakes her claim on what is rightfully hers and will not, cannot, be denied.

She’s also just a really amazing kisser.

Then she pulls away—Rio grumbles protest—and tugs Rio tight into her embrace, squeezing too hard. “Don’t,” she says.

“Don’t what?” Rio asks. She knows the answer, has known the answer for years, but it is a continuing quest of hers to get Agatha to actually say the words.

It still shocks her to her core when Agatha says them, her voice rough, emotional.

“Don’t leave me. Don’t you ever leave me.”

Rio is frozen in place and time as Agatha unwinds from her embrace, checks the look on her face and then begins to chortle. She leans in and pecks Rio on the lips. “Got you,” she singsongs, then stands, touches her own cheek and flinches as dried blood flakes away. “Ugh, I’d better heal this before it leaves a scar.”

Rio stays unmoving, watches her bustle around, chop herbs, make a poultice, always brimming with so much life and magic and avarice.

“Oh! I think I know what went wrong with the spell,” Agatha calls out to her

Rio falls backwards, looks up at the sky. It’s night and she can see the stars through the tops of the trees. “The spell that almost killed you?”

“That’s the one. I want to try again tomorrow.”

“You do remember that you can die, right?”

“But I won’t,” Agatha says, coming to sit next to her, her hand reaching for Rio’s. “Besides, why should I be afraid of Death?”

Rio can’t decide if that’s cute or arrogant, and which one she’d prefer. She rubs her fingers over Agatha’s palm, against the back of her hand, feels the skin move and all the interconnected bits beneath, blood and bone, tendons and muscle, the meat of a person, so easily disrupted. Contemplates the kind of pain that does more than tickle, the kind of wound that might yet leave a scar.

“I won’t,” she says. “I won’t leave.”

“You know you still say that like a threat, right?”

“No, I know you pretend to take it like that so we don’t have to discuss your issues around commitment.” It’s an old argument, comfortable in its familiarity.

Agatha doesn’t answer, her way of giving in. Instead, she shakes out her hair, lays next to Rio and looks up at the stars. “…Boring,” she says, less than thirty seconds later.

Rio rolls on top of her, looks down. “Better?”

“It’s a better view, but there is a rock under my ass and a beetle crawling up my arm, so the romance of the moment is kinda lost on me.”

Rio contemplates that. “Say romance again.”

“What? Why? No,” Agatha says, refusing seemingly on principle.

“You killed me. You owe me. Say it again.”

Agatha rolls her eyes, but obliges. “Rooomance. Ro. Mance. Happy now?”

“Ags.” She lays her head on Agatha’s chest.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t try the spell again.”

There is a long silence beneath her. “Is that prophesy or concern?”

Rio shrugs. “A bad feeling.”

Agatha groans under her. “I can master it, I swear. Do you know what I did to—“ she falls silent, because of course Rio knows. She was instrumental in most of it, one way or another. “Come oooon, give me something other than premonition.”

Rio shakes her head.

Agatha’s fingers slide through her hair. Her voice takes on a different cadence, sweet as honey, gentle, adoring. “Please? Come on. Do it for me?”

Rio gazes down at her, unimpressed, and Agatha drops her hand, she knows when her tricks won’t work. “Do not ask me.” Agatha opens her mouth to protest. Death speaks first. “Agatha Harkness, do not ask me to foretell the manner of your death.”

Lesser witches would recoil. Agatha only purses her lips in consideration. “I do kind of want to know, though. Honestly, I can’t believe you haven’t already. I would have, if I had to worry about it.” She touches Rio again, this time with real tenderness, fingers over cheek, through hair. “Glad I don’t, though.”

Sometimes, Rio is aware of how close Agatha is to being a fatal wound.

“I don’t want to know,” she says. She slips in another kiss, pretends disappointment when it doesn’t get her anything back. “Takes all the fun out of it.”

She comes to her feet, strolls into camp. Agatha levers herself up, makes rabbit and mushroom stew and they retire to a well-warded tent and in the morning, Agatha casually says, “Let’s get back to civilization, then.”

Her cheek has healed in the night. She doesn’t mention the spell again. At least, not for a very long time.

If you liked this, try out the wedding or the witch-hunter

[theredofoctober]

MANNA CHAPTER 2: SUPPER

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham fic, TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, mild Daddy kink (it'll all make sense).

This chapter is chronologically 2nd in the series.

Keep reading after the cut

Blood in your mouth; you've bitten your inner cheek in your sedative state, auto-cannibalism under the eye of vague attendants. Both are male, featureless, moth-men with closed wings.

You glance from one to the other, grasping foolishly at memory, not yet finding its edges.

"Dad?"

The figure on the left ejects an awkward laugh.

"Which one of us is that again?"

"A moment, Will," says the other man, and through the ether of sleep you see his face, the etching of an aesthete, that which you have seen before.

Hannibal. Dr. Lecter. An enemy in the seat of a saviour.

"Give her time to wake," he says, "and to acclimatise to her environment."

"What's going on?" you ask, rubbing your hands across your face in an effort to rouse yourself. "Where am I right now?"

"You don't remember what happened?" asks Hannibal, his absence of brows arched. "You are in my home, where you will be staying for the foreseeable future, under my care. My colleague, Will Graham, will be assisting me in looking after you. I hope that while you are unhappy with your situation, you will be cordial to him."

A tableau— Hannibal trapping you against the door, your knee bruising his male sensitivity, intimate as newlyweds in the clinch of your rash violence—slows your thoughts with its artistry.

You remain too sluggish, yet, to fear Dr. Lecter as you did in his office. Every feeling seems performed by some spirit in your place, a girl who died here before you, leaving a breath of her sorrows in the walls.

"Are you a doctor?" you ask the man named Will Graham.

He blinks at you as though perturbed by the question.

"No," he says, shortly. "I lecture in criminal profiling for the FBI. Occasionally, I step in as a special agent on crime scenes. I'm here to offer my insights on your case, I guess. Haven't decided quite what they are, yet."

You sit up, frowning.

"But I'm not a murderer."

Will smiles, the curl of his mouth quite unpleasant.

"I know. Doesn't mean I can't get inside your head, though."

He is unfriendly, and oddly furtive, his expression dancing between moral objection and a grudging interest in you. Segments of his conversation with Hannibal pluck at you delicately: he is present only under duress, any curiosity a provocation on Dr. Lecter's part.

You glimpse an avenue for escape through the younger man's sensitivity.

"So... you're a cop?" you ask, carefully.

Will coughs out a laugh.

"Not exactly. Why, worried I'll arrest you?"

"No, but you should arrest Dr. Lecter."

Hannibal delivers you an amused look.

"I have no concerns with the legalities of your treatment. Will would not incriminate himself in any act that would be to your detriment."

You worry your lower lip with your teeth, wondering how much of the truth Will Graham knows.

"So... am I in trouble?"

"Why would you be?" Will enquires, but the question is directed at Hannibal, who coolly answers.

"She assaulted me in her efforts to leave my office."

You stiffen as Will's expression clouds with a new darkness.

"Are you hurt?"

"Fortunately not. I could have been, but I was prepared for resistance. A poor start to our relationship, nonetheless. I think an apology is in order."

Threat is inevitable in that statement; you look for windows, doors, any potential exit, knowing well that you cannot move fast enough to pass your jailers without intervention.

Will says your name, the suddenness throwing you like the recoil of a gun.

"Apologise to Dr. Lecter."

"She was frightened, Will," says Hannibal, generously. "A stray animal unused to human contact, she cannot help but bite in the terror that we mean her harm."

Yet he does mean you harm, means to play with you as an orca does a seal it kills, an inversion of his own metaphor.

Will shakes himself, turning from you in reluctance to meet your gaze.

"You said she has to learn," he says, through gritted teeth. "We need to reinforce boundaries with her. So either she apologises, or we have to punish her. That's the way this works, right?"

Fear opens your lethargy with a surgeon's precision.

"Punish?" you cry. "What are you talking about?"

Ignoring your interjection, Dr. Lecter says, "You are correct, Will. For certain plants, a framework is needed for them to grow. What trellis must we build to guide our clematis to its most majestic heights?"

Will regards his friend thoughtfully.

"What's your suggestion?"

"There are two options that occur to me," says Hannibal, watching as you claw yourself against the headboard with both hands. "The first is that we begin the initial step of her recovery with a hearty meal. I was informed by her family that she has not eaten since yesterday. It is not too late for me to prepare dinner. If she will not eat, then I have the means to encourage her to do so."

Dr. Lecter turns aside, allowing you to glimpse a feeding tube posed gracefully on a tabletop. You have long feared this tool, which even previous therapists have raised as a possibility for you, should you not end this starving strike. Never had you pictured a day this horror would find its becoming.

Terror licks at you as readily as a flame.

Starting forward, you grip Will by the wrist, unhinged in your desperation.

"Don't let him do that to me."

Will looks down at your hand with displeasure, yet he doesn't attempt to remove it, enduring your touch with grimacing obligation.

"And the other option, Dr Lecter?" he asks, thinly. "It's been a long day, and I don't know if I have the energy to step in as orderly to a violent patient without preparation."

"I am sure that you would handle her proficiently," says Dr. Lecter. "But perhaps there is another method we can consider, first."

He takes Will aside and murmurs to him; the fragments you discern sound as ambiguous as the language used aloud.

The younger man takes on a cornered look.

"I... can't do that," he protests, his posture sharp with discomfort. "That could open up a whole host of new problems for her."

"Or it could impress upon her the necessity to listen to her guardians," says Hannibal. "I will join you, if it will persuade you."

"Doesn't that go against the confines of your role?"

Dr. Lecter smirks, his fine-jawed features made truly handsome.

"I will enact discipline, also. But it will not be the first tool that I apply."

The two men approach the bed together, one on either side of you, apparently united in their purpose.

