#garbled nonsense thoughts

[lumanossity]

did haruno get mii-chan neutered. more importantly would this affect natsume outside of cat

[snazzyladreal]

I wanna interact with other people in the tournament as Lemon Dee but how do you roleplay as a possessed waddle dee who can’t even talk besides mostly garbled nonsense? Goddamnit I fucked myself over here

[headspace-hotel]

AI art and text generation actually had something good going on there for a bit when it was still freakish and garbled and completely distinct from any art a human would make

I still have huge lists of stuff generated by InferKit, mostly useless funny junk, some that could be a creative resource.

This was before most people thought negatively of using AI for creative projects, cause at this stage it was just. The Incoherent Nonsense Maker.

does anybody remember that blog post about the ai trained to name paint colors. it was like. YEARS ago. well before image generation was even a thing at all. does anyone remember Clardic Fug. Burf Pink. Stummy Brown. I tried to find it again the other day and I couldn't and I was so devastated because the first time I saw it I had never laughed so hard in my entire existence on earth. I was bleating desperately trying to breathe like i was fighting for my life.

[of-the-true-autumn]

bunch of nonsense about raiding in xiv under the cut

i think the shittiest thing about wanting to actually start doing savage again is that after the shit fest i went through in edens verse, my self worth as a raider and even a casual player is like -5000. and like it's not even that i was a bad raider to begin with. just people were shit and even people in my own static made me feel like i was sub par. and someone whom i am no longer close to, as the last thing she ever said to me was about how i had no right to be in savage and i didn't belong there and should just quit. and as stupid as it is i never got over that, because she always had made me feel like she believed in me and that i could clear the tier. and then suddenly i felt like she was just lying to make me feel better, and maybe she was.

but now it's like, i can raid with rin. and i'll be able to enjoy raiding again cause her and i have wanted to raid together for a long time, and have been trying to since 5.4 but life always got in the way so we couldn't. but she's cleared p5s and p6s now because she wants to clear TOP. and i'd like to do TOP too but. i still have a complicated relationship with raiding. i've had lots of issues with people in this game being mean to me for making simple mistakes or just for trying to learn things on different roles than what i normally play. and i'd be lying if said that didn't taint my view of raiding. couple that with my old static and everything in edens verse ive sorta come to feel like maybe it is true, that i don't belong in savage, let alone ultimate. and rin has been raiding since stormblood and i don't want her to feel like i'm holding her back by making her sit through p5s and p6s again while i learn it because i wouldn't even be able to start till at least the beginning of march because i've been dealing with life stress as well as my own health issues. logically i know she would never feel like i'm holding her back, because she enjoys high end stuff more when we get to do it together because we enjoy just doing whatever together. but also it doesn't feel fair to her for me to start so late when she'll likely be on p8s by then and make her sit through it all again while i learn it when she could go on and be bis and start TOP. and the more i think on it the more i feel like im too docile and afraid to stand up to rude people due to hating confrontation and cause of past static stuff, that i just don't really have a place in savage anymore, let alone an ultimate.

also the plugin debates aren't helping jack shit because i've always been made to feel inferior for playing on console. and people act like shit can't be cleared without zoom hacks or whatever which isn't true. but i can't deal with the constant feeling of 'you can't clear high end shit cause you play on a controler and on console'. like i play on console cause 1. i enjoy it more and 2. i am poor as fuck with a lot of medical debt and other shit i cannot afford to buy a gaming pc or build my own.

which at the end of the day it all just sucks because when people weren't assholes, i loved raiding. i had a lot of fun with it and i had fun helping some of my friends who i did get along with from my old static discover a love of raiding too. like it's complicated. i love raiding, but i don't know if there's a place for me in it anymore, no matter how much i want to do it and how much i want to raid with rin like we always talked about doing.

[godslino]

PIECE BY PIECE | minho first date series. friends to lovers.

pairing: minho x fem!reader word count: 6.2k genre: college au, mutual pining, fluff, angst warnings: drinking, referenced injury (very minor) summary: minho, on a drunken whim, asks you out on a date.

chan | minho | changbin | hyunjin | jisung | felix | seungmin | jeongin · · · ♡ series masterlist · · · ♡ taglist · · · ♡

a/n: finally!! the minho part!! i’ve been sooo excited about this one since i first got the idea. i hope you guys enjoy! once again any and all feedback is appreciated, happy reading <3

“Dude, I think it’s clean.”

Minho looks up from where he’s scrubbing the counter, eyes narrowed. So what if it’s his third time going over every surface in the kitchen?

“Are you going to help me or are you just gonna sit there and make more crumbs?”

Jeongin’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. He holds up his hands in surrender, the bag of chips in his lap crinkling. “I’m just saying. You’re acting like she’s never seen the place before.”

That’s the problem. You’ve seen his place. Minho has to stop the shudder that threatens to overtake his body at the thought.

“So you’re not helping? Great. Get out.”

“I live here!” Jeongin whines. “Why do I have to get out? You can’t banish me like this.”

“I can and I will. Now leave. I have two hours to make sure everything is ready and I am not going to vacuum for a fourth time.”

“Yes mom,” Jeongin rolls his eyes as he unfolds his legs from underneath him.

He stops just short of the kitchen counter, points an accusatory finger at Minho’s disheveled figure still hunched over an imaginary stain.

“For the record, Chan hyung would never do this to me. He loves my crumbs.”

Minho throws the scrub daddy at him.

🏠

The night it happens, all it takes is approximately three shots and a pep talk from Hyunjin for Minho to finally find the nerve to ask you out.

“You’ve got this,” the younger boy says, words slurred, his hands steady on both Minho’s shoulders. The bass thumps loud in the other room, drowned out by the walls of the kitchen until it’s nothing but garbled nonsense going in one of his ears and out the other, vibrations low in his chest.

“I’ve got this.” Minho repeats, the thrum of alcohol already spreading to his fingertips. He feels warm, light on his feet. His limbs are starting to loosen up and his insides are turning to jelly. He might even be floating.

“You look hot.”

“I look hot.”

“She’s gonna say yes.”

“She’s gonna say yes.”

“You’re gonna venmo me twenty dollars.”

“I’m gonna venmo you twenty dollars.” Minho parrots before he can even process what he’s saying. Changbin, who’d been watching the entire thing unfold from where he stands with his back pressed against the sink, snorts.

“Wait, what the f—”

“Go get her!” Hyunjin screams, pushing him through the door of the kitchen with one last pat on the back, “And send me my money!”

Minho stumbles over himself, just barely able to stop in time before he goes crashing into a group of people. The living room is crowded: there’s furniture pushed up against the walls, bodies pressed front to back in the middle of the floor, a makeshift DJ stand in the corner where Chan is controlling the music from his laptop, drink in hand. Minho catches his eye from across the room, the glow of the LEDs reflecting off the toothy grin he shoots his way, dimples on full display.

“Hey!” Minho feels someone grab his arm, and he turns to find you staring up at him. “Where’d you go? You said you were gonna get a drink.”

Minho follows your eyes down to where you’re staring at his empty hands. “I—uh, well. I ran into Hyunjin and we took a few shots.”

The pout you give him does nothing but spur on the fluttering of his chest, his brain still hyper aware of the way your hand was resting on his elbow. “Shots? I want shots!” you whine, and Minho has to avert his gaze from staring at your lips when your pout only worsens.

“How much have you had?” he tries to ask over the music. There’s a shitty pop song playing, high pitched and wonky. If he remembers in the morning, he’ll make sure he berates Chan about his DJ-ing abilities.

“What?” you scream back, tiptoeing to bring your mouth closer to his ear.

Minho is only a man. A man who's been in love with you since the moment you accidentally spilled your coffee all over Hyunjin in the quad during freshman year. He remembers that day well, remembers the way your eyes went wide and your lips parted. He also remembers the way he wished it was him with the large wet stain on his shirt, that way it was him that was offered to have his lunch bought as an apology.

He’d never admit it, but sometimes really late at night, when the moon is high in the sky and he’s feeling oddly sentimental, he counts his lucky stars that Hyunjin had been in a relationship at the time. Minho doesn’t know what he would’ve done had he been forced to watch the two of you hit it off—some form of arson, presumably. Anything to take the edge off. But because of the fact that Hyunjin was not trying to have his head cut off by said girlfriend at the time, he invited Minho along as some sort of collateral damage. That’s when the two of you became friends. Kind of perfect if you ask him.

With the jumbled mess of butterflies in his stomach that he gets whenever you’re near him, and the threat of the alcohol slowly seeping through his skin, his brain short circuits the minute your breath grazes the shell of his ear. When your hand follows not long after, fingers gripping the nape of his neck to hold him in place, he almost passes out.

“Min? What’d you say?”

Minho is rendered completely useless by you. Absolutely ruined. Your existence has thrown his entire plan to woo you off course and now his mouth is opening and closing like a badly programmed robot. Pathetic. Nuts and bolts for brains.

By the grace of God (or some other higher being that Minho’s never bothered to believe in until this very moment) he finds his voice, but not before you’re pulling back with a confused look on your face.

“I asked how much you’ve had to drink,” he says, straining against the music.

A saccharine sweet grin that has him seeing stars spreads across your face, “Not enough!”

Minho is not an enabler. Never has been, never will be. There was one time, back in that fateful freshman year that also introduced the two of you, that he let Hyunjin get blackout drunk. A terrible decision on his end, if the earful he got from Chan the next morning was anything to go by. And as if that wasn’t enough, he was finding remnants of the resulting hacking session for the following week. So yeah, never again.

But while Minho isn’t an enabler, he is smitten, and the way your hand feels wrapped around his wrist as you drag him into the kitchen has his soul threatening to leave his body. He thinks that maybe he could do anything as long as you asked. He also hopes you can’t feel the way his pulse is rabbiting beneath his skin, right under the press of your thumb.

“There’s, like, nothing here.” you say as you rummage through the cupboard near the window, nose scrunched and a frown on your face.

Minho laughs, rounds the kitchen island to crouch down and open the cabinet under the sink. “That’s because you don’t know where to look,” he smirks, pulling out a fresh bottle of tequila. “Also, Chan hyung is greedy. He knows people like you will go scavenging his supply if he isn’t careful.”

“I resent that.” you frown, taking the bottle from him. “Besides, people like me deserve to have fun too.”

“Mhm, sure.” Minho says, grabbing a solo cup. He holds his hand out for the bottle, pours just the right amount before sliding it over and following it up with a can of coke.

“A man after my heart.” you joke, holding your cup up to him in a mock toast before downing it in one go. Minho watches with so much focus, fighting against the way his head spins. He doesn’t even know if it’s the alcohol anymore, it might just be the effect you have on him. Dizzying—you flip his entire world on its axis in the best way possible.

Minho’s gonna be seeing your exposed neck in his dreams later, he’s sure of it—it’s branded into his memory.

“That…is so fucking bad.” you giggle, holding your cup out. “Another one.”

Minho clicks his tongue. “I don’t know…”

“Pleaseeee Min,” the lilt in your voice sounds oddly familiar. Minho holds his breath just in case you—yup. There it is. There goes that pout again.

It’d be so easy for him to lean down and kiss it right off your lips. He could blame it on the alcohol, maybe, but then that takes away from how he actually means it.

He sighs instead. “It’s gonna cost you.”

“An arm and a leg?”

“What? No—I meant some water.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Three shots and a full bottle of water later, Minho knows you’ve hit your limit. Cheeks flushed pink, a dopey grin on your face, pupils blown wide. Even in this state, Minho is certain that you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Anotherrrr,” you slur, waving your cup in his face.

Minho shakes his head. “No can do. You’re cut off.”

“Please,” you whine, placing both hands on his shoulders, “I’ll do anything.”

Minho, completely taken back by the sudden closeness of your body to his, freezes.

“Anything?” he asks before he can stop himself.

This is stupid. You’re drunk. There’s no way you’re going to remember anything in the morning, much less within the next thirty minutes. He’s pretty sure that you’ll lose control of all your senses soon, which is why he’s already texted your roommate Jiwoo to unlock the door so he can carry you inside. Nothing he hasn’t done before.

“Anything,” you repeat, eyes going cross-eyed where they’re fixing on the mole he has at the tip of his nose.

This is stupid. But then again, so is Minho. A big, stupid fool that blames everything on the fact that he’s so in love with you it hurts. This might be the only chance he gets to shoot his shot.

Minho takes a deep breath, says something similar to a little prayer that’s more like Hey, if anyone’s listening, help a guy out, and hopes that the twenty bucks he sent Hyunjin works.

“Go on a date with me.” he says slowly, wincing when your eyes snap up to meet his gaze.

Well, there’s really no going back from that. The only thing that could possibly grant him redemption now is banking on the fact that you don’t remember anything in the morning.

Minho waits with bated breaths, watches as your eyes search his for a long while. He waits for the anger, the disgust, the visible repulsion that he starts to think might happen the longer the silence continues.

He’s about to backtrack, quickly conjuring up an excuse about how Oh, haha, gotcha! when your hands suddenly drop from his shoulders. You grab the cup, your chin tipped upwards, and hold it out for him to fill.

“Okay.”

“O…kay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Pour me another one.”

The next morning, when Minho all but drags himself into the kitchen in search of water and something to soothe the throbbing in his head, he nearly spits a mouthful at Jeongin, the poor guy too busy eating his cereal to realize he’s gotten a front row seat in the splash zone.

Y/N [10:34am]

so

when do you want to do that date?

🏠

Are candles too much?

Minho has options: clean linen, lavender breeze, ocean mist, warm vanilla. He really just needs something to get rid of the smell of cleaning spray.

He thought that having a night in for a first date would be ideal—less pressure, no unwanted attention, a bathroom that he can run into when he starts to hyperventilate if you smile at him for too long. But now that it’s happening, he’s convinced that every surface of his and Jeongin’s shared apartment will scare you away if anything so much as looks off-putting.

Minho is, to put it simply, freaking out. All the other times you’ve been over to his place were on a completely platonic level. Movie nights with all the other guys in tow, dropping off food that you felt generous enough to buy every once in a while, one time because you’d accidentally worn Minho’s jacket home from a party and needed to return it to him.

But this is different. This is a date. Minho’s not dreaming—he already pinched himself a dozen times in the bathroom mirror, tiny red marks on the inside of his forearm to prove it. He’s going to open the door, invite you in, cook for you, and then proceed to resist the urge to tell you how beautiful you are for however long the night continues on after that. He can practically hear Jeongin’s laugh in the back of his head, sneering at how pathetic his inner monologue sounds right now.

He needs to find another stain to scrub.

By the time you’re knocking on his door, Minho has changed his outfit seven times. Sweats were too casual, a button up was too fancy. Should he not have done his hair? No, that’s just lazy, the way his fringe is swept up and out of his forehead adds a nice touch that doesn’t scream Hey! I’m trying to woo you! You’ve never been the type to be impressed by grand gestures and shows of confidence anyways, he knows that well.

One time, when a guy from one of the frat houses hired the campus quartet to sing a song for you in the quad as he stood there with big beady eyes and a bouquet of roses in his hand, you’d all but ran from the scene, Minho following close behind as you called out to him over your shoulder. It’s one of his fondest memories. As soon as the two of you made it around the back of the science building, you’d doubled over in laughter, the both of you in disbelief at what had happened. Minho has had that information tucked into the deepest parts of his brain ever since, saved just in case he needed it.

(Later that night, in the safety of his own bed, he’d laughed maniacally at the situation. Something about watching you reject another guy filled him with a sense of joy he couldn’t explain. He just hoped he was never going to be on the receiving end of it.)

He does a quick once over of the kitchen: double checks that all the ingredients are out, blows a speck of dust off the glass stovetop, spins the tiny floral arrangement he bought so that it’s sitting at just the right angle. When the doorbell rings, the chime bouncing off the walls of the apartment, he visibly pales.

He has to reel it in, to remember that it’s just you. You might not even be here with any intentions other than to fulfill your end of the deal; one date in exchange for the extra three shots he poured you the other night. Minho takes a deep breath, grips the doorknob with conviction, and decides that he’s determined to show you the way you deserve to be treated. The opportunity is there, and he’s gonna take it.

As soon as the door swings open, every nerve that had somehow crept its way into his brain disappears, the sight of you standing on the other side immediately sending the anxiety scrambling and replacing it with fondness instead.

“Hi,” you smile, and Minho sees images of you coming home to his apartment flash across his mind. After class, after work, in the winter when it’s cold and your nose is tinted pink, on rainy days where the ends of your hair are damp and you have a wet umbrella in tow. He could get used to it. He’s so in love that it hurts.

“Hey,” he breathes out, stepping aside to make way for you, “Come in. Are you hungry?”

