#i mean it is so utterly compelling and i just want to dig my teeth into

[juneiper-art]

I just rewatched Contact and that film is so sacred and profane coded to me. I could write so much about it. Alas. Whomst has the time.

[words-etched-in-her-skin]

I have a desperate need to ride Donna’s strap I am weak for her in so many ways

Okayy.. maybe not riding, but will being taken roughly on her sewing desk work for you, anon? 😏 I had way too much fun writing this 🤤 It was written as a little birthday treat for someone, but I hope you'll all enjoy it just the same! ♥️

“Mia cara… are you almost finished in here?”

You almost dropped the spool of thread you had been putting in its respective place when the warm tones of Donna’s voice cut through the air. The soft sound of simple fabric moving against itself as she slowly began to make her way through the large sewing room. You had been given the task of dusting and reorganizing all of her supplies - and had just about finished when she came calling for you.

“Yes, madam.. this is the last of it.”

You raised the small spool between two fingers before leaning over to place it in the small cubby hole that resided in the large wooden desk you had just been cleaning. A sharp gasp falling across your lips as the length of her met your backside. The faintest feeling of her favorite toy under the humble fabric of her dress as she leaned in closer.

“M-ma’am?”

“Shhh, diletta .. It seems you have not been honest with me.”

“I.. how do you mean, madam??”

“Seems today is meant to be a celebration of sorts.”

You took a moment to think, blushing fiercely as you realized what day it was. Of course the clever doll-maker had figured it out - always with a knack for knowing things. You smiled shyly before turning to face her. A hungry look - a single dilated pupil as your eyes met her gaze.

“I’m... sorry madam.. It must have slipped my mind.”

Donna hummed, her long fingers digging through one of the drawers closest to her.

“Seems… I owe you a tiny little present, then.”

A most delightful smirk curling across her lips as she brought up a hand holding a large pair of fabric shears. You knew that she could hear the hitch in your throat - the steady beat of your heart swiftly picking up it’s pace - and you also knew that there was no realm that existed where she would ever hurt you. But that didn’t stop the prickling heat that was now moving relentless across your body.

“I… madam.. Wha-?”

She stifled any words that were deemed to release from your lips as she placed the tip of cool metal against them, only making your heart race even quicker. A slick wetness building steadily in your core as she slowly dropped them, letting their sharpness trace down the front of your uniform.

“Hush, now... do you not trust me, mia cara?”

You swallowed back the thick arousal in your throat, whimpering slightly as sharp blades ghosted over the supple flesh of your inner thigh.

“Of.. of course I do, ma’am. With my life.”

“Mmh.. an appropriate response, diletta.”

She smiled wickedly as she brought the large scissors to the hem of your skirt, a single confident glint to her eye as her smile transformed into something darker. The distinct sound of metal cutting through fabric filling the air as smooth steel sliced up the center of your humble uniform with the utmost precision. You couldn’t stop the soft moan that vibrated deep in your throat as Donna placed the shears on the desk next to her - her experienced hands tearing the last bit of fabric that was closest to your neck - instantly leaving your flushed skin exposed to her.

There wasn’t a single part of your body that wasn’t filled with a stinging heat - that wasn’t engulfed in a fiery blaze so deep that it threatened to turn the whole world to ash. Her cool breath against your skin, the length of her body leaning in as she wrapped a single arm around your waist - lifting your body with ease while the other reached down to rip the thin fabric of your panties from your body. The cooled wood of her sewing table forcing a prompt shiver across your body as it met the heated flesh of your backside.

“Mia bella.. so stunning.. so eager for me.”

“Mmmh… my Mistress..”

You could count on one hand how many times you had ever heard the doll-maker growl, the low tones of it reverberating deep throughout her throat - immediately arousing you. Her strong fingers gripping into the soft flesh of your thighs as she pulled you roughly towards herself. The simple fabric of her dress dropping from her body within mere seconds as she held your gaze.

A late afternoon sun gleaming exquisitely off the shiny black toy that perfectly adorned Donna's hips - feeling your core instantly clench around nothing at just the sight of it… at just the idea of her driving it harder and harder into you. Her dark hair billowing freely over the fine lines of her face like the veil that normally hung there. A sharp cry forced from your lips as she pulled your hips even closer to her, allowing your dripping core to hang over the edge of the desk ever so slightly. The cut fabric of your uniform still hanging loosely from your body as her hands roamed eagerly over you, stoking the flame that bridled it to an almost unbearable level.

“Ah-! Please, Mistress.”

You whimpered as the warmth of her mouth found you.. as she rested the tip of her strap teasingly against your entrance.. as her teeth skated over your nipples and nipped indulgently at your eager flesh.

“Please what, mia cara?”

Kiss after kiss trailing along your jawline and collarbone. Her long tongue tracing up the side of your neck before her teeth found your earlobe, prompting a deep shudder as her breath ghosted over you.

“Tell me how badly you want me.. how much you need me.”

If there could ever be a tone of voice that could make you orgasm on the spot - that could unravel you in a way that you didn’t even know existed - it was the breathy and utterly disarming tone that had slipped so easily off Donna’s tongue, dripping from it like raw honey.

“Mmph, fuck! I need you, Mistress... I always need you.”

She hummed in certain content, placing a tender kiss to the soft skin under your ear before whispering into it one last time.

“Mmmh… Happy Birthday, diletta.”

You felt the world spin on its axis as her lips crashed into yours, blurring as the room around you began to shift - as her tongue danced divinely against you. Your desire spilling out from your aching core as she forced the length of the toy deep inside of it - taking you, claiming you - reminding you of exactly who you belonged to. The width of your legs wrapping securely around her waist as you invited her in - willing her to take as much as you as she could - to fuck you until you didn’t have a single thought left in your head.

And oh, the deep moans that sprang from her perfect lips as she picked up her pace, as the hilt of the harness rubbed generously over her clit. The firmness of her strap delicious against your walls as she forcibly drove it into you, ripping a sharp cry from your kiss swollen lips.

“Ah-! Fuck.. Mistress!”

She growled again, the melody of it rolling over her body like a wave of thunder, compelling the force of her fingernails deeper into the heated flesh of your back as she pulled your body up to meet hers - willing her feverous skin to slide sublimely over yours. Beads of sweat rolling down the curves and hills of your bodies - a most delicious sound of flesh against flesh ringing throughout the room as the pace of her hips picked up even more.

You weren’t even sure of how many moans had been muffled into her perfect lips, at how many scratches had been dragged down the landscape of your scorching back. With beads of crimson trickling down it… with streams of desire dripping down the side of cooled wood beneath you… as Donna’s warm juices pooled steadily within the black harness she wore, desperate to be released.

“Mmmh.. mia cara.. come with me. Let me hear you.”

That was all you needed to prompt the white hot pleasure to spill mercilessly over you - to force wave after wave of infinite pleasure to wash across your body. The length of her strap deep inside you, thrusting into your core at an unprecedented pace as the doll-maker’s hips began to jerk. Her name flying from your lips like a prayer in the night as she pushed you closer and closer to the edge. It was bliss - pure and unfiltered - a prickling heat that started at your head and creeped all the way down to your toes until it was begging for release - until you were certain you were about to lose all ability to function. The fireworks behind your eyes whiting out the room around you, forcing juices to gush for your core just as you heard your name ripped from your lover’s lips.

Her shaky breath against your overly flushed skin as she held you close, allowing your pleasures to ride out before slowly halting her hips. The deep scratches and bites that decorated your body prevalent in the profound heat that resided within them. Soft tender kisses making their way up your chest and neck until her lips found their home back at your own - kissing you deeply, softly - drinking you in as if you were the only other person that existed in the world.

“Mmmh… mia bella.. I trust I did not get too carried away.”

You smiled against her lips, kissing her once more for good measure.

“You could never, Mistress.”

She moaned softly as she returned your tender kiss. Her warm body soft against yours, holding you close as your breaths began to steady - as her long fingers gently cupped your cheek before her gaze met yours - the utter softness of it swiftly causing your racing heart to skip a beat.

“Tell me, diletta… did you enjoy your present?”

You laughed, amused at how she could even ask such a thing.

“Mmh.. Of course I did, Mistress!”

“Good.” She smirked, the undertones of it forcing a second wave of heat to roll unhindered across your body. “Now... if you could be so kind as to bend over, mia cara. I have distinct plans to wreck that exquisite backside of yours.”

[voiceless-terror]

Wrong End of a Gun (The Magnus Archives)

Whumptober 2020 Day Three: Held at Gunpoint

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Daisy Tonner, Tim Stoker

CW: Blood/Injury

Summary:

Jon accidentally compels Daisy. She makes him regret it.

“Is this how you normally conduct your investigations?”

It was meant to be snarky, rhetorical. Jon had finally mustered the energy for a comeback, feeling more himself than he had in ages. He and Daisy were on the trail of the Stranger, almost ready to investigate Breekon & Hope and track down Sarah Baldwin. But as soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized his mistake. There was a static in his ears and it poured into his voice, ripping her answer out of her throat like a hunter with prey.

“I’m more apt to chase ‘em down, use my gun and watch them bleed. They don’t ask questions at the station, not anymore.” Her eyes narrowed- she knew what Jon had done. Before he could move she had him by the throat, throwing him to the ground with a growl as his still-healing neck stung in pain. Jon let out a choked cry, flailing backwards until he hit the wall and attempted to make himself as small as possible. 

“I can show you, if you like,” the whisper was dangerous and low in his ear. He shook, throwing an arm over his face with a pathetic whimper. Basira wasn’t here to save him this time. Could anyone hear them? Martin? Tim? Melanie? Would anyone come if he called? Please, please help-

The sound of a gun being cocked made the terror freeze in his chest. She wouldn’t, she couldn't, not while Elias still had Basira trapped in the Archives. But Jon could hear her steps and feel the anger radiating off her every move. She chuckled humorlessly and the sound was familiar. Everyone seemed to find him so funny these days. One day they’ll drag his corpse into the Archives and everyone will laugh and laugh. Stupid Jon, couldn’t keep well enough alone! 

“I’d make it slow, you know,” she was back in his face, pulling his arm away and grabbing his chin, forcing him to look into her eyes. They held a feral glow as she tenderly, mockingly tucked a stray hair behind his ear and he trembled in place. “Shoot you in the arm, maybe the side first. Just a graze, enough to bleed but not enough to take you down.” Her eyes never left his as she ghosted a hand down his ribs and his shivering intensified. 

“I’d let you run for a bit, leaving your scent all over the woods,” she tutted at this, shaking her head in faux-disappointment. A hand across his neck comes away with blood and she’s happy, so happy to see it. Jon can feel his vision clouding. Was he crying or losing consciousness? Hopefully the latter. “You’re such an easy target. It’s sad to see. Elias should have let me finish the job, but here we are.” This seemed to be his only saving grace these days- Elias needs him. But for what purpose, what end? To be a scapegoat and a punching bag? There’s so much he doesn’t know and so much that Elias won’t tell him. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.