"What are you doing?" you cry, although by now you've a sense of it. "Stay away from me!"

"These are the conquences of resistance, little one," says Hannibal, closing the space between you. "From now on, I suggest that you comply."

You scramble backwards only to come up against Will Graham, his arms a cuff around you.

"Don't struggle," he snaps. "I don't want to hurt you any more than I have to."

"No! No!"

Child-like, you find yourself reduced to simple denial, fear snatching the very language from you. You are all trembling fragility beneath Will as he shoves you, face down, on the bed; you turn your head back to look at him, glimpsing a flash of clenched teeth, eyes with a bear's indifferent hunger, something sickly, and soulful underneath.

You think, this man is not well, then bark out a startled scream as he forces your head frontwise, a fisherman's rough hand on your scalp, oppressing you in its unthinking violence.

"Face him," Will barks, pushing you for emphasis. "He's the one you injured."

You comply, feeling on the very cusp of death.

The man on your back manoeuvres you on all fours to his liking, the stave of his hard want crushed against his jeans. His comrade holds your arms down, though you could not move them at the devil's request; stillness is your ally, submission where a fight would cut your throat.

Hannibal looks at you with the cruel serenity of an angel, in all his justice. He touches your tear-scaled cheek with solace stolen from husbands and fathers; when he tips your face to his, you know what he will take from you, have felt the omen of that kiss.

It is intimate, gentle, kinder than any touch you've known in years. You blink, dismayed by the lust that roots itself from gut to cunt in its tangling wisteria.

"What— why?" you stutter, the feel of his lips on yours a reverberation that long remains.

"A treatment from bygone times," says Hannibal, patiently. "Although widely frowned upon, sex was once implemented to allieve many ailments. I find value in it, still."

"No," you say, aware of Will's arousal at your entrance. "I mean, why did you kiss me? Why would you do that?"

"You ache to be cherished, and so you will be. Alas, it may be many months before you see me as the friend you crave."

"You'll never be my friend," you sneer, and regret the barb as Will thrusts against you, having unbuckled his jeans to free himself to your imprisonment.

There is an arc of sore horror as his cock bolts within, making butchery of you in his taking. Will's arms are either side of you, the bars that cage such a sow; he smells of sweat, and Old Spice, and dog hair, and now of sex. You sob drily as he ruts your vulnerability against the mattress, as he sucks the skin of your neck in his teeth and bites until a ring tattoos your throat.

That mark is a staple of sexual assault, you'd read that somewhere, a sigil of the taker's power.

Limp, you let him use you, fucking you in so harsh and primal rhythm that you can think of nothing but its pattern.

What ill of yours earned this brash causality? Why, of all patients, has Hannibal taken you up as his toy?

"Stay there," Will grumbles, as you arch your back in a spasm of gilded agony. "Don't move."

"I have her," says Hannibal, and he guides you up onto your knees, his chest flat to yours as Will ruins the atrium of his desire. "Teach her what she will endure, if she will not accept our aid."

You cannot stand to be torn apart like this, a beast between your legs, and another touching your breasts and waist as though your partner in a waltz, all courtly chivalry.

"Please, Will," you moan, but he has thrown aside his reason, swept up in this gourmand's pleasure.

"Hurt me the way you hurt Dr. Lecter and you'll really wish you hadn't," he says, and you shake your head in a frantic falsehood.

"I won't. I swear I won't."

Will is fire, and you are ash: he is pain and delight, a conundrum. He puts a hand to your neck, holding your head upright as he fucks you, and growls against your ear sharp threats that sell you to silence.

Hannibal stares at you in fascination. You feel it pour over you like tar, glazing you with the shame of your illness having made you his object.

Dr. Lecter is of an evil Will is not, setting you both before him to observe your every response.

Later, he will write notes about this; the hands that glide your body now will itch for the pen, to lay out all you are on paper, and memorialise your suffering.

Does he truly think that this will help you? You don't believe it.

This night is his experiment, that which he might take apart like a pig's heart to show its working to students of science. Will is Dr. Lecter's pupil, and he is moulding the man to be as he is, and though it is Graham that fucks you, it is Hannibal you hate the most, the God that set this all into motion.

Will's breath flutters at your ear, and he stills, only the part of him within you left flinching to a vicious end. Hannibal steps back from the bedframe, smoothing down his suit of creases with elegant hands. As Will struggles up to join him, you crumple forward, sodden and stammering, a headache starting to beat at your temple, the hangover of Dr. Lecter's drug.

Yet when the younger man places a hand to your jerking back, you accept the touch, wanting even so poor a substitute for love.

"Daddy," you whisper. "I want to go home."

Will jerks away from you, staring at his own hand with abject revulsion.

"What have I done?" he asks, and there is an undercurrent of awe to the words that you do not quite understand.

"You did what you had to," says Dr. Lecter, smoothly. "What was needed."

His colleague shakes his head, his gaze dropping floorwise.

"No. She's seriously ill. She should be in a hospital ward, and I— we—"

"Will."

You cannot stand the fondness with which Hannibal addresses the other man, grooming him to such extremities of evil. He lays a hand on Will's shoulder, and he relaxes into the touch, an unconscious softening of his inate angles.

They stand together as if alone in the room, Dr. Lecter's face almost in the crook of Will Graham's neck.

"She is quelled," he says, quietly. "Tomorrow, she will eat the breakfast I make for her with the memory of this correction, and in time, she will learn to thank you for it. Even to love."

Still, Will lingers in the doorway, watching you wind yourself into the coverlet to nurse the wound of his making.

"Is she going to be alright?" he asks, nervously.

Through sodden lashes, you see Dr. Lecter guide his colleague into the hallway, as a strict father might the mother that coddles an infant that screams to be held.

"Let her sleep," he murmurs. "Her dreams will be woven with our teaching. Soon we shall see what tapestry will be made."

They leave you there, descending into opiate darkness. You slumber, but you do not dream, only lie with your hand over the heat these heathens have struck in what was before a lampless under-earth.

Your hunger follows you down into the castles of sleep, loyal to its creator.

[artificial-transmutations]

Transformation Letter: Charlie

Hi my name is Charlie, I would like to be transformed into any man you want. But not an object please. I am 26 yo, 170cm tall with a slim twink body. I have white skin, blue eyes and short dark hair.

You hesitate slowly before putting the envelope into the box. It is not that you are unhappy with who you are, but somehow, the thought of becoming someone else is oddly interesting to you. With a silent thud, the letter falls into the box - it's done now, and you can't retrieve it.

The shady online ad had promised that changing your body was not only possible, but really easy to do, too. All you had to do was write a letter to the company and they would care for the rest. To be honest, you don't really believe in all that. It was scientifically unlikely that anyone had developed a technology to change bodies - let alone at a distance knowing nothing more than your name. But still, you had been curious enough to try it.

So, you composed a lengthy letter, describing exactly who you are and what you want changed. That you are happy with your slim build but would like to change certain details. For example, your dark hair could be a bit more interesting. And your butt could be a bit juicier. Oh, and if they shaved one or two years off, leaving you at 22 again, that would certainly not hurt.

It's not like you are old, not even having hit 30 yet, but the gay community was somewhat superficial - picking up guys had been easier a few years ago.

You even attached a picture to your letter showing how you look right now.

What you didn't do though, is read the description of the ad thoroughly. Instead of monetary compensation, they reserved the right to choose your transformation. All the details you worked out for your change will ultimately be in vain - and you are entirely at the mercy of a faceless internet company, having unknowingly sealed a contract that grants them all rights on your physical appearance.

Of course, you know nothing of that. After having put in the letter, you head back home and fix yourself a salad before heading to bed early.

Over the course of the next few days, absolutely nothing happens and soon, you have already forgotten the strange ad and the letter you sent. You continue to live your life without knowing your letter has been dispatched, delivered and processed at its destination. Until, a good week later, suddenly, your face feels itchy. Thinking nothing you scratch at the itchy spot, but the itching returns a few moments later.

When you touch your chin again to scratch it again, your hands meet an unfamiliar feeling. There are short, bristly hairs on your chin! But that's impossible! You never grow a beard, and you distinctively remember being entirely smooth this morning. You quickly rush to the bathroom to have a look in the mirror and almost can't believe your eyes:

There is a clearly visible five o' clock shadow in your face, looking alien and ill-fitting. But it's definitely there. When you touch the short hairs again, you can feel the short hairs bend slightly to your touch. They are dark and clearly visible against your skin. This is definitely *your* stubble! You are growing a beard!

Suddenly, you remember the letter. But that can't be, can it? You certainly didn't wish for a beard! Perhaps this is some kind of side-effect?

You have a closer look at your face, searching for further changes. You notice a dirty spot on your cheek.

Has this been there a minute ago? You try to rub it off but only manage to smear it across your face. You try again, this time with water, but as you look up, you find the dark smear having spread all over your face. Even worse, when you try to wash it off, only some of it comes off. The rest of the dark muddy dirt seems to have seeped into your skin and has made it darker than before, like a tan.

You can even watch the tan spreading in the mirror. Going down your quite hairy chin onto your neck and disappearing into your shirt at the collarbone.

Quickly, you try to wriggle out of your shirt, only to find that surprisingly difficult. When you finally manage to do so, you understand why at once: Your body has bulked up considerably! Your torso that has darkened with the spreading tan and is also covered with stubbly dark hair is way more muscular than before. Your shoulders are broader, and your entire frame is... bulky to say the least. There is not much left from your original slim and twinky body. By the second, you're becoming buffer and darker. When you look back into the mirror, your face reminds you nothing of what it was! It even appears as if you have actually gained a few years, putting you at least past the mark of 30.

This is impossible! You have to stop that. You need to call the company right now!

