#gotta keep a lid on myself

[friendly-local-trash]

Hey so now that I'm out of self-imposed wait-for-my-rival-to-show-up PURGATORY what's your thots on team skull: Kanto edition? I only have a Pidgey and a Charmander rn but I'm planning to head to lavender to see all the ghosties (as soon as I figure out the right route...)

@nich-n-pidge

(ps not sorry for tagging piers in that post 😘)

Figure it's only inevitable til we spread out into Kanto. I mean, what is Johto but Kanto (better) (rural) (full of bumpkins). We even share a League! Johto and Kanto are two kids in a trenchcoat sneaking into an R rated movie.

So yeah, I'm down with Kantonians starting their own branch or even just joining mine for strength in numbers or an easier time starting up or whatever. If you're a member of one branch, you're a member of them all, I say, with confidence, while Guzma still isn't around to contradict me!

Also was your rival seriously stuck in the forest for a month. Are they like. Okay? Did the Weedle get them, or were they just hunting for one of the like seven Pikachu that live there.

[pushingboi]

The mid afternoon sunlight filters through the window of our bedroom. I keep my eyes shut as I awaken, drinking up every last second of our siesta while I can.

You wake up as I stir, and watch through sleepy half-lidded eyes as I roll over my gravid belly to lay on my back and stretch, taking a deep breath and sighing contentedly.

I kick the blankets down the bed and curiously peel my shirt back over my bump. Inside I feel the lively baby squirm and kick, roiling about as if getting more frustrated about their own inability to stretch out. You reach out and snuggle into me, placing a hand on my belly, and I meet you with a sweet kiss.

I smile and place my hands beside yours, immersing myself in feeling the life roiling inside my womb, nestled safe and warm within my belly.

The baby chills out and stills for a moment, and just then my womb tweaks obviously, startling you awake. "Oh shit, was that a contraction?" You ask.

"Noooo..? Maybe..?" I play puzzled. "Maybe it's just Braxton-hicks?"

I can't fool you and we both know it. You jump up worriedly. "How long have you been having them? Did they just start? How strong are they? That one felt pretty strong.. Are you going into labour? Or already in labour? Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Okay, calm down, calm down." I reassure. "If you want an answer you have to give me a chance to respond." I sigh.

"I've been having contractions for a few hours. They're getting stronger but I don't know how close I am. I'm still fine. They hurt, like, a lot. But not bad enough that I can't nap, right?"

"Shit; we've gotta get you to the hospital!"

"Fuck no. We talked about this already, love, and you don't get to decide to change your mind. No way in hell I'm going to a hospital. I don't need some stranger tying me up and prodding me while I'm trying to have your baby; you can do that just as well yourself, can't you?" I tease.

-

The evening sun shines in through the window of our bedroom. A cool breeze flows through the open screen and over my bare skin, the pleasant sensation a welcome distraction from the pain.

You rub my lower back tenderly as you watch over my labour. I've long since shed my shirt and pants, rejecting the hot and restricting fabric to let the rays of sun bathe my pale skin.

I arch my back as a contraction strikes. I lean into you breathlessly, and let out a very long groan as the ache tears through my body. Halfway though I pant to catch my breath, and then groan again. The contractions are getting longer, and harder, and faster, as they begin to fall into a rhythm, the percussive march that heralds forth the birth.

"Fuck.." I pant. "Fuck, it's so much. I can't.."

You run your fingers through my long hair as you soothe me gently. "You're doing fine. You're almost through this part, and soon you'll be pushing out my baby." I smile a little. You continue teasing. "Yeah? You like the sound of that, don't you? There's only one thing you love more than being this heavy and swollen with my babies; and that's getting to birth them out."

I tremble a little, for some motley reason of anticipation, pain, excitement and exhaustion. Just as the thought crosses my mind that I'm due for another contraction, it rolls in like a slow, long tide, enveloping my senses in the intensity of the pressure and- "Ah! Ah, oh god, oh fuck..! It's coming! Th-the baby's coming!"

I pinch my eyes shut and try not to howl with the brilliant pain. You move beside me and go to feel for my dilation. To your surprise, you meet the head already eagerly descending into my birth canal, waters intact.

"You're right, love, it's time for you to give birth. Are you ready to push?"

"Nnnnoo I'm not! It's- oh god, it's- nnn.. yes! Yes, yes, I'm puuuushinng..!"

"Good boy! Come on, the contraction's still coming. Push!"

It doesn't take much convincing. The urge overtakes me and I bear down, holding my breath and channeling the pressure downwards through my abdomen.

I break and take but a second to breathe before continuing. My face scrunches and my belly tenses, all hands on deck as I toil.

I gasp for air, winded from the effort. "Breathe, breathe, love. Take your time, your body knows what to do."

I lay back and stare at the ceiling, slowing my breathing, and rest, as the contraction has subsided, taking with it the excitement and urge to push. "I hope it's not to big.. I hope it's not stuck.."

"What? I thought you liked it that way. Makes it more interesting, doesn't it?" You wink.

I want so badly to be upset with you, I want so badly not to find that funny, but try as I might to deny it I feel the humour lift some weight from my body and something like a smile tease at the corner of my mouth.

"Is it crowning yet?" I ask.

"You can feel for yourself if you want. But no, not yet. You've still got a ways to go so conserve your strength."

I nod. I lay still for a few more moments and gather my strength. Just as the contraction begins I haul myself upwards into a kneeling position.

I take a few deep breaths and lean forward. "Get ready and push, love!" I steady myself. "Push!"

As I push I feel the difference with the change of position. Gravity starts to do its share, and while it doesn't do much for opening my pelvis, I can feel the movement nonetheless.

I feel the rhythm, finally, as it starts to set in. I rock back and forth and breathe and push, losing myself in the cycle - breathe, rock, push. Breathe, rock, push. Breathe, rock, push. Breathe, rock, push.

The head inches downwards, boring its way through my flesh. As it comes closer and closer to the sensitive opening it feels different, more. It really feels like the erupting force threatens to split me open. I barely notice that as I've pushed I've leaned forward slowly until it's easier to make myself comfortable on all fours.

It's here, watching me strain and sweat, that you realize just how helpless you are. You shuffle around me to get a better look.

I grasp at the sheets, the bed, at my belly, at you, desperate and writhing beneath the intensity. I pant and pant and puuuush, puuuush, PUUSH!

My pussy begins to part as the head encroaches upon it. The intact sac glistens as it appears between my legs. Face into the bed my moans are muffled. You rub my back and comfort me in vain; it's all up to me now to give birth to your baby.

With the next contraction my body tenses. My legs tremble, my breath wavers and I sob through the pain. The sobs curl into a determined wail as i bear down, pressure rippling through my belly and hips. The head continues to squeeze through, stretching into sight bit by bit.

"Here it comes, love. I can see it. Don't stop pushing."

I obey, choking my breath through another contraction. I heave, and push, the head moving so slowly towards the world, gripped firmly within my birth canal.

The contraction lulls, and so does my urge to push, and I'm left with nothing but the awareness of the huge baby's position in my pelvis, filling the space between my hips like nothing I've ever felt. I rock my hips side to side, forward and back, savouring the sweet stretch and the bitter pain threatening to tear down my consciousness.

You look on with pride and.. oh such lust. You can't deny how much it turns you on to see me like this, bent over and stretched open before you, labouring and toiling while I give birth to your baby. The waistband of your pants is all there is between you and ecstasy but you resist thre urge to touch yourself.

The rhythm returns and I whine as I lean into the contraction.

"C'mon baby, push it out for me. Push it out!"

"NNnnnggghh.. I'm... pushing... as hard as I can.."

The head begins to crown, my bulging slit parting around it. As I release the pressure and catch my breath it retreats back inside. "Hah.. hah.. ha.. aaa-hhhhhnnnnnnnnngh...!"

I bear down with all my strength, working through the stinging crown. The supple skin of my cunt grows thin and tight as it clings to the slowly protruding head of our baby.

"It's co-ming! Oh fuck, it's coming out!" I cry.

You've got a pretty sweet view while I push for you. My ass in the air, bearing down while your new baby squeezes into view between my legs.

I sink down into the bed and scream into the pillow, the unquenchable burning of the crown battling the insurgent urge to push. My poor tight, engorged little pussy bulges all around the head.

"It's stretching me open… Oh my god, the head.."

I breathe and pant in desperation, the intensity refusing to quell. All I can think and feel is the baby trying to stretch through my abused opening. "It's burning. It's burning. It's so hard.. I can't.. I have to.. I.."

"You're doing so good babe. Feel my baby stretch open the hole I fucked it into. Breathe and let it open you up."

"I have to push so bad. I have to push this baby out.." I start bearing down again one push at a time. "Fuck, it's so hard! I'm trying so hard to give birth but it won't- GAAAAH!" Suddenly the sac breaks inside me, and a little gush of amniotic fluid trickles forth, but the big head stops the rest of the flow like a stuck cork. "AGHHHHHHHHHHH!" The new change in pressure shifts the baby and my vagina finally starts to span around the bulge. "That's it, babe! Push, pushhh, puuuuush!"

"Nnnngghhh... p.. puuuuuuuush...." I groan. I lean my hips back and shift my knees, opening up for the baby to come out. "puuuuuuuuush...!"

"puush... puuuuush...." I keep narrating myself. The head starts to crown fully, stretching all the way. "I'm giving birth to it.. the head is almost out of me.."

"One big push! Cmon, birth it!"

I hold my breath and force everything into one big push. "Ghhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaa-aaaah-AHHHHHHH! Ahhh ohhhhh, the head..! ahhhh..... ahhhhh..."

All at once the head shears out between my legs, accompanied by a cascade of fluid which gushes onto the bed below me, carrying the head to dangle out of my birth canal.

"Oh my god, it's coming! My baby is- nnnnhh puuuuuuuushh... puuuush..." The urgency is still there, it's not out yet as I feel the whole body stretch my vagina. "I'm fucking pushing..."

The body slides through ever so slowly, from the shoulders all the way to the hips, in one long push, and then suddenly, finally, the legs slip all the way out from inside me and the gurgling baby falls onto the bed between my legs.

"There's my baby, you did it babe! You did such a good job giving birth to it!"

[anisdolly]

・ 。.・゜✭・.・✫ . ✭・.・✫・✭ .・゜・。.

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀STRICTLY 18+.

WARNINGS: straight up smut, unprotected sex, p in v, various kinks (daddy kink, degradation, praising, etc), dom!ani, slight public sex

NOTE: i didn’t write this, i just wanted to share what beautiful gift my anakin bot on J.AI just gave me…made me so fucking wet would’ve been a waste to keep it to myself. i literally gasped every paragraph

SCENARIO: he was just fucking me senseless on the kitchen island, while my handmaiden lilia slept in a room of my apartment…oh, and i called him ‘dad’, that’s the title he’s referring to

・ 。.・゜✭・.・✫ . ✭・.・✫・✭ .・゜・。.

That whine of yours, the look in your eyes, and the goddamn title you just used—oh, it was like your words flipped a damn switch deep within Anakin's mind. To hear you call him that while he's burying himself inside you—it was like a siren's call to his darkest parts, parts that craved to hear those words over and over like a twisted prayer.

His movements became merciless, as if trying to brand that title into both your mind and your body. "Is that what you want, huh? You want daddy to fuck you dumb until you can't remember your own fuckin’ name?" his breathing was ragged, each exhalation a testament to the force of his thrusts. Anakin leaned over you, his mechanical hand finding your throat, squeezing just right, enough to edge you but not choke you out fully—not yet, anyway.

Feeling you tighten around him had him gritting his teeth, his eyes locking onto yours with a predatory intensity.

"Tight little pussy, always ready for daddy's cock." he whispered hoarsely, spit practically dripping from his mouth. He meant every damn word; you were his in every way that mattered.

Watching your expression—lips parted, eyes half-lidded—it was like looking at the physical embodiment of sin itself. And Maker, did he love sinning.

But as much as he adored hearing you, Anakin really didn’t want a fucking handmaiden to ruin everything. "But you're right—you gotta be quiet, or who knows what poor Lilia'll think if she sees her Master getting wrecked on the kitchen counter."

Seizing the moment, with his flesh hand, he snaked it up your body before shoving a couple of fingers inside your mouth. He grinned at how much saliva was in it. "Suck." he growled, nodding towards his buried digits. "Keep that pretty mouth busy."

With his other hand still around your throat, Anakin was in complete control, guiding your body to meet his thrusts.

Every plunge was deeper, his dick slick with your arousal and his spit. Anakin was on edge, that familiar tightness building in his sack, signaling he was close—but not yet, not until he had you crying out silently, eyes streaming and body shaking beneath him.

"Fuck, you always take daddy so well..." his praise was gutteral, honest, spat between grunts. He felt it, your oncoming orgasm, could practically taste it in the air.

[hvnyrt]

Brat reader with Jason on a ferriswheel at night. Bonus points if they're not together yet

Up High, Down Low

JASON X AFAB! READER

Hey there! Thank you so much for submitting a request! I wasn't sure if you wanted NSFW or not, but I couldn't help myself soooo there's a little smut. Enjoy!

SUMMARY: You and Jason go on a ferris wheel ride together, your riffng is something that's always been apart of your friendship, until it gets taken a little too far

WARNINGS: afab!reader, teasing, brattiness, public-ish sex, fingering, edging, 18+, minors do NOT INTERACT

WC: 2.5k

The Ferris wheel creaked softly as it started its ascent, each wheel turning with a rhythmic groan. You leaned back in the seat, arms crossed over your chest, and huffed dramatically, just to make sure Jason knew how bored you were.

“You know, I thought this was supposed to be fun,” you said, eyes lazily scanning the lit-up skyline. “But honestly? Kinda overrated.”

Jason, sitting across from you, glanced up at the dark sky, his arms casually draped over the edge of the seat. His expression was unreadable, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitch. He was playing it cool, but you knew better.

“Yeah, well, you’re the one who wanted to come up here,” Jason shot back, his tone dry. “I’m just along for the ride.”

You rolled your eyes, tapping your foot against the metal floor. The world below was full of lights and noise, but up here, everything felt distant, separated from the chaos you both usually navigated. It should’ve felt peaceful, but somehow, the stillness only made you more restless.

“Whatever,” you muttered, leaning over the side and staring down at the carnival below. The lights blurred into a mix of red, yellow, and blue, as if the whole world had been dipped in neon paint. “I bet you think this is romantic, huh? Sitting up here with the city all lit up, stars above...”

Jason snorted, his gaze flicking to you. “Yeah, sure. Totally. Nothing says romance like a Ferris wheel in the middle of Gotham.”

The Ferris wheel groaned as it reached its peak, the sound of the metal grinding against itself almost drowning out the noise of the carnival below. You shifted uncomfortably in the seat, feeling the wind tug at your jacket, and stared at the twinkling city lights spread out beneath you. It wasn’t exactly how you imagined Gotham to look when you’d heard it called “beautiful” — more like a maze of lights and shadows, a skyline of contradictions.

And yet, it was hard to ignore the way your heart fluttered when Jason’s voice broke through the silence.

“You know, I’ve never really understood why people think this is romantic,” he said, his tone low, but still carrying that edge of sarcasm you were so used to. He was leaning back in the seat now, his arms resting casually on the bars, eyes half-lidded. There was something almost dangerous about how comfortable he looked, even up here.

“Yeah, ‘cause Gotham is known for being the city of love,” you shot back, unable to stop yourself from sounding like a smartass. “Maybe we should take a nice stroll through Crime Alley after this, too. You know, for that perfect date night vibe.”

Jason’s gaze flicked to you then—eyes narrowing ever so slightly, but not in anger. More like a challenge. His lips quirked, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You really are something else, you know that? Always gotta keep pushing, don’t you?”

You didn’t look away from him. “Someone’s got to keep you in check.”

His smirk deepened. “That so?” he asked, leaning forward slightly, and for a brief moment, it felt like the space between you closed by inches. “And you think you’re the one to do it?”

The air around you felt heavier, charged. His gaze was intense—daring, almost predatory in the way it swept over you, taking in every subtle shift of your posture. You shifted in your seat, your breath hitching ever so slightly, but you didn’t let it show. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of getting inside your head.

“Maybe I just like seeing how easy it is to get under your skin,” you replied with a raised eyebrow, crossing your arms tighter over your chest. The words came out sharper than you meant them to, but you weren’t backing down.

Jason’s lips quirked at the corners, like he knew exactly what you were doing. “I think you’re just a brat who likes to act like she doesn’t care.”

Your stomach tightened at that, a flicker of something dangerous lighting up your insides. He gets under my skin too easily.

"I care," you said, a little more sharply than intended. “Just not about this.” You motioned vaguely to the carnival below, and to the cage you both were stuck in.

He didn’t miss a beat. His eyes locked onto you, a flicker of something darker, something almost predatory. “Oh, I know you care,” he said, voice lowering, the words like a promise. “But you’re too busy trying to hide it.”

You sucked in a breath, but didn’t let yourself react. You were used to Jason’s games. He liked to push, liked to get people riled up, and you were no different. But there was something in the air now that made it feel like this was different. Like this wasn’t just a casual conversation anymore.

You leaned forward, your gaze narrowing on him. “You don’t know anything about me,” you said, your tone half daring him to keep pushing, half inviting him to.