“Starving, actually. Been saving myself all day since I don’t always get to have your cooking.” You hop on to one of the stools, your attention momentarily stolen by the flower arrangement. One point for Minho.

I’d cook for you every day, he wants to say. But that’s weird, right? So instead, “Well then I guess today is your lucky day.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.” You say softly.

Minho can’t see you with the way his back is turned, hands moving to grab out the knife and cutting board, but if he could he’d see the way your eyes are staring softly at his back, the ghost of a smile on your lips.

Conversation flows easily after that, despite Minho’s original worries about it being awkward. You’re not necessarily treating it as a date, and he isn’t really either. It feels more like a glorified hangout, just the two of you spending time together with the added glances and smiles that normally wouldn’t be there.

Minho finds it easy to get lost in you. He finds himself craving to know more about your day, about the things that’ve been on your mind lately and the hobbies you’ve picked up. Most of the conversation is a continuation of stuff that’s fallen through the cracks during the times you see each other, but he doesn’t miss the way you ask about him too, your eyes shining with genuine interest. It makes his heart slam against his ribcage.

“How are your cats doing?”

Minho looks up from the cutting board, follows your gaze to where it’s fixed on the scattered pictures that litter his fridge. “They’re good,” he says, smiling down at a head of garlic, “My mom sends pictures all the time. She says they claw at the door to my room when they miss me.” He smashes the garlic under the knife’s blade by hitting it with the heel of his palm. “It’s cute.”

“You’re cute.”

Minho, in a very flashy demonstration of what it means to be cool, calm, and collected, slices his thumb mid-chop.

“Shit.” he mutters, dropping the knife.

It’s not that bad, just a little nick, the surprise was mostly what scared him. He probably doesn’t even need a bandaid. But despite how small it is, nothing stops you from hurriedly walking up to him and taking his hand in yours, his thumb held closely to your face for inspection.

“Are you okay?” You turn his hand over between your fingers, the soft pads of them against his calloused ones. Minho is dumbfounded, struggling to find the words to say.

“Yeah—um, it’s fine. My fault. I was distracted.” He stammers out, pulling his hand back and holding it up. He wiggles his fingers, making a show of bending and twisting his thumb that, at most, has just a small cut on the side. “See? Perfect.”

Your face relaxes, and then you’re laughing. Why are you laughing? Either Minho looks like a complete idiot or he’s suddenly the funniest person in the world for being clumsy and reckless and almost ruining the night by losing a finger. Whichever one it is, he doesn’t care, as long as he gets to hear that sound again.

“Let me help cook, please? I know you said you would do it all but clearly you’re a threat to the integrity of this meal.” You say, bumping your hip against his to move him away from the cutting board.

Minho scoffs. “I wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t catch me off guard.”

“So what? You admit that I make you flustered?”

Oh.

Minho wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t prepared for the—the flirting that’s clearly happening. You’re flirting with him, right? Why else would you have called him cute or given him that suspicious side eye after you asked that question?

You and Minho have joked around like this before, but it was always empty with no real feelings attached—as far as he could tell. You’re a naturally friendly person, getting along with others comes easy to you. He’s seen the way you talk to the other guys and has always just assumed he was no different in your eyes than they were. Sure, there were moments where maybe your hand lingered on his arm for a little while after he made you laugh, or the two of you would steal glances across the room. Sometimes when Hyunjin said something stupid you’d both catch the other’s eye and make a face, just another funny way of proving that you were both on the same wavelength most of the time. It’s kind of why Minho is so taken with you—he’s never met anyone that gets him the same way.

Reluctantly, Minho puts his pride aside and allows you to help. And as it turns out, you’re actually really good at cooking. Minho doesn’t have to instruct you much, and before he knows it you’re both working like a well-oiled machine, scooting past one another as you switch places between the stove and the sink, reading each other’s minds without even having to ask.

“Taste this.” You say, holding the spoon up to his mouth. Minho leans forward, front teeth poking out, and brings the spoon into his mouth. You cup your hand under his chin to catch any droppings, watching in anticipation as he smacks his lips together.

His eyes light up, big and brown and twinkling under the light of the kitchen. “Perfect.” He smiles.

“Oh you have—uh,” you stop him with a hand on his forearm just as he’s about to turn back to the sink, your other hand hovering next to his face hesitantly, “It’s just, um, your—here.”

Minho’s eyes go wide when your thumb swipes against the corner of his mouth, your touch feather light. It’s so intimate, the only sound being the music playing low from the speaker on the counter. He’s half convinced that you’re able to hear his heartbeat, blood pumping loud in his ears.

“You had some sauce…on your face.” You say shyly, your palm still pressed to his cheek.

“…Oh.”

Minho’s never really looked into your eyes from this close up before. He’s always known they were beautiful, the shape of them soft, full of nothing but the world. He can see himself in them from here, and, selfishly, he hopes you can see yourself in his, too.

He might be imagining it when your gaze flicks down to his lips for just a fraction of a second, but there’s no time to unpack any of that when the sauce starts bubbling over the edge of the pot, spilling on to the burner as loud sizzling and smoke fills the kitchen.

It’s chaos. The bottom of the pot is burnt and there’s only so much of it that’s salvageable. He only bought the exact amount of ingredients too, because this is a self-proclaimed no-food-waste household (as explicitly stated in the napkin contract he has with Jeongin, much to his dismay). So, hooray for conscious consumption of goods!

At the end of it all, there’s no one to blame. You’re both guilty of…whatever that was.

Minho tries to reassure you that it’s okay as he dials the number for the pizza place just down the street, simultaneously shutting down all your attempts to pay as an apology. It doesn’t matter to him, he’d do anything as long as it means he gets to spend time with you. At the end of the day, it’s another memory that he’ll hold close to his heart.

“Listen,” you say, swallowing down a mouthful of pizza, the both of you seated on his couch with a half-eaten box of pizza open on the coffee table, “I know you wanted to cook and all—which, by the way, I’m still sorry—but this is so good. However I’m sure whatever you made would’ve been better.”

Minho chuckles. “Stop lying,” he wipes his hands on a napkin, “I can guarantee you that whatever I cooked wouldn’t be as good as this anyways.”

“Stop selling yourself short, Min. You’re good at everything you do.”

The words fall from your lips so easily, like it’s something you’ve convinced yourself of long ago. Minho’s never been the type to bounce around from one thing to another, always choosing to stick with it until he has it down to a science. Cooking is one of them. Jeongin can attest to all the times Minho has berated him with tasting his latest dishes, chasing him around the apartment with a spoon. The words tighten themselves around his heart.

“I’m not,” he rolls his eyes, “But nine times out of ten, grease and mozzarella cheese are gonna win. I know that for a fact.”

You laugh, and the conversation gradually diverts into a debate about the top ten best greasy foods in existence. You’re heated, half kneeling on the couch with a finger pointed at him as you plead your case for onion rings, when your eyes go past Minho’s head and settle on the shelf of games in the hallway.

“You have games?” you ask, suddenly giddy with excitement as you hurry over to inspect the selection.

Minho watches with fond eyes, collects the plates and napkins to throw away. “Yeah, most of them are Innie’s. We don’t really use them. Sometimes when we’re drunk, other times when we’re bored and decide to wager money for fun.”

You hum, not really paying attention. Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, some decks of cards, Uno—you scan the shelf until your eyes light up at what you find hidden at the bottom.

“Min! Can we play Jenga?”

“Jenga?” Minho asks, re-entering the living room. The coffee table is clear now, and he sits between it and the couch, his back against the cushion. “Isn’t that kind of boring? We have other stuff there.”

“It’s only boring if you play it the way it’s supposed to be played.” You roll your eyes. Minho turns to you when you situate yourself on the floor beside him and only momentarily contemplates running to the bathroom when your knee knocks against his. He’s been holding it together pretty well so far, however The Sauce Incident had him ready to book it if anything had gone further.

“Well how else are we supposed to play it?” He frowns.

“We make up our own rules.”

The pieces scatter across the wood of the coffee table, clacking as you diligently begin putting them together. “This is a date, right?” You ask, stopping for a moment to turn and assess his response.

Minho stills. He genuinely forgot the grounds on which tonight had even happened in the first place. Spending time with you makes him forget everything else. And, despite his fears in the beginning, being on a date with you has felt so natural that it almost seems like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

Your eyes meet. For a moment, Minho lets himself wonder what it’d be like if he went for it right then and there. “Yeah,” he says slowly, unblinking, hoping you can see the sincerity on his face, “A date. One of the best ones I’ve ever been on, actually.”

He almost cries out in victory when your face flushes pink. “Now who’s a liar?” You ask quietly, going back to piecing together the game.

Minho has learned something new tonight: he really likes seeing you flustered.

“Why do you ask?” he decides to cut you the slack, “Or what does this being a date have to do with Jenga rules?”

He waits as you finish the stack, your tongue sticking out in concentration. You’re so cute. Minho mentally pockets that image for safe keeping.

“Sorry, okay, it’s done. But basically, if we pull out a block, we get to ask the other person a question.”

“And if the tower falls…?”

“Hmm,” you think for a moment, chewing on your bottom lip, “Oh! I know. If you lose you have to tell me why you asked me on a date.”

Minho’s stomach flips. “Okay. If you lose you have to tell me why you accepted the date.”

Something unreadable passes over your face, but it’s gone in an instant. You hold your hand out for a shake, and Minho wraps his fingers around it gently.

“Deal.”

“Why are you taking all of the middle pieces?” Minho pouts.

The two of you have gone through a couple turns by now, throwing out random questions for the better half of fifteen minutes. Favorite colors, childhood foods you wouldn’t eat, the best memory you have from high school. Minho’s learned a lot, has fallen for you a lot more. But that was always a given. It’s impossible not to when he can feel the warmth from your body where you’re seated next to him, your presence overtaking all of his senses.

“Because I’m trying to win,” you laugh, putting your freshly pulled piece at the top. Just a little crooked, too. To piss him off. “Favorite movie?”

“Ponyo. Easy. My turn.”

“Seriously? Why Ponyo?”

“One question at a time, princess.”

He means it as a joke, really. He doesn’t even realize what he’s said until after the fact, the nickname making your heart skip a beat. Minho notices, the corners of his lips tugging downwards as he suppresses a smile. He manages to flick one of the side pieces until it gives way.

“What’s one thing you regret?”

“Ooh, getting deep I see.” You laugh, taking a sip of your soda. There’s a long pause, and then, “I regret spilling my coffee on Hyunjin that day.”

Minho’s brow furrows. You…regret it? He runs through all the possible reasons in his head. Surely it can’t be because you regret becoming friends with them, friends with him, right?

“Why?” He chances.

“One question at a time, princess.” You echo, laughing at his shocked expression.

You remove the last middle piece. “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate our first date?”

Minho’s brain is going a thousand miles a minute. “A ten. Wouldn’t trade it for the world.” He says it fast, wastes no time in moving forward to remove his own piece. He doesn’t even notice that your cheeks have gone pink again, too busy itching to ask his next question.

“Why do you regret spilling your coffee on Hyunjin?”

Minho watches you, lets his mind wander to the worst possible thing you could say in this situation, and mentally prepares to book it to the bathroom.

You take a deep breath, “I regret it because I wasn’t supposed to spill it on him. I was supposed to spill it on you.”

Wait, what?

Minho blinks. “What are you talking about?”

This is humiliating for you. A terrible thing to have to admit. Up until this moment, you’d thought that this information would follow you to your grave. You press the heel of your palms to your eyes, “This is so embarrassing,” you groan.

Minho pulls one hand away. He’s not really sure what to say, mostly because he’s confused, but, “You can tell me.”

“I had…” you start, looking up at him slowly, “A plan. With Jiwoo.” Minho nods for you to continue. “I’d seen you and Hyunjin walking through the quad a few times, and I thought that you were cute, but I didn't know how to approach you. So I did something stupid and decided that I would literally just crash into you. But I fucked it up.”

I thought that you were cute. The words echo in Minho’s ears like a bell. All this time, all those stolen glances and lingering touches, all the ways you would make hope spike in his chest that maybe you felt the same—they were real.

“So you, wait—” Minho shakes his head, “So you’re telling me that all this time…”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, Min, really. All this time.”

Minho’s never been skydiving, but he imagines that this is what it feels like. Free falling—his soul hurtling towards earth at a horrifying speed, slamming back into his body right here in his living room with a force so strong it would knock him off his feet if he wasn’t already sitting on the floor. You were interested in him first.

Wordlessly, you lean forward, pulling out a piece with practiced ease. Minho waits with bated breaths.

“Can I kiss you?”

Minho feels like he might pass out. “Am I dreaming right now?”

“You didn’t pull out a piece.”

He scrambles forward, clumsily nudging a piece on the side that ends up sending the entire tower toppling over. You smile at him, soft and sweet. “Looks like you have to pay up with an answer. You know, since you lost.”

Minho doesn’t care. “Because I like you,” he breathes out, “I asked you on a date because I like you. I like you so much, ever since I saw you that day. And, funnily enough, I’ve always wished you’d spilled that coffee on me instead, too.”

The confession feels like a weight lifted off his shoulders. He’s spent so long pining after you, laying awake at night thinking about how this would go down if he ever got the chance. He never expected for it to happen like this, much less for you to possibly feel the same.

Panic slowly starts to rise in his chest when you don’t respond. He watches as you reach an arm over, build a small tower out of a few pieces, and then knock it over. You turn to him with a small smile, “Oops, I lost too.”

Minho is so in love with you that it hurts.

“I accepted the date because I like you, Minho. I’ve just been waiting for you to ask.”

He doesn’t think twice before he’s surging forward, cupping your face with one hand and kissing you with a tenderness that has you melting into his touch.

There’s no fireworks behind his eyes, no big bang or grand display of whatever it is that happens in the movies. But there’s a warmth, it starts out small in the center of his chest and spreads throughout his entire body, lights his skin aflame and travels all the way to his fingertips. You’re like that. A gentle presence, someone who worms their way into the very essence of his being and burrows into the deepest parts of him, like it was never his to begin with. Kissing you is slow, and deep, and right. He wouldn’t want it any other way. Minho doesn’t ever want to stop.

He lets his other hand fall to your waist, pulls you closer until you’re practically straddling him with his back against the couch, your knees on either side of his hips. Minho lets out a long, drawn out groan when you tilt his head back farther, his lips parting and allowing you to lick inside of his mouth. It’s so good. So good. He can’t believe he ever lived without knowing what this felt like; lived without ever having you this close before.

After a while, Minho reluctantly pulls back, holding you by the shoulders. When he looks up, your eyes are half-lidded. You look utterly debauched, cheeks pink and lips swollen from how hard they’d been pressed against his own. “We should probably slow down.” He tries hard to convince himself, too. “Talk about it all, you know? I don’t—this isn’t a one time thing for me. I don’t want it to be. I like you. I want you to know that.” He says softly, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

You lean into his hand, smiling when he flattens his palm to let your head rest there. “You’re like, so perfect that I want to kiss you until you forget your own name.”

Minho’s ears go red, his head falling forward until it rests against your collarbone. The feeling of his breath against your skin makes you laugh and run a hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck fondly.

“This is gonna be so bad now that you say stuff like that.”

“Bad? No, I think it’s cute. You’re cute.”

“Shut up,” he whines, but there’s no bite to it. Not when he can look up and press a kiss to your lips. A dream come true. The entire world in his hands, exactly where it was always meant to be.

🏠

In the morning, when Jeongin comes back home, one hand covering his eyes just in case, he calls out,

“Everyone better be dressed! Or else I’m ripping up that napkin and making a new one with No fornicating on the furniture added into the fine print.”

When he doesn’t get a response, he rounds the corner, and finds the two of you nestled into the couch. Minho’s back is pressed into the cushions, his arms wrapped tightly around you as you nuzzle your face into his neck.

Jeongin huffs out a laugh, sends a quick text to Hyunjin that reads: Negative. Clothes are still on. But they’re so cute it’s almost sickening.

He snaps a picture to send to the group chat, grabs a piece of cold pizza, and retreats to his room.

Yang Jeongin Fanclub

jeongin: [Attachment: 1 image]

chan: AWWWWWWW

jiwoo: i’m gonna cry

changbin: dude is that the good pizza from down the street?

hyunjin: FINALLY

hyunjin: wait

hyunjin: does this mean i have to send back his $20?

[tags: @palindrome969 @summergirlsmj @n1staytiny @strwbrrychannie ]

© all rights reserved. godslino 2024. please do not steal, translate, or re-upload.

