#i considered just shadow dropping one

[thelonelyshore-if]

Hypothetically, if I were to write and release winter-y drabbles.........which RO/polyship would you want to see first??? Asking for a friend.

[arson-09]

I have zeroed in on my issue with the centuries age gap trope is not the age gap really, but the inherent power imbalance and that i dont care to have an old ass ‘mature’ man. I want someone my age to share experiences with me, I don’t want someone who already has like all the answers. Men who are older (in real life and fiction) also tend to use their ‘experience’ to control their partner because they believe they know better. Fiction examples- The Darkling (pretty sure that was purposeful on Bardugos part) Rhysand (I dont think that was purposeful) and Cassian (most definitely not)

Idk i was watching the Book Leos new video on age gaps and shadow daddies (mostly a little discussion video) and i finally put my thoughts into words. yay

[jorrated]

sonadow (hands u the hornet nest)

i think its whatever but fanon has destroyed it for me

[bylerposting]

iiiinteresting... he's a soldier?

[oceantornadoo]

inspired by a dramoine fic i read! simon riley x f!reader

it’s the third time today someone has handed you simon’s paperwork and you’re starting to get confused. in fact, there’s the distinct feeling that you’ve missed a memo.

first, it was the visiting captain, so you couldn’t blame him for confusing lieutenants. but then it was johnny turning in his mission report, muttering something about “cannae be late this time if ah give it ye, lass.” which was odd, considering you weren’t his direct report (you were gaz’s). but what really sent you over the edge was getting called into price’s office and being met with a load of folders addressed to one Lt. Ghost (Confidential).

“sir, i’m a bit confused as to why you can’t just give these to him yourself.” price looked up from his desk, eyes flickering from under his boonie hat. “hav’ you seen ‘im today, lieutenant?” you nodded immediately while trying to scoop all of this paperwork (that was not yours!) into your arms. “yessir, i saw him before breakfast and then during training and then…what?” price had silently quirked an eyebrow, his beard echoing the movement. “i haven’t seen ‘im all day, so i figure it’s faster for you to deliver since you’re more well-versed in his movements than i am.” huh. “i’m sure he’s just doing his ghost thing, y’know? slipping into shadows and…”, price patiently gave you an exasperated look, “but i’ll get these to him, sir. see you later!”

the problem was, you knew exactly where simon was. in your office.

his own had an unfortunate ground level window near the track, so he was always complaining about nosy recruits until you offered to share some office space. temporarily, of course. it’s not like you were using all the empty space anyways and it made it much easier to get the opinion of your fellow lieutenant on a report by walking over to his desk, rather than going up and down stairs. that was the second point he made, and who were you to say no?

after pushing open your office door, you beelined for simon’s desk, dumping the stacks of folders on his desk. “wot’s this?” his mask was off so you could see his eyes widen at the mess of papers. “everyone now thinks i’m a drop off box for your paperwork, so i got burdened with all of this when i was doing my rounds.” he nodded thoughtfully, taking a sip of his tea. “cheers, love.”

“what do you mean, cheers? don’t you think it’s odd for them to give me your paperwork? and why do we even have so much paperwork? i swear im drowning in it this week.” he snorted at your last sentence, opening the first folder in front of him while you rounded your desk, sitting in your comfy chair with a hmpf. “yer out an’ about more than me, tha’s all.” well, that was true. the infamous ghost was not known to be a sociable person on base. “i guess…” you turned to your old radio, passed down by a retired captain, and turned on simon’s favorite classical station.

“ya want mess or the pub tonight, love?” another great thing about being on base with simon - you never had to pay for dinner. “actually, that thai place we like is doing a special tonight.” he gave you a half-smirk, one cheek ticking up. “bloody raccoon. we had thai two nights ago.” you didn’t respond, instead blinking your best impression of puppy dog eyes at him. simon sighed, then shook his head at his desk. “olrigh’. the things i do.” you smiled and winked, dipping your head back down to your desk. “thanks, si.”

-

two weeks later, you were prepping for a duo mission with simon. price had been grilling the two of you for the past three hours, making sure you had everything memorized. satisfied, he leaned back in his office chair and rubbed his temples, the feeling of a headache coming on. “one more thing.” both of you snapped your head up at price, desperate to leave and eat. you’d already missed dinner and your stomach was complaining.

“the safe house is pretty small, basically a shack. one bed, no couch. i assumed ‘s fine since y’r datin-“ “‘s fine, captain.” simon cut him off, an out of character move that had you frowning. “it’s fine, cap. not like ive never slept on a floor before.” now price was frowning at what you said. he turned to simon, who shook his head imperceptibly before becoming still again. price’s brow furrowed but he didn’t push further. he got up from his chair, eyes flitting suspiciously between you two. “i’ll see you at 0600.”

“what was that about?” you whispered to simon after as you walked down the hall. “‘s nothin’.” you were missing something but it was so unclear what. “he thinks that we’re datin-“ “said it’s nothin’, sweetheart. he’s an old man. let’s get some food in you, yeah?” you nodded, letting him guide you to the kitchen. price wasn’t that old. and you were not dating simon riley.

-

the mission was beautiful, your best one in years. it was the first duo mission between you and simon, so the nerves of pulling your own weight had settled in hard. thankfully, your skills balanced each other out and you’d gotten the target in record time. now, all you had to do was wait in the safe house for exfil.

“you were so good.” you whispered once he’d locked the door. he only hummed a response, checking exit and entry points while you set up your packs, scrounging up MREs and testing the shack for electricity. price wasn’t kidding - it was practically a studio apartment. one bed, a bathroom and a decrepit stove. the soldier part of you was fine with it, but that small soft part of you ached for the warmth of your apartment. memories of yelling at simon for using all your shampoo even though he didn’t live there, of him running you a bath after a long day of training.

“you were good too, baby.” he snuck up from behind your spot on the floor and lifted you onto the mattress that had definitely seen better days. you hadn’t even checked it for bed bugs yet. “c’mere.” he pulled you into his lap, unbuckling your tac vest as you pulled off your bandana. you tugged off his mask - the hard shell since you were on a mission - and ran your nails through his short haircut. simon started kissing your neck, wet and sloppy like he couldn’t get enough. the unrestrained want he displayed sometimes scared you. the respective pulsing in both your chest and cunt scared you more.

“so are you sleeping on the floor or am i?” he flipped you over, your back flush with the mattress as simon loomed over you. there was still eyeblack around his eyes, caught on his blonde eyelashes as well, and you couldn’t help the hand that reached up to brush some of it away. “y’r funny, sweetheart.” you grinned at that - a real toothy smile. he bent down to kiss you, scarred lips caressing your own. simon bit your lip and you moaned, sliding your legs out from under him to wrap them around his torso. when you tugged him in he went willingly, grinding into your clothed cunt. his tac vest was still on, scraping against your shirt, hardening your nipples.

“keepin’ you in this bed all night.” cold fingers dipped past the waist of your pants. you were already wet, his fingers sliding easily up and down your slit as they warmed up. that’s when you realized he still had his glove on, his movements harsher than normal. wide eyes met his own, and simon stopped so you could make a decision.

it didn’t take much as you dug your heels into his back harder, meeting him in a sloppy kiss as his gloved thumb played with your clit. “fuckin’ made for me.” he whispered, and you chalked it up to dirty talk because obviously, you weren’t together. he just knew exactly what to do, giving your clit the right amount of pressure as his other fingers teased your hole, the stretch burning more than usual. it only took a few flicks and you were off, your orgasm settling through your bones like a warm cup of tea. “jesus, si.” he grinned, his scarred lips pulling up to show a beautiful smile. “know ya like th’ back of my hand, huh?” you shook your head, capturing the idiot in another kiss.

-

after the mission, after debrief and a hot shower, you made your way back to your base office. thankfully, paperwork had only slightly piled up. one envelope stood out though - a thick card-stock with glossy, swooping letters. an invite to london’s military gala, addressed to a Lieutenant & Lieutenant. simon’s name was next to yours, connected by a singular symbol. you turned to him in disbelief. simon had been going through his own backlog, but his head snapped up under the focus of your glare.

“simon, are we…dating?”

-

this was fun!!! check out the fic i linked it was so good and i couldn’t put it down.

[ghost-proofbaby]

the hat rule. (e.m. x fem!reader)

the hat rule (n.): you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.

summary: when eddie dresses up as a cowboy to a night out with friends, you decide to steal his hat.

pairings: eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: reader is described to be wearing a dress. reader is also dressed up as a black cat. premise is everyone is wearing 'slutty' costumes. overuse of pet names. public teasing, unprotected sex, choking kink, oral (f receiving), ass slapping. 18+.

wc: 13.3k+

happy early valentine's day, babes. shout out to @hellfire--cult for beta reading, as well as @andvys for giving me this idea to begin with.

If someone had told you last week that you’d be attending a slutty costume themed night at a club tonight, you would have laughed in their face.

And yet here you were, at Steve Harrington’s apartment, donned in a black cat costume that shows more skin than you have in years.

The elaborate plan had sparked on a random day after Steve encountered a flyer for the event. It was a nightclub your group had attended before, and one look at the line free drinks for participants had Steve running down your entire group to insist that you all needed to dress up, to participate in this, for the luxury of free Tito’s. 

He’d never considered that the ad might not be targeted towards the male population. And now, you were all gathering at his apartment to pregame, ‘slutted out’ as Robin had so kindly put it – men included.

Nancy pulled out some sort of angel costume she claims she had bought but certainly not worn a few years back, Robin had conglomerated an alluring pirate attire from items you hadn’t even been aware were in her closet. Jonathan arrived in his erotic yet pensive writer’s costume (you’d hardly understood it, but he seemed confident, so you all went with it), Argyle in tow donning some sort of seductive surfer costume, in which you certainly recognized the unbuttoned shirt and cargo shorts that had had a pocket knife taken to them to disregard a few inches. Steve even stuck to his own demands, going all out – a sensual bunny costume.

And then, there was Eddie.

Eddie fuckin’ Munson. 

“Pick your jaw up off the ground, sweetheart,” he teases as he shuffles around you in the kitchen to grab a drink, “Gonna start catching flies otherwise.” 

“There’s a joke in there somewhere about how sweet I am, right?” you blandly reply, keeping your eyes on your room temp cocktail that Steve had so graciously mixed for you upon your arrival, “Something where you call me honey or sugar, yeah?” 

Eddie pauses, bottle of vodka in hand, looking at you with big eyes lined in coal, “Oh, baby, you know me so well.” 

“Cut the pet names, Munson.”

You try to scowl. You really do. But you don’t mean a damn word you say. 

Sweetheart. Baby. Hell, even honey would have done it for you when he was wearing that costume. 

Tight leather pants, flared at the ankle. Worn leather boots that certainly had to have been thrifted, clicking with each of his steps. A cow print vest, and just a vest, over what looked to be an oiled chest. 

And that fucking hat smashing down his curls, adding a shadow across his face that only built into the illusion. 

You hate him. You hate this stupid party. You hate Steve for ever suggesting this. 

“You don’t mean that,” he sing-songs as he pours his own drink into a red solo cup. The vodka mixes with cranberry juice, you think, before he’s dropping a few ice cubes out of the freezer. “Or maybe you do, and I should try saying them with a southern drawl,” Fuck, he does a good southern accent. Slow and syrupy sweet, molasses down the throat as he flutters his lashes at you, “That better, darlin’?” 

You pluck the thin black straw that had been added to your cup for flare, probably stolen from a hotel at some point by Steve and positively meant for drinks of the coffee variety, and flick it in his direction without hesitation. 

“Terrible,” you flatly lie, “Cowboys aren’t even from the south, idiot. They’re from the West.” 

You have no desire to hear Eddie’s Western accent. No desire to hear Texan twang on those lips, putting on his best John Wayne impression. In fact, the faster you can get away from him, the quicker you can get yourself under control. 

It had always been this way between you and Eddie. Push and pull. Will they, won’t they. A game of cosmic shores as the two of you toed at each other’s orbits and bantered effortlessly. Flirtatious threats, inappropriate compliments, lewd innuendos – you had done it all, specifically with Eddie.

That’s just how the friendship worked. 

The friendship. 

Friend. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Eddie won’t leave you alone, though, choosing to lean up against the counter beside you, forcing his way into your peripherals, “Damn. You’re right. Wayne would kill me if he knew I mixed that up.” 

“Oh, I think he has plenty of reasons to knock some sense into you.” 

“Yeah?” he leans forward, tauntingly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, “Why don’t you do it for him? I think I’d like a slap more coming from you, honestly.”

He’s acting like he always does. This is normal. The fact that his entire torso is on show and you can’t stop staring at the way his tattoo on his peck is shimmering doesn’t change that. 

You play the role, knowing your part well as you lean in as well, forcing a smile right back at him, “Wanna kiss my knuckles before I do it, or am I gonna have to do all the hard work here?” 

“Oh, trust me, you’d never have to do all the work with me, ba-”

“Can you two get a fucking room?” Robin interrupts as she enters the room, clearly coming in for a refill but getting more than she bargained for. 

You’re aflame with the shame and embarrassment, feeling it lick from your ankles up to your throat, as Eddie only chuckles lowly. 

“Sorry, Robs,” Eddie chirps, not sounding apologetic at all, “I promise I’ll behave myself the rest of the night.” 

And yet, despite the words you’re hearing him say out loud, he does the exact opposite. 

There’s no real need for him to do it. There’s plenty of space amongst the kitchen for him to maneuver his way out without laying a single hand on you – and yet he still fucking does. 

His palm is shockingly warm when it curls around your hip, his other hand occupied with a drink, encouraging you to move a step forward so that he can brush behind you far too close for comfort. You nearly stumble over himself as he does it. The feeling of his barren chest barely bumping your bare shoulder blades sends your mind reeling, and his staple rings that have incorporated into his costume press right through the thin fabric of your dress.

Your breathing stops entirely as he pauses, the slightest bit of skin still brushing against yours, and leans in with a boyish grin, “We’ll both be on our best behavior tonight – right, kitty?” 

Something clicks in your mind. The way the nickname rolls off his tongue as he’s looking at you with eyes flaming with mischief, hand lingering on your hip for far too long. 

Your eyes flicker up to the hat on his head, and you smile slowly, meeting his toying gaze, “Right, cowboy.”

Best behavior, your ass. Tonight, you have decided, ends the will they, won’t they of it all. 

It’s about to either be the best night of your life, or the worst. 

—

Another shot with Nancy. Another smoke with Argyle. Another adjusting of Steve’s corset when he complains he can’t breathe (he certainly can, but you’re starting to think he just likes the attention). The pregaming continues on as more of Steve’s friends from work show up, the apartment slowly beginning to buzz with the chatter of more strangers than you can count on one hand.

You’re not even at the club yet and you’re already regretting your revealing attire.

Eddie stays mostly preoccupied with his own devices, and only gets scolded a handful of times by Nancy. You can hear every lewd joke he makes, of course. At some point, you make a private drinking game out of it; a sip for every time he makes the stereotypical joke of ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy’. 

Well, it was a sip the first time. A slightly larger gulp the second time. A chugging of half your drink the third time. 

“There’s no fucking way,” Steve laments at the table the boys as well as a few guests you don’t recognize have taken over for a game of strip poker, “Jonathan is cheating. Or counting cards.”

“I concur,” Eddie mutters around his cigarette, scowling at his losing hand. 

“You’re also cheating, asshole. This is the first round you’ve lost the entire game.”

“Or maybe I’m just really good at cards, Harrington.” 

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I’m really good at-”

“He’s not cheating,” Nancy interrupts with a sigh from the couch, lounging as she’s served as a referee of sorts for the group. Her entire body weight is draped against Robin, and you’re certainly not going to comment on Robin’s hands toying with her permed locks, “Stop being a sore loser and just strip.” 

You get why Steve was the most upset. He was down to his underwear and socks, corset tossed somewhere far behind him and bunny ears placed on Robin’s head in place of her pirate hat that she had claimed became too warm. 

“I think Steve should trade both socks and put back on the bunny ears,” she quips as she reaches up for the headband, flicking at one of the floppy ears, “He’d look cuter that way.” 

“Fuck off,” he snaps, throwing up a middle finger as Argyle finally loses his shirt. 

When your attention has drifted, you know he did exactly that, though. 

The game had been boring you half to death, honestly. Watching Steve strip without fail every round, hearing the loud cheers from Argyle when he managed to win a few rounds in a row and exclaimed it was a turkey (it had taken a ten minute intermission to explain to him that was bowling, not poker), watching a few of the girls that Steve had invited fawn over him as they carefully removed boots and gloves when they lost – none of it sparked your interest. The only saving grace had been every smug look Eddie offered as he’d win, time and time again. So far, he’d only lost his boots. 

He was hot when he was cocky. There was no way around it.

And now, as he carefully pondered as to which part of his precious costume to part with, you were on the edge of your seat. He was lovely and enticing when he was excited, when he was jubilant with victory, but as a sore loser? 

Dear God, Eddie Munson was a gorgeous specimen with a pout on his lips. 

“Trying to decide what to take off, Munson?” Jonathan notices the way Eddie is hesitating, even through the offset of conversations that had sparked up in the brief pause amongst the growing group.

You lean forward on the couch, almost subconsciously. 

You don’t care what Stacy from Steve’s job thinks of their manager or the latest drama ongoing there, and Steve would probably agree with you if it weren’t for Stacy’s all-red, latex Devil costume.

Eddie scoffs, waving a hand over his attire, “Obviously. You know, it’s not easy to choose when you have a costume as damn good as mine.” 

“What? Don’t think you’ll be as pretty without your hat?” you decide to contribute to the teasing, shocking yourself in the process. 

The last thing you should do when you’re staring him down in this way, is bring attention to yourself. And yet you were, like some fucking idiot with a death wish. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

It’s the fluttering of his lashes as he says it that gives you the courage. They match all that fluttering in your stomach, all that buzzing across your nerves. Because – yeah, you thought he was real fucking pretty. You’d spent the last half hour imagining how pretty he’d look in all sorts of places, too, especially between your sheets and between your thighs. 

You’re up off the couch, taking confident steps towards where he’s seated at the ground on the other side of the coffee table. It’s a little inconvenient now, but it had been a blessing in disguise for most of the game as you’d had a front row seat to the sight of him. 

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself,” you tease, entirely ignoring that lightheaded feeling you get anytime Eddie looks up at you this way. Half-lidded eyes, crooked grin. He’s dangerous and he doesn’t even know it, “I only meant you were pretty with the hat.” 

“You wound me,” he gasps, dropping back on his hands dramatically, his pout now for dramatics rather than genuine, “Gonna stand there and tell me I’m not pretty when I dressed up just for you?”

You have to take a deep breath to compose yourself, cross your arms to steady your guard, “Just for me?” 

He was playing that same old, tired game of yours. The same dance the two of you had memorized the steps to – and something inside of you has grown restless of it. You don’t want to keep skirting around each other with double-meaning jokes, you don’t want to keep painting humor over your flirtatious remarks. You want a damn answer to the age old question of will they, won’t they?

And you want that answer to be will they – terribly, terribly so.

His eyes trail along the room slowly, not avoiding you but trying to draw out the anticipation in you as he sucks in a breath, “Okay, and maybe for Steve. And Nancy. And Argyle. And Jonathan. And- Well, I’d say Robin, but I don’t think she’s looked twice in my direction all night.” 

“I haven’t,” the brunette chirps happily from the couch, still letting the weight of Nancy comfortably dig into her. 

You have no idea how she’s tuned into the conversation, given the way most of everyone else around the room was entirely ignoring the two of you. 

“So,” you all but purr, leaning down to be more level with Eddie. You already know where his focus wanders when his eyes don’t meet yours, “Not just for me, cowboy.” 

He’s distracted, staring at your chest as you notice him slip up in his brave facade for a second. Almost as though you’ve gone too far, pushed the limits a bit too hard. Good. You want to break this. You want to shatter whatever cage the two of you have built.

In one smooth movement, your hand reaches out and snatches the hat right off his head. 

He lets out a yelp and tries to grab it away from you, but you have the advantage as you stand up straight once more. Your free hand reaches up and tears off the cat ears you had donned, and in their place, the hat is deposited. 

It fits you a little big, and you nearly make a joke about the size of Eddie’s head. 

“Hey!” he argues, moving as though he might stand up and put up more of a fight, “I didn’t say the hat is what I wanted to take off.” 

“Took too long,” you shrug innocently. 

“Yeah, well, just carefully add it to the pile,” he jabs his thumb over his shoulder, towards his boots, as he relaxes back into his recline.

You should probably behave yourself. 

“No.”

But this is more fun. 

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in shot, disappearing behind the bangs that are flattened far more than usual. The entire crown of his head is absolutely crushed. No sign of his usual frizzy roots and unruly volume, “No?”

“No,” you confirm a second time. 

And you’re done with this game of back and forth. 

The hat’s staying on your head. It smells ever so faintly of his shampoo, the slightest whiff of his cologne even, and it’s staying on your head for the exact reason he believes is about to be a gotcha! moment.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he’s just tipsy enough that he’s not putting on any specific accent. Instead, his natural Appalachian accent inherited from his uncle begins to break the surface, “Surely you know about the hat rule.” 

Damn right, you know about the hat rule.

You cross your arms, huff a little, tilt the hat for effect, “The hat rule? Please, enlighten me.” 

“You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.” 

Perfect. 

You don’t even attempt any sort of surprised act. No exaggerated gasps, no fumbling to remove the hat. You knew all about this rule, and it had been one of the first things to come to mind when you’d seen him enter this damn party with the hat on. 

“Yeah?” you question, mocking raising your eyebrows at best, “Hm. What a shame.”

And then you turn on your heel, not awaiting a single response from Eddie as you escape to the kitchen.

You almost wish you would have stayed an extra second to properly witness his reaction. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s gone pretty and pink, a flustered mess for at least a second as low laughter sounds from the rest of your friends. A tell-tale snort from Robin, and a silent cackle from Nancy. You swear you even pick up on one of the extra guests muttering a confused what just happened? that goes entirely unanswered.

Strip poker doesn’t continue on for long after that.

You refill your drink, this time sans the alcohol, and return to find Steve has officially begun to call for cabs to the club. He busies away on his phone as everyone debates who’s riding with who, the entire party slowly coming to life as everyone stands to prepare to leave for the main attraction. 

When you meet Eddie’s gaze from across the room, the shadow of the brim of his hat cutting into your vision a little, his cheeks match the cranberry juice in your cup. 

Good. 

—

The ride to the club is a blur, and all that really stands out to you is that Eddie makes sure he does not ride in the same cab as you.

Which is fine. Really. It doesn’t cause a single spark of panic in your chest. Not one. 

You’re definitely not working yourself up over the thought that your plan is crumbling right before your eyes, that you’ve gone too far and entirely misinterpreted everything Eddie has ever done during your entire friendship. You’re not mulling over every dirty joke, not dissecting every single line that felt like he was flirting with you and attempting to look at it with fresh eyes. No, the entire ride to the club, you are definitely not beating a dead horse dead. 

Maybe you should have set off to ride the dead horse and not the cowboy. Maybe, then, Eddie would have gotten into the fucking cab with you. 

Your anxieties only worsen once you get inside the club. Pulsing beneath your skin, right in rhythm with the music. Your entire group had each been handed a drink ticket on your way in, and you had noted the fact that the girls of the group were slipped extra tickets. 

Nancy had given all her tickets to Robin, and Steve had given his singular ticket to Stacy. 

“So,” Robin runs up to your side, Nancy not far behind, “Do we waste our drink tickets on shots or real drinks?” 

“Real drinks,” you immediately reply, eyes scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain head of curly hair, “Shots are… well, they can be cheap. We can just avoid the top-shelf shit.”

Was Eddie really going to ignore you the entire night? 

He needed his hat. He couldn’t ignore you the entire night. 

“You’re right,” Robin shuffles the drink tickets in her hands, turning to Nancy, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad would it be me to ask you to flirt with men to get me-”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll have us a round.” 

Nancy’s smile is sweet, courteous, as she gives Robin’s shoulder a squeeze on her way past her. 

Where the fuck is Eddie? 

“Did you see where the guys ran off to?” you blurt out. Most of the guys, aside from Steve, took the same cab. 

Robin also joins you in a quick survey of the club, lifting onto her tippy toes to squint over the current light show, “Honestly? I have no idea.” 

Fuck. 

As she drops back down onto her heels, Robin looks at you knowingly, eyes flicking up between your twisted expression and the hat on your head. 

“Trying to find a certain cowboy?” 

“What?” you look at her, already defensive, even if it was stupid at this point. Who cares if everyone knows you have a crush on Eddie? Who cares if everyone finds out the very foundations of your friendship with him were built upon quite a bit of truth? “I mean- yeah, he kind of needs his hat to complete his outfit.” 

“Should have just given him your ears for an even trade,” Robin shrugs, clinging to your elbow to avoid getting separated as a few bodies push past the two of you, “I’m sure he’ll pop up soon enough, though. Besides, I don’t think anyone’s too focused on what everyone’s costumes are as long as they’re… well…”

“Slutted out,” you finish for her flatly, trying to not get jealous as your eyes look across the sweaty crowd, stomach churning as you wonder how many other sexy black cats in the crowd would be approaching your cowboy. 

You fucked up. You shouldn’t have taken his hat. 

“Exactly!” she’s excited, unaware of your crisis, already moving along from the topic as she spots Nancy somewhere near the bar top, “Look, free shots!” 

The free shots don’t do much to quell your unease, but free alcohol is always nice.