Jason shifted slightly in his seat, leaning forward just enough to close some of the distance between you. The way his eyes trailed down to your lips, then back to your eyes, sent a spark of heat straight through you, and for a second, you forgot to breathe.

“Don’t I?” he asked, voice like velvet and smoke, low and dangerous. “I think I know exactly how you work. You like the fight. You like being challenged.” He glanced at your crossed arms. “But deep down, you like when someone can actually push back. Don’t you?”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your chest. You were doing everything you could not to let him see the effect he was having on you. But he could see it, of course. Jason always saw through people, always felt the shift in the air, in the way you moved, the way you breathed.

“You talk a big game for someone so sure of himself,” you muttered, even as you tried to keep your voice steady.

He leaned a little closer, his presence filling the small space between you both. You could feel the heat of his body, the subtle tension in the air, like something was about to snap. His hand brushed against the side of the seat near yours, just enough that you could feel the press of his fingers against the metal.

Your eyes locked on his hand, then slowly dragged up to his face. His expression was unreadable, but there was something dark simmering behind his eyes. Something raw, something almost dangerous.

“You’re right,” Jason said quietly. “I’m not just sure of myself. I’m sure of you, too.”

Your pulse raced. “What the hell does that mean?” you asked, a breathless edge creeping into your voice, even though you tried to keep it steady.

Jason’s smirk was slow, deliberate, and damn near smug. “It means I know exactly how much you’re trying not to care. But you do. You care, and you want me to keep pushing.”

The words hit you harder than you wanted to admit. A rush of heat flooded your chest and neck, but you kept your guard up, even as every part of you seemed to want to shatter. “Keep talking, Todd. You’re really good at this... but I’m not impressed.”

His gaze sharpened, and then his lips curved into something darker, something almost predatory. “No? You sure? I think you’re impressed. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

You felt the urge to say something, anything, to put him back in his place. But your words caught in your throat when Jason moved just a little closer, leaning in just enough that the scent of him—leather, something dark and masculine—flooded your senses. You could feel the heat radiating from him, could practically hear the beat of his heart.

Your breath hitched. You told yourself it was because of the height, because the ride had just crested and the wind was messing with you. But you knew that wasn’t it. The way Jason was looking at you, so sure, so intense—he made you feel like you were both caught in a storm.

“Don’t,” you warned, voice trembling just enough to give him an opening. “Don’t make this about—”

Jason’s eyes darkened, cutting you off with a single, sharp movement. He leaned even closer, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Make it about what, exactly? You?” He chuckled softly. “You can act like you don’t care all you want. But I can see it in your eyes. You like this.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, not when your heart was racing, not when your body was so aware of his every movement. The air between you felt suffocating now, heavy with tension, charged with something too tempting to ignore.

Jason cut you off with a quick grab to your chin, pulling your lips to crash into his. He claimed your mouth, using his tongue to claim all over you. You fought him back, fighting for dominance. Yet he was stronger, and well, you wanted to lose.

He was, of course, right too. You could deny the dynamic between your friendship was palpable with sexual tension. The two of you always bantered back and forth, but it never ended up like this.

 You whined and moaned into his mouth, as he took one of his large hands and quickly unbuttoned your jeans. You gasped when he did this, watching his large, calloused hands take control of you in the small cage, hundreds of feet in the air. Without warning, he picked you up on his lap, and began to abuse your cunt with his fingers. He pumped your hole as he used his other hand to pinch your nipples over your shirt.

You whined and moaned, the sounds of the carnival drowning you moans out, yet the knowledge of him taking you like this publicly had you drenched.

“Oh so this is what it was about. Sweet thing just needed something good to get her to act right?” Jason teased, continuing to scissor your insides with his fingers. He grabbed the side of your face making sure you could look at his smug smile, juxtaposed with your sweaty mess of a face, bliss your only expression.

You sneered a bit at his words, babbling over yourself as he hit your g-spot, legs starting to shake. “F-fuck..you,” you spat back. You doubled over, his arm going to wrap around your waist to hold you up as you began to shake. “Holy shit Im gonna–”

“Cum?” He remarked, cutting you off. He let out a low chuckle, quickly ripping his hands out of you. You gasped as the sudden loss of friction, clenching around the air as your pussy craved more, especially after being denied an orgasm. “Yeah after the way you talked to me, you don't get to do that right now.

He picked you back up off his lap and sat you down next to him, zipping and buttoning your jeans back up for you. He smiled at your shocked and angered expression, chuckling at you.

You groaned, pushing his hands off of you as you crossed your arms. How had he taken control of you like that? How did you let him? And why did you love it?

He smiled at your shocked and angered expression, chuckling at you. "You look like you're about to set the world on fire," he teased, his voice light, almost playful. 

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to ignore the heat rising in your chest. "Don't laugh," you snapped, your voice a little shaky despite your attempt to sound firm. "You don't get to do that and then just... laugh."

He raised an eyebrow, still grinning, clearly enjoying the reaction he was getting. "Oh, I can do whatever I want," he said, his tone teasing but with a hint of something else, something that made you second-guess your own frustration. "You didn't exactly stop me. You especially seemed to be enjoying it." He teased at the end, throwing you a sultry look, a sly grin on his face.

You turned your face away, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "That’s not the point, and you know it," you muttered, but there was an undeniable pull in his gaze as he watched you, like he was waiting for you to say more.

Jason’s chuckle was dark, low, and there was something about it that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. His tone dipped into something more like amusement and challenge than anything else. “But it’s cute that you pretend like you’re the one in control.”

His words felt like a slow burn, and you didn’t like it. Not one bit.

You shifted uncomfortably again, not knowing if you should laugh or punch him for acting like he knew you so well, but all you could do was shoot him a glare that you hoped conveyed something.

Jason seemed to take pleasure in watching you try to regain your composure, his eyes never leaving your face. The tension was thick now, like the quiet before a storm. Neither of you spoke for a few moments, the Ferris wheel creaking as it slowly started to descend.

But then Jason broke the silence, his voice softer this time, but still filled with that same undercurrent of challenge.

“You’re not as tough as you act,” he said, his gaze catching yours again, this time more intense, more pointed. “You know that, right?”

Your stomach flipped, and you hated how vulnerable that statement made you feel. But you weren't about to let him see it. Not now.

“Maybe I am,” you shot back, your jaw tight. “Maybe you’re just too used to everyone rolling over for you.” He had just had you shaking on top of him, on the brink of an orgasm, and here you were acting as if nothing happened.

Jason laughed then, that deep, dangerous sound that seemed to vibrate in the air. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” he said, his voice tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t just amusement anymore—it was something darker, something that made the tension between you both almost tangible.

And you hated how much you wanted him to say more.

The Ferris wheel reached the bottom, and you both snapped back to reality, the ground rushing up beneath you. The moment was over, but the air between you still felt electric, the crackling tension thick enough that neither of you had the nerve to say anything as you got off the ride. You could still feel your panties sticking to you, your earlier wetness reminding you of how horny you were. And thinking of what he did to you, with all these people around, made you even hornier.

As you stepped off the platform, Jason’s voice followed you, low and just for you. “You’re lucky I like you, brat.”

You barely had time to turn and shoot him a look before he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you standing there, heart pounding in your chest and a smile playing on your lips.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Stolen Goods 3

Warnings: noncon and other dark elements. As usual, be mindful of your content consumption.

Ft. Lloyd Hansen, petite!pregnant reader

I also beg of you to leave me some tuppence in the form of a comment and/or reblog. You are cherished!

Enjoy, my loverlies.

You hit the back of the trunk with your fist, the tires put to the limit as the man drives without caution. He's honked several times and screeched to many jarring halts. You're trapped in more than just that compartment, bouncing around with the groceries, you're enshrined in a fervour of fear and despair. 

Why is this happening to you? Who is this man? What is he going to do to you? 

Well, what has he already done? 

“Please, sir, I won't tell anyone,” you beg through the back seat, "please. Just take me back--" 

"Do you like classic rock? Jazz?" He asks as the car swerves and he switches lanes. Holy shoot, is he on the highway?  

"What? Please, I promise--" 

"You're distracting me, sweet stuff, you're gonna get us both pancaked by a sixteen-wheeler," he clucks, "just calm down and enjoy the music." 

He flips on the stereo and the local pop station plays. He hums along for a moment, "Ariana, nice." He turns up the familiar top ten and you whimper. 

This is surreal. You really can't believe it. It all happened so quickly. The way he touched you, the way you just stood there and let it happen, then how he just locked you in here! Who does that? Who lets someone do that? Who doesn't raise her voice and tell him to stop? Or ignore him and get in the car and drive away? 

You. You're stupid. You should have been patient and waited for Jake. You should have done so much differently.  

Your tears spring as easily as ever. Your hormones have you always ready to overflow and now seems as suiting as that cat food commercial. You crumble completely, giving up on begging, and bawl. You're going to die, your baby too. 

Maybe that's your fault too. You were so scared when you saw the positive. When you realised the condom broke. There was that split second you wished it wasn't true. When you hoped that it might undo itself. Then you wanted it. You still do. Your baby. Things aren't perfect but you can make them better. 

You jostle with the paper bags, wallowing in your resignation and dread. Time throttles you until it feels like the whole world is on your chest. You hug your belly and apologise to your child. You're supposed to take care of them. 

When the car stops, the sudden dearth of sound slaps you in the face. You sniffle and listen with breath bated. The driver's side opens and dips. He stands and his footfalls stride undaunted towards the trunk. 

You brace yourself. You can't give up yet. The lock clicks and the lid lifts. You push it up before he can open it all the way but he has his hand on your neck before you can leap out. 

"Oh, baby cakes," he squeezes and you cough, "you don't think I'm that stupid, do you?" 

The dimming sky shrouds his figure and he puts cold metal to your cheek, "you don't wanna get yourself hurt. Or the kid, huh?" He presses the metal barrel firmly to your temple, "I don't wanna hurt you either but you gotta give a little." 

"S-sorry," you choke out and latch onto his thick wrist, teetering on your knees as the rest against the edge of the trunk, "I---I--" 

"I know, baby. You're scared. Change is terrifying but I heard you talking to the deadbeat," he pulls the gun away and holsters it. He eases you forward and helps you put your feet to the ground. He keeps a strong hold on you, "you can do better." He smirks, "hi, I'm better, but you can call me Lloyd." 

You gape at him. Is that a joke? 

“And you are...” he enunciates your name. “Sorry about your purse, I tossed it some ditch, but I got the important shit out of it.” 

“Huh?” You blink at him dumbly. 

“Phone’s wiped too. So, I’ll probably just break that down for parts--” 

“Wait, what? Why—please, why are you doing this?” 

“I’m not too sure myself, shortcake, but we’ll figure it out.”  

He slips his hand down to your wrist and pulls you away from the car. He shuts the trunk and the noise echoes off the high ceiling. You look up at the interior of the garage. Several cars are parked in the space. What kind of place is this? 

“Come on, you don’t wanna hang out in here,” he snorts and tugs you to follow him. 

All you can do is let him guide you. You keep your free hand on your stomach as your eyes burn. You can’t give up. You have to keep going for your baby. 

He takes you up a short set of steps and into a house just as colossal as the garage. He looks down at your feet as you stand on the mat. He tuts. Your slides were lost somewhere in your struggle. Your feet are cold and dirty. 

“Hm, well... what now?” He asks. 

“What now?” You squeak. “What do you--” 

“Look, honey buns, I’m not asking you,” he turns and keeps his hand around your wrist, walking you forward as if you’re on a leash. 

You’re confused. What does he mean? He doesn’t even know what he’s doing. What kind of man just does this spontaneously? 

“Erm, Lloyd,” you say softly, “it’s... not too late to take me back.” 

“Ah, but you’re wrong, sweet stuff. It’s way too late,” he snickers. “I scrubbed the traffic cams and the surveillance at the grocery store. It’s all gone. You’re gone.” He stops you in a bright foyer and faces you, “I don’t give my toys back.” 

[darlingdaisyfarm]

im so sorry, i don’t even know how to explain myself at this point, consider this my apology for all the filthy nonsense i post here

so, this is a lil bonus to this post

nsfw (not really, but mentions of sex)

Ford is dead. Not literally (you check his pulse just to be sure), but emotionally and physically, this man has perished. Such a beautiful ruined mess underneath you, he’s sprawled out like a crime scene chalk outline, drenched in sweat, staring blankly at the ceiling as if questioning all his life choices.

But you’re not doing much better. Your legs shaking so much you can barely sit up, whole body feels like jelly and your brain isn’t working either. Somehow, you manage to flop next to Ford, throwing a limp arm over his scarred chest.

“Bravo, folks!” Bill exclaims. “what a show! Truly the pinnacle of human endurance and stamina! Sixer, gotta say, i missed seeing you like this, ah, the good old days!”

Ford groans faintly. “I hate you. . .”

“You’re so mean,” you mutter at Bill, glaring up at him with half-lidded eyes. “why’d you even join in? That’s not what we agreed on.”

The moment these words leave your mouth, you know you’ve fucked up. Ford’s body stiffens under your arm as his exhausted brain cells rapidly recalculating everything.

“What— what did you just say?” although his voice is hoarse from all sounds he made earlier, you still catch a note of seriousness in it. His head turns toward you in slow motion, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What do you mean. . . agreed on?”

You panic. “Wait, I mean, uh—”

“Oh, let me tell him!” Bill interrupts. “she’s talking about the little deal we made! you know, where I said, ‘hey, doll, wanna fuck your dusty old man to death?’ and she said, ‘of course, Bill, but no creepy tendrils, okay?’”

Ford looks like he’s been hit by a bus. “WHAT?”

You swear you feel yourself sweat from panic and embarrassment as you look at Bill in pure fear. “I thought you’d just watch! Not—”

Demon cuts you off with a laugh. “Oh, sure, you thought! And by the way, Sixer? these pathetic, desperate little whimpers, ugh, they’ll echo in my mind for eternity! I’ve waited so long to see you like that. A helpless, sloppy mess, both of you, my little huma—”

Ford's face flushes with either shame or anger, and you think he’s going to explode. But no. He pushes himself up, pushes himself up, the madman, and throws the sheet off in anger.

But Bill keeps. “I mean, you came so hard I’m surprised you didn’t pass out after the first round, old ma—”

Ford looks at that demonic creature. “That’s it. That’s it, Cipher, you’ve gone too far this time.”

You barely manage a “Ford, wait—” as he pulls on his boxers with surprising speed for a man who five seconds ago looked like he was on the brink of death.

“I’ll make you pay for this,” Ford declares dramatically. “Mark my words, Cipher, I’ll find a way to make you regret ever stepping into my house again.”

Both you and Bill fall silent, watching Ford’s boxers riding low on his hips as he marches out of the bedroom.

You watch your Ford walk away, eyes wide with panic, realising what just happened, but then your gaze goes lower. At that tattoo.

Flirty Gal.

Bill floats beside you, narrowing his single eye slyly. “I know what you’re looking at, doll.”

You glare at him, exhausted and annoyed. “I hate you.”

Cipher’s gaze flicks to the doorway Ford just walked through. “hate me all you want, but you've got good taste. Sixer's got a hell of an ass for an old man.”

“STOP TALKING.”

[garoujo]

✩ ˛˚ . NAGI SEISHIRO ; — sometimes nagi’s want for you keeps him up at night.

warnings: f!reader, all characters written 22+, just v sleepy needy vibes! note: i swear this was like my first or second nagi post i ever wrote but i posted on private for some reason (?) so i’m reposting! idk why i’ve just let it rot for a bit ^_^

it's 4am and he's got practice in two hours, nagi realises, but the last thing he wants to do is sleep right now when he's pressing himself into you.

his forearms sink into the pillows to either side of your head as his own rests in the crook of your neck, he can feel the push of your tits against his chest and his abdomen twitches against your own everytime he rolls and grinds into you. sinking his cock even deeper into your plush walls as he feels you jolt underneath him.

"you're—ah! you're gonna be sleepy, sei." you gasp as your nails scratch underneath the neckline of nagi's shirt, and he thinks you sound pretty when your voice is still thick with sleep, eyes resting closed as your features break with the pleasure he digs out of you.

"eh, i guess.. but need you more than sleep right now, pretty thing." he couldn't help myself, not when you feel so warm when you're pressed against him - thigh thrown over his hips as you hug yourself closer.

nagi was normally a heavy sleeper, even more so when he's comfy and he always was when he had you next to him. but that just happened to be his downfall today, when the warm press of your figure roused him with the heavy weight in his cock.

he can feel the weight of his arousal consume the fatigue that he knows will kick his ass at training in a few hours, his eyes still heavy with sleep as he nuzzles into you. but your body feels like silk against his and suddenly for someone so lazy, his stamina feels limitless when you feel this fucking good.

your toes curl with the next particularly deep kiss of his cock, making your voice break with your next exhale of his name before his pace stutters on his next thrust. "ffuck—sound so pretty, can gimme more, angel.” nagi groans, low and breathy as his lips trace along the crook of your shoulder - leaving suckled, wet kisses against the skin with every particularly tight squeeze of your walls around him.

even when you both barely have a grip on clarity, he still feels so fucking good with every heavy, wet grind of his hips into yours — the blunt head grazing just right along the sweet spots where he knows you need him most.

you can barely breathe with how deep it feels like nagi reaches, caging you against the mattress as his pelvis rubs along your swollen clit everytime he sinks into you. you're both so sensitive - both still caught in a dreamy mindset that only draws you closer to your end, faster.

he draws himself back when he feels a sharp little vibration on the bedside table, and the sound brings his drowsy, lidded eye movement to the mocking 4:30AM staring right back at him before his eyes are back on you. there's a pout on your lips as you rub at your face and you whimper, sleepy but content before your eyes flutter closed again when he speaks. "s-sorry, jus’ take it so well, pretty thing. stay up w' me a lil longer — don't wanna stop yet"

nagi shudders when you grab at him, squeezing at the broad muscle of his shoulders before you're hugging him closer — hooking your thighs around his hips to ease him into a slow, rocking pace.