“Next, the leg!” Daisy kicked at his ankle and he made a piteous sound, trying in vain to curl further into himself. “Now you’re crawling on all fours. So pathetic.” And suddenly Jon was no longer in his office. He heard the sounds of the forest, he felt the rough ground digging to his back as she flipped him over easily and put the gun to his head; his eyes were wide, drinking it all in.

The cold muzzle of the gun was at his forehead and even as he shook, even as he closed his eyes in fear he felt a strange peace. A comfort. It’ll be over soon, it whispered. Just close your eyes and count to three and-

“Bang!” Daisy’s voice went off like the sound of a bullet and he yelped, expecting pain but feeling none. She laughed, high and hysterical and mean as he fought to take in heaving breaths. “Look at your face! God, it’s so easy to-”

“What the hell, Daisy?” Jon cracked open one eye to see Martin at the door, Tim close behind him. Martin looked furious and Jon remembered a time when he stood in that doorway, flinging worms at Jon’s feet and demanding he listen. “What are you-Jon!” At once Martin was at his feet, kneeling down and putting a hesitant hand on his shoulder as Jon flinched. The warmth of his hand burned through his shirt. People didn’t touch him with good intentions anymore. Hands were supposed to hurt.

“Are you alright?” he asked urgently, but his voice was so soft. Jon could cry from the tenderness of it. “Did she do anything to you?”

“Did I do anything to him? That little monster?” Daisy replied, disbelief evident in her tone. Jon cowered further, leaning into Martin’s touch. “I should think it’s the opposite- always asking his questions and ripping out the answers-”

“Stop waving that gun around!” Tim yelled, ducking out of the doorway. “You’re going to get us all killed.”

She barked out a laugh but holstered the gun. “Not if he doesn’t first.” She moved towards the door, grinning with too many teeth as Tim dodged out of her way. “Let me know if you’d like me to finish the job, Stoker,” she jeered, jerking her head in Jon’s direction. If Tim replied he didn’t hear it. At this point, Jon wasn’t sure if it would be yes or no.

“It’s fine, she’s gone now,” Martin said soothingly, wrapping his arms around Jon now that the imminent danger had passed. Tim lingered in the doorway, fixing Jon with a hard glare he couldn’t look away from. “We won’t let anything happen to you.” He desperately wanted to believe that, but in less than a day he would be back out with Daisy and there would be nothing anyone could do to stop her, not if she wanted him dead. Sure he had power, but what could he do with it? Alienate his allies, irritate his foes, and not much else. Worthless.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered, grabbing at Martin’s sweater and looking into those kind, worried eyes. “I didn’t mean to ask a question. You believe me, right?” Static. Martin opened his mouth and answered right away.

“Of course.” He clammed up immediately afterwards, his face hardening. And Jon- Jon had done it again. He looked at Martin in horror, an apology on his lips before Tim began to speak.

“What the fuck, Jon,” Tim was angry, Tim was always so angry but he deserved it, didn’t he? “Now you’re doing it to us? C’mon Martin, leave him be. Just another fucking monster to deal with-”

“No, Tim,” Martin replied firmly, anger settling into every line of his face. Jon ducked his head; he couldn’t bear to look at him and see the disappointment he was sure was directed at him. “Get out.”

“What-?”

“Get out. You’re scaring him.” Martin sounded stern and commanding. Was Jon scared of Tim? He was clinging to Martin’s sweater pretty tightly, shaking in his arms. But that’s not right, Tim should be scared of me.

Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes in the doorway. “Fine. Have it your way. You’ll regret it.”

Jon reluctantly pulled away, though he couldn’t bring himself to meet Martin’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine,” Martin replied warily, helping him to his feet with a hand around his waist as he maneuvered him gently onto the couch. “Well, it’s not fine, but I know you can’t help it.” Martin’s right. He can’t help it. All of this power and he’s still utterly helpless. Martin’s face suddenly grew panicked and a hand hovered at Jon’s neck.

“Your wound reopened again,” Martin cursed and Jon was made aware of the blood dripping lazily down his neck. “Let me grab-” 

“N-No,” Jon yelped, almost unconsciously grabbing back at his sweater. The thought of Martin walking out filled him with sudden anxiety. He’s the only one who can stand you right now. Keep him happy, keep him calm. “It’ll stop eventually.” He tried for a reassuring tone, but clearly missed the mark as Martin let out a heaving, irritated sigh. Jon dropped his hand immediately in response. 

“No, it’s not-” Martin struggled to find the words, his brow furrowed in annoyance and frustration. “You keep putting yourself in danger. Letting Elias put you in danger. Look at you!” He gestured angrily at Jon’s throat. “Your throat is literally torn open and I can’t- I can’t do anything!” He dropped down to the couch looking drained and haggard. Because of Jon. He wanted to comfort him, tell him not to worry and that it would be alright in the end. But he couldn’t, so he settled for honesty.

“It’s fine if it’s me,” he tried to soothe Martin like the man had done with him before, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It has to be me. I can take it.” A wobble was creeping into his voice even as he tried to tamp it down. “You heard them. I’m- I’m a monster-” Martin cut him off, grabbing the hand on his shoulder between his own and squeezing, his eyes bright and furious.

“No you’re not. Not to me.” The conviction in Martin’s words was almost convincing. “Promise me, Jon. Promise me you’ll try to stay safe. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for me. Please.” Jon couldn’t deny him a thing in that moment. So he promised.

Not a week later when Breekon and Hope have him by the arms and shove him into that van, he remembers his promise. He wants to tell Martin he tried and not to worry, he’ll be back soon. But he needs a little help.

If no one else, Martin will help. 

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27000466

[icyharrington]

Is It Wrong?- Part 5 (Michael Langdon X Reader)

i hope y’all like this part. a lot of this was based off some anons i received (a LOT of people wanted cockwarming) so hopefully this doesn’t disappoint lmao. this part has a lot of teen angst so just be warned lmao

plot: michael langdon is a picture-perfect fuckboy, and, lucky for you, he’s also your stepbrother. how will you survive?

warnings: inappropriate relationships, fuckboy michael, fem!Reader, high school au, teen angst, slight violence, hate sex, degradation, fingering, choking, sexual intercourse, cockwarming, praise kink (kind of?)

word count: 7.8k 

tags: @alicecooper19, @blackfyrez, @bbyduncan, @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26, @satansapostle, @trelaney, @kissydevil, @alexa-is-on-fire, @langdonalien, @langdonsdemon, @sloppy-wrist, @michael-langdon-appreciation, @wroteclassicaly, @langdonsinferno, @ccodyfern, @starwlkers, @xtheinevitableprophecyx, @americanhorrorstudies, @sodanova, @cocosfern, @sojournmichael, @avesatanormalpeoplescareme, @divinelangdon, @maso-xchrist, @space-princesssss, @lxngdonscoven, @ahslangdon101, @isabellaserpentiawesson, @stupidocupido, @bademliimagnum, @pastelstozier, @nana15774, @langdonswhoreprobably, @urlocalgothb, @hexqueensupreme, @gold-dragon-slayer, @pr1ncessd1e (idk why some of the tags aren’t working, i’m sorry!!) 

i.

The car ride back from Applebee’s was a silent one.

After your father and Miriam had departed, heading off to continue their date at a local bar, you’d retreated to Michael’s car without another word. Throughout the car ride, he continued to throw sidelong glances at you, mouth quirking up at the corners at the way you scowled, arms crossed protectively over your chest. You could tell it was taking everything in him not to say something stupid.

Mentally, you scolded yourself for expecting anything more from a boy like Michael Langdon. You could hardly even feel sorry for yourself; this was your fault for being so naive.

You couldn’t help it, though. There was something inside you that made it impossible to hate Michael like you knew you should, something that compelled you to give him his way, even when you knew he didn’t deserve it. For christ’s sake, you’d even allowed him to finger you under the table while your parents were sitting right there!

What the hell was wrong with you?

You’d been asking yourself that question nonstop ever since things had gotten complicated between the two of you. At one point in your life, you’d had a good head on your shoulders. Now, thanks to Michael, you were nothing more than a mess of poor decisions and teen angst.

Michael pulled into the driveway and you got out of the car, slamming the door with an unintentionally large amount of force.

“Hey, don’t slam the door,” said Michael as he stepped out, and you scoffed.

“I’ll slam the door all I fucking want,” you shot back, storming up the porch steps and tapping your foot impatiently as you waited for Michael to catch up with you and unlock the door.

“Jeez, what’s your problem?” he said, heading onto the porch once he’d locked the car. You felt a surge of anger bubble up from your stomach, and you swallowed the compulsion to start screaming at him right there in public.

Instead you shut your eyes and let out a shaky sigh, digging your fingernails into your palms hard enough to draw blood.

He opened the door and you pushed past him to go inside, grateful to no longer worry about the prospect of being labeled a crazy bitch by some eavesdropping spectator. You were alone with Michael now, and you were free to do as you pleased.

Michael shut the door behind him, but you were quick to block the stairway, cocking your head to one side and planting your hands on your hips. You hadn’t even realized how upset you were until right now; your body was trembling, and your throat narrowed slightly as angry tears stung your eyes. “You wanna know what my problem is?”

Michael gave you a puzzled look, clearly caught off guard by this. And of course he was caught off guard- you were sure that in his mind, he’d done absolutely nothing wrong.

You decided not to wait any longer for him to respond. “My problem, Michael, is that you keep making me believe that you’re going to change, but you never do. You claim that you like me, that you want to spend time with me, that I’m so different from all the other girls you’ve fucked, but you’ve done nothing but treat me like shit. And then when I get upset about it, you act like you don’t even know what I’m fucking talking about.”

You’d let it all out in one breath, and by the time you were finished, you were winded. There was a pregnant pause as Michael gathered his bearings, and you stared at him expectantly.

“Look, (y/n), I don’t know what you want from me. I was high when I said those things. Sure, you’re fun and everything, but-“ he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away from yours to look at the floor.

“-But what? So you were just making it all up? You just asked me on a date for- for what, Michael? Shits and giggles? So you could shove your fingers inside me in public? What, did you just ask me out because you were bored or some shit? Help me understand, Michael.”

Whatever you do, do NOT fucking cry, you told yourself. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t fucking cry.

You took in a shaky breath, averting your gaze up to the ceiling. You knew if you looked at Michael for too long, at those beautiful blue eyes that you’d found yourself getting lost in too many times to count, you wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears anymore.

To your dismay, you heard him chuckle. “You didn’t really seem to mind me shoving my fingers inside you when it was happening.”

There he went again, taking absolutely nothing seriously and intentionally ignoring your main point. You groaned in frustration, looking back to Michael, who’d taken to leaning up against the front door.

“That isn’t the fucking point, asshole,” you snapped. “The point is that you keep fucking with my head and I can’t take it anymore.”

Michael blinked. Would you ever be able to get anything through his head? Was it even worth the effort?

“If you wanted to get swept off your feet like every other fucking teenage girl, you came to the wrong person,” he said. “But I thought you were smarter than expecting that shit from me.”