[mummer]

jace being the first one to jump to call valyrian exceptionalism a farce ties so well into his bastard identity and the fact that he’s had to baldly lie about himself for his entire life to fit the image of the perfect heir…. like of course he would understand that better than anyone. people have died to protect that lie, his lie! rhaenyra telling him this garbled incoherent nonsense prophecy like it changes anything about what they’re doing or why they’re doing it. little normcore guy in targ family hell beating down his bad rebellious thoughts with a hammer every morning trying to reconvince himself of the lie, of the idea he could be the perfect shining promised prince but he knows something is Wrong. a totally mundane trivial death at the centre of the spiral. quentyn voice i must be the hero the hero never dies.

[melathan]

bangchan x fem! reader "your body will remember me."

word count — <1k

warnings — NSFW, 18+. pervert(?) bangchan, drugged! reader, dub con. choking, piv/penetration, overstimulation, squirting, dumbification, drunk sex (sorta), use of nicknames (babygirl), unprotected sex (be safe yall)

editor note — i saw bangchan's new solo and was like . mm. christopher in the building yall.

You were in a daze, red and black filling your blurred vision and your body heating up to a dangerous degree. And yet, your tongue was loose, your mouth spilling out noises and nonsense. Your numb fingers gripped the pillow, your cheek flush with the firm mattress.

“Good girl,” He mumbled behind you, his large hand dragging along your neck and gripping it. His other hand splayed on your lower stomach, holding your hips up to connect them with his own. 

After seeing you like this, Bangchan didn’t feel so guilty anymore. Sure, you were the one to initiate the conversation. But he was the one to initiate this.

You let out another garbled moan, eyes rolling into your skull. Your legs trembled, your cunt clenching down on him. He let out a breathy curse as he gripped your stomach, his slow, hard movements stuttering.

Something about slowly dragging his thick cock against your tight walls, feeling everything as the veins made you shake and drool, was so much better than fucking you into the mattress–

The gold party dress that caught his attention in the first place was on the pillow, the straps stressed and nearly torn. Your lace bra was still intact, but the panties were torn and hanging on your ankles. Chan’s red tie was knotted snug against your eyes, small tear stains already penetrating through the silk fabric.

You felt his tip brush agonizingly slow again on your g-spot and you convulsed. “C-Chan–”

“Shh,” He hushed you, pressing two fingers against your wet mouth. You welcomed them instantly, your tongue messily swirling around the digits. “You’re being such a good girl for me, baby. So good…”You whined again, almost like an injured animal. The noise grounded Chan for a second, realizing his situation.

He was fucking the girl of his dreams, the only thought occupying his mind, his obsession…

She was drunk on liquor and Chan’s cock, resulting in a babbling, sloppy mess. 

He hissed, going to lift up your hips even higher. He started pistoning into you, the abrupt change of pace making you scream. You gripped the sheets, drool soaking the mattress, and the tears darkened the silk tie even more. 

“Chan-! S’too much! Too much– Chan~!” Did he mention that he started on you two hours ago?

You convulsed even more violently, your sloppy lips opening in a silent moan as you cum for the nth time. Chan felt a familiar pressure building up against his cock, but he hissed and continued to shallowly fuck you. Your hips jolted, toes curling as he fucked you while squirting

You were so sensitive you felt like you could pass out. You could feel every inch, every vein– fuck even the coarse hair. You felt everything.

Your arms flail, but he manages to catch them and pin both down with one hand. He continued fighting against your orgasm, your essence going everywhere. 

He leaned to your ear, his teeth clenched and jaw taught. “Relax, baby girl. Daddy’s taking good care of you, right? He’s making you feel so good, right?”Your head lolled, more hoarse moans leaving you. At this point, your wet cunt and his thick dick was louder than your moans. It was more arousing to him, faintly hearing your whimpers but mostly the wet slapping of your hips against his. 

You probably will kill him next morning. Sure, you’ll know that you fucked him. But you wouldn’t know the alcohol buzzing in your veins, tainted with a drug thanks to Chan, melted a hole in your memory. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it, but at least he knew.

His camera knew. His photo and video library knew too. He let out another hiss, tossing his phone aside as he instead rammed your hips against his, having you move on his cock. At this point you were dead weight, letting the man use you like a limp doll. Within minutes he came, a loud curse leaving him as thick cum flooded your abused hole. A garbled complaint left you, but you couldn’t complain about the sticky warmth left between your legs.

Fuck, he hoped that you were on the pill. If not, well…

He gripped your neck again, making your back arch as he lifted you up to his mouth. “I just need your body to remember, baby.

“Your mind can find any other guy, but your body knows it belongs to me now.”

08.25.24

[quimichi]

I Read Your Twisted Wonderland 'When You Wake Him Up With Nonsense" and Wanted To Ask If We Can Get One With The Staff(With Staff!Reader) and RSA(With RSA!Reader)? 🥺

Feel Free To Ignore😭

Love You❤️ And Have a Great Day!

"=⌕ YOU WAKE HIM UP WITH NONSENSE / pt. 2

⌕ pt. 1 here

warnings: bad writing, as usual, some characters may seem ooc, I apologize, pet names, some might dislike those

summary: You wake him up in the middle of the night with some nonsense

characters: RSA, NRC Staff and Rollo x GN!Reader

word count: 1,995

a/n: some are shorter or longer, it's just that I find some characters hard to write or I write them like I view them :) I HOPE YOU ALSO HAVE A VEEEERY NICE DAY TOO!

Chenya

The sound of your voice draws his attention to you. His breath hitches as he tries to stay asleep. He does not respond, instead he remains still as a statue. It is as if he wants to hear every word you have to say. And he wants to keep sleeping.

"Chenya, Chenya, Chenya, Chenya...Artemiy Artemiyevich Pinker." Your voice cuts through the quiet. Your words pull him out of a dream.

He opens his eyes, and he looks straight at you and whines. "Why you gotta pull my full naaaaame...jus' wanna sleeeep..." "Yesterday I saw a motorcycle on the sun kissing the curtains in a cow." He blinks, utterly baffled by your words. His brow furrows and he is at a complete loss with how to respond. Finally, he settles on a simple and tired, "Wha-?" "What I said." You are utterly illogical. It makes it nearly impossible for him to comprehend you.

Your mind is fascinating, weird. You're fucking dumb sometimes.

His lips twitch upwards. That's why he loves you.

"You make no sense, ya know." He signs hard, rubbing his eyes. "And ya woke me up for that bullshit...you gotta pay me back, you better."

Neige

The sound of your voice is so familiar, and the words hit him like a wave of cool air while he's asleep. His body shifts as he starts to respond in the depths of his sleep.

"Wha-" He starts to say, his words faltering on the cusp of waking. "Cutie are you...is everything okay?" he asks groggily, a bit of sleep still clinging to him. If he could blush in his slumber, he would have been scarlet in shame for how his words slurred and garbled on his tongue. He slowly sits up, looking more worried than ever.

"I just saw a chicken picking up McDonald's at the gas station for detention." The words catch him off-guard once more, and he stares at you with a small confused smile on his face. He tries to process what you've said, but finds it impossible without more explanation.

His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and he tilts his head to the side, looking way to adorable for his own good. His confusion soon gives way to a brief chuckle, and he smiles widely and nods, still processing your words.

"That's such a nice story!...You should tell me the ending tomorrow though..." and with that he pulls you back against him and pets your head gently before both of you fall back asleep. He's still confused tho...

Rollo

He begins to stir, slowly waking to consciousness. His eyes dart around the room, his vision blurred and unfocused as he sits up. "Mmm, yes?" Rollo could never be mad if you woken him up for a reason, a good reason.

"I forgot to tell you that the telephone told me about the flying elephant with rainbow eyes and silver shoes." Rollo raises one eyebrow at first, thinking you're playing a trick on him. The joke is too outlandish to be real. Even this is to stupid for you.

But seeing that you're serious, he has no idea what to say. He is speechless. Oh...so you are that dumb huh? At this point the lord can't save him anymore.

"Is...that so?" he finally asks. "Yes!" Rollo stares at you incredulously as you continue. Every detail you describe is nonsensical and unrealistic. But his gaze remains firmly fixed on yours, and his thoughts are blank.

He struggles to understand why you woke him up. Is this a game? He is utterly puzzled. And his annoyance is starting to seep in. But the look in your eyes is magnetic, and it is difficult for him to hold his frustration. He sighs, "You...you are truly one of a kind, are you aware of that?" But Rollo can't help but smile at you, you just had to turn his life upside down, huh?

Crowley

He stirs slightly, his eyes blinking slowly open. He opens his mouth to speak, but then he realizes you are next to him and closes it again. His expression is soft and delicate, like your presence is a beacon of light in the darkness, and all he can focus on is you. You'd be surprised, moments of his adoration aren't that rare.

"What is it?" he asks with a slight yawn, his voice still soft and sleepy. "So like, I cooked us a clock with sprinkles of snow and the clock then when away with the pan because of their date at the baseball doctor." In spite of his tired mood, he bursts into laughter. A hearty, full-bellied laugh that only he would be so amused by such ridiculous, nonsensical statements.

"Ah, my love. It seems you have discovered the wonders of a dream," the headmaster chuckles, running his fingers curiously through your hair. For a moment he ponders about what other kinds of nonsense you would utter, if this is what your brain conjures just during your sleep.

He chuckles again in amusement. "Do go on," he encourages you, still looking through you with a light in his eyes. "Did the clock turn into a frog? Did the frog wear green boots and sing rock songs in kitchen utensils?" He's amused, but he also wants to know.

Crewel

As you call to him, you can see his eyelids twitch underneath. Your voice seems to permeate his dreams. There is no immediate answer as his eyes flutter in a way that seems to indicate that he's trying to force himself awake but still struggles to do so. He turns onto his back, his head tilting towards the sound of your voice. After a moment, he finally manages to open his eyes with a low groan. His hand reaches for his forehead and rubs it, as though he's suffered from a particularly intense headache. But once he sees you, he stops, his eyes brightening at the sight of your face.

All the weariness seems to leave him in an instance, yet not entirely. He manages a smile for you. "Puppy?..." "I just ate a singing pizza who told me the story of the bees and the snakes who danced underwater." "Ah..." Divus manages a confused hum. It takes him a moment as he seems to try and work it out in his head.

"They danced in...underwater?" He asks, voice soft. "Underwater...is a body of water...but...how does one..." he looks away from you as he attempts to picture the scenario. After a moment, he shakes his head, chuckling softly into his palm. "No matter. That is quite a tale, indeed my pup."

Divus draws you close and wraps his arms around you, burying his face into your shoulder and hugging you tightly. His breath is hot against your neck, his muscles tensing underneath.  "Sleep..." he mumbles softly, his voice seeming to get thicker as a low growl rumbles from his chest.

"Or does my pup want to keep being disobedient?"

Trein

(Solid grandpa issues ya'll have here)

It is almost as you say his name that his eyes blink quickly. They become wide and concerned. "Dearest?" he whispers with a hint of urgency in his voice. Though his expression turns gentle as he notices you aren't hurt or sick. His shoulders relax. "Yuu, have you not been feeling well?" Mozus asks, his voice a soothing melody. After a moment, he sits up. The bed creaks with the weight of his shifting body. Even Lucius wakes up from his slumber to tip tap his way over to your shared bed.

"Did you perhaps catch a cold? I could fetch some medicine if you would like." He doesn't want to see you in pain, not even for a moment. Oh, how caring he can be sometimes..."My hair turned purple because I washed it with dirt in the afternoon 13 years ago on a full red moon at midnight."

Silence hangs in the air as you speak. Mozus's expression remains concerned; worried. And then it turns into a frown. "Ah... You must've hit your head. Or else you wouldn't speak of such nonsense" he says. Though he tries to conceal it, a flicker of irritation flashes across his eyes. Your sudden statements seem to have sparked his annoyance.

"Or are you perhaps playing a childish prank on me at unholy hours?" he asks sharply, tone becoming stern. "If there is nothing else you require, I believe you've wasted enough of your time together." He tries to keep his voice neutral, but is obviously still slightly peeved at your game. "I-Im sorry..." His anger melts at your apology. His face melts back to a soft expression as he pulls you into his arms. His voice returns to its soothing tone as he presses his lips to yours.

When he pulls away, only seconds later, there's a content smile on to his lips. "Do not apologize," he says softly, voice quiet. Yet you feel a surge of pleasure run through your body. You feel almost as light as a feather once again. "I'm happy you're in best condition."

Vargas

Ashton jolts awake as he hears your voice, immediately rising into a defensive stance as he looks at you. Protectively he stands before the bed frantically looking around for potential danger with both his fists up, ready to punch whatever lurks in your shared bedroom.

"It's okay! Is there something wrong? Are you hurt?!" he asks anxiously but wild as he still holds his position. "Wha--no?!" He reacted so fast you couldn't keep up. "Oh...!" Asthon blinks a few times as he seems to calm himself. He lowers his fists, though now he seems completely at a loss for words. He stares at you blankly.

"That is good," he clears his throat, clearly embarrassed about the situation, "very good, yes " he offers a small smile, though you can sense him struggling to gather himself. "...so I woke up because the curtains were running away from a wild toaster." Ashton blinks a few times, processing this information. He seems to ponder it for a moment and then... bursts out into laughter.

It's a loud sound, like a true suburban father laugh. It's a sound of complete delight. Though, it doesn't take him too much effort to bring himself back. "Ah... yes," he says, "Wild toasters. They are very problematic." He lets himself sink into bed again, and like before, you're to slow to react. Because the moment his head hits the pillow, he's gone. Snoring the night away...

Sam

"Hm?" The mighty lord stirs in his sleep. He pulls the sheets tighter around him, his body twitching in his sleep. The sound of his name being uttered by you seems to have broken through his slumber. "Wake uuuup~!" "Hm?" Sam finally looks up at you, his eyes barely open. They seem to focus on you, taking a moment to adjust to the darkness of the room before he finally smiles. "Impy...?" He speaks in the softest of whispers, his voice almost hoarse as though it had been a while. "Did my friends wakw you...or...was it my snoring?"

"My shampoo ran out cause the towel used it for their skincare routine." "Ah..." He sits up, his expression still weary from sleep. Before you can even tell him to stop, he's already risen from the bed. He's practically half-asleep as he waddles towards the shop and comes back with a bottle of shampoo in hand.

He doesn't question you or the strange request at all. "There you go," he holds up a bottle of shampoo. "Only the best for my little imp, and since its you...its on the house" he says, although he looks like he's in a trance he does smirk at you.

"Thank...you?" You question as you take the bottle from his hands. Before you know it he drops face first into bed, "But...if ya need anythin' else...get it yourself...alright?" he mumbles into the pillow.

[maniculum]

Gauging Interest in an Idea

I've noticed a couple notes on the original scorpion post along the lines of "wouldn't it be fun to engage in Bestiary Telephone and try to draw animals based on garbled descriptions?" And I was like, that wouldn't be hard to simulate, just find a friend to read you bestiary entries but not tell you what the animal is... and then I had a Thought.

I have access to an academic library and a reasonable fluency in Old and Middle English. I bet I could find a transcription of a bestiary in one of those languages, do a quick-and-dirty modern translation of each entry, and post them on here once a week with the actual names of the animals replaced by nonsense words or something.* Then people could try and draw them, with the same amount of information a medieval artist who had never seen this animal would have had access to.

*Yes, translations of bestiaries do already exist (I even have one on my shelf right now) but I don't know of any that are public domain and so I think it might be Not Cool for me to basically serialize the entire text on this blog.

I figure anyone who wants to play can post their drawings of the week's animal on their own blog using the randomly-generated nonsense-name as a tag, then at the end of the week I can round them up, link to the artists, and reveal what animal the text was actually describing. (No guarantee that the animal actually... exists, though. Lots of made-up critters found their way into these bestiaries over time.)

Before I get into finding & translating a source, though, I want to make sure there are at least a few people out there who would be interested in participating, because if nobody wants to draw stuff, then it's just a translation exercise for me, which, while fun, isn't an ideal use of my time. So:

I'm setting the poll for one week, and if there seems to be sufficient interest, I'll start getting the text together. (It'll probably take a couple weeks after that to get started, because I do have other projects and whatnot.)

[bucknastysbabe]

Whoops wrote this up, back to finishing asks. I’m currently closed for one-shots right now. Then I shall probably migrate to my side blog to catch up with my freaknasties. Behold, the pathetic pookie puppy.

Pretty, fun, a little dumb. - C. Cole

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Literally pwp, doggystyle, sub!criston, light puppy play, established Dom/sub, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, praise kink, aftercare, pnv!sex, he’s an idiot, wet and messy

Taglist: @aemonds-holy-milk @aemondsbabe @rafeism @lovelykhaleesiii @arcielee @valeskafics @thought--bubble @sugarpoppss2 @jamespotterismydaddy @fairysluna @fallingintoyourlilaceyes @starogeorgina

“Awe, puppy, you’re okay,” you cooed.