You take the liquid down, burn and all, more than willingly. And then again, not even five minutes later when Nancy has caught the attention of another random man at the end of the bar. You almost partake in a third, but you finally hear a familiar voice saying a far too familiar joke. 

“You know what they say,” he’s flirting – he’s using a tone of voice that he has never used with you, and it’s clear he’s fucking flirting, “Save a horse, ride a cowboy.” 

Instead of continuing your drinking game from Steve’s apartment, you slam the shot back down and mutter some sorry excuse of being right back to Robin and Nancy before taking off in the direction of Eddie.

He’s stood a few stools down at the bar, hands leaning against the worn wood as his arms bracket a pretty blonde. It almost looks as if the line might be working on her. 

“If you’re a cowboy,” she giggles, and you almost stop dead in your tracks, “Then where’s your hat?” 

Well, that’s as good of a queue for your arrival if any. 

“Good question,” you pipe up as you take a few brave steps towards him, “Where is your hat, cowboy?” 

You’d expected him to be angry, or startled, or possibly even immediately take off running in the opposite direction of you. He doesn’t. 

He slowly turns, and his flirtatious smile has turned into more of a salacious grin as he faces you, “Well, well, well. Nice of you to join us, Kitty.” 

The blonde looks between you two a few times before shimmying down off her stool, “I think…. I’m gonna go. Nice to meet you, cowboy.”

You expect Eddie to react, but he hardly does. A quick glance in her direction, a pathetic wave. 

You’ve just trampled over one of his chances of getting properly lucky tonight, and he isn’t even phased. 

“Been lookin’ for you,” you mumble, looking over him. His hair seems to have been unstuck from his scalp a little, at least. As though he may have been running his hands through it repeatedly, “Thought you might have gone home without your hat.” 

“Not a chance. I haven’t forgotten about the rule, you know.” 

Something twists in you, deep in your gut, between your hips. 

“No?” you hold your breath as he leans in a bit closer to you to be able to hear over the music, “Good thing I haven’t either.” 

He tilts his head, eyes glittering in the multi-colored lights, “You haven’t? Then that means you’ll be giving it back, right?” 

Over my dead body. 

You’re on a mission tonight. You’ll either be ending this night in sore disappointment, drinking away your sorrows of rejection, or you’ll be ending up in a bed with Eddie. It’s up to him. 

You lift a hand to the worn rim, tugging it a bit more securely onto your head, “Not a chance, Munson. You know where to find me once you’re done playing around.”

As soon as your fingers leave the rim, holding tense eye contact with him, his own hand is coming up. You tense, worried he’s about to steal the hat back now, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers pinch the same spot yours just had, slow tracing over the rim as his tongue darts out to carefully wet his bottom lip. 

From the front point, around to the side. When he reaches the bit above your ear, his touch drops to your cheek and tucks back some of the baby hairs sticking to your skin with sweat. 

“I do, don’t I?” he hums, voice dropping a bit lower, focused entirely on you. “I don’t think I’m the one playing around right now, though, Kitty.” 

Does he think you’re joking? Does he actually, genuinely think this is all a game to you? 

You nearly make the decision to grab him right there, right at this moment, and shatter all the tension. Get his lips on yours and drag him into the darkest corner just to prove to him how serious you truly were. 

Suddenly, his hand drops away from you entirely, and you almost want to whine. You miss that warmth, that feathery caress, until it aches. “It’s okay, though. Always knew cats were playful things.” 

Is there a dark corner somewhere near you two? Is there a dark hallway to drag him into? Just enough shadow to cover all the sins you’re desperate to commit, just enough light to see that blush rise across his cheeks again. 

“I’m not playing,” you whisper, eyes drifting down to his hand cradling a glass. Something deep and russet, just like his eyes. Likely whiskey. You wonder if you’d be able to taste it all over his tongue before you had him putting it to work where you need him most right now. “Whenever you get that through your big head, come find me.” 

“Big head?” he throws his head back in a laugh, and the tension mists away in seconds. “Who says I have a big head?” 

“I do, as the one wearing your hat,” you readjust it for emphasis. 

You thought the tension had misted away until he’s smirking, tsking a little, “Oh, thought you meant the other one.” 

It’s a replay of the scene in Steve’s apartment, but this time, the roles are reversed. You’re the one left in shock, mouth agape, as Eddie spins around and walks away, leaving you to sit with what he’s just said. 

“Bastard,” you breathe out as you watch him disappear in the crowd, eyes locked on his broad shoulders until one too many bodies separate the two of you. 

A bastard you want awfully, terribly, bad. 

—

You wish you could say you threw back drink, after drink, after drink. You wish you could say you danced with a hundred different beautiful strangers, and each one strayed your mind farther from Eddie. 

You wish you could say you did anything but what the reality of your night had been.

A few men had approached you, only to be turned down repeatedly. Most of your night was spent all but moping at the bar, eyes diligently scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain curly haired figure that seemed to escape you. One moment, you’d catch him pressed against a flirty stranger, hands holding onto whatever bare skin was available to him. And then, his eyes would find yours, and there would be a spark; a wink, a smile, a whisper across a bustling room daring you to come out and play with him. 

You never did. You’d look away, take a sip of your plain coke, and wait a few seconds until it was safe to look back and find him seemingly vanished. 

That in itself had started to become a game. Just like the hat, weighing heavy on your head. 

You’re starting to accept that maybe you had just been a bit too brave. You’d jumped the gun, flown feet first into cold and ragged waters you weren’t prepared to navigate. You knew you wanted a change with Eddie, but were you ready? If you had been, you would have accepted one of his various invites. Would have strode across the room, shoved away whatever man or woman he was dancing with, and slotted yourself into their place. You would have been swaying your hips in rhythm with his rather than allowing him to cycle through strangers, and you’d be reminding him that you wore his hat. 

You’d be the one bringing up the hat rule to him consistently, not him to you. 

When the night begins to wane, you’ve already talked yourself out of it all. 

“I’m heading out,” you announce to Robin when she finally returns back to where you’ve sat at the bar to babysit their drinks, hopping down from the stool before she could argue, “I’m getting way too tired.” 

“What?” your friend gasps, face pink from the heat of being in the crowd, a shimmering sheen of sweat across her forehead, “No! Stay! We can take turns watching the drinks, or just-”

“Robs,” you smile as sweetly as possible, patting yourself down to make sure you have all your belongings. A whistle sounds from a group down the way at the bar, and you ignore them, “It’s seriously okay. You’re having fun! I’m just a senior citizen who needs some sleep. My bedtime was like…. An hour ago.” 

You highly doubt you’ll be getting any rest when you return to your apartment. Maybe some confidence can be built out of fantasies, letting your hands wander and sheets catch fire with all that could have been if you hadn’t talked yourself out of your perfect plan. 

Maybe, imagining Eddie’s hot hands on you rather than getting to properly feel them will light a damn fire under your ass for the next opportunity that arises. 

“I…” she sighs, glancing over her shoulder in the general direction of Nancy, “Okay, fine. But do we want to do brunch or something tomorrow?” 

Not a chance, you think rather quickly, eyes scanning once more for the metal-head-turned-cowboy. Not if Eddie’s going to be there.

“Sure,” you lie, already knowing he will be there, “Just text me.” 

With that, you make your grand escape. 

Borrowed hat on head, phone in hand, you push your way out of the club with a newfound determination. You want to get home and take off this uncomfortable dress, finally do away with the thigh highs that have been rolling down at the most inconvenient of times, driving you insane the entire night. Trade the sexy attire for something comfy – stay true to the cat essence as you curl up beneath your blankets for the night. Hang that damn cowboy hat on your door as a cursed reminder-

“Where do you think you’re going, Kitty?” 

You stop a few feet short of the curb, a cab ordered as you turn to find that bastard leaning against the wall. Cigarette smoke is still clinging to the air around him as he looks at you curiously. 

“Home,” you shrug, trying to ignore your pounding heart. You’d figured you wouldn’t see him again tonight, that your fate had been sealed. “What are you doing out here?” 

“Smoke break,” he lifts his hand with the cigarette pinched between two fingers casually, pushing off the wall to come closer, “It’s hard work, keeping you entertained all night.” 

You scoff, falling back into what’s almost a normal rhythm for you two, “You were not the one keeping me entertained all night.” 

“I hardly saw you dance with anyone at all.” 

“I did!” you try to defend yourself, deciding this could be fine. Some casual conversation as you wait for your ride, a way to pass the time. This is fine. “Robin dragged me out into the crowd at least twice.” 

“I watched you swat a guy’s hands away not once, but three times.” 

“Unsolicited touching isn’t a compliment. He should have taken the hint the first time.” 

Eddie nods in eager agreement, taking another drag of his cigarette, “Damn right. If he had gone in for a fourth try, I was considering dragging him out here for an early smoke break.” 

“Why do I highly doubt it would just be a smoke break?” you question, glancing at him with a smile. Scandalous plans aside for the night, embarrassment swallowed down whole, it’s nice to remember that Eddie is a friend. Albeit a bit flirty, and capable of driving you fucking insane, but he’s a friend.

And maybe that isn’t the worst thing in the world. 

“Oh, no, yeah. You’d be posting my bail.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’ve got my hat, ” he reaches out and flicks the brim with his free hand, and you freeze up a little. You had hoped he wouldn’t mention it again, “Kind of makes me your problem until the end of the night. Speaking of….” 

You already know what he’s about to request as he trails off. This is it. You either give up the bit, hand the hat back over, and go home for the night – or you make one final attempt to get what you had wanted.

Eddie. You wanted Eddie, as more than a friend. 

“I’m gonna need that back, sweetheart.”

At least he’s asking politely, you consider, before it hits you why he’s asking rather than taking. 

The looks across the room. The way he’d been unbothered by the girl he’d been flirting with running off at your appearance. The way he never just took back that fucking hat when he’d been provided ample opportunity. 

He thinks it’s a game for you, and keeps bringing it up, because it isn’t for him. He’s giving you one last chance to back out, or to stand your ground. To say you really want this. 

And fuck, you really want this. 

“Nope,” you lean into his space, pressing closer, fully committed. Your phone dings with the notification of your ride approaching, and you fully ignore it. “My hat now, cowboy.” 

He quirks an eyebrow, and you hear the crunch of gravel behind you. Your ride. “Is that so?” 

“Yep.”

Another ding, another buzz of your phone.

Go ahead. Bring up the hat rule. 

“That your ride?” he asks, tilting his chin in the direction of the car. 

You glance over your shoulder, “Pretty sure it is, yeah.” 

“And you remember the hat rule?” 

Your stomach twists with excitement. Your previous pity party is long forgotten – you’re still hoping to get out of this dress, but you highly doubt you’ll be slipping anything on after it. “I do.”

“Great,” those hot hands you’d been fantasizing about the entire night suddenly reach out to you, gripping your hips tightly as he tugs you into his body. You collide with his chest as he leans down and whispers in your ear, “In that case, that’s my pussy now.” 

His lips linger against the shell of your ear an extra second, warm breath sending chills up your spine before he’s keeping an arm around your shoulders as he guides you to the car. His cologne and the scent of tobacco is suffocating, and you crave to drown in it. You want him to consume you; you want him to take over every breath you breathe, every move you make, to finally get those hot hands and lips everywhere you’ve only dreamt of. 

You barely hear him confirm with the driver that it is in fact your ride – you can only focus on that hand on your lower back, palm heavy on you as his thumb traces arcs that nearly spend you spiraling. 

“After you, kitty,” he murmurs, motioning for you to slide into the backseat first. 

In that case, that’s my pussy now.

You hope he ruins you. 

In the backseat of the ride, it’s all polite distance and hands to yourself. You can’t even make eye contact with the driver, terrified he might be able to mindread and see all the filthy thoughts racing through your head. 

Eddie between your thighs, mouthing at your hips. 

Eddie hovering over you, pulling your knees to your chest as he stretches you out. 

Eddie, proving that your pussy is in fact his for the night. That it was made for him, sculpted out to fit the curvature and every single vein of him. 

Eddie simply fucking your brains out. 

Some polite conversation is exchanged, mostly between Eddie and the driver. The classic questioning of how the night has gone, small talk that buzzes in your ears mindlessly. 

The entire time, you can see Eddie’s hand in the space between you two, fingers tapping away at dark leather incessantly. His rings shimmer like a siren calling to you. 

It’s a small movement, when your own hand drops near his. You keep your eyes trained forward once you begin your mission, inching your pinky closer and closer until it finally collides with his. You swear, you feel him fully jump out of his seat. 

Slowly warming the water, you start off simple – playing with his fingers. Gentle caresses over his knuckles, little pricks to the pads of his fingers. He tries to capture your hand in his, but you have bigger plans at play here. 

You’ve spent the entire fucking night waiting for this. You’re going to have fun with it. 

He huffs after you deter his second attempt at properly holding hands, his knees falling apart a little further. You twist at the ring on his middle finger, a clunky skull you’ve always admired. It has minimal signs of wear, probably pure silver if you had to guess, and you can only imagine how cold it’s going to feel against your skin. 

You can only imagine the imprints it’ll leave if he grabs your hips just right. 

“You know,” the driver hums mindlessly over the low volume of the radio, “You guys are my first ride of the night, surprisingly. Thought it might be busier with all the parties and clubs, but I think it’s just barely picking up now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks politely, nodding as he looks out his window. Perfect, “I think you’re right. It is getting pretty late-”

He’s entirely distracted, your hand out of his line of sight as it moves in on its target. 

His thigh. 

Just a few inches above his knee, your hand grips at what is clearly sensitive flesh. You watch his entire body turn to stone when you do it, and he moves his head quickly to look in your direction. 

You’re looking straight ahead. 

There had been a time, a few weeks ago, where you’d learned Eddie had… sensitive knees. You’d been joking around about one thing or another, and when your palms had gripped at them through the torn fabric of ripped jeans, he’d nearly launched himself across the room. He just kept insisting they were ticklish, that that skin was just delicate.

You’d seen the tent in his jeans then. You’d just been a bit more polite, a bit better behaved that day. 

“What are you doing?” he hisses in a whisper, reaching for your hand, but you’re quick to slide it even higher. 

His hips jump a little, and the driver is none the wiser. 

“Nothing,” you innocently say, still looking ahead, watching the passing streetlights with intense interest. “Absolutely nothing at all.” 

The entire ride, at every red light, your hand inches higher. 

And every time, you relish the way he squirms in your peripherals.

By the time you’re five minutes out from your place, you’ve riled him up to impossible heights. Every little noise has him on edge, constant twitching and shifting in his seat as he tries to get you to just look at him. You know he’s catching every sly smile that attempts to creep up on your lips – you’re pathetically failing at every turn to cover them up. 

You think you have him like putty in your palms as you give yet another squeeze to his thigh, fingers starting to dance up even higher. When your eyes flicker to his crotch for just a second, you see him straining against that tight leather. 

And then he flips the script. 

You’re so focused on your own goals, you never see that ringed hand creep to your own thigh. It’s not until cool metal nips at you, briefly, before you feel the warmth of his hand overtake, that you realize the predicament you’ve gotten into. 

Just as your hand was beginning to skim over his crotch, Eddie’s hand found solace between the meat of your thighs. Even as you try to clench them together, deny him the access he was seeking out, he finds his way in. Scandalous fingers dipping under the hem of your dress, fighting fire with fire when he lets his middle finger brush across the fabric of your underwear. 

Your touch from him nearly retracts entirely. 

“What?” he leans in closer to you, the driver still focused on the road, “Don’t like a taste of your own medicine?”

As he says it, his fingers dip lower. Hovering right over your protected clit, making your entire abdomen clench. 

You swallow hard, a bit of your jagged pride somewhere amongst the spit as you turn your head to look at him, “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Still playing games I see.” 

In sync, the two of you lock eyes as you continue to test waters. You apply pressure with your palm and note the way his breathing hitches, and he draws a feather-light circle around the wet patch forming in your underwear. You can feel your bottom lip quiver as you try to refuse to give him any satisfaction, but when he’s this close, it’s a hopeless battle.

When had he gotten so near you? What happened to all that static distance from when you’d first crawled into the backseat?

You’re trying to only focus on your own hand. Eyes darting to guarantee the driver is still oblivious as you roll the heel of your hand harder against the seam of his pants, and biting your lip to hold back a successful grin when he has to cover a gasp with a cough. It’s all fun and games until the action is rewarded with his payback; his knuckle curling up against your cunt through your panties, pressing in hard before slowly sliding his way up, up, up. 

He deliberately stops when he catches on your clit, and you’re the one coughing now. 

“Had enough?” he mutters under his breath, looking at you with half-lidded eyes. He looks good in this lighting, flashes of the streetlights bathing him in soft yellow, headlights of other cars fluttering in through the windshield as they hit his brown eyes just right to bronze them. 

“Never.”

You almost think you’ve won when his knuckle pulls back. 

But suddenly, his entire hand is cupping your cunt, two fingers pressing against your fluttering hole as another drags up your slit slowly once more. This time, when he reaches your clit, he continues moving in small circles. 

You have to bite your lip to hold back any noises, eyes closing for just a second as you hear him huff out a laugh. 

The final damnation is when he brings his lips to your bare shoulder, merely grazing your skin with them as he mumbles, “You sure about that, Kitty?” 

You clench around nothing, and you know when he feels it from where his fingers remain pressed against you. His own hand twitches as the finger circling your clit stutters for a moment. 

“I-”

“We’re here!” the driver says, not having looked into the backseat yet as he finds a safe place to pull the car into. In an instant, you and Eddie remove your hands from each other. You’re both visibly flustered – you can feel how warm your cheeks have gotten, and you can see clouds of pink splattering over Eddie’s chest and neck. 

“Thanks,” Eddie is the one to speak up as the car comes to a halt, not even waiting for the driver to put the vehicle in park as he throws the door open. 

A bit rushed, but still polite as ever before he’s grabbing you by your bicep to pull you out of the cramped space right along with him. 

You can hardly muster a weak wave to the man as Eddie is dragging you towards your apartment building, knees still a bit weak and mind still blank after getting a taste of your own medicine, as Eddie had put it. 

He doesn’t let go of you until you’re at your front door, those cursed shaking hands of yours fumbling with your key ring. 

“Here, let me-” he starts to offer, reaching for the keys that continue to clank together, just as you find the one you’re looking for. 

“I’ve got it-” you try to cut him off, just as you drop the fucking keys in your haste. “Shit.” 

You quickly drop to the ground to grab them, pausing once you have the metal digging into your palms once more. There’s no real reason for you to do it, but you do – you take a second to look up at Eddie from this position, and nearly drool at the sight of it.

Him, standing over you, still a bit flushed and still visibly uncomfortable in his pants. Pretty curls a mess and lips darkening from how much he’s been biting them. 

You want him to ruin you. You want him to absolutely, entirely and utterly destroy you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs, chest heaving a bit as he watches you carefully, pupils slowly growing in the dim light of your building’s hallway. 

You can see his bare torso clenching, the twitch of his hands at his sides – the same fingers that had just been caressing you over your underwear in the backseat of a stranger’s car. 

“Like what?” you’re dragging out the moment, taking time to appreciate the sight of him. 

“Like you want me to just press you up against the wall and fuck you out here, for everyone to see.” 

That’s a new one. That’s a vision that hadn’t come to you in all your dirtiest dreams of the night. 

It sends your clit throbbing. 

You rise slowly, pushing the hat back a bit to see him better, keeping your voice quiet so your neighbors won’t hear as you ask, “Would you? If I asked nicely?” 

He doesn’t let out a laugh, but a breath of air, like you’ve just sucked all of the oxygen out of his lungs. 

No need to say it – you know he would. You probably wouldn’t even have to ask nicely. 

You’re staring at him when he finally moves, one hand snatching your keys out of your hand and the other gripping you around the waist. Back to pulling you, man-handling you to get you right where he wants you – where he needs you. 

One second, you’re pressed against his body in the hallway. The next, he’s managed to unlock your front door and throw you both into the safety of your apartment. 

Hidden from the world, and you’re still reeling as you wonder what it’d be like for the entire building to witness you calling out his name. Or him calling out your name. 

Here within these four walls, Eddie has put some space between the two of you, staring with blown out eyes and a shaking chest as he breathes out, “Sweetheart.”

A few seconds pass, the two of you just standing there, the click of the front door’s lock being the only thing echoing in the silence. If you focused over the roar of the blood pounding in your ears, you might catch every single gasp of his as he stares in awe – but your focus is elsewhere. Far away and out of grasp for the time being. You can only think of one thing, and one thing only. 

Your body isn’t your own as you move to get exactly what you want; you drop to your knees hard enough that you should cringe at the thought of the pain that will linger, possibly for days, but it doesn’t even cross your mind as your hands begin to fumble with Eddie’s pants. The oversized, gaudy belt buckle is in your way, glinting at you as if mocking the way your shaking hands can’t undo it fast enough. You’re about to give up and just start unzipping the leather pants, desperate to get your hands, and your mouth, and your eyes on him properly, when he stops you. 

“Hey,” he sounds breathless - he is breathless - as his own hands quiver a bit and grab onto yours, “Hey, hey, hey. Slow down.”

Those hands let go of your wrists and reach for the hat, and you’re quick to try and swat them away only for him to grab at you, surprisingly gentle, as he drags you back up to your feet. 

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy – right?” you insist, chin held high, your gaze refusing to waver from his. 

His slow and buttery grin makes you lightheaded, his low chuckle sends shakes through every nerve and bone. “That’s right, but maybe the cowboy wants to take his time. Ever think of that, hm?” 

Were you moving too fast? Were you going to scare him off? 

Small, baby steps are taken by Eddie, the click of his heels shattering against your wooden floors until his hips are flush with yours. 

And - oh.

Oh. 

That surely didn’t feel like you were scaring him off. 

You could feel the outline of his cock, hard against your hip, as he gives a little roll. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, nostrils flaring with a hard breath, and the fear leaves as quickly as it had arrived. 

He wants this. You want him. 

“I’m not a very patient person,” you murmur, eyes glued to his lips now as his head leans in closer, and his hands begin to explore your body. Taking their time as they travel down your arms from where he’d held onto your biceps, slowing as they reach your wrists. Even the press of his thumb against the sensitive inner skin there sends jolts up your spine, little gasps attempting to escape your mouth. 

His fingers tangle loosely with your own for a few moments before his palms find your hips, and he continues his journey. 

“That’s okay,” he whispers back, close enough now that his lips have begun to brush against your own. His nose bumps yours as his hands skate up over your ribcage, thumb sweeping out over the hill of your breast and intentionally avoiding your nipple, “I can teach you, baby.”

Your mouth finally collides with him at the words, nearly going limp in his arms at the words. 

You’ve thought about kissing Eddie for a while now. Every time a snarky remark fell from his lips, you’d wonder how his tongue might taste afterwards. Every time he’d pout his lips at one of your comebacks, or blow a kiss teasingly in your direction from across a room, you’d wonder how hard you might have to bite down to make him bleed. Every drag of a cigarette you’d witnessed, every hard gasp in faux offense, every breathless chuckle at a joke he didn’t want to find funny but did – you had spent a lot of time wondering what it might be like to steal all the air from his lungs, to kiss him until the two of you were both blue in the face. 

“Can’t the lesson wait until tomorrow?” you mumble against him as his mouth, your own fists now gripping onto the lapels of his vest. His hands have reached your shoulders, memorizing the outlines of the curve of your neck where it meets your collarbones, the slope of your chest as you take hot and heavy breaths. 

“Nope,” he insists, pulling back from the kiss, a little bit of spit on his pink lips, “But it’s nice to know you’re thinking about tomorrow.” 

A hand finally finds your chin and pinches it carefully between his thumb and fingers, a careful grip on you to angle you just right so he can all but devour you. Lips, tongues, teeth – it’s a messy ordeal, and you almost make a smart-ass remark that this kiss doesn’t feel very patient. 

But you can’t. Eddie’s taken away all your breaths, all your words, as he starts to guide you backwards. 

Your knees hit the cushions of your sofa, making you jump back from him with a gasp, palms going flat against his chest. 

He feels good. Tender skin soft to the touch beneath your hand, tattoos tempting to trace the outline of. Later. 

“Figured you might want a more comfortable ride,” he laughs against you, breath smelling ever so faintly of mint and whiskey washing over you, before he dips to mouth away at your neck.

You drop back onto the sofa, bite your tongue on a comment about how this cheap piece of furniture most definitely wasn’t the most comfortable option, simply eager at the fact he was letting this move along. 

You want him, you need him, and you have no time for patience. 

His exploration of touches have lit you aflame, and you’re growing a bit desperate at this point. It might be pathetic, it should be embarrassing, but you really don’t care. 

“By all means,” you break out of his hold entirely, catching the way his hand holding your chin lingers a few extra seconds, reluctant to let you go, “Take your seat, Cowboy.” 

He joins you on the couch, eyes never leaving yours even as he throws himself down. Knees spread wide, inviting lap on show, cock still straining against his pants. 

The best seat in the house, as far as you’re concerned. 

“You just gonna keep starin’,” he mocks lightly, looking you over slowly. Taking his time, you suppose, “Or you gonna get over here?” 

His words are all you need. You’re quick to climb onto his lap, swinging your legs so that each thigh brackets his hips, your cunt pressing down on crotch carelessly. You love the way it feels – the outline of him hard against you, the cooling effect of the leather, the sharp edges of the zipper catching just right. 

“There,” he huffs out, grabbing onto you when you give the slightest roll of your hips, “Now we’re both in our seats.” 