You narrowed your eyes, pulse quickening as something like rage began to build up in your throat. How dare he try to frame you as some sort of stupid, desperate girl, pining for romance from an uncaring boy? How dare he try to make you feel crazy?

“Really, Michael? That’s the game you’re gonna play? You’re the one who asked me out on a date. You’re the one who said all that stupid lovey-dovey shit to me.” You’d drawn in closer to him now, your mind clouded and dizzy, senses numbed. He didn’t move, looking down at you with raised eyebrows, infuriatingly calm as always. “But of course you’re pinning it all on me. Because you’re perfect little Michael Langdon who never takes any responsibility for his actions.”

He smirked, and you nearly lost your cool right then.

“I’m so sick of your selfish, egotistical bullshit. I wish my dad never met Miriam. You’re the worst thing to ever fucking happen to me. I hate you, Michael. Don’t come near me ever again.”

In that moment, every word out of your mouth was pure, unyielding fact. You did wish that your father hadn’t ever met Miriam, and Michael was the worst thing to ever happen to you. So how come you felt almost guilty saying such things out loud?

“Oh, believe me. I’ll have no problem staying away from you. You’re the one who always ends up crawling back.” He leaned in, face mere inches away from yours, and you could smell that god forsaken cinnamon gum on his breath. “‘Cause let’s face it, (y/n). You just can’t resist being split on my cock.”

For a moment, you only stared at him. And then, without thinking, you slapped him across the face with as much force as you could muster.

You both stood there in stunned silence for a moment, and it was only when he lifted his hand to wrap firmly around your wrist that you realized how much of a mistake you’d made. His eyes were dark, lips no longer curved mischievously upwards; he looked utterly unpredictable, which was what frightened you the most.

“So that’s how you wanna do this, huh?” His voice was low, face still dangerously close to yours. Your breath hitched as you anticipated his next move, lips curling nervously into your mouth.

“Michael, I-“

He whirled you around before you could finish, pushing you up against the front door and trapping you there with his chest. You whimpered as his hand made its way up your inner thigh and ghosted over your clothed core, your hips bucking forward inadvertently as he did so.

You really fucking hated yourself right now.

“You hate me, huh?” His silky waves tickled your cheek as he moved his head to whisper in your ear, dragging his fingertips along the length of your lace-covered slit.

“Yeah, I do fucking hate you.”

You were hit with a sudden intoxicating mixture of lust and fury, and hungrily, impulsively, you pulled his head back by his hair and kissed him.

His teeth clashed noisily against yours as your lips moved together, his tongue wasting no time before entering your mouth and roughly kneading against yours. Between your parted thighs, he continued rubbing your pussy, already dripping from his touch, and you whined against his mouth; when you felt him laugh, you bit his lower lip, hard, hoping that you’d jolt him with the unexpected pain.

“If you hate me that much, why are you so wet?” he breathed before pressing his lips back against yours, swiftly moving aside the thin fabric of your panties to slip a finger inside you. You moaned, loud and unadulterated, grasping at the front of Michael’s shirt as he began thrusting into you, hard and fast.

“Just because I like fucking you doesn’t mean I can’t- fuck- think you’re a narcissistic, entitled piece of sh-shit!”

He sank a second finger inside, fucking you with such intensity that you weren’t sure you’d be able to walk right tomorrow, your head falling back to rest against the door. “Huh. Then it’s pretty pathetic of you to let someone you think is an entitled narcissist finger fuck you against the wall, don’t you think?”

“J-just shut the fuck up, Michael.” You reached down between his legs, palming at the massive protrusion in the front of his jeans before working down the zipper, eager to get this shit over with.

“I have half a mind to put you on your knees and shut you up, you little bitch,” he spat; he sounded so genuine that it startled you.

“You try that shit and I’ll bite your fucking dick off.” Truthfully, you wouldn’t exactly mind having his cock in your mouth (when did you ever?) but you certainly didn’t think he deserved it after tonight.

He slammed his fingers inside you again so deep that you saw stars, your jaw unhinging as he continued to work you open, your shaking hands making quick work of freeing his cock from its confines. Once you pulled it out, you ran your thumb over the leaking slit, spreading the bead of precum across his flushed head.

“I’m gonna fucking wreck your little cunt,” he mumbled, breath hot on your neck, removing his fingers from your heat and wiping your wetness across your inner thighs. Lifting your skirt up further, he yanked your panties down to your knees before moving his hand up to wrap around your neck; you took the momentary lapse to align the head of his cock with your slick entrance.

“Yeah? I’d love to see you try. None of that pussy shit you usually give me,” you retorted breathlessly. Of course, you weren’t being honest; oftentimes, you could still feel him for days after he fucked you. You were speaking out of anger, though, intentionally riling him up.

At this, his grip tightened on your throat, and he pushed inside you, all the way to the hilt, without warning.

“Oh fuck,” you cried out, your moans growing louder and more frantic as he quickened his pace, the door nearly rattling in its hinges as he railed you against it.

“Is this enough for you, bitch? Or is this still too pussy for you?” His hips slammed against yours hard enough to bruise, causing tears to spring to your eyes, but you refused to let him win.

“Y-you’re pra-practically putting me to- oh fuck- sleep.”

You doubted he believed you, what with all the noise you were making and the way you could hardly keep yourself together, but Michael Langdon was never one to turn down a challenge.

“Oh yeah? I’m putting you to sleep?” He grabbed your leg and pulled it up so you could hook it around his waist, letting his cock make sharp contact with your cervix as he slammed into you even harder and deeper than before; you snaked your arms around his hips to dig your nails into the sensitive skin of his ass, intending to leave half-moon imprints there, marking him like he’d marked you so many times before.

“You falling asleep now? Huh? Is this enough for you, you greedy fucking slut?”

He actually sounded pissed.

Good.

As much as you wanted to come back with a biting response, you couldn’t; the wind was knocked out of you with each ruthless thrust of his cock into your heat, and you gasped for air as your eyes rolled back into your head.

“Oh my god, oh fuck-“

His torso, still covered by the black t-shirt he hadn’t bothered to take off, made friction against your clit as he moved his body in time with yours, the sensation bringing you dangerously close to the edge. The gravelly whines leaving your throat were so weak that you were sure only Michael could hear them, his own animalistic groans prominent in your ear.

You could kill him right now, you really could. You despised him, despised every last beautiful fiber of his being, despised the way that he’d broken you down and made you so goddamn weak.

Worst of all, you despised the fact that even now, as hatred and hurt and anger coursed like hot adrenaline through your veins, there was still a tiny part of you that cared about him, more than you’d ever cared for anyone else in your life.

Right now, though, all you could focus on was the mind-blowing ecstasy taking over your body, blending seamlessly with the pain of his brutal thrusting.

Pressing his chest flush against yours, he began impaling you with sharp upwards motions, his cock reaching the deepest parts of you that your own fingers never could. Your jaw unhinged as his firm stomach rubbed ruthlessly against your clit, almost to the point where it was too much, and with a sort of vengeance you craned your neck forward and sank your teeth into his shoulder.

“Fuck- I’m-“ you choked out, just as the coil in your stomach abruptly snapped. You came, perhaps harder than you’d ever cum before, swollen lips parted wide despite no noise coming out. You fell forward limply, laying your cheek against the sweat-soaked fabric covering his shoulder, barely breathing as he continued fucking into you with little mercy.

The pads of his fingers clutched your throat with added pressure and you felt his cock twitch; with a grunt, he came, spilling his hot, sticky load deep inside.

“It must feel pathetic knowing that the one person who can make you cum the hardest is the one person you hate the most,” he said as he pulled out, stepping back to see the way his cum dribbled crudely down your inner thighs.

He dipped his fingertips into the cum, smearing it around to the front of your leg, lips twitching mockingly as he further defiled you. Pussy aching as you fought to catch your breath, you watched him with sunken, empty eyes.

“Just so we’re clear,” he sneered, lifting his unforgiving eyes to meet yours. “This is all you ever meant to me.”

His words felt like a punch to your gut, but there was no way you could let him see the way they’d affected you. You bent down to pick up your underwear before pushing Michael to the side, walking around his towering frame to start up the stairs. Then, as if his words were a mere afterthought to you, you paused mid-step, turning over your shoulder in a manner that you hoped seemed nonchalant.

“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

ii.

It was the first time you and Michael had managed to avoid each other for an extended period of time, and although you missed the feel of his hot lips on your skin, missed his low voice in your ear as he whispered vulgar words that made you blush, missed his large, calloused hands wandering over your body like it was his very own territory to explore and conquer, you certainly didn’t miss all the other baggage that came with it.

During the obligatory family dinners, you and Michael would pretend that nothing had changed between the two of you, but the shift was impossible to ignore. Michael had ceased his usual playful teasing as he sat across from you, and his preferred means of communicating with you, if he absolutely had to, became grunting at varying octaves.

Your parents had definitely noticed, their concerned expressions far from discreet, but they were wise enough not to mention it to either of you.

You supposed things were better off this way. It was unrealistic to go through life fucking around (and going out on shitty Applebee’s dates) with your stepbrother. There was no way that it could have ever worked out anyway.

It’s better off this way, you’d think to yourself, sitting in your bedroom and staring the ceiling as you’d listen, against your better judgment, to Michael giggling with random girls across the hall.

It never would’ve worked, you’d reminded yourself sternly as you returned Michael’s sweet-smelling sweatshirts to his bedroom when he was out one night.

It never meant anything anyway, you’d tell yourself, headphones flooding with the psychedelic chords of Pink Floyd, molars working at a wad of cinnamon gum. I was nothing to him. He said it himself.

But Michael Langdon said a lot of things.

You tried your best to move on with your Michael-less life, and soon enough, as surprising as it was to you, you wound up finding yourself a boyfriend- a cute jock who sat behind you in your math class. The best part was that he wasn’t friends with Michael, despite his modest popularity; Michael had always been vocal about his hatred towards jocks (Fucking circle-jerking dickheads, he’d call them), and so he’d never bothered to associate with his crowd.

Michael had been less than welcoming to him the first night you’d brought him home to meet your family, shooting him an unfriendly, thin-lipped smile from across the dinner table.

“So you play football?” Miriam had asked conversationally over a forkful of baked potato.

“Yep! Receiver,” he said. You nodded encouragingly, even though you had no idea what that meant.

“So you like playing with balls?” said Michael suddenly, eyes widened as a cruel smirk stretched across his lips.

Your father nearly choked on his water.

“Michael,” you hissed. Your boyfriend let out a nervous laugh, clearing his throat as he lifted his glass of water to his mouth. Michael blinked at you innocently, moving his food around on his plate with his fork as he leaned forward to rest his elbow on the table.

This was probably the most eye contact you’d had with him all month.

Later that night, after your boyfriend left, Michael made an appearance in your doorway for the first time since his awkward post-party apology. You couldn’t believe how long ago it all felt, even though it’d only been a couple of months. Things were just so different now.

“Hey, (y/n),” he said with a bit too much nonchalance for somebody who’d been ignoring your existence up until that very moment.