Criston had been such a good boy for you this week. He was getting his reward— access to your cunt as long as he could keep going. He’d get this as long as your puppy baby didn’t break any rules. He rarely did so the pretty little thing can wear himself out on Sundays. He had even managed to go to his job with a cock cage on. The cutest obedient little puppy, Criston was the best sub you had dated.

He was a little different today, more aggressive than normal. Usually the pup wanted missionary so he could suck on your tits and kiss if one could call it that. He’d been taking you from behind, one orgasm in now, big hands gripping your hips. Ever the velcro dog, the man’s legs caged yours in, body folded to press himself to the length of your back.

His stubble was brushing your cheek, messy curls tickling your neck. Criston was drooling, he couldn’t keep his pretty lips closed all worked up like he was. Your submissive would whine, cry, babble, even squeal when his needy cock was getting wet.

He was sweating and mouthing against your heated cheek, rambling, “Mm- feel s’good baby, oh my god, m’gonna cum again ohmy- ngh!” His frantic thrusts into your cunt grew sloppy and stilted, Criston’s pants bordering on heaves now. He moaned, “Pleasepleaseplease miss, please!”

Oh, your pitiful dumb puppy. Pussy drunk and spaced out to the point he forgot there weren’t any rules for his reward. Criston had to be reminded gently while you clenched down on his hard cock— the blunt tip grinding against your cervix. Criston whimpered as you murmured, “Go on, it’s your day sweet pup, fill me up, I know horny puppies like you can’t help it. Got to hump and beg and whine.”

“Oh…mm…yessss,” he mournfully wheedled, dumb brown eyes blinking as he registered your words. He jerked inside you, crying out as he filled you up, hot pumps of his cum stuffing you further. Criston whined, “Ah, s’its everywhere, oh miss! Oh, love your pussy, love it, fuuuuck!” You grinned, reaching back to pet his hair.

“Yeah puppy? Had a lot saved up for me didn’t you precious? Mmm, got your miss all stuffed, don’t hold back.”

Criston garbled nonsense, choking on his own spit as he shivered at your words. He swallowed, nuzzling into your palm, cock growing hard once again. His voice was ragged and pitchy with all his carrying on. Your pet managed to blabber, “M’still so full, can’t stop, you’re so wet n’tight miss. Agh- fuck.”

He began to fuck you again, cum squelching loud and filthy. Baby’s hips stuttered as he gasped, “Oh, s’all everywhere, made a mess.” You rolled your eyes and ushered him on, puppies made messes anyways— they didn’t know any better. Just cute and fun to play with, but they needed training.

A shaking hand snaked across your belly, sliding down to your messy core. Criston’s fingers circled your clit haphazardly. You arched and fucked back into him, praising your pet for being so smart and thoughtful. He cried, shivering at the praise, begging you to cum on him.

“Wetter, need it wetter, please,” was his pathetic warble.

You tilted your face to smash against puffy lips, an attempted kiss that turned into wordless breathing and moaning. The pair of you gasping into open maws as you grew sensitive and hot— dousing his swollen prick when he struck just right. Grabbing onto his wrist you writhed through the peak, praising, “Good fuh-fucking baby, getting you a pr-pretty new collar, how about white h-huh?”

Criston fucked you through his orgasm, grunting and whimpering while your pussy clenched in pulses. He shoved you down into the bed, driving into you with abandon, oversensitivity making you cry out with every drag of his cock. You gripped at a pillow, biting down on your bottom lip.

“M’sorry m’sorry miss, can’t stop, c-can’t I can’t!,” he frantically apologized, hips slapping against your reddened ass. If you could think straight at the moment you’d tease, Criston was driving coherency out of your head via brutal dicking.

“F-fuh-fuck miss, s’wet,” he repeated.

You turned to gaze at his face, his brown eyes clenched shut. Criston’s pretty lashes were wet, streaks down his flushed cheeks, lips bitten to an obscene degree. His curls were matted with sweat, falling across his pinched brow. He was goddamn gorgeous. You eyed his heaving chest and dangling chain, bouncing against that wonderfully hairy chest.

“Pretty pup,” you rasped quietly.

He smiled, dewy brown eyes dumb and empty as he gazed down at you, chanting your name like a litany. “That’s it, that’s it, don’t have to think, just rut and make yourself feel s-so good. You feel good don’t you p-pup?” Criston’s neck strained as he agreed with a little jerk of his head.

You bore back down into the pillow, letting your sweet pet have his way. His noises and rambling were adorable. Prattling on about how much he loved you, choking on sobs. Poor thing could barely string together a sentence, simply too fuck dumb for that. He slid his hands higher to your waist, fucking harder as he worked himself in your abused pussy.

It wasn’t long until you were growing sore and Criston was trembling and sniffling. He moaned, “Hurts, c-can’t, stop, no!” His words were meaningless as he powered through the overstimulation, making your eyes roll back at the thought. You could feel him trembling against you, his sweaty skin sticking to yours as he neared another climax.

Criston was sobbing now, complaining about his sore cock, throbbing deep inside. Dumb puppy couldn’t stop if he wanted to. You cooed gentle and sweet, holding his cheek as he unraveled. You almost felt numb now, focusing on getting on your sub to let go and finish up before he lost his head.

His hands clenched so hard you knew it was bruise. Criston wailed as he emptied one more time, gasping and heaving as he slipped out on accident, painting your ass with the last few pearly ropes. Cum flooded from your entrance, the intense feeling drawing a whimper from you.

He shuffled down the bed, hot tongue dutifully lapping the mess up, even if he was still crying like a bitch in heat. You reached back to grip his green collar, panting, “You’re fine baby, it’s okay, c’mere puppy.” Criston looked confused— obeying regardless. He was a downright wreck as you held your submissive, petting his hair back.

You’d already had a water bottle, towel, and some crackers on the bedside table. Placing a hand on his chest you reassured, “Relax pup, you’re all worn out now, breathe.” Criston sucked in a breath, guided by your words until he was merely teary.

“Good boy.”

You pressed the bottle to his swollen lips, Criston drinking eagerly as rivulets fell down his neck. Grabbing the towel to wipe him off had poor pup squirming and protesting, “Ungh, hurts miss, s-sorry.” He got some more praise and pecks of your lips to get him through.

Your puppy was tired now, shoving his face into your neck, arm possessively pulling you close. He breathed in a slower fashion now, rasping more nonsense. Criston would come back to after a good nap. Unbuttoning his collar and rubbing his back would alleviate his intense emotions.

“There we go, best damn puppy, lookit you.”

He blinked, shifting closer, thanking you in a small rasp. Criston’s legs intertwined with yours, pressing himself close yet again. Such a good boy, and he was all yours. You couldn’t even see the man fucking another woman now— he needed his Miss and her pretty gifts and collars. Good directions and a strict routine. You smirked, whispering back, “Love you more Cris baby.”

[syoddeye]

thinking about gaz specializing in vip protection.

gaz x gn!reader | ~660 words. tags: stalking, threats of violence and sexual assault, italics a/n: written on my phone during a lunch break, so there's that. apologies for any formatting issues.

gaz knows from the outset that the gig’s gonna be rough. that it’s not the usual kind of vip protection.

the client’s a victim of stalking and harassment. poor thing’s found dozens of foul messages painted on their front door, ranging from angry diatribes to garbled nonsense. letters left in their mailbox. notes tucked under their car’s wipers. their phone number and email address have been compromised repeatedly, and no amount of changing them shakes the bastard.

gaz does his best. he is the best. on the first day on the job, he lays out the ground rules and implements checks. they’re extensive. he sweeps every nook and cranny of the house when they leave or arrive. he looks under the beds, in closets, and behind the shower curtain. the client doesn’t set foot outside unless he gives them the okay. with their permission, he installs additional cameras and alarms. he’s insistent. he won’t take any chances, won’t compromise their safety. never failed a client, doll. not gonna fail you.

for a few weeks, the new measures work. the routines are strict but effective. gaz's client sleeps through the night. they stop losing their hair. they even feel safe enough to leave the house for public engagements.

his heart swells with pride. it’s flattering when his vip boasts about his skills and how safe they feel around him. he sees the lines between the personal and professional blur, but he doesn’t stop them from hanging off his arm when he escorts around town.

but the threats return with a vengeance. the stalker escalates. the tone shifts. the messages turn violent. sexual. they don’t just target the client this time, but gaz, too.

can't wait to fuck you on top of his body. 

stop making eyes at him or i'll gouge them out. 

gonna make him watch me fuck you, gonna make you watch me kill him.

gaz tries to comfort them. he phones old friends and calls in favors. whatever it takes to catch the bastard, he’ll do it. however, when someone tries to break in one night, the vip reaches their breaking point. gaz returns after chasing the would-be intruder off and finds them in hysterics. they can’t do this anymore. no amount of money or fame is worth it. they weepily announce a hiatus, quit their projects, and withdraw from their social life. they sever ties with their management team because, for all they know, they’re the ones leaking their information.

they rent a remote property under a pseudonym and use cash. they pick somewhere idyllic, surrounded by nature. time in isolation to clear their head and hopefully throw their stalker off the trail. of course, they keep gaz on as their personal protection. they trust him. they like him.

the land's beautiful. quiet. from the house, they can see for miles around. there isn't a chance that someone can sneak up on them out here. and with no internet or phone service, and mail only available for pick up an hour away, no one can reach them either. peace at last. the client thanks gaz for sticking by them. anything for you, doll.

that first evening, while walking the perimeter, gaz calls soap on his sat phone.

—you're well and true fucked in the head, sergeant.

—i thought i wrote pure poetry. they fuckin' worked.

—affirm. you on your way?

—aye. comin' in quiet like ye asked. ready to play hero again? gonna share?

—s'pose you've earned it. see you soon.

sure enough, there’s a dark shape outside the bedroom window when gaz checks. a crouching body, fogging the corner of the glass like a panting dog, invisible unless one knows to look. gaz gives the all-clear and excuses himself. he needs to relax. sweet dreams, doll.

just as he eases into an armchair, a blood-curdling scream echoes through the house before it’s abruptly cut off. he smiles to himself and takes his time, enjoying a drink. he might as well give soap some exclusive access before showtime.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hello, my love!

I, unfortunately, missed your requests being open (six pages of a thesis is kicking my ass right now) but when they’re open again, is there a chance you could write another Dad!Price fic?

Since the last one felt so personal to me, would it be possible to have Price helping his daughter through Uni stress? Maybe she asks him to help her on her thesis? Lord knows I could use some inspo/assistance on mine!

Of course, if this is too late then feel free to delete it! I just wanted to pop in and drop a request off before I either, A: forgot about it, or B: missed your requests being open the next time :(

Sending so much love and hugs <3

Late Night Cookies

PAIRING: John Price x Daughter!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Stressed and still awake, you go to grab food from the kitchen before you get right back into your work. Your father talks some sense into you over a nostalgic recipe.

WORDCOUNT: 1.5k

WARNINGS: Stress around school, grades, papers, etc. but 90% fluff and comfort

A/N: I'm so glad you sent something in, Love! So good to hear from you again!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your eyes were blurry and your hands were shaking, the table light shining too brightly in the stillness of your bedroom as a cold breeze wafts through the cracked window. 

The words swirled on your computer screen, sitting in front of you as your head slipped forward. Letters bleed into nonsense sentences that even a genius couldn’t make sense out of. There were weights on your fingers—keeping them stuck to the keys. 

“And, thus,” your garbled speech slips out, reading the line you’d just written; eyes squinting as your headache flares. “A-and…thus…” 

Shaking your head, you pull back and press your palms into your eyesockets, your spine flopping back with an audible crack as it straightens from hours of hunched torture. A groan slips out of your lips. 

“Shit,” you growl, sighing harshly. 

University, while necessary, was really your worst enemy right now—you’re constantly stressed and getting little sleep; when was the last time you’d eaten? Pages upon pages of typed research seer your eyes while closed. Only in this tight silence of your room were you able to hear the small sounds of the TV on in the house as it wafts in from under the line of your door. 

Your hands slip down your face as you stare blankly at your ceiling, eyes burning with fatigue. The muffled shouts from football games play in your ears. 

Humming, you push back from your desk and stand, stumbling for a second as your numb legs get prickles of electricity shooting through them. You needed food, water, even. Then you can get back into it. On the way out you snatch a blanket from the frame of your bed, wrapping it over your shoulders to preserve heat. 

Like a snail, you shuffle over the hardwood before finally pushing out into the hallway with only a small bump into the door frame. Hissing, the darkness of the house was good, and before long you’d grumbled past the large form laying on the living room couch in need of any form of sustenance. So brain-fried, you end up completely missing the small questioning ask of your name as Liverpool fights off another rival on-screen. Slashing colors dance across the darkness. 

The hand on your shoulder, though, you can’t miss.

“Sweetheart?” Your father’s voice brings you back from blankly nodding off into his chest as he turns you around. You jerk back with a rapid fluttering of your eyelashes. 

“Yeah?” Your voice slurs, croaky, and you rub again at your cheeks with the corner of your blanket. “What’s up?”

Blue eyes blink down at you in shock at your state, small noise made in the back of the large man’s throat. “Hell’s this, then? Thought you were sleeping already.”

“Sleeping?” The tone is incredulous, a bit of sanity leaking back into your speech. You look up into your dad’s face and his tight beard; his eyebrows are curled in. “I’m not even close to being done. I can’t sleep yet.” 

John blinks slowly, gaze darting from the sizable bags under your eyes to the redness of your sclera—the veins that reach for your irises like infectious fingers. His grip on you tightens. 

“When’s the last time you took a break, Love?” He asks slowly, taking you by the shoulders and bending down a little. He looks concerned. “It’s bloody dark out.”

You stare and huff a sheepish, tired, smile while your dad’s expression tightens with exasperation. He blinks in disbelief at your non-answer, answer. 

“Fuckin’ hell…c’mon, Sunshine, off to bed.” Your head is already shaking.

“I’m hungry.” John sighs, and the air ruffles your hair. But he relents and before you know it there’s a hand on the back of your shoulders corralling you into the kitchen. You lean heavily into your father’s side, and his fingers curl over your opposite arm. 

A soft kiss is pressed to your head. 

“How long have you been up, eh?” You yawn and lick your lips. Flinching when John flicks the kitchen light on. Burrowing down into your blanket, you seep in his heat like a greedy lizard. “Sweetheart?”

“Dunno,” you’re guided over to the island and plopped down into a chair. “I need to finish my work.” 

He chuckles and you slouch over to fold your arms, resting your chin on them. “Well, I suppose you plan on finishing it half-asleep?” 

John opens the fridge, looking over the small remnants of supper. He frowns and turns to look at you as your face lays sideways on your limbs. You blink slowly at him.

“...Maybe,” you grumble, face hot. 

Your father grunts and closes the fridge, turning back around and crossing his arms. 

“No more of this, eh?” He begins, glaring and infecting his words with that infectious authority. “After we get you fed, you’re off to bed. That’s that.” 

You’re about to protest before your dad interrupts with a stern growl of your name. You grit your teeth and shamefully dip your head. There’s a moment of silence where the outside sounds of wind and creaking can be heard—the entire world asleep beside the father and daughter in the dim kitchen.  

John tilts his head and softens his face; feet carrying him over. Stopping beside you, he places his hand on your scalp and pats you gently, rubbing his thumb into your hair. Lashes flutter, and your body sags into the counter even more. Your father kisses your head and whispers, “You need your sleep, Sweetheart. This’ll do you no good. Pace yourself, you’ll get it done—I promise, yeah?”

“How do you know?” Your voice mutters, hesitation finally showing itself. Eyes stare at the table, red and dry. 

Your father chuckles and you glance back. He’s smiling in his own way, wrinkles showing and eyes crinkling with amusement.

“You’ve gotten this far. My girl’s not one to give it up. And even if you do,” he stands and pats your shoulder before he heads to the pantry. Your expression leaks slight confusion as he opens the door. “We can figure it out together. It’s not the bloody end of the world. It’ll pass.” 

Your internal anxiety eases at your parent's reassurance, his casual surety more of a blanket than the one you already swaddle yourself with. The subtle anxious shaking of your fingers stills after a moment of cognition. Stuffing down another yawn, you feel a warmth burn in your heart at the words and you smile. 

“When did you get all wise?” You tease, seeing John take out various ingredients as you watch. He scoffs.

“The second I got the call I was needed in hospital and had a damn daughter.” You laugh. 

“Alright, then,” your sarcastic reply slips out, and John chuckles lowly. After a moment you can’t stop your curiosity, no matter how much your limbs stay heavy. “What are you doing?”