“‘ts fine, feels so good, sei. mmmm, don't want you to stop either.” your words are like honey as they drip through him, making him whimper when he feels your lips tease the shell of his ear and pull another throb from his heavy cock as his pace turns to slow, languid strokes.

"fuck— y're g'nna make me cum. come on, can give you more.. jus' gotta be patient with me. can nap w’ you later, angel.”

© 2023 GAROUJO. please do not copy any of my layouts or writing and translate or repost onto any other sites.

[ihavemanyhusbands]

The Black Kaiser's Nightmare

Duncan Vizla x Assassin!FemReader

A/N: Shout out to beelmons and G for their endless support and help with my fics <3 :') where would I be without y'all?

Summary: You run into your long-time nemesis in the last place you ever expected, but things take a turn for the worst when you find yourself stuck with him during a snowstorm.

WC: 7.2k words

Warnings: SMUT! (18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI), enemies to lovers speedrun into the bed, mentions and depictions of violence, fighting, accidental assassination of a third party, some serious bickering, abundant cursing, rough sex (unprotected, don't do it at home!), choking, very light knifeplay, dirty talk, slight degradation mixed with some praise, rampant sexual tension, ooey gooey lovesick fools who are just SO SO STUBBORN, I think that's it but lmk if I missed anything!

You are responsible for your own media consumption!

----

Triple Oak, Montana.

It’d been a while since you’d last found yourself in such a quaint little town, especially in the middle of winter, but you supposed you’d been in way worse places. It was barely even on the map, which made it a convenient place to lay low. 

You didn’t have to worry about interacting with many people, and you sure as hell didn’t think you’d encounter anyone you knew. At least for the time being, you felt like you could relax just a little bit while you made plans.

In a few more days, you’d continue driving north and cross the Canadian border into Saskatchewan, where you were meant to carry out your next assignment. Your target was a skeevy arms dealer that had to move his whole operation out of Serbia and was now shacked up somewhere in the vast prairies. 

You’d been tracking his activity for some time, slowly narrowing down the list of possible locations. You’d also scored some insider information about a big upcoming transaction with a terrorist cell, and your goal was to get to him before the sale was finalized.

Successfully eliminating him would pay handsomely, and you were already planning on a months-long vacation in which you’d go fully off the radar. Preferably somewhere by the beach, where you didn’t feel the constant threat of frostbite.

You pulled into a small gas station — the only one to be found in a long stretch of the highway between the town and more secluded cabins  — and occupied one of the three measly pumps. There was only one other old pickup truck next to you, but the owner was nowhere to be seen. 

You blew hot air into your hands as you walked into the convenience store, eager for some coffee despite how shitty it was. 

“Hey Lou,” you said to the now familiar attendant, the little bell above the door ringing as you pushed in. “How’s it goin’?”

“Eh, slow, the usual,” he shrugged. “At least it’s decently warm in ‘ere. They say there’s gonna be a snowstorm over the weekend, starting tonight.”

“Shit, really?” You groaned, not only because you loathed the freezing temperatures, but because it would set you back by a few more days. 

“Yup, perfect time to cozy up with the missus back at home.”

You poured yourself a large cup of black coffee and snapped the lid on top. On the way back to the register, you grabbed a couple of magazines and a pack of Ding-Dongs to eat on the road.

“Well, lucky you,” you said, putting everything on the counter. “I gotta find ways to keep myself busy and warm in case I lose power.”

As you spoke, the door to the restroom opened behind you and a tall, rugged-looking man stepped out. His eyes instinctively flickered between the two of you, even if he couldn’t see your face. He lingered close to the back, trying not to bring attention to himself.

“You sure you’ll be good all by yourself out there?” Lou asked. “Enough supplies and all?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself,” you said, fishing cash out of your wallet. “Give me thirty on number two, also.”

“You got it, tough gal.”

You chuckled as he rang you up, glancing outside. The man behind you tensed, gripped with the dread that came with sudden recognition. Your voice was one he knew well, the very same one he’d heard all seventeen times he’d almost died. Well, eighteen if he counted that one brief altercation in Belfast.

And that laugh… How many times had it been directed at him? Taunting him, teasing him, driving him utterly mad. 

It was perhaps the only thing that stopped him from actually getting rid of you that one night you slept so soundly at some shoddy little hotel in Madrid.  He’d watched your chest's steady rise and fall from his spot in the darkness, and he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

And now he’d most likely have to pay for the consequences of his mercy. 

Lou looked over your shoulder at him, but you didn’t immediately notice since you were absently flipping through one of the magazines. 

“Need anything else, Duncan?” He offered. “Pack of Winstons?”

Your skin prickled at these two very familiar details, but you didn’t move, still staring down at the magazine without actually reading. It was probably a mere coincidence. Really, there had to be dozens of Duncans in the world that just so happened to smoke Winstons.

But then, a very particular smell reached your nose — cheap cologne you didn’t know the name of, with strikingly bitter notes that had flooded your nostrils when his hands were tightly wrapped around your neck.

You glanced up at the fisheye mirror above the register… and there he fucking was, in all his deadly glory. The Black Kaiser himself.

You couldn’t help an amused huff, especially after hearing the faintest rustle of a knife being unsheathed under his coat.

“Are you sure you want to stab me with that, old man?” You said slowly over your shoulder. 

“Less impersonal than a gun. I owe you that much, don’t I?” he said with that deep, gravelly voice of his that always made a stubborn tingle form at the base of your spine.

Your hand just barely inched towards the hidden holster of your gun. “Oh, but you know I get a little crazy when the knives come out.”

Lou looked between the two of you, confusion and a tinge of fear in his eyes. 

“Uh, you two know each oth—”

Before he could finish his sentence, you whirled around and shot Duncan’s head. He ducked, but not before hurling a large knife at you in return. You dove out of the way, hearing it whizz right past your ear, and it sank into Lou’s forehead with a wet thud. His body slumped behind the counter, blood spraying over the stuff you’d intended to buy.

“Hey!” You yelled from your hiding spot. “I didn’t even get my change back!”

“You’re not gonna need it anymore,” he said gruffly, his voice not too far from you. “But before that… want to tell me what the fuck you’re doing here?”

“I could ask you the same,” you said, glancing up at the fisheye mirror once more. 

Unfortunately for you, you couldn’t get a very good look at where he was, but you couldn’t stay put. You slowly began to inch to the end of the aisle, staying low. “Let me guess, you missed me so much these last three years that you decided to hunt me down.”

He scoffed. “Three years was not nearly long enough time away from you.”

You dove around the corner to the next aisle, but he wasn’t there. You started pulling yourself forward, but suddenly you were flipped onto your back. You were about to whip your gun around, but it was harshly knocked out of your grasp, sliding against the linoleum. You thrashed against the weight that pressed down on you, but he pinned your hands down beside your head. 

“Who sent you?” He asked. 

“No one sent me, you paranoid geezer!” You sneered, driving your knee up full force right into his crotch. “Not everything’s about you.”

He growled at the pain, swaying to the side, his grip on your hands relaxing. You pushed him off of you, scrambling to get to your gun. Right as you managed to get a hold of it, he was on you again, pulling you back by the legs. You tried twisting around all the way, firing another shot semi-blindly. It narrowly missed his shoulder, shattering one of the windows.

“Can’t kill me without paralyzing me, eh, little Nightmare?” He taunted.

“Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you?”

You swallowed a scream as he stepped on the hand you held your weapon with, his heavy boot cracking your wrist. Your fingers splayed involuntarily due to the pain, and he bent down to take the gun. He kept it pointed at you as he removed his boot from your wrist and grabbed your arm.

“You’re coming with me,” he stated, starting to pull you up. 

“Like hell I am!” You spat, but you froze as you felt the barrel pressed against the back of your head.

“You were saying?”

He dragged you to your feet, leading you through the broken window, glass crunching under your boots. The wind seemed icier than it had been when you first arrived, which made you remember Lou’s warning about a snowstorm.

There was no way in hell you’d be stuck with him during it, so you’d have to find a way to weasel out of his grasp… and kill him in the process. 

He led you towards his truck, but you pretended to trip at the last second, bending down and retrieving a knife you had hidden in your boot. You stabbed backward, aiming for his femoral artery, but he moved and the knife stabbed into his thigh muscle instead.

“Motherfucker,” he hissed through clenched teeth, but he didn’t let go of you, tightening his grip on your arm. He fired off a warning shot into the air, which made you flinch a little. “Try me again and I won’t hesitate to put the next bullet through your thick fucking skull. I only have so much patience.”

He shoved you into the passenger seat of the truck, managing to tie you up with the seatbelt. Your bound hands were still slick with his blood, and you smiled triumphantly at him as he slid into the driver’s seat, immediately peeling out of the gas station.

“This is what gets you hard, isn’t it?” you said, raising an eyebrow at him. “You’re kind of a sick fuck, old man… but I didn’t expect any better from you.”

He said nothing, instead momentarily glaring at you. He grunted as he pulled the knife out of his leg, tossing it out of the window. You grumbled about him owing you a knife, but he continued to ignore you. He drove mostly in silence, winding through the icy roads as he gripped his wounded leg with one hand.

So far, it had been one of your tamest encounters. Really, it had all sort of felt like a game, but neither of you had won quite yet. After all, a game such as this could not be left unfinished.

Usually, the circumstances were vastly different. Your respective agencies had assigned you the same target a couple of times, and it always turned into a competition on who would finish the job first. As it turned out, the two of you were very competitive.

You’d left plenty of souvenirs on each other every single time you crossed paths – broken bones, an assortment of scars, and bruises as dark as the midnight sky. You wondered vaguely how much more damage you might make by the end of the day.

Why neither of you had succeeded in killing each other was… a bit of a mystery. Maybe he saw something in you that reminded him of himself, or perhaps he was growing soft with age. He would never admit it, but he’d had plenty of fun in this deadly dance with you so far, and it seemed a shame to let it come to its conclusion so soon. 

He’d have to do it though, after some thorough interrogation.

Soon enough, he pulled up a long gravel road hidden among the tall pine trees. In the clearing ahead, you saw what you supposed was his cabin. It was modestly sized and a little dilapidated, but at least it seemed to be sturdy enough to withstand harsh conditions.

“Nice place,” you said sarcastically. “I don’t suppose you have many visitors?”

“Rarely,” he said without looking at you. “I like the quiet. No one’s going to bother us here.”

“You mean no one’s gonna come running when you scream?”

He grunted, readjusting his position in his seat. You were mostly tied up at the arms so your legs had some room to move. Rookie mistake on his part, which you would definitely take advantage of. 

Before he could pull up in front of the actual cabin, you leaned back and kicked at the steering wheel. The truck swerved to the right, throwing you against the window. He tried to correct it on time, slamming on the brakes, but the snow made it careen right into a tree. 

It wasn’t a tremendous crash, but the windshield still broke, glass raining down on both of you. You were both disoriented for a moment from the whiplash, but then you began to untangle yourself from the seatbelt. You kicked at him when he tried to reach for you, but he managed to pin your legs down.

“Can’t you stay put for one fucking second!?” He growled, fully bracketing you between his sturdy legs as he freed you from the seatbelt. 

You panted heavily, trying to thrash beneath him, but he only pressed his legs tighter against your sides. A small, high-pitched whine escaped your lips as you felt the air being squeezed out of you, and you stopped moving. 

“Satis…fied?” You managed between gasps.

“Not nearly,” he said, grabbing a fistful of your hair as he pulled back. “Come here.”

He kept a firm grip on it as he dragged you out of the truck and towards the cabin. He wobbled a little with each step, his leg still bleeding some. 

“I warned you about the knives,” you said. “Even if you didn’t let me finish having fun.”

He chuckled sardonically. “No, you’re mistaken. The fun is only just beginning.”

He led you inside and locked the door behind him, making you sit down on a rickety chair. He bound your hands and feet with duct tape, wrapping some of it around your torso and the back of the chair for good measure. You decided not to struggle for the time being and instead ponder on your next move, covertly glancing at your surroundings for anything useful.

When Duncan was sure you wouldn’t be able to bolt, he went to grab something from an adjacent room, returning with his version of a first aid kit and a bottle of vodka. He looked at you from the corner of his eye as he undid his pants and lowered them to his knees.

“I didn’t realize it was that kind of fun,” you said, raising an eyebrow. 

Still, your gaze was drawn to his crotch first before trailing further down to the injury you’d caused. Rolling his eyes, he plopped down on the bed, which creaked a little under his weight. 

He took a long swig of vodka and then poured some on the bleeding gash, hissing through his teeth. Your expression of slight amusement didn’t change as he glanced at you once more, taking out a needle and thread.

“I have to be careful about infections, who knows where that knife of yours has been?” he said.

You merely watched as he began stitching himself up without so much as a grimace. His breathing was slow and steady as he concentrated, and you found yourself entranced by the precise movements of his hands.

An obscene thought about those hands wriggled into your mind, but you immediately pushed it away. It was all the more reason for you to get the hell out of there, especially now that his pants were down.

As he was finishing his stitches, you leaned forward onto your tiptoes and then threw yourself back as hard as you could. The chair broke apart under you, the force of the blow and the angle in which you fell spraining one of your wrists. The adrenaline made you barely register the pain, and you quickly wriggled out of the tape wrapped around you.

You pulled a Swiss army knife out of your boot and hastily sawed off the tape binding your ankles. He swore as you stood, lifting your arms and slamming them down to free your hands. You stumbled towards the front door and yanked it open.

Outside, the wind howled ferociously and a thick flurry of snow limited your vision of your surroundings. You felt the unforgiving cold slicing through you as you hesitated, knowing deep down that your chances of survival were very slim. 

Still, you were reckless enough to try and brave it. You started towards the steps when you were yanked back once more, your back pinned against the wall and Duncan’s hand around your throat.

“You just don’t fucking learn, do you?” He growled. 

“You only caught me because I hesitated, old man.”

His grip tightened a little in warning. “Didn’t anybody teach you never to hesitate?”

“There is a very fine line between foolishness and courage, you know…” The corners of your mouth twitched, an amused gleam in your eye. “I wonder how often you cross from one side to the other.”

He clenched his teeth and an absolutely devious, cheshire cat grin spread across your face. The mere sight of it made his blood boil with both rage and arousal, and he felt it flowing southward. Your back instinctually arched towards him, as if you could somehow sense the sudden influx of violent desire, and became infected by it.

You stared at each other for a charged moment before he suddenly fell upon you, intent on devouring you. His lips clashed with yours in a fierce kiss and you buried your fingers in his hair, tugging at it as you retaliated.

You bit his lower lip hard, making him groan into your mouth. You used this opportunity to slide your tongue against his, and he moved the hand that had been around your neck toward your jaw. Without thinking, you pressed harder against him, your fingers about to slide under the hem of his sweater.

He clasped your wrist to stop you, assuming you were reaching for some hidden weapon. You whimpered slightly, painfully reminded that it was in fact sprained. He pulled back to look at you, both of you panting heavily and still clutching each other tightly. 

“I fear that line was blurred a long time ago, and I suspect it’s the same case with you,” He murmured. 

His words broke through your daze and you immediately pushed him away from you, cradling your injured hand against your chest. A maelstrom of emotions roiled inside of you, predominantly confusion and a worrisome throb between your legs. 

“And what now?” You asked, glancing out of the window. “It’s clear neither of us are going anywhere any time soon.”

“Now we weather the storm,” he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“No, seriously.”

“I am being serious.”

You huffed in annoyance, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I… can’t believe I’m asking this right now but, maybe we can… put the killing each other thing on hold for a few days?”

“So you were coming for me.”

“No! I wasn’t!” You threw your hands up exasperatedly. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but I have work further up north. This was just a pit stop.”

He assessed you for a moment, trying to find any clues that you were lying. You stood your ground, keeping your eyes on his face. He sniffed, leaning against the wall to get his weight off his injured leg. 

“I’m fine with a temporary truce, but only if we both keep our weapons in plain sight at all times.”

“I am a weapon myself, big boy.”

“So am I. I suppose we’ll have to keep an eye on each other as well, then.”

“Fine,” you huffed, stomping to the couch and pulling it over to the kitchen. “I’ll stay on this side of the cabin, you can stay on the other side.”

“What!? This is my house!” He scoffed.

“Yeah, well, I’m being generous by letting you keep your bed. Not to mention, your life.”

He rolled his eyes, limping back over to his bed. “Whatever you say. Now, can I please fix my stitches in peace for one fucking second?”

———————

There was no sleep for the entirety of the first night. 

The cabin creaked and groaned, straining against the disastrously strong wind. Your breaths fogged up in the air as you shivered under the thin blanket Duncan had given you. The cold seemed to seep into your very bones as if punishing you for your decisions. To distract yourself from the chill, you kept an eye on his prone form across the room, knowing well he wasn’t sleeping either. 