“Um… hey?”

“Congrats on getting a boyfriend and everything. Didn’t think I’d ever see the day,” he mused, leaning his broad shoulder against the doorway and jutting out his hip. Now that you were in a relationship, it was imperative that you didn’t check out other guys (especially when ‘other guys’ referred to your stepbrother), so you tried your hardest not to look anywhere but Michael’s glinting blue eyes.

You cocked an eyebrow. “So… you’re here to make fun of me? Is that it?”

“No. I’m actually being serious. I mean, the dude’s a fucking dork, but if my little sis is happy, I’m happy.” He shrugged casually, flashing his teeth in a cool half-smile.

What the fuck was going on right now? What were you even supposed to say to that?

“Okay?” you said undecidedly after a brief pause.

He cleared his throat, and you could tell there was something else he wanted to say lingering at the back of his tongue. Maybe he hadn’t come here merely to poke fun at you, after all.

“So. Um…why are you here?” You leaned forward, drumming your fingers on your bent knees, the bedsprings squeaking beneath you as you shifted.

“Well, I just thought- I mean, I don’t know,” he said, his tone no longer mocking, but rather low and earnest. “I just want you to know that you deserve a lot better than me. So I just hope this guy makes you happy, even though he’s a circle-jerking jock.”

You blinked, waiting for the punchline, before you realized that there was none. He was being serious. He was being fucking serious.

As much as you knew that Michael had a track record of saying nice things before immediately reverting back to his asshole tendencies, the sentiment made your heart swell.

Michael was looking at the floor now, chewing the inside of his cheek anxiously, his body fidgeting slightly as he awaited your response. Part of you wanted to tell him to fuck off and leave you alone, knowing that this probably all was bullshit, that there was no way he really meant any of this. Michael had made it pretty fucking clear that he’d never given a shit about you, and that he never would.

Hadn’t he?

The other part of you- the naive, stupid, foolish part that always managed to ignore all logic- said otherwise. Somewhere, deep down inside, you were still hanging onto the feeble thread of hope that maybe he really did care about you, and that maybe he always had.

Maybe, in some twisted way, he’d been trying, by treating you poorly, to protect himself.

You looked at your hands. It was probably all just wishful thinking.

“Thanks, Michael. I appreciate it,” you said, attempting to keep your voice as steady as possible.

You were hit with a sudden wave of melancholy, and all at once you wanted nothing more than to fall into Michael’s arms, feel yourself get swallowed up in his warmth. God, if only things had been different. If only he’d been different.

“I don’t really expect you to believe me or anything, but I thought I should tell you anyway.” He met your gaze, an unreadable expression fixed on his perfect face, and as much as you wanted to, you couldn’t look away. “Anyway… g’night, (y/n).”

You took in a shuddery breath.

“Good night, Michael.”

iii.

It only took a couple more weeks to find out that your boyfriend had been cheating on you for the entirety of your short-lived relationship, and it was safe to say that you were not pleased.

You felt completely humiliated; at least with Michael, he’d never made any attempt to disguise his fuckboy ways. Your (now ex) boyfriend, though, had gone out of his way to make you believe that he was a nice guy.

And stupidly, you’d allowed him to fool you.

The relationship hadn’t been anything special, but you’d gotten along fine, and you’d liked him enough. Maybe that’d been the problem in the first place: sure, you liked him, in noncommittal half-shrug sort of way, but there hadn’t been any intensity there, no passion.

It’d come to the surface early on that neither of you had much in common, either, and he wasn’t exactly the most interesting person to talk to. Still, you’d stayed, thinking that maybe this was just what all high school relationships were like, and that at least he wasn’t as much of an asshole as Michael.

Well, at least Michael hadn’t lied to your face, making empty commitments before fucking some other girl’s brains out behind your back.

It wasn’t even the relationship you were mourning the loss of; it was your dignity.

You recalled all the times he’d roll off of you after a ten-minute-long session of halfhearted missionary sex, turning onto his side to check his phone with his back to you. Had he been texting other girls then? While you laid there naked and unsatisfied, but loyal, withholding yourself from other boys because you’d been under the impression that the two of you were exclusive?

You felt pathetic, you felt stupid, you felt used. You supposed that maybe you should’ve felt the same way with Michael, but somehow, in your mind, the situations just didn’t compare.

And god, you didn’t even want to think about Michael. He’d never let you hear the end of this, you were sure.

After the peculiar encounter with him weeks earlier, things had become quite amicable between the two of you: there was undoubtedly a great deal of tension there, but it was obvious that Michael was putting in an effort to be nice, or at least civil to you.

Still, he had his moments. He was not very good at hiding his distaste for your boyfriend, cracking the occasional joke (usually football-related: your boyfriend really likes being tackled by other men, huh? was one of his favorites) whenever his name was brought up.

That hadn’t really bothered you much, though. You were just glad that things weren’t quite as bad as they had been before, and it wasn’t long before your anger from the night of the Applebee’s date had begun to fade away.

You knew damn well, though, that he was going to be delighted at the news that you’d broken up; you could already hear his inevitable mocking ringing in the back of your mind.

And perhaps you deserved to be mocked. Sometimes you were astounded by your own foolishness and naivety.

You’d be okay- this was a part of life, a growing experience. But goddamn did it suck, being fucked over; you were damn near close to swearing off all men for good.

Well, maybe not all men…you found yourself thinking, as images of a certain blue-eyed fuckboy danced in your vision.

NO. Shut up, (y/n), you absolute fucking idiot, was your following thought.

Jesus fucking Christ- you’d said it a hundred million times before, and you’d say it again: what the fuck was wrong with you?

You were starting to think you’d never learn.

iv.

“Hey, dickhead!”

The unexpected shout startled your lunch table, sending everyone’s attention to the source of the noise across the cafeteria. It had been precisely forty-eight hours since your breakup, and you were already starting to feel somewhat better about it.

You craned your neck as commotion began to stir somewhere in the enormous fluorescent-lit room, curious to see what exactly was going on; when you saw who had spoken, however, your heart almost stopped dead in your chest.

“Isn’t that your brother, (y/n)?” said one of your friends without looking over to you.

And indeed it was; a small crowd had formed around him as he approached your ex-boyfriend, who was holding a lunch tray in front of him, face laced with confusion and slight fear. Michael’s stance was imposing, jaw clenched and hands balled into fists, and you could tell that things were not about to turn out well for your ex.

Holy fucking shit.

“And isn’t that-“ said another one of your friends, clearly invested with the scene that was currently unfolding. Just from a quick glance around the room, it was evident that the rest of the crowded cafeteria was pretty interested, too.

“Oh my god…” you muttered, lifting your hand to your mouth in disbelief.

You hadn’t expected this from Michael. When you’d finally, reluctantly, broken the news to him about your breakup, he’d almost seemed unaffected, offering you a weak-at-best consolation consisting of an awkward pat on your back.

Apparently, he wasn’t as apathetic to the situation as he’d let on.

“You think you can fuck with my little sister?” Michael demanded, lunging forward to grip onto the front of your ex’s shirt. The entire room had gone mostly silent at this point, amplifying Michael’s voice, and you felt your face grow warm with embarrassment.

On one hand, you knew the appropriate response was to jump to your feet and insert yourself between them, insisting that violence wouldn’t solve anything- that’s what would happen if this was a teen movie, at least.

On the other hand, though… the thought of Michael pummeling your scumbag ex in front of the whole school wasn’t exactly a bad one.

“W-what are you talking about, man?” stuttered your ex-boyfriend, his face going bright red as Michael leaned in to get up in his face. Michael had several inches on the boy, and he looked absolutely, dangerously livid, so you couldn’t blame him for being intimidated.

“You know what the fuck I’m talking about, dipshit.” Michael pulled forcibly at the fabric in his fist, jerking the shorter boy upwards and almost causing him to drop his tray.

“Woah, woah, take it easy, man-“

“-Shut the fuck up.” He let go of the boy’s shirt, dropping his hands so they were positioned under his tray. Then, without warning, he thrust the tray upwards, coating the front of your ex’s shirt in school-lunch spaghetti and steaming hot soup. There was an eruption of laughter from a group of boys you recognized as Michael’s friends, and he smirked.

“You ever come near her again and I’ll make your life a living hell, you understand me?”

Holy fuck, was Michael scary when he wanted to be. Your ex was practically trembling, his shirt ruined. “Y-yes, I understand you.”

“Good. Now get the fuck out of my face.” He gave your ex-boyfriend a hard shove for good measure, sending him stumbling backwards, before returning to his friends and walking off as if nothing had happened.

Once your friends were sure that the show was over, they turned back to you. “Oh my god. You didn’t tell us he was the protective type,” said one.

“I didn’t think he was,” you said softly, still dumbfounded by what you’d just witnessed.

“That was like…kind of hot,” another one of your friends said, to which the group nodded in unanimous agreement. “Has anyone ever told you that your brother is, like, really hot?”

“Step brother,” you corrected.

v.

It was a little past 8:30 that night when you made your way across the hall to Michael’s room, preparing to thank him for doing what he’d done earlier in the day. It was only appropriate, you thought.

You had no idea why he’d done it, but then again, when did you ever know why Michael did the things he did? By now, you’d simply have to accept that Michael Langdon was one big walking mystery, and that you’d never truly understand him.

Knocking on the door timidly, you waited for the faint come in before you went in, your eyes instantly bombarded by the ever-changing colors of his lamp. Michael sat at his desk, laptop opened in front of him as he sat fixated on some computer game (you assumed it was fortnite, though you honestly couldn’t tell the difference between any of the games he played), enormous headphones pulled over his ears. He didn’t turn as you approached, your eyes darting throughout the room as you considered what you were going to say.

“Hey, Michael,” you said shyly. Why the hell were you so nervous?

He still didn’t move, eyes locked on the bright screen of his laptop, fingers jabbing erratically at his keyboard. “What’s up?”

“Could you, like, pause that or whatever? Just for a second?” you said, tone pitching in annoyance at his lack of interest. You’d come close enough that you could see the side of his face, illuminated by his game, and he rolled his eyes.

“You can’t just pause a fortnite game, (y/n),” he said irritably, as if this were the most well-known fact in the world. “But I just died anyway, so. Go ahead.”

He pulled his headphones down so they could rest around his neck, twisting around in his seat to look at you. He looked unbelievably handsome right now, even in the dim light, and you couldn’t help but take a moment to admire him.

“You know, uh, you didn’t have to do all that today,” you started, rocking back onto your heels. “But thank you.”

Your words were met with a blank stare. “Do what?”

Oh, for the love of god. He couldn’t be serious, could he?

“Like, confront my ex and everything. I mean, I really couldn’t believe it. But I thought it was really sweet of you.”

His expression hardly shifted, but you noticed his lips curling up ever-so-slightly at one corner. “Oh, that? I mean, it wasn’t really a big deal or anything. He sort of had it coming anyway. Fuckin’ circle-jerker.”

You laughed. That response was so typically Michael, and you loved it.