A large bowl had been placed on the counter with a dull thunk. Blue eyes darted at you before measuring cups were spawned next to the previous object. 

“What’s it look like, then?” John’s finger casually points to a recipe that had been set up on the wall, a thin and damaged piece of paper with chicken scratch; stains, and crumpled corners. You blink at it in recognition.

“...Cookies?”

“You want chips or cinnamon?” 

Watching with wide eyes, you clear your throat and utter, “Uh, c-chips, I guess?” John grunts and focuses with a calm face. The recipe had been a sort of inside joke between the two of you. 

When your dad was off on assignment for long periods, you’d always make him a batch when he was set to leave and when he came back—a kind of soothing gesture to ease the uncertainty. To let him know you’d be alright without him here. 

He made them for you when you were sick or feeling bad. You blink quickly to dispel the sudden wetness of your eyes. 

“You helping?” John asks, not turning to you, as he dumps flour into the bowl. “Won’t taste right if you don’t.” A cheeky tone hits your ears. 

Standing, you shuffle over and grab at the chocolate bag, digging inside and stealing a few before your dad can stop you. He gives you a fake glare, huffing under his breath before smirking to himself.

Your body leans into his side and you giggle as he rubs his beard into your head. 

—

Hours later, you rest limply against your dad’s shoulder on the living room couch, empty plate on the coffee table and the TV low. You breathe softly and get the sleep you both deserve and need—of course, the work would start back up tomorrow, but it always would. Having your dad in your corner was the thing to keep you upright; your rock. 

John looks down and watches you with a deep well of affection and ease. He kisses your head before his arms reach around you, lifting with no problem. 

He carries his little girl, because that was what you would always be, off to bed and tucks you in. Snapping off your desk lamp with a small sigh of contentment and a low hum.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[januaryembrs]

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant x Reader [1]

description: Steven finds his life slowly turning upside down when the man in the mirror starts talking back, he's sleepwalking all the way to the Alps, and the woman he's besotted with from work finds herself more caught up in all of it than he'd ever wanted. [Last Night in Soho inspired]

word count: 11.1k

trigger warnings: gore, blood, swearing, reader has a dark past that will be explored more read at discretion, third person & no use of Y/N, death, reader will become an avatar eventually,

main masterlist | series masterlist

Authors note: I have been in love with this show since I watched it and have finally started the fic I’ve been wanting to since it came out! The chapters are going to be long and readers backstory is dark but this is a piece very personal to me and I hope you enjoy!!!

She felt someone picking up her limp body. The museum lights had long since been shut off, but through the darkness of the exhibition she caught a tall figure standing over her. Her lids were heavy, vision bleary, yet she blinked a few times to try and straighten her mind that still felt like it was pulsing stiffly in her tight skull. Her voice was no better, the only sound she could let out was a guttural whine as the stranger pressed hard on the three deep lacerations on her abdomen that were now gushing blood like a scene from a 90s slasher movie.

They were broad, blocking out the minimal slither of light as they crouched over her and seemed to be yelling something. Probably scolding her for getting copious amounts of thick blood over the freshly mopped floors, she thought numbly. The sound came to her in something akin to static, a muffled string of nonsense. All she knew was they were talking loud and fast. Or maybe she had a concussion too? That thing had thrown her through that glass wall pretty hard. 

She couldn’t see a mouth moving, nor could she actually see their face, just two beams of white blinking down at her. 

This couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t be happening for real. She thought maybe someone had slipped something in her drink when she was at the club, but that was two days ago. There would be no reason for her to be feeling the effects only just now. And when she had been jumped on by one of those things she’d sure as hell felt it. She'd seen it with her own two eyes the way her clothes had been ripped as something plunged its claws deep into her, heard the air whoosh out her lungs as it hurled her through the partition wall. 

She’d felt, still felt, the open wound seeping so harshly that she knew it was going to be fatal. 

There was no coming back from whatever fever dream this was. 

She blinked again up at the mystery guy who seemed to be holding her heavy head gently, but the hot, red wetness on his hands that smeared on her cheek said he also knew how fucked she was. He was muttering something, was there someone else here? Oh god, where was Steven? 

“Stev-” Came her broken murmur, but the metallic taste crawling its way up her throat cut her off as a blob of viscid blood rolled down her chin. 

“He’s here, he’s okay. It’s gonna be okay,” Said the voice back to her, his grasp on her hair tightening as she garbled. The breath, life, was leaving her now. Every time she tried to get air into her lungs, she was met with more of the thick liquid spraying into her mouth, her chest retching for oxygen.

She didn’t have long left, she realised numbly. 

The room was blackening round the edges even more now, sped up by the way she felt her hands grabbing his arm in a panic. She’d thought she would welcome the cold hands of Death, it wasn’t a stranger in her home. Death rooted himself in her very soul, and yet as it dragged her under consciousness, she couldn’t help but feel like a scared little girl and she tried to cling onto the mystery figure as if he could keep her from Death’s greedy clutches. 

It was sweet poetry, knowing she was drowning from the inside out. She had always known her biggest monster lay within her, in her every cell, festering and rotting her, since the moment she was born. There was really no other perfect way to sum up her whole life than it ending this way, choking on her own body. Grabbing onto a stranger, trying to plead for help as a few precious tears wet her face and she realised she was crying. Scared, vulnerable to her own demise like she had always known she would be. 

How do you fight off a monster coming from within? You don't. You can’t. So she didn’t. 

No amount of soft words or desperate touches on the figure helped her, it only made the departure messier, a bigger pool of blood for them to find her in.

The world felt surprisingly calm the moment she was snatched ruthlessly into Death’s open arms.

FOUR DAYS EARLIER

“Come the fuck on, Steven” Cursing under her breath, she cradled the two disposable cups of coffee tightly, her rosewood coloured lipstick surrounding only one of the lids. The London air whipped her coat around her shins, frigid and unwelcoming as it was even on a good day. 

As per usual, Steven was late for work. The two of them had an agreement to meet each other outside the museum every Wednesday and Thursday, which meant his lateness slid in her own time. She could of course just meet the undoubtedly dishevelled man inside, but what kind of a friend would she be then? Leave him to face Donna’s wrath on his own? No, if he was in for a bollocking then so were she.

Friends didn’t exactly come easy to her nowadays, either. So if waiting in the bitterness for another five minutes meant she could keep this one, then so be it.

She had even taken the time on her commute to work to grab him a drink, the thin, black ink on the sticker reading: LATTE, + CARAMEL, -XTRA ESPRESSO SHOT, -XTRA HOT. she had banked on him being late despite the fact she had left him three messages this morning asking if he was awake (he wasn’t) and called him last night before bed to remind him not to sleep in. 

A minute or so before she would have figured he was just calling in sick today, she caught sight of a slouched figure dashing off the bus, the grey knitted cardigan belonging to only one person his age in London. His thatch of messy black curls were a next dead give away, as well as the bags under his eyes that never seemed to budge even if he were to sleep two days in a row. Yet, she couldn’t help but smile at the way he seemed to apologise to a flock of pigeons he nearly trampled on in his haste up the many steps leading to their workplace.

“Donna’s going to serve our heads on sticks to scare away rude customers, you know that right?” She said, handing him his drink, now lukewarm, as he nearly crashed into her own body.

“Thanks, Dove,” He said absently as the two of them headed quickly to the entrance, “Yep, I’m aware I’ve buggered us. Bloody weird dreams again,” Steven shook his head as if to rid himself of the odd thoughts. “Sorry though, love. You must be freezing,”

She was freezing, but the way he was quick to worry over her warmed her insides more than she’d care to admit. The nickname crafted just for her, the bird symbolising ‘Quiet innocence’ in Ancient Egypt, as Steven had once told her. Sure enough, the endearing term had stuck quickly, and it warmed her to know she had a special enough place in his life to have a pet name. 

It was plain to see just by looking at the twenty-five year old she was smitten with her co-worker. No sane person stands outside in Brittain’s April winds for just a friend. But Steven was different, which she knew was what every naive young girl said about their work crush, but he truly was. Steven had a kindness she had never known someone to offer without wanting anything in return, which he didn’t. He was so sweet to her she understood why he loved the sugary caramel syrup in his coffee so much, she thought often it glazed his every word with a honeyed tone. His face was a blend of a greek god and a lost puppy, a combination she never would have banked on being so damn attractive until she met him. 

Even his smell alone of a quiet library, a rain soaked meadow and freshly brewed coffee had her inebriated. 

“It’s fine,” The woman reassured as she cut through the main lobby where it was already lively with school kids. A few queued up at the gift shop to pay for their treasures; she smiled when she saw a girl with an Anubis plushie tucked under her arm. “I’m sure she would have found a reason to snap today anyway,”

She adored her job, she really did. Graduating university with a degree in Ancient Languages, working in London’s heart of archeological texts had been a linguist’s version of Broadway. Sure, her talents were beyond soured working in the gift shop, but anything was better than the life she’d fled to get here. 

No amount of sneers and dry remarks from Donna could ever drag her kicking and screaming back to that time before she left for Soho. 

“What did you dream about this time?” She asked, her black, kitten heels clicking against the freshly polished marble floor. 

A ghost of a smile spread across his face, and her eyes couldn’t help but linger on the way his brows lifted, giving away his amusement at his own head. “It was the weirdest thing. I felt like I was flying over London, but not, like, in an aeroplane or anything, like I was flying. Like, me. No wings or anything. Like I’m bloody superman or something.” Steven shook his head again and she gave a small laugh.

“Certainly beats getting the underground. You know, I saw a rat the size of a dachshund this morning, swear on my life. I thought it was about to ask me for spare change,” Steven smiled at his colleague as they entered the Ancient Egypt area. She took a sip of her own hot latte, sweet cinnamon with whipped cream that had long since melted, the liquid already half devoured when she was waiting for him to show up. 

“Don’t you ever have dreams like that, then? That feel so ridiculous. It's like, how can my head even come up with it?” Steven asked, and her smile wobbled a little as she saw her manager set her predatory gaze on the two of them. The people pleaser in her wanted to cower at Donna’s furious expression. 

In all honesty, she wished for dreams as ludicrous as flying over Piccadilly like a Mary Poppins wannabe. She wished she had Steven’s innocent look on life, that the world around her didn’t terrify her, that it could be as gentle with her as he was. 

But that was not real life. 

Her dreams were not filled with silly fantasies of flying like heroes. They were filled with dark monsters that looked too much like men to be supernatural, that managed to catch her no matter how many times she ran, begged, screamed. They always caught up to her. Always. Leaving her clawing at the duvet, drenched in sweat and a pulse that could challenge a hummingbird’s. 

“Brace yourself,” She ignored his question, muttering the words to him as the blonde came strutting over to them with a daggers look. Ah, Donna. The woman that made her job so joyful, so easy, a delight to be around.

Donna hated her almost as much as she made it clear Steven was on a metaphorical hit list the moment he stepped foot into the museum. 

“You pair better have a good explanation,” Donna snapped, dumping a tower of boxes in Steven’s arms. 

“Bus times-” Steven said at the same time she came out with:

“Road works-” 

They both stopped, hesitating a glance to one another. The blonde looked between them, shaking her head with a furrowed brow and a scornful sigh. 

“It’s like tweedledum and tweedledee having you two together,” She muttered, nudging the younger girl towards the stands in the middle of the gift shop, “Dum, you’re stock shelves today, love,” The term didn’t sound nearly as friendly coming from her mouth, nor did it make her chest flutter like it did when Steven said it. It was condescending, rude. Made to make her feel inferior, which it did. She pointed at the man then, shoving a basket of insect themed sweets to him behind the till, “Dee, you’re selling these.” 

Donna looked between the two of them one last time, her steely blue glare never wavering, as if checking they could be left alone together without wasting company time, before going to set her unforgiving jaws on some other poor creature.

The girl set her bag behind the counter and got to work organising the merchandise, twisting the ceramic scarabs to all be facing the front. 

It was a menial job at best, being stuck stacking shelves as mothers and fathers reached over to inspect the new stock, most of the time messing up the meticulous order she’d put them out in. Kids got their grubby mits all over the glass pyramid paperweights, making her eye twitch since she knew she’d need to polish them up again, only to flash them a smile and ask them kindly if they had the pocket money to pay for it. 

They didn’t, kids just liked to fiddle with priceless things and their parents were too busy on their phones to notice. 

She was half way through showing two young girls to the sarcophagus themed pencil cases when she caught sight of Dylan at the front counter, leaning in to talk to Steven. 

Dylan was a nice woman to work with. She was one of the only people who’d tried to coax conversation out of the greenie the first week she started there, which had been painful for both of them since she had never been known to be sociable. Companionship did not come easy to her and it was only by sheer luck that Steven seemed so similarly awkward in a charming way that she was able to feel comfortable around him. 

It was childish really, a silly work crush that she had no intention of ever letting slip. He was too good for her anyway. He was sweet and kind, gentle, innocent. Everything she was not.

Steven Grant deserved someone who could give him the world. Which is why it shouldn’t have come to too much of a stab to the chest when she heard what the two of them were talking about. 

“We still on for seven tomorrow?” Dylan asked, her hair falling in those beautiful, tight curls over her shoulder. Dylan was the type who showed up to work every day looking effortlessly gorgeous which clawed at the younger girl more than she cared to acknowledge. She liked Dylan, she really did. She was friendly in a way that was genuine, didn’t have her second guessing whether she meant the compliments she gave to anyone. 

Some days she wondered if Dylan pitied her. A plain Jane girl with no family to lean on, trying to make ends meet in a city as extortionate as London and chin deep in university loans. It was enough for any attractive, confident adult woman to kiss their teeth and “Awww”. 

The girl watched the two of them, waiting for the teenagers to decide which stationary sets they wanted. They were looking for ‘different but matching’ they had said, not that she was paying much attention to them. Steven’s face was the picture of lost as he stared at the grown woman, seemingly entranced with her face. And she couldn’t blame him. Dylan flashed him a teasing smile, brilliant white teeth poking out from behind her luscious dark lips. 

“Seven tomorrow?” He asked, despite nodding happily as if he understood what she was talking about. But his friend didn’t miss the confusion blaring on his face, his eyes as brown as the coffee she’d bought him scrunched up slightly in bewilderment. 

“Best steak in town?” Dylan prompted, her smile not faltering though she seemed to also be slightly thrown off that had forgotten. 

Their unknowing audience kept her head down, not wanting to watch for a second more of their conversation. She didn’t need a degree to see the way Dylan had leaned in, her body language turned completely towards him as if to tease him with what could come if their date were to go well, her own almond eyes trailing over him with the air of confidence her younger counterpart lacked. 

“Oh right, yeah. Yeah,” Steven replied. She could tell he still had no clue what Dylan was talking about. 

“Yeah? Okay,” Dylan replied, oblivious to his dilemma, and stepped away from the desk to go tour the new group of school kids waiting in the hallway. 

Steven followed her trail hotly before she could leave, “Sorry but,” He stepped towards her to talk a little quieter, almost embarrassed about how forward he was being, “Are you asking me out?” 

Dylan stopped, reeling slightly in shock before she wagged a finger to him and chuckled. “You’re funny. I’ll see you then.” She seemed unbothered by his ‘joke’ though she could hear in his own voice he was muddled. The woman walked away with a sultry looking smile, her eyes flicking to her where her other coworker silently arranged the pencil sarcophaguses. “Morning, babe,” She gave the girl a friendly squeeze on the upper arm as she passed. It only made it more difficult to writhe in jealousy knowing the woman he was seeing was downright lovely.

“Morning, Dylan,” She returned the smile, though the bitterness festered inside her. She had no claim over him, and she really couldn’t blame the two of them for gravitating towards one another. Not only was she merely twenty-five, a decade under Steven and Dylan’s thirty-five years, but Dylan was sexy, confident, flirty. Knew what she wanted. She was incredibly smart too, not an airhead like some other people trying to live the big dream in London. Dylan was a tour guide at the British Museum, and what was she? A graduate with a dead degree, pun intended, and a job that could be done by any wannabe walking in here.

Taking a moment to rearrange her feelings, shoving down the way her heart wriggled in her chest as the little green monster worked its way through her veins, pumping disappointment around her body like a drug. 

The two young girls seemed to only then decide which pencil boxes they wanted, unbeknownst to her inner turmoil, and she remained silent as she led them over to the till to talk to Steven, more for her own benefit than theirs. 

“I didn’t know you’d asked her out,” She said finally, though it came out as a croak, which she cleared from her throat quickly. Steven scanned their items as the girls both fiddled with ten pound notes, the great Queen Elizabeth staring at the woman from their hands as if she even knew how childish she sounded.

“Neither did I,” Steven replied honestly, printing off the receipts for them, “And you would think for a woman like her there’d be no chance I’d forget a date, you know what I mean?”