With that thought, you rush to your laptop and try to remember the company name. Artificial something was it, right? Transformation? No, wait. Transmutation. That's it. You start entering the company name into the search engine but find it increasingly difficult to do so. You do know how to type, of course, but your hands are getting bigger and less precise. When you finally hit enter, the search engine lists the results.

Or, at least you think it does. You blink once, squint your eyes and blink again. You can clearly read the letters on the screen, but the composition makes no sense at all. It's like trying to read an entirely different language. But that can't be! English is your mother tongue, you should be able to read it clearly. Instead, you only recognize very few simple words. "and" for example, or "I".

It's no use. You have lost the ability to read English. But certainly, you can read another language? You try not to think about anything as you type a new query in the address bar of the browser.

Well, good news is that you can read the texts again when the site loads. It's clearly Spanish that you have no problem understanding. But instinctively, you have entered a porn site. Gay porn, to be precise - good. At least this hasn't changed.

Just looking at the pictures makes your cock grow in your pants. And grow. And grow. When you look down at your lap, you recognize a massive beast of burden that certainly wasn't there before, either. Curiously, you unzip your pants and are greeted by a large, throbbing, uncut cock, framed by dark curly pubic hair. Of course, in your old body you always shaved your pubic hair neatly. However, here it's ungroomed and a dark contrast to your tanned brown-ish skin. With the cock that has sprung free, you also freed a cloud of musky smell. The manly smell of unwashed groin and sweat, along with traces of piss and precum.

Without thinking, you take a deep breath and then another one. That smells good, you decide, and your throbbing cock agrees. You grab your large cock with your large hand and start a video with your left one.

As you watch the manly figures on the screen fucking each other, your quickly start to move your hand up and down your length, too. A deep, rumbling sound escapes your throat and soon, your heavy balls begin to churn. You are going to cum!

The thought makes your head spin, and you quickly aim your cock at your laptop's screen. Your mind is so overwhelmed with lust, it's not like you can even think anymore. When your first rope of cum lands on the screen, splashing all over the photos, the second shot flies even further and lands in a pool of white semen on the keyboard.

Huffing and panting, you slowly regain clarity. God damnit, you didn't really do *that*, right?

Worse enough that you snuck into your clients home and used his laptop to watch porn, no. Now your sticky cum is slowly running down the screen and dripping under the keys. There's no way you’re able to clean this up properly.

Awkwardly, you use your shirt to wipe over the laptop superficially. Still, there is a clearly visible spot of dried cum on the screen and the keys will be sticky to operate. You briefly consider cleaning the machine with water but don't want to damage it.

It's no use. You just hope your client won't notice until you are gone. On that note, you quickly make your way back into the garden, resuming your work in the heat of the summer, only clad in a short pair of shorts that accentuates your huge Mexican cock.

Gone is Charlie the twink. Your new life is Carlos, the dumb and randy Mexican gardener.

What is this? A "Transformation Letter"? Yes, you heard right! Over at my riot page, you can send transformation letters that will change your life forever. The only catch? You can't choose what you will become. Carlos here is certainly changed a lot, but not like he intended. Would you be luckier if you tried? Head over to the instructions to try your luck!

[emotionallyattachednerd]

Pet Play | TP Predaking x f!human reader | NSFW 18+

Word count: 1600+

Warnings: Smut ( oral ), size difference and beast robot on human. NSFW 18+.

Notes: It's been a busy week! I felt the need for something more tender towards this human for Predaking. The reader does have a dragon tattoo on her shoulder, just pointing that out. Enjoy. 🥰

☕ Coffee

You're the kind of person that is off with the fairies quite often, day dreaming and creating scenarios in your mind of where you would like to be. People thought it strange, even your family and friends had told you to grow up, but you didn't see the point in doing that because it would mean you would be unhappy.

They want you happy, right?

Your friends invited you on a camping trip for the weekend, and what was supposed to be a great time didn't turn out like that for you. Once again you were daydreaming, talking to yourself, only for your friends for some reason to grow frustrated with you, saying it's not normal and why you have to behave so weird.

It breaks your heart and you storm out of camp needing time to yourself. You cry and stare at the midnight sky before deciding it's not worth staying anymore. Your so call friends try to stop you, saying they were sorry, but you don't listen and head back to your car.

You're just different from everyone else, and you didn't want to change.

Things though were about to change very dramatically for you though, and while you headed to your car you find yourself suddenly wrapped in large sharp talons and a giant beast that lets out a roar that cuts through the air. Your instinct reaction is to scream, right before darkness clouds you.

That's how you're here now, trapped with this giant metal beast that had kidnapped you, like a dragon kidnapping a princess. Your arm is bruised because you have been pinching yourself so much since your time here just to try and wake yourself up, but you still remain with the beast.

He hasn't hurt you, and you were too scared to try and escape. That was at the beginning. As time moved on you adjusted to the change, had time to think and even learn about the place you were in. You learned his name was Predaking, but only from another who called himself Shockwave, creepy guy, and even called you Predaking's new pet. So guess that's what you were.

Turns out robot aliens were real. You didn't see them often, being cooped up with Predaking, and you feel yourself adjusting to him and wanting to be with him. Sure, you miss home, but you try not to let that get to you.

What you found most curious was he had a strong fascination with your dragon tattoo on your shoulder, always nuzzling the area gently and letting out purrs, which you thought at first was delight but slowly started to reconsider that it might be sadness.

You sympathise with him. Perhaps he was lonely?

It's just like any other day when you wake up from a not needed nap to the sound of Predaking purring, vibrations sending shivers through it, a turmoil you weren't sure about, but let it happen as its soothing.

"Hey Predaking." You whisper fondly, you hand tenderly stroking one of his barbs against his muzzle. "You board? Yeah...I get that."

His nuzzling continues, as does the sounds he makes against you. It feels oddly nice, and you smile through a soft moan that turns into a giggle as he licks her side. "H-hey, that tickles."

Your giggling seems to peak his interest and glides his glossa against your side again, making another giggle sound from you, and another more rowdy. All you can do is wiggle and laugh against his barbs and glossa, surprisingly gentle, tickling your skin under your shirt.

"P-Predaking, please!"

However, this changes when you feel his glossa move lower against your thigh, riding under your skirt, and causing you to gasp from the strange sensation and freeze.

"Predaking?" You whisper his name, a little scared by what he was doing, but you can't stop your cheeks from warming up, feeling that little bit of goodness from the warm contact he gives.

His curiosity grows as he explores more, gliding more of his glossa against your inner thigh before a scent catches him, and drags it up against your panties than. You gasp sharply from the contact but you don't stop him, eyes wide as you stare at the grey ceiling.

Seeing you show no attempt to stop him he continues at the same area again, a purred moan leaving him as he continues this, liking your reactions and scent you are giving him.

By this point your panties are soaked, moist with your fluids and his own wetness. Your breath hitches as something jolts in you, soft mewls whimpering from your lips before you spread your legs more for him.

Your hands reach down, petting his helm and rolling your hips gently under his glossa that continues to press against your covered core. There's a part in your brain that's screaming that this was wrong, but you don't give a shit, you wanted more, a growing greed.

Shuffling yourself you tug down your panties from under your skirt and kick them away as his amber optics watch you, before going back in, and you have to cover your mouth to try and muffle a shout of arousal.

His glossa was so thick as it runs against your core and across your clit, juices flowing out more as you feel him lap at you as if he was hungry, eager for more.

Your soft moans increase as your eyes flutter close, body breaking out in goosebumps as your nipples perk through your top. Your hands keep at his large helm, praising him as he continues.

"Good boy, good boy. Holy shit...feels so good." Your voice trembles through the burning bliss boiling in you. His heated muzzle adds to the desire you are craving, bards tickling your legs but it wasn't uncomfortable.

Predaking is liking this, your reactions and your taste, like one of his own in heat and soaking juices. As his broad glossa flicks across your lips and clit, he decides to go for more, and that's when he starts to probe your core with the tip of his glossa.

A startled gasp erupts as you feel the hot tip press directly against your entrance, trying to push in, but the thickness delays this, before you feel yourself suddenly start to stretch as his glossa manages to push in.

"Fuck!" You can't help but mewl out loudly as you feel the hotness invade, slowly inching further into your depths. He's so thick and warm, the wetness providing better gliding.

Perhaps most beasts would just follow their instinct and devour right away, but not Predaking, he took his time with you, slowly and savouring every second possible.

His glossa reaches further in your channel, past your cervix, before reaching your uterus, causing an intense cry to choke from you as the pleasure continues to grow. Never have you felt like this before, and you don't want it to ever end.

He stops and you feel so full as his broad long glossa fills you to the brim and presses up against your stomach causing a bump to form. His purrs continue to vibrate and pulse through you, interacting; he was liking this just as much as you are.

You feel him move back out from your channel, causing a pout to sound from you are you loose the fullness, only to be filled again, and he starts to fuck you slowly with his glossa.

"Fucking hell....P-Predaking....so big, so good!" In that moment you don't care if anyone heard you, all that mattered was the arousal you were drowning in and letting yourself go.

Predaking is very delighted by your taste, and your reactions were just perfect for him. He continues to move back and forth against your channel, invading every inch of you and pushing further up into your uterus to feel everything possible.

While his glossa rolls back and forth into you, your legs curl up onto his large barbs against his muzzle to hang them there and grant him more access, and this causes his glossa to drive deeper into you, moana singing from your throat as you embrace the alluring pleasure.

Your hands move against you, moving your shirt up over your breasts to play with your nipples while the other moves down to rub at your clit in circular motions, running up over your stomach to feel just how much his glossa fills you. You're on fire!

"Yes, yes!" You sob in delight, hips arching and rolling with his movements. "Oh god!" You're humping his glossa by this point.

He starts to move fast earning more mewls from you, fucking you deeply and as much as your body would allow as more juices flood from you, wet sounds filling your ears as some fluids drip onto the ground below you. As much as you wanted this to last, you knew you were about to cum hard.