“I’ve really been feeling like shit about the breakup, and that honestly made me feel a lot better.”

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t sit around feeling bad about that dork,” said Michael with a grin. You saw something in his eyes sparkle, and then he was leaning forward, a familiar, mischievous look crossing his face.

Oh, how you’d missed that look.

“You wanna c’mere and talk about it with your big bro?” he said, patting his knees. You bit your lip, unsure of what exactly he was planning, but more than eager to find out. You came closer, watching him push his desk chair a few inches back so there was more room for you, and slowly, you settled yourself down on his lap.

The instant you made contact with his warm body, you were flooded with arousal, which was only intensified when he positioned his veined hands on your hips. He pulled you back so your ass was directly on top of his crotch, spine up against his firm chest, and you shivered at the feeling of his erection pressing into you through his sweatpants.

“Mm,” he hummed, wrapping his strong arms around your torso, loose waves softly caressing your neck when he settled his chin on your shoulder. “My baby sis is so pretty.”

He pressed his lips against your neck, fingertips trailing up your inner thighs, bare under the skirt you wore. You whimpered softly when he reached your clothed cunt, rubbing soft circles over your clit as he continued to plant kisses up and down the side of your neck.

“Let me help you forget allll about him,” he breathed, and you could smell the cigarettes and cinnamon gum on his breath, just like always. You rolled your hips back against his cock, one of his large hands lifting to grope your breast through your shirt. “I bet he didn’t touch you like I do.”

“H-he didn’t,” you murmured, eyes fluttering blissfully as his large hands wandered aimlessly over your body, claiming you. You jumped slightly when he administered a particularly hard squeeze to your breast, making him chuckle lowly against your skin.

“Take these off,” he said, pulling the waistband of your underwear back and letting it snap against your pelvis.

You raised your eyebrows but complied, standing momentarily so you could work your panties down your legs and kick them haphazardly to the side.

As you did this, Michael reached down to pull his hard cock from his sweatpants, applying a few strokes to the thick length as he waited for you to return. Your mouth watered at the sight of him; you’d almost forgotten how big he was, and after consistently fucking a boy who was significantly smaller for the past few months, you feared that being penetrated by Michael again would be painful.

“You miss this, baby?” asked Michael, rubbing his thumb over his leaking slit. You nodded quickly, hurrying back over to Michael’s lap. He took hold of his headphones, and you furrowed your brows inquisitively as he secured them back over his ears.

“What are you-“

“-Shhh, baby. Just c’mere.” Taking your wrist, he guided you back into your previous position, and you parted your thighs to straddle his lap. Grabbing onto your hips lightly, he eased you back so that the head of his cock nestled just barely against your slick opening, your heart rate increasing at the sensation. “Just want you to sit here with me while I play my game. Do you think you can do that for me, hm?”

In that moment, you probably would’ve agreed to do anything for him.

Michael pulled you down, impaling you slowly with his thick length, your mouth falling open as you felt his cock stretching out your tight walls. A throaty moan spilled from your throat as he glided deeper into your wet heat, continuing until he was seated all the way inside; you wiggled in slight discomfort, but you were calmed down when Michael placed his chin on your shoulder.

“It’s okay, baby. I know you haven’t been stretched like this in a while. But I’ll take care of you, I promise,” he cooed into your ear, his disposition so much more tender than you were used to. He kissed your neck again, scooting the chair closer to the computer screen, in turn stirring you and making you whine.

“Just stay still, okay, baby? Can you do that for me?”

“M-mhm,” you rasped, your chest rising and falling as you tried to get yourself situated.

“Good girl.”

Your cunt clenched instinctively at this praise, earning a barely-audible hiss from Michael; he reached around your body to get to his keyboard, starting a new game and subtly rocking his hips from side to side in anticipation as he waited for it to load. At this, your hand flew to your mouth to stifle your gasp.

Shutting your eyes, you focused on doing as Michael had instructed. It wasn’t easy, your cunt spasming around his thick length, clit throbbing, desperate for relief that he wasn’t yet granting you.

Of course he knew exactly what he was doing. Even as he played his game, tongue poking out from the corner of his plump lips in concentration, you could hear low growls from the back of his throat, just from the feeling of your tight walls wrapped snugly around him.

To Michael, it was too easy to simply give you what you wanted, even when he wanted it just as much as you did. He lived to see you desperate, to see you willing to be entirely at his mercy.

He leaned forward, his chest warm against your back, blond curls caressing your cheek. He chewed on his lower lip, the game reflecting in his shining eyes, so entranced that it almost seemed like he’d forgotten about you altogether.

“Fuck,” he exclaimed as a pixelated character began shooting at him, his hips jerking upwards as his fingers worked tirelessly at his keyboard, “fucking asshole.”

You whimpered, biting the inside of your cheek to silence yourself, but Michael had already noticed; instead of scolding you, like you’d half expected, he kissed your neck softly, eyes never leaving his screen. “Shh, shh. It’s okay.”

Your muscles relaxed almost embarrassingly quickly at the soothing sound of Michael’s voice, eyes falling closed as he placed another open-mouthed kiss right by your jugular.

“Such a good girl. So obedient for me. You’ll do anything to make your big brother happy, hm?”

The almost condescending nature of his words aroused you far more than you cared to admit, and you squirmed again, aching for something- anything more.

“Hm?” he repeated, pushing his hips up under you with enough force to make you squeal.

“Y-yes, Michael,” you whispered, wrapping your fingers around Michael’s forearm, which was extended to his laptop. This was getting to be too much. “Please.”

“I know, baby. Just hang on a little longer. I know it’s a lot. Just stay still and try to keep quiet for me, ‘kay? You’re doing so good.” His voice was deep and intoxicatingly sweet, vibrating against your skin from his close proximity.

You bobbed your head up and down, sure that at this point you must be leaking all over Michael’s cock, but he didn’t seem to care. His chin still on your shoulder, the fresh scent of his shampoo invading your senses, he continued to play his game with squinted eyes; you sighed, wishing that some other player would just come and kill him already so he could revert his attention back to you.

This kept on for several minutes, your desperation increasing until it was almost unbearable, tears stinging the backs of your eyes with each small movement of Michael’s body.

God, his cock was so deep inside you, filling you up completely; there wasn’t even an inch of space between the two of you, and yet still you wanted more, wanted him to consume you. You were going insane right now, unable to think of anything but how badly you needed to be pounded, fucked into a state of mindless bliss, and it was all thanks to the gorgeous blond-haired boy beneath you.

Fucking dick, you thought affectionately, rolling your hips back with a lengthy moan.

“Stop moving,” he warned, tilting his head to tug at your earlobe with his teeth.

“Please, Mikey…”

He scoffed at the nickname, but you could tell he was slowly losing his control, his own lust starting to sway him. You inhaled sharply, the muscles of your core contracting to squeeze even tighter around Michael’s length; from the corner of your eye, you saw his jaw clench. Ever-so-slightly, you lifted up your hips, before sliding all the way back down with ease.

“Did I not just tell you to stay still?” he demanded hoarsely. He was losing his patience now, along with his self-control, and you couldn’t help but smirk.

“I didn’t move,” you said.

“Yes, you fucking did,” he said through grit teeth, abandoning his previous, kinder attitude. This was more of the Michael you were used to, but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t enjoyed his praise from earlier.

“I’m sorry, Mikey. I just can’t resist getting split on your cock.”

Where this had come from, you had no idea; you’d simply been trying to provoke him, catch his attention. And, from the way he turned his head sharply to look at you, mouth pulled taut into a thin line, you could see that referencing his words from months earlier had done the job.

It was obvious, then, that he no longer gave a shit about his game. 

Lunging forward, his cock still buried inside you, he slammed his laptop shut before jerking you to your feet, pulling himself from you in the process. He pushed you forward, bending you over his desk with such aggression that several objects were knocked over with a loud clatter, and excitedly you propped yourself up on your elbows.

Holding up your skirt with one hand, he lined the head of his cock up with your dripping entrance with haste; mewling softly, you bucked your hips impatiently towards him, eager to finally, finally get what you’d been craving.

“Fucking brat,” he mumbled, pushing into your heat until his balls slapped against your thighs. “I bet this was all you could think about every time you let him put his dick inside you.”

He pulled his hips back before forcefully slamming back into your wet cunt, fingers clutching your hips with a bruising, vice-like hold. He decided upon an intense, ruthless rhythm to fuck you with, the vulgar sound of slapping skin obscured only by your broken cries.

“Oh god— fuck—please…more.”

Your arousal was dripping down your inner thighs, so abundant that Michael was able to pound in and out of you with stunning ease, your stomach cutting into the blunt edge of the desk with each thrust.

“Always take my cock so fucking well,” he grunted, fucking you for all he was worth, hips sloppily snapping back and forth as he worked your pussy open. You weren’t going to last long- he’d already gotten you worked up, and now you were merely chasing your release; by the gruff, fucked-out noises passing Michael’s spit-glossed lips, it was clear that he wasn’t going to last long, either. “God, I fucking missed you.”

Had you not been halfway to an orgasm, you probably would’ve perked up at his words; he’d missed you? Michael Langdon was admitting that he’d missed you?

The words had come out all at once, like he’d blurted them without thought in the midst of his mind-numbing pleasure; you were sure he was kicking himself for having allowed himself to say something so vulnerable to you, but it was too late- he couldn’t swallow his words back up, as much as you were sure he wanted to.

You smiled a heavy-lidded, lust-drunk smile. Michael Langdon had missed you.

Hooking his arm underneath you, he began forming tight circles over your swollen bud with his fingertips, and within seconds you were nearing your climax. Only Michael could touch you like this, make you euphoric like this. Only Michael could make you give yourself over, body and mind and soul, over and over again until the end of time.

“Oh fuck, Michael, please—“ you panted, and his fingers sped up against your clit, forming shapes over the bundle of nerves until your legs grew weak.

He gave one final thrust into your heat, slamming against your cervix and making contact with your sensitive inner walls, and then you were cumming, hard, his thick load spilling inside you at the same time, making you his.

His. You were his.

“Did you really miss me, Michael?” you asked between ragged breaths, voice small, not worrying whether or not you sounded needy or pathetic.

He leaned down, his upper body flat against your back, brushing your (h/c) hair away from your shoulder and pressing his lips against your jaw. “Yeah. I really did.”

“Good, because I missed you too,” you said, giggling weakly. He turned you around, allowing you to partially lie back on his desk as he met his bitten-red lips with yours, the salt of his sweat ripe on your tastebuds. The kiss was short-lived, but passionate, and you found yourself pouting when he pulled away, a silvery string of saliva stretching crudely between your flushed faces.

You swore you could see stars in his eyes as he surveyed your face, twinkling brightly in the pink lighting of his bedroom.

“I’m never gonna let you slip away from me again,” he said. “I promise.”

[saltyromanov]

Hello I love your work so much. Could you please bless us with something smutty where carolnat get caught by some of the other avengers?

“Stop looking at me like that.” muttered Carol, the strain in her voice obvious as she exhaled slowly and pushed up the weights again.