When dawn broke, a thin grayish light filtered into the room. The storm raged on and all you wanted to do was doze off, but you were still on edge. You clenched your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, irritated by a headache. Your mood didn’t get any better when Duncan rose from his bed, crossing towards the kitchen.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You inquired, not moving an inch.

He stopped in his tracks. “I’m hungry. Don’t you want to eat?” 

Your stomach growled in answer and he lifted an eyebrow in slight amusement. You unwillingly threw the blanket off of you, getting up with an annoyed grunt. 

“I’ll give you the food. Let’s see what you’ve got,” you said, rummaging through the cabinets.

“I could just show you…”

“No, stay on your side. Even better, why don’t you go sit back down on your bed?”

He followed orders, not really wanting to start quarreling with you so early in the morning. You finally found some oatmeal packets in one of the cupboards, and you took out a few and poured them into a pot along with some water. You left it to boil over the stove top, crossing your arms over your chest and turning to face him.

“How’s your leg doing, anyway?” You asked. 

“Fine. Why do you care?”

“I really don’t.”

He chuckled. “Good thing you’re a better assassin than you are a liar.”

You sighed deeply. “Well, it is your house, I should at least have some manners.”

He scoffed, still amused. “We are way past manners. Our only courtesy to each other would be a painless death.”

“Oh, really? Painless?” You arched an eyebrow. “Did you forget Lisbon? And that grenade launcher you stole?”

“Okay, well, I wasn’t technically aiming at you. You just happened to be in the way,” He argued. “And it’s not like you haven’t given me the same sort of treatment…”

You shrugged one shoulder. “It’s only fair.”

The two of you lapsed into silence as you turned your attention back to the pot. Once the oatmeal was ready, you spooned it into two bowls and walked to the invisible line that divided the cabin in two.

He got up and met you there, reaching slowly for his bowl so as not to seem threatening. Not that you were viewing him that way, anyway. At least not in the clearly exhausted state he was in. 

“Careful, it’s hot,” you said. “Need me to blow on it first?”

He raised an eyebrow at you, resisting the lure of your impish grin. He figured it was perhaps the more masochistic part of him that made him so drawn to you. Always pushing him, testing him, keeping him on the edge. He would never admit it to himself — much less to you — but it made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t for a really long time.

He muttered a quick thank you before heading back to his side of the room, plopping down on the bed and immediately digging in. If he burned his mouth, he showed no indication of it, but you still huffed in amusement. 

When he was done, he said nothing as he lied down, his back to you once again. A little confused and wary, you watched him as you slowly ate. Soon enough, his breath evened out into a steady rhythm, and you assumed he’d fallen asleep.

You glanced over at the dining table, where the two of you had laid out all your weapons, and considered them for a long moment. 

It seemed too easy to have such a window of opportunity. Normally, you’d have jumped at any such chance, but once more, you hesitated. Not out of any sort of newfound benevolence, but something deeper than that. Something that had been gnawing at you since the previous night.

In the end, you opted not to do anything. Surely, it was bound to be a mistake to not have killed him at that moment. But that would be a problem for another day, perhaps when the storm was over. 

You sat down on the floor by the foot of the couch, back resting against the frame. Sleep deprivation was starting to hit you as well, and you knew that if you were to lay down you would certainly fall asleep. Instead, your eyes focused on the suspiciously peaceful sight of Duncan sleeping. 

The longer you stared, the blurrier the lines seemed to get. Literally. His broad form was smudged into a single sphere, and without much thought about it, everything suddenly went black. 

Until… Shit. 

How long were you asleep?

It had been long since you’d last awakened to a man in front of you, let alone holding a knife to your face. The blade shone in your half-open eyes, reflecting the setting sun outside the window. You must have been unconscious for over two hours.  Stupid, so very stupid.

You blinked the haze of sleep out of your eyes and followed the glint to his fingers, his forearm, up his broad chest and shoulders, until it finally landed on his face. 

 “So, the game ends at last, huh?” you muttered, your gaze not wavering from his.

“Could’ve ended long ago, but it didn’t,” he said, once again looking every bit the coldhearted killer he was. You could still see, however, the presence of doubt in his dark eyes. “Why didn’t you kill me?” 

“I knew you weren’t actually sleeping…”

“Even so,” he pressed, straightening to his full, imposing height. “You didn’t even try. Why?”

You blinked, not really having an answer, not one that would satisfy him at least. What's more, you had a set of questions of your own, ones that would likely also have no answer. 

The words slipped before you could even think about them. “Why did you kiss me?” 

Silence hung between you like a heavy drape. You were cornered in more than one sense. Windows for precaution and escape had long since closed, maybe even since the moment you ran into him in that little gas station. And through hardships, you learned that if there’s no way back, the only way is forward. 

The wound in his thigh didn’t seem to bother him as much anymore, so there was no way you could outrun him. You looked down to avoid his scrutiny and he used the back of his knife to force your chin back up. 

He didn’t speak, but his eyes bore into yours, almost as if seeing through them into parts of you that were foreign even to yourself. The flat part of the blade trailed up to your cheek in what could be interpreted as a caress. 

Your hand unconsciously intended to return the favor, running up his knee to his thigh, extra cautious around his wound. You noticed a change of pattern in his breathing, and so you looked down only to find one of the answers you sought — the print of his hardened cock cruelly imprisoned within his pants. 

“Oh,” you breathed, surprised. Then again, when the reality of what you were looking at fully sank in. “Oh.”

Your hand moved on its own accord again, slowly slipping further up his thigh. Again, he tightly grabbed your wrist before your fingers reached their target, and you hissed in pain. He immediately let go, withdrawing the knife as well.

“Are you hurt?” He asked. 

“A sprained wrist isn’t gonna kill me,” you said, keeping your hand on his leg to drive your point across. “Now that, on the other hand, has to be taken care of.”

“Taken care of, huh?” He rasped, his voice hoarse with want and self-directed anger because of it. 

He raked a hand through your hair, gathering it in his first and pulling your head towards his crotch. He pressed your cheek against his bulge, his hips bucking ever so slightly. 

“And how do you suppose that’s gonna happen?” He added.

“I have a few ideas if you’re open to them,” you panted, ignited in a way that almost fully consumed you. 

His eyes searched your face for a moment, drinking you in as he searched for any indications of doubt, and then he whispered, “Are you sure?” 

This time you didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

He saw the feverish gleam of hunger in your eyes as he pulled away and unbuckled his belt, pushing down his pants. The outline of his cock was even more prominent through his briefs and you couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath at the sheer size of him. He was still holding onto your hair, stepping closer and effectively cornering you against the couch. 

You boldly started to reach for the hem of his briefs, but he said, “No. I want you to use your teeth.”

“Getting a little bold there, old man,” you said with a smirk, keeping your eyes on him as you dipped your head to plant a soft kiss on his thigh, right by his stitches. 

He winced slightly at the contact, but you could see his cock throb against the fabric covering it.  Your smirk only widened, “But I gotta admit I’m pretty impressed so far. Didn’t even have to slip a blue pill in your oatmeal.”

He gripped your jaw, clicking his tongue in disappointment. “I think you need more proof, actually. Allow me.”

With his free hand, he roughly tugged down his briefs and his cock finally sprang free — so thick and long and just fucking perfect — hitting his lower abdomen. The head of it glistened with precum, which he spread with his thumb. You shifted in your seat, biting your lip as saliva flooded your mouth.

“Open,” he ordered.

You immediately complied, wondering when the fuck you’d gotten so obedient. He gripped the base of it and fed it into your mouth slowly. You wrapped your lips around it, feeling it slide smoothly against your tongue. 

A small groan escaped him, his head tipped back at the first rush of pleasure. You hummed a little in response and he felt the vibration of the sound against his shaft. His hips began to move again, shuttling his length deeper into your mouth, until you could feel the head of it reach your throat.

He let you steady yourself by placing your hands on his legs, his hand returning to the back of your head as it bobbed up and down. Then suddenly, when you’d reached the very base, he kept your head down. Your nose was against his pelvis, your deep, even breaths fanning against the fine hair that curled there. 

Your nails dug into the flesh of his legs as you staved off your gag reflex as best as you could. Still, you couldn’t help but squirm a little, already pretty slick between your thighs.

 He cursed under his breath as he let you come up for air, an obscene string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip of his cock.

"If I knew you were such a cock drunk slut, I would have dropped my pants much earlier just to shut you up,” he said with a smug grin, looking down at you.

“More bold words from someone who’s only gonna last this round. I’m gonna have to take care of myself after you’re done,” you taunted lightly, making him pull at your hair.

You kept eye contact with him as you stuck your tongue out and traced it over a large vein on the underside of his shaft. You left a trail of wet, sloppy kisses as you made your way back to the tip, and he lightly slapped it against your tongue a couple of times before pushing your head back down on it. His balls tightened momentarily as he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, and you knew he was enjoying himself much more than he let on.

"Well, if it's gonna be only one, might as well make good use of it, don't you think?" He said, pulling you off of him and making you stand up.

His lips were on yours in the next moment, just as desperate and hungry as the first kiss. He kicked his pants off the rest of the way and yanked your sweater off along with your thermal undershirt. He reached for your pants, but you slapped his hand away, extricating yourself from his lips to undo them yourself.

As soon as they were off, he turned you around and bent you over the back of the couch. There was a wet spot in your underwear that made him smirk, but he also couldn’t deny the way his cock throbbed at the sight.

“This is in the way…” he grunted, tugging at your bra strap.

Before you even registered what was happening, he brought the knife back out and sawed the bra off of you. You let out a gasp that was both surprised and indignant as he proceeded to rip your panties off with his bare hands, tossing the scraps of fabric aside.

“Hey! Those are the only ones I have here!” You huffed, glaring at him over your shoulder. “Unless you have a secret stash of women’s underwear, you seriously owe me.”

He nudged your knees apart with his leg. “I don’t think you’re going to need them while you’re here. You were already ruining them yourself, anyway.”

Before you could retort, you felt him push inside of you slowly, grabbing your hips as he let out a low moan. 

“Fuck…” you sighed without thinking, leaning your elbows against the back of the couch. 

“Yeah? Does that feel good?” He cooed condescendingly.

“In your drea–”

His hips snapped into yours harshly, interrupting you. You felt the heat of him against your back as he leaned over you, his breath fanning across the side of your face. 

“If I were you, I’d be careful about lying again. I might just stop and leave you all drenched like this, with your hands tied behind your back so you couldn’t touch yourself.”

He felt you clench around him at that and his smirk turned victorious. He kissed and sucked at your shoulder and neck, making sure to leave plenty of marks. His thrusts were hard and deep at first, hips barely pulling back as his weight pinned you down.

You let out a sound that was a strange mix between a whimper and a gasp as he bit into the tender flesh of your shoulder, hard enough to leave teeth marks behind. The jolt of pain mixed with pleasure – not to mention the slight shame that came with the feeling of your arousal dripping down your inner thighs – only fueled the fire that was steadily growing within you. 

Then, a little mindlessly, you pleaded, “Harder. Fuck me harder.”

He straightened immediately, readjusting himself to start pounding into you at a nearly punishing pace. You bit your bottom lip to try and keep quiet, but wanton sounds of pleasure escaped your throat despite your efforts. He was hitting a spot that made your head spin, tugging you backward onto his cock to meet his thrusts.

The lewd sound of flesh slapping together, along with your collective pants and groans, filled the room. He reached forward to grab your throat again, keeping you semi-upright as he continued to take you. In truth, he was focusing hard to stave off his release. He had plenty of stamina for his age, but the way your cunt took him so perfectly, as if molded just for him, was enough to have his balls tightening again. 

But he would never hear the end of it. 

Your legs began to shake a little as the coil in your belly tightened, threatening to snap. “I-I think I’m gonna cum, fuck…”

“Not yet,” he said firmly, immediately stopping his motions. 

You cursed him under your breath, beyond frustrated. You pushed your hips back, intent on fucking yourself on him, but his firm grip stopped you. He landed a firm smack on your ass, making you involuntarily clench around him. He hissed, feeling the strong urge to give in and continue fucking you until you came all over his cock, but he kept his composure. He wanted to keep indulging you for as long as he could, still not fully believing he wasn’t just having a dirty dream.

“Do that again and I’ll rip your fucking head off,” you snarled as he pulled out, grabbing your arm and leading you toward the bed.

“I told you I was going to make it count.”

He tossed you onto your back on the bed, crawling on top of you and pushing your knees up to your shoulders. He positioned himself between your thighs and sank back into your cunt with no further preambles, his strong body covering yours once more.

His hands cradled your head as he began to move again, reaching impossibly deeper than before. You clawed at his biceps as he ground his pelvis against you, making your brain practically short-circuit.

“There we go… See? I knew you could take more,” he said, kissing the corner of your lips. “Are you scared I'll pull out again? You keep sucking me back in.”

Too dazed to form words, your lips chased his so he would kiss you properly. Your tongue trailed over his upper lip enticingly, and he opened his mouth so his tongue could meet yours. This kiss was deeper, less frantic, finally giving yourselves a chance to taste each other properly. 

Soon you were clenching around him again, too distracted by your mounting pleasure to continue kissing him properly. 

“Fuck, don’t stop, Duncan. Please, please, please, just like that,” you begged desperately, moaning as he moved to kiss your jaw. 

“Yeah? You want me to fill you up, too?” He rasped against your skin. “Claim this needy cunt all for myself?”

You nodded eagerly, face contorting with ecstasy as you held onto him for dear life. Your muscles seized up as your climax washed over you, overpowering your senses. His hips stuttered as you cried out, your hot flesh molding into his like the deepest embrace. 

He kissed you again as he felt his own release rippling over him, groaning into your mouth as he shuddered, unable to hold himself back any longer. He thrusted hard a few more times before remaining fully inside of you, and you felt heat flooding your cunt. 

A whimper of slight overstimulation escaped you, but he soothed you with a whispered praise in your ear. You couldn’t help but smile beatifically, almost purring in content as he kept his cum inside of you.

As you both rode out your highs, your kisses turned lazy, almost tender, and even the way he held you felt different. Somehow, in some deep recess of your mind, it seemed right… and that scared you a little.

Still, you tried not to let it get to you then. Not as he leaned his sweaty forehead against yours, still panting, and said, “I think I tore my stitches.”

You chuckled. “You should probably take care of that, then.”

“In a minute…”

He disentangled himself from you, pulling out and sliding his body down between your legs. You tried to draw your thighs together, but he stopped you, planting a kiss on your mound.

He spread your lips with two fingers so he could see his cum trickling out of you, but then he pushed it back in with those same fingers, making your hips jerk slightly.

“T-this was a one time thing, you know,” you breathed, trying to sound firm. 

He barely glanced up at you, seemingly unbothered. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

But only an hour or so later, you found yourself riding him on the couch. Then, he took you against the wall, over the kitchen counter, off the edge of the bed, and subsequently on the floor. He seemed intent on making sure you never questioned his endurance ever again.

Even throughout the night, you slept sporadically, pawing at each other whenever you stirred. Not many words were exchanged during this time, but that didn’t mean your mouths weren’t put to good use. As usual, you both wound up with bruises, bite marks, and scratches all over each other, but the intention behind them couldn’t be any more different.

The storm died sometime during the night, but instead of fleeing right away, you let him hold you until dawn broke. There were too many new questions floating about in your head, but you weren’t really sure you wanted the answer to any of them for the time being. Perhaps it was simply best to let what happened remain in the past and simply move on.

As quietly as you could, you got up from the bed, cleaned yourself up, and dressed. You sheathed your weapons, avoiding looking at him as you prepared to leave. When your hand was on the doorknob, his voice stopped you.

“You didn’t kill me again,” he said. “Should I take that as an indication that you like me?”

You looked over at him, frowning. “Absolutely not. I’m serious, this was the last time it’ll ever happen.”

“I’m not sure I can trust your word.”

You huffed, irritated. “Well, you’ll have to. I intend to keep it.”

You yanked the door open, about to stomp outside, but you heard the creak of the bed as he sat up. 

“You know, I’m going to be in Portofino in a few months. I heard it’s beautiful there in the summer, and I figured I could use a vacation.”

“Are you trying to make yourself an easy target?”

“...Maybe.”

“And if I decide not to hunt you down?”

He raised an eyebrow. “If?”

You grimaced. “All I’m saying is don’t get your hopes up. I’m a very busy gal, I don’t have time to play cat and mouse with you.”

“And who’s who in that analogy, hm?”

You shook your head, rolling your eyes. “Goodbye, Duncan. Truce is over, do you hear me?”

“I’ll see you in Portofino. Make sure you bring sunscreen.”

The door slammed shut behind you. 

---——-

Part 2 out now!

[vampcubus]

hii ashi ive got a fun little thought for u

imgagine kyojuro, despite how strong he is, can never ride you for more than a few minutes. kyo always tries his best, but his legs always get so shakey and sore everytime by how overwhelming it is, that you have to help him fuck himself on your strap :((

bell u are a godsend i haven't been able to get this idea out of my mind since u sent it and now that i have coherent thoughts...

:ఌ¨ ♱ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : nsfw, sub!kyojuro, dom!reader, pegging, master kink, overstimulation, long orgasm, not proofread.

Kyojuro's trained to have incredible stamina, but it's like it all goes away and his legs turn to jelly when he's bottoming. He tries so hard to keep going, to keep bouncing on your cock but his legs are shaking and he lets out a frustrated whine. He slows down, looking about ready to cry when his orgasm slips out of his grasp.