Ouch. She smiled tightly, waving the younger girls off as they caught up with Dylan’s tour group. The woman of the hour. Of course he’d be elated at the sound of that, what man with eyes wouldn’t? Anyone would count their stars lucky to be given a chance by a temptress like her. 

“Must have needed that coffee today after all,” She joked, though she couldn’t bring herself to smile properly, instead finding a middle ground between a grimace and a simper. 

Steven chuckled at her, shaking his head. “Must have. What would I ever do without you?” She grinned painfully at him, looking away to try and hide the way her face grew hot at his thoughtless words. “Am I still walking you home tonight?”

Another of their routines. She lived closer to Islington than the lovely apartment Steven had in Whitechapel. Despite paying a lot per month to live so close to the city centre, some areas of London like the borough she lived in was still ridden with some of the highest crime rate in the county. Steven was more thoughtful than anyone she had ever met, a rarity in this place, and on the days they were at work together he would ride the underground home with her before detouring around to his own apartment even further away. 

“Uh, no,” She replied, busying herself with unloading one of the boxes Donna had dumped in Steven’s hands earlier. She loved spending time with Steven, loved it so much that she felt guilty of lusting over him without his knowledge, but she couldn’t bear to hear any more about this date that he would no doubt want to pick her brain apart over. He’d want to ask what to wear, how to style his hair, if he should buy her chocolates and flowers even though she already knew he would. And the whole time she’d be hoarse in the throat from holding back the urge to say Date me instead, I’m begging you.  “No, I have a date of my own tonight,”

Liar. Liar. Liar. 

It was like their monarch Elizabeth was still glaring at her, judging her through her inky lashes and driving the dagger in further at the fact that this kind of behaviour was exactly what made her too immature to be considered for a real date with Steven.

He raised his brows, surprised. It wasn’t uncommon for her to have an occasional fling with a guy every now and then. But none of them really progressed to a date, just a single night of passion to groan over in embarrassment when Steven asked how her weekend went. 

“Oh, who’s the lucky guy?” Steven asked, nudging her shoulder in a tone that was nothing but teasing. 

“No one, just someone I met on tinder,” She brushed off, the lack of excitement making the man stop trying to pry a smile out of her. 

“What’s the matter?” She shrugged at him, not coming up with a response in time. What he took as nerves was in fact guilt and disgust feasting on her insides at the fact she was lying to him. Lying. There was no mystery man, no one coming to save her from this awkward display of what pure jealousy can do to a reasonable person. “You can always cancel if you don’t want to go.”

“I just…” she trailed off, stuck for what to say. He was looking at her with those puppy eyes no grown man should be able to perfect. And yet he was patiently waiting for her to stumble on the right set of words, his entire focus on whatever it was troubling her. That was another thing, for as chatty as a person as Steven was, he was just as good a listener, and she could tell he gave her everything every single time they would talk.  “I just don’t know what to wear, is all,” 

He seemed content with her answer as his eyes trailed down her body. She squirmed under his gaze but hid it well (not at all) by pulling her cardigan sleeves over her hands and balling her fists to fidget with, “Wear what you’re wearing now,” He said simply, as if it were obvious.

She looked down. A large top and casual jeans did not exactly say date worthy, though she wasn’t sure if there were actual rules to hypothetical dating, seeing as her man was fucking imaginary. 

She giggled at him nonetheless, shaking her head, “These are my work clothes, Steven. I can’t go like this.”

“Why not? I think you look lovely,” Steven’s comment was passing, tiny in the scale of things. Yet it sent her heart scrambling for a grip on reality. He was just her friend, complimenting her on her perfectly ordinary clothes. Nothing more. 

It wasn’t until she found herself smiling at a set of metal Pharaohs that she realised she needed to get a date for this evening fast. If Dylan and Steven could find someone in this wide city, surely it couldn’t be too hard for her to.

Sound was the first thing that came back to her. The crappy animated kids show she had been watching out of pure boredom last night was still playing after being left on all night. No doubt running up her already high electric bills. The exaggerated, slapstick bangs blared through the speaker. That caught her attention, drawing her into the awake like a fog horn from shore. The midday sun slipped through the open curtains, flicking over her lids and coaxing her to open them. She did so gently, lashes batting over her cheeks as she tried to make sense of where she was. 

Her sofa. 

The two empty mugs glared back at her from the coffee table, making her eyes wince in confusion. Why was she making tea so late last night?

Then the stench hit her. The smokey yet overwhelmingly powerful smell of a gentleman caller named Jack Daniels wafted up her nose and brought back a panorama of memories flicking through her head; The date. A real date that had been scheduled since Thursday. A completely ordinary blonde named James. The restaurant. Him being almost too charming. Fake laughing at his jokes she had already seen on Twitter weeks ago. Him touching her thigh every chance he could get. Suggesting they go to a club. Dancing. Shots. More dancing. Sharing a beer she pretended not to think was the most horrendous thing she’d ever tasted. More shots. More dancing. Him grabbing her hips. Her waist. Him kissing her neck, cheek, lips. Him grabbing her more, something she would find sleazy if she wasn’t desperate to force Steven out of her intoxicated brain. 

Which led to her apartment. The sofa, as classy as it sounded, was seemingly a better option than her bed. She had been quick to shut him down when he suggested moving it to her room; that was too intimate. That was her space, which would only be tainted by this stranger wanting to bend her over. So the sofa it was. 

Whiskey served in old mugs she got from the gift shop being chugged for Dutch courage. The same mugs she had bought with Steven as part of a set. They had taken two each, promising that they would be used whenever the other visited. 

She had given him Steven’s mug out of spite, even in her vodka riddled brain she was burying her feelings six feet under. 

Her hand shot out when she heard her phone buzzing, not wanting it to wake up her actual gentleman caller. 

The phone was clumsily brought to her ear, not even bothering to check who was calling before she swiped the green icon.

“Hullo?” It came out a horrible croaky mess and had her coughing the second she’d asked. 

“Hi, Dove! Just called to see how your date went.” Steven’s voice blared through the speaker, which only served to have her pulling it away and groaning. “And also to tell you about my dream, I think it was the weirdest one to date!”

“Woah, slow down, Steve-” She tried to say, but the man had clearly a mouthful to tell her and continued on regardless.

“I was in the alps, but it was all so real. There was this group of people taking it in turn to hold hands with this weird American guy, and then I got into a high speed cupcake-van chase with the lot of them because they started saying I’d stolen this little scarab thing from them, I don’t know where I get this stuff from-” Her eyes scrunched together in pain, though she lay in the quiet and tried to gather her bearings. She sat up from the sofa, shivering when she saw it was around midday outside and she had forgotten to close the window. 

“Sounds intense,” She mused to keep him talking, pulling a blanket over her still nude body as she stood to close it and preserve the heating. Her head spun as she stood, a rush of bile rising to her throat dangerously, which she choked back down and looked around the room. Quickly realising she was alone in her flat, she shuffled over to the kitchen in her blanket cocoon to find her purse to see how bad the damage her little excursion had done to her limited stash as any responsible youth did after a night out in London. 

“It was! I swear it was like I could feel the cars smashing into me- Oh right! How was your date?” 

She blanched, head still pounding, “Uh. Yeah it was great.” It was average at best. “He was super funny,” For a Twitter fraud. “So romantic,” If romantic was the new word for ten minutes of missionary and not even making her cum. “He took me wine tasting,” She was sure she’d be tasting the wine she’d bought at the club any second now judging by the way her head spun, “Yeah, he was great,” He wasn’t you, Steven.

“I’m so pleased for you, love!” Her best friend cheered, a part of her writhing in repulsion that she had lied to him again. Though maybe that was the wine begging to make an appearance. She stuck the lever down on the kettle to get the water boiling, sure that a fresh cup of strong tea would be the only thing to pull her through this hangover.

Part of her, the dark, twisted part, wanted him to be jealous. Wanted to make him as frustrated and envious as he had unknowingly made her. But he would never, could never. Steven was tender and good. He was too sweet to ever think a single bitter thought towards her, towards Donna even. Which only served to make her feel even more rotten inside. 

“How was your date with Dylan?” She forced herself to ask. It was selfish for her to think, but she wished more than anything for him to tell her that it went horribly. She hated the part of her inside that sang with glee at the idea of him hating his date. She truly was wicked inside, and the idea only reminded her more of why she would never be asked on a date by him. Maybe he could see it too, how sick she was for wanting the world to suffer if she couldn’t have the one man she’d ever truly wanted. 

“That’s not until tonight, love, remember?” He said casually, as she fumbled around her kitchen for her handbag. She locked eyes on the little black clutch sitting on top of the counter. Her brows furrowed in confusion, she could have sworn Dylan said they were meeting Friday, two full nights ago. Her heart plummeted, maybe it was a second date. 

Ofcourse it was. Ofcourse they hit it off, who wouldn’t. He was as smitten as anything and Dylan wasn’t that kind of woman that was too afraid to tell him exactly what she wanted. If she wanted to see him again, then Steven would give her exactly what she asked for.

“Tonight?” She asked, squeezing the phone between her shoulder and her head as she popped open the clasps to her bag. 

“Yeah. I wouldn’t forget a woman like her twice in a row,” Steven joked. But what should have made her gut curdle in pain only fell on deaf ears. 

Her purse was gone. Her purse that never left her damn bag, that she had stuffed her rent money in as soon as she’d gotten it was missing. 

“I-I’m gonna have to call you back, Steven,” She uttered through the heart sized lump in her throat. Her palms were already clammy with sweat, both from the drink and from her sheer panic, “Good luck on your date,”

“Alright, gators!”

She barely got a chance to murmur their goodbye back before she had thrown her phone down on the plain, white counter and dumped out the contents of her bag. 

Hair ties, the odd two pence, a pen she stole from the bank. But no purse. 

She turned her coat pockets inside out, the blanket falling down her waist and exposing her round breasts to the cold air. But she couldn’t care less. The goosebumps slithering up her arms did nothing to fight the hot panic as the sofa cushions were thrown off their frame, the young girl still turning up empty handed. 

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. 

This could not be happening. She hadn’t opened her bag all night, even when she got out of the taxi she had her phone readily in her hand and the bag tightly closed. Someone could have taken it in the club, sure, but that made no sense seeing as her bag was definitely still heavy with the wallet when she had gotten home, not near empty like it was now. 

Which only meant…

Her date had fucking stolen from her. 

“FUCK!” She yelled, throwing her vacant bag across the room with tears brimming her eyes. 

It seemed life had been digging a trench underneath Rock Bottom reserved for her at a time like this. And she was left clutching at the muddy walls, trying to drag herself to safety and anywhere that wasn’t her shitty situation where she pined over a man she could never have, where she was still walking the line between sane and whatever else was brewing inside her, fighting against tendrils of hatred and chaos, malignance, that wrapped around her organs and reminded her where she came from, what she was. A life where she got mugged by the men she fucked at her expensive pity parties. 

She just hoped Donna wasn’t too hard on her tomorrow after this shit show of a weekend. 

“Late, again,” Came the chiding voice the moment she stepped in the building. 

Sweat dripped down her back from her long trek through London to get to work. 48 minutes of power walking is what she had been reduced to, unable to get the bus or underground for lack of money. 

And she was still late. She was expecting a nice, fat kick to the teeth any time now.

“It’s five minutes, Donna,” You pleaded, yanking an earphone out. Music was the only thing that could block out the thrum of anger and agony she was in from the weekends chaotics. 

“Even Stevie-”

“Steven,”

“-Was on time today and he’s the worst for it,” Donna snapped, and the young girl could do nothing but slump in defeat. 

“I’m sorry, Donna. It won’t happen again.” She promised. She wasn’t sure if she meant it yet with her lack of transport, but she couldn’t lose this job. She didn’t even know how she was going to pay for this month’s rent let alone catch the bus, breakfast itself had been skipped in an attempt to conserve food. Her stomach ached from the exercise, crying out for anything to fill its distressed cavern. “I got robbed yesterday so I walked,” She murmured, avoiding the blue eyes that had narrowed in on her. She hated feeling pitied, feeling as though people were sorry for her. But it was the truth, and the truth sucked sometimes. 

She wasn’t sure what beam of light had shone out of Donna’s ass this morning, or whether she really did look just that pathetic, but the blonde woman just sighed and nudged her towards the gift shop.

In perhaps the nicest tone she’d ever spoken to her, Donna quietly said “Last warning, girl, alright?” The younger woman thanked her quickly, her small voice sheepish. Her boss looked down at her in discontent, “Alright, get going. And you’re on inventory with Steven tonight so best behaviour, I mean it,”

She nodded, turning on her heel to speed towards the gift shop. 

Turning from the main lobby to enter the Ancient Egypt exhibits, she’d not gotten halfway there when she’d caught up to Steven seemingly helping a customer. Odd considering the fact he wasn’t even in the shop yet, but knowing Steven he’d probably stopped to chat the guy’s ear off about something he knew too much about to be just a giftshoppist. 

She went to wave when he looked up and met her gaze, but the forlorn, scared expression she found there had her already negligent smile drop completely. Steven seemed relieved to see her, too nervous to say anything to the man himself as he stood too close for his comfort.

Her eyes fell to where the stranger held Steven’s hands tightly, murmuring something to him that seemed to have her friend freaked out. The whole sight threw her for a loop, and she called his name on instinct, the new man’s head shooting up to stare at her blankly.

Speeding up her pace, she met the two as Steven pulled away from the stranger’s strong grasp. “Steven, are you okay?” She asked gently, looking from her friend to the lithe figure of the man. He wasn’t tall by any means, but his presence, the way he dressed and held an intricately woven cane seemed meant to make himself superior. His hair was long and greying, still young enough to be attractive but probably a bit older than Steven. A neat sort of scruff sat on his chin, and old blue orbs took her in head to toe where she stood. Not out of lust, but out of intrigue.

“We were just talking, weren’t we, Steven?” The man said calmly, seemingly sizing her up himself. She looked over her shaken friend quickly, the alarm written over his face that had near brought him to tears telling her all she needed to know. 

This man was no friend. 

“Sorry, I don’t remember asking you,” She snipped in the cold politeness English people all knew how to enact, bringing her friend’s hand into her soft one for reassurance. Steven had never seen her so infuriated. And perhaps it was the weekend she’d had or the way the man so gentle he refused to kill insects seemed to be trembling beneath her hand, she wasn’t sure, but a fierce frown was deep set into her face that dropped into concern the moment she looked back to him, “Are you alright?” 

“Can we go, please?” His round, nut brown eyes were soft and welled up as he quietly spoke, as if asking for her permission to be away from here despite being the older of the two. Her heart dropped at his sad expression, and she felt him squeeze her hand as if needing to reassure himself someone was there to save him. 

She had no time to note the way the butterflies swelled in her stomach as he did so, focused on getting him away from the strange man. 

“Ofcourse,” She said softly, turning to direct him to their little corner of the museum, hoping that the stranger would get the hint and just leave them be. 

That seemed short lived when a cold hand wrapped itself around her lower arm, a gasp drawing its way from her lungs. She could feel the panic of being grabbed by the unfamiliar man crawling up her spine, her limbs going numb, her hearing dipping in and out of static at the adrenaline flushing through her system. 

She heard Steven say her name as her head snapped to where the man’s strong grip tightened around her wrist. He seemed to stare at her with something calculating, and she wished she hadn’t run her mouth despite the fact she did so to protect the same person who was now behind her, a deeper sense of panic blaring in his eye than before. 

“Let go-” Taking a deep breath to overcome the bubbling fear rising in her chest, her only words were cut off by a much clearer voice. 

“There is a darkness in you,” The stranger said, as if he knew it for a fact. 

Her heart plummeted. 

Was it so obvious? No one had ever been able to see it, she buried it so deep in the hopes no one would ever get a glimpse beneath her kind shell. But it was a facade, and even he knew it. The shock must have read clear on her face as he pushed on, as if to reopen scar tissue with his bare hands.

“And chaos, oh there is chaos.” Her lips quirked between her teeth as she tried to stop them from trembling, “A shadow looms over you, little dove.” She felt Steven pull her closer to him, but this man had her every morsel of attention. How did he know, if he knew then surely Steven knew too. Knew she was born so dead she felt she was living a lie by being here. The man laughed to himself, just a small breath but it was enough to break her spirit, “What is it those witches say about Macbeth? Something wicked this way comes.” He asked though he already knew the answer, as if to entrance her with his own spell, “And I see you are truly something wicked.” 

Her breath left her chest. The voice escaped her throat. Every intention of protecting Steven had practically evaporated out of her body as her co worker tugged her arm hard enough that the stranger let go of her. 