From where she was stood beside Carol’s head at the top of the bench press, Natasha couldn’t complain about the view, “Eighteen ... how am I looking at you?”

“You know exactly how Romanoff and you’re gonna get us in trouble again.” warned Carol playfully, huffing out a grunt as she lifted the weights from her chest.

“Nineteen.” Natasha smiled innocently, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Is that so?” breathed out Carol, lowering the weights slowly and ticking an eyebrow, “Cause if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were checking me out.”

“Really?” mused Natasha, raking her eyes slowly over the length of Carol’s body and smirking, “It’d be kind of hard not to watch you, wouldn’t want you hurting yourself.”

Carol snorted as she started her final rep, “The idea that you could save me is amusing, I’ll give you that.”

“Twenty. And just cause you’ve got your magic, twinkly hands, doesn’t mean I couldn’t still kick your ass.”

Laughing louder as she set the weights back on the rack, Carol sat up straight and turned her body towards Nat, ducking her head and eyeing the other woman with a grin, “Oh really?”

“I think I could take you.”

“Hmm.” Carol brushed the few stray hairs that had fallen across her forehead out of her eyes, rising to her feet and stepping towards Natasha so she could rest her hands on her hips, “And where would you take me exactly?”

“How about ...” Natasha’s eyes drifted to the ceiling as she thought about it for a second, tapping her chin a few times until she felt Carol dig her fingers impatiently into her waist, “Right here?”

“I told you that you were gonna get us in trouble.” started Carol with a grin, bending down enough to grip the underside of Natasha’s thighs and lifting her off the ground. “But I still don’t think it’s gonna be you taking me.”

Natasha huffed in mock disappointment, wrapping her legs around Carol’s waist and combing a hand through her hair to push it back from her face, “Oh no, that sounds awful.”

“My poor baby.” teased Carol, reaching one hand to Natasha’s face and skimming her thumb over her lower lip as she took a few steps forward.

Natasha wrapped her arms around the blonde’s shoulders, fingers tracing down the back of her neck and not missing the way Carol shivered at the action, “Put your money where your mouth is then, Captain.”

Carol walked a little further forward until she could rest a knee at the bottom of the bench press and press their lips together eagerly. For all of her joking about Natasha being a distraction during her work out, both women knew that when it came down to it, Carol struggled just as much with keeping her mind out of the gutter when it came to Nat. The way Natasha would look at her sometimes was enough to make her skin flush hot and it made it impossible to be anything other than impulsive.

She lost herself quickly, using her weight to push Natasha backwards until she was lay flat on her back with Carol on top of her. Not that Natasha was about to complain about her current predicament, pulling at the front of Carol’s vest as she opened her mouth further to deepen the kiss and moaning at the sensation of Carol’s tongue dipping into her mouth. It grew hungry and desperate within seconds, the kiss all tongue and teeth as hands clawed at whatever they could reach. Carol rocked her hips gently, feeling Natasha’s thighs tighten around her waist and teeth snagging at her lower lip in response.

Carol’s hands moved from where they were resting against Natasha’s hips, travelling up and over her rib cage to take a hand full of her breasts, one of her thumbs moving to circle over Natasha’s nipple and feeling it harden immediately through the thin material of her sports bra.

Natasha hissed out a breath and broke the kiss as she felt Carol’s fingers pinch at her nipple harshly, the blonde barely missing a beat before attaching her lips to Natasha’s throat instead.

It felt like no time at all before Carol’s hands had moved again, this time tugging eagerly at the waistband of the red head’s workout pants. Natasha raised her hips off the bench slightly to help, making it easier for Carol to pull them down just enough that she could slip her hand down the front of them and graze the front of Natasha’s underwear with her thumb.

In a failed attempt to stifle a moan, Natasha gripped either side of Carol’s face to bring their lips back together, mumbling the words almost frantically against her mouth, “Fuck me, please.”

For a moment Carol considered making a smart ass comment of some kind, maybe even teasing Natasha into begging for it. But the dampness she could feel soaking through the cotton of Nat’s underwear combined with the way she was tugging at her hair and the fact she was kissing her like her life literally depended on it was all too compelling of an arguement to deny her.

Almost immediately she complied, pressing down harder and circling the pad of her thumb firmly over Natasha’s clit through her underwear and practically shuddering in satisfaction at the moan it earned her. The kiss was becoming messier quickly, Natasha’s heavy breathing and whimpering and writhing making it difficult to keep much control of the situation. She felt like she was going to downright lose her mind with how badly she wanted it as Carol started to trace the outline of her underwear, fingers skimming lightly over her skin in a way that made Natasha feel like every hair on her body was stood on end. Her stomach tightened and she could feel the arousal pooling between her legs in a way that only Carol seemed to have the power to do and it made her pull harder on her hair and grind her hips down more eagerly towards her hand in a bid for more friction.

Natasha was so utterly lost in her own arousal and need that the fact the two of them were in the gym of the compound had completely left her head. With the way Carol’s fingers pushed her underwear to one side and traced the length of her pussy, Natasha could be forgiven for forgetting that this was by no means a private setting.

The sound of a bell ringing several times snapped both women out of their daze, separating themselves from one another in what had to be record-breaking time as Carol jumped to her feet, flattening a hand over her hair and Natasha pulled her pants back up before bringing her knees up to her chest and clearing her throat awkwardly. Both women were visibly blushing at the interruption they had received, somewhat embarrassed and equally frustrated at being caught in such an intimate moment.

“You know when you’ve got your opponent pinned on her back Danvers, it usually means the fight is over.” teased Tony, ringing the bell at the side of the boxing ring one more time for good measure. He looked relatively amused unlike the others stood around him; neither Steve, Rhodey or Sam entirely sure where to look.

“Ohhh is that how it works? ... My bad, see I was waiting for a tap out.” drawled Carol with mock interest, turning her head just enough to shoot Natasha a playful wink, “Sorry baby, apparently I don’t play fair.”

“I thought we talked about this? After the sofa incident? And the kitchen incident?” asked Sam, his tone feigning irritation but his smile betraying him.

“Yeah yeah, you know how it is ... we’re very sorry, won’t happy again.” rushed out Carol, already looking bored with the conversation and her mind drifting to what they could be doing instead if it hadn’t been for the interruption.

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet, Romanoff.” observed Tony, his smile teasing as he glanced over Carol’s shoulder to see Natasha rising to her feet and stepping closer.

Natasha rested a hand on Carol’s shoulder, using the blonde’s body to shield herself in an attempt to at least keep some of her dignity after being found flat on her back by her team mates. “I apologise whole heartedly for interrupting your gym session.”

Carol wanted to roll her eyes at the sarcasm, turning her head so she could see Natasha again and lowering her voice so no one else could hear, “I told you that you’d get us in trouble.”

“Whatever.” muttered Natasha, pressing a kiss to the side of Carol’s cheek with a smirk, “I think it’s time to hit the showers Danvers.”

[frangipanidownunder]

Dancing in the Dark: part 3

For an anon prompt: five times M&S danced in the dark. This turned out much longer than I anticipated, so I’ve broken it into five parts, each told from an alternating POV; independent, but with a clear narrative arc. 

This part responds to @xfficchallenges prompt: Mulder tries to ask Scully out on a date.

Part one  Part two

Three: Bad Blood

She strides ahead to her car and she can’t work out if she’s still mad at him or suffering from the effects of the drugs. Or both. But he has to run to catch her.

              “Scully,” he calls but she doesn’t answer, just blips her car and opens the door. He stops it with his hand she snuffs out air through her nose. She sounds like a freaking horse.

              “I…just…did that really happen?”

              “I can only confirm my version of events, Mulder.”

              “But…Ronnie Strickland, the sheriff, they were…”

              “They’ve disappeared and I want to go home. I’m feeling…”

              “Light-headed? Strange? Kind of loosely tethered to this world.”

              She stops and looks at him. Sometimes she forgets he’s adept at reading people. Sometimes she forgets she’s got emotions. He smiles in that irritatingly arresting way of his. “Yes.”

              “Did you want to…”

              Whatever he’s about to suggest, she should just put a stop to it. “Probably not, Mulder. I want to go…”

              “Home?”

              “Yes, home.” She looks away, off to the distance, vague. Where is home?

              “Scully?”

              “I’m going.” She does. She gets in the car and drives away.

She’s about to draw a bath when she hears him open her door. He didn’t even knock and she hears herself make that loud snorty-breathing thing again. Perhaps if she had hooves she’d scrape them on the floor before launching into him. “What are you doing here?”

              He doesn’t answer, just walks in. “I think I’m still drugged.”

              “It’s possible,” she says, and finds herself unbuttoning the top of her blouse. He looks right at the V of her collar. She doesn’t actually care. In fact, she wants to unbutton more of her blouse, to shuck off the constraints of the day but he’s in her space, her home and she’s feeling a little like that time they went to Comity and the stars aligned or mis-aligned or whatever happened. Like that. And that’s bad.

              “Scully, do you like me?”

              She fills the kettle. The plumbing sighs. “What do you mean?”

              He hesitates, eyes rising to the ceiling as he searches for the right way to say something even more vague. In the dark, with just the light from the living room he looks all angles and planes, that neck stretched taut, Adam’s apple outlined.

“Do you, do you find me good company?”

              “I suppose.” She finds two cups and drops in the teabags. “I mean, I don’t actively dislike you, if that’s what you’re asking.” If he can be obtuse, so can she.

              “You liked the sheriff despite his…”

              “He didn’t have buck teeth, Mulder.” He was good-looking, in a country sort of way.” She leans against the bench. “He made me feel…”

              “Drugged?”

              She folds her arms. “He made me feel validated. He listened to my theories.”

              “And I don’t?”

              He’s really going there. “You…you’re always ready to dismiss them.”

              “I am not.” Incredibly, he sounds incredulous. 

              “My whole assignment is to debunk your work. I think it’s clear that you feel under no obligation to take what I say and seriously consider it.”

              He steps forward. She stiffens. He’s all contradictions: sharp in the strange light but softening with uncertainty; arrogance competing with humility as he closes the space between them. The counter top digs into her back. There’s something utterly compelling about Fox Mulder coming at you like this but it’s entirely too distracting.

              As they’re just inches apart, he loses his footing and half-trips, half-slides into her. Crash, bang, wallop, he’s pressing her up against her kitchen counter and she’s bent back like a banana with one palm flat against his chest and the other gripping his shoulder.

              His apology is soft, vibrating against her neck and together they right themselves, still moulded along the length of them. He moves back but she goes with him, somehow unable to let go. They dance their awkward waltz until they’re back in the centre of the room and he lets out a small chuckle that blows at the wispy strands of her drying hair.

              “Can I ask you something else?”

              She’s snug against his warm body and there’s a feeling of security humming through her, rendering her powerless to refuse. Somewhere in a small part of her brain there’s a warning sign, a flag popping up, but she’s become adept at ignoring things in Mulder’s company. It’s another contradiction of their relationship: he’s opened her eyes yet sometimes she thinks she sees less.