When you go to press down harder, guiding yourself over his lap, hands steadying you by gripping his shoulders, he surprises you by his hips jumping up to meet your slow rhythm.

“What happened to being patient?” you try to tease him right back as your forehead meets his, hat comically struggling to stay on between the two of you, “Thought you were gonna take your time with me-”

“Between you and me, I’m not gonna last,” he pants out, hands finding your hips. Those rings you’d been fantasizing of leaving an imprint on you are doing just that as he guides you, “Been dreaming of you too long, sweetheart. Wanted this for so long.” 

Your heart nearly stops. Your hips stutter, pausing as his words rush over you. 

“What?” 

Your head lifts away from his completely, grip on his shoulders tightening. 

He’s wanted this, too? This entire time? 

Eddie takes your pause as a bad thing, a terrible omen as his face pales, “I mean- I just-”

“Munson,” you say lowly, narrowing your eyes at him, “You’re telling me, this entire time, you’ve been flirting with me?” 

Had that tone he used with the girl at the bar been flirting as you’d thought, or simple for show? You’d so cluelessly assumed he’d never used that tone with you because he’d never genuinely flirted with you – and yet, it seems, he’d never used that tone because he’d been genuinely flirting with you. 

“I-” his cheeks are brilliant red, and the wide eyes are from something different than lust now, “Maybe?” 

“Maybe?” you almost laugh, throwing your head back. The hat falls off, but Eddie is quick to retrieve it, “My God, we’re fucking idiots.” 

“Hey, I’m not the one who stole my hat-”

“I like you, dumb ass,” you state plainly, “I wanted this for a while, too.” 

He pauses, one arm outstretched as his hand grips onto the hat, “What?” 

“Been thinking about this, too,” your voice drops a little, almost a whisper, even though you two are the only ones in the room. For all you know, you two might be the only two people left in the world with the way he’s looking at you, “Thinking about you and your lips. Thinking ‘bout your hands and the places they’d go,” as you point out every detail, his body seemingly reacts. A lick of his lips, a squeeze of his hand still on your hip, “Thought about your fingers and tongue a lot, too. How good they’d feel inside me.” 

His hips thrust up at that, and suddenly, he’s placing his hat back atop your head. 

That, it seems, was all the encouragement Eddie needed. 

He deals with that belt buckle that had given you hell, bouncing you a bit on his lap as he fumbles with yanking the entire belt off and tossing it to the side. One hand busies with undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, as the other starts to bunch your dress. 

“Nice and slow,” he insists, looking up at you, absolutely vibrant. Somewhere between the tightness between your hips, all the throbbing between your thighs and in your chest, you feel a sort of bubbly delight creeping up along your spine. “Got it, kitty?” 

You nod once. Twice. On the third nod, he cuts you off with a kiss. 

Your dress is up to your waist, and you don’t know how, but he manages to shimmy off his pants without throwing you off his lap entirely. It’s impressive, really. Probably a symptom of him having thought about this, dreamt about this. He’d probably thought up every scenario possible, and was prepared. 

“Oh, and these?” his fingers find the waistband of your panties, tsking a little as he pulls at the elastic and lets it slap back against your skin, “Those definitely have to come off.” 

“Whatever you say, cowboy.” 

You take your time sliding off his lap, making sure to grind against him before you properly lift away. He throws his head back in a groan, Adam’s apple bobbing as you stand up straight. You take that moment to just admire him, capturing the clench of his jaw to memory, the way his eyes screw shut in pleasure at your influence. 

He’s fucking perfect. You’re sure there’s others who disagree, but you’d pay them no mind. He’s perfect, and he’s all yours. 

You make a show of taking off your panties only once he’s properly looking at you once more, craving his eyes on you as you keep all your movements fluid and steady. No rush, exuding all that patience he’d prattled on about. 

You want to see his face when you gently toss the black lacey piece in his direction, watch him fumble with his own desperation to catch them. 

“Seems a bit unfair that I’m the only one undressing,” you hum as you go a step further and begin to shimmy out of the dress.

“Yeah, well,” he grins cheekily at you, fisting your panties, a hand trailing down to the waistband of his boxers as he eyes you, “One of us was showing a bit more skin than the other.”

“Take off the vest, Eddie.” 

Your command is velvet, and he’s quick to obey. His hand stubbornly refuses to let go of your panties as he rushes to shrug out of the thin fabric over his shoulders, tossing the vest to join his pants and your dress on the floor. 

“And the boxers.” 

You stand there, in nothing but his cowboy hat, as you wait pretty and patient for him to listen. And listen he does. 

The moment his boxers are discarded, his cock is standing at attention, leaking from the tip and deep shade of pink that matches his kiss-bitten lips. You think it might be the prettiest color you’ve ever laid eyes on as you watch a drop of  precum slip down his shaft. 

He’s pretty, even in the fucking pants. 

Girthy, thick enough you almost arch your back before you’ve even sunk down on him. All veins and soft skin, a sensitive tip that you’d trace your tongue over for hours if he let you. 

“Gonna just stand there, or are you going to ride your cowboy?” 

He surely meant to sound more cocky, but the words come out as more of a whine as you watch him twitch under your stare. 

He’s right though, and you’d rather get him inside you than spend another second gawking. There will be time to pay more attention to him and his pretty cock tomorrow. Right now, you need to finish this god-forsaken mission. 

Your thighs find his hips just as his hands find yours, choosing to grip the couch rather than his shoulders as you steady yourself. 

Nice and slow, his words echo in your mind. 

You could have prepared yourself more, but you’d already made it clear to Eddie that you are not a patient person. The fact that you even take your time as you sink down on him, going as far as to grab him by his base and guide his tip to smear precum across your clit, is impressive. 

The stretch is a bit painful. A bit much. A bit dizzying. But you refuse to stop as your jaw drops, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out softly as you feel him fill you, “Fuck, Eddie.” 

“Feel good, baby?” he questions, reaching up to grab your chin just as he had before. Forcing you closer to him, forcing you to look him in the eyes just as he bottoms out. 

You don’t answer him as you both moan out. 

You stay there for a second, unmoving as you swim in the feeling. Feeling him press into the depths of you, the overwhelming warmth and the coil in your abdomen tightening ever so slightly. 

It’s better than you had imagined it. No daydreams could compare to the feeling of Eddie’s cock finally, finally filling you. Stretching you out, making you his. 

“Go ahead,” he grits out, entire body tense, clearly holding out on you, “Ride your cowboy, kitty. Don’t make me ask twice.” 

Nice. And. Slow.

Three little words that ricochet through your mind as you start to slowly bounce on him. Lifting ever so slightly, dropping back down, aching to feel him even deeper inside of you. Feeling the quiver of his thighs to match yours as you repeat the action, gasps and whimpers falling from both your lips. You’re about to try and kiss him, try and swallow all those delicate noises from him, when he stops you. 

“No, no, no,” he’s chuckling, giving your hips a few squeezes before his palms rub down your thighs, the friction sending you on edge, “C’mon, now. We both know that’s not how you ride.” 

His hands rake over your skin, down to your knees, lighting scratching and squeezing along their entire pathway until they make their way back up to your waist and hips. 

“Do it like this, sweetheart.”

He guides you, no longer allowing you to lift up. You sink all the way down on his cock, whining out at the fullness, before he starts the pattern. 

Back and forth. Gentle circles amidst the rocking. Your clit grazes his pubes, and the coil in between your hips has never tightened more quickly. 

The motion feels familiar - like riding a bull. 

This feels right. You still press down, still clench down on him hard enough to make you both slip out obscenities, but it’s getting you there. 

At some point, Eddie’s grip on your hips slips, but it’s fine – you’ve got the rhythm down perfectly. Slow, intermittent figure eights between the rolls of your hips, his occasionally slamming upward to reward you with that deepness you need. You can feel him in your stomach, in your chest, in your throat. 

You get a bit daring, and take one hand to his shoulders, as the other reaches up for the top of the hat on your head. 

Just like a cowboy. 

“Like this?” you pant out between harsher rolls, eliciting curses that continue to grow louder from Eddie. 

“Fuck, baby, yes,” he groans out, head thrown back, mouth open in gratification, “Just like that. Keep- keep going just,” he thrusts up, “Like,” another thrust, “That.” 

You nearly lose balance, falling forward a bit, too stubborn to let go of the hat. There’s a grin glimmering at the corners of your mouth, and it fully blooms when Eddie throws up a hand to catch you .

A hand on your throat. 

He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t cut off blood flow or breathing. He keeps that warm palm there at the base of your neck, cradling you, holding you. A reminder that he could squeeze if he wanted, that he held you in the palm of his hands currently, but he won’t. 

“You like that?” his eyes shine as he looks up at you, the sight of his rings decorating your neck. 

You nod.

“Tell me with your words,” he commands.

“I like it,” you whimper, looking up further, stretching more of your neck to be vulnerable to Eddie. “I like it so much, baby.” 

When the pet name falls from your lips, you can feel him twitch inside of you. The sudden jut of his hips, the sharp intake of breath. 

“You like that,” you laugh breathlessly, your hand atop the hat the only thing keeping it from falling as you lean your head fully back, eyes beginning to roll back into your head. “Wanna be my baby, Munson?” 

“Always have,” he grunts, the hand on your throat slipping up to cup your face to drag you towards him, “Since the fucking moment I met you, sweetheart.”

When he kisses you, it tastes like the closest to Heaven you might ever get. Soft, plump lips, and an eager tongue. All the wasted time hiding behind jokes and teasing, playing pretend like the flirting was never serious.

It was serious. And if you’d just come clean sooner, you would have had this long ago. 

Your hips are still rolling as your hands begin to roam. You’ve found your balance again, lips pressed to Eddie, and it’s your turn to explore all he has to give you. Your nails graze his stomach when your clit catches once more on that rough thatch of hair against the base of his cock. Your fingers dig into flesh wherever they can find it – his chest, his arms, his hips. At some point, you throw a hand out behind you, grasping for his knee. Learning every curve and every point of his body as he had done for you. 

You wanna memorize the roadmap of him. Take a snapshot in your mind so that next time, none of it is unfamiliar territory. 

Your touch is driving him insane; it doesn’t take a genius to pick up on the way his hips falter to meet your movements, or how he keeps breaking the kiss to gasp, letting his jaw fall slack when he hits a particular deep spot within you. 

It’s when your lips finally trail down the stubble sprouting across his jawline, mouth sucking on the soft skin below his ear, that he’s finally a goner. 

“‘M close,” he gasps out, almost sounding drunk as he slurs through his pants, “Ah, fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Cum for me, Eddie.” 

Maybe it’s the way you had been touching him, or the way your cunt had been fluttering around him, or the persistent rolling of your hips that had become so focused on his pleasure. Maybe it was the sight of you in his hat, looking at him like that. Maybe it was the way his name sounded on your tongue. 

Either way, when Eddie Munson comes undone, he’s beautiful. 

Your own movements slow involuntarily as you gaze starry eyed, watching the way his face scrunches and feeling his grip on you tighten impossibly. Leaving their mark, making you his in yet another way. Warmth fills your cunt and every curse word under the summer sun is falling from his lips. 

Your name, curses, prayers, gratitude – a jumbled mess, and it sounds fucking fantastic when it’s said in Eddie’s desperate tone. 

“Shit,” he gasps out, finally coming back down to Earth, “Shit.”

You sit still on his lap, skin sticky with sweat, lips spread thin in a cheeky grin, “Sounds like I get to keep your hat, cowboy.” 

His eyes shoot open, and for a second, you’re terrified.

Those aren’t the eyes of someone satisfied. 

“You didn’t cum.”

“What?”

“You,” he says, stressing the word as he shifts you off his lap. You don’t miss the way he winces, clearly a bit sensitive, “Did not cum.” 

You hadn’t really noticed, too wrapped up in him to notice your high slipping away from you. You’d been too focused on Eddie: on feeling him cum inside you, on watching him break apart, on tracing the outline of the blood rushing to his cheeks with your eyes and that fresh burst of violet on his neck in the shape of your lips. 

“It’s fine,” you start to argue, feeling the warmth of him leaking down your thighs. You should be a lot more worried about making a mess all over your sofa. You should be, but you aren’t. “I can-”

“You’re not keeping that fucking hat until you cum for me, sweetheart.” 

And, oh, maybe your own orgasm wasn’t racing as far away from you as you’d believed, because those words nearly push you over the edge for him. 

“Get on all fours for me, baby.” 

Yeah. You definitely could still be close. For him.

When you don’t move to follow his command immediately, he’s using those gentle hands to guide you. Encouraging a twist of your hips from how you’re reclining back across the couch, letting you press your cheek down against the cushion.

You open your mouth to argue, to insist it was fine, to say anything, but you’re cut silent when a sudden slap lands on your ass. 

A silent command this time, and you’re finally listening. 

You lift your ass up for him on shaky knees, elbows digging into the cushion now instead of your face. The hat on your head is lopsided, and you almost reach up to fix it when- 

“I’ll be taking that,” For the first time since you’d stolen his hat, Eddie takes it back. Right off your head, too fast for you to protest. When you dig your chin into your shoulder to look back at him, he’s smiling, hat back in its rightful place atop his curls, “You can have it back after you cum for me, at least once.”

“At least once?” you mean to laugh, to sound cocky, but it comes out as more of a squeak. 

He shrugs, leaning forward, his bare chest pressing against the skin of your bare ass – right where an imprint of his hand still sings, “At least. By all means, if you feel the need, don’t hesitate to give me a few. God knows you’ve earned it.” 

You don’t have time to banter back; he retracts before bring his mouth down to your cunt, and your elbows quickly give out at the first long stride of his tongue. 

“Gotta get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, a bit muffled, against your cunt. 

Another stride, and this time, his tongue spends an extra second at your clit, circling it salaciously. 

“Oh, God,” you moan out into a mouthful of couch cushion, tempted to bite down to hide all the noises creeping up your throat when his tongue draws yet another circle, tip of his nose pressed to your sensitive hole.

He brings his tongue back to that space, that hole that feels gaping without him filling you now, and you try to bury your cheek only to earn another slap on the ass.

“Don’t be shy now, kitty. Let me hear you.” 

And let him hear you, you do. 

Each lick, short and timid or long and confident, is dredging up obscene mewls from you. When he enters you with it, curling it and pressing as deep as he can, truly cleaning you up as he had said, you’re chanting his name. 

“Fuck, Eddie,” you cry softly, rocking your body back against his mouth, “Your fingers. P-Please, use your fingers.” 

Your wish is his command as he brings his hand up between your legs, breaking from having his tongue buried inside of you and using a calloused pad of his finger to trace over your clit before he begs, “Say my name again.” 

You do. Over, and over, and over as his mouth and his fingers begin to work against you. Careful focus is placed on your clit, and his mouth runs amok between your cunt and thighs. You feel what will no doubt be hickies along the curve of your ass, nips of teeth against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he presses two fingers into you. With every thrust of his hand, your hips are rocking back to match his rhythm, wanting more. 

More, more, more. 

There’s nothing nice and slow about this. You’re chasing after a high, and Eddie is listening to you every step of the way. 

Your thighs begin to shake terribly right around the time your vision blurs, unable to contain the whines that have grown to echoing volumes. Surely, your neighbors can hear. Probably confused as to who Eddie is, probably considering how embarrassing it would be to knock down your door and complain about the noises. 

You really, really don’t give a fuck when white speckles flood your vision, even with your eyes screwed shut, and that tension between your hips threatens to snap. 

Right before your knees give out, your entire body trembling, Eddie pulls back and grabs your hips. You cry out, so close yet so far, until he’s flipping you back over. 

You get one glimpse of him before he goes to work to bring you over that edge – lips and chin slick with you, hair frizzing beneath his hat, a determined glint in his eyes that have your thighs clenching around his ears. 

You were right. Eddie Munson looks damn good between your thighs. 

He quickly returns to his mitigations, and this time, it’s all a bit more strategic. Lips suctioned around your clit and three fingers curling deep within you, a beckoning motion as he urges you to let go for him. 

The white returns behind your eyelids. Your back arches up off the sofa. Your ankles lock as they cross behind Eddie’s back, almost effectively trapping him in place.

You cum hard for him. 

You’re entirely unaware if you scream his name in the process, but you hope you do. As that relief, that ecstasy, floods your system, you hope you make sure everyone within a five mile radius knows who’s responsible. Your entire body continues to shake for far longer than you believe it ever has before. Your hips had lifted, begging for Eddie to keep going even as it all grew painful.

He does. He keeps going, sucking you dry for every drop you have to give him, until you’re physically having to shove him away. 

Your hands are weak as you sink down into the cushion, eyes still closed as you hear him chuckle before you feel him crawl his way back up your body. 

“There,” you don’t even need to see his face to see that smug satisfaction – his voice is dripping in it. “Now you can keep the hat.” 

One of your hands blindly throws itself through the air to smack him, missing entirely as you drift through the afterglow of it all. 

“I’m not sure I’ve earned it,” you mumble as he catches your wrist, limp in the air, “Pretty sure I didn’t break you when I made you cum.”

“Oh, you did,” he notes, hand curling around your wrist. You watch as he slowly brings it to his lips, peppering a few chaste kisses on the soft skin, “Just in a different way.” 

You raise your eyebrows, smiling at the tingling feeling left behind on your skin in the wake of his mouth, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

He tugs you to sit up despite your groan of protest, somehow smoothly maneuvering the two of you so that he’s now the one beneath you, letting the full weight of you bear down on his chest as you lay on top of him. The hand wrapped around your wrist brings it back up for more kisses, more repetitive gentle pecks of affection, as his other arm is quick to wrap around you. Holding you in place, as though he’s scared you might disappear. 

“Well,” you whisper against the bare skin of his chest, nearly shivering when his free hand starts to trail slowly up and down your spine, “Good.” 

Your cheek feels the vibrations of his chuckle, “That’s all you have to say?” 

“Give me a few minutes to recover,” you insist, all but nuzzling into him, “I’m sure I’ll have a smartass comeback for you once I’m…” you trail off, heavy eyes looking up at him, the words lost on your tongue and in the air. 

The gentle curve of his cupid’s bow. The roundness at the end of his nose, still a fading hue of pink. The freckle beneath his right eye. The way the phantom of the dimple of his left cheek never quite leaves his face.

All the things you’ve dreamt of seeing so up close, never knowing it could have been a reality. 

He lets go of your wrist, smiling softly with a shake of his head, “Can’t believe you’re gonna fall asleep on me.”

“Am not,” you nearly say under your breath, sighing in content. 

“Am too,” he mocks, a certain docility to all his teasing before he sighs as well, “It’s okay. You can. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as you hear some rustling, “Promise, cowboy?” 

“Absolutely, kitty. You said something about tomorrow, remember?” 

You both laugh in sync as your couch suddenly becomes the most comfortable place in the world. 

Just before losing consciousness, right as you feel Eddie’s breathing even out along with your own, you decide to open your eyes one last time to catch sight of the cowboy hat perched carefully on your coffee table. 

Tomorrow. You hope for a thousand tomorrows as you decide that that hat is definitely yours now.

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Max "If It Weren't For The Baby" Verstappen | MV1

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: Max and George show no signs of stopping anytime soon and poor y/n is stuck between a rock and a hard place. but soon things escalate when Max accidentally opens his big mouth.

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

y/n_russell posted:

y/n_russell: Habibi come to Abu Dhabi✨

Comments:

user: SHE’S BACK, EVERYBODY STAY CALM!!! 🔥🔥🔥 user: MOTHER RETURNED TO THE GRID AND IT SHOWS. user: Abu Dhabi isn’t ready for her!! 😍 user: Not to be messy, but is that a bump or just the angle? 👀

user: Delete this before you embarrass yourself further. 🙄 user: You do realize that’s body-shaming, right? Yikes. user: Maybe it’s just the dress, maybe it’s none of our business. Either way—don’t. user: Imagine logging onto the internet just to get ratio’d in the comments. Couldn’t be me.

georgerussell63: Wow. 2 whole photo in front of Lewis’s garage? Feeling betrayed right now.

y/n_russell: omg george, do you want me to write "george is my favorite" on my forehead or something? relax. georgerussell63: I’m just saying, where’s the support? y/n_russell: maybe if your garage didn’t feel like the waiting room at a dentist’s office, I’d consider it. georgerussell63: That’s because we’re professional. y/n_russell: nah, it’s because you have the personality of unseasoned chicken. user: 💀💀💀 SHE CAME FOR HIS LIFE.

user: MAX. LIKED. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN.

user: Not Max creeping in the shadows like that. George, sweetie, you seeing this? user: Netflix doesn’t even need to make a script this season. The show’s writing itself.

landonorris: MOTHER.

y/n_russell: 🔪🔪🔪 user: The knives are out. Lando, RUN.

lewishamilton: Always great to have you around. Thanks for showing up and supporting me this weekend. Much love ❤️

y/n_russell: Wouldn’t miss it for the world, you know I’m rooting for you Lew! Big things ahead 💪🏽

f1teaspill posted:

f1teaspill: Okay, F1 fans, we’ve got a hot one for you! Max Verstappen and George Russell’s sister, Y/n, were spotted on a hotel balcony together, and it’s seriously got people talking. 👀 Y/n was supposed to be at a totally different hotel with George, so why is she with Max—especially with all the drama going down between them? 🤔

Is there something going on between these two? Or is Y/n just making it clear that she’s Team Max in this ongoing feud? You know we’ll be watching this one unfold closely... 🔥

Comments:

user: Yooo, what’s going on here?! Y/n is in Max’s hotel?? 😳

user: Is this a secret relationship or is Y/n just picking sides? I need answers!! 😬

user: So Y/n's team Max now? This is messy. 👀

user: Max and Y/n are lowkey dating and no one’s telling us?! I need the receipts ASAP. 😩🔥

user: Sis really out here with Max?? I can’t believe this. George is gonna flip. 😬

user: Okay, but like... is she betraying George by cozying up with Max right now? Or is she just done with the drama? 👀

user: Nah, this can’t be real. She’s out here looking all comfy with Max while George is literally her brother?? What kind of betrayal is this? 😱

user: Is this the kind of power move we’re witnessing?? Y/n dropping George for Max?? 🤯💥

user: Ok, but lowkey, I ship them so hard. Max and Y/n would make the hottest couple. 🔥🔥

user: No, fr. Max and Y/n are EVERYTHING. They look so good together, I’m lowkey obsessed. 😍👀 user: Can we just take a minute to appreciate how they’re literally radiating chemistry? I don’t care if they’re not dating—they should be. 😩💅

user: The way she’s just chilling with Max tho... George must be somewhere crying right now. 🤣💀

f1teaspill posted:

f1teaspill: “If it weren’t for the baby.” Three words that sent the paddock and the internet into absolute mayham today after Max Verstappen dropped the bomb during an interview. 👶💣

Fans are already in detective mode, dissecting every second of this wild moment. Whose baby? Is Max a secret dad? And what does George Russell have anything to do with it?

Interview Transcript:

Journalist: Max, earlier this week George Russell referred to you as a “bully” in his recent comments. Do you have any thoughts on that?

Max: (chuckles awkwardly) Well, you know, George always has something to say. I’m not going to get into it.

Journalist: But do you think his characterization of you is fair?

Max: (sighs) Look, I’m just here to race. I’m not interested in petty drama.

Journalist: It doesn’t seem like George is letting it go anytime soon. Are you planning to address it with him directly?

Max: (visibly annoyed) I really don’t see the point in—

Journalist: But isn’t it important to clear the air, especially since the tension is so public now?

Max: (snapping) If it weren’t for the baby, I wouldn’t even bother trying to make peace with him!

(A beat of stunned silence. Max’s eyes widen in realization.)

Journalist: The… baby? What baby? Max, can you clarify—

(Max mutters something under his breath and walks off, leaving the journalist baffled.)

Comments:

user: BABY???? HELLO? MAX, EXPLAIN YOURSELF.

user: What baby, Max?! WHOSE BABY?! I haven’t been this confused since Abu Dhabi 2021.

user: Can someone please check if Max even knows what he said? He looked so panicked when he walked off.

user: “If it weren’t for the baby”??? Sir, we’re not in Panem; calm down.

user: Peeta Verstappen has entered the chat. Someone hand him a loaf of bread. user: Peeta Mellark walked so Max Verstappen could run user: I just KNOW someone’s editing Max into a Peeta scene as we speak. Can’t wait.

user: Okay but what baby would involve George? George is childless?

user: Guys, hear me out: What if Max is secretly dating George’s sister? That’s the ONLY way a baby ties them together. user: Nah, there’s no way. George would’ve punched Max into next week already. user: Okay but think about it. Max. George’s sister. A baby. Uncle George. THIS IS LORE. user: I’m just saying, George’s sister has been looking very glow-y lately… 👀 user: Not a theory, just facts: Max is babytrapping George into a truce. 💀 user: Wait... isn’t George’s sister in Abu Dhabi right now?? 👀 user: omg and they were seen together on his hotel balcony jskjsk user: I’M SCREAMING. THIS THEORY IS TOO GOOD. user: Max... the man, the myth, the secret brother-in-law.

user: F1 fandom today: trying to figure out if Max has a secret family or if we’re all just collectively hallucinating.

user: Bro, if this is true, Netflix better dedicate a whole episode to Uncle George. user: “If it weren’t for the baby” is my villain origin story now.

user: GUYS. What if Max meant baby as in, like, his cat or something? We’re spiraling.

user: Okay but why would George care about Max’s cat?! Use your brain. user: Honestly, the only thing that makes sense is Max dating George’s sister. Uncle George confirmed. Case closed.

user: Y’all, the way I will actually SCREAM if Max and George’s sister are together. This is better than any race drama.

user: Max Verstappen?? A baby daddy?? In THIS economy??

user: Everyone’s fighting over the baby, but I’m just here wondering how Christian Horner is gonna spin this in interviews.

user: Plot twist: The baby is Christian Horner’s with Toto 😭

user: STOP. This is the most chaotic F1 season ever, and I love it.