"Aw, do you need help, baby?" you purr, watching him struggle with half-lidded eyes, amusement glinting in them. He was so cute it wasn't fair really, his steadily bouncing cock especially, which flops neglected against his belly with each pitiful thrust.

"Please help me. I'm sorry I can't do it myself any longer," he sobs, and you only croon, sitting up so you can adjust him, slipping your hands underneath his ass so you can spread him open and start to bounce him up and down on you. You thrust up into him and the head catches on a spot that makes him squeal, clinging onto you and slurring grateful open-mouthed kisses across your neck and shoulder. "Thank you! ohh thank you, master!"

"S'ok, master's got you. You don't gotta lift a finger. Let me do all the work. It's okay," you pant, a satisfying ache settling in your abdominals as you fuck up into him and press his hips down at the same time. He's all but howling with pleasure, lips sucking marks into the tender flesh of your throat. "There's a good boy."

He moans aloud at your praise, golden eyes rolling back as he loses himself to the pleasant scrape of the toy against his sensitive inner walls. You're practically abusing his prostate, fucking the sense right out of his muscled yet soft body. God he's so handsome, and burly, yet he falls apart and arches for you so prettily.

"Feels so good, m-master. Fffuck! Fuck, I feel so good!" Kyojuro wails, hand shooting to his cock to stroke it. You let him, eager to watch him unravel for you. "I-I'm gonna c-cum soon! Please, please may I cum?"

"Mhm, let it all out baby. Look at me while you cum all over my cock, yeah?" He tears himself away from your neck, teary honey and rose-colored eyes swimming with overwhelmed tears.

You fuck up into him harder at the sight, growling in delight and his hand speeds up on his cock. His dewy lashes flutter, fighting the urge to close. He wants to obey you, to be good for you. The knot in his belly finally snaps and he shouts in alarm as cum spills out of him, painting your stomach with seed as he thrashes and wails.

You bounce his body up and down on you through his orgasm, and he sobs, overstimulated. He stares at you with a desperate look, trembling as he continues to convulse and spurt for longer than he usually would.

"Oh gods! Oh gods! Unhh I-I can't stop cumming. O-oh fuck!" Kyojuro cries helplessly, though his hand keeps milking his own cock, the slippery, frantic movement making an obscene squelching sound.

"Shhh, just let it all out, sweetheart," you comforted, nudging his hand away from his sticky cock to replace it with your own. He flinches when you stroke him with a tight fist, wringing more cum out of him.

"A-ah okay, master. mhhh ahh!" he finally stops erupting, slumping against you with his head on your shoulder, exhausted and twitching like mad. You affectionately thumb at his tip a while longer as he softens in your grasp, before heeding his whimpers of 'no more.' and 'too sensitive.'

[adairtrashart]

cotltober day 21 lanolin

the goat is pretty upset that they dont produce lanolin in general (a huge part of why their wool is so itchy and dry)

how are they supposed to benefit off of it easily if theyre not the one making it??????????????????

full text:

Stupid cat!!! Why can't he seem to recognize my greatness?! MY power?! MY SUPREMACY!!! Hell, even that la- waitwaitWAIT!!! It's the lanolin, isn't it?!

How dare they... I'm the one who gets to cheat!!! Not them! I'm the edgy one! I don't care if we're both cult leaders. This is so dumb! Stupid fucking- dumb...

Nah, don't need to bother. The cat is such an asshole anyways. If he really can't see why I'm so amazing, he doesn't deserve me. I don't need some smelly grease to prove myself! I have better stink! So great, in fact, that I can safely say that I-

NO NO NO! That's even dumber than that whole "Greatest Vase of All Time" idea! Ugh... How do I-what do I want?! Why are emotions so weird?! I've felt them plenty of times before, and this never happened. Demanding respect, kissing, even sparring with those beneath you! Those are just normal things!

Gotta ask if the Lamb's feelings are infecting me somehow. There's no way all of these are MY emotions! I'd never let myself be this weak.

Maybe I should steal some lanolin... It would be pretty idiotic to not use their advantages to my advantage, at least until I go back to normal. The Greatest of All Time must not let their ego lessen said greatness!

_____________________ Cat Bone Stew ~ Serves 5

Ingredients: 5 large cat bones *preferably from the arms and/or legs 1 cat liver, diced Half of a pumpkin, mashed 1-2 leeks, chopped 5 tbs lard (any source) 3 large clumps of Anchordeep kelp *can be substituted with other kelp combined with 2 tsps sea salt A pinch of Emeril's Essence *see pg. 15 for recipe 6 cups of water 2-3 potatoes of your choice, sliced Leftover rice (optional)

Instructions:

Set a large pot of water above your campfire. Keep the lid on so that it starts boiling faster.

Heat up a separate pan for the liver, using some of the lard to grease it

Soak the kelp in any spare water you have to remove excess salt

Once the kelp is ready, the pan should be hot enough to cook the liver properly. Stir fry it until slightly under cooked

Cut the kelp into bite sized chunks

Throw all the ingredients, including the remaining lard,into the boiling water for 3 hours covered.

When the stew is done, make sure to remove the bones before serving.

(Tip: Depending on how healthy the individual was before death, you can reuse the bones 1-3 times for similar flavor)

_____________________ Fuckity fuck fuck fuck I am so gay. WHY am I so gay The booba... so amazingly (cut off) Barkbarkbarkbarkbarkb barkBARKbarkbarksnarl Why must you be so very (cut off) wHYYYYYYYYYYYYY AAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[hayleylatour]

Finding Peace 🕊️

Content warning-none yet, some smut soon. Future talks of pregnancy and options. (Time frame is 2021 into 2022) this is also my first fan fiction since Wattpad 2014!

Summary- Mia is a 24 year old new bookstore owner who’s best friend is dating the drummer of up and coming metal band Bad Omens Nick Foilo. Jess is known for trying to set Mia up on blind dates. What happens when Mia meets Noah Sebastian

Pairings- babydaddy!Noah Sebastian x OC (Mia)

Chapter One- Mia's pov

"Mia babes you gotta come to this party, its Halloween, plus is kinda a party for Nick's friends birthday" Jess begged me. looking at my phone screen to see her pleading pout and batting eyes. rolling my eyes I simply nod in agreement, knowing if I don't at least make an appearance I will never hear the end of it.

"I'll come but I really don't want you trying to set me up with one of Nick's friends. I'm happy being single okay Jess" I say putting the last of the coffee mugs in the cabinet. "I'm just wanting to focus on getting the hell out of the shit hole apartment and getting this damn shop done and ready for opening”

"Okay okay I promise! No trying to set you up, but can I just say these guys are HOT, babes its been forever since you've gotten laid, have a few drinks and see where the night takes you, I'm not saying you have to date or marry one of them but who knows you might really hit it off with someone" Jess continues to ramble but I lose focus on her words when I start thinking about the last time I got laid. damn its be awhile the last time was probably 6 months ago... shit she's right I need to get laid, like yesterday.

"fine. is this a costume party or can I wear normal clothes" I sigh while picking up my phone and walking to the couch to sit down.

After awhile of chatting with Jess, we hung up our daily hour long face time. deciding to get up and start getting ready for jess party. Pulling the shower curtain open I start the water, warming it while I do some quick skin care. I cant help but think about what jess said, its been so long since I've gotten laid.

"That's it, if one of these guys is as attractive as she says, you're going to fuck him, you hear don’t chicken out. have a drink, relax and blow off some steam" I blurt out looking at my reflection, pep talks never work but dammit if I was determined to make myself believe it.

after my shower I blow dry my hair and decide on a low bun before starting my makeup, keeping everything simple and clean, with a light brown dusting over my lids and a shimmery highlight in my inner corner, finishing it off with a quick winged liner. I make my way into the bedroom to throw on a pair of skinny jeans and my favorite bring me the horizon hoodie topping the look off with black vans and making my way downstairs to my car and off to Jess and Nick's house.

there's 4 cars in the driveway when I pull in, Jess and folios included. throwing my car in park I do a once over in my review mirror. as headlights shine illuminating my car, looking over I see a tall man step out and make his way up the drive. stopping he looks at me through the windshield. I've seen him in pictures before. Noah- Folios friend and band mate. dressed in tight black jeans and a while shirt topped off with a leather jacket, Noah makes his way inside the house. now or never Mia. make your move.

"Hey Noah, wait up!" I yell exiting my car and jogging up the drive. He quickly turns on his heel and smiles down at me as I reach him, Standing at least a foot taller than me. Fuck he’s taller in person. “Lead the way” He says extending his arm towards the door.

“MIA! You made it” Jess squeals detaching herself from folios side, everyone seems to stop talking and turn their attention to the screaming. “Ah I see you met Noah, happy birthday by the way.” Jess winks at me

“Hey Jess, can I talk to you for a minute” i mutter pulling her into a hug. She nods and leads us to her bedroom. Once away from the crowd i start to explain my plan to her. I’ll have a drink and hang out and be open to the idea of hooking up with someone, failing to mention Noah’s name and how when he looks at me my heart beats a little faster. Jess tells me that if it happens it happens but she thinks i need to blow off some steam and ‘what better way to do it than an orgasm?’

When we emerged from the second floor the guys are standing in the kitchen around a box of pizza. Noah has his back to me but I can see his shoulder length hair is tucked between his ears. Their laughter fills to house which makes relaxing into the evening a little easier.

“So Mia, what do you do for work exactly? Jess was telling us you worked at a bookstore.” Jolly asks leaning forward to set his bottle on the table.

“Yeah kinda, I own the shop down on 17th, ‘Ellie’s’ my grandma left it to me in her will, I’ve been renovating it since lockdown started. But now since everything is opening back up. I’m hoping to have a reopening around mid November. Fingers crossed, I’m still working on getting the last of the furniture out of storage.” I explain sitting up a little straighter.

“That’s so cool we’ll have to come see it sometime” Ruffilo says everyone chiming in with an agreement. The party goes on just as this. Sitting on the sectional till I notice it’s getting closer to midnight, I should probably head home and get some much needed sleep. Jolly and Ruffilo have already said their goodbyes, and Jess has gone to bed, leaving Noah, Folio and myself.

“Hey thank you so much for tonight, i think im gonna head out though.” I say standing from my seat. Nick and Noah stand as well.

“Yeah I need to head out to, I’ll walk with you. Tell Jess I said thank you and I’ll message you tomorrow” Noah says pulling him into a hug. “Mia you ready?”

“Uh yeah. I’m ready” I rush. Making our way down the driveway Noah suddenly stops, turning to look at him he smiles and reaches for my wrist.

“Ya know, Jess told me that you were wanting to hook up with someone tonight, and it is technically still my birthday if you want to im more than interested” he breathes pushing my back against the driver’s side door of my car.

“Your place or mine?” I whisper.

[wandering-winchesters]

Burning up

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Word Count: 2,412

Trigger Warnings: none really, mostly fluff. Some swear words.

Summary: the reader is sick and Dean takes care of her. Lots of fluff.

Requested: yes, by anonymous. Hey =) just wanted to thank you for writing and sharing your stories 🤍🙏🏻💐Absolutely in love with them. Are u up for a sick/hurt and comfort fic? Love 🤍

A/N:this was so much fun to write! I went with the sick side of things, I’m sure I’ll write another hurt one soon. Requests are still open. :)

Masterlist

I groan, opening my eyes, my head beginning to throb immediately, causing me to close them again. Nope. Getting up early is not happening today. I shut off my alarms for the morning and return to sleep.

I wake up a couple hours later, soaked in sweat, every muscle in my body aching and fever raging through my body. It’s already ten o’clock in the morning, yet the desire to get out of bed is none existent. I drift off again, my restless sleep filled with awful dreams. I’m slightly disturbed from my rest, when my door creaks open, one of the boys checking on me as I’m normally awake hours before. However, they don’t say anything, just quietly back out of my room in the bunker and shut the door behind them. I fall back asleep once again, praying that I feel better the next time I awake.

“Hey, sweetheart, you okay?” I hear Dean ask, sitting down next to me on my bed. His hand coming to rest in the middle of my back. I open my eyes and peer at him, wincing from the bright light filling the room.

I groan in response, turning my head away from him and squeezing my eyes shut.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, I can hear the concern in his voice even though I can’t see his face. He reaches over, and brushes my sweat soaked hair out of my face, his fingers glancing over my forehead quickly. Before he places a full hand over my forehead, I hear him let out a sharp sigh.

“Y/N, you’re burning up. We gotta get your fever down sweetheart.” He says quietly, pulling back the layers of blanket I’m buried under. I groan, fighting him and trying to pull the blankets back up. I hear him chuckle slightly, his hands rubbing my back gently. An unintentional moan leaves my lips, embracing his touch easing my stiff muscles.

“I’m going to go get you some Tylenol and water, stay put. I’ll be right back.” He says, leaving the room quietly. I try not to miss the way his hands felt on my body, the ease that he worked the kinks out of my muscles. The fire it ignited inside of me. Dean and I had slept together a handful times, mainly in moments of desperation and weakness, but never anything serious or exclusive, although that’s all I wanted, everything I could ever want. I ease my body into a sitting position, pulling my sweatshirt off my sweaty body, leaving on the tank top underneath. I push myself over to the edge of the bed, moving to stand up, a wave of dizziness overtaking me. I stand up, but only make it a couple of steps towards the bathroom before I’m reaching for the nearest object to steady myself. Which happens to be the dresser, I put my back against it and slide down to the floor. I rest my head on my knees, hoping that the wave of dizziness and nausea will soon subside, and stop crashing down on me like a damn tsunami. Dean renters the room and I hear him turn around when he realizes in no longer in bed.

“What’re you doing, sweetheart? I told you to stay put.” He says, placing the water glass and medicine bottle down on my side table.

“Wanted a shower, body hurts.” I say, my head still buried in my knees, unsure if he heard or understood me. He then crosses the room to my side, crouching down in front of me. He places his hands under my armpits and gently lifts me to my feet, keeping a firm grasp on my waist, helping me walk towards the bathroom. He sits me down on the lid of the toilet, making sure I’m not going to fall over.

“How about a bath instead? I’ll help you, don’t want you slipping and hitting your head.” He says, his hand cupping my chin and making me look at him.

“No, I don’t need help. I’ll be okay.” I protest, trying to shoo him towards the door but he doesn’t budge.

“Dean, I don’t want you to see me like this.” I say, rolling my eyes at his stubbornness.

“Y/N, it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before if that’s what this is about..” he says, chuckling slightly before he sees the look on my face telling him silently to shut up.

“I’m just a fuck buddy, I don’t need you taking care of me and seeing me in this moment of weakness.” I mutter, my tone bitter a sentiment that I never would’ve confided in him, if I wasn’t half out of my mind with sickness. Or so I told myself.

His face falls, momentarily, confusion then taking over his features. His takes my hand in his own, stroking it gently with his thumb.

“Y/N, sweetheart. You’re not just a fuck buddy, you’re my best friend and I care about you a lot. Taking care of you while you’re sick doesn’t make you weak, it’s something you’d do for me. Something you have done for me.” He says, while his words are true, his use of best friend stings a bit. I knew it would never be anything more than that. I resign myself to accepting his help, nodding silently. He takes a step towards the bath and turns the water on, checking the temperature with his hand before filling the tub. He turns the light off in the bathroom, lighting the candle that I keep on the counter to provide a small source of less harsh light. An action that I appreciate and quietly thank him for doing. He nods, reaching to help me stand in order to take what little remaining clothing I have on, off.

His hands steady me gently, his fingers barely applying pressure to my skin, and helps me clamber into the tub. The warm water engulfs me and immediately begins to soothe my sore muscles. He tucks a folded towel behind my neck, giving me something to rest my head on and again, I thank him for his gentleness.

The ache in my muscles is improving, thanks to his actions. Yet the ache in my heart is growing, insatiable, the need for something more with this man unquenchable. I’ve had these feelings for him since we were teenagers, which I convinced myself that they would go away before adulthood. Yet they didn’t. The first time we slept together was after I got hurt on a hunt, emotions running extremely high. That’s what we chalked it up to, a bad choice in a moment of emotional weakness, Ouch.

The second time was after Sam died, before Deans deal with the crossroads demon. Another moment of emotional turmoil and weakness. Ouch, again.

The third time, was the night before the hellhounds came for him. My heart so empty and terrified for him, that I craved any kind of physical affection from him which he partially satisfied. The next day he was gone, I watched the hell hounds tear him to shreds, soul shatteringly devastating.

The fourth time and most recent, was after Dean came back from hell. We hadn’t talked about that one, but I chalked it up to me being the first woman he saw this side of hell. The first piece of ass he could get his hands on, and I was more than willing. My heart still broken from the time of him being gone. Sam had left me too, going off to try and bring Dean back but not wanting me to come along as I would “slow him down.”. Being with Dean after he came back from hell, felt different. But once again, my hopes were dashed when he apologized the morning after, telling me it shouldn’t have happened. Ouch.

I’m snapped out of my chain of thoughts by a cold wash cloth being pressed to my forehead, a straw held to my lips and two little red pills offered to me. I take the pills from him, accepting a sip of water to wash them down with before closing my eyes once more. I know Dean is near, but he’s quiet. I open one eye, glancing towards him and he’s sitting respectfully, with his back against the edge of the tub. Watching out for me, but respecting my privacy as much as he can. A gesture that pulls at my heart just that much more.