              She doesn’t answer him, anyhow. Just lets him move her around. Lets him talk.

              “Would you…would you, uh. This is hard. Harder than it should be. I haven’t done this…I…” He takes a shuddering breath in and she feels every tremble. “Would you like to go out with me sometime, Scully?”

[alleiradayne]

Sun and Stars

Summary: Sam and Natalie are digging through old texts in the Bunker Library when Sam learns something new about her. Square Filled: Accent Warnings/Tags: Vaginal sex, fluids, accent kink Characters/Pairings: Sam Winchester x OFC (Natalie) Word Count: 2700 A/N:  For @spnkinkbingo, this fills the Accent square. I apologize for any and all shitty translations (although I did consult a few folks about the Irish and Latin I used).

Pedantic. Dry. Insufferable. Turgid. And above all else, utterly useless. Sam tossed the aged tome onto the Library table with a flick of his wrist. Irritated, he flipped through the narrow drawer of index cards that sat in his lap until he found one that appeared promising. He snatched it up, then dug into the mounds of books he and Natalie had hauled up from the Archives.

“Sorry,” she apologized as if she read his thoughts. “I'm guessing this isn't your typical Friday night.”

Across the table, Natalie sat with her own books, Sumerian, Enochian, Latin, Irish, and Greek among the many languages on their open pages. None so far had proved worthwhile. And though she had a keen eye for particularly crucial passages of information, she researched at half Sam’s speed for she required translation books for any language other than English. And Chinese, but she had sorted through those books in her first week at the Bunker.

“Sam?”

He shook his head with a hard squint. “What did you say? Sorry, I’m… my brain is fried.”

“Tell me about it,” Natalie groaned. “I apologized for bumming out your Friday night. This can’t be your idea of fun.”

“You know that’s not true,” Sam said as he flipped the pages of his book on Greek power rituals. “I did study law after all. That’s… a lot of books.”

“Yeah, in English,” Natalie grumbled as she turned her book upside-down as if to improve her understanding of it.

Sam laughed at that as he said, “There was plenty of Latin I had to learn, too.”

Natalie’s frown of approval accompanied her nod. “True,” she started as she scanned the table. “When did you learn Sumerian?”

“I didn’t,” Sam started, “I mean, I can read it. Sort of.”

Natalie’s narrowed stare sent a shiver along his spine. When her eyes dropped to an open book on the table, she pointed to it and asked, “Can you read that?”

Though confused, Sam hefted the heavy text and read aloud the passage at which she had pointed. Something about pieces of monster. And not just any monster. Beasts, specifically. Anything with a bite. The passage referred to canines and incisors for biting. And that those teeth held incredible magical properties of transformation. No. Not simple transformation. Ascension.

When he finished the passage, he set the book down and shrugged as he looked back up at Natalie. There he found her leaned into the table with wide eyes and red cheeks. The awkward stillness of the Bunker crept across Sam’s shoulders and gooseflesh raced down his arms as she remained silent. “I uh…” he stuttered, “I might have gotten a few words wrong.”

Without looking, Natalie pointed to another open book, though this one sat on the table right in front of her. “What about this one? It’s Irish.”

Intrigued, Sam pushed back from the table, the scrape of his chair on the wooden Library floor echoing through the room. He rounded the table to stand beside her, then leaned over her shoulder to get a closer look at the text. “Yeah, I think I can read that,” he mused as he gripped the back of her chair. With his thumb parting the pages, he picked up the book and scanned the page, then began to read aloud again.

More details about pieces of monsters, of magical properties and rituals clued him in on Natalie’s thought process. It wasn’t monster lore she searched. It was occult magic. As Sam read on, he glanced at her, still seated at his elbow. That, he realized too late, had been a mistake. Natalie stared up at him, mouth agape and skin red from collar to hairline. Beneath her collar, Sam had a perfect view down her plunging neckline. His tongue tripped over a phrase—unicorn blood? Or leprechaun gold?—as he stuttered into silence. Why did she stare at him? Did she understand the text better when he read it to her? How? And why would that even be a thing? Natalie was perfectly capable of translating—

“Why did you stop?” Natalie asked as she touched his hip. “It was beautiful.”

Oh.

The familiar sting of embarrassment prickled his cheeks and the Library had suddenly grown too hot. As of late, Natalie had a way of stopping him short, caught by a glance or a smile or even her quiet morning greeting on her way to the kitchen. As he stood there, towering over her with that too perfect view of her cleavage, she once again had him in her thrall. Caught so unaware for what felt like the millionth time in too few days, Sam stuttered. “I uh... thanks. I think.”

“It’s… mesmerizing,” she breathed with an exaggerated rise and fall of her chest. The thought crossed his mind that she had done it on purpose but the look in her eyes told him otherwise. A threadbare corner of her plaid shirt snagged her attention, and she picked at it when she spoke. “I love hearing you speak in other languages.”

Sam slumped into the chair beside her, a rush of adrenaline spinning the room. “Oh,” he started, “Okay. That’s... new.”

She leaned closer, elbows on her knees, and there Sam wholly suspected she had done it on purpose, her cleavage on full display. “Tell me something in Enochian.”

“What makes you think I know any Enochian?” he asked.

Natalie eyed him with a suspicious glare. “You can’t expect me to believe that you’ve not learned a single phrase or word or idea that you like? Not a single concept worth knowing in any of these books.”

True. He had learned some words. A few concepts, some flowery imagery. In fact, there had been a phrase he had come across in the very same book of Irish rituals that sat before Natalie. How fitting that she had picked out the same text. Her presence in the Bunker had altered his life in ways he had never imagined possible over the last few months. Had they not met, Sam figured he might not have felt so compelled by the passage in the book. But it had stuck with him, and so, he spoke without another thought. “Is tú mo ghrian agus mo réaltaí.”

Drowned by the blue of her eyes, Sam lost himself in Natalie’s gaze. She gawked at his lips without reservation, and the sting in his cheeks sharpened. What was it about his voice that intrigued her so? The moment unraveled amidst his thoughts when Natalie sighed. “Oh, your Irish is beautiful.”

He shifted languages, hoping she might have learned a different one. “Elasa biab en ror od aoiveae.”

“Enochian,” she mused as she leaned closer, “your diphthong is gorgeous.”

Apparently not. Next. “Είστε ο ήλιος και τα αστέρια μου.”

Her hand smoothed over his knee and ascended his thigh. “Now you’re just showing off with your Greek.”

He had tried, but he couldn’t blame Natalie. Still, he had hoped. His hand enveloped hers, so small in his massive palm, and said, “Tu meum es solem et meas stellas.”

Natalie froze. She said nothing, her breath caught in her throat as her mouth gaped. A sharp sidelong glare sent a chill down his spine as she asked, “What did you say?”

“Tu,” he paused as he guided her hand to his shoulder, “meum es solem,” he continued as she followed, seated in his lap and his arms wrapped around her, “et meas stellas.”

The light of a million stars paled in comparison to the flash of understanding in Natalie’s eyes. Held so close in his arms, her lips found his in a heartbeat. He sucked a breath through his nose as she pressed into him, thighs straddling his hips. Supple and warm, her body pressed flush to his as he embraced her. Every roll of her hips, every grasp of her long fingers, every bated breath from her lips drove Sam mad with want. Something decidedly different had consumed her that evening, and he was determined to find out what that might be. He shoved the pile of books aside, their heavy covers thundering to the floor as they fell. In the space he created, Sam set Natalie, their lips still locked and desperate for more.

“Say it again,” she whispered against him as she pried at his belt. “I want to hear you say it again.”

Had she figured it out? As Sam trailed a string of kisses along her jaw, he whispered his mantra, and Natalie writhed beneath him. He loved that about her, about the way she responded to him, to everything and anything he did to her. At her ear, he sucked the lobe between his lips and tugged, released with a lewd pop and he spoke again. “Tu meum es solem et meas stellas.”

His pants fell to the floor when Natalie tore them over his hips as her depraved moan filled the Library. With the same impatient desire, Sam pried apart her jeans and stripped them to her ankles, so eager to feel her wet heat again. Firm and fast lips reconnected as Sam grasped the back of her head in one hand, and the other at the small of her back. A hard roll of his hips dragged the length of is swollen cock yet covered by unwanted fabric against her sopping skin, and Natalie moaned so loud, Sam hoped they were alone.

Not that he particularly cared at that moment. Incessant hands gripped his underwear by the waste and Natalie wrenched them to his knees, the heavy length of his erection falling free and slapping against her cunt. Together they moaned, her back arching and hips thrusting, grinding her center against his cock. The sight of her beneath him, supine and spread wide for him, coursed a wave of arousal straight to his balls, already aching for release.

“Tell me again, Sam,” Natalie sighed as she gripped him by the base of his shaft. “I love your voice, keep saying it.”

He opened his mouth to repeat himself, but the heat of her pussy enveloped the tip of his cock, and any thought he had ceased to exist. There was only her, only Natalie there on the table in the Library as he towered over her tiny frame. His hips stuttered as the entire length of his cock slipped between her lips, sheathed to the hilt. Natalie might have a thing for foreign languages, but Sam? Sam had a thing for seeing his thick cock buried in her pretty little cunt.

The room spun again with a fresh wave of arousal, Sam's knees so weak. He braced himself on the table as he pitched forward, hands planted on either side of her. The first slow stroke elicited a string of obscenities from them both, his cock withdrawing from her wet heat and glistening with her arousal in the lamplight. Nothing in heaven, hell, or on earth compared to the way Natalie sprawled beneath him, arms above her head as he shoved the hem of her shirt to her collar and buried his face between her tits.

“Sam,” she breathed as she clawed at his shoulders, “I want to hear you say it again.”

Was it his voice? Latin? The words? Whatever the case, Sam loved the delectable sounds he extracted from Natalie with such a simple little phrase. And so, he lay atop her, chest flush to her body and lips on her ear as he repeated himself. “Tu meum es solem et meas stellas.”

A long, high whine of pleasure lilted on her lips, marked by the rhythmic thrusts of his hips. Sam tried to restrain himself, tried to keep his strength in check, but when she begged him for more, his willpower faltered. She pleaded with him to fuck her harder and faster, and to say it again, Sam, tell me, I’m so close, I’m gonna come for you, fuck me, baby, yes!

The resounding slap of their bodies as Sam pounded her cunt filled the Library, mingling with the sounds of their breathless moans and Sam’s whispered devotion. He would repeat it every day for the rest of his life if it meant Natalie experienced such endless pleasure. If he aroused her so well with his voice, the wet slick of her cunt dripping down his balls, then Sam wanted to speak to her in tongues until she begged him to stop.

Instead, she begged for more, her desperation palpable in her quivering voice, and Sam relinquished any remaining self-control to which he clung. Natalie whined a pathetic moan when he withdrew from her only to then squeal in protest as Sam picked her up and set her on her feet. With a firm touch, he turned her about to face the table, then placed one hand between her shoulders as the other grasped her hip.