Taglist: @ilovechickenwings @spooky-librarian-ghost @diaryofarandomkid @rd14 @hc-dutch @tremendousstarlighttragedy @grussellsprout @dannyespinosa06 @awritingtree @shelbyteller @diorbrxtz @96mcobo

[munson-blurbs]

Eddie Munson x Best Friend!Reader

Summary: You never meant for Eddie to know that you had a crush on him. What happened when he found out, courtesy of Mike Wheeler's big mouth?

WC: 2.6k

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), angst to fluff to smut and then back to fluff?? I don't even know, idiots in love, p in v, semi-public sex (we get it on in the van, baby)

Part of @cherrycolored-punk's Softember event!

Divider credit to @saradika

Friday, May 16, 1986: the day you determined that Mike Wheeler was the worst. 

You tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, it couldn’t be easy growing up in Nancy’s perfect shadow. Just the time you spent working with her on the school newspaper was exhausting. 

That was where you were currently sprinting from, weaving through the empty hallways towards the drama room. Leave it to Nancy to schedule an emergency newspaper meeting on a Friday afternoon. 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” You kept your head down as you breezed into the Hellfire meeting. Even without looking, you could feel the guys glaring at you. The only thing less forgivable than missing a campaign was interrupting one. 

Gareth let out a huff, crossing his arms over his chest. “Nice of you to join us, Lady Atwood.” He shifted forward in his seat. “You’re in luck today—our fearless Dungeon Master has yet to grace us with his presence.”

You wrinkled your nose, only then noticing that Eddie’s throne remained empty. “Where is he?”

From his spot at the table, Mike Wheeler scoffed. “Surprised you don’t know, considering you’re basically in love with him.”

You were about to refute his statement, or at least give him a well-deserved middle finger, when you heard a clattering behind you. 

Like metal hitting the floor tiles.

No. No, no no no…

“S-Sorry.” Eddie stammered. He quickly scooped up the tin lunch box that doubled as a place to stash his weed. “I had a last-minute deal. Apparently there’s a party at McKinney’s house tonight and he needed some, uh, provisions. So, uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat, eyes darting around the room and looking at everyone except for you. “We can get started.”

There might as well have been a spotlight beaming down, accentuating the embarrassment written all over your face. Everyone in Hellfire knew about your crush on Eddie, but they had the decency to keep it a secret. 

Everyone except for Mike Wheeler, apparently. God, you wanted to squish that little shit like a bug beneath your shoe.

It certainly didn’t help that Eddie kept glancing at you, even when he addressed the group. Like he was waiting for you to say something about Mike’s comment. Waiting for you to refute it, to roll your eyes and whip out a snappy comeback. Maybe he was even hoping you would.

He was probably internally cringing just thinking about you having romantic feelings for him.

“Lady Atwood?”

Your gaze instinctively snapped over to Eddie when he said your name. He was looking at you, brown eyes wide with anticipation of your response. 

Warmth crept up your neck. He had heard what Mike said about you being in love with him–he had to have. He’d just had the good grace to brush over it because…

Because he didn’t feel the same way and didn’t want to cause you any further humiliation.

“Y-Yeah?” You choked on the word, trying to put the incident behind you. But you couldn’t, because the pain of unrequited feelings kept yanking on your heart, drawing tears that you desperately wished would evaporate.

“Gareth the Great has proposed battling the demogorgon.” There was a hint of a smirk on Eddie’s lips. It was your first clue that the move would prove entertaining, perhaps at your character’s demise. “We’re waiting for your input.”

Nodding, you chewed the inside of your cheek and studied the board. Okay, it looked like winning the battle was feasible, though a bit risky. The rest of the club watched as you contemplated; Gareth especially was practically vibrating with anticipation.

Then the ceiling started leaking. Soft drops with no particular rhythm, landing on your cheeks. Just your luck–first Mike’s big mouth spilled your secret, then whatever nastiness was living in Hawkins High School’s pipes was now seeping into your skin.

“Holy shit, is she crying?”

Dustin Henderson’s voice broke into your thoughts. His tone, for possibly the first time since you’d met him, held only concern with a note of snark.

Who was crying? You were the only girl in the club now that Ronnie had graduated, save for the times Erica Sinclair served as a substitute. Which meant…

“Way to go, asshole.” Lucas thwacked Mike across the chest. 

“I didn’t know he was there!”

The purple fabric of your shirt darkened beneath your arms as another disconcerting flash of heat hit you. You wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Maybe you’d get lucky and the floor would open beneath you and swallow you up. 

“I need to get some air.” Whether you spoke the words aloud or said them silently to yourself, you weren’t sure. 

Your feet seemed to carry you out of the room and through the school’s front doors. Tears blurred your vision, and you swiped them away before any other lingering students could see. 

The air was warm, teasing of the approaching summer. God, summer—you always spent it with Eddie, lounging by the public pool or sitting down at Lovers Lake. You’d read a book while he pored over his Hellfire notebook, scribbling notes for future campaign ideas. 

Would he still want to do that, to spend those long days with you, now that he knew about your pathetic crush? 

It wasn’t until you reached the parking lot that you remembered: Eddie drove you to school that morning. If you started walking now, you’d definitely get home before dark. Or maybe you could call your parents from the payphone if you managed to scrounge up the change—

The sound of your name stopped you in your tracks. You should’ve kept walking the moment you saw Eddie, his frizzy curls bouncing as he jogged over to you. 

“Hey.” His hand brushed yours, though you pulled away before he could grab ahold of it. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

He sighed. “Okay, let me rephrase that: Why did you leave? Because of what Wheeler said?” Eddie let out a small, disbelieving laugh when you nodded. “He’s such a little shit. Always messing with me. I’m gonna kick his sorry ass one of these days.”

Your eyebrows shot up. Messing with Eddie? “What are you talking about?”

“That joke about you being in love with me. He obviously saw me in the doorway and said it to embarrass me.” A blush crept onto Eddie’s cheeks. “Y’know, ‘cause…”

But you didn’t know. You had no idea what he meant. And as much as Mike was a menace, he seemed sincere when he said he didn’t realize that Eddie was there. 

“Because why?”

“Because,” Eddie’s gaze shifted to his van’s tires before he finally looked at you again. “Because he knows I have this dumb crush on you, and he thinks it’s hilarious to fuck with me about it.”

Words evaded you. This had to be some sort of elaborate set-up. Eddie had a crush on you? When girls like Chrissy Cunningham and Heather Holloway lived in the very same town? 

Impossible. 

Not privy to the argument playing out inside your head—thank God—Eddie babbled on. “I know it’s weird. That’s why I haven’t told you—well, until right now. And I’m starting to regret it, because you’re looking at me like I have three heads. So maybe I’ll just shut up now.”

“No.” Summoning all of your courage, you took his hand in yours and managed a smile. “Eddie, Mike was teasing me because I like you. More than a friend should like a friend.”

Eddie’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “What if I told you…I don’t want to just be friends?”

You let your eyes meet his. “I-I don’t want to just be friends, either.”

He took a pause before he asked his next question. Your heartbeat thrummed in your ears as you waited for him to speak.

“And what if I did this?” One palm, callused from years of guitar playing, cupped your cheek. Eddie moved closer, his nose bumping against yours in a clumsy attempt to close the gap between you. “Shit, that–that was supposed to be suave.”

“Shut up and kiss me, Munson.” The words left your mouth before you could think them through. Your fingers tangled into his hair, pulling him back towards you and finishing what he had started.

His lips, soft and tasting vaguely of the cigarettes he’d smoked after school, crashed into yours. One hand snaked around your waist and pressed you against him until you felt his metal belt buckle through your shirt.

You moaned softly, letting his tongue into your mouth without hesitation. More, more, more…you needed more. You needed all of him. 

It was Eddie who broke the kiss, much to your chagrin. But what he said next made up for the loss.

“Sorry…I’m trying to be a gentleman. But it’s, uh, getting a little hard.” He chuckled, stealing another quick kiss. “Pun very much intended.”

A quick glance proved that Eddie wasn’t lying: His erection tantalizingly strained against his fly. What you wouldn’t give to feel him inside you…

“Y’know, take you on a date, tell you how pretty you look,” Eddie continued, shifting his stance in a pitiful attempt to quell his desire. “I don’t wanna go at it in the school parking lot like some feral rabbits.” He waved his hand haphazardly. 

You bit your lip, weighing your options. A date would be nice; perhaps a night at The Hawk, his arm around you as a movie played on a giant screen. Or maybe he’d take you to dinner—nothing as expensive as Enzo’s, but somewhere more romantic than your usual Benny’s hangout. 

A date with Eddie was something you’d only ever dreamed of. But right now, you needed to live out a different fantasy before you combusted from an overload of lust. 

“Remember the first campaign you created this year?” Your soft voice held a sultry air despite your nerves. “It was your most sadistic one yet. We were all ready to forfeit, but you took pity on us and gave us a hint.”

Taking a deep breath, you plunged your hand into his front pocket. “Do you remember what you said?”

Eddie shook his head. “I can’t remember my own goddamn name right now, Sweetheart.”

You laughed, your finger hooking around his keyring. “You said that sometimes, it’s better to work backwards.”

With a triumphant grin, you plucked the keys from his pocket. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” His own smile betrayed his exasperated exterior as he grabbed your hand. His van seemed a million miles away, though it was parked in one of the closest spots in the lot. 

Eddie yanked open the back door, waiting just long enough for you to get settled before he scrambled in behind you. The moment the door closed, he pulled you on top of him. 

You could feel him, feel his hardness, against your core. You rolled your hips instinctively, savoring the friction. 

Hands clamped down on your denim-covered thighs. “You gotta…you can’t…” Eddie choked, struggling for words. “We’re already about to do it in my van. I don’t wanna look even more pathetic by coming in my pants.”

Warmth blossomed in your body. You could imagine him sputtering out a stream of swear words as he came, flooding his own boxers with his release. 

Maybe another day. 

Buttons were undone, flies were unzipped, clothes were discarded into a pile in the corner of the van. It was only you and Eddie, not a single scrap of fabric between you. 

Sweat glistened on his chest, matting down the sparse hairs that curled around his nipples. You leaned in, kissing just above the demon head tattoo etched on his pec. 

“Baby,” he crooned. The new pet name wasn’t lost on you. Your heart beat faster, a butterfly frantically flapping its wings. “Baby, I need you.”

He did need you, unless he was going to take care of his achingly hard cock by himself. The pink tip leaked with pre-cum, and if you had more room, you would have licked it clean off. 

You settled for swiping it away with your thumb, his abdomen tightening at the sudden contact. Eddie nearly passed out on the spot when you sucked on your finger, savoring the salty taste.

“Baby,” he groaned again. “I w-wanted to get you off first, ‘cause I know I’m not gonna last like this.”

“S’okay.” You lined him up with your entrance, ignoring the way your hands shook as you slowly sank down onto him. His hips bucked up almost of their own accord. “F-Fuck, Eddie…”

Eddie looked up at you, brown irises wide. He paused for an extra moment; maybe he really had forgotten his own name. “I know, I know,” he said finally. “God, I fucking know, baby.” 

His thumb found your clit the second he composed himself, rubbing delicate circles until your toes curled. His other hand held you with just enough force to keep you stable while still being able to ride him.

“You’re so beautiful.” He let out a breathless laugh. “If I wake up and this was all a dream, I’m gonna be pissed.”

You shared the same thought. What if the Eddie laying before you, curls splayed against the worn carpet of his van, groaning your name–your name–was all a mirage? Another fantasy conjured up by your lovesick brain?

“I’ve never had a dream this good before.”

“Me either,” he admitted, “but the only ones that’ve come close involve you.”

You tightened around him, your hands flush against his chest. The fact that you occupied his thoughts, unconscious or otherwise, sent a wave of arousal rolling through you. You wanted to hear every last detail of those dreams, to know exactly what turned him on.

Maybe later. Right now, your focus stayed on the way he touched you. So intentional, so precise. And Eddie worked you through your orgasm, keeping his same rhythm as you came around him.

“There you go, pretty girl. That’s it,” he murmured. “‘M close. Where do you–where can I–”

“Inside.” You’d never been more grateful to be on the pill. 

Eddie let himself go, unleashing a torrent of desire. He thrust into you, chasing his own release now that he knew you’d gotten yours.

It was only when he slowed his pace, milking the last drops of cum from his cock, that reality began to settle in.

You just had sex with your best friend in the back of his van, a few hundred feet away from where your friends were gathered around a DnD board–

“Oh my God, Eddie!” Your eyes snapped open in realization. “Hellfire–they’re still there.”

Eddie pulled you closer and kissed your forehead. You relaxed into his chest. “They’re smart guys when they’re not being idiots.” The words vibrated against your skin. “I’m sure they figured out that we weren’t coming back.”

He sighed, wrapping one arm around you. “Can I take you on that date now, baby? Y’know, once we get dressed.” He smirked. “We can go to Scoops Ahoy and split a sundae. And then, if you want, I’ll take you back to my place and undress you again?”

You scrambled for your clothes almost as quickly as you’d shed them, Eddie following suit. And as much as you wanted to have sex with him again, to really take your time and cherish each second, you were equally excited to cuddle up in a booth and share some ice cream.

Friday, May 16, 1986: the day Mike Wheeler’s lack of filter didn’t completely backfire. Because it was also the day that you and Eddie Munson became boyfriend and girlfriend.

--

[lizzybeeee]

DATV Spoilers - The Story We Lost

Posted earlier that I was compiling a list of lore/story threads that have been dropped with DATV's handling of Southern Thedas. The sheer number of things means that I've made this into two parts - this one focusing on all the story threads that have been effectively dropped.

Spoilers for the game ahead, of course.

If you've played the game then you'll know that Southern Thedas - everything from the past three games - was basically swept away by the blight.

A double blight should have catastrophic consequences for the entirety of Thedas, I don’t deny that, it’s nothing short of a mass extinction event – the absolute worst case scenario for all of Thedas.

However, waving away the fact that Southern Thedas - specifically every area you ever traveled to and interacted with in previous games – is gone, devastated by the blight, in a codex entry and line of dialogue makes it abundantly clear that BioWare is attempting to clean the slate so that they can move forwards with the game series with no ties to the previous ones.

The Warden, Hawke, and the Inquisitor effectively accomplished nothing.

As I put it in another post: I never expected them to consider every decision in game outside of the three options they gave us, but I certainly didn’t expect them to go scorched earth on the possibility of ever seeing the results of those decisions either.

How the lore has been handled in this game, summarized to “the elves did it” and “there’s been a shadowy organization in the shadows pulling the strings on everything” is absolutely devastating to the franchise.

The lack of care with which this was treated just bleeds, “There, we’ve answered all questions and finished with this era of Thedas. Moving on now.” At the same time, this destruction absolutely obliterated whatever story threads remained from the first three games.

Could BioWare bring these threads back? Yes, I suppose. But it doesn't change that it was so carelessly thrown aside in the first place.

If they didn't want people to care about their decisions and the impact they made on the world, perhaps they shouldn't have made that a feature of all the previous games.

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Story Threads/ Plot Points that were dropped:

Limited my points to what was in the Dragon Age Keep and what points were brought up frequently in codex entries, conversations, etc...

Edit: I never expected all of these points to be answered in DATV - this is just a list of what was effectively brushed to the side through very bad handling of lore and story.

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Dragon Age: Origins

What is the line of succession in Ferelden?

Things are looking very grim for Ferelden's succession and the Theirin/MacTir line if nothing is done. And nothing was done. The entire plot of DAO literally culminated in resolving this issue, yet no one seems to have learnt a thing from it?

- Anora ruling alone is unmarried with no heir - Alistair ruling alone is unmarried with no heir - Ruling together they have no heir - Alistair and a Cousland Queen have no heir - Anora and a Cousland King-Consort have no heir

The only potential candidate that can fit into several of those world states is Kieran.

Fergus Cousland, according to lore, is the second closest to the throne that is confirmed to be alive in DAI - potentially the brother in-law to the King/Queen of Ferelden.

Ferelden's succession with Alistair as King hinges on whether or not the Warden was able to cure the blight. Alternatively, it is hinted that he may be more resistant since he has dragon blood in him from Calenhad.

The potential implications of Kieran being the bastard son of the King of Ferelden.

Kieran being used as a political pawn to depose Anora using the Theirin bloodline.

DAI took away whatever destiny Kieran had with the Old God soul – that didn’t mean that BioWare had to take away everything else too. Regardless, it doesn't matter. Denerim and Redcliffe have fallen to the Blight - it's unlikely that any of this will ever be brought up again.

2. Did the Warden find a cure?

Unknown. Irrelevant.

Ferelden ended up blighted. Denerim fell. If Ferelden rises from the ashes, it will be without any sign of their influence. Any mention of them will likely be their title alone - no mention of their accomplishments.

3. General Questions about the Landsmeet

What happened to Anora if Alistair is named King? Who rules the teyrnir of Gwaren following the blight?

What happens to Alistair if he's exiled? We know Teagan finds him in DA2 but what happens after?

If Leliana becomes divine does that mean that Connor Guerrin is potentially an heir to Redcliffe?

4. Companion Plot Threads

Morrigan's sisters - the many daughters of Flemeth.

Shale's quest to reverse the process of becoming a golem.

Whatever the hell Nathaniel Howe was going on about when you run into him in DA2 in the blighted thaig.

What, if anything, Avernus leaned from spending a literal age or two studying blighted blood.

5. Zevran's Crusade against the Crows

RIP Zevran's one-man crusade against the Crows and their child slavery ring.

DATV messed up immensely by portraying the Crows as more of a ‘found family’ rather than the horrifically abusive organization it was set up to be.

The very same organization that preys on the weak and disenfranchised - honing them to be tools for the nobles/powerful of Thedas - are now the heroic freedom fighters of Antiva.

The literal decade he spent hunting down the Crows and their leaders is up in flames. No mention in DATV whatsoever.

Wasted a perfectly good opportunity to have a schism in the Crows, with Zevran at the helm of kicking out the antaam, taking in Crows who are are sick of what's happening.

6. The Dwarves of Orzammar

The impact of Bhelen/Harrowmont's reign - ruthless progression verses strict traditionalism

The rumours of an uprising of the casteless dwarves in DAI

Will we ever hear of noble House Brosca or Queen/Lady Rica? Nope.

Will we ever hear of the son that Aeducan can have with Mardy? Nope. (RIP Duncan Jnr - I still love you)

The Anvil of the Void and potential links it may have to the Titans.

If Branka lives what happened to her?

No more fine goods direct from Orzammar

The entire caste system has been simplified by Harding in DATV to effectively be: 'surface dwarves' and 'deep roads' dwarves.

7. The Magisters Sidereal / Awakened Darkspawn

According to a codex in the Descent: one went mad, consumed another, and the final magister fled into the Deep Roads.

Corypheous + Codex Magister + the Architect (most likely) = 4/5 magisters remaining? Possibly?

Reminder that it's hinted that there's an eighth Old God that was struck from the records of Tevinter.

The Architect and his Awakened Darkspawn.

No, it was all the elves. They're all dead now anyway. Thanks BioWare.

8. The Guardian and the Urn of Sacred Ashes

"Where did you come from, where did you go? Nobody in Thedas will ever knowwwww."

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Dragon Age 2

Dragon Age 2 was pretty self-contained, with most things being tied up in Trespasser or DAI. The worst of the plot points abandoned relate to the companions in the game and the lack of closure/answers about them.

General Questions:

Kirkwalls, apparently, endless line of 'provisional' viscounts and constant political instability since Varric ran off to go after Solas.

According to DA: Absolution the Red Templars are still in Kirkwall...yet the show is set after Trespasser - when Varric is viscount? When he mentions that they threw a parade when getting Meredith out of the Gallows?

Aveline, Varric, Merrill and whoever remains of the Kirkwall crew apparently just allowing red templars take over the Gallows?

What happened to Petrice if she lived?

What happened to Feynriel if he went to Tevinter?

If Hawke lives following DAI - where are they?

I have a whole list of lore that's also been brushed over: the Sundermount, Corypheous, the Band of Three etc... I decided to put them in Part 2 since I feel they fit in more with 'lore obliterated' rather than 'abandoned plot points'.

2. Companions

Merrill's Eluvian:

Merrill spent years fixing an eluvian with a piece of string, a potato, and some gum - managing to actually do it.

And it meant nothing.

Eluvians are now a fast travel hub - all mysticism and awe at this marvel of magic are completely gone. Whatever sacrifices Merrill went through to save her sliver of elven history is meaningless.

Imagine if Merrill's eluvian aided in the fight against Solas - if having it intact gave you an advantage against him. Imagine Merrill weeping as Bellara fixes every other single eluvian in ten seconds with her magical omnitool.

Fenris and Slavery in Tevinter:

DATV utterly trivializing slavery in Tevinter is abominable.

Disregarding everything Fenris went through, everything he ever fought for, and making it something barely touched upon in DATV is insanity.

You wouldn't know there was slavery in Tevinter if the Shadow Dragons didn't drop a line or two about it.

Fenris' entire story of going to help free the slaves is diminished because no one wanted to show the ugly, dark side of Tevinter in DATV.

DATV has retroactively made this choice for him to be so unfulfilling.

Where is Anders?

What happened with Sebastian's crusade against Anders? Was he ever captured? Was he executed? Are you telling me that no templars ever pursued this man fanatically after what happened in Kirkwall?

Does his fate vary if Hawke was friends/romanced him?

Varric appointing a new Viscount’s Keep healer called ‘Banders’ who just happens to sleep in the same room as Hawke and their children call him ‘daddy’ lmao

Does his fate vary according to who is Divine? Vivienne hunts him down, Cassandra puts him on trial, while Leliana pardons him?

How does he react to Leliana abolishing the Circles? How much does he weep when the rebellion fails and the mages are destroyed? This man instigated the starting event for DAI and drove most of DA2's major plot and he's just...gone.

The Hawke Siblings:

From DAI we know that Warden Bethany/Carver are safe, but what happened to them if they're in the Circle?

Give us Knight-Commander Carver and First Enchanter Bethany Hawke, you cowards! Have them dismantle the Gallows and be the shining examples of human decency we know they are.

What happens to them after DAI and the Mage/Templar War is concluded? In a world that can embrace or reject them - how do they find their place?

Varric

Trespasser gave him a satisfying conclusion - he's viscount, he's in his shit hole of a city, he's surrounded by the people that he loves and cares about. He has the chance to truly build up Kirkwall after all the shit its gone through.

It just feels so bitter, so meaningless, that they gave him the end that they did in DATV. Varric should never have been the one to go after Solas - the only reason it was him was because he's a popular character in the franchise and was used to draw interest.

Why not Cole?! Who was literally mentioned in Trespasser as being on hand to help his friends - who has the ability to get through to Solas in a way no one else could?

No proper send off - no acknowledgement from those who loved him as to his fate...Varric was reduced to a marketing gimmick to draw people in who wanted to see if he died or not.

Isabela

Isabela's story was brought to a close in DAI - she became an admiral, got a fancy hat, helped the Inquisition, and kept in contact with those she loved/Hawke if defended from the arishok.

Imagine bringing her back in a terrible outfit, having the most sex/gender positive character misgender another person, and making her part of the group that steals cultural artifacts from others.

The tomb of Koslun and Aveline would like a word with you?!

The entire Lords of Fortune group is also extremely bland? No commentary on the ethics/effects of colonialism/cultural appropriation - because confrontational topics/ideas are not allowed in this game. Just like topics of slavery/indoctrination.

Her entire character just seems to have regressed from DA2. Why bother having her cameo in the game if she's not going to meaningfully contribute/comment on whats happening?

Edit - Thanks to bunnyiscthulhu for reminding me that Isabela's mother sold her into marriage...yet she does nothing when Taash's mother is outright forcing them into a life they don't want. Isabela, who believed that everybody should be free - that no one should be forced into a life they don't want, just...lets it happen to another person?

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Dragon Age: Inquisition

What's going to happen to the Red Lyrium that's popped up across all of Thedas?

Ferelden, Orlais, Kirkwall - all areas are reported to have red lyrium on the surface.

What happens to the Red Lyrium in Suledin?

DAI speaks about how they can never stop the spread of red lyrium, only slow it – animals, insects, organisms - whatever life is in the ground is all susceptible to becoming blighted by red lyrium. Suledin Keep in particular was utterly devastated by the Red Templars - what happens to life there?

2. What happened to Corypheous' Inner Circle?

What happened to Samson? How long did he live *if* he’s given the chance to help Cullen? Can something good come from his cooperation?

What happened to Calpernia?

Looking at previous concept art for DATV she was a companion - freeing slaves, gossiping about Samson & Corypheous. Just...what a waste. Any potential insight we could have gotten into Corypheous is gone.

3. The Mage / Templar War:

How does the world vary if you conscripted vs allied with either?

How do the remnants of what faction was not chosen fit into this new world?

How does the world deal with abominations and weird magic shit now? Is an alternative to the Order made if it's wiped out in DAI?

How is Cullen's templar clinic doing? If the templars still exist, how is Divine Victoria changing/adapting the Order to better support mages/templars?

4. Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts:

How do Orlesian politics reflect who was made ruler?