"Predaking, shit, so close, I feel it!" Clenching yourself around his thrusting glossa you tighten your legs against his barbs as your toes curl, seconds before a sudden burst shakes through you as you come apart through your collapsing orgasim.

He doesn't stop, moving himself more intensely and drinking your fluids before filling you so much and stopping, purring in delight as your stomach expands full of his long glossa.

Your body trembles as you welcome everything and pant heavily, hands moving to feel the bump and moaning loudly while your body twitches and pulses. It feels insanely good.

Slowly you feel his glossa move out, leaving you empty but well satisfied before he gently settles you back down with his muzzle against his pedes. You then feel him curl his tail around, nuzzling you gently as his purring soothes you.

"That was beautiful." You manage to say to him while petting his barbs tenderly. "Thank you, my king."

Predaking has every intention of making you his queen. You'll always be his.

[cysticnotes]

My revenge bedtime procrastination was ruining it for me . Staying up till 4 satisfying my maladaptive daydreamer self and then telling myself I will wake up in 1.5 hours and study was getting too repetitive to be true . I tried finding purpose, they said it would be easier that way , that it wouldn't feel like a battle but rotten sides of mine speak louder . However now I have purpose , I remind myself of my mom's tears and friend's seemingly successful lives to stop myself momentarily from slipping away off my grip . I asked myself the other day -" why am I a typical maladaptive daydreamer ?" The answer was right in front of me - because I am terribly unhappy and dissatisfied with my present so I must live life in my head . And then I came across another thing on pinterest which told me my reality is literally in my hands which I realise to be true but I am ashamed as if I am given too much power and liberty, too much left upon me to decide and I wonder if I would have not been crying if someone else was there to take half of the decisions while my destination will lie in between us and my mate will run half the mile for me . I am oddly sure that she wouldn't be happy there too which again proves happiness is within yourself, find it inside of you , you are the source of everything u need .

And it takes around five minutes to go on a vent rampage out here and it feels worth it .

[ireallyliketalldarksultrymen]

so…i might’ve written stuff for the treebark coffee shop au (from this post) instead of doing homework…

—

“That’ll be six eighty-eight.”

Martyn drums his fingers against the hardwood counter, his other hand sliding a styrofoam cup across it. It’s followed by a paper bag, which smells strong of the buttery pastries inside.

The rack of heaters buzz to his left, loaves of bread lined up perfectly to one another, top-to bottom. The steam from it puffs his way, freshly baked dough filling his senses whenever he breathes in. Sure, it might’ve taken a bit of his time, but they were nice to look at.

The was cafe quiet today, music from the speaker sat on the far side of the counter filling the space in lieu of its usual laughter and chatter. Even with the song, the whizzing of cars passing by seemed to be louder.

In the room to his left, the muffled shrill of a mixer and the words, “No, putting pancake batter in the toaster isn’t a good idea—you were hired to be a cook for a reason!” can be heard. Martyn snorts softly.

He’s one of the people who actually decided to come into work today; the shop’s staff of seven weaseled their way down to three, meaning that he’ll be with Cleo and Skizz until closing time. He doesn’t mind at all, actually. Despite him being a sophomore and the two being seniors, they click well together, going out for coffee when all three of their schedules align.

He remembers the first day he came in, which, oddly enough, is something Martyn would not like to remember. 

His supervisor had been sick, which meant that he’d have to figure things out on his own. Martyn was given the task of making an expresso, and somehow confused it for cold brew. To say the costumer was unhappy was an understatement, and to say Skizz couldn’t stop wheezing was a bigger one. 

Cleo saw what happened, and Martyn supposed they pitied him, because she soon taught him cold coffee stored in the fridge for multiple days is vastly different than a drink brewed in under thirty seconds.

Even if it has been three years, he knows neither of them will get off his case about it. Whenever Martyn opens the fridge, Skizz calls, “That’s not where we put espressos anymore!” across the room. 

And patterns seem to stick, because Cleo and Skizz will not get over his feelings for Ren, either.

Martyn decides that telling his coworkers that he finds one of his usual costumers attractive has been a curse. Skizz has been playing Cupid for at least three weeks, trying to set-up outings for him and Ren. Cleo claims to discourage this, but she swoops by the register and drops subtle hints to his feelings when his back is turned.

Even if it may be annoying, Martyn has learned a good amount of things about Ren. He likes poetry, theater, and apparently is in the same astronomy class with Grian. (something he has to ask the other about once he gets home)

Now he’s fishing for his wallet in the back of his jeans, long hair sweeping against his graphic tee.

Ren’s fingers glide through the pockets and zippers of his wallet, sifting for coins that pool at its sides. Numbers splayed across credit cards peek behind his thumbs as Ren moves them along. He plucks out a one, five, and a couple of dimes.

It’s really now or never, and Martyn isn’t sure if he can wait any longer.

In a moment of split-decision, Martyn clears his throat.

“So…you’re Ren, right?”

[goldeneyedgirl]

Sonya! (Imagine, for a moment, that Tumblr Staff actually fixed the bug that means I have to screenshot and tag you @sonyawix for replies.) I missed you!

Jasper's just there realising that a couple of decades of training and practice with the Cullens was no match for a tiny teenage girl who looks at him like he's the second coming. She did more for his self-esteem in one night than anyone has done for him since he was human.

Jasper's softer in STL and his trauma has already been sorted, organised, and filed in his mental storage unit so he just has to simp over worry about Mary-Alice. Mary-Alice has the trauma conga-line but it gets pretty soft for both of them starting next chapter.

But it's why Jasper chapters are usually easier to write.

And listen, we all switch hyperfixations. I read a whole bunch of MCU fics that had Correct Vibes but Incorrect Takes, and beautililies had to stop me from writing MCU fic before I worked on Jalice fics. Also the idea I am carrying 70% of your Jalice experience is fucking wild. What do you want? I feel like I need to give you something because 2024 was not my most active year ever.

My little Mabel has recovered from the infections she had well, but decided to keep things interesting and acquired an ear infection which has since been upgraded to a double ear infection because what's more fun than a lot of credit card debt? Even more credit card debt! She is why I can only stare longing at Coach bags and not own fun stuff like that.

And honestly, I join you in solidarity that my sister and father are also Shitty Fucking People. Sometimes, people are rancid, and we just need to salute their bullshit and carry on our merry way.

It is law that if you bring up Anathema, I post something. I picked this scene WIP because Alice being a dramatic teenage girl is somehow so funny in my head? I can't wait to get to a scene where she's dramatic in front of Jasper and he's just "...you're adorable, you know that right?" And she's like, "absolutely not."

But for now, Alice makes a small scene.

“This is to never get back to the Clearwaters,” I could hear Freddie saying to Charlie Swan in a low voice. “Any of them. I trust you, Charlie.”

Charlie sighed. “Fred, I’ve known you a long time, and I don’t like this at all. What is so important you have to meet with them alone, without Sue and Billy knowing?"

Silence, and I was tempted to creep up the hallway to be able to hear better.

“… This is about Alice and her well-being. If… I have reason to believe that if Sue, Harry, and Billy knew more about Alice’s … health and genetic make-up, they would be deeply unhappy."

That was most likely an understatement. I had a feeling that if Sue found out that I was biologically half-vampire, I would be persona-non-grata in the Clearwater household. There was a fifty-percent chance that Harry would hunt me for sport, honestly. His aim with a shotgun was second-to-none.

//

Dr Cullen had brought his wife, and there was something almost funny seeing them in our home - they were both dressed in very stiff, fancy clothing, standing in the entrance looking awkward. I was in the kitchen finishing the washing up in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt; both Freddie and Charlie were still wearing work clothing.

The apartment was still mostly in the late 60s style from when it was built. Lots of brown and yellow. Freddie always intended to renovate, but we never seemed to get around to it - moving all the books would take us days, and we’d have to stay downstairs. It was cozy up here, and if we made any changes, it would be to clean out the third floor.

“Hello Alice.” Mrs Cullen smiled so warmly at me, but I felt oddly shy, offering a little wave as I put plates back into the cupboard.

“Turn on the coffee maker, love, before you go,” Freddie said, and I got the message that this wasn’t going to be a meeting I was included in. I wasn’t upset about that; somehow Dr and Mrs Cullen were far and away more intimidating than Jasper was. Somehow the golden eyes and the pale skin that looked so right on him made me nervous around them.

Thankfully, Dulcie was having dinner with her brother’s family tonight. It meant we could have this meeting at home and she’d probably bring home left-over dessert. Hopefully that really good blueberry donut thing that Mrs Stanley usually made for Dulcie’s birthday.

It also meant that whilst I had been told I wouldn’t be joining in on the meeting today, there was no one in the house that would check to make sure I was wearing headphones and watching movies on my laptop instead of eavesdropping for all I was worth. And in my defence, I had to know what Freddie was telling everyone so I didn’t mess up the story later on. It was just planning ahead.

//

“He can read minds?” I shrieked, giving myself away instantly.

Charlie Swan swore, sloshing his coffee in surprise, as the rest of them spun around to look at me in the hallway.

“Alice,” Freddie groaned but I didn’t care that I would be doing extra cleaning this week or whatever as punishment.

A girl’s mind is private. There are things happening up there that die with me, okay?

Things like me contemplating the logistics of having sex on a gurney now that I’d met Jasper and realised he was a foot and a half taller than me, and probably 100lb heavier.

Or the fact that whilst my visions hadn’t been instructional, so to speak, they had given me a certain amount of reference material to reflect on. I might never have been a Girl Scout, but I do like to be prepared.

And the idea that one of the Cullens could mind-read and had probably told the entire family that a good fifty-percent of my brain power was solely dedicated to what I had seen of Jasper’s body in my vision at any time was… not ideal. Not at all how I planned to integrate myself into their lives. I was aiming for lovable future daughter-in-law, not mouth-breathing creeper.