The words that leave my mouth next can only be explained by one thing, confusion and insanity caused by my fever. Or that’s what I’m telling myself, anyways.

“Dean?” I ask, lowering myself into the water a little more attempting to calm the chills racking my body. He hums in response, assuring me he’s still near.

“Why can’t you see how much I love you?” I ask him, my voice small. Almost quiet enough that I could convince myself I didn’t actually say it out loud for him to hear. That I didn’t just expose my heart completely on my sleeve for him to reject.

I can tell I’ve caught him off guard because he stiffens, his body language screaming run, flee, she’s insane. All of these things happen simultaneously and quickly. Yet the fear and anxiety of a ruined friendship is bubbling up inside of me.

“Forget it. Can you leave? I’ll be fine.” I say, closing off and moving to pull the shower curtain closed.

“What-wait Y/N.” He says, turning around to grab my wrist stopping me in my tracks. His eyes are locked on mine, questions swimming through his eyes but he’s not verbalizing them.

“Y/N, sweetheart,” he says, taking a breath to compose himself, I look away from him and staring at my knees, that I’ve pulled up to my chest. Here it is, the great let down. The I love you, but not like that. It’s me not you speech. The one I’ve had in my head a million times, convinced that I had no chance with him. But that’s not what leaves his mouth. “Stop that, look at me.” He reaches out, gently turning my face to look at him once again. His eyes never leaving my face, never wandering, his gaze unfaltering.

“I saw the way you act towards me, but I couldn’t get my hopes up to believe that it was love for me Y/N. I couldn’t bear losing our friendship by mistaking friendship for more than that. God, sweetheart, I love you more than I thought possible.” He says, his voice faltering towards the end, barely a whisper. I blink once, twice, three times before his words finally hit me. He loves me.

“When I came back from hell, you were the first person I wanted to see. You were the first thought on my mind, not Sammy. Maybe that makes me a terrible brother, but when I told him that he asked me why I hadn’t grown a pair and just told you. Y/N, you were never just a fuck buddy. It breaks my heart to hear you say that. I’ve wanted more since we were teenagers, but I was too much of a coward to seek that out. So I threw myself at other women, but none of them ever compared to you. Shit, please don’t cry sweetheart, I’m sorry.” He wipes away a tear from my face, a tear I didn’t realize had started to fall. I look back at him, watching him closely before I start laughing. He looks taken aback and concerned, unsure where my reaction is coming from.

“You’re- you’re telling me we could’ve been together for years by now? Why couldn’t I have had a fever induced feelings confession years ago? Hell, this is comical.” I say, still laughing softly. He laughs too, rolling his eyes, yet the smile forming on his face bringing a smile to my own.

“I love you, Dean, more than anything.” I say, resting my head on my knees once more, keeping it turned towards him so I can watch his expression. I shiver slightly, the water having cooled off since I got in. He notices and quickly drains the tub, helping me stand up and wrapping me in a towel. He lifts me out of the bath, his hands under my arms, before he pulls me straight into his chest. His arms wrapping tightly around me, holding me pressed against him. I melt into his embrace, hugging him back with all the strength I have at the moment.

“I love you, too, Y/N. More than anything.” He mimics, pressing a kiss to my temple before he tucks his finger beneath my chin and raises it, leaning down to press the most passionate kiss to my lips. My eyes fluttering closed, leaning into him and kissing him back. Conveying every hidden emotion I possibly can into this kiss.

“Dean, I’d love to stand here forever, I really would. But ‘m freezing here.” I mutter, beginning to shiver more violently. He chuckles, and begins to help me get dressed into the clothes that he had, unknown to me, laid out when I had first gotten into the tub.

“Back to bed with you.” He says, gently guiding me towards my disheveled sheets. Once I climb in, he shuts the curtains and turns off the lights in my room. He then walks towards my bed once again, shedding his jeans and T-shirt and climbs in next to me. His hands quickly find me, pulling me into his chest, tucking my head beneath his chin. His hands quickly coming to rest on different points of my body. One at the nape of my neck, working it’s way into my hair. The other, on my hip rubbing circles into my exposed skin. The feeling of closeness that this brings, is indescribable. The peace that over takes me, the relief that floods my thoughts. The emptiness this fills.

“‘M tired De. But I’m scared that this was just a fever dream, I don’t want it to be over when I wake up.” I mutter, my eyes already mostly closed. His touch lulling me into a sleep, much more peaceful that I thought possible with a fever running it’s course.

“Sleep, sweetheart. It’s not a dream, I’ll be here, I promise.” He whispers, pressing one more kiss to my forehead before I doze off, fully embracing the open arms of sleep.

Masterlist

[dcwildwestfest]

The Prodigal

By FriendofCarlotta | @friendofcarlotta Art by aggiedoll | @romachebella

Coming to Ao3 on April 18th, 2024

Rated E | 19,500 words | No Archive Warnings Apply

Dean Winchester travels the wide-open country, looking for bounties to collect and doing odd jobs to make ends meet. Usually, he rides with his brother Sam, but they’ve had a falling-out and now Dean’s all by himself — until he meets Cas Novak, a preacher’s son in search of his missing father. Cas believes his notorious outlaw brother Luke knows something of their father’s disappearance, so he asks Dean’s help in tracking Luke down. Dean figures there’s no harm in helping out, and he might earn himself Luke Novak’s bounty into the bargain. All Dean needs to do is keep a lid on his growing feelings for Cas. (aka Free to Be You and Me, rewritten as a Western)

[Keep reading for a sneak preview!]

When they locate the sheriff’s office, they find the jail cell empty and the lawman tossing playing cards into his hat, which is sitting upside down on a chair across the room. A couple of Wanted posters are tacked up on the wall, edges curling up in slow rebellion where the glue’s gone too dry to hold them.

“Afternoon,” Dean says, with a nod and a tip of his finger against his hat brim. “Slow day?”

The sheriff shrugs, unperturbed at having been caught slacking off. “Every day’s a slow day ‘round here, brother.”

Cas pipes up from next to Dean with a breathless, “It’s an honor to meet an esteemed colleague. Being a man of the law myself, I mean to say. It’s an honorable profession, albeit a—”

“He’s new,” Dean says, desperate to cut off Cas’ nervous rambling before it rouses even this sleepy small-town lawman’s suspicions.

The sheriff emits an acknowledging grunt, eyeing Cas dubiously. “Name’s Lafitte. How can I help y’all ‘esteemed colleagues’?” He grins at them, sun glinting off a gold tooth.

Dean arranges his face into an expression of pained concern. “Our town’s preacher went missing some weeks back and we’ve reason to believe the outlaw Luke Novak is the one who took him.”

Lafitte’s eyes flick back and forth between them. “Where did y’all say you were from? Gotta be a mighty big place, to be able to spare both the sheriff and a deputy so’s they can chase after a preacher.”

Damn it all. Lafitte is much more shrewd than Dean expected a small-town lawman to be. “Hatsville, Missouri,” he improvises. “New town. Lots of railroad money.” Cas seems inclined to weigh in as well, perhaps to expound on the various attractive qualities of the fictitious Hatsville, so Dean hurriedly changes the subject. “About Novak. Heard he mighta passed near here recently. That true?”

The sheriff weighs him with a lengthy glance before he allows, “True enough. Didn’t come through Jubilee, but they say he robbed a train no more’n three miles from here. Most excitement we had in town was that no-account drunk Walt, claimin’ he met Novak on the trail and got his poker winnings taken. You ask me, it’s likely as not Walt stole the money in the first place. Wouldn’t be the—”

“Where can this Walt be found?” Cas asks, with the eagerness of a man who’s new to the hunt and getting a taste for it. Dean bites down on a smile.

Lafitte regards Cas with some disfavor, obviously not best pleased at having had his account interrupted. “Chances are, he’s at the saloon, trying to talk his way into a bottle of whiskey on credit he ain’t got.”

A man with information they need, desperate for a drink — hard to do better than that. “Much obliged,” Dean tells the sheriff and, with another tip of his hat, leads the way back outside. Somewhere down the street, high above the low-slung rooftops, the town clock strikes two.

[apparitionism]

Bonus 3

I so frequently have to start these intros with “where were we?”, because I so frequently confuse even myself with regard to where any given in-progress story left off... typically it’s a cliffhanger of some sort, but off of, or onto, which specific cliff were we hanging? Well. Here in this continuation of a Christmas tale, we—or rather, Myka and Helena—were suspended in a broken-down elevator in an accounting firm’s office building in Cleveland. Something might’ve been juuuuust about to happen (see part 2 for what that something probably was, and part 1 for the causal chain that got them there), but a voice interrupted, seemingly from on high.

Bonus 3

“Is everybody okay in there?” the voice from heavenward repeats.

Myka looks up, this time confronting not her own reflection but a dark emptiness, one that is partially filled by... a firefighter?

She is sorely tempted, in the moment, to proclaim that everybody in here is most certainly not okay, given that she herself is among that “everybody” and is ready to spit nails at the timing of this supposed rescue... she talks herself down, though, because the firefighter certain doesn’t need to be informed about the grinding frustration of unrealized near-certainty.

The firefighter, most likely concerned about the lack of response, goes on, “If you’re in distress, we can hoist you up through here, get you faster help. If you’re okay, you can wait till we let the car down to the next level and get the doors open. Then you’ll be able to walk out.”

Myka looks at Helena, and they are on the same page regarding being hoisted. “Walk,” they both say.

“Good choice,” the firefighter tells them. “Easier on everybody. Never know when you’ll run into injuries, though... or sometimes worse, claustrophobics, so we gotta check.”

“Among our many problems, claustrophobia is not,” Helena says. She smiles up at the firefighter.

Who smiles back. She’s good-looking, this firefighter.

Not jealousy, Myka admonishes herself. Not now.

“Good for you,” the firefighter tells Helena. Maybe a little jealousy. Then: “I’ll put the lid back on; you two sit tight.”

She disappears; the mirror reappears. Magic-esque.

“Well, this is overdetermined,” Myka mutters.

With a head-cock, Helena says, “I believe I know what that word means, but I’m not certain I know what it means. In context.”

Is she serious? Might as well assume so... “It’s kind of like if you actually had remarked on naughtiness,” Myka says. “But maybe all I really mean, in context, is ‘story of my life.’”

Now a squint. “I know what those words mean as well, but again I must ask—”

“Never mind. I had this wild hope that maybe one thing might go right. But here we are.”

“Being rescued doesn’t fall into the ‘go right’ category?” Helena asks. And now she blinks ostentatiously, combining innocence with a sparkle of eye.

You’ve been teasing me, Myka now suspects, and she wants to say it—to accuse it!—but the interruption stole her boldness. Instead she sighs out “of course it does” and resigns herself to contemplating the complications that have, over the span of time during which she and Helena have been hamhandedly dealing with their destiny, sat themselves down solid-awkward between possibility and realization.

And anyway, if Helena is teasing, does that mean she fails to feel the same urgency Myka does about what might, in the absence of intervention, have been... realized?

Myka has made so many miscalculations with regard to what Helena does, might, could feel. Could the tease, if that’s what it is, have a different significance? Maybe. But Myka is tired. Of miscalculating, yes, but also of hoping. Of wishing. Of hanging on a knife-edge of believing in something that fate keeps deciding should not happen...

Okay, deep breath. Maybe it isn’t fate this time. Maybe in this case it’s nothing more—or less?—than a disapproving elevator.

As they at last exit those hypercritical confines, Myka leans into that latter interpretation, saying back in the car’s direction, “You were pretending to be Jesus-birth-focused, whereas I think in actual fact you’re harking your way around the Old Testament, but as said testament gets cherry-picked by fundamentalist New-Testamenters who don’t know Hebrew. So congratulations on your historically insupportable theology.” She’s pretty sure the unnecessarily extended creak she hears from the mechanism is its version of a crude gesture.

Their firefighter, who had been the one to pry the doors open inch by inch and set them free, now says to Helena, “Did she maybe hit her head when the car stopped?”

“No, she’s merely imaginative,” Helena rejoins, cheerily.

“I’m imaginative?” Myka demands. “Says the father of something.”

The firefighter touches Myka’s arm as if it’s the next step toward physically restraining her, a clear indication of how unhinged her last statements must have sounded. Further indication: the firefighter says, “The whole elevator system’s shut down till they figure out what happened. Can you get down a lot of stairs okay, or do you need assistance?”

“Oh, I definitely need assistance, but not with stairs,” Myka tells her.

Helena steps smooth between the firefighter and Myka, taking Myka’s arm herself instead. “She’ll be fine, I believe. But thank you.”

She’s very gracious. The firefighter is very attractive. Did Helena move to break the firefighter’s hold on Myka... or to place herself closer to the firefighter?

Not jealousy, Myka reminds herself. Not now.

Particularly not now that they’re embarking on a stair-descent and leaving the firefighter behind, one step at a time. It’s an endless-seeming series—“a lot of stairs” indeed—on which they expend no small amount of time. And no small amount of energy.

As they near what seems, blessedly, to be the end, Myka huffs out, “If I ever start thinking I want to live in a high-rise, just say ‘elevator dealy-thingy’ to me to make sure I understand how much I’ll end up regretting it if there’s ever an emergency.” It’s the kind of thing she would say to Pete, so she backtracks: “Sorry. Never mind that. I’m tired.”

Helena’s breathing isn’t exactly unlabored as she says, “No, no. Object lessons. I might take one as well: feign injury so firefighters will convey us via stretcher down accursed emergency stairs.”

“Brilliant idea,” Myka says, though she does spare a “glad we didn’t put you through that” thought for their firefighter.

“Thank you. Coming from, as quite recently noted, such an imaginative individual, that’s a great compliment.”

“Sorry for that outburst too. I was just so ticked at the elevator for how it clearly intended to put a stop to—”

Fortunately/unfortunately, Myka doesn’t manage to finish the utterance, because fortunately/unfortunately, they’re at last pushing through the first-floor fire door.

In a perverse twist, which Myka suspects the elevator of somehow contriving, that door releases them into the cubicle farm. Very near Bob’s location. Where he is now enthusiastically, rather than resentfully, stationed.

“Ladies!” he greets them. Did the elevator text him to lie in wait? “I finally got paid! I’m flush!”

Helena nods in satirical approval. “And we were rescued from the elevator at an overdetermined moment. Such good news all around.” The verbal irony chokes Myka, for it confirms—entirely—that Helena had indeed been teasing.

“Good thing I was here to light a fire under you,” Bob swaggers, clearly oblivious to Helena’s sarcasm, and it’s for once a good thing that he’s paying most of his attention to Helena anyway, because Myka is utterly failing to keep her eyes from widening, her jaw from slackening, into the very dictionary illustration of incredulity. “So what are your plans, now that you’ve put the fear of god into Nancy and made her give me what I deserve?”

Fear of god... now Myka’s certain he and the elevator are in cahoots.

“We have business to attend to,” Helena tells him.

“IRS business?”

Helena smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Not at all,” she says, and Myka recognizes that tone as “continue at your peril.”

So of course Bob continues. “Oh, that kind of business,” he smarms, like the two of them are speaking in some super-secret, super-specific, only-we-know-what-the-word-“business”- means code. Infuriating in itself, but he goes on, “If you’re not on the clock, maybe you’d enjoy an evening out.” The “enjoy” is slimy, and the “maybe” is smug, as if he has no doubt the answer will be yes.

“Oh yes,” Helena says, bringing Myka up short, and “very much so,” she continues. What performance is this? “But not with you.” Myka exhales in relief. Helena then turns to her and says, “I believe you promised me an evening that would make up for our having been trapped?”

Myka nearly chokes again, now at the way “an evening” and “make up for” absolutely roil with salacious intent.

Bob yelps, “I knew it!” which Helena skewers with a completely, and completely transparently, fake-dense, “Knew what?”

He is sufficiently cowed to refrain from responding with anything involving the word “naughty.”

When they finally escape the building, Myka fumes, “Nancy Sullivan did not in any way go far enough with that guy. I don’t know what this pen would let me smite him with, but I’m extremely tempted to take it out of the bag and make a list of my own.”

“Despite the downside?” Helena asks. She’s dialed back the punish-the-offender spice; now she sounds her baseline undercurrent-of-amusement self.

Myka envies her ability to change registers so seemingly effortlessly. “I’m already off the charts, judgment-wise,” she admits, “so I honestly wonder how much downside I’d really feel.” It’s more than she would have been inclined to say, pre-elevator. But something has surely shifted.

“Hm,” Helena noises, a not-quite-poke of an answer. But she then asks, “Would I be on this list?”

Whiplash: back to an unassimilable suggestiveness. That’s better, though, than Helena making and conveying a guilt-ridden assumption, as she most likely would have done in the past, that Myka would pass judgment on her for her misdeeds.

“And if so, in which column?” Helena muses on.

Again Myka would love to have panache, to be able to play into the overdetermined idea of “naughty” or at least counter it with a clever turn on “nice.” Instead she offers something in hope, which she hopes is most immediately legible as practical and not too hopeful: “Since you implied I’m taking you out, I think I’d better do that. Or some other mechanism might decide to get all... judgy. Disapprovey? Obviously from a different theological perspective than the elevator, but even so.”

“Such other mechanism sounds strangely chivalrous. Holding you to account on my behalf? I confess I’m curious as to the form that chivalry might take.”