Is Gaspard looking to expand into Ferelden once more? Are the elves being brutalized under his rule like they were by his chevaliers? Does he do away with the grand game like he threatened in DAI?

How does this differ if Briala has collared him? How do his supporters feel that Briala has his balls in a vice?

Do Celene and Briala stay together? Do things improve for the elves and for the culture of Orlais at large?

Do improvements for the elves mean that Solas' arguments to his elven agents are less persuasive?

If Florianne is alive what the hell is going to happen to her? How quickly does she fall on her blade after being forced to wear flat shoes for the rest of her life?

How quickly does shit fall apart if you get all three to cooperate lmao

Friendly reminder that DATV sets up that all of Orlais, except for the Winter Palace has been overrun by the Blight - and that a coup from the Venatori is inevitable, likely resulting in any ruler dying.

5. What is the line of succession in Orlais?!

Why does every noble family in Thedas have no contingency plans for if their head of government dies?!

Part of why we needed to resolve the leadership problem in DAI was because there was no clear, direct heir if Celene died!

Celene has no heir Gaspard has no heir

Florianne planned to frame Gaspard, murdering Celene herself, leaving no clear heir to the throne - Orlais was already in a civil war, the council of heralds/nobles would have all campaigned in their own interests...that was why this was so important!

Orlais shortsightedness and pride in their nation being the greatest in Thedas led to them almost falling in a single night!

6. Here Lies the Abyss:

What are the ramifications of having the Warden's exiled verses remaining in the south?

Trespasser literally states that there's a schism in the Order because some Warden's believe they should touch grass more often and not listen to some bloke up in Weisshaupt for what they do down in the south.

Perfect opportunity to have the wardens remaining in the south mean something! Greater numbers in the south means that there's a greater chance of holding against the blight - while greater numbers in the north can effect if Antiva/Tevinter end up blighted in the first attack!

How does public perception towards the Wardens/King of Ferelden change when they learn they were exiled for committing human sacrifice to demons?!

Give us a warden coup and First Warden Alistair / Blackwall, you cowards!

7. The Well of Sorrows:

What was the point of drinking Mythal's bathwater?!

It's been set up as something that changes you. Bound to Mythal forever?!

Retroactively, Solas feels like he's going mental about nothing! One of the few times he ever breaks - he begs you not to - and...for what? Nothing.

DATV does not acknowledge that in the slightest. Such a waste and disappointment of what was made out to be an impactful decision in DAI.

Imagine if the Inquisitor drinking from the well made us forced to fight against them during the fight with Solas - imagine if Solas, in a world state who hated the Inquisitor, used them as a puppet! Just like the envy demon in DAI - and no one notices until its too late. Imagine Mythal herself, wanting Solas to go through with his plan - (or one of the other evanuris) using an Inquisitor/Lavellan he loved as a puppet - imagine the horror he feels as another one of his friends is reduced to nothing more than a mindless slave of the evanuris once more. Imagine the devastation as he watches Lavellan lose all sense of self - perhaps swaying him to, maybe, not go through with his plan?! Imagine having Cole come back to help save the Inquisitor - or Solas begging Rook to save them.

8. DLC Implications:

What happens if Hakkon is not slain? What happens to Southern Ferelden and the Avaar?

How does the rest of Thedas react to the truth of what happened at Red Crossing and the Dales? How do they react to learning that Inquisitor Ameridan - First Inquisitor and leader of the Seekers - was a dalish, elven mage?

What happens if you do not save the mines in the Descent DLC? How badly is Orzammars economy crippled? There are already rumours of riots occurring within Orzammar - it this enough to push the caste system over the edge?

9. Elven Uprising and the War with the Qun:

The elven uprising that was implied to be occuring all over Thedas as a result of years of oppression, systematic abuse, and Solas’ influence? What happened to it?

Where are the agents of fen'harel?!

It was set up that Solas was planning to use this rebellion as a smokescreen for his plans - the elves, all rebelling for good reason, rallying to his cause while Solas planned to restore the world that once was. The rest of Thedas would only see an elven uprising, not knowing the true face behind it until it was too late!

The war between Tevinter and the Qun?!

Everyone conveniently forgetting that the Qun literally attempted to assassinate every noble family in Thedas? Why was there no exalted march because of this? This should have destroyed any accord between the chantry and the qun. There would absolutely be blood for this – Tevinter could have attacked the Qun and all of Southern Thedas would have applauded - no one would have differentiated between extremist qunari and the normal qun, especially not after Kirkwall.

The implication at the end of Trespasser that we could convince Solas to abandon his plans? Him saying that he welcomed giving us the chance?!

The difference that the Inquisitors friendship, love, or hatred could have in either convincing Solas to take another path or damning him to go ahaead with his plan, no matter the cost?

Have our decisions in previous games matter! How we treated the elves - if we worked to better their lives or 'put them in their place' - can be used to convince him that the world can change! Have the ripple effects of these decisions be seen when the elven gods return, blighted - does the world turn against the elves, hardening Solas, or does the world defend the elves from those who would blame them?

Why was Sandal in the Crossroads?! Where is Bodahn?!

10. Divine Victoria!

How does the world of Thedas change with Leliana, Cassandra, or Vivienne at the head of the chantry?

How does Tevinter react to having a mage divine?!

Do relations change between both nations because of this?

Leliana allowing elves, dwarves, and even qunari to join the Chantry! Leliana also allowing members of the chantry to get married if she's romanced by the warden.

What happened to the Seekers? Are they being rebuilt?

Does the chantry inform the masses, the rest of the mages, that they can CURE tranquility?!

If either Leliana or Cassandra was romanced - what are the implications that may have on the chantry?

-------------------------------------------

No wonder the writers insisted that none of the past choices would have an impact on Veilguard - they literally went scorched earth on everything we ever did.

Ferelden is blighted - any legacy of the warden is gone.

Kirkwall is destroyed - any impact Hawke had is gone.

The hard won peace/order of the Inquisition was rendered meaningless since every single place that you went to and helped is now destroyed by the blight.

Orlais' ruler will likely be assassinated by the venatori who are plotting a coup with the nobles - making whomever you chose obsolete.

AND IT WAS ALL THE WORK OF THE MAGICAL ILLUMINATI FROM ACROSS THE SEA???

[carnalcrows]

russian roulette

genre: smut

pairing: salesman x male!reader

CW: unprotected sex, cum as lube, gunplay, slight-dubcon, blowjobs (reader receiving), anal, creampie, breeding, the salesman is a warning of his own, the term [y/n] is not used

word count: 1.6k

The dim light of the underground room cast long, jagged shadows across the walls. The metallic scent of oil and gunpowder clung to the air, mingling with the faint coppery tang of fear. You sat tied to a chair, your wrists bound tightly behind your back. The sharp edges of the ropes bite into your skin each time you so much as shifted.

Across from you, the Salesman leaned casually against the table, his signature smirk firmly in place. He toyed with the revolver in his hand, spinning the cylinder with a flick of his wrist. His eyes—dark, calculating, and endlessly amused—never left you.

“You know,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk, “most people wouldn’t agree to this game. It’s dangerous. Final. But then again...” He stepped closer, the gun dangling loosely from his fingers. “You’re not like most people, are you?”

“Guess I just enjoy living on the edge,” you shot back, refusing to let the tremor in your voice betray you.

He chuckled, a low sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Oh, you’re more than just that. You’re reckless. Stubborn. And,” he tilted his head, his smirk deepening, “you’re very, very intriguing.”

The gun clicked as he opened the cylinder, slipping a single bullet into one of the chambers. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and deliberate. He snapped it shut with a flourish, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

“Let’s see how lucky you are today,” he murmured, stepping into your personal space.

You tensed as he crouched in front of you, the revolver resting loosely in his grip. His free hand reached out, brushing against your jaw to tilt your face upward. The touch was deceptively gentle, his thumb lingering for just a moment too long.

“Do you always get this close to people you’re threatening?” you asked, your voice laced with defiance.

“Only the ones worth the effort.” His smirk widened, but his eyes were sharp, dissecting you as though trying to unravel the very core of who you were.

He straightened, spinning the cylinder once more before pressing the cold barrel of the revolver against your temple. The pressure was light, almost playful, but the weight of what it symbolized made your heart pound.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, leaning down so that his lips were just inches from your ear. “Not so fearless now?”

You swallowed hard, meeting his gaze head-on. “Maybe I just don’t feel like giving you the satisfaction.”

His laugh was quiet, almost a hum. “Oh, you’ve already done that.” He pulled back slightly, shifting the revolver to your lips. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip as he tilted your head back further, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Open.”

The command sent a wave of heat through you, not from fear, but from something darker, more visceral. You parted your lips, the cold metal slipping inside, heavy against your tongue. The intimate nature of the act was suffocating, his hand steady as he watched you, unblinking.

“There it is,” he said softly, almost to himself. “That spark. That fire. You don’t want to lose, do you?” Click. The gun doesn’t go off.

You glared at him, your breath shallow around the barrel. His smirk softened into something more unreadable as he removed the gun, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw once more.

“No,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “You’re not afraid of death. You’re afraid of me.”

You clenched your fists behind your back, the ropes biting into your skin. “What do you want from me?”

He tilted his head, considering you for a moment. Then, with deliberate slowness, he lowered the revolver and crouched again, his face level with yours.

“Maybe I just like watching you squirm,” he said, though the words carried a weight that contradicted his playful tone. His hand came up to your face again, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “Or maybe... I just like you.”

The confession, if it could be called that, hung in the air between you, heavy and charged. He stood abruptly, spinning the revolver one last time before slipping it into the holster at his hip.

“Lucky for you,” he said, his smirk returning. But instead of stepping away, he lingered, his sharp gaze raking over you like a predator sizing up its prey.

The tension in the room thickened, the charged atmosphere pressing against your skin. You wanted to say something—maybe challenge him, maybe break the silence—but the words caught in your throat when he leaned down again, his gloved hand brushing against your cheek.

“You look like you have something to say,” he murmured, his tone low and laced with amusement.

“I was just wondering,” you began, voice steady despite the heat building between you, “if this is what you consider being generous.”

He chuckled, a dark, velvety sound that made your pulse spike. “Oh, you think I’m playing rough now?” His fingers trailed from your cheek to your jaw, the leather cool against your skin. “You don’t even know half of it.”

You swallowed hard, meeting his eyes even as your breath quickened. “Then why don’t you show me?”

The smirk on his lips faltered, replaced by something deeper, darker. For a moment, the mask of playful arrogance slipped, and you glimpsed the man beneath—the one who thrived on control, who relished in watching others unravel.

His hand moved lower, the tips of his fingers brushing against your neck. He tilted your head back, exposing your throat as his thumb pressed lightly against your pulse. “You’re bold,” he murmured, his voice a whisper against the shell of your ear. “I like that.”

His proximity was intoxicating, the scent of leather and faint cologne filling your senses. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, as he leaned in closer. His gloved hand slid to the back of your neck, his grip firm but not painful.

“I could make you beg,” he said, his words a dangerous promise. “But I think I’d enjoy hearing you defy me more.”

You met his gaze, the challenge clear in your eyes. “Maybe you should try.”

For a moment, the world held its breath. His smirk returned, slow and deliberate, as he leaned in, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth—not quite a kiss, but enough to make your heart race. His voice dropped to a near-growl.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said, his breath warm against your skin.

“Good thing I like danger,” you shot back, your voice barely above a whisper.

His laugh was low and dark, sending a shiver down your spine. “Then let’s see how far you’re willing to go.”

He hooks his finger through the hem of your pants and slides it down slowly, along with your boxers. Your cock hardens with the sudden rush of cool air. He stares at it momentarily, before kneeling down to – put it in his mouth?

That was not what you had expected, but it wasn't like you were complaining. He slowly licked a stripe from the base to the hand, while his other hand brought out his gun from the holster at his hip. 

“S-stop teasing,” you whimpered, and before you could say another word, he had taken your cock till the hilt. You let out a strangled moan, head falling back.

He slowly bobbed his head on your length, while his other hand had placed the gun on the floor and was now trying to free his own cock from the constraint of his pants.

Soon enough, you were at your climax, but he pulled off, and finished with his hands. You came with a groan, all over the man’s face. He seemed to be enjoying it though.

As your breathing slows down, he lifts your legs up (while you are still tied to the chair). Before you can say anything, a cold object presses to the rim of your ass. When you look down, you realize that its the revolver.

Click

It doesn’t go off.

“Today might just be your lucky day,” the salesman chuckles, before slowly inserting the tip of the revolver into your ass before you could protest, using your own release as lube. The feeling on the cold revolver has you seeing stars, it’s a perfect mix of pleasure and pain.

As the gun keeps going in and out of you, the salesman utters what you think to be a mix of praise and degradation. 

“Such a pretty little whore for me, that’s it… Do you get off to this? Having a gun up your ass?” Before you could respond, he gets up, takes the gun out and slides his cock in its place. He doesn’t even wait for a moment, and takes you all the way to the hilt.

He rocks in and out of you slowly, pressing the gun to your temple. “Such a good boy f’me,” he says as he drags the gun down to your neck.

One particular hard thrust hits your sweet spot, sending your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Seeing this, he loses all form of self control, and stashes the gun, taking both of his hands to you hips before fucking into you like a wild animal.

“Fuck.. I’m gonna–,” he interrupts himself when he releases into you with a loud groan, throwing his head back. You too reach your second climax, painting both your stomachs pearly white.

After a few minutes, the man pulls out, cleans himself up takes his brief case and leaves with you still tied to the chair.

“Are you kidding me–”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my work as I spend time and and I take genuine effort to do them.

[solxamber]

How to Handle Your Diva || Vil Schoenheit

You’re the unofficial Vil Schoenheit handler, a role you assumed when you started dating him. Whether it’s calming his temper or redirecting his wrath, you’ve become the only one capable of keeping poor midguided souls from biting the dust.

aka the 7 times you save someone from getting poisoned or worse.

Instance 1: Chaos Duo

The serene backdrop of NRC’s gardens frames Vil Schoenheit like a painting come to life. Dressed in flowing silks and adorned with the perfect balance of sunlight and shadow, he’s mid-pose when—

“Yo, Vil! Say cheese!”

Ace and Deuce leap into the frame, pulling the most exaggerated faces imaginable. Deuce’s eyes are practically crossed, and Ace looks like he’s mid-sneeze. The photographer audibly chokes on his spit.

Vil freezes. The air goes cold. The birds stop singing. Somewhere in the distance, a withering rose drops a petal.

“What,” Vil says, so quiet it’s terrifying, “was that?”

“It was Ace’s idea!” Deuce blurts immediately, shoving Ace under the metaphorical bus.

“Thanks a lot, traitor!” Ace snaps back.

Vil’s eyes narrow. “You,” he hisses, voice dripping with venom, “have the audacity to ruin my shoot?”

By the time you arrive, the photographer is hiding behind a bush, and Ace and Deuce are sweating under Vil’s glare. The two freshmen look like they’re seconds away from turning into frogs—or corpses.

“Vil, sweetie,” you interrupt, stepping between them and the storm cloud forming above his head, “what’s going on?”

“These plebeians,” Vil says, gesturing at Ace and Deuce like they’re bacteria under a microscope, “thought it would be funny to sabotage my art!”

“They’re idiots,” you agree, shooting the freshmen a glare. “But let’s think about this. What if... this makes your shoot even better?”

Vil arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Better?”

“Yeah!” you say, channeling all your persuasive powers. “When people see this, they’ll notice how your beauty shines even in the presence of—” you gesture vaguely at Ace and Deuce, “—mediocrity.”

“Mediocrity?” Ace repeats indignantly.

“Shut up,” you snap before turning back to Vil. “Think about it. They’ll see your grace, your poise, and how you completely outshine everyone around you. It’s contrast, Vil. Art loves contrast.”

Vil strokes his chin, considering. “You may have a point...”

“Totally! And, like, who would take them seriously anyway? Look at Deuce’s face. He looks like a confused pigeon.”

“Hey!” Deuce protests, but Ace is already nodding.

“Yeah, yeah! Vil, this just makes you look even cooler! Like, people will see this and be like, ‘Wow, he’s untouchable, even next to these losers.’”

Vil finally exhales, his wrath ebbing. “Very well,” he says, smoothing his silks. “I’ll allow it. But only because the juxtaposition highlights my perfection.”

Ace and Deuce sag in relief, clearly missing the word “juxtaposition.”

Later, Trey finds you in the hallway. “I heard what happened,” he says, looking both exasperated and grateful. “Thank you for stopping Vil from poisoning them. Again.”

You shrug. “All in a day’s work.”

Instance 2: Just Leona.

The group is gathered in the cafeteria, the usual buzz of conversation swirling around. Vil sits at the head of the table, eating his meticulously prepared salad—a work of art with perfect symmetry, vibrant greens, and an edible flower garnish.

Leona slouches in his chair nearby, tearing into a steak with all the grace of a feral lion. He pauses mid-bite, glances at Vil's plate, and snorts loud enough to turn heads.

"What's that, Schoenheit? Rabbit food?"

The air grows thick. Vil’s fork stops mid-air, his gaze snapping to Leona like a hawk spotting prey. "Excuse me?" he says, in that icy tone that sends chills down spines.

Leona smirks, undeterred. "You heard me. All those leaves and petals—looks like something I’d feed to the herbivores back home."

There’s a collective oh no from everyone nearby. Jack visibly stiffens, eyes darting between the two like he’s watching a live-action disaster. You’re pretty sure Grim just whispered, “This is gonna be good,” from somewhere behind you.

"It’s called maintaining one’s figure," Vil snaps, placing his fork down with calculated grace. “You wouldn’t understand, considering your diet seems to consist entirely of undercooked meat and mediocrity.”

Leona leans back, looking as smug as a cat in a sunbeam. “At least I eat like a king. Meanwhile, you’re over there grazing like the royal gardener.”

The tension escalates. Vil’s hand twitches toward his fork, and you’re suddenly very sure he’s planning to plant it somewhere deeply unfortunate on Leona.

Time to intervene.

“Vil,” you cut in smoothly, leaning closer to him, “can I just say, you look amazing today? Honestly, I don’t think anyone else could pull off a salad with such elegance.”

Vil blinks, momentarily startled, before his lips curve into a faintly smug smile. “Well,” he says, primly dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, “I do have a certain flair for refinement. It’s not something just anyone can achieve.”

“No, it’s not,” you say firmly, throwing Leona a warning glance. “And anyone who doesn’t see that is clearly just... jealous.”

Leona snorts again but doesn’t push further, clearly uninterested in escalating now that Vil’s focus is on being praised rather than plotting homicide.

Jack gives you a subtle, grateful nod, visibly relieved that he won’t have to referee another dorm-versus-dorm war.

As Vil returns to his salad with renewed dignity, you sit back with a sigh, silently adding prevented cafeteria murder to your list of daily accomplishments.

Instance 3: Theatre Club Madness

It starts, as all things do, with Floyd and his unique brand of chaos. This time, it’s a priceless antique vase from Pomefiore’s lounge that met its tragic end because Floyd “wanted to see if it could fly.”

Spoiler: it couldn’t.

Vil, who witnessed the entire ordeal, was seconds away from summoning a storm of consequences when Floyd, in a rare flash of survival instinct, promised to repay the debt.

“I’ll help with your little drama thing,” Floyd had said with a grin too wide to trust.

That promise didn’t even make it a full day.

By the time Azul appears in Ramshackle, wringing his hands, you already know something’s gone terribly wrong.

“Vil asked Floyd to star in some action scenes for his theater production,” Azul says, clearly on edge. “But Floyd... Well, he’s Floyd.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Let me guess. He skipped?”

“Skipped, vanished, and laughed about it,” Azul confirms. “Vil is furious. I fear he might—”

“Poison the Lounge’s water?” you finish for him.

Azul nods gravely.

Which is how you find yourself in Pomefiore’s theater, holding a script titled The Tragic Tale of Honor and Glory and wearing an outfit that feels heavier than your life choices.

Vil sits in the audience, arms crossed, as you nervously adjust the overly ornate shoulder pads. “Darling, I adore you,” he says smoothly, “but if you ruin my vision, we will have words.”

“Right,” you mutter. “No pressure or anything.”

Rook, of course, is thrilled. “What a magnifique turn of events! A real-life romance brought to life on stage!” he says, twirling a prop sword before handing it to you.

You glance at the script and immediately regret every decision that’s led you here. Floyd’s role isn’t just action-heavy—it’s absurd. You’re supposed to fend off imaginary enemies, deliver heartfelt speeches, and somehow “leap gracefully” across a prop chasm.

“Are we sure this isn’t a punishment?” you whisper to Rook.

“Every great artist suffers for their craft!” he replies, as unhinged as ever.

Rehearsals are... an experience. Vil critiques your sword stance, your dramatic pauses, and even the way you hold the fake shield. “You’re not a barbarian,” he snaps at one point. “This is a knightly role. Show some dignity!”

The only thing keeping you sane is the occasional glimpse of Vil’s smile when you nail a scene. He’s still your Vil—meticulous, demanding, and, beneath it all, proud of you.

By the end of the day, you’re exhausted, but no one’s been poisoned, and Vil is satisfied.

“Darling,” he says as you collapse into a chair, “you might just be a natural.”

You groan in response, but secretly, you’re glad. If starring in a play keeps the peace and earns you a proud smile from your perfectionist boyfriend, it’s worth every ridiculous leap and over-the-top speech.

You're not letting Floyd off the hook though, he now owes you a blood debt.

Instance 4: Runway Disaster

It happens in slow motion. Kalim, with his usual sunshine energy, bounds over to greet Vil during a fitting for his latest custom runway outfit. In one hand, he holds a crystal goblet of bright red juice.

“Kalim, no—” Jamil tries to intervene, but he’s too late.

One excited gesture later, the goblet tilts. The juice spills. And Vil’s pristine white couture ensemble is suddenly dyed a tragic, splotchy crimson.

For a moment, the room is deathly silent. Kalim freezes, his smile faltering as Vil’s expression shifts from shock to something that resembles a villainous Disney queen summoning her final form.

“Oh no,” Jamil mutters, stepping back like a man who knows better than to get involved in an impending disaster.

Vil’s fingers twitch, and actual poison gas starts to swirl faintly around him.

“You…” he begins, voice deadly calm, eyes narrowed at Kalim, who looks like he’s considering whether running or apologizing is the better survival tactic.

Before Vil can unleash his fury (or toxins), you jump in, grabbing his arm like a brave but foolish hero.

“Wait! Think of the headlines,” you blurt. “The great Vil Schoenheit doesn’t panic when disaster strikes. He innovates. He adapts. He turns accidents into opportunities!”

Vil pauses, glancing at you with an arched brow. “Go on.”

“This isn’t a catastrophe—it’s a creative challenge,” you say, channeling your best salesperson energy. “You can redesign the outfit on the fly, show off your genius in real time, and prove why you’re the best.”

Jamil, who’s still lurking near the door, lets out a faint groan. “Don’t drag me into this—”

“Perfect!” you cut him off, pointing dramatically. “Jamil, help us. You’re good with details. Kalim, you’re... great at handing over fabric?”

“I am?” Kalim perks up, always happy to help, even when he’s the source of the problem.

Vil exhales sharply but lowers his hands, the faint poison clouds dissipating. He turns to you, his lips twitching upward in something resembling reluctant approval. “At least someone here recognizes talent when they see it.”

Half an hour later, Jamil is threading needles with the speed of a man who just wants this ordeal to end, Kalim is cheerfully sorting through fabric swatches, and Vil is in full designer mode, issuing commands and adjusting details.

You’re stuck holding a pin cushion and occasionally offering words of encouragement, but hey, no one’s been poisoned, and Vil’s outfit is somehow looking even better than before.

When it’s finished, Vil studies the revamped ensemble with a critical eye, then turns to you.

“Not bad,” he says, which, coming from Vil, is practically a standing ovation.

Kalim beams. “This was fun! Let’s spill juice more often!”

Jamil groans audibly, and Vil rolls his eyes, muttering something about how his brilliance is wasted on “uncultured chaos.” But when he glances at you, there’s a soft glimmer of gratitude.

Maybe you won’t have to stop a literal poison attack every day, but you’re definitely earning your stripes as the official Vil Schoenheit Disaster Manager™.

Instance 5: Epel, why?

Epel’s first mistake is thinking he can sneak a greasy burger into the Pomefiore lounge. His second mistake is sitting right in front of Vil to eat it.

The moment Vil spots the offensive food item, his entire posture stiffens. Slowly, he sets down the teacup he was holding, a faint air of menace radiating from him.

“Epel,” Vil says, voice dangerously calm, “are you seriously eating... that in my presence?”

Epel freezes mid-bite, the burger hovering inches from his mouth. “Uh, I mean... it’s just a quick snack—”

“It’s processed garbage,” Vil snaps, his tone sharp enough to cut diamonds. “Do you even know what’s in it? Chemicals, preservatives, and enough grease to clog your arteries by the time you’re twenty-five!”

You can almost see the poison aura starting to swirl, and your instincts kick in. There’s only one way to de-escalate this. Compliments. Lots of them.

“You know, Vil,” you interject brightly, sidling closer to him, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how absolutely flawless your skin looks today. Did you do something different? A new serum, maybe?”

Vil blinks, momentarily thrown off. “I did switch to a more concentrated vitamin C serum this morning.”

“Wow,” you gush, “it’s really working. You’re practically glowing! Honestly, you look like you just stepped off the cover of a magazine.”