“Edward considers the contents of everyone’s mind private, unless harm would result in keeping it secret,” Mrs Cullen quickly reassured me. Please. I had seen Leah and Seth together; I knew what siblings were like. There was no way in hell that Jasper hadn't been informed that I had absolutely noticed he was ripped when he helped me up.

“I’m taking a lot of emotional damage learning this,” I said slightly hysterically. “Can he hear everything?”

“Only when he’s present.” Was Dr Cullen laughing at me? He looked amused.

“Alice,” Freddie sounded tired. “There are brownies in the downstairs freezer if you want some dessert.”

Huh. It was bad if Freddie was bribing me with the catering supplies.

“That would help,” I said, trying to walk through the kitchen to get a knife with some kind of dignity. “You understand why I would be uncomfortable with a teenage boy reading my mind, right?”

“I think we’re all on the same page about that,” Charlie said. He didn’t look amused.

"Alice, I really don't think there's anything in your head that Edward Cullen would worry about," Freddie said, obviously trying to sound comforting and mostly made me want to slam my head against a wall.

"I've had unmonitored access to the internet since I was eleven and no boyfriend! Or girlfriend! There's plenty up there I don't want Jasper's brother knowing!" I snatched up the cake knife and looked over to see Freddie looking like he needed a drink, Charlie Swan looking the most uncomfortable I had ever seen him - and that included the ass-injury incident - and Mrs Cullen trying very unsuccessfully not to laugh at me.

"And now I've made it worse. I'm calling Cynthia!"

It's not the fact that my father was a vampire that makes me a freak. I manage to do that all by myself.

[yanderes-galore]

Fandom: Homestuck

Character: Jade Harley

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Description: Pwetty pls with a cherry on top for a Jade Harley Yandere headcanons? I haven't seen much-

- Eridan Anon

Sure! I'm worried I didn't get her character right so I might edit this with suggestions.

Yandere! Jade Harley Concept

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Clingy behavior, Manipulation, Overprotective behavior, Jealousy, Delusional yandere, Slight paranoia, Dubious companionship/relationship.

Jade is probably one of the more isolated humans of Homestuck except maybe Dirk and Jake.

She lives alone on her island and primarily uses Pesterchum to be social before the session.

She had Bec before entering the session and often gardened.

Other than that she was primarily very alone.

For this concept I'd imagine she talked to you through Pesterchum and you were another human who joined the session

Essentially you're with John, Rose, Dave, and Jade's group as a fifth.

Jade is naturally very caring towards those she sees as friends.

She'd often talk and share interests and topics with you and doesn't meet you in person until you're in the session.

Jade's first interactions with you include sharing knowledge and guiding you when it comes to the game.

It takes time but she'll eventually see you in person, something she is quite excited to do.

To be fair she's excited to meet all of her friends… but you the most!

Jade is always very excited and positive.

When around you she's eager to offer help as you try to survive your session.

Being clingy, protective, and manipulative are probably big parts of her yandere type from what I can recall with her.

She is another “she knows best” yandere due to her knowledge at times.

While she is very helpful and caring, she can get impatient with the emotions of herself or others at times.

Jade may not realize what she's doing is wrong at first.

She's clingy with you because she's been so alone.

That part seems reasonable to her… then there's the fact she's a bit jealous.

You're all friends here!

If that's the case… then why does she feel so upset when the others are with you?

Jade couldn't take you as hers before the session started as she's so far away and isolated.

In fact kidnapping may not even come up for this concept except for now.

That's because I feel she hits her peak when she hits Dog-Tier and you all survive The Scratch.

Y'know the point I'm talking about, when she and John travel the Yellow Yard on the ship.

You happen to be there too.

Which makes Jade able to spend even more time with you.

In terms of Jade's yandere intensity it's a bit hard for me to pinpoint.

Part of me wants to stay she can be docile.

She is overall cheery and rosy with you, she never wants to hurt you or punish you.

Jade just seems like she'd crave your attention due to being isolated for so long.

As Dog-Tier she's probably now even more close to you due to her new dog characteristics.

For example, loyalty and need for affection.

On the other hand I can say she's intense due to her skills.

She's fully capable of keeping you to herself with her powers and abilities.

Although hopefully won't have to force you to do anything!

She's a really sweet girl… you may feel comfortable enough with her as is.

If you are unhappy she does her best to remedy the situation.

Surely she'll find something to make you happy on the ship!

Also, since it's just you, her, and John for the most part on the ship her jealousy is greatly reduced.

Although you oddly catch her growling towards John for getting too friendly with you.

Asking Jade about this leads to her saying it's involuntary. 

Jade is probably half aware/oblivious to the extent of her obsession.

She always seems to have an excuse for her behavior.

She's overprotective because of the whole Lord English situation.

Everything she does is just to help you!

John may say she's clingy… but she just can't seem to see it.

Jade wouldn't want to hurt anyone.

That's why I feel plotted murder isn't something she thinks of.

She'll defend you, but aims not to kill for the most part.

Escape would be difficult with her, but why would you want to leave?

Jade wants to make you happy and give you everything she can.

She's dedicated to you wholeheartedly and hates it when you're sad.

Jade feels like, as her Dog-Tier, a yandere that would be nice to be around but holds extreme power against you.

She tries not to scare you away but is capable of keeping you with her.

Jade's obsessive nature may disturb you at times…

But she just means well, right?

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

North To The Future [Chapter 5: Sabotage]

The year is 1999. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

A/N: With the completion of Chapter 5, we are officially 1/3 of the way done with this fic series! In my opinion, things start to get really interesting in Chapter 6 so I am sooooo excited to have reached this little milestone. Thank you so so so much for reading and for your enthusiasm, questions, rants, analyses, theories, memes, and general emotional investment in NTTF. I go back to re-read your comments/tags ALL the time and they help keep me motivated to get new chapters out asap. 🥰💜

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, veterinary medicine, discussions of sex, questionable decisions, Kimmie-related chaos, Trent flexing his athletic skills.

Word count: 5.6k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @elsolario​ @meadowofsinfulthoughts​ @ladylannisterxo​ @doingfondue​ @tclegane​ @quartzs-posts​ @liathelioness​ @aemcndtargaryen​ @thelittleswanao3​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @b1gb3anz​ @hinata7346​ @poohxlove​ @borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness​ @travelingmypassion​ @graykageyama​ @skythighs​ @lauraneedstochill​ @darlingimafangirl​ @charenlie​ @thewew​ @eddies-bat-tattoos​ @minttea07​​​

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It’s November 29th, the Monday after Thanksgiving. It’s also your lunch hour.

You yank open the glass front door of Caribou Crossings, the souvenir shop where Heather works. It’s mostly abandoned now that tourist season has ended, and the unloved relics stare at you with cold, oddly sentient eyes: the owls carved out of cedar wood, bears carved out of jade, Russian dolls, miniature totem poles, plushie salmons. You climb over the counter and sit on the floor behind the cash register, your back pressed to the wall and your arms linked around your knees. Heather is breaking open rolls of coins to restock the register, probably unnecessarily; you are the only two people in the store.

She asks, wrestling to get quarters out of a particularly stubborn wrapper: “How’s it going?”

“Not great.”

“Have you fucked British Kurt Cobain yet?”

“We’re not speaking.”

She puts down the roll of quarters and looks at you. “What happened?”

You shrug, trying to act casual, trying to not let your voice crack. You don’t think there’s any threat of tears; you’ve cried so much in the past four days that you seem to be out of them. Your eyes are perpetually pinkish, puffy, exhausted. Despite your herculean efforts to remain hydrated, you have a constant low-grade tension headache that throbs like a bruise, misery trapped beneath the skin like blue-violet blood. “It’s a long story. He came over for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Okay.” Heather is perplexed. “And then he, what, drunkenly dropped the turkey on the floor? Tried to hook up with your mom? Offered to show you his collection of murder supplies?”

You smile wearily. “No. I told him that he had to get sober. And he freaked out, he was yelling, he was saying I don’t have any right to try to control him because he’s not mine and never will be. He said I was trying to use him to bail myself out of my spineless, unfulfilling life.”

She scoffs. “Well that’s not true.” Then she observes your face. “Is it…?”

You shrug again, feeling like you’re back in high school, petulant and powerless. “There are a lot of things I want to experience, a lot of places I want to go. But I haven’t done anything yet. Because I can’t tell my parents that I don’t want to stay in Juneau forever and run the vet clinic.”

This must shock Heather, but she doesn’t show it. “I can’t imagine that they would want you to stay if it made you unhappy.”

“No, they wouldn’t try to stop me. But it would break their hearts.”

There is a long, uneasy silence. At last, Heather says: “I think you should come to Ursa Minor tonight.”

“I don’t want to see Aegon.”

“I mean, Dale would probably kick him out if we asked.”

“No!” you shout, too quickly. If he doesn’t have his preferred place to drink his demons away, he might leave Juneau long before the six month deadline.

Heather raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to see him or do you not want to see him?”

You glower at the wall strewn with large, framed photographs of the Northern Lights. “I want him to apologize.”

“I have many talents, but I can’t make that happen for you,” she says. “Look, is it possible that Aegon will be at Ursa Minor? Yeah, totally. But other people are going to be there too. Me, and Joyce, and Kimmie, and Trent and all his dimwitted muscley friends…there are going to be people who care about you. There are going to be people who can help you through this. We can comfort you. We can distract you. We can curb stomp that Greek boy in the parking lot if he doesn’t behave himself. There are a lot of options.”

Lyrics from The Distance, unexpected and unwelcome, spin around in your mind like a vinyl record: She’s hoping in time that her memories will fade. “I’ll think about it.”