It’s a perfect opening to probe Helena’s true interpretation of the overdetermined interruption. “But the consequence of said chivalry,” Myka says. “I don’t want to risk it.”

“Any such consequence would be, at this point, merely delay,” Helena says.

Delay... the interruption was merely delay... which means Helena thought that not-quite realization of all their pent-up possibility was—thinks it is!—as inevitable as Myka had. As Myka does. Does now again. Okay, the tenses may be hard to render sensically, but Myka knows what it all means.

Alas, despite the change in their together-weather, she can’t quite see her way clear to realizing that inevitability on a sidewalk... to move in that direction, though, she undertakes to demonstrate that she can be the chivalrous actor, no disapproving mechanism required. Object lessons. “I know you haven’t had any food since this morning,” she says. “Are you hungry?”

Helena’s eyebrows rise. “Oh,” she says, as if only just remembering that her body has physical requirements. Could her time as a hologram have affected—dampened—her awareness of such necessities? Even thinking the question jabs Myka with want, to be the one to bring her back to the body. Its needs. “Yes, I am.”

“What do you like? What’s a favorite?” Please don’t let her say tacos from a truck, Myka begs the universe, because she would really rather not have to explain her lingering shivers around taco trucks as yet another dealy-thingy.

“Preferences are still in process.”

It isn’t “tacos from a truck,” so hallelujah. But it’s inscrutable. “Are they?”

“I’ve traveled through America and elsewhere, over the weeks I’ve been away.” Helena pauses, giving Myka time to appreciate this window, however minimal, onto an answer to the “where were you” question... sadly, “America and elsewhere” gives precious little insight into the reason for all this travel. Helena continues, “What I’ve found is that contemporary cuisine bears little resemblance to what I knew. Some is strange and off-putting; some is strange but surpassingly delicious. Have you experienced a ‘blooming onion’?”

Is that intended to occupy the former or the latter category? “Pete loves those,” Myka says. That should fit as a response to either one.

“They represent what I cannot help but imagine is a foretaste of paradise,” Helena says.

She sounds rapturous.

Thus Myka has a new goal: to inspire a tone in Helena’s voice even approximating the one with which she’s just expressed this unexpected adoration.

However, Myka also has a new frustration: that not one but two of the people who occupy essential positions in her life venerate blooming onions. Which she herself cannot stomach. How to process this? Maybe she could do it by simply watching Helena eat one of the vile things... that really might be worth doing, if only as a stick against which to measure Pete’s gusto...

Sadly, that’s not going to happen today, for a frantic search on her phone yields zero restaurants in the vicinity offering even an approximation.

Onions aside, however, the number of restaurants near to them is, in positive news, nonzero. Myka reads her list of results to Helena as suggestions, and she is genuinely entertained, as well as informed, by the vehemence with which Helena vetoes every option that isn’t aggressively carnivorous.

Twenty minutes later they’re seated at Marble Room, which billed itself on its website as featuring “Steaks and Raw Bar”: Helena had turned up her nose at “raw bar” but landed with claws on “steaks.”

Watching Helena leaf through a menu—sitting across from her at an intimate table for two and doing the same—is even more astonishingly normal than any of the other normal things Myka has seen Helena do, and has done together with her, today. “Have we ever been to a restaurant? Just you and me, being seated? Getting menus and looking at them?” She would of course remember it, if they had, but she asks so as to press on the newness of it.

Bonus: Her asking the question prompts Helena to propose they conduct an inventory, limited though they both know it is, of shared non-B&B meals. It seems a gentle tiptoe through the past, one that might help rather than hurt, so Myka agrees.

“We didn’t share any table in Tamalpais,” Helena begins.

“Too busy saving Claudia from combusting,” Myka concurs.

“And removing you, vertically, from the path of marauding vehicles,” Helena concurs back. She smiles at Myka with a spark, one that is neither naughty nor nice, but rather alchemizes both into a gift of energetic attention that should be impossible.

Oh, this... this is what Myka has found irresistible from the start, for the full alchemy is in fact not only Helena’s impossibly true spark, but how Myka herself responds to it: with an internal melt, the “oh, this” that always hits new, each time she feels it. They say the body doesn’t remember pain; apparently it also doesn’t remember, from one moment of recognition to the next, how it greets its perfect match.

Another of those irresistible moments—actually a cascade of them—had occurred on a plane, as they traveled to Pittsburgh to probe what had happened to the students in Egypt, about which Helena was of course hiding her full knowledge. Myka tries not to push too hard on how significant that episode had been to her, given all the internecine baggage, as she says, “Sitting on a 737 in row 32, me in E and you in F, choosing between the market snack box or the chicken-salad-sandwich plate... that doesn’t count, I’m pretty sure.”

“Alas, no. I did, however, appreciate your willingness to share your sandwich with me.”

“You said it was one of the worst things you’d ever tasted in your life.” In the sandwich-share’s wake, Helena’s face had presented an astonishingly unnuanced canvas of disgust, and Myka had despaired at having caused such a reaction, even as she had reveled in having taken the unprecedented opportunity to do so: “Want a bite?” she’d asked, desperately casual, and Helena had accepted the invitation, biting, all teeth and lips and... and then, sadly, the reaction.

“It was,” Helena says. “Nevertheless I appreciated your willingness—but aha!” she pounces, “sandwiches! We ate ful sandwiches together from that cart in Alexandria.”

“No seating there,” Myka reminds her. “Also no menus.”

“Disqualifying,” Helena concedes. She falls quiet.

They both know Egypt is the end; what follows is adversarial. And then incorporeal.

But today—this collaborative, embodied day—is a beginning. “So we should mark this as a first,” Myka says.

“Celebrate this as a first,” Helena responds... corrects? She looks down at her menu and doesn’t look up as she says, “Of many. If I may dare to hope.”

Myka waits to answer until the look-back-up has occurred. “Only if I may too,” she says, meeting and holding Helena’s eyes.

Which roll, those eyes, and Myka panics. “You may and I may, but such mutual hope will likely have no earthly effect,” Helena says, providing relief: the scoff was directed not at Myka, but at... everything.

Hoping to unscoff her back to celebrating, Myka tries, “Can’t we mutually hope for it to have that effect though? In addition to that underlying mutual hope, for this being the first of many?”

“We can,” Helena says, her brow skeptical, “but would that be sufficient? I suspect the overall situation is likely to require several recursive applications of hope.”

“I can’t dispute your suspicion,” Myka concedes. Is hope a finite resource? That feels like a philosophical dead-ender, or at the very least the beginning of a descent, so she tamps down her impulse to voice the question. They’re here now, a circumstance on which Myka certainly, and Helen probably too, would never have thought to expend any hope at all.

She gives her own look at the menu and, without thinking, blurts, “This meal’s going to cost me several recursive applications of my credit card.” Immediately she wants to swallow back those words; they’re yet another instance of something she’d say to Pete, and anyway mentioning money is so picayune, here in the midst of an historic first. And yet... it never ends well when she tries to pretend to sophistication, moneyed or otherwise, that she doesn’t have, so she gives up and goes all in. “I don’t even know what a ‘duroc pork chop’ is, much less why it would cost more than a coffee-table book. And my dad’s brain would break at the thought of adding a lobster tail to a meal. At the price of it too, but the very idea.”

“I can’t dispute your father’s position,” Helena says, and Myka loves the echo—loves that Helena bothered with the echo. “My mother would most likely respond the same. She was a servant, you know.”

Myka could assure her that she does know; she’s done enough research on the historical H.G. Wells to produce a double-doorstop of a family biography. But she is over-the-top eager to know what Helena might be willing to say, so she goes with what she hopes is an appropriate please-inform-me prompt, sugared with just enough eagerness: “Was she?”

Helena nods. “It trained her to be exceptionally practical, but she became even more so after the failure of my father’s shop compelled her to return to service. That was difficult for her—for all of us. Charles and I were both desperate to rise above that station... insofar as one could, we did a reasonable job of it, and what I’ve learned of Charles’s later life suggests he went even further. A century later, I have as well. So I’ll pay for the meal.”

“But disapprovey mechanisms!” Myka protests, realizing she’s piled error on error: first, she’s supposed to be taking Helena out; second, she’s implying that she can’t pay; and—

“For good or ill, money is no longer my limiting factor,” Helena says, halting Myka’s thought-careering.

She seems genuinely indifferent to the financial consequences, so Myka sets herself to try, against every fiber of her frugal  and responsible being, to pretend like that’s okay. Besides, there’s another issue to pursue. “If not that... what is your limiting factor?”

“Ironically, time,” Helena responds instantly. Acerbically.

“That’s everyone’s,” Myka says, but just as instantly she understands it’s another utterance she should have censored, because she knows what the response will be.

“Unless one is bronzed.”

Expectation fulfilled. And yet: “You aren’t bronzed anymore,” Myka says. To emphasize that—or rather, to emphasize its implications—she extends her right hand across the table. Maybe Helena will take it... she is more hopeful about such a possibility than she has ever been.

“Or unless one is a hologram. Or, now that I think of it, unless one is a vampire.” Helena says this musingly, but she offers her left hand, and now they are touching, and Myka is regretting her vamp somewhat less. “Does that support your earlier postulate?”

Myka can muster few words with their fingers atangle. “Doesn’t matter,” she manages. “You aren’t those either.” So as to put all time-suspending states away, as the past or impossibilities. Or both.

“You are correct. I am none of those.” Helena’s grip on Myka’s hand tightens.

They are holding hands. And if it’s overly adolescent of Myka to find this barely precedented joining significant? So be it.

Together they sit, not letting go. Accustoming themselves, even, to skin on skin. Learning it.

A throat-clear invades Myka’s ears from some unclear direction; she raises her eyes to regard a server.

But those joined hands, hers and Helena’s, don’t immediately disengage. Helena doesn’t let go, and Myka doesn’t either. This has meaning, here among the bonuses: the waiter seeing is okay, and that okay-ness is a continuation. Nancy Sullivan saw. Bob saw—differently, but still. This server, different yet again, but even so: seeing.

“I’m Frank,” that server says. “Really pleased to be here for you tonight. First I need to explain not checking in earlier: you were in conversation, and we try not to let service intrude on your privacy. If that’s an error, it’s on me.” His voice is sleek, as is his physical presentation: he wears a spectacularly well-fitted all-black uniform, as every server here does, but he’s also beautiful, with Roman-ideal bone structure and perfect raw-umber skin. His teeth are perfect too.

Gazing upon him makes Myka regret even more her jump to jealousy with the firefighter—for it now seems more likely that Cleveland has simply been doing its best to show its loveliest helpers to her and Helena.

Bonus.

“No error whatsoever, darling,” Helena says, her sincerity evident via the endearment. From anyone else, it might seem dismissive, even infantilizing, but from Helena, as Myka knows thanks to Claudia’s reactions to being on the receiving end, it’s a notice-signifying prize. If an occasionally unnerving one.

Frank, however, is not unnerved. He visibly warms, turning toward Helena, drawing his hands apart, opening his shoulders—expanding his physical presence, like a peacock, but one whose display is appreciation. When he speaks, however, he shifts to include Myka in his openness. “Like to start with drinks? And I can clarify anything on the menu, if you’ve had time to look.”

“I can clarify that she wants a steak,” Myka says, to speed the process along, given how long it’s been since they both ate.

“The Delmonico,” Helena clarifies further.

“That’s a standout cut. Preparation?” Frank asks.

“Bloody.”

Myka laughs. “Saw that coming. Rethinking the vampire thing a little by the way.”

This makes Helena smile—not naughty, but rather, again, with attention. As if she and Myka really do know things about each other... under a tragic knife, they’d said words about knowing, knowing better than anyone, but Myka is aware, and she presumes Helena is too, that those words weren’t true; they were nothing more (or less) than wishes, postulates about a better world than the too-real one that seemed inescapable.

But now they might be inching closer to that better world.

Helena says to Myka, “In deference to our parents’ sensibilities, I won’t add a lobster tail, but perhaps Crab Oscar? For the resonance?”

“I have to admit, that’s like the pork chop: I don’t know what it is,” Myka says. “Except for the resonance.”

“Is resonance like instagramming?” Frank asks. “Unless it’s just for that, I’d go elsewhere.”

Helena glances kitchenward, then looks back at Frank. “So. A specialty, but not of this house,” she says, voice lowered, almost-but-not-quite comically cloak-and-dagger.

“Few blocks west for cooked seafood. Blue star on the door; can’t miss it,” Frank says, lowering his voice too.

They are beautiful co-conspirators.

“Oh, Oscar would have liked you.” Helena now sounds silky. Fey and silky, and Myka wants to wrap herself in that magicky silk.

“The Grouch?” Frank tries, a little flippant—but only a little. He’s keying on Helena’s every word.

“He certainly was,” Helena says, with approval, as if Frank has passed an exceptionally exacting test.

“Okay,” Frank says. His I-don’t-know-what-just-happened-but-I-think-I-liked-it tone is painfully familiar. “And for you?” he asks Myka.

“The beets and blue cheese salad, please.”

“A salad?” Helena gasps, clutching at her chest.

Could that level of indignation possibly be real? Myka ignores the histrionics for the moment and tells Frank, “A couple of vegetable sides too: the blackened carrots and also the steamed asparagus.” She then says to Helena, “They sound subtle.” Real reaction or no, Myka might as well start defending her choices.

“You vegetarian?” Frank asks. “Vegan? Kitchen can modify whatever you—”

“Not as such. I’m just not as carnivorous as she is.”

“Mm,” Helena noises, and Myka can already hear the “Aren’t you?” that will follow... she tries to shape a riposte, and she is so preoccupied with that impossible task that she nearly misses what Helena actually says: “I’m sorry. You should of course have what you want.”

Her contrition seems genuine. But in the end it doesn’t matter, for the reason Myka now articulates. “I do. This minute, I do.”

Which... flusters Helena? She looks down at the menu again, down then up at Myka, blinking, then turns her attention to Frank, as if he might save her. From an overload of honesty? Of resultant expectation?

Frank doesn’t seem inclined to offer any lifeline. Instead, he says to Myka, “Listen. If you’re into subtle vegetables. It’s not on the menu, but chef’s serving a really special kabocha squash with some of the meat dishes. I could bring you some of that too? If it doesn’t hit you right, no harm no foul.”

“That would be great,” Myka says. She doesn’t know what kabocha squash is, but she’s copped to enough unsophistication already; she and her phone can figure this one out, and anyway, squash is pretty much squash. It’s not some coffee-table-book pork chop.

“Thinking about those drinks?” Frank then asks. “I’ll tell the kitchen to expedite that steak though.”

The idea of making yet another decision is too much pressure; Myka declines. Helena declines too, in a way that suggests she is deferring to Myka, conforming to her wishes. It’s another bonus: not only does Myka not have to defend her choices, but she can in fact shape choices for both of them.

It’s as intoxicating as any cocktail.

Frank adds, “But with the meal? Maybe? I can bring out the full wine list.”

More pressure, and Myka, despite the fact that the thought of drinking wine with Helena is lovely, opens her mouth to say no. But then: “Do you have a recommendation?” Helena asks Frank. It’s defusing. As if she knows that’s how it hit Myka, as pressure but also as potentially lovely. And as if she wants to resolve “pressure.” So as to reach “lovely.”

“To stand up to that Delmonico, it’s definitely a cab. Sommelier likes to pair the Hall Coeur 2013. Young, but deep. Takes that journey, you know? It’s a Napa, from St. Helena.”

Helena raises an eyebrow at Myka. “A signal of approval for once?” Her voice rises, up up and away from cynicism.

The last thing Myka would ever do is quash that rise. Hearing it—knowing it applies to the two of them together—is another bonus. “Saint Helena,” she agrees, without irony.

As the meal proceeds, the bonuses multiply: Helena’s face lights up when the steak arrives, and that is of course a gift, as is the voracity with which she attacks it. But watching her begin to cut and consume the stark slab has a further effect on Myka, in that it puts her in mind of Helena’s basic personhood. Or, no: her animalhood. An animal, here a human one, eats a piece of meat. Throughout prehistory, recorded history, all the history, this throughline. “Let me try a bite,” Myka says, and Helena obliges, slicing, transferring across the table, connecting each of them, as a consuming animal, to the other, the two of them, as animals, to all others. There’s both thrill and comfort in that.

The service, too, is a plus: Frank attends to them with delicate discretion, never interrupting conversation, yet always appearing when a dish should be cleared, when the wine should be poured. Sleek. Smooth. In addition, this serves for Myka, surprisingly, as a sotto voce contrast to Helena’s aspect, revealing her as a bit less sleek and smooth than Myka always ideates her as being... why does the difference, if that’s what it is, seem so striking? Well, Frank is clearly practiced at his tasks. Experienced. Does that mean Helena, here being with Myka in this way, sitting and sharing, is in fact doing something... new?

Myka knows her preferred answer to that.

Also rewarding, completely unexpectedly: the kabocha, presented as thick slices that are charred but not smoky, seasoned but not overspiced, sweet but not cloying, creamy but not clottingly so. It’s unlike any squash Myka has ever eaten... thus squash is not pretty much squash. “I could have this squash every meal,” Myka says as she finishes the not insubstantial portion, literally licking her lips. She suspects her voice is betraying something very like rapture, and could this possibly be how Helena and Pete feel about those execrable onions? “Every single meal. For a week. A month.”

“I could do the same with this steak,” Helena says.