Vil preens slightly, his focus shifting from Epel to himself. Epel catches your subtle hand signal—Run, you fool, run while you still can!—and starts to edge toward the door, burger clutched tightly in his hands.

Rook, who has been lurking silently nearby as usual, suddenly claps his hands together, eyes sparkling. “Ah, mon cher ami, how touching! Such devotion, such cleverness, to save our dear Epel from the wrath of Monsieur Vil! Truly, a love as radiant as the sun itself!”

Vil narrows his eyes at Rook, then at you, clearly aware of what you’ve just pulled. For a second, you think he might ignore your distraction entirely and summon some ancient Pomefiore curse to turn Epel into a cautionary tale.

But then he sighs and shakes his head. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, though there’s a faint, reluctant smile on his lips.

Later, as Rook waxes poetic about your “unwavering dedication,” Vil leans in close and murmurs, “I hope you know that if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t have let this slide.”

“I know,” you say, grinning.

“And you owe me a handmade, organic, non-processed dinner tonight,” he adds, though his tone is more affectionate than demanding.

Fair enough. You’ve just saved Epel from doom and earned yourself a little more of Vil’s soft spot in the process. Not a bad trade-off.

Instance 6: Housewarden meeting

It all starts when Idia mutters the fatal words under his breath at the housewarden meeting.

“Skincare’s just a corporate scam for gullible people, anyway.”

The air goes still. A deathly quiet spreads across the room, save for the faint thump of a pen dropping somewhere in the background. You look up in horror, eyes darting to Vil, who has frozen mid-reading. Slowly, methodically, Vil sets the paper down with the poise of a storm brewing on the horizon.

“Excuse me?” Vil’s voice is icy, his gaze locking onto Idia with the precision of a predator that has just spotted its prey.

Idia, realizing his monumental mistake, turns pale. His flaming hair flickers nervously. “Uh—uh—wait, no, I didn’t mean—uh, you know, for other people, not you! Definitely not you, You’re obviously an exception—uh, outlier—uh—uhhhhh...”

You can see it in Vil’s eyes: hexes. Hexes upon hexes. Idia’s social credit is about to go into the negatives, and it’s up to you to stop this trainwreck before it derails completely.

“Vil, darling,” you say quickly, sliding up beside him and placing a calming hand on his arm, “why waste your brilliance on people who clearly don’t understand skincare? They’re the ones missing out. Why not show them how effective it really is instead?”

Vil’s brow raises, his attention turning to you. “Show them?”

You nod earnestly. “Absolutely. A real-world demonstration. I’ll be your model. You can prove to the entire campus how flawless your methods are by working your magic on me.”

Idia, still rooted to his chair, looks at you with wide, desperate eyes, mouthing, Thank you, oh my god.

Vil considers this for a moment, the dangerous glint in his eyes dimming slightly. “Hm. That does have potential. It’s true that nothing speaks louder than results...” He narrows his gaze at you. “But don’t think this will be easy. You’re going to follow my instructions exactly.”

“Of course,” you say, internally praying you don’t end up with a ten-step skincare routine involving rare herbs and unicorn tears.

Three hours later, you’re sitting in Vil’s dorm room with half your face slathered in a gold-infused sheet mask, while he critiques the lighting for your before-and-after photos. Idia has not only escaped with his life but is actively hiding in Ignihyde, no doubt sobbing into his console for letting this happen.

The next morning, Ortho drops off a neatly wrapped package with a note:

"Thank you for keeping Big Brother from turning into a toad. This is our thank you. Please use it wisely. - Ortho"

Inside is a supply of snacks that Vil would never allow, soda and a very generous gift card.

At least your skin has never looked better

Instance 7: Fashion Show Debate

It happens during the final stages of Vil’s meticulously planned fashion show rehearsal in Pomefiore’s grand hall. The decorators are frantically running around, while Vil oversees every detail with the precision of a hawk. It’s flawless—until Sebek’s voice booms through the air like a thunderclap.

“FASHION IS A POINTLESS PURSUIT WHEN COMPARED TO THE NOBLE ART OF SWORDSMANSHIP!”

Every head swivels toward Sebek, who stands tall, arms crossed, utterly convinced of his own wisdom. He continues, undeterred by the growing silence. “Who cares what you wear when you’re on the battlefield?! True strength lies not in silks and satins, but in the heart of a warrior!”

Vil freezes mid-step, his clipboard trembling in his hand. Slowly, he turns, and you swear you see the faintest shimmer of poison green pooling in his eyes. His glare could cut through steel.

“Excuse me?” Vil says, each syllable sharp and measured.

Sebek, being Sebek, barrels on, entirely oblivious to the danger he’s wading into. “Clothing is irrelevant when facing an opponent of true skill! A warrior’s resolve is their most valuable armor!”

Lilia, lounging nearby, starts wheezing with laughter, clearly finding the whole ordeal the height of entertainment. “Oh, this is delightful. Do go on, Sebek!”

You, however, sense disaster brewing. The tension in Vil’s jaw could snap diamonds, and Sebek’s volume seems to be increasing with every word. If this isn’t diffused soon, you’re going to witness Sebek walking the runway in a cursed tutu and heels.

Thinking quickly, you stride over to Sebek and place a firm hand over his mouth. “Sebek, remember the gargoyle incident?” you say in a low voice.

Sebek freezes, his face going pale. You lean in closer for effect.

“You know,” you continue casually, “the time you spent twenty minutes praising a gargoyle in the castle courtyard because you thought it was Malleus in the dark? Magnificent presence were your exact words, I believe?”

Sebek’s eyes widen in pure panic.

“When you finally realized your mistake,” you add, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “you begged me to swear on my life that I wouldn’t tell Malleus. Do you think he’d laugh? I think he’d laugh.”

Sebek emits a muffled noise beneath your hand, his entire posture deflating. He waves his arms frantically in surrender. You let go, and he turns stiffly to Vil, bowing his head. “My apologies. I spoke out of turn.”

Vil raises a perfectly arched eyebrow but seems satisfied with the reluctant apology. “As you should be. Now, be silent, or I’ll personally ensure you end in heels forever.”

Crisis averted, you glance at Lilia, who gives you an approving wink. Sebek, meanwhile, retreats to the shadows, muttering under his breath about unfair tactics and treacherous secrets.

As the models resume their walk, Vil brushes past you with a quiet, “Good work, darling. Though I’ll admit, I wouldn’t have minded seeing him in heels.”

It’s one of those rare, quiet evenings where the world outside seems to hum in stillness. You’re sprawled on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, savoring the precious downtime. The soft creak of the floorboards is your only warning before Vil’s hands are gently pulling you into his arms.

Startled, you set your phone aside and look up at him. “What’s up?”

Vil doesn’t answer immediately. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms encircling you as if shielding you from the entire universe. His expression is unusually soft, his gaze tracing over your features like he’s memorizing every detail.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says at last, his voice quieter than you’re used to. “You do so much for me. More than I deserve sometimes.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What are you talking about? You deserve the world, Vil.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he looks away for a moment. “I know I’m... a little demanding.”

You snort, which earns you a mock glare. “Okay, fine, maybe a little more than a little." You laugh “But it’s not like I mind.”

“You should. Most people would,” he counters, but his tone is softer now, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’ve been working so hard to keep up with me, to make me happy, even when I’m being a diva.”

That makes you laugh, and the sound seems to melt the last of his hesitation. You cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly against his flawless skin. “Vil, it’s not hard work. It’s a labor of love.”

His eyes widen just a fraction, and then his smile blooms—gentle, radiant, and so genuinely Vil. He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, but the affection in his voice betrays him.

“And yet you love me anyway,” you quip, grinning.

Vil huffs a laugh, his arms tightening around you as he pulls you into a proper embrace. “Hopelessly.”

You stay like that for a while, wrapped in the warmth of each other, the world outside forgotten. It’s just you and Vil, caught in a moment that feels like love personified—sweet, steady, and infinite.

(this is kinda a spiritual successor to the how to tame your dragon malleus fic)

Masterlist

[ghoulphile]

sticky fingers | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 4.5k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; mildly dubious consent, dirty talk, degradation kink, fingering, squirting, rough sex, size kink, standing doggystyle, overstimulation, teasing, choking, dacryphilia, cooper howard is his own warning (he nasty y'all), canon compliant - takes place around ep 7, a grab bag mix of the show and the games ➥ summary | “Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal.” ➥ notes | i love my men like i love my beef jerky 🫠 i wrote this over 16 fevered hours after finishing the finale. hope you enjoy~ minor edits 4/22/24 | x posted to ao3 | masterlist | feedback is always appreciated ❤️ feel free to send in thots, questions, requests!

It begins, as most things in the Southwest Commonwealth do, with a fight for survival.

City life is tough to be sure, but here on the outskirts of pocket civilizations where there’s nothing but long stretches of desolate wasteland - arid, sunbaked earth and scorched shrubbery - for miles around?

Well, if the ferals, fiends, and super mutants don’t get you in the night, then the desert itself will. During the day the sun burns overhead so nuclear hot, heat glimmers on the horizon in dancing waves.

Unforgiving, relentless as blink-and-you-miss-it mirages are swallowed by ever shifting sands.

It’s easy to get lost.

Even easier to boil alive in your armor if you’re unprepared.

Far too many travelers from the Eastern Commonwealths have met their demise here, where shade is sparse, and water even moreso. The rain - if it does blow in over the mountains - brings rad sickness.

If you’re lucky enough to still be alive, the only reprieve from the heat is in the stooped bones of bombed buildings and ramshackle shacks... where you're just as likely to catch a knife in the back from a chem fried addict as you are relief.

Because here, in the Wastes, danger lurks in sand and shadow alike.

You don’t trek out into the flats half-cocked: a fact all locals know. And if you do decide to? Well, you learn one way or another.

No, only the truly ignorant - or the desperate - dare to tempt man and nature.

Consequently, as you dust off the crumbs from the last half of a Fancy Lads Snack Cake and suck a melted smear of icing from your thumb, you're of the latter half.

You tried holding off for as long as you could. But once the shakes started, you knew you couldn’t put off eating lest you pass out and wake up in a slaver camp.

Well, shit, you think as you rattle a dented canister of purified water. This fucking sucks.

Almost going cross-eyed, your tongue hovers under the rim as you watch the last lazy drop fall free. You catch it with a grimace, smacking your lips. The water tastes metal warm in your sour mouth, barely enough to wet your whistle - let alone your thirst.

You began rationing the last of your supplies days ago, and it’s been a battle against light-headedness ever since. Pretty soon you won’t have the strength to defend yourself, scavving be damned.

Come on. Think - gotta think. What can I scrap for caps?

Not only is Filly more than half a day away, Ma June isn’t one for charity cases. The fact she offered twenty extra caps last time for some burnt books and bent bobby pins was as close as you were ever going to get to a Wasteland miracle.

Sunken cheeks and pleading eyes can only get you so far; everyone’s gotta eat.

"Fuck..." The palms of your hands grind into your eye sockets until you see stars. "FUCK!"

There are two unspoken laws in this otherwise lawless land: steal or starve, live or die. A grim reminder that surrounds you in old bleached bones, empty bullet casings, and scraps of cloth fluttering in the breeze.

Someone always has to be top dog. If you’re lucky, they might be willing to share their spoils.

It’s as you’re considering what pieces of yourself you’re willing to barter that you see them. On the horizon, coming from the west, are two dark blobs.

Stark against the flat plains - a shining beacon of salvation - is a man in a ratty duster and cowboy hat. The saddlebag tossed over his shoulder bounces with his steps while a dog trots beside him, its sable coat rippling with muscle.

Pay dirt.

Making sure to keep low and distant, you stalk them. Watching, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

When the sun dips low, the sky a swath of pale pink and gold, they make camp at a blown-out Drumlin Diner. Off in the distance, thunder rumbles and sickly clouds gather.

Dark and roiling, acid green; a Radstorm brewing.

Electricity cracks at your skin, stands your hair on end. You scrub your hands over your arms, huddling into yourself for warmth. Meanwhile, the stranger seems to luxuriate in the budding promise of rad rain.

He lounges under an awning, his back pressed against a defunct Nuka Cola fridge. He gazes in the direction of the oncoming weather while mindlessly running his fingers through the dog’s fur as it curls up against his legs.

Occasionally, its ears twitch, and its eyes crack open.

Whenever it glances in your direction, you hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut but it never gives any other indication that it notices your presence.

A small mercy you’re thankful for.

While you’re a pretty good shot, your body is weak with hunger. Besides, you have quick hands and light feet. There’s no doubt you can stealth your way in and out before he realizes his pack is lighter than he left it.

You’ll only take what you need - not interested in causing any more trouble than is necessary. Some food, maybe something to drink if he can spare it, and something to pawn. Just enough supplies to get you sorted in Filly.

Anyway, he certainly isn’t hurting for it by the look of things.

Any guilt you felt was short-lived when he settled down after dropping his pack inside, walking out with an inhaler of Jet in one hand and a can of Cram in the other.

Watched, greedy, as he cracked it open and picked at the tin of meat with lazy fingers. Salivated as he sucked them clean in between deep pulls of chem.

Soon, you decide, licking your lips as he chews, swallows. Soon.

However when push comes to shove, the stranger proves far more keen than you give him credit for.

The world spins like a hit of Daytripper, a kaleidoscope of color as your skull bounces off the wall with a loud crack. Air rushes from your lungs as something huge - hot and heavy - slams into you from behind.

Pins you against the wall with ease as your ears ring.

Something rattles loose; your teeth too large and your tongue too thick. Warm metal floods your mouth as the side of your face throbs in time with the rabbit fast stutter of your heartbeat.

Pain sparks and your stomach rolls.

"Wha's?" you slur, thoughts dripping like wax. "Wh-at's..."

Meanwhile, a gloved hand lassos around your throat like a collar. Brute fingers squeeze the tender flesh of your jugular until you hear your pulse in your ears. Senses struggling - sluggish to adjust in the encroaching night - as tiny cavities eat at your vision, little pockets of darkness.

“Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal," a gruff voice mocks. “Betcha thought you was real slick, huh? Tch. You ask me, you’re dumber than shit, Darlin'.”

Trying to regain your bearings, you shake your head only to groan. “I don’t - ‘m not -” It’s difficult to concentrate, a throbbing tempo taking up residence in your temples. The words come slow. “Wha’d you mean?”

He whistles, long and low-pitched, "D’ya have any idea who you're fucking with?"

“N-No…”

“How’s about I show you, then?”

Warm breath puffs over the shell of your ear, a tongue sliding out to trace along the lobe. You jolt, squirming in discomfort as he crowds closer.

“Tasty lil thing like you, wrapped up all nice and pretty just for me." He chuckles. "Why, it must be Christmas.”

What the hell is he talking about?

It’s hard to breathe with his heavy weight suffocating you; the scent of gunpowder and bitter smoke clogging your nostrils with every labored inhale. His lips - ragged - scrape over the nape of your neck.

The grip on your throat squeezes once, twice; leather sticks to your sweaty skin.

You squint your sore eyes, taking in the faint flickers of firelight that spill through the open doorway. The desert chill of night has settled in, creeping through the busted out windows to dig beneath your padded armor.

Thunder rumbles directly overhead as lightning follows in flashes of acid green. It’s only a matter of time before sheets of rain come pouring down; the air sticky with humidity, trembling with energy.

The Radstorm has finally arrived.

You’ll undoubtedly get sick if you leave the shelter of the diner - might even die from it if you can’t afford or find any RadAway. But as the stranger’s chest digs into your shoulders, and the dog curls up in the corner - uncaring of your plight as its nose tucks into the whip-thin tail - you think you’ll take your chances.

Tilting back to glance at him from over your shoulder through damp eyes, you say, “Look--”

Only his hand moves, viper quick, as it slides from the front of your neck to the nape. Strong fingers clamp down like a vice, like scuffing an unruly dog.

He grinds your face into the wall, rough metal shredding your cheek.

You cry out, a soft, pained little thing that echoes through the empty diner.

“Now why’d you gotta go an' make me do that?”

A phantom glimpse told you all you needed to know; broad jaw, thin lips, a hollow nasal ridge, creeping radiation burns and cracked skin. Ghoul.

“Let’s try this again, Sugar.”

His free hand - sans glove - creeps over the curve of your hip to splay along the swell of your belly, fingers tucking up under the hem of your shirt. You shiver at the stroke of roughened skin.

“Don’t take another peep or I might jus' have ta pluck out those pretty eyes of yours.”

Dread pools low in your gut, a leaden ball.

Everything in you screams: RUN, RUN, RUN.

Alarms blare but you freeze. Stare straight ahead at the featureless wall, eyes wide and unseeing. Through the foggy mire of your thoughts - half formed and shapeless - you have enough presence to understand the precarious nature of your position. 

Heart hammering, you plead for mercy, “Please, I’m - I’m sorry.”

"Aw, ain't that real sweet?" He remains impassive, unmoved. "The little thief does got some manners after all."

Without warning, the sharp toe of his cowboy boot kicks apart your feet. In the ensuing empty space between your thighs, his leg slots into place. Spurs dig into the tender meat of your ankle, little kisses of pain, as his hips rut forward against your ass.

You choke on your spit, pulse jumping in your throat.

"H-Hey, that's..." You attempt to shove at any part of him you can reach to no avail. Built and broad with compact muscle, it's like trying to move a brick wall. "I said I was sorry, okay!"

He ignores you, burying his face into the space behind your ear. A deep inhale sounds next to your head, the expansion of his chest against your back so firm you're not sure you won't fuse together.

The whiskey rough groan he releases does wicked things, makes your mind wander to places it shouldn't. Full of grit and gravel as his cock twitches against your backside, a burning line of heat.

A shiver ricochets down your spine.

He grunts, says, "Mm, you smell good enough ta eat."

The cap of his knee nudges up against your clit with a sudden jolt, shocks of pleasure electrifying your body. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and a sob threatens to scrape its way up from the depths of your throat.

You swallow, mouth desert dry. "Come on, let's just forget all about this, yeah?" you reason. "No harm done. I'll even give you whatever I've got left so - so..."

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest. "So?" he prompts, plucking at the waistband of your trousers.

"So let me go?"

"Now why would I go an' do an asinine thing like that?" he replies. "If you think you can buy your freedom, think again, Sweetheart."

Rain pings off the metal roof, the smell of pungent ozone and rusting metal wafting in through busted windows and open doors.

“'Sides,” he pauses to turn your attention outside, “I’d hate ta have you yakin’ before the fun’s even started.”

There’s no way to misconstrue his meaning when he punctuates the statement with a teasing rut of his hips. Those rugged fingers tug open the clasp of your trousers, yank until the material goes slack and pools around your ankles.

“Hey, wait--!”

You jolt, hands scrambling for purchase as he slides his leg against your core. The friction of his pants through your thin cotton underwear makes you ache.

Ripping through your bottom lip, blood beading to the surface, you choke on a high-pitched whimper. "I..."

There's no way he can't feel your reaction.

How quickly you're getting wet as he drags you along the length of his thigh while yanking your hips back into the cradle of his pelvis. You meet him in a slow grind that boils your blood and steals the breath from your lungs.

It’s been - shit - far too long since you’ve felt anything other than hunger, thirst; the animal drive to keep pushing forward.

"You like this, don'tcha?"

You hear the dagger-sharp smile hidden in his words.

He croons, "What would your fellow smoothies think, huh? Here you are lettin’ a ghoul get you all hot n bothered - and you’re lovin’ it. Ain't you?"

You throb in response, heat stealing its way into your cheeks as you turn your head away in shame. His dark chuckle lets you know he felt the squeeze of your thighs, the rock and dip of your hips against his knee.

"I - I don't..." you stutter, struggling for a retort. “I’m not--”

A tremble works its way through your body, crushed as you are between the rad warm burn of his body and the wall. Completely at his mercy as you try to figure out where it all went wrong and what you can do to worm your way out of this one.

Terrified of what'll happen if you stay, terrified of what'll happen if you go; stuck in limbo as what was meant to be a simple grab-and-dash devolved into this confusing cluster of shame and lust.

You loathe the embers of desire kindling to life low in your belly.

"You really outta start bein' more honest, Sweetheart."

A large hand dips beneath the worn band of your underwear, and you wait with baited breath. Helpless as calloused fingertips brush over the swell of your mond.

Your inner thighs are uncomfortably sticky with slick, and your eyes burn in humiliation. Your throat trembles around all the words you want to say.

"Didn't anyone teach you lyin' was bad?" he asks rhetorically as his fingers slip down to play with the swollen bud of your clit, tapping lightly.

You keen, low and wounded.

Short nails dig into your palms as you flex your hands for want of something to grab onto.

“I am being honest,” you bite out through grit teeth. Sweat dapples your furrowed brow. “Just lemme go, please.”

"I find that hard ta believe," he replies. "Sorry to say, but you're shit at lyin'. Just look how hungry your lil cunt is for me."

It’s the only warning you get before those long digits plunge deep inside, two becoming three as they stretch you wide. Hollow you out; knuckles massaging your entrance as the tips prod along the sensitive front wall of your cunt.

You clamp down with a strangled moan. “Shit!”

This is a horrible idea - but it’s been forever and a day since you’ve felt anything other than your own touch.

Whether it be the bone-deep loneliness you’ve been shoving down for months or the sudden, inexplicable need for contact, you long for a reminder that you’re still alive.

That you’re not some wrath of the Wasteland filled with sand and blood, doing whatever it takes to survive in a place that would rather see you fail.

“I - I’m not sure.”

He snorts but offers no council or reassurances, using his free hand to yank at the back of your head in impatience. While it might’ve been a fairer fight if you weren’t in such bad shape, there’s no denying that he’s proven himself to be more adept.

Stronger, quicker.

This is going to happen either way.

And that turns you on - even though you feel like it shouldn’t.

If you give in, if he forces you to give in, it’s not really your fault then, is it? You can enjoy it because you have no choice.

Fuck it, you think, closing your eyes and tilting your head to the side in submission.

Like a doll with cut strings, all the fight drains from your body and you’re left sharing space. The ghoul is a furnace of heat behind you, barely any space to breathe he’s crowded so close.

His cock thickens where it digs into the soft fat of your ass, as large and intimidating as the man himself. “Now stay still for me.”

The or else goes unspoken.

Then he’s stepping away, a rush of cold air filling the empty space at your back.

You shiver, tempted to turn around. Maybe make a run for it. The only thing stopping you is the awareness that his threats aren’t so idle. In your experience, it’s far better to befriend the monster than to anger it.

So you comply, waiting an eternity as your senses strain to pick up on anything other than the murmuring hush of rain, the rumble of thunder, as the Radstorm continues to blow its way through.

Though just when you think he might’ve left, ready to chance moving, you hear the clink of a belt buckle clicking open. The scuff of boots across the linoleum before broad hands shove up under your shirt, scarred palms bare as they settle on your hips.

You tense before forcing yourself to relax.

“You ain’t as stupid as I thought,” he says. “Good girl.”

A test.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

“I can listen,” you mumble, keeping calm as his hands explore the plains of your stomach, pluck at the waistband of your panties. “Promise ‘m not gonna do anything else.”

Learned my lesson the first time. Got my skull cracked open for it.

“That’s what I like ta hear.”

Without warning, your panties are being ripped from you, scraps of fabric fluttering useless to the floor. You squawk in indignation but then a heavy hand settles between your shoulder blades.

He presses down, and you follow without complaint, finding yourself bent in half.

And then the fat head of his cock is right there, teasing at your entrance. He plays with your cunt, slipping the shaft between your wet folds. Dragging up the length of you to tap at your swollen clit.

Jerking in his hold, you whine and try to bear down with all your weight. “Please,” you squirm. “Please, c’mon…”

His grip remains firm, bruising as he exhales next to your ear, a pleased little grumble. “Thatta girl. Now tell me, who’s my pretty lil thief?”

Every hard ridge of his body bites into the softness of yours, your stiff nipples dragging against the rough material of your shirt. Zings of pleasure shoot through you; bursting in your bloodstream, fizzy like warm Nuka Cola.

“I-”

“Go on now, Sweetheart: say it.” Fingers dig into your hips so hard your bones ache. “Or I jus' might be tempted ta take a bite outta your pretty lil backside instead.”

He’s bluffing, you think, half delirious, … Right? He wouldn’t--

You swallow, throat clicking, and squirm against him.

Is that a chance you’re willing to take?

No, no it’s not.

“Y-Yours - I’m - I’m your little thief.”

The unexpected flare of satisfaction in his voice is almost your undoing. A hand pets down your flank, swatting the outside of your thigh playfully.

“Good girl.” He demands, “Say it again.”

Sharp hip bones kick forward against your ass as he lines himself up and starts to bully his way inside.

“I’m - YOURS!”

Your soft, gummy walls flutter, squeeze until giving in with a pop under the hard pressure of the fat head. His cock stretches you out, thick and girthy.

Ridges of scar tissue and patches of rough friction pockmark his shaft, massaging tender places as he fills you up, fucking you open.

He feeds you inch after inch… until he can’t.

“Wait!”

Accommodating his girth is a struggle, your cunt filled to the brim by the time he’s halfway inside. No amount of slick could make him fit, so he makes do with harsh little jerks of his hips. Forces himself deeper and deeper until he glides home nice and smooth, sheathing himself to the base with a sigh of satisfaction.

You clamp down hard with a hiccupy whine, walls furtively trying to push him out. “A-Ah!”

“Goddamn,” he huffs, hands kneading your ass, “You’re a tight fit.”

Tears prick your lash line, your hips shifting as you try to stop him from moving. Begging for a moment of reprieve. You’ve never taken something so big and thick, so textured before.