“Can I interest you in a complementary Juneau-themed trinket? Glacial mud mask? Moose nuggets? Birch syrup? A slightly sinister-looking stuffed salmon?”

“No. I’m good.”

Heather asks with a straight face: “Do you want me to kill him?”

You laugh, your first real laugh since Thanksgiving. “No, thank you very much, but no.”

“Seriously. I could make it look like the Ice Fisher did it. No one would ever know.”

You gaze up at her from where you sit on the floor. “I love you.”

“I know, bitch.” Heather grins. “Wear something slutty this time.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’ve spent a lot of time in your bedroom since Thanksgiving; you don’t want your parents to see you upset. They know something, of course, but they don’t interrogate you. They don’t intrude. They probably assume that you’ve broken up with Aegon—not that we were ever dating to begin with, you think sullenly—and, furthermore, that this is a painful yet indisputably wise course of action. It is a productive sort of pain, a necessary pain; it is like the deep maroon ache of a healing bone. It hurts less now than it would if you had stayed with him, married him, had children with him, attempted to build a life with him like a sandcastle razed again and again at high tide. It hurts less than if you had let yourself fall in love with him.

Oh, but didn’t I?

Alaska was purchased from Russia in 1867, just two years after the American Civil War ended, and was soon widely regarded by the still-recovering nation as a hopelessly remote and burdensome error. This impression was reversed only by the discovery of gold and the subsequent mass migration of miners to the territory beginning in the 1890s. After the booming gold industry came fishing and logging and oil and military bases, but gold was Alaska’s first saving grace. This is what you are thinking as you pencil on your black eyeliner, dust your eyelids with sheer gold glitter, paint your lips a vivid, glossy crimson. You stare at your reflection in the bedroom mirror, surrounded by photographs of your family and your friends, high school and college and vet school. There’s one image that doesn’t quite belong. It’s a cutout from one of those infinite travel magazines, a Ford Mustang convertible soaring down the Pacific Coast Highway in Southern California. The man behind the wheel—tan, beaming, carefree—is wearing sunglasses and a neon green tank top. The convertible is bright red; it is nearly the same shade as your lips.

You slip into a dress you haven’t worn in years: black, short, off-the-shoulder sleeves. Ever-practical, you opt for black boots instead of heels. When you arrive at Ursa Minor, Heather is wearing a sequined hot pink tube top and white leather pants. Joyce is wearing—to Heather’s abject horror—overalls, a rainbow striped T-shirt, and a massive mustard yellow scarf that nearly swallows her into oblivion. By a pure and unfortunate coincidence, you and Aegon match. He is sitting at the bar in all black: black turtleneck sweater, black jeans, black combat boots, black sleepless shadows under both of his eyes, a black mood that sweats out of his pores like a fever. Randomly, you remember the gold chain necklace he was wearing on Thanksgiving. It didn’t look fake, and it didn’t look cheap. To your knowledge, it is the only thing of significant value that he owns. It is a peculiar luxury for him to possess.

So what? Maybe he stole it. Maybe he traded drugs for it. Maybe he got it off a corpse that he strangled and then sank into cold, silent darkness beneath an ice-covered lake.

But no, you don’t believe that. You never did, and you still don’t.

Heather slurps down her Sex On The Beach. “Is this your revenge dress? Are you invoking the spirit of Princess Diana in this fine establishment tonight?”

You gaze miserably at Aegon. He is peering down into the caramel-colored bubbles of his rum and Coke. The stereo is playing Shania Twain’s Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under? “He told me he’s an awful person. That’s the worst part. Like he told me over and over again exactly what to expect and I didn’t believe him, because I was just…just…I don’t know.” Infatuated. In love. Blind. Naïve. Hopeful. “Stupid, I guess.”

“I hate men.” Heather glances to the bar. “Except Dale, he’s okay.”

“The fictional ones aren’t all bad,” Joyce says, flipping a page in her newest fantasy novel. This one has a pirate on the front, his billowing white shirt mostly unbuttoned and his long hair flowing in the wind like a hero’s cape.

“I’ve had a horrendous fucking day,” you moan. “There’s the Aegon thing, there’s the I’m never going to get out of Alaska thing, there’s the I’m going to die alone thing, and then on top of all that, I had to euthanize Ms. Ruland’s cat right before we closed.”

“Sylvester Stallone?!” Heather cries. “Sylvester died? That black and white homicidal little maniac? With the super long whiskers? Jesus, that’s tragic. I’m sorry.”

“In all fairness, he was like a gazillion years old. He probably remembered when dinosaurs roamed America. But it was still awful. Ms. Ruland was a mess. I felt totally unprepared, totally useless. I’d practiced in vet school, of course, but I’d never euthanized an animal I knew before. It was horrible trying to comfort Ms. Ruland. It was horrible seeing someone walk into the clinic with someone they loved and then walk out alone.”

Heather and Joyce nod with sad, sympathetic eyes, wanting to help but not knowing what else to say. You gulp down your pineapple-flavored Bacardi Breezer. Aegon must have complained about the Shania Twain music; Dale switches out the CD and the opening notes of Sabotage by the Beastie Boys rockets out of the stereo.

Kimmie throws open the front door and blusters into Ursa Minor, shaking the snowflakes out of her hair and wearing a sleek, skin-tight, metallic silver dress and matching platform heels. She looks like a disco ball; she looks like a mirror. She canters to the bar like a racehorse and orders herself a Miller Lite. She says something to Aegon. He mumbles back, still peering into his rum and Coke. She tries again. He shrugs and downs the rest of his drink. He glances at you—almost glaring, almost sad—and then orders another rum and Coke.

“Oh no,” Heather mutters. “Oh no, oh no, Kimmie, no.”

The front door opens again, and Trent and his friends spill inside in a loud, riotous swarm. They order beers at the bar—Trent fist-bumping Aegon, several of the other guys descending upon Kimmie to make bungling attempts at seduction—and then they migrate over to the pool table like a honking, brainless flock of geese. Trent breaks off to make a pit stop at your booth.

“Hi,” he says, smiling as he sips his Heineken.

“Hi,” you reply. Heather and Joyce’s eyes dart between you and Trent.

He points to the spot beside you, which is presently vacant. “Do you mind if I hang out for a while?”

“I think you’ll regret it. I am currently extremely depressed and boring.”

To your surprise, Trent doesn’t act like a dumbass. His voice goes gentle. His face collapses into soft, attentive pity. “What’s there to be depressed about?”

Well, you see, I accidentally fell in love with your maybe-murderer alcoholic homeless friend and in a completely unforeseeable turn of events he ruined my life. “I had to euthanize a cat today.”

“Oh, that sucks,” Trent says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s my job. I should get over it.”

“No, seriously, I’m sorry.” Trent tosses his hair off his forehead in his patented horse-like maneuver, and then his gaze comes back to you. “Your job is to help animals, so I get that not being able to fix one would be really tough. But I know you’re still great at your job. I know you did everything you could.”

You stare up at Trent. Heather stares up at Trent. Joyce, having completely forgotten about her fantasy novel (a rare occurrence), stares up at Trent. Trent swallows a mouthful of Heineken; stray beads of it drip down his full lips and stubbled chin.

I couldn’t fix the cat. I couldn’t fix Aegon. I can’t fix myself.

“You can hang out if you want to,” you tell Trent, scooting over to give him space. He grins and slides into the booth, tall and broad-shouldered and tossing his hair around again, looking like goddamn Seabiscuit. You steal a glimpse of the bar. Aegon’s jaw has fallen open; he’s gaping at you with scandalized disbelief, with something like horror. You move a little closer to Trent. And Aegon, at last, turns his attention to the dramatic, irritating, captivating Kimberly Barbieri.

“So, Trent,” Heather begins slowly, apprehensively, then picks up steam. Beside her, Joyce picks up her book. “How is the salmon genocide business going?”

As you half-listen to Trent talk about fishing, which somehow—as all topics seem to do with him—leads back to football and his high school glory days, you drink your Bacardi Breezer and watch Aegon with sharp, narrowed eyes. He has relocated to the barstool next to Kimmie. He appears to be asking her questions—tentative, stilted questions—and she replies with animated laughter and calculated little touches: her fingertips grazing his wrist, her palm briefly pressed to his shoulder. You hate the way Aegon talks with his hands, those gestures which had been becoming so familiar to you. They put an ache in your chest like a nest of barbed wire.

“Bro!” one of Trent’s friends is calling from the pool table. Others are waving encouragingly. “Bro, come play! Come play! Broooooo!”

“Looks like you’re being summoned,” Heather says.

“Oh, wow, I guess so.” Trent turns to you, nervous. “Do you…uh…would you…maybe…like to join me?”

“What, playing pool?”

“Yeah.”

You try to consider this in earnest; your mind is so tangled up in Kimmie and Aegon and everything that’s transpired over the past week that the words barely sound like English. Playing. Pool. With Trent. “I don’t think I know how.”

“I’ll teach you,” he offers, quite willingly.

“Okay, maybe. Give me a few minutes, I need another drink first.”

“Want me to grab a Bacardi Breezer for you?”

“Thanks, but I’ll do it. I haven’t decided which flavor I want next yet.”

“Cool,” Trent says. He slips out of the booth and gives you one final, mock-stern, smiling warning. “Remember, I’m going to teach you how to play. Meet me at the pool table. Don’t forget. Don’t disappear.”

“I’ll be there,” you promise. He departs. You say to Heather: “I probably won’t be there.”

“Why not?” Heather asks. “You’re hot. You’ll be even hotter when you’re bent over a pool table lining up your shots. The Greek boy is already sad, but I want to see him devastated.”

“I don’t think I have that power.”

Heather smirks and wiggles her slender eyebrows. “I disagree.”