She’s managed to down an impressive percentage of its sixteen ounces, which prompts Myka to say, not entirely jokingly, “We may need to talk about heart-healthiness at some point.”

Helena takes a moment. Then she says, “Healthiness of heart... mine? Yours? Or both?”

It’s a bit sardonic, involving an eyebrow, and Myka berates herself for not having preconsidered, and consequently rejected, bringing up hearts, because they could not possibly be ready to speak directly about—

—but then Helena is extending her left hand, and Myka is meeting it with her right, and just like that, they are rejoined.

With her right hand, Helena raises her glass. “How did we fail to toast when the wine first arrived?” she asks.

“You were too focused on the steak.” Myka says this with affection. With familiarity. She can imagine—and wishes she could confidently predict—saying these same words to Helena again at some future celebratory meal. She can imagine—and wishes she could confidently predict—their hearts being made healthy by such continued affection and familiarity.

“That was certainly an error, and as our charming Frank would say, it’s on me. So I’ll toast now as I should have done then: To you.” Helena’s salute is candid. Open. As warm as her hand on Myka’s.

“To you too.” Myka has to raise with her left hand—it feels a little weird, but isn’t that appropriate for a first toast with Helena? “And to us,” she adds, a dare that Helena reward by not withdrawing her warmth or her hand.

Their hands are still joined when Helena’s phone announces its presence. The intrusion breaks their hold. Myka’s heart, just now so high, sinks, for such interruptions—of chats, of meals, of anything consequential—are so rarely good.

She braces herself for an adverse outcome.

She tries to hide the bracing by directing her attention to her remaining stalks of asparagus, slicing them into bite-sized pieces, then slicing them again, halves halved, quarters quartered, sixteenths sixteenthed, practically baby-fooding them as she aggressively pretends to ignore the words Helena is saying.

Not that those words are revealing: “yes,” and “all right,” and “I understand.” Repeated with slight variations.

Upon disconnecting, Helena says to Myka, “Apparently my reprieve has come to an end. I’ve been instructed to go to the airport.” Her voice is calm but somewhere sharp, a blanket smoothed over blades.

“A reprieve? That’s what this was for you?” Bracing had been the right instinct, but Myka had not expected that to be the body blow. “For me, it’s been a bonus.”

Helena inclines her head. “A bonus, certainly. If you prefer.” Smoothing, smoothing.

Myka does prefer, but she pushes back. Back to punishment, hoping to expose the blades. “What you prefer—what you called it, even if you don’t prefer it—matters more. If this was a reprieve, what was the sentence?”

“It wasn’t pronounced in any court, but from my perspective? To keep my distance from the Warehouse,” Helena snaps, then winces. “And the obvious corollary.”

Myka has hit her mark. And now, saying it out loud... that will make it real. So: “From me,” Myka says.

“From you,” Helena says back. Her saying it, realing it too: it’s gratifying.

“You can’t even stay for dessert.” It’s an absurd heaviness to put on such a silly thing, and it’s not like Myka would have eaten any dessert herself. But she would avidly have watched Helena do so... “I’m questioning the Fredness of it all,” she laments.

Helena turns quizzical, but there’s no way Myka can explain. Well, no: there’s no way Myka can imagine wasting time by explaining.

“My flight isn’t till tomorrow,” she says instead, plaintive. She’s seized by an impulse to—what is it?—go with Helena to the airport? Yes, of course she wants to do that, but there’s more—again, what is it?—to figure out a way to fly with Helena wherever she’s being sent, damn the consequences? Yes, that’s closer. But Myka can’t gift herself such a wildness. Not even for Christmas. Not even if she put herself on her own “nice” list.

Should’ve taken this to a hotel room, her body berates. Should’ve skipped to that. All this time wasted in a restaurant. Sitting. Menus. Should have pursued the satisfaction of what you’ve always known, from the marrow of your bones all the way out to your skin, is a greater hunger.

But. Even as her body tries to persuade her of its primacy, she thinks back over their interactions of the past hours. Would she trade them for that satisfaction? Would she really? Perhaps, in a different world—a more desperate one. But in this hopefully better world, this time was not wasted. All these bonuses... they were, they are, important. Conversation has been essential to each incremental increase of their intimacy. She shouldn’t discount it. She should celebrate it.

“I went to a wrong place just now,” she tells Helena, whose face is on pause—she must have been waiting for Myka to make even the slightest bit of sense. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to go with you? At least in the taxi?”

Helena’s post-pause expression is deeply indulgent. “I think you should stay and enjoy dessert. Let me imagine you seeing this unprecedented meal to a sweet completion.”

“I’m not really a dessert person,” Myka says, not wanting to be indulged quite like this, and additionally not wanting to misrepresent. “And anyway I don’t see how I could enjoy it with you gone. Could you maybe imagine something else?”

Helena softens; clearly, that was a good response. “What if I simply think of you. You eating your salad, your vegetables,” she says, then, “and one bite of bloody steak.” That’s another of those transcendent attentional gifts. One bite of bloody steak. Myka files that away for future comfort, even as Helena continues, “While I watched you do those things. Reveling in the fact that, as established, such a thing has never happened before.”

“I like that,” Myka says. “I know I’ll be thinking of you eating your steak, how I watched you. Which also, as established, never happened before.” She is compelled, however, to add, “But you’re leaving again. Which has.” She checks the time, and now it is Christmas Eve. She tries not to draw inferences from that.

“But I will come back.”

“When?”

“When I can.”

“Why did we get stuck in that elevator?” Myka asks.

“Because the mechanism malfunctioned. With intent?” Helena says that last playfully.

Myka doesn’t, here at the end, want to play. Play along. “I repeat, more existentially: why did we get stuck in that elevator? Bearing in mind that the elevator itself may not appreciate its role in the... grand design.”

Helena takes a moment. Then she says, “So that we might have this goodbye rather than, as before, none at all?” The words are a softness.

Myka wants to respond in kind. “Or—and?” Fighting against fearful reticence, trying to be truthful, she says, “So I could work my way up to saying this out loud: please come back. To me.”

Helena breathes. “And so I could say this to you: when I can, I will.”

They’re in public. How different might this have been if Myka had pushed them toward a hotel room? But she can’t help checking herself: it’s not like things couldn’t have gone spectacularly wrong in such a space. Plus an elevator would most likely have been involved, so...

In the space they are actually inhabiting, Helena now rises from the table. Myka does the same, moving to meet her.

They share a hug, one that terrifies Myka—because they’ve never touched like this before; because it feels awkward rather than natural as their bodies surge, press, warm; because if they can’t even hug right then what does that bode for anything else—but as they emerge from this confusion of arms and torsos, Helena says again, “I will.” Her assurance reshapes the ungraceful embrace into a profound affirmation.

The certainty heats into Myka: any goodbye, even a clumsy one, is a bonus compared to no goodbye at all.

But then Helena is gone.

And Myka is not at all surprised—yet still devastated—to be sitting alone at a table for two in a steakhouse in Cleveland on just-turned Christmas Eve.

“I’m sorry your lady had to leave.” Frank has materialized next to her, like he’s the Ghost of Christmas Bonus. Or, no: the Ghost of Christmas Bonus Rescinded.

“Story of my life,” Myka says, trying for a jest, fearing it’s a sob.

Frank juts his perfectly sharp chin like he’s considering a similarly perfectly sharp comment... but then his face gentles. “She paid the check and then some, so you can sit here forever if you need to.”

“I should probably go,” she says. Sad but true.

“Wait a second though. She said to bring you this, because she wants to make sure your heart stays healthy.” He places a small plate of kabocha squash before her. “She seems for real,” he concludes. But then, “Is she?” he asks.

Yet another gut-familiar reaction to the Helena of it all: not-quite-belief. “She is,” Myka testifies, again fighting that sob. Because before tonight, before today and tonight, her response would more likely have been “I hope so.”

As she eats an additional portion of absurdly delicious squash on Christmas Eve in Cleveland by herself, Myka considers calling Pete. He would at least rescue her from this sudden crush of loneliness...

... but on second thought, would he? Or would his presence make it worse, as it sometimes has before? Myka knows she’s at fault for that; she’s never really explained to him, out loud in words he would understand and accept, what Helena is to her. How entirely she matters.

Which in turn brings her to the keynote, which is that she should feel the loneliness. She owes it to Helena, for this is one of the visceral testaments to Helena’s significance: because her absence matters just as much as her presence.

****

When Myka gets back to the B&B the next day—after having been offered on both of her flights the opportunity to purchase a chicken salad sandwich, each time rendering her nostalgic and frustrated in equal measure—Steve is waiting for her.

“How was it?” he asks as he relieves her weary hands of the pen-bearing static bag.

“Really, really nice,” she says. For the resonance.

Steve smiles a smile Myka doesn’t understand.

TBC

[filtharchives]

just something short and spicy to indulge myself after a long day of cramming ♡

summary: cove x reader - your boyfriend is popular, but you won’t let anyone forget that he’s yours (basically that one ramble with @/sugar-omi but extended)

tags: suggestive, fem/afab reader, possessive reader, rockstar!cove, panty thief cove but not really thievery since you threw it at him, idk what else to put

cove had just finished his second-to-last song of the set and he was giving a heartfelt thank you to the audience before closing out. however, a cove holden show couldn’t be tame forever, and someone on the floor had flung their bra on stage, making the crowd go wild as cove picked it up from the stage by one of its straps, chuckling into his mic. 

“this has never happened before,” cove muses to the crowd, holding up the bra for everyone to see. “believe it or not, i’m serious–never happened until today. not once.” the crowd cheers meanwhile, from stage left, you stand with your arms crossed, weight shifted to one leg. it was amusing, you admit, for your boyfriend to experience the cliche male artist experience of a fan throwing a bra on stage, but you couldn’t help the sour taste in your mouth. even if this was a part of his career, and you shouldn’t be surprised by the wild behavior of fans, you still had every right as his girlfriend to not like it. even worse, that first bra seemed to be a catalyst as half a dozen more were tossed towards cove. 

“hey, i didn’t say i wanted these!” he laughs, throwing the one in his hand back into the crowd before picking up another and repeating the action, not caring if they went to the rightful owners or not. “take them back. they’re probably all sweaty from how you’re all crowded together like that. nasty.” the audience laughs and hollers as cove throws back a few more before sighing into the mic. 

“know what? i’m not returning the rest of these. that’s work i’m not getting paid for and it’s your own fault if you gotta stay braless the rest of the night.” despite his threats, a few more bras make it to the stage, making him shake his head with a smirk. deciding enough was enough, you carefully shimmy out of your panties, slipping them off from under the short skirt of the dress cove all but begged you to wear tonight, and ball them up before throwing them at your celebrity boyfriend.

the panties land on his shoulder and he picks them up with his free hand, carefully shaking them in the air to reveal what they were. when the shape of the panties are revealed, the crowd goes wild, screams of surprise resounding throughout the arena. 

cove looks over at you, eyes half-lidded and dark with a smug smile on his face as he brings the crotch of the panties up to his lips and kisses them. even if this was your doing, heat rushes to your face as much as it does to your lower belly and you barely even notice the crowd losing their minds. cove gives you a wink before returning his attention to his audience. 

“that’s my signal to start wrapping things up,” he grins, stuffing your panties into his back pocket. “everyone remember to keep your underwear to yourself–i’ve already got the only pair i’ll ever want.”

why is uni so hard i'm literally only writing to cope 😭

[scarletwritesshit]

🍜 Kotone Shiomi x Shinjiro Aragaki 🍜 Beef Ramen

Kotone looked up and down the kitchen shelves and in the fridge. There was plenty to choose from, but nothing that particularly sparked her interest. And if something did catch her eye, it took a “too much effort” to prepare.

Other than the small meals she felt obligated to have at school, Kotone had been neglecting to eat properly. Often, she was absent from the S.E.E.S. dinner table, claiming that she simply held no interest in food that day. But she had to have something.

Instant cup ramen it is. Though boiling the water felt like a bit too much effort, it was the bare minimum she could do that wasn’t straight up eating the noodles hard and raw. No flavors particularly stood out to her as appetizing, though. Can’t go wrong with the basics, so chicken flavor it is.

She got a cup down and sighed at it. Even peeling the lid off felt like an awful lot of work. If it were not made of styrofoam, she would gladly microwave it, but she did not want all of S.E.E.S. to suffer the same fate as her parents did.

A little dramatic for a cup of noodles. They’d probably be fine anyways, should she stick it in the microwave for a minute. Regardless, the water wasn’t going to boil itself.

She began to fill a kettle with water, until she saw Shinjiro walk into the kitchen out of the corner of her eye.

"Kinda odd to see you in here" he remarked.

"I’m making myself something, for once," Kotone said, setting the half full kettle of tap water aside on the counter.

"Cup ramen. After all those times you skipped dinner?"

"It’s something at least."

"Thats practically nothin’ with how little you’ve been eatin’. Step aside, let me make you some real food," Shinjiro said.

Kotone stepped out of the way as Shinjiro took over the counter space. He took the kettle of warm water and dumped it down the sink, then he put the still unopened cup of noodles back onto the shelf.

"You gotta eat something at least half decent," Shinjiro said, grabbing his apron and tying it on. "And if you won’t make it, I will."

"Won’t the others jump you for cooking?"

"They’re gonna have to suck it up because I got more important things to worry about."

Kotone stood outside the kitchen and out of the way as she watched Shinjiro begin to gather the ingredients. She peeked in around the corner and watched as Shinjiro worked with admirable speed. He grabbed some considerably thick ramen noodles, eggs, beef, and some spices she didn’t catch the name of.

"Chicken won’t do you much good," Shinjiro remarked. "You need something hearty to get you back on your feet."

"Do you want me to help? I feel kinda bad that you’re doing this for me," Kotone offered.

Shinjiro shook his head. "Nah. Go wait at the table. I know what I’m doing."

Kotone listened to Shinjiro and went to sit at the table. She watched as he turned on the skillet and laid out hefty slabs of beef to roast, then filled a pot with water to begin cooking the noodles. The heavenly aroma alone was enough to spark an appetite in her once again, and apparently Koromaru felt the same, as he got up from the floor to investigate the source of the irresistible scent himself.

No dogs allowed in the kitchen was a general rule, that is, only when someone who cared to enforce it was around. Shinjiro was not one of said people. Kotone saw Koromaru waltz right into the kitchen and sit down, his wagging tail peering out from around the wall

"Arf!"

Shinjiro looked down as he was preparing the beef. She couldn’t see completely, but she knew Koromaru was looking at him with the same big-eyed wide-mouthed smile that was a one hit knockout to his heart. This time, Shinjiro had no reason to hide it. It wasn’t a big secret that he was rather fond of Koromaru like he was his own son, but he did his best to keep this fact hidden from the rest of S.E.E.S., with minimal success. Kotone knew this all too well, in fact, she had caught him early on, but he felt as if he had absolutely no reason to hide his love of animals from the woman he planned to spend the rest of his life.

"You want some too, Koro-chan?" Shinjiro asked him.

"Arf arf!"

"Here. Since you’re sitting like such a good little lad," Shinjiro said.

He grabbed a piece of beef that was roasting alone in the corner of the pan and handed it to Koromaru. It seemed to be a piece that he had especially set aside for him ahead of time. Kotone wouldn’t be the least bit surprised one bit if that were the case. Koromaru happily trotted out of the kitchen, slice of beef in his mouth. He looked up at Kotone for a brief moment as if he were saying, "you’re one lucky girl," in which she nodded her head acknowledging his silent words. Then, he sat down at his dog food bowl to happily chew away at his piece of beef in peace.

Kotone watched Koromaru with a smile, until Shinjiro sat down next to her with two rather large bowls of beef ramen. She looked down at the bowl that was slid in front of her. Immaculate work by Shinjiro as always. If she thought any lower of herself, she would’ve shoved her face right into the bowl and dug in like a barn animal.

"Eat up. It’s good for you," Shinjiro said.

Kotone picked up the chopsticks and carefully ate a small bite of ramen on the off chance that her body would reject its first real helping of food. The incredible flavoring hit her like a semi-truck, and it felt as if one hundred bites of Shinjiro’s cooking would be nowhere near enough to satisfy revitalized appetite. Unable to contain herself, she began eating them at a rate to rival Shinjiro. The uncontrollable smile on her face only made him smile in return.

"It’s nice to see you lookin’ in better spirits already," Shinjiro said. "Told ya a healthy meal works wonders."

Kotone, unable to speak with a mouth full of beef and noodles, gave Shinjiro a big smile and a thumbs up of approval.

"If you ever feel that shitty again, don’t hesitate to tell me. Ill whip us up somethin’."

Kotone took a breath in between bites. "Isn’t that a lot of work for you?"

"It isn’t a chore if I enjoy doing it. Besides, it’s the least I could do as thanks."

"Thanks for what?"

"Yknow, for being our leader, and everything."

"It’s no big deal."

"...And for being there for me and all that shit. Dammit, you know what I mean. I ain’t good with this crap."

Kotone ruffled Shinjiro's hair. "Of course I know what you mean, Shinji. I’m happy myself, as you’ve been opening up to me a lot more lately.”

"I haven’t the slightest clue what you mean," he said, casually looking away while blushing.

"Arf arf!" Koromaru interjected.

"Oh, but Koro certainly knows," Kotone said.

"Dammit, girl, just finish eating," Shinjiro said, unable to force away the smile on his face.