“Leave us alone or I’ll call the police, alright?” Steven murmured with a new sense of courage, “I don’t care if you’re friends with the security here, you leave us alone,”

But the man’s eyes hadn’t left her, as if he knew just how deep his words had struck with her. He wormed his way into her brain even as Steven led her away with a kind hand on her back, his own words of reassurance coming to her as if she were underwater. As if she were being dragged under a current.

“He has no clue what he’s talking about, love. He was trying to get into my head too,” Steven said, but he could tell by the lost look in her eyes it was barely being registered. 

“Who the hell was that?” She asked after a moment, the feeling in her fingertips just about awakening once they were far enough away to be considered safe.

“You won’t believe me if I told you-”

“Steven, please,” She begged, looking up at him with a desperation he had never known from her. That man, Harrow, one of the women in the alps had called him, had truly shaken her up with the near omen he had given her. 

Steven couldn’t understand why, she was possibly the loveliest girl he had ever met. There was no one who so much as held a torch to her light in Steven’s eyes. She was kind. Gentle. Good. This Harrow had no idea what he was talking about saying she was wicked. She was anything but. 

Steven sighed, looking at her gravely. “Remember yesterday when I said I had that dream the other night. When I was in the alps, and those men were chasing me for some scarab I’d stolen,” 

She blinked at him emptily. In her defence, her brain had still been riddled with alcohol when he’d been rambling, and she had gotten caught up in her own personal issues since then to take much notice. But the scenario sounded familiar as she wracked her brain for the information, some light sparking in her eyes when it clicked to their phone conversation the day before. 

She stayed silent, eyebrows furrowing, “You said that was a dream, Steven. That man is very much real,”

“I know, I thought it was a dream,” Steven explained, “But now they’re here, and they keep saying I’ve got this scarab and what not. I don’t understand any of this, love. I’m sorry. I just know he’s dangerous and we need to stay far away from him,” 

The younger woman looked at him sadly. He was clearly in distress himself, and she felt a flash of sympathy run through her at his lost expression, yet his eyes were full of concern for her well being. 

She knew what it was like to struggle to know what was real and what was not. What it was like to feel as though you're barely keeping your head above the waters of reality. Yet she trusted Steven would tell her if he knew what was happening. 

She knew he was more honest than anyone she’d ever known, so she didn’t push. 

“Alright,” She said with a heavy sigh, rubbing her eyes to relieve the pressure building in her frontal lobes, “Alright, let’s just steer clear of him, okay? And if he comes back, we go to the police together.”

Steven seemed relieved, which wasn’t a surprise since he knew it was a big ask to have someone trust such a ludicrous story. Yet he didn’t know why he doubted her. She was loyal and would never dream of ridiculing him like other people might. She just took his word as gospel. 

She was too good to him. 

“Okay, yeah. Good plan,” He said, nodding and checking behind him to see if the guy was still after them when a smaller body pressed its way into his chest. 

She didn’t know why she did it, whether it was for his benefit or hers, but she hugged him. Tightly too, as if she had been holding back for a while (she had). They hugged all the time, when saying goodbye at her train stop, when they saw each other on a morning given they weren’t running late. But it never felt like this, so intimate. So much like she needed him so desperately. 

Perhaps it was childish, but the way he drew her closer, resting a head on top of hers as if he needed the contact as much as she did made her heart flutter even with the strange circumstances. For a moment, they both felt safe, like Harrow couldn’t get in their heads entirely because they had each other to ground them, reassure the other that they were not alone in the web his ominous words had spun them into, and that was enough for now. 

Yet the two of them barely spoke all day. 

Whether it was they were too busy with their actual work, or they were both in their heads thinking just what Harrow had meant by his prophesying. 

It wasn’t until inventory was nearly done that she spoke first. 

“We’re going to be alright, aren’t we?” She asked, his head cutting to hers from where he was scanning some Beefeater Rubber ducks. He seemed to notice the slight glint of fear in her tone, “As in, they don’t know where you live do they? Or me?” 

“No love, of course not,” At least he hoped they didn’t. Steven realistically couldn’t promise anything, he had no idea how far this Harrow’s network of followers ran. But he knew for certain he couldn’t stand to see her so scared. It ran a streak of anger in him that was unusual. Steven never found himself particularly angry, but it had run red hot when he saw the way Harrow had grabbed her and knocked the soul out of her with his words alone. “If you want, you can stay at mine tonight? I’ll take the sofa, you can take my bed,” After he’d swept away the giant ring of sand of course. 

She smiled at him finally, maybe the first proper one she’d shown him all day. And he couldn’t help but feel his chest grow lighter that he had done that. Gods be good, she was pretty when she smiled, he thought. 

“Thanks, Steven,” She said quietly. He was confident the two of them could figure this out together, and if he was sure of her, then how wicked could she truly be? 

She knew it was a cop out, that she hid so much from him that he didn’t know the real her; that if he did he would turn tail and run as far as he could from the monster in front of him. That he would curse himself once he realised Harrow was right; she was polluted down to her marrow.

“I’ve only got this box left to do, love, then we can get out of here,” Steven promised, his eyes flicking over where she collected two half full crates of merchandise and headed out of the gift shop to the stockroom. 

“I’ll take these out and meet you in the lobby?” She called over her shoulder, hearing him agree as she walked away to the area meant for employees only. 

Sighing deeply, she put the crates down gently, sliding them into a bottom shelf out the way of clumsy feet (most likely her own). A thought jumped in her tired brain, and she was quick to turn out her pockets for any spare change she could use for the train fare back to Steven’s apartment. 

Just as she suspected: empty. Because why would she be so lucky as to have anything good happen to her. She could always try and persuade Steven to walk home and save the embarrassment of revealing what actually happened to her Saturday night, but she knew the pitiful look he would give her if she told him the truth of her date. The sad eyes that would flash that neither of them needed after a morning of such anguish. 

They didn’t need another of her pity parties today, and she grimaced at the thought of how horrendously the last one ended. Though she knew Steven was different, that he would never do anything so cruel to a stranger let alone herself. 

It only made her heart yearn for him more.

Sighing, she thought on her feet as to what to tell him as she left the stockroom, locking the door behind her with the key Donna gave them all a copy of. Her heels rhythmically clicked on the freshly polished floor that reflected her frowning face back at her as if to remind her to stop looking so tormented. 

She saw the light of the main exhibit at the end of the darkened hallway, heading towards it at no rush since she figured Steven would likely just about be done himself. Lost in her own head as to what excuse to give the man she called her only friend, she almost missed the deep sound snarling in the shadows behind her. 

Whipping her head around with a wide eyed expression, her eyes flicked around the hallway for any glimpse of what made that sound. 

But she saw nothing. Not in the way shadows were nothing, dark patches of nothing, as in she saw nothing there. Had anything been lingering behind her, she would have at least caught or heard any movement. 

She paused for a second to take another look, only to still come up empty. Her foot warily continued its original path, figuring the sound must have been the cleaners dragging something against the floor. 

“Hey, Steven,” She called upon approaching the lobby where he’d be waiting, “Do you reckon I could owe you a coffee for my train fare? It’s just-”

Her voice cut out when she heard the low growl again, much louder this time. Loud enough to have her wince and stop in her tracks in the centre of the room. 

She caught sight of the navy blue jacket she knew too well walking backwards slowly, his eyes trained on something in the adjacent corridor. 

“Steven-” She whisper yelled, his panicked eyes snapping to hers, “What the hell is that-”

His arm raised out to point at the shadow illuminating the wall. Her gaze fixed on the shadow of a wild dog of sorts, its snout long and open in a fierce grin. She could practically see the outline of the drool dripping from its sharp teeth, at least she hoped it was saliva she thought gravely. 

Her breath left her instantly. What the fuck was that? Her knees felt as if they were about to buckle underneath her, calves going numb as the adrenaline flushed over her body in tidal waves. She was always a dog lover, she’d had two as a kid, but something told her whatever kind of beast this was, it was not nearly as friendly as a tamed canine would be. 

And it seemed Steven realised it too as he was quick to cower behind a display of an ancient relic clutching his bag to his chest tightly. 

His frantic eyes pleaded for her to move, but she seemed frozen to the spot. 

The overhead tannoy rang melodically, as if God was preparing to make the announcement that they were truly fucked, something she didn’t need a bulletin to know. 

“Steven Grant of the gift shop.” The sound of that familiar voice had her heart plummeting into her gut that twisted painfully. Did this guy have attack dogs or something? How had he gotten them past security? They looked huge. “Give me the scarab and the two of you won’t be torn apart,”

The scarab? Everything Steven had said about his dream was true. And if that was true then that meant this guy was a nut job capable of having his entire team hunt her down for so much as associating with poor Steven who looked as lost as she felt. 

The shadow moved, shifting around the corner of the hall to enter the open lobby. A scratch-like sound found her ears, as if someone were running knives over a cold slab, and she realised with a shiver this thing must have claws.  

And they were approaching. 

An open mouthed growl echoed through the room, which only served to confuse her even more. From the volume alone she knew the thing was big, and in the very same room as her. Which meant she surely should be able to see it as she could see the entire length of the room it had to be walking down. 

But that was the thing. There was nothing there. 

“Steven,” She whimpered quietly. It was stupid, making that noise and attracting attention to herself. But she was scared. She wanted to know what to do. Wanted comfort that she wasn't going insane, that maybe this was all a practical joke and there really was nothing there. 

A second set of razor sharp nails entered the room from the same direction, yet again she could only decipher that on sound alone. The chorus of snarls that only got closer did nothing but have her step back on instinct. 

“Steven-” She said again, only to see him standing in a rush. 

“RUN!” He yelled, taking off towards the exit. 

She didn’t need to see the dogs to know they were in the way of her and the same route Steven had taken, so she settled for scrambling back the way she came. The black heels she wore for work to seem professional only proved to be useless when running from wild animals, it seemed. Who’d have thought it? 

Her feet pounded down the maze of exhibits, trying to make it to the exit where Steven had headed towards. But for every one step she took, two paws advanced on her like an apex predator heading for its kill. 

Which she no doubt would be. 

Turning past the Anubis exhibit her stomach dropped when she heard a strong body colliding with the same wall she had practically skidded past. Her lungs burnt with effort, her breaths coming out in wheezes. She had one last turn and before she would be seconds away from the fire exit that she could barricade from the outside. 

The feeling of the dog’s hot breath on the back of her ankles had her pushing herself harder, too scared to look over her shoulder. She was coming up to where the hallway split into two and she headed for the right where she was sure the back exit was. She couldn’t help but wish Steven was able to outrun the mutt on his own heels, having not heard from him since she had taken off in separate directions. 

Taking the turning past a remaining chunk of what was once a Cleopatra statue, her eyes adjusted to the dark corridor. Where were the slab paintings of the sphinx? Where were the memorials to King Tut? They should be here, they’re always next to this exit-

Her chest constricted when she realised her mistake. Her grave mistake.

In the panic of escaping the creature, she had taken the wrong turning. She should have gone left. 

Yet judging by the way the animal grunted with the effort of the chase, she had no option but forward. 

Forward to a dead end. To the Setekh exhibit room. 

The walls were alive with paintings recovered from ancient tombs. The god of Storms, among other things, was feared through all of Egypt in the later dynasty. He was associated with all things evil, mysterious and disordered. The huge altar that held the statue of Set, his long face foreboding and as cold as the stone it was preserved in, looked down at her in almost malice as her feet took her into the one place she had left to go. 

It wasn’t until she felt the walls surrounding her, the penny dropped how fucked she was. There was no way out, no cutting back the way she came as the creature ran into the vast room with her. Dodging one of the plinths containing statues of the demon god, she had barely a second where her pace slowed down as she considered how she was going to turn back before she felt it. 

A force stronger than a freight train hit her from behind. She heard every molecule of air get pushed from her lungs at the sheer weight of it, her throat audibly yelping. Its body collided with hers with a weight that she was sure must be pure muscle, and she was thrown to the hard floor with less effort than a child tossing a ragdoll. 

The impact had her ribs rattling in her chest, brain bouncing against her now bleeding forehead. The cold floor was harsh against her raw skin. Her nose made a loud pop as it smashed against the marble, a hot sting erupting over her entire face.

But the worst was yet to come. 

There was a moment when she was collecting her thoughts, head spinning from the collision. She was sure she’d damaged something in her skull as it pounded, harder than it ever had with any hangover. 

She’d give anything to be back on her sofa feeling sorry for herself. 

She hadn’t the time to pick herself back up when she felt something large do it for her. It must have been eight feet tall with how big its behemoth paws were as the one grabbed her leg and dragged her on her stomach towards itself. Like a cat playing with a mouse. Not ready to devour, not yet. Just playing. Torturing. Tormenting. 

Then came the claws. Her eyes looked down at her ribs, the thin air surrounding them making her cry out in horror - there still wasn’t a fucking soul in sight. No dog, or animal. Or human even. Nothing. Yet her shirt ripped almost too easily as it let out a deep hiss of what she would call a near laugh and sunk its talons into her side. 

That was when she started screaming. 

Her throat hurt from the volume alone, a banshee shriek akin to a horror movie. It reverberated through the museum halls, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. 

Vision started slipping then. Whether it was panic or her mind protecting her from what was coming next she didn’t know, but all she knew was everything felt weightless for a moment. 

She thought maybe she was dying and ascending at that moment there and then. But she wasn't so lucky. She was still being made this creature's bitch as the God of chaos watched. What beautifully horrible irony.

It was then that it clicked in her stress-addled brain that she was not in fact weightless. That the reason she felt so was because she was now being suspended midair by the thing that had her in its vicious grasp. 

It took shockingly little effort for the creature to throw her through the wall-sized fortified glass surrounding the monolith and for her whole body to crumple to the floor. 

Steven slammed the bathroom door shut with a panting “Oh God”, his coffee brown eyes never leaving the thick metal that shook with the weight of the monster throwing itself at it violently. 

What the fuck was his next move? What even was that thing? He retreated further into the bathroom with a lost expression, clutching his arms for a semblance of comfort. 

“Steven,” The man in the mirror spoke in the same American accent he’d been hearing in his own home. 

Looking at his reflection, he was agog to find the man identical to him moving on his own, as if independent from Steven himself. That was not his reflection, he knew that much, no matter how much it looked like it. “Steven, I can save us,” He said darkly, his eyes and frown much meaner than any expression Steven would ever wear. 

The way he stood was entirely different too, as if he were bigger in stature despite being encased in the exact same body as Steven was. 

“W-What?” Steven whispered, backing away from the door that weakened by the second. 

He thought of Dove. Had she been able to get away, run out the front door and get help from anyone who would believe her? He hated the thought of those adorable little heels she wore clattering against the floor, he wouldn’t be surprised if they’d slowed her down. He always heard women complaining about walking in heels let alone running from fucking monsters in them. 

Where was she?

“But I can’t have you fightin’ me this time,” He had felt like he’d been playing tug-of-war with his body for some time. But against what, he hadn’t known. His own reflection? This man staring back at him in the mirror with a scowl he knew wasn’t plastered on his own expression? “You need to give me control. You understand?”

He swivelled on his heel to see the man in the full length looking glass behind him, who seemed to tower over him in frame. 

“No, what? Control of what? What are you talking about?” Steven bumbled, his eyes looking over the stranger’s shoulder to see the door shaking on its hinges now. Dents were appearing now where the monster was caving its way into the bathroom, and one look at the length of its claws told Steven all he needed to know. He stood no chance against this thing alone. 

“That thing’s about to break through the door. We’re out of time.” The man said, realising their predicament as much as he did. This couldn’t be real. This had to be a dream, the lot of it. The entire day. From that Harrow guy to the idea that he could possibly lose her to some ancient wild dog. 

“No! No!” Steven cried, flinching as the door clattered one more time, the frame whining with the effort at which it held the assailant at bay. 

“All right, hey. Listen to me,” The mirror man tried to reason, but Steven was panicking too much to hear him. 

“Dammit, no! Stop it!” Steven slapped himself around the face a few times, begging with anything listening to wake him up from the worst nightmare he’d had yet. The image of her being chased by that thing wouldn’t leave his welled up eyes. He wanted to run to her, god knows he would have if that thing hadn’t been stood in between the two of them, blocking his way to her. “This is not real! You’re not real!”

“This is real. I’m real.” The man spoke calmly, as if a diametrical opposite to his own mood. He seemed to know more about what was happening, what that thing was, what it could do. Perhaps that was why Harrow had been chasing him in the first place.

Either way, Steven didn’t care. Not now at least. When the only person outside of his parents that he had ever held affection for was in danger. Imminent danger. 

“No! You’re not,” Steven yelled back at his reflection through tears. 

It was then he heard the screaming. A howl of visceral pain enough to rattle his bones at the familiar feminine tone to the voice. 