Across Ursa Minor, Kimmie leaps off her barstool and leaves Aegon to guzzle his rum and Coke in peace. She approaches your booth sheepishly, like a dog that knows he’s chewed a considerable hole in his owner’s favorite La-Z-Boy recliner. “So,” Kimmie says to you, nervously kneading her glass bottle of Miller Lite. She’s so fucking cool, you think mournfully. Cool girls drink beer, cool girls are lighthearted and fun, cool girls don’t take guys too seriously, cool girls never ask about the future. “You and Aegon.”

You drink the last of your Bacardi Breezer moodily. “What about us?”

“You aren’t…like…together, are you?”

“No. No way. I’d rather date O.J. Simpson.”

“Well…” Heather begins, and you kick her under the table. Bitch! she mouths, rubbing her shin.

“Okay,” Kimmie sighs in relief, a smile breaking across her face. The Christmas lights reflect off her silver dress; she glows, she radiates. “Good. I was hoping he wasn’t off-limits, but I wanted to check with you first. You know, in accordance with Girl Code.”

“How courteous,” you note.

Kimmie marvels dreamily: “He looked so freaking good strumming that guitar.”

“Um, Kimmie…” Heather begins again. You glare at her ferociously. Heather pivots. “He’s probably the Ice Fisher, so you should keep your distance.”

Kimmie laughs. “Aegon? The Ice Fisher?! I don’t think so. You have to be sober to meticulously kidnap and murder people. Besides, from what I’ve heard he’s slept his way through like half the souvenir shop cashiers, and none of them ended up dead.”

You stare down at the table despondently. Heather, floundering, puts her fist through the figurative In Case Of Emergency Break Glass box. “He has syphilis.”

Kimmie gasps. “Really?!”

Heather deflates. “No. Well, actually, I don’t know. Maybe. It’s certainly possible. We should assume the worst.”

Kimmie, for once fully in on the joke, winks. “I’ll let you know once I’ve investigated.” She strolls back to the bar in her short mirrorball dress, shimmering and lithe like a snake’s skin.

“To be clear,” Heather tells you. “I was not in the half of the souvenir shop cashiers that Aegon boned.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?! Why didn’t you tell her that…that…?!”

“That what?” you snap. “She asked if we’re together. We’re not. We never were. He made that crystal clear. And if he’s not going to get sober, I’m not going to get involved with someone like that.” Someone like Jesse. Someone like the man my mom still carries scars and bruises from, not in the flesh but in the soul.

“But…but…” Heather frowns at you with pained, condoling eyes. “You…you love him. Don’t you? You look like you love him. You look…and I mean this in the most compassionate way possible…you look fucking terrible. You look like someone died, and I’m not talking about Sylvester Stallone the geriatric cat. Joyce?”

Joyce gives you an evaluative glance. “Yeah, you look terrible.”

At the bar, Kimmie is leaning all over Aegon and giggling about a story he’s telling. His hands move in dramatic, expressive gestures. He is, for the first time tonight, smiling. There’s a jolt like knuckles jabbed beneath your ribs. There’s a profound, inky despair. Kimmie grabs Aegon’s hand—he has callouses on his fingertips, you think randomly—and leads him over to the pool table. As soon as they have vacated the area, Heather drags you to the bar.

“Dale?” she says. “My good bitch needs a Bacardi Breezer. Maybe two Bacardi Breezers. Maybe three. I think I’ll be driving her home tonight.” She turns to you. “What flavors do you want?”

“Apple,” you reply morosely.

“Okay, one apple, what about the rest?”

“All apple.”

“Goddamn, you really are fucked up about this. Dale, three apple Bacardi Breezers, please.”

He lines them up on the counter. Heather sits with you as you drink them one after the other, gradually feeling warm again, feeling a little lighter. When you peek back at the booth, Rob has appeared there and is discussing—politely this time—the plot of Joyce’s fantasy novel with her. She looks almost vaguely interested in his existence.

“Hey Dale,” Heather prompts. “What’s the secret to everlasting love?”

Dale chuckles huskily and runs a hand over his thick, wiry beard. “You’re asking the wrong person. My wife ran off with a cruise ship singer, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Heather says apologetically. That was around six months ago, at the start of tourist season; the guy was an Elvis impersonator. “My bad.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m better off, I think. Now I don’t have to pretend to like her soap operas anymore. Or her tuna casserole.” He guffaws and ambles away to serve a pair of middle-aged locals seated at the other end of the bar.

When you’ve finished your last Bacardi Breezer, Heather slaps your shoulder encouragingly. “Alright, you ready?”

“Yup,” you say, swaying a little as you hop off the barstool. You stumble and bump into Heather, laughing. She steadies you with a massive grin. She’s delighted; she’s relieved.

“Good. Now get your ass over to the pool table and do your best impression of Demi Moore in Striptease.”

You have no intention of doing that. But you do—with Heather’s stabilizing grip on your waist—make your way to the pool table. There is a crowd pulsing around it: Trent, Trent’s assorted jock friends, Aegon, Kimmie. Aegon is standing in the background and nursing his—fourth? fifth? tenth?—rum and Coke. His face is vague and his eyes groggy. Still, he is beautiful. He’s so beautiful you almost blurt it out before stopping yourself. Kimmie is lining up a shot to break the balls out of their triangular configuration. Her silver hoop earrings glint under the Christmas lights. She is covered in male gazes like the sheen of ice on a lake. The white cue ball collides with the pyramid-shaped conglomeration; the balls go flying in every direction. The solid green ball—number 6—disappears into a pocket.

“Booyah!” Kimmie cheers. There are claps and whistles. Aegon just stares blankly, gnawing on his lower lip, that chronically disobedient lock of hair resting on his cheek.

“You’re majorly talented,” Trent’s friend Gary swoons. Kimmie bats her eyelashes at him and then checks to see if Aegon noticed. He didn’t. Kimmie, flustered but trying to hide it, takes another turn but doesn’t manage to sink a single ball.

“Hey!” Trent welcomes you warmly. He slings an arm across your shoulders, which ordinarily you would shy away from. Now, you lean into him, your body melding with his, your muscles loose and sinuous. Aegon does notice this. His eyes are a dark, dangerous blue: riptides, maelstroms, trenches miles deep. Good, you think. Maybe I can get him jealous enough to reconsider. Maybe I can make him want to change. “Want to shoot for me? I’ll show you how.”

You smile up at Trent. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

He passes you a cue stick with large, rugged hands. “So you’ll need one of these…and then you have to chalk it…” He presses a tiny blue cube into your palm. You rub chalk onto the tip of the cue stick, feeling ridiculous.

“And what’s the purpose of this part? Superstition? To give me false confidence?”

Trent chuckles. “To help the stick get better contact with the cue ball.”

“So you’re an expert, huh?”

“I am athletically gifted.”

“Does pool count as a sport? I’m skeptical.”

“Pay attention,” he teases, flipping his hair out of his face. Seabiscuit strikes again. “Now Kimmie sunk a solid ball, so the solids are all hers. Ours are the striped ones. If we can sink all the striped ones before Kimmie sinks all the solid ones, we win. And you don’t want to sink the black 8 ball until all our balls are already gone. That’s the very last step.”

“Sink striped balls. Don’t sink solid balls or the 8 ball. Okay. Got it.” You take aim, your sights set on the striped blue ball, number 10. This is somewhat difficult; thanks to your plentiful Bacardi Breezers, the pool table feels like it’s listing like a ship. The tapered shaft of the stick is balanced awkwardly on the back of your hand. “Am I doing this right…?”

“Here,” Trent says, and then he gets to work repositioning you. He touches you without asking, which you don’t object to under the circumstances; Aegon’s face is flushing a gory, wrathful red. Trent spreads your fingers farther apart, adjusts the angle of your elbow, pushes you between the shoulder blades to lean a bit lower over the pool table. The hem of your black dress creeps up your bare thighs, fluttering like a whisper. Aegon aggressively chugs the rest of his rum and Coke, the ice cubes clanging in the glass.

You take your shot, and the white cue ball whizzes across the pool table. It ploughs into the number 10 ball and sends it down into the abyss-like pocket closest to where Aegon stands.

“Yes!” Trent roars. He swoops in, picks you up with startling ease, whirls you around once before setting your unsteady feet back down on the floor and accepting thunderous back-slapping from his hoard of friends.

“Wow,” Heather murmurs, mostly to herself.

“Ugh, you whore!” Kimmie jeers, but she’s clapping and giggling too. She’s still the main character tonight, and she always will be, and she knows this like she knows the lines in her own palms. She’s just that kind of girl.

“Another round, another round!” Trent’s friends are chanting, and then they stampede together off to the bar to procure more beer. Kimmie, tottering in her silvery platform heels, moves to join them.

Abruptly, Aegon catches Kimmie’s forearm and pulls her to him. He whispers in her ear; her eyes go wide, her breath hitches, her glossy lips split into an exhilarated smile. And then they dash out of Ursa Minor together, stopping just long enough to grab their parkas off the coatrack by the door. They’re gone. They’re both gone.

You sputter to Heather: “What…? How…? No, they can’t! They can’t—!”

“What do you want me to do?!” she hisses back. “Tackle them before they can make it off the premises? Tie Kimmie to a chair? Force her to take a vow of celibacy? You didn’t tell her that he was off-limits when you had the chance. This is the consequence that we all have to live with.”

“Oh my god.” The room is spiraling around you. You feel nauseous; you feel ice cold. He wasn’t supposed to leave with her. He wasn’t supposed to…

“Uh, are you okay?” Heather asks.

“No,” you choke out. Aegon and Kimmie! Aegon and Kimmie!!! “I have to get out of here.”

“Well you can’t drive home like this—”

“I know. I’ll be back.” You push by her, snatch your parka off the coatrack, dive out into the starless, frigid night.