Coupled with the minimal foreplay, it feels like he’s punched his way through your body. Hollowed you out to make a home for himself.

Pussy aching, a low burning tightness creeps over your lower belly as tender flesh pulses uncomfortably around the unforgiving heft of his cock seated deep inside. You swear you feel him poking your belly button.

“Please,” you pant, heat settling into your cheeks. “J-Just wait a sec-ond! I can’t - oh shit.” 

“Aw, look at you.” Fingers reach around to brush over your cheeks, gather the tears that’ve slipped free. “Didn’t mean ta make you cry,” he lies.

The sound of him sucking his fingers clean reaches your ears. Your stomach swoops, and your clit throbs. Dazed as you wonder what his mouth would feel like on your pussy.

"Hah - too much, you're - fuck - you're too big."

He snickers. “Can’t be helped, I guess.” Body rippling in a shrug, his hands re-settling on your hips. “But that’s all right - I like it better when they cry.”

Before you can retort, he pulls his hips back.

Your toes curl in your boots, feet squeaking across the linoleum floor as your sweaty forehead grinds into the cool metal of the wall. The texture of his shaft burns as it slides through your swollen folds, dragging against sensitive spots you didn’t even know existed.

You can’t tell if it’s the best you���ve ever felt or the worst, but you nearly sob all the same, nerves alight with liquid fire. Want him as deep inside as he can go; a frenzy of desperation that needs him to stuff you so full you choke.

“See for all your whining, you’re takin’ me so well. What did I say about bein' honest?”

You sniffle, blurry eyes creaking open to stare out the window.

Your body throbs in time with your pulse, your pussy so stretched out you can’t clench down when he thrusts in deep. The fat mushroom head teases your cervix, a faint whisper, before he’s drawing back again.

“T-Too fast,” you stutter, head rolling back to rest on his shoulder. Your thighs tremble, knees going soft. “Slow down, slow down.”

“Sh, you can take it. I know you can.”

With a grunt, he surges forward. Wasting no time in starting up a brutal pace that rattles your bones. He drives you hard into the side of the diner; tits crushed and face smashed, a disgusting mixture of tears and drool wetting your cheek.

“Just like that, Sweetheart.”

You do little more than hold on, all thoughts driven from your mind as he fucks you swollen and bruised. Cunt a sticky mess as your slick eases the way, clinging to your inner thighs and dripping down his heavy balls.

Every thrust punches little sounds from you, and he grunts. “Fuck!”

Your hands cling to the sides of his hips, focusing on the shift of muscle beneath heavy fabric. “I can’t,” you slur, eyes cloudy as you glance up into his, gazes meeting for the first time. “Please, I - ah!”

His thrusts turn punishing, even more so than they already were, hips meet your ass with enough force to leave bruises. “What did I say about sneakin' a peek?”

While the words sound threatening, his voice is heated and breathy. For all his talk, he doesn’t look away. In fact, his hips slow into languid rolls, grinding close. When your eyes slide from his, he reaches down to pinch your clit between his fingers.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides. “You keep those eyes on me.”

Pretty, you think, dazed.

Glinting in the slants of firelight like wet sand or a Nuka Cola bottle in the sun; bourbon warm as they peer at you from beneath a heavy brow bone.

“That’s it, there’s my good girl."

Eyes fluttering when he flexes his hips in reward, the tip massaging along your g-spot, your mouth drops open on a whine.

“O-Oh! Right there, I - fuck, please don’t stop. ‘m so close.” F-Feels s'good.

His bare hand reaches up to curl around your jaw, gnarled fingers pushing their way past the open circle of your swollen lips. They compress your tongue as they gather saliva, stroking along your tastebuds.

Gritty, rough; he tastes of dirt, blood, and gunpowder.

You sneak a kiss to his scarred knuckle when he pulls free.

“Shit, I’ll be damned. You’re just a nasty lil freak, ain't you?”

You moan in response, stretching up on your tip-toes and arching your hips to change the angle. Your palms rest beside your head, docile.

A crazed grin cracks the corners of his lips, his teeth bared like an animal. “I like that,” he husks. “Now be a peach…”

Then those soaked digits are finding their way between your thighs, ghosting over your skin to smear spit onto your abused clit. The tender bud throbs beneath his fingertips, swollen and begging for attention.

He hitches his hips forward to feel you jerk, pulsing beneath his touch as he resumes a fast, jolting pace that has you smacking into the wall.

“And cum for me.”

A deep rumble escapes his throat, the sloppy, wet sounds of him fucking you ringing loud in your ears. Your hips roll, unsure if you want to press forward into the swirl of his fingers or back into the rut of his cock.

Tears stream down your cheeks, your chest heaving with weak sobs.

“Please,” you whine, his shaft pinching your walls uncomfortably. You feel swollen, rubbed raw. “A-Almost there.”

A nip to the ear is all it takes.

“Hhaah, I’m--!”

The liquid heat that’s been pooling low in your belly - building and building - finally bursts in a gush of slick that soaks his hand. Darkens the crotch of his pants as it drips down your thighs to splash against the tile.

You sob, a full body tremor zipping through you like bottled lightening.

In the aftermath, your cunt twitches in time with your heartbeat. Hands numb and head full of cotton as cramps bloom between your hips. Sharp little stabs shoot up behind your navel.

“Shit, I’ve got myself a gusher,” he laughs, a nasty little smirk tugging at his lips. “Look at the mess you made. Now if you ask real sweet-like, maybe I’ll let you clean it up with your tongue.”

You sag, too boneless to be ashamed as electric aftershocks tingle along your nerves. All the while, his pace never falters, quickly fucking you into overstimulation.

Your clit twitches pathetically when the fat head of his cock drags along your g-spot. "No more," you mumble weakly, letting him maneuver your body how he likes. "Please."

“Heh, let’s see if you can do that again.”

You whimper, “Oh, oh, please n-no. I - I can’t. You’ll break me.”

“That’s real cute,” his lips, harsh and rasping, drag over the shell of your ear, “but I wasn’t askin’.”

The grip on your hips tightens to the point of pain, digging in and marking you up.

“Now, why don’ we have some real fun, Darlin'?”

[yeyinde]

Would you consider writing a poly141 version of the babytrap universe? Completely understand if it’s not to your interest to write, but I would love to see that story play out in your delicious writing style :)

ohh, absolutely. i think the best way to do it would be to have poor reader, desperate for a family of her own, and making the stupid decision to hand her resignation into Price.

and then admitting, shyly, that there's no man in your life, just a donor waiting for you to sign the papers and make the deposit for the procedure. thanking him for everything he's done, of course; but you're excited for this new chapter in your life.

He accepts it. Sure. Smiles tightly, and says, "good luck." Calls a meeting after to discuss it with the rest of the team. Closed door. A little unusual, but nothing that immediately raises your hackles. You're too busy cleaning up your desk to really pay much attention to hushed whispers in Price's office. Happy to celebrate, too, when Johnny invited you out for drinks after. Tae say goodbye properly, he said, and looking back, you should have seen through the faux sadness draped over his brow. Picked up on the giddy excitement buzzing around him as he led you to the bar, as he offered to get you drinks. Handed you an open bottle. Tipping it back for you to drink more. 

Keep goin’, doe. Drink ‘er up. 

Another one. Another. Your head swims. Kyle is there, hands warm on your waist, breath rippling across the sweat gathering on the nape of your neck. 

“C’mon, birdie. Have a shot with me.” He coos, bringing the glass to your lips, chest glued to your spine. “Can't believe you want a baby. Fuck, birdie, that's—”

Johnny murmurs something under his breath. You blamed the three glasses of whiskey sour (Price wouldn't let you have anything else) and a shot of tequila for why it sounded like,

hope it's mine—

To the left of you, Ghost snorts under his breath. Shifts in the stool that creaks, whining under his weight. You blink through fog seeping into your head, this strange, syrupy torpor that bleeds into the corners of your vision, makes everything feel muted, far away, and turned to him with a pout. 

He'd been acting strange ever since Price told him your plans. Quieter, somehow. But—

There. 

Everywhere. 

Your fixed shadow. Looming in the corners. 

You make to ask him what the hell he's doing, why he's following you around, but the words slosh out in a tangle. Incompressible.

Ghost huffs. His gloved hand lifts, falls to your throat, holding you steady with his thumb digging shallowly into your pulse. 

“Careful,” he mocks, dragging the word out like he was speaking to a misbehaving child. It bristles through you, but your tongue is thick. Liquid in your mouth. “Got a big night ahead o’you yet, pet. Try not t’hurt yourself before I get to knock you up.”

Distantly, you think you hear Gaz say something—oi, mate, maybe—but there's a shrill ringing in your ear that drowns it all out. A cotton spooling in your head. You blink—foolishly—and lean into his palm, mouth dropping in surprise. Shock. 

Horror. 

“Wha—?”

But it's too late, of course. What you thought were the comforting threads of a warm blanket spooling over your shoulders was the silken strands of a spider's web the whole time. Caught in their trap. 

And then you come to with a warm weight pressed against your back, a thick, hairy arm slung around your shoulders. Trapping you tight against a warm, broad chest.

“Want a baby, mm?” your captain coos in your ear, humid breath tickling your skin. Dampening it slightly as he leans in close, lips pressed to the shell—a warm, wet heat that makes you tremble—and adds: “fine, love. Since you want one so bad—” 

An arm lashes out of the shadows dancing around the room; through the heavy haze, the fog in your head (the last thing you remember is being offered a drink by Johnny, another by Kyle—), you struggle to make sense of what's happening around you as rough, dry fingers curl over your knee, prying your thighs apart: 

“—then we'll give it to you.”

You watch, dazed, dizzy, as cherryred knuckles slip down the valley of your spread legs, the ink on their thick fingers flexing, dancing, in the slip of pale moonlight until they curl into the hem of your panties, tugging the fabric roughly to the side. 

The sudden swell of cold air on your exposed cunt makes you gasp. Your knees jerking, trying to fold together to hide yourself, preserve some modicum of modesty, but the hand on your flesh tightens. Prevents you from moving. It keeps you open for their gaze. Lets them all gawk at the wide knuckles pressed against the seam of your pussy. Flushed in the low light. Dripping—

In the murk, someone groans—

“Shoulda told us sooner you wanted a fuckin’ baby, sweet’art. Woulda given you one sooner before y’had to go an’ do somethin’ so foolish—”

Foolish. Like paying for another man to put a baby inside of you when that privilege belongs to them. And them alone.

And really—

You should have known better.

[merakiui]

thing.

yandere!skully j. graves x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, stalking, fear/paranoia, brief mention and description of dead animals note - "he is there—and there again, but you cannot see him plain, for the shadow lies so darkly on the hill."

There is a bundle of black roses propped against your door. Thirteen of them, devoid of thorns, but the threat is still there—nestled within the petals, a foreboding symbolism.

A stupid Halloween prank, you think, gathering the roses and tossing them out.

Come tomorrow, there is a new bouquet waiting for you. These are white, but they have their thorns. A small card accompanies the gift. There’s a message printed in an old typewriter font: No good?

Like before, you discard these flowers. You have no time for secret admirers or daft nonsense.

So the roses stop blooming at your door, tied up with pretty twine and ribbons. Instead, you receive bones and carcasses. A mouse skull. Deer teeth. A mangled bird, its wings snapped and bent at the joints. A rabbit’s foot, warm and still bleeding, the bone jutting out from severed flesh. The roses, you think, were a preview of what was to come—of what you’d soon be mourning.

These macabre presents are wrapped sincerely, shrouded daintily with frilly cloth. They come with their own set of cards, each one typed just like before. 

I can see you.

Good luck on your exam today. Carry this rabbit’s foot with you and you shall know fortune.

This naughty bird is always cawing outside of your window. It wakes you up, so I silenced it for you. It is most beautiful in death, is it not?

Are you going to bring that friend of yours around again? I don’t quite like the scent they leave on your sheets. :(

So you share these morbid anecdotes with your friends over dinner. They don’t believe you.

“You’ve one persistent dog after you,” one of them remarks, eyeing the pictures with a curious, doubtful eye. “A real rotten mutt.”

“But I don’t have a dog,” you reply.

“Well, something’s coming home to you every night.”

“It’s just me. I live alone.”

“Do you? You sure nothing’s following you? You don’t hear the jingle of a collar? The soft padding of paws on tile, loyally trailing after its owner?”

At the time, you thought these were foolish questions.

“The flowers? Definitely a person,” your logical friend suggests. “The dead stuff? Probably a wild animal. A hawk once dropped a mouse in my yard. It’s normal. Someone’s just making a nasty time out of it, leaving those notes to scare you.”

That sounds reasonable. You choose to believe it even when there are inconsistencies and clues that prove otherwise.

You check the locks on your doors and windows. You consider buying cameras, but maybe that’s misplaced paranoia. No one’s inside your house. No person or thing could possibly get in. You’re not sure what would be worse: a tangible human being with human hair, human eyes, and human teeth, or a thing. A thing with claws and a razored maw. A thing with inhuman strength and the eerie quietness of a phantom, plucked right from your nightmares and dropped in reality.

A human being is tangible. A thing could be anything. It could also be nothing.

“I’m not interesting enough to have a stalker,” you tell your logical friend. “Not special enough or rich enough. Not attractive enough.”

“You don’t have to be,” they tell you. “Sometimes all you need to be is alone and vulnerable. Sometimes all you need to do is exist so that they have something to latch onto—something they can covet no matter what.”

“Do you think they’ll kill me?” you ask next, hesitating around that word. Kill. It’s so final and exact. “If they can do such gruesome things to those animals…”

“Or it could be a dog. Dogs don’t kill their owners. They’re loyal.”

“But it’s not a dog. I don’t even think this thing is domesticated.”

“Then what is it?”

“Something.”

It is something malevolent. It is something malicious. It is something you can’t quite fathom—something you can’t picture in your mind because it is always swapping shapes. One minute it’s a nest of mice dwelling within your walls. The next it’s a shadow creature—a demon or a monster. The next it’s a human with strange proportions, too-long legs and too-long arms and a too-long torso. The next it’s a dog with a long, long snout and very human eyes, with human hands for paws, with a curling smile that reveals gaps in its pointed, bloody maw. It feasts on flesh and hunts little, defenseless songbirds, and it’s after you because it wants something you can’t give it.

What does it want? Is this thing even real? Perhaps the anxiety is making a monster out of nothing.

You twist and turn in the dark, wrapped up in sheets that feel more itchy than they do comforting. You’re cold all over, sweating an ocean in your bed. You think your heart might burst out of your chest at any minute. Every creak and groan of the house unsettles nerves that are already pulled impossibly taut. You gaze into the dark doorway, squinting through shadows that look like they’re waltzing in and out of focus.

Or…

Is the door breathing? Is someone there?

You rub your eyes and relief filters in. There’s nothing.

Or…

Your phone cuts a slice of light through your bedroom. You shine it towards the door from where you cower on your bed. There’s nothing.

Your friend—the unfunny one—texts you then, and the vibration scares you more than your imagination. A text is tangible, easily categorized, and yet it’s the scariest thing you’ve just received at this moment, however ghoulishly playful it may be.

u need a leash for ur dog?

You drop your phone. It illuminates the space beneath your bed for a second before the screen shuts off.

You think you hear someone breathing or a heart beating. It’s yours.

Or…

Swallowing thickly, you reach for your phone. You feel soft, fluffy hair. At first, you think it really is a dog when a warm, wet tongue laves over your palm. But you don’t have a dog, and it’s then when you feel the rest of this…thing. Human ears. Human nose. Human mouth. Human teeth. 

Another text brightens your phone. The screen flickers on.

You peek over the edge of your mattress to find a distinctly human face smiling back at you.

might as well get a collar too yeah?

[rae-gar-targaryen]

darling, how could i fear any hurricane? [qimir/the stranger x force sensitive!reader]

Summary: Neither the backwater planet you’d chosen for yourself, nor the sanctity of your own mind, is safe from the nightly visitations of your dream stranger. Is he real, or just another trick of the mind? And what of the power he promises? Desire, he’d spoken of. Desire, desire, desire…

Pairing: Qimir/The Stranger x Force-Sensitive!reader [my reader is written ambiguously, but as with all of my reader inserts are written with a Latina!reader in mind]

Warnings: 18+ please – fingering, dry humping, the brief mention of choking, Qimir being a seductive motherfucker, relatively minor smut, all things considered. The briefest descriptions of violence; reader has female anatomy.

Word Count: 5.7k of sinful soliloquy and definitely no manipulation. No, you want this power, don’t you??

A/N: Breaking my writing drought with this. I don’t know if it’s any good, and no one asked for it. But I’m glad to be sharing my writing again. Please be gentle!! Also, if you’ve ever read my Mandalorian x princess!reader fic, there’s an easter egg in here for you!

--

The verdant planet of Vorduun was known for very little – A small, outer-world, far from the shiny Core planets that boast chrome, progress, and bureaucracy. Lush plantlife, a fertile place with brimming riverbanks, and jungles teeming and thrumming to life with flora and fauna at the turn of the seasons. Off the edge of the map. Off the edge of the world. A perfect place to hide.

To lose yourself. 

And the night is stifling, to say the least. Of all the Vorduunian summers you’d endured in your self-isolation, this one had to be the worst. The months’ long deluge of spring rains had made for a stiflingly humid summer, the green jungle steaming with sticky heat. If a saving grace was to be found in the swelter, it was that the night skies were unlike everything you’d ever beheld – a far cry from the fluorescent pollution endemic of your years on Courscant. 

Tonight's Vorduunian sky is no exception – a clear expanse of rich velvet, stars like diamonds crushed into the smooth folds of the expansive sky. Twinkling and winking richly down at you through the gaping slats of the shack you now called home. 

You twist, a serpent in your own threadbare bedsheets, attempting to find comfort in the sticky summer heat of the planet, chasing the elusive promise of coolness as you flip your pillow to the other side with a huff. 

Kind of a sick game, if you thought about it. That if you weren’t running from something, you were chasing something else. 

At present? Chasing a good night’s rest. Preferably dreamless, if you were honest. Your dreams of late are plagued with all sorts of incomprehensible flashes, feelings of being watched, feverish and hazy. Your subconscious’s foreboding certainty that if you’d only just turn around, you’d be met with a face that was not your own -– the disquieting sense of something, or someone, lurking just around a corner. Sprinting down echoing hallways with promises, greatness, a warrior's oath, all just out of reach, certain that if you’d slowed your pace, whatever was pursuing you might just snatch you, an unseen stranger.

Other nights, the dreams were different – the unflinching and unchanging grin set in a mask of metalloid teeth, baring themselves at you . Of ever-watchful eyes judging, as you forced yourself through training drills. The disapproving shake of your Master’s head, his disappointment palpable and always, always directed at only you . The seizing terror of being dropped into combat with no saber – of being skewered through by an unseen shadow with a red plasma blade. Of walls closing in on you. Of the Knights whom you had once considered your friends turning their backs on you while you fought tooth and nail. Of your lungs filled with your unreleased screams – of terror or frustration, you weren’t sure – pulling you down beneath the surface of your failure until you drowned in the disappointment of others’ unfulfilled expectations. Of hands on an unseen body tinkering with phials of something, producing poisonous concoctions of sickly green that the unseen stranger dripped down your throat, pouring them past your lips with sure, warm fingers pressing on your tongue. You swore you could feel the poison upon your waking, the phantom feeling of liquid shredding your veins with horrific heat, your heart thundering. 

Other nights the dreams were different yet, still. Of shadows shedding their inky cloak to reveal hands that caressed. Of hands that held you and wiped your tears. Of thorns falling from vines – leaving what once had pricked and scratched you to now soothe with velvety softness as the vines wound their way around your wrists, tugging you into an unseen embrace with whispers of promises humming in your ears like the tufty wings of insects. And you would go willingly. Of the warm breath of another in your ear, their body warm behind you, distinct in its softness from that of the sunwarmed cliffs the two of you would watch the sunset from, just you and your unseen stranger. Of those same metalloid teeth melting into a radiant smile of brilliant white, beheld in a sharp jaw – the critique of disapproving masters replaced by his balmy, sublime approval. 

Of the tease and taste of his cinnamon lips brushing your own, the fluttering fan of lashes along the peaks of your cheekbones. Of warm, wan whispers of want , desire , soothing your ears. Of warm, fine-boned, assured hands atop your own, guiding yours in a sensuous glide along your own skin. Promises of m ore, more, more as silken lips slipped their way along the column of your throat – your hitching gasps met with his rumbling hums of satisfaction that lasted in your ears for the duration of the following day. Of the gentle lapping of water over smooth-rocked shores, a hand grasping yours with a promise of power. Yet again of more, more, more, if you’d just … Well, you weren’t sure. 

What you were sure of was that it had been weeks of these dreams. Your exhaustion was tugging at the corners of your reality, manifesting itself into silly mistakes – a slipped knife while cutting your meals, or the prickling feeling of someone watching from the dark corner of your room. At times, you weren’t sure what was real and what was dreamscape. A slow descent into madness, torment that felt justified, somehow –-

This purgatory was clearly your penance for your failure. To atone for the fact that you could never be more than what you are now – a former padawan cast out of a renowned Order, thanks in part to her own passions and propensities, roiling rages, and lilting lust. A warrior stripped of all pomp and credential. A blistering reminder of something never to be, of someone you could never be. 

And so here you were. Piteous and exiled in the jungles of Vorduun with no one other than your occasional unseen dream stranger for company. And what of tonight? Had you slept? Were you asleep? The hazy jungle heat made it impossible to tell. When your days consist of the same, tedious routine maintenance to your little corner of jungle, purely isolated, save for irregular treks to the nearest settlement to barter … And when you tossed and turned your nights away in fitful fugue states of half-awake melded with oppressive dreams – well, who was to say what was really real?  

The ghost of a touch along your exposed shoulder didn’t merit a response … Until it happened again. Causing you to sit bolt upright in bed, eyes tracking the room for any disturbance – seen or unseen. 

That prickle, so like static rippling across your skin couldn’t be the Force. No, no. It was the trickle of sweat down the back of your neck, and nothing else. What reason would you have to feel the Force here, now? 

Just another heated night, just another heated dream….

And now, were your eyes deceiving you, or were the shadows in the corner of your room were moving, swirling into shape as a well-toned arm emerges from the darkness, raised in a gesture of … peace? And the rest of him follows, stepping into the muted illumination from your single gaslamp that sputters in the corner of your room, casting his shadow along the opposite wall, sinuous and slinking as he slowly approaches. 

You spring from your bed, eyes darting to the loose slat in your floor where you housed your ill-used saber, quickly considering the relative size of your room and how many steps it would take him to reach you, arms outstretched, to snuff the life from you before you could call the blade to your hand . 

His eyes track yours, clocking the floorboard, before placing both hands up in front of him now, a plea – 

“You don’t need that,” he murmurs, taking a tentative step toward you. And whether it was the room that shrank around you both, or that was just his presence in your space – so unused to anyone but you – you weren’t sure.

“Need what?” Play dumb, and he won't have any reason to harm you, leaving you an opportunity to strike. Your favorite trick, a minor deception for a tactical advantage.

He steps into the dim, flickering light of the gas lamp, a mild smirk blooming along his full lips, the lamplight warming his skin.

“Your Jedi weapon.”

You glance once more between the loose floorboard and the man slowly approaching you, cocking your head as his features became revealed to you, your mind tickling with recognition as you noted the sharp angle of his jaw and the baleful, syrupy darkness of his eyes –

“You,” you breathe. “I know your face.”

“Do you?” His eyes meet yours, searching. 

Yes. You had a good memory for faces, and his you had seen a few times before. Your trips to the nearest settlement every tenday for the open-air market to barter what you had cultivated from the land around your ramshackle home for fruit, thread, and other goods you didn’t often come by on your own. You had seen him at a stall selling tinctures and other apothecary-type goods. You’d never approached, of course. Hadn’t had a need for burn creams or toxins. But there was no denying the swooping lock of hair that would curtain over his eyes, the sharp angle of his features. The way his eyes would track the movement of the market, hawkish, despite the seeming ineffectual haze in them…

A minor deception, you now realize. But for what tactical advantage?

“The chemist from the bazaar,” you reply.

His lips quirk at your realization – the bud of the smirk now unfurling into a full smile. 

“You’re more observant than I gave you credit for, warrior,” he stands before you now, hands still lightly held up in a gesture of peace. “That’s good… A nice surprise ,” his voice taking on an almost-purr of satisfaction.   

You pause, lips parting lightly. What could he mean by that? 

“Qimir,” he gestures to himself by way of introduction.

Qimir. Likely not his real name. Still, you ponder, an interesting choice. Qimir. Like Chimaera, something ancient and unknowable. A monstrous creature signifying the parable of illusion – the promise of something only too impossible to achieve. You wonder if he knew what his “name” sounded like when he’d picked it.

And you hope your face hasn’t betrayed your whirring thoughts as you continue your assessment, hoping to keep a sweep of neutrality across your features as you address him again.

“If you say so. Business must be slow if you’re here to rob me, poisoner. I’m afraid you’ll be sorely disappointed,” your eyes flit around the relatively bare bedroom, gesturing with your chin to the equally Spartan main room of your little ramshackle cabin. “Not much here of value.” 

He crosses one foot over the other as he takes a step to orbit you, almost swordsmanlike. As though he were preparing to duel. You mirror his step, your back to your bed now, facing your doorway. His body between yours and your exit. 

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” he brings a finger to his chin as if in ponderment. “You’re here, after all. And why would I give you my name, show you my face, if I intended to rob you?” 