It was her. 

It was like nothing he’d ever heard, like an animal in a slaughterhouse. He trembled in his place at the thought. She was in danger. Oh god it had her. 

“I’m gonna die- She’s gonna die-” Steven whimpered, the tears rolling down his olive cheeks at the thought. He really was useless. 

“Steven, look at me.” He finally listened to his reflection with a pitied sniff, “You’re not gonna die, I can save us. But she is if you don’t give me control right now. Let me save her, okay?”

That was the straw that broke Steven’s resolve, the idea of her dying. He had never found it so easy to concede.

He just hoped the man using his body got to her in time. 

She felt someone picking up her limp body. The museum lights had long since been shut off, but through the darkness of the exhibition she caught a tall figure standing over her. Her lids were heavy, vision bleary, yet she blinked a few times to try and straighten her mind that still felt like it was pulsing stiffly in her tight skull. Her voice was no better, the only sound she could let out was a guttural whine as the stranger pressed hard on the three deep lacerations on her abdomen that were now gushing blood like a scene from a 90s slasher movie.

They were broad, blocking out the minimal slither of light as they crouched over her and seemed to be yelling something. Probably scolding her for getting copious amounts of thick blood over the freshly mopped floors, she thought numbly. The sound came to her in something akin to static, a muffled string of nonsense. All she knew was they were talking loud and fast. Or maybe she had a concussion too? That thing had thrown her through that glass wall pretty hard. 

She couldn’t see a mouth moving, nor could she actually see their face, just two beams of white blinking down at her. 

This couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t be happening for real. She thought maybe someone had slipped something in her drink when she was at the club, but that was two days ago. There would be no reason for her to be feeling the effects only just now. And when she had been jumped on by one of those things she’d sure as hell felt it. She'd seen it with her own two eyes the way her clothes had been ripped as something plunged its claws deep into her, heard the air whoosh out her lungs as it hurled her through the glass wall. 

She’d felt, still felt, the open wound seeping so harshly that she knew it was going to be fatal. 

There was no coming back from whatever fever dream this was. 

She blinked again up at the mystery guy who seemed to be holding her heavy head gently, but the hot, red wetness on his hands that smeared on her cheek said he also knew how fucked she was. He was muttering something, was there someone else here? Oh god, where was Steven? 

“Steve-” Came her broken murmur, but the metallic taste crawling its way up her throat cut her off as a blob of viscid blood rolled down her chin. 

“He’s here, he’s okay. It’s gonna be okay,” Said the voice back to her, his grasp on her hair tightening as she garbled. The breath, life, was leaving her now. Every time she tried to get air into her lungs, she was met with more of the thick liquid spraying into her mouth, her chest retching for oxygen.

She didn’t have long left, she realised numbly. 

The room was blackening round the edges even more now, sped up by the way she felt her hands grabbing his arm in a panic. She’d thought she would welcome the cold hands of Death, it wasn’t a stranger in her home. Death rooted himself in her very soul, and yet as it dragged her under consciousness, she couldn’t help but feel like a scared little girl and she tried to cling onto the mystery figure as if he could keep her from Death’s greedy clutches. 

It was sweet poetry, knowing she was drowning from the inside out. She had always known her biggest monster lay within her, in her every cell, festering and rotting her, since the moment she was born. There was really no other perfect way to sum up her whole life than it ending this way, choking on her own body. Grabbing onto a stranger, trying to plead for help as a few precious tears wet her face and she realised she was crying. Scared, vulnerable to her own demise like she had always known she would be. 

How do you fight off a monster coming from within? You don't. You can’t. So she didn’t. 

No amount of soft words or desperate touches on the figure helped her, it only made the departure messier, a bigger pool of blood for them to find her in.

The world felt surprisingly calm the moment she was snatched ruthlessly into Death’s open arms.

[vaporwavebeach-writes]

Kinktober Day 4 (Teratophilia)

Deadite!Ellie (Evil Dead Rise) x Reader (NSFW)

(1,351 words)

Summary: You’ve seen enough horror movies to know that having sex with the demonic version of your neighbor is dangerous.

Warnings/Tags: 18+, gender neutral reader, dead dove do not eat (seriously, this shit gets BANANAS), graphic depictions of violence, viewing the aftermath of a murder scene, stabbing, blasphemy (kinda), head trauma, breaking in, dubcon (ish), Ellie being mean, sadism, biting, scratching, monster fucking, oral sex

Notes: MAGGOT MOMMY <3 I had her specifically in mind for this one. I saw this with my friends over the summer and they thought I was CRAZY bc I said I could fix her LMAO anyway, enjoy the fic!!!

-

You’ve seen enough horror movies to know that hearing the loud thuds of people running and falling outside your door is dangerous. You’ve seen enough horror movies to know that hearing screams, bloodcurdling enough to know there was a threat is dangerous. You’ve seen enough horror movies to know that several gunshots, sending loud enough bangs to make your ears ring, is dangerous. You’ve seen enough horror movies to know that hearing laughter, full of malice, is dangerous.

So when you decided to peek your head out the door only to be met with the dead bodies of your neighbors, splayed out and bloodied across the hallway, you knew your horror movie knowledge wouldn’t be able to save you now.

The scent of death wafted around the hallway. Blood poured from the bodies of your poor neighbors. You were grateful to be situated at the other end of the hall, if you had a closer view to the emptied chasms of their insides, you were sure you would be sick.

At the end of the hallway stood Ellie. She looked dead. Her skin was pale, littered with bruises and cuts. Her deep red hair was matted. She was covered in blood.

Ellie? There is no way she could’ve done something like this. She was kind, always making sure to hold the elevator for others when they were running late. She took no-nonsense from anyone or anything. She had three children to take care of- all of whom you saw were being raised to be good people. She knew the neighbors. She knew you. She wouldn’t have done this to them.

Or at least that’s what you thought until you saw her prowl down the hallway. What you saw, wasn’t the Ellie you recognized. It seemed as if all her bones were broken, and put together the wrong way. Somehow, she moved like a wounded animal, but also like a dangerous predator. The sound of her heels dragging and scuffing against the floor along with the garbled coughs of your dying neighbors was a sound that was sure to stick with you for as long as you lived- which you assumed wouldn’t be much longer. As Ellie continue to stalk closer to your door, decided that if you were about to die, you wouldn’t go down easy.

Slamming your door and locking it, you arm yourself with a kitchen knife, and begin to pray. You can hear the thud of her footsteps stop. For a brief moment, you feel relief, until loud and heavy pounding starts to come directly at your door.

“God won’t save you now.” A hoarse, demonic, almost inhuman sounding voice taunts from the other side of the door. Mustering enough courage to look through the peephole, Ellie stares at you. Sunken, black circles surrounded her eyes, looking bruised and bloodied. Her eyes were no longer the bright blue you had seen flash you kind glances in the past, but a ghostly, milky white. Dead. Lifeless. Yet, there she stood outside your apartment, staring back out you through the peephole with a crooked and menacing grin.

“It’s so pathetic,” she says blankly. “Praying as if you think you’re going to make it out of here…” You grip your knife tighter. “As if God can even hear you.”

“Jesus, Ellie,” you reply, hushed. “What the fuck happened to you? You don’t look so good.”

“Ellie’s rotting in hell with the rest of your sack of shit neighbors!” She shrieks. You look away from the peephole as Ellie reels back and continuously slams her head against the door. The wood begins to splinter and crack, and you can only watch in horror as the woman you once called your neighbor, makes her way into your only safe haven.

“Mommy’s home.” She drawls distortedly. She sets her sights on you, creeping over surprisingly quick where you can feel her, just inches away from your skin.

Jamming your knife into the side of her skull, she pauses for a moment. Did you get her? Is she dead? You get your answer soon enough as she pulls the knife from her head and slams it right next your hand where she has you backed up on your kitchen table. Despite the dread churning in your stomach, the proximity of her body so close to yours was enough to spike your arousal, as well as fear.

“Such a pitiful sight,” she teases, as you feel the air of her breath on your neck. You let out an involuntary whimper, cheeks beginning to heat up. Ellie sees this and barks out a cruel laugh. Her hands move across your body, clawing and grabbing at every crevice. “You are such a coward,” she chides. “Letting a monster feel you up.” She was right and all you could do was nod. “I know you’d do anything to stay alive, right?” Her voice drops to a sweet tone. It’s sick to hear such a scary and mocking voice have such a sweet tone.

“…Yes” you grit out, shaking.

“It’s always the sluts like you that make the most delicious screams.” She smiles wickedly, before violently kissing and biting at your chest. Your shirt is practically torn open as Ellie pushes you down and pins you to the table.

Moving your hands up to touch her, Ellie painfully slams your hands above your head, back to the table. Her mouth continues wandering down your chest, teeth grazing over your nipple, threatening to bite. Your breath hitches, and you let out a pained moan when she finally does. Her teeth sink down on the sensitive flesh, and she does nothing but laugh as you writhe around her.

Her nails rake down the rest your body, surely hard enough to leave a mark. You let out a moan of relief when she unattaches from your chest. She sinks down to your arousal, ripping off the pants of your legs with terrifying ease.

“You are one sick, disgusting fuck,” She sighs with false disappointment. “So fucking horny while your neighbors die all around you…” The shame washes over you, but Ellie’s ministrations as she teases you through your underwear make it hard for you to focus on anything other than getting off. “I can smell how much you’re enjoying this, you pathetic whore.”

You let out a whine as Ellie coaxes you right to the edge, stopping just before the point of no return. She sinks down, spreading your legs, leaving you splayed out on your kitchen table.

“You must be completely fucking stupid if you think I would let you off that easily.” She jabs. Pulling off your underwear, you lay there on your table, while a feral, monstrous version of your neighbor starts to violently go down on you.

Her tongue is fast as it swipes over you. She’s messy and rough, leaving no spot untouched, chuckling and murmuring filthy phrases into your sex. Your back arches and you grip the edge of the table, white-knuckled, whimpering shamelessly. The table begins to shake as her arms sling over your legs, holding you down. Her grip is harsh, marks sure to be left behind. She bites into your inner thigh, which only further spurs on your wanton feelings, starting to reach the edge.

Looking over to your side, the bloodied knife stares back at you. In the midst of your euphoric high, you hatch an idea to stab this demonic version of Ellie while distracted, give you time to possibly escape.

You don’t have much time to waste. When your orgasm quickly washes over you, Ellie gets up, spying the knife as you swing it up. She catches it, blade going directly through her hand. In your hazy state, she smilies back out you with that same malice she’s had this whole time.

“Aw,” she taunts. “Did you really think that stabbing me again would put me down?” There’s that sadistic sweetness in her voice. She drops the act almost immediately, lunging at you with her hand around your throat. “That was a naughty trick, and naughty behavior deserves to be punished.”

[mostlyghostlyy]

I feel like dale would tease the fuck out of his partner, trying to make you horny at the most inappropriate moments

Oh, absolutely. He's always horny so I can see him trying to drag you down to his level.

Especially during phone calls. Imagine you're on the phone, fully enthralled in a conversation that does NOT include him, and he's jealous. So he comes up behind you and slips his hands down the waistband of your pants. Fingers grazing over your panties, and his mouth hot on your neck. Doesn't matter if you try to pull away or not. You're stuck in his grasp. His goal is to get you to pay attention to him instead, but he wouldn't necessarily deny how you moan into the receiver. Blushing and apologizing to the person on the other end. Dale would tell you to "keep talking" and he "doesn't want to interrupt" all while fingering your pussy. He wants to make you horny and he wants to embarrass you. Unfortunately for you, both are working. Dale enjoys hearing you scramble for an acceptable excuse.

Another phone one because that's all I can think of tonight; Dale loves calling your workplace. Calling and asking for you by name. Hearing the "Okay, just a second," then a moment later, your friendly "Hello?" On the other side. He'd let rip some of the most lewd noises you've ever heard. (Think Billy Lenz from black Christmas) loudly keening into the mic. Letting loose strings of garbled nonsense about how he's touching himself and how he's gonna fuck you. Muddled ends, beginnings of thoughts caught between grunts and whimpers while he strokes himself. Begging for you to come home early. Planning out how he's going to lick you clean; inside and out.

Dale would pretty much expect you to be touching yourself as well, or at least become aroused by it. Dale is expecting you to stay on the line until he cums, breathing heavily through the receiver. You might have to hold it away from your ear tbh. Hang up on him, and he's going to be pretty upset. I'd honestly be pretty afraid to have him on the line, coworkers constantly eavesdropping. Imagine the gossip if someone overheard one of these conversations....

He is constantly trying to make you horny when you're out with family. I don't know why, but he strikes me as the type of guy who wants to shove it in their faces that you're with him. Especially if they don't like him. He typically enjoys any kind of family reunion for this reason. Coming up beside you and leaning close to you. Nibbling on your ear while you continue the conversation. If that doesn't prompt a response, he's sticking his tongue in your ear. He'll keep trying to outdo himself until he's got you horny or you're angrily telling him off. Either way, Dale is probably not getting invited to anymore family events.

Lots of teasing when you sit down at restaurants. Starts with cute compliments from him, platonic to romantic to obscene. If you give away any feelings of excitement, he's doubling down. Rubbing his hand on the inside of your thigh, teasing at the more sensitive flesh higher up. Trying to stimulate you while being coy. He'd purr about how "we're in public. Naughty Angel, you're already shaking"

If you seem to be receptive to all his advances so far, he'll try to get you to give him a bj in the bathroom, the absolute degenerate.

[choism]

A Promise | j.wy

Bf!Wooyoung x gn!reader

Warnings: smut, short drabble, nsfw warnings under the cut

A/N: I am just having too many thoughts right now :'( wooyoung stop showing your tits challenge START

Warnings: sub!Woo, overstimulation, penetration, riding, fingering (m receiving), blowjob, slight rimming (not really, just clean him up), a couple of softie goodness here and there for funsies

"Fuck!"

Wooyoung yells as you slam your hips onto his cock over and over. You pinch one of his nipples and mouth at his neck, leaving deep dark marks along the area.

Earlier today your boyfriend decided to show off by "keeping a promise" as he puts it.

The promise? Something about showing off his abs 4 years into the future, and well, the future is now as they say. 4 years later, he does as promised to his adoring fans and sports a jacket with nothing but a cumberbun underneath. His pert nipples and toned upper torso on display for fans to swoon over.

And this "promise" leads you to now, bouncing on his cock amd teasing him for what its worth. They may get to see, but you get to touch, and you are nothing if not just as greedy for your boyfriend's volumptious chest as his fans are.

"Fuck please, I just wanted to keep my promise please yn!"

You pull away from his neck, thankful that his schedule is empty for the next week to give time for the now fully formed bruises and hickeys to dissapear. You will probably get an earful from Hongjoong later though.

"A promise? How about I promise you I'll fuck you into next year."

He shivers at your words and feels his orgasm rapidly approaching. You move your mouth forward to capture his lips in a heated kiss, kissing away his gasps and moans of pleasure.

With just a few more bounces Wooyoung finishes inside of you, his cum leaking from your hole steadily and dripping onto his tight balls, still filled with arousal.

"Ah ah, I'm not done with you just yet."

You slip off his dick and replace your hole with a new one, your wet hot mouth. His hips jerk up in overstimulation and you feel the muscles in his pelvis tighten, preventing a second orgasm from coming too soon, but you fight that response as much as you can by throat fucking yourself onto his thick cock.

"Yn please god, I can't come again its too much!" Wooyoung yelps but makes no move to push you away, instead curling his hand in your hair amd gently guiding your head up and down. You take the mixture of lube, slick and cum from his shaft and balls and effectively lube up your finger, swirling it around his tight hole and inserting a single knuckle.

"Gah!"

Tears prick at Wooyoung's eyes as his second orgasm creeps up and sends a tight fire into his pelvis. He knows he'll cum again soon by how utterly tight the feeling is. He feels hot all over and want drips from his tongue as he garbles out nonsense.

You slide your digit in further and touch his prostate over and over, coaxing him to finish soon. Wooyoung's toes literally curl as he feels it build and build and the rubber band get tighter until it finally snaps and he spills over again, this time into your mouth.

He's practically screaming, his orgasm washing over in long waves and his cock twitching, rope after rope of cum spilling out as if it would never end. He swears this may be his longest orgasm ever.

You clean up his softening cock with your mouth, also opting to clean his balls and hole sensitively as to not overwhelm him. You get up to grab something else to properly clean him and he stops you by grabbing your wrist, pulling you down to kiss him softly.

"I wouldn't have changed a single thing about today, I regret nothing."

"We'll see about what you do and do not regret tomorrow, babe."

© Choism 2023. do not repost or translate.