There’s no one in the parking lot, no one on the street. You make a hard left and walk with no particular plan down towards the harbor, your shaking hands jammed into your parka pockets, tears streaming down your face. The wind whips at you, howling and old, older than the creaking wooden planks of the dock beneath your boots, older than all of humanity. You pass bobbing sailboats and fishing vessels until you come to the end of the pier, sit there cross-legged and sobbing, gaze out through blurred vision over the Gastineau Channel. It separates mainland Juneau from Douglas Island, which began—like so much of Alaska did—as a gold mining settlement. You remember the sparkling gold eyeshadow that you applied in your bedroom just a few hours ago. You don’t feel very valuable at the moment. You feel unworthy. You feel alone.

It is silent except for the waves and the wind. It is very dark; the sky is clouded, and the illuminations of Ursa Minor and the streetlights are faraway. When you hear the footsteps behind you on the pier, your stomach drops; they’re too heavy to be Heather’s or Joyce’s. But when you twist around, it is Trent that you see in the dim, shadowy light.

“Hi,” he says, raising a hand. “Heather told me that you ran away.”

“Hi. I guess I did.”

He hesitates, flips his hair, drops down beside you at the edge of the pier. “You okay?”

You sigh heavily and swipe the tears from your cheeks. “Yeah. I’m just having a really bad day.” Like an absurdly, phenomenally, exponentially bad day.

“I know what that’s like.”

I doubt it, Trent. I really do.

You sit there together in the quiet, watching the sparce light flick off the crests of waves, staring at the bright dots of houses and shops across the channel on Douglas Island. Trent puts his arm around you. You let him, and—partially for the warmth, partially for the healing sensation of being desired, being cared for—lean your head against his chest.

After a very long time, you ask dully: “What do you like about working on a salmon boat?” It’s almost enough to make you wince. It’s the kind of pedestrian, unimaginative question that Aegon would make fun of. But Trent seems to consider it carefully.

“I like being outside,” he says. “I like the fresh air, I like the scenery. And I like how working with my hands helps me get all my frustrations out. I’m a better person when I stay busy. Commercial fishing can be intense sometimes, don’t get me wrong, that’s why I’m trying to get into the Forest Service. But I like it enough.”

“What do you like about me?”

You can hear the awe in his voice. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. There was a time when I didn’t care so much about things like that. But now that I’m older and I’ve started to think about settling down…I feel like you’re the right kind of girl to do that with.”

You look up at him. He beams down at you like a full moon. And then he kisses you. He’s warm and strong and handsome in that obvious sort of way, but he’s something else, too: a little forceful, a little rough. Rough isn’t always a bad thing. But it’s like you can glimpse the silhouette of someone else beneath the surface, stars veiled by clouds, the shadows of fish under ice. He doesn’t feel anything like Aegon. He doesn’t patch the wound that Aegon left in you at all.

I wonder where Aegon is right now. I wonder what he’s doing to Kimmie.

When Trent breaks the kiss, you tell him that you have to go. He walks you back to Ursa Minor, his mighty palm on the small of your back.

~~~~~~~~~~

Heather drives you home, shellshocked. She asks, in reference to your confession about the kiss on the pier: “So…uh…do you want to talk about it, or…?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“Are you and Trent…like…a thing…?!”

“I don’t know. He seems to think we are.”

“Oh god, oh god, oh my god.” She rubs her forehead with one hand, her astonished eyes on the indigo-black horizon.

When you get home, your dad is already asleep. Your mom is straightening up the kitchen, wiping off countertops and scrubbing dishes in the bubble-filled sink. When you ask if she needs any help, she bursts out laughing.

“You’re the one who looks like she needs help,” she says. “What happened at the bar?”

You grimace down at the floor. “A lot of things. A lot of things.”

“Nothing you feel the desire to share?”

“No. Not quite yet. Can you drive me back to pick up my Jeep tomorrow?”

“Sure. Why don’t you take a nice bubble bath and then go to bed?” she suggests. “You’ll feel better in the morning. Do you need a snack? I could make pancakes. Or a grilled cheese.”

“That’s really kind of you, but no thanks, Mom.” I’ve completely lost my appetite.

You sulk in a bubble bath for a while, drag yourself out, brush your teeth and hair, try to rub the night off every part of you like smoothing rough edges off a gemstone. When you wander out into the hallway, your eyes catch on the door to the attic, a rectangular outline in the white ceiling. You are mostly sober by now, and yet still the idea that strikes you seems ludicrous at first. It’s a muddled, disjointed thought. It might be a dangerous one.

If I can learn more about Jesse, maybe I can understand Aegon too.

The box of journals is up there, you know, dusty and untouched and waiting. The rope hangs invitingly. You pull the door open and unfold the ladder. You climb up into the attic, turn on the single naked lightbulb, and push aside bins of holiday decorations and family heirlooms until you find a small, unlabeled cardboard box that’s sealed shut with duct table. You peel back the tape and peek inside the flaps. The box is filled with thin leather journals in a variety of colors: olive green, navy blue, rust red, earthen brown. You gather the cardboard box into your arms and carry it down to your bedroom, slipping it discretely beneath your bed to live beside childhood stuffed animals and mounds of old yearbooks. You close up the attic and then venture downstairs to get yourself some water to stave off a blossoming hangover.

Your mom is at the kitchen sink, washing a plate with a green Scotch-Brite sponge. “Did I hear you up in the attic, ladybug? Do you need help finding something?”

“No, I got it.”

“Okay.” But she studies you, puzzled. She’s going to worry unless you explain.

“I don’t want to make you talk about it,” you say. “And I don’t want to upset you. I’ll never mention it again. But just so you know, I want to read the journals. For my own reasons. That’s why I was up in the attic. I was bringing the box down to my bedroom.”

“Oh.” She freezes, stares out the window over the sink, goes vacant. “That makes sense. That’s fine.”

“Mom, are you alright?”

“Of course, ladybug.” There is nothing outside but night. You can see her reflection in the glass like a mirror. Long, slow seconds tick by. “It seemed like he was getting better,” your mom says, her voice faint and weightless, an untethered balloon, a feather on waves. “That’s the strange part. At the very end, it seemed like he was getting better.”

Then she lets the plate sink beneath the pearlescent bubbles, wipes her hands dry on a dishtowel, and goes to bed without another word.

[alilbatflies]

Just Cake

There's not enough time to bake. Usually. Sometimes it’s possible to sneak a batch of somethings here and there, with the inevitable threat of getting summoned—oven shut down for safety measures in a rush and the thing inside going bad to be thrown out, unfinished, sad, later. 

There's not enough time to bake. Usually. 

Sometimes, there is an occasion. During which it’s expected to bake, no matter the inconvenience or time pressure. Carefully balancing the scales of sleep, work and baking within the last two days had probably caused a huge sleep deficit, although by far not the worst henchman ever went through. 

It was tough. They made it though.

There was something oddly uplifting about coming to work with a cake in a paper box. They felt like skipping. Nobody was around to see them skip, so it couldn’t damage their reputation, but the cake would still be in danger and so they didn’t.

There was this nagging feeling and–

Excited. They were excited. Properly, clearly, excited to the core. Gods they couldn't properly remember the last time that happened.

They wondered what the villain would say. The villain didn't talk much. They didn't praise much. There was simply not enough space within the scheming and execution of plans to indulge. In cake no less. They simply didn't have time for that. Neither of them.

The henchman hoped they'd at least eat a slice. 

They'd even checked for allergies and all! Possibly seeming completely maniac when they ensured themselves the villain was not allergic to anything for the zillionth time that week. 

They arrived to the villain's door, eventually. The villain was in the office—they always were at that time. 

The henchman was usually coming back from the gym, the very session which they'd skipped that day in favour of finishing the topping. 

Writing H-pp B-day on top was all they managed before the icing ran out. Inconvenient, but they were proud for spotting the lack of resources beforehand and adjusting the letters. Having just Happy B would possibly be quite awkward. 

They adjusted the box to hold on one hand. The balance was unsure but it was still there, at least a small trace. Their stable-unstable stance lasted long enough to reach out with their other hand. 

Knock your pattern, you're alright. They exhaled deeply. Just say your happy birthday. You'll do great.

They reached out. Hesitated. What exactly were they going to say anyway?

I've got a gift for you. Happy birthday.

Alright, that checked out with the general ethics surrounding bringing someone birthday cake. To their boss, no less. 

The mental preparation was complete. They exhaled deeply again.

Now the only thing remaining was–

The door burst open. A thundering “HENCHMAN!” snapped through the air.

The henchman flinched. The door hit them as it flew open and they stumbled, trying to catch both their body and the stupid box and–

It opened. It flipped as it fell.

The cake flopped to the ground with a splatter. 

Should have put a rope on the box, flashed through henchman’s mind first. Reality slammed into them right after that, the notion of a ruined effort and wasted resources echoing distantly. 

“Shit.”

The villain stood in the doorway, startled. 

Heavy silence settled over them. 

Henchman stared blankly at the heap of ex-cake. The box sat over it sadly, a ridicule of what a hat could possibly be. That much for the topping.

The villain gestured down at the unhappy crumpled pile. “What's that?”

“That's...” a gift. For you. Happy birthday.

The henchman gestured down as well, trying to regain focus and control over the situation. 

“That was...” a gift. For you. Happy birthday.

They felt ridiculous. The world felt ridiculous, laughing at them for attempting anything. 

It was. It isn't now. No happy birthday.

The henchman felt a strange painful pressure in their nose, eyes prickling. They curled their gesturing hand into a fist, nodding to themselves. 

“I should probably clean that up.” 

They villain looked like they were about to say something, but they stopped themselves. 

The henchman left through the corridor. They could feel villain's look in their back. There was a storage with brooms and the like somewhere. Brooms and... dustpans and... 

It's just cake. 

They felt something hot and salty run down their face, the pain in their nose overflowing.

It's just some stupid pastry.

It might have been. 

It didn't feel like it.

...

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4