“Why you do anything means nothing to me,” you bite, “and you’ll have to forgive my manners if I don’t feel like giving you my name. Leave, now , while I let you leave, Qimir.” 

His eyes sweep your form, note your weight on the balls of your feet, bracing for a fight. You probably have weapons other than your laser sword stashed away, if he had to guess . He takes a tentative step toward you, a low chuckle escaping him at the fire in your eyes, trying not to smile any wider than he has already, to give away his pleased impression of your fury. 

“I know who you are,” you blink at his statement, trying not to let the surprise show on your face. “You don't have anything to fear from me, little Jedi.”

“I am no Jedi,” you snipped, rolling your eyes at the insolence of the man before you. If he cared at all about your rude display, Qimir said nothing.

“I am more than aware of that, too,” he murmured, his voice like silk in your ears as he takes yet another small step toward you, invading your space, close enough to breathe your air, a hair’s breadth from touch.  

Too close. You flex your fingers, calling your lightsaber from its hiding place under your loose floorboard into the palm of your hand in a flash, the cool metal meeting your palm like an old friend, a sense of relief. You surge forward into Qimir’s space, pressing the hilt of the saber into his abdomen.

“If you know so much, then you also know you shouldn’t have come,” you snarl. “I don’t know if you didn't take the hint, here at the edge of the world, but I don't take kindly to uninvited guests.”  

“You did invite me, little viper,” he insists, his voice never losing its even, dulcet quality.

At your furrowed brow, he gently brings his fingertips to brush the bare skin of your wrist that’s pressing the hilt of your lightsaber into his stomach. A familiar, prickling ripple bursts across your skin, causing goosebumps to stipple your arms. So familiar. So like the feel of lips from your unseen stranger. So like the Force. 

The dark eyes that met yours in the low light of your room were familiar for more than just an observation in passing at the market. 

“Y-you,” you gasp, the realization causing your chest to seize, to clench your teeth in the wave of seething anger. “You’ve been … in my head … for months …” 

He cocks his head at you, watching the emotions process along your face. He had seen your fears and failures, your heart’s greatest desires. He had seen it all …

“The quickest way to your heart,” he reasons. “Through your head. So you’ll have to forgive my intrusion. I wanted to know you.” Sweet words meant to soothe.  

You aren’t sure if that makes it any better. Perhaps the reasoning makes it worse.

“So like a poisoner,” you level his gaze with a steely one of your own. “To try to slip through the cracks unseen. But I know the quickest way to your heart.”

“You do?” He seems surprised at your rejoinder. As if he hadn’t expected you to play. To be so quick of wit as you were of reflex.

“Between your fourth and fifth rib,” you hum, your voice taking on an almost-seductive tone – a contradiction to the reminder of you pressing the hilt of the saber into him, precisely where you mean to. 

“I appreciate a good threat. Clever,” he smiles, placating. “But there’s no need for that, little warrior. After all… I wouldn't leave you to the dark, not like they did,” he assures, brushing his fingertips against the bare skin of your wrist, so lightly you would’ve thought you’d imagined it. Using the contact to connect to you through the Force once more – your shared memories dancing behind one another’s eyes. Of your fellow Padawans succeeding while your Master only saw failure. Of the dazzlingly white smile of your classmate with the bronze skin and twists in his hair, his yellow lightsaber flashing as you drilled together, his smile fading to frown with the rest of his features as you had used the Force to push him away a bit too hard – rage bubbling to the surface – in direct violation of your training ordinances. Of your departure from Coruscant, no one to bid you goodbye, not even your training partner who had once called himself your friend.

You make to turn your head, to break contact with his dark, glimmering, all-seeing eyes. Like tar pits, drawing you ever deeper. His other hand catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, drawing you back to his gaze, an orbit you cannot escape. Would you even want to?

“And do you believe you would have belonged? The Jedi are deceivers. They deal in abandonment … cloaked in empty platitudes,” he trails his index finger along the curve of your  jawline, an almost illusory brush of his skin against yours – the whisper of a touch, as though to illustrate the point. “The wisp of a  promise, like spun sugar. Sweet, but false, their promises of righteousness. Of importance.”

Your lips part, catching the barest bit of his thumb as it does so, your eyes now searching his, seeking motive.

“And what do you offer instead? That's what this is, right? An offer?”

He smiles wider now, nodding in the barest acknowledgment. As though you’ve finally asked the right question.

“I … make the intangible tangible.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning …” his hand leaves the curve of your jaw to touch his fingertips to your temple, pressing, rendering a vision to your mind. And what Force magic was this? To make you see beyond your own eye’s sight. Foresight? An illusion? A vision? A memory? A promise or a deception?

Whatever it is, you see it so clearly – an uninhabited plant roaring with ocean as far as your eyeline can perceive. Waves lapping gently along grey-stoned shores. Moss-covered alcoves where you sit with him, your stranger, the sunset warming your skin as he caresses your face, your hair, whispering praises just beyond your mind’s own comprehension into your ear – the tone sinful, syrupy. His arms securing you in the night as you rest, no more dreams of abandonment. 

Warmth, endless warmth… as his lips trail the shell of your ear, down your neck, bestowing belief of besotted brushes of lips. Adroit affection aimed right at the heart of you. 

“Hmmm … meaning …. Your feelings, your power, your talent all working, to manifest toward something real. Something you want.” His hand leaves your temple and rests on your shoulder, taking advantage of your state of ponderment to gently guide you, ever mindful of the still-unlit lightsaber pressed to his stomach, leading away from your bed to the wall just next to the adjacent doorframe, the patient waltz of a waiting predator. He brings his hand to rest on the wall, next to your head.

“Something I want,” you reply dreamily, coming back to yourself just enough to realize what he’d said, exhaling through your nose in an indignant little huff. “In exchange for … ?”

“Tell me something,” he replies, lithely lilting around your question with one of his own, flexing his fingers where they rest on the wall. “Why are you no Jedi?” 

“I … abjured,” you admit, a bit too primly, the lightsaber now feeling like an unbearable weight in your palm at your words, the weight of choices – both your own and those of whom purported to teach you. To guide you to something greater. Was it as he said? Were their promises so meaningless? “Broke my oath,” you suck your lower lip between your teeth, pausing before daring to meet his gaze again. “I couldn’t … suppress how they wanted me to. I didn’t want to fail anymore. I was so tired of failing. So, I … abjured. I was weak.” 

Your eyes meet his once more at your admission, yours shining with unshed tears waiting to fall like stars. Shimmering promises to slip down your cheeks, unkept and unchecked. Your fingers fumbled, seemingly of their own accord, unwilling to hold the weight, the threat, of the saber against him any longer. The hilt clattered to the floor, a clanging finality to punctuate your words. And when was the last time you had been so honest, so vulnerable with another?

How … unlike you. 

“Not weak,” he cups your cheeks with both hands, fine-boned thumbs tracing the peaks of your cheeks, as though to wipe away your unshed tears. “The same as me. Power searching for its other half. An unwaning, unflickering flame.” 

Your unseen stranger, now seen, takes your hands in his, the buzz of the Force still tingling across your skin at his words, at the recognition of his power.

“You asked what I want. You want the same as me, and I the same as you. A companion . A partner. Unlike them, I won't judge you for your feelings. Won’t judge you for your power …  You want – I can feel it rippling across your skin,” he closes his eyes, cocking his head, shivering as though to illustrate the point. “... Mmm, and I want,  too. We can want together. If you'd let us.”

The flickering light of your room seemed to dim in tandem with his syrupy words, cloying and dripping like honey into golden nettle tea. The swirling honeytar of his eyes appraising you as the Force connection prickled with hazy heat between your bodies and the damnable musk of the jungle air.

You press yourself further into the wall he’d leaned you against, tilting your chin to appraise him in kind, searching for veracity in his words. Something more substantial than the “spun sugar” he’d accused the Jedi of weaving. 

As though he could sense your trepidation before it could cross your face, he placed a hand on your hip, the contact searing you through the thin fabric of your tank top.  

“They kicked you out because you feel. I'd never do that. I want you to feel … to feel power. To feel what you’re capable of. Of what it can become. Rage. Fear. Loss. Desire. Train with me, you’ll feel it all. I want you to feel it all … to feel me.”

Desire, he had spoken of. The gentle roll of his low voice over the syllables echoing perfectly in your ears. Desire, desire, desire. That desire, so  like venom snaking its way through your blood, hot and purposeful. An all-consuming burn through your blood, befitting of a poisoner as he. 

“You felt it, didn’t you? When I came in,” he iterates, somewhere south of a plea. “All. That. Power.” The hand not resting on your hip comes to cup your face once more. “I can teach you.” 

You had read somewhere once, in the Archives, about creatures on long-abandoned planets with the ability to draw their prey in through vanity. The flash of feathers. Or shiny scales. Big, baleful eyes, perhaps. Only to sink their teeth in once their intended had come too close. 

You draw in a breath, searching his pleasing face for any sign of a tell. Of the flicker of eyes that would signify deception. Of hidden fangs beneath his beautiful, full lips. Of anything that would bely his true intentions behind your Force connection. You swept your eyes across broad, defined shoulders, down toned, muscled arms exposed through his sleeveless shift. A warriors’ weapon wrapped in a pleasing package, to be sure. But … with no discernable hint of false suggestion. 

You shift your weight once more onto the balls of your feet, away from the wall and into him . Continuing your appraisal as you tilt your head, allowing the scent of his skin – the tang of sweat from the humid jungle air commingling with something sharp and clean – to wash over you. 

You invade his space now, leaning into the hand that grips your hip and the other that cradles your head, boldly brushing your lips along his with the barest hint of touch, feeling his lips smile against yours.

You whisper, your lips silken against his, “Tell me, poisoner … You seduce me with lies, is that it? You wish for me to call you Master? Forsake all else to worship at your altar?” 

You catch the flash in his eyes as the word “seduce” leaves your lips.

“I haven't lied to you,” his voice is a hum. An attempt to provide reassurance as he couples them with what he hopes is a comforting gesture. His fingers travel from your hip to trail your ribs, a partial embrace.

“Do you consider not telling the entire truth to be a lie?” 

“Have I shown you any lies? No. Just dreams. The promise of what could be. What I –,” he pauses, “– we could be. I cannot fabricate the Force, little warrior. Everything you feel tonight is you . It’s me. What more could you want? ” 

Your once-steely resolve is crumbling under the weight of his insinuation … "everything you feel tonight” –  the honey in his words sweet to your ears, you wonder fleetingly if he'd be even sweeter on your tongue. 

And he knew you, didn’t he? By his own admission, he’d seen your faults and flaws for months … your desires. And he had shown you promises, premonitions, predilections… a future of power. And if there is power in two hemispheres – one of sweltering heat, one of blistering ice. Which were you? And which was he? 

Together you would surely melt…

“No more rules, little warrior,” he sighs, “just the power of two.” He slides his lips across yours, purposeful, before capturing your lower lip between his teeth, nipping once before releasing, admiring the way your expression flickered from defiance to desire before surging forward, pressing you back into the wall as his lips capture yours.

He swallows your gasp, bringing his fingers to wrap loosely around your neck while his other hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt. 

You break from his kiss with a gasp between swollen, bitten lips. But he gives you no reprieve, his lips trailing to your neck, where he sets about pressing hot-mouthed kisses. Molten lava flooding the column of your throat, chased with the scrape of nipping teeth. Soothe and scrape. Push and pull. Give, give, give, take.  

You thread your fingers through the silken hair tucked behind his ears, tugging him from his ministrations on your neck and forcing him to meet your eyes – to see if the blaze of want you felt scorching your skin was reflected in the liquid coal, ready to ignite. 

His lips twist into a smirk at your insistent tugging; if he was at all surprised, he didn’t show it. His face the perfect picture of pleasure. 

“What would we do with it?” You inquire, “This power?” 

“Hmmm,” he pretended to ponder, suddenly scooping you, a brief lift as he crossed the short distance to your bed, seating himself with you on his lap. No concession of dominance; merely placing you precisely where he means to. To allow you to feel him beneath you. 

“What would you like to do, little warrior, hm?” His fingers flicked the thin straps of your flimsy sleep shirt, exposing your shoulders, leaning forward to trail his lips along the now-bared expanse of your shoulder, your collar bones, your neck, his eyes glancing up to watch your face as he went. “Make them pay? Take what’s yours?” 

His hands feel their way down your form, down your sides, along your hips, the skin of his palms rasping against the smooth expanse of your thighs has his fine-boned fingers make their way beneath the loose fabric of the cropped pants you sleep in, dangerously close to the precipice of your desire , urging you to move. Guiding your hips in a rhythmic glide in his lap. 

You gasp at his attentions, at the combination of his promises and the heady feel of his skin along yours, bringing your hands to grip his biceps – desperately seeking a way to anchor yourself. 

And if it’s his poison that will bring you to the edge, would you regret it? You were starting to believe you could never regret him , not at the feel of his chest pressed against yours, the toned muscle beneath your fingers. His sharp angles caressing your soft curves, replacing the lonely ache in your bones with the lovely heat of him, both his promises and his attentions.

His mouth was keyed and intentional in its work of you, with pressed kisses like flower petals blooming along the skin of your neck, followed by the scraping thorns of his teeth. Brutish and beautiful, as his fine-boned fingers crept to the inside of your thighs, rubbing along your clothed center, intensifying the ache you felt. He shifts your weight in his lap, causing your legs to spread wider, straddling him lowly as he tugs the offending fabric aside, guiding your hips into a roll over his clothed lap and his growing hardness. Manifesting his delight at the choked gasp you emitted in the form of a teasing little buck of his hips, guiding you down as he guided himself up, delighting in the sharp gasps that met his ears as he continues to sway you to his rhythm. 

“Desire isn't a sin, little warrior,” he breathes the words into your mouth, lips a hairs’ breadth apart, the better to swallow your moans. “What we feel feeds our connection to the Force, gives you strength ... If you know how. Let me show you. Touch me.” 

It was as though electricity was crackling, popping beneath your fingertips as you took his instruction and began to explore the expanse of his body, slipping your hands beneath his tunic to feel the silken heat of his firm torso, the ache within you mounting at the heady combination of the feel of his skin beneath your fingertips – so long since you’d touched another, been touched – and his hardness between the cleft of your thighs. Smoldering, low-heat burned along your skin and beneath your fingertips. Or was it his fingers that were doing the burning? It was hard to tell where he ended and you began, one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you bodily into him, an infinite loop of power and pleasure.

As you continue to touch him, you could feel it – his connection to the force, strong, volatile, like lightning striking the ocean – crackling and formidable like the man who contained it.

And Qimir – you had long since given up trying to determine if it was, in fact, his real name – rewards you with a gift of his own, the velvet rumble of a groan of pleasure emanating from his throat at your touch. A sound of syrup and satisfaction. 

Pleased that you could garner such a reaction from a being as powerful as he, you smile, boldly meeting his lips with a kiss, opening your mouth with a gasp, allowing him to slip his tongue into your mouth, to taste the zip of power that he had determined in his moths of observation was just you, a torrent of citrus drizzle, bold and sweet. 

Reluctantly, he parts his lips from yours, ducking his head to tug the straps of your top down with his teeth, exposing your breasts to the heated air of the room. And if your desire at the repeated rolling of his hips beneath yours wasn’t enough to do you in, you figured this might. Bathing in the celestial feel the press his lips to your nipple, tongue swirling over the peaking flesh. Pleased at the goosebumps that erupt now in the wake of his attention. 

While he continues to tease your breasts with tongue and teeth, Qimir guides his other hand along your thighs, slipping his practiced fingers beneath your shorts, delighting in the wetness he was met with, basking  in the jolting shiver the motion elicited from you, at the friction of his fingers rubbing along the seam of you – causing you to wiggle, to roll your hips into his touch. 

And oh, as he slips his fingers inside of you, your eyes roll back, tilting your head to allow Qimir to admire the curving, elegant slope of exposed throat – prey before a predator, gasping at the pleasure he wrought. Breathless. If you thought he was teasing you before, his fingers inside of you were their own type of mocking punishment, well aware of his effect on you and the way your cunt throbs as he strokes inside of you. You could do nothing but wriggle your hips, whimpering piteously and attempting to roll your hips to follow his fingers as they work you, as this crescendo builds.

“Say you’ll be mine, warrior, and you can have it.” he promises. A new oath. One you’d never forsake. For him, you’d never turn, never abjure. Not so long as his touch made stars erupt behind your eyes, not so long as his lips dripped syrup promises down your throat.  

Kissing you once more, golden and slow, molten and revelatory as he works his fingers inside of you, your thighs parting to accommodate him. His thumb rolls repeated brushes over your clit, delighting in the starshine burst as you reached your peak, a broken little moan that sounded suspiciously like the word “master,” passing your lips in a keening sigh. 

You regard him through bleary, closing eyes and the warm, citrus haze of your orgasm as he slips his fingers from you, guiding you down to recline in your bed, stroking your hair as he does so, lulling you as a lover would. 

“Sleep, warrior,” his velvet voice meets your ears, lyrical and lilting. “I’ll be back for you.” 

And like each night before that one, his figure slips from you… as though he was never there. It wasn’t a dream, was it? It was hard to tell after months of this teasing game. After his promises built so much only to guide you to this release. 

And in the silvery light of the jungle’s dawn, you awoke with that very question on your lips, met with the sight of your saber placed gently on your little bedside table as opposed to its usual hiding spot. You wake to the sweet afterache of something between your thighs, to the scraped marks of teeth along the expanse of your neck. 

And to the promise of something – of a future of power and partnership. If only you’d be so bold as to accept it. As you eyed the saber, you recalled the prickle of his Force power along your skin, increasing with his proximity. And by the time he arrived to meet you again, you knew what your answer would be … 

--

tagging:

@phoenixhalliwell @withahappyrefrain @inklore @spiderispunk @flightlessangelwings @joannasteez @gretagerwigsmuse @kalliravenne @mxgyver @princessphilly @s-u-t @ohmagawd-life @maryannsstrawberry @themultifandompictureshow @kallista-diune @crypt-keeper-soul @monlight-prose @joaquinwhorres @bobfloydsbabe @themarvelousbee @soulores @moonyslove78 @sio-ina-bottle @theradioactivespidergwen @drew-garfi @thegirlwhowritesfics @lady-morrigen @flordeamatista @forever-rogue @aphrogeneias @withmyteeth @superhoeva @pettyprocrastination @mortwig @petcr3

[rowarn]

shadow entity!ghost cw: it/its prns for ghost, protective!ghost, implied vomiting from a hangover, sexual assault by third party, implied murder of said third party, unedited /: part: one

it was strangely easy to fall into the life of living with an unknown shadowy entity in your house. it wasn't particularly talkative or friendly -- it was sort of like living with a really creepy, introverted roommate. except occasionally it made the atmosphere feel 5x heavier around you. and there was always the looming threat that it would kill you.

your life outside your home continued on -- college, work, and the difficulty of making friends now that you lived in a new city. a bar is where you happened to meet a guy -- phillip, you recall his name. he was older than you but seemed quite polite.

after a night of drinking, you return to your home, buzzed and happy. you stumble into the house, brows furrowed as you tossed your shoes off before collapsing in a heap onto your couch. the springs creaked under your weight and you groaned at how uncomfortable it was. but you weren't going to be able to make it to the bed, you knew that for sure.

just as you were drifting off to sleep, that familiar, heavy feeling filled the room.

"ghost..." you sighed, "i'm drunk."

"drunk?" its deep, echoing voice came in response, sounding almost confused.

you were too out of it to consider that too much, instead simply explaining, "i had too much to drink."

it hummed in response, offering nothing further. you finally relaxed letting you sleep overtake you.

only to wake up with a hangover. you jumped tot your feet the moment your eyes opened, throwing yourself over the toilet bowl. sweat beaded on the back of your neck as that oppressive feeling washed over you.

"are you still drunk?" it asked, making you groan.

"i fucking wish," you spit into the toilet, cringing at the awful taste that still lingered on your tongue before sitting back and leaning against the wall, "this is what i get for drinking, i guess."

"drinking?" it asks, curiosity lacing its tone.

you hummed, "you know, alcohol," it remained silent and you raised a brow, "what? you didn't drink alcohol when you were alive? jeez, what century were you from?"

"i am alive," it responds easily.

you grunted, "right, right. you're not actually a ghost, that's right. so what--"

your phone obnoxiously ringing stopped you short. you stood, steadying yourself using the wall before you stumbled out into the living room to find the device. it was sitting on the floor, clearly having fallen there sometime while you slept.

when you answered it, the familiar voice from last night spoke -- asking you out on a date. as much as you wanted to say no because of the raging headache currently pounding behind your eyes, the desire for actual human connection after being away from your friends for so long urged you to agree.

so you did.

the date went surprisingly well, he was a gentleman and polite with a bit of a sense of humor that had you grinning through the entire dinner. he even paid for both your meals and by the time the two of you were walking out, you were more than willing to invite him over to your place.

"ah, but," you cleared your throat as you stood on your doorstep, suddenly remembering the problem inside, "i have a uh...roommate. it- he is a little odd. i-if you hear any...weird sounds, just ignore it. he's kind of flighty and shouldn't bother us otherwise."

"that's alright, sweetheart," phillip assured, offering you a kind smile as he followed you inside.

when you stepped in, you were relieved that you didn't feel ghost's presence.

"do you want a drink?" you ask, wandering towards the kitchen.

"sure, darlin'," he mumbled, looking around your place.

"have a seat if you'd like," you smile, disappearing into the kitchen.

as you grab a glass, a familiar, dark form takes its humanoid shape in the corner. you jump, almost dropping the object before you glare at it.

"ghost," you hiss, keeping your voice low so your guest doesn't hear you, "don't scare me like that." it remained silent, simply standing there. you could feel eyes burning into you, making the hairs rise on the back of your neck, "look, he's just gonna be here for a little while, okay? then he'll leave. just...don't do anything, alright?"

it remained silent, it's shadowy figure wriggling and shifting with varying shades of darkness. you tried not to stare too long -- staring into that murky black always had you seeing weird, scary things from within that disappeared the second you blinked.

"ghost," you urged it to answer you.

it didn't offer any response before vanishing. you sigh in relief but still feel apprehensive that it was going to do something to scare your guest. phillip was the first real, human connection you had since moving here and you weren't about to let that little shadowy shithead ruin it.

you plastered a smile on your face before greeting him back in the living room. phillip grins and thanks you for the water, taking a few sips before placing the glass on your table.

after a few moments, sitting up and making sure that ghost wasn't going to make an appearance, you settled into the couch and turned on the tv -- the otherwise deafening quiet of the house really stifled the atmosphere.

the energy between you and phillip grew and grew until you found yourself kissing him right there on the couch. as you pulled away to take a breath, he dove back in immediately, pushing you onto your back. you frowned, hands moving to his shoulders to push him back a little bit. he didn't mind, moving his lips down to your neck and to your neckline.

"h-hey, slow down, phillip," you mutter, pushing a little more forcefully at his shoulders.

"can't," he breathes, sounding positively drunk on you, "i've wanted you since i first laid eyes on you."

you roll your eyes, frowning when his fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, "hey-! i told you to stop!"

as soon as the words fell from your lips, the lights flickered dangerously. phillip didn't seem to notice but you knew immediately. your guests hands continued to wander and you kept trying to push him off to no avail.

"s-seriously, stop it," you cried, growing more nervous as the seconds passed.

how could a simple need for human connection turn out so rotten?

"don't want to," phillip huffs, "i know you want me too, baby."

"no!" you shriek.

then, all at once, something terrifyingly heavy fills the room. you know that sensation all too well -- it was the night you first saw ghost's shadowy form.

phillip paused, no doubt feeling that same dark feeling looming over the both of you, making it hard to breathe. he looks confused, "what the-?"

the floorboards creaked, loud, booming footsteps coming from some unknown place in the living room. it sounded right next to you yet across the room at the same time.

darkness surrounded the both of you, blocking out the living room completely until all you could see was darkness. somehow, your eyes were able to adjust, seeing phillip's petrified face, a strange, purple filter seemingly coloring the both of you within the shadow.

"close your eyes," it's voice sounded completely different now. though it didn't address you, you knew it was talking to you so you quickly did as you were told and slammed your eyelids shut.

your breathing was labored and loud as was phillips. he sounded terrified.

"what the fuck?!" he cried, a petrified kind of voice you'd only ever heard in movies.

then, a scream. an animalistic, horrified scream you didn't know could come from a human being. you squeezed your eyes shut tighter before slapping your hands over your ears to drown it out. but it was impossible, it was too loud -- too horrific to block out.

the scream was cut off, complete silence following that made your ears ring. you couldn't resist opening your eyes to see what had happened.

but there was nothing.

just the inky blackness of ghost's shadow. no sign of phillip to be seen.

slowly, the darkness dissipated, taking shape in that familiar, humanoid form. your living room came back into view and your eyes adjusted painfully to the sudden light.

"ghost?" you pant, finding it difficult to catch your breath after that. you look around frantically, "what was that? what did you do? where did he go?"

ghost didn't respond, shadowy form flickering in and out and sight before vanishing completely. you frowned, heart racing in your chest so painfully that it made your head pound.

you looked around, for any sign of the man you had brought home. but there wasn't a single sign he had ever even been there. it was silent in your home aside from the tv playing in the background.

you sunk into the cushions of the couch, unsure of anything that had just happened. you were starting to doubt that phillip had even been there to begin with.

but on the floor was a black scorch marked circle. right where ghost had stood.