He was about to tell her what to do when Natalie bent at the hips, back bowed and hips rolled to present herself to him. “Fuck, Natalie, that’s so damn hot.”

“Say it again,” she demanded as her hips swayed. “Please, Sam.”

The wet heat of her sex enveloped the tip of his cock as he pressed into her, one hand grasping the base of his shaft. Her flesh parted for him as he pushed, each inch disappearing as he grabbed the supple muscle of her ass and spread her. Again, Sam stared at himself as he penetrated her, his cock stretching her pussy irresistible. When his pelvis met his backside, he leaned over her back and whispered in her ear once more.

Her long moan enticed him and so, his hips rolled back, and he thrust. Faster, he set his pace, the sounds of their tryst reaching a fever pitch. Groans and growls and whimpers mingled, punctuated by the relentless snap of Sam's hips as they slapped against Natalie’s ass in an endless pursuit of that exhilarating rush. With his chest lush to her back, he leaned to her ear, tongue tasting the skin of her neck as he repeated himself, and Natalie writhed with a shiver against him.  

The ache between his thighs ravaged his body in such a sudden surge of release, his moan of ecstasy burst from his lungs in a wild growl. And Natalie, so enthralled, screamed in shock as she unraveled, her cunt flexing on his cock. Each throbbing wave of her climax echoed in him, his shudders and moans harmony to her melody. Long, languid sighs and sharp cries of unrelenting arousal rendered them breathless in the wake of their pleasure as the final aftershocks passed.

When Sam found her piercing blue stare, Natalie’s sated smile spread across her lips as she laughed, and the pink hue of embarrassment slashed across her nose. “You are my sun and my stars, hm?” she mused.

Sam laughed with her as he withdrew, only to panic when he realized had no washcloth for her. “We should go get cleaned up before Dean and Liz get back,” he said as he righted his pants.

Natalie rose from the table and slipped into her pants. “Don’t change the subject,” she started as she grabbed his belt buckle. With a tug, she led him towards the far door of the Library for the showers. “Where did you come up with that phrase? ‘You are my sun and my stars’. And in four different languages. Why?”

At the door, Sam held it aside as she opened it. “I read it a few months ago in the same book you were reading tonight. The one with Irish rituals,” he said. “And it made me think of you. Do you… like it?”

Natalie tugged him along as she turned down the hall for the showers. “Your accent is…” she paused with a shiver, “something else.”

He hadn’t been too far off the mark then. At the door to the showers, he grinned as he said, “Would you like to hear some more?”

With a lascivious sigh, Natalie pulled him flush to her chest as lust widened her devious smile.

“Show me what that tongue of yours can do, Sam Winchester.”

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[centaurianthropology]

The Magnus Archives ‘Dig’ (S03E08) Analysis

And poor Martin is back as our narrator this week, diligently doing his job.  He seems to be the only one, and feeling the stress. The statement this week certainly didn’t help him with that stress.  Come on in to hear what I thought about ‘Dig’.

So Basira hasn’t seen Daisy, nor has anyone else at the police station.  And given how Basira reacted to ‘full operational discretion’, I think it’s very clear that Daisy has every intention of killing Jon as soon as she finds him.  I also think that Daisy doesn’t often go off the grid for this long.  She vanishes from time to time, but this has been enough that it has even her former partner poking around looking for her.  And thankfully for everyone, she’s well aware how dangerous Daisy is.  Now if only she’d felt like sharing that with the rest of the class, because Martin has been left in the dark by literally everyone.  Maybe she’s not talking to him because she’s aware that if she’s looking to Martin for Sims’ location, Daisy will be as well.  That seems to be the ongoing reason for everyone not to tell Martin anything.  

In protecting Sims from Daisy, I definitely think that Basira and Tim have both left Martin in Daisy’s crosshairs.  How long is it going to be before Daisy gets tired of looking for Sims and decides to use a more direct sort of bait?  Martin is literally the only personal connection that she knows of for Sims right now.  You can bet she’s going to use it, and that’s going to put them both in serious danger. If we’re lucky, Basira is watching Martin as well, and might be able to step in.  

I wonder if it’s something about that job and that office.  Last season it was Jon who was almost entirely isolated.  This season it’s Martin.  Literally none of his colleagues are telling him anything.  Tim is ignoring him and the entire job.  Melanie is skulking around researching ‘statements’ for Sims.  Sims himself is gone, and Martin doesn’t know if he’s okay or not.  Basira isn’t being at all helpful, and Daisy’s more likely to put a gun to his head than keep him company.  One of Martin’s defining features is his optimism.  He always wants things to turn out all right.  This week was the first time I’ve really heard a strain in him about that.  He’s cracking under the weight of being the Archivist, of recording the statements, and of being completely and utterly alone while being surrounded by people.  

Or maybe the theme of this episode is not that Martin is being isolated because of the supernatural, but instead that somehow the Institute has managed to amass a group of people who are singularly shit at talking to one another.  Seriously, I know this is horror, and terrible communication is one of the great horror tropes, but if these people would take a moment to get on the same page, a lot of badness could be avoided.  Melanie needs to talk to Martin, who is shaking apart with needing to know Jon’s okay, even if he can’t know Jon’s location thanks to Daisy’s surveillance.  Just a little reassurance, some hint that he’s not trapped and alone in the archives, might well go miles toward stabilizing Martin into something resembling mental health.

Basira also needs to talk to Martin, and level with him as to what ‘full operational discretion’ means. Again, she might not be able to tell him everything, but Martin currently just sees Daisy as a bully.  He needs to know that she’s homicidal, and stupendously dangerous.  Basira might also want to tell the same thing to Tim, since he’s the one most likely to tell Daisy what she wants to know.  

Tim and Sims need to have a season-late session to hash out their differences, and to get over themselves. Then they need to both agree that at some point, they should be the ones bringing Martin sandwiches and tea.  And they need to thank Melanie for getting involved in this shit-show, even if she didn’t realize exactly how bad it could get when she dove in.  

In fact, the only person no one should be talking to right now is Daisy, because Daisy isn’t going to listen.  She’s just going to shoot.  And I don’t think she’ll be overly choosy with who she uses to get that shot in, or who stands in the crossfire.

So, yeah. Communication saves lives, people. Try it some time.

Given how much stress Martin is under, and how close he seems to totally falling apart, it was particularly harrowing to hear him read the statement of someone steadily losing his mind. He’s taking on more and more of Sims’ cadence and rhythm, and this statement reminded me of nothing so much as Jane Prentiss’ statement.  So having Martin go from sweet and awkward to the narrator’s mental state by the end of the statement was a particularly dreadful journey to take.    

Both Martin and Enrique, the statement giver, have had something they enjoyed twisted into a compulsion.  For Enrique it was a hobby in metal detecting; for Martin it was his job.  Martin is compelled to record, even as it leaves him rattled and disturbed, and Enrique was both horrified by and in love with the digging.  

Hearing that makes me worry about Martin and Sims.  It seems very likely that they, just like Enrique, are slowly digging their own graves. They’re compelled to consume information until they drown in it, or become something altogether other than human. Is an aspect of one of the Great Old Ones still considered to be the individual it once was?  Or is that individual obliterated to make room for the new being?  

Again I think that a lot of those answers might lie with Nikolai Dennikin.  He was the only one of the claimed I can think of who actually up and left that life to go and have a family.  How did he do it?  Does he prove that the aspects do retain some semblance of self, and that semblance can actually rise up to totally define that person once more?  Are there more breakaways who used to serve one of the Great Old Ones, but now live normal lives?  How would Sims even go about finding people like that?

A final note about the statement itself was with Enrique’s perceptions.  It’s clear that, in another parallel to Sims and Martin, the deeper he sunk into the grip of the thing that has claimed him, the more he could perceive. And in that perception, he seemed to have found something genuinely interesting about the Institute.  He referred to something in the Archives (specifically in the Archivist’s office, if his attack on the floor was anything to be believed) as “a hollow space that all Eyes point toward”.  Something is there, or someone, and it’s powerful enough to act as a siren song for Enrique, and a point of utter fixation for the Beholding.  Is that the tunnels, or is there something else?  Something hidden beneath the floorboards of Sims’ office, just waiting to be discovered?

Conclusions

A short but excellent entry. Alexander Newall is really getting to sink his teeth into some good statements this season, and his acting is fantastic.  Listening to Martin the character getting the statements inflicted on him is less fantastic of course.  Gripping listening, but more stomach-clenching than fantastic.  Given how much pressure he’s under right now, Martin needs some sort of relief and soon.  I was hoping Melanie would be sensible and at least help him out enough that he could relax a bit, but it sounds like she’s spending all her time researching Jon’s projects.  And while that’s necessary, it basically leaves Martin right where he started: working alone in the Archives with two people there who are unwilling to pitch in. And the only person who could really understand the growing hold the Archives have on him is currently hiding, and specifically not talking to Martin because they’re considered close enough that Martin is being watched.

I could think of half a dozen ways around that, which wouldn’t draw suspicion from Daisy, but for those to happen, Melanie would need to be aware of the stakes they’re playing for. Because so far, the audience has more pieces than any of the characters.  We can see the shape of the danger they’re facing far better than any of them.  It’s an awesome way to build suspense, but you’ll have to forgive me if I’m gripping the edges of my seat and shouting at every one of the characters to damn well talk to one another.

[onlymorelove]

fic: my life is for you (and no one other than you) (1/1)

Title: my life is for you (and no one other than you) (1/1)  Fandom: Teen Wolf Relationship: Liam Dunbar/Theo Raeken  Characters: Theo Raeken, Liam Dunbar Word Count: 2293 Tags:  Established Relationship, Future Fic, Post-Canon, Idiots in Love, Romance, Implied Sexual Content, Bisexual Male Characters, Banter, Boys grow into men eventually Rating: T Summary:  It’s a journey they began years before, but one they have to take again and again. Together.  (Post-coital, slice-of-life fic. AKA sass and fluff.)  A/N: The title is a lyric from Sting's Desert Rose.

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Liam is draped across their bed, one arm flung outward like a starfish, the other resting over his eyes. The resonant bass of Theo’s heartbeat trip-trops in his ears and travels down until it settles, reassuring and familiar, somewhere in Liam’s own chest, while he catches his breath, still riding the high of his orgasm. The pulse of Theo’s heart as it pushes blood through his veins is the music that rocks Liam to sleep every night, an auditory security blanket he couldn’t relinquish even if he tried.

He hears the snap of latex as Theo removes his condom, ties it off, and throws it in the small trash can near their bed. “Ugh,” Liam groans. “I can’t move. Babe, I’m never going to be able to move again.” “Well, that could be a problem,” Theo answers, a smile heating the thick, lush slide of his voice, “considering your come is currently drying in your chest hair.”

Every nerve ending in Liam’s well-loved body wants to light up in response to the caress of that voice . . . But he’s just too damned tired and sated.

Theo tugs at a few of the hairs near one of Liam’s nipples to emphasize his point about the sticky mess painted on his chest.

“I don’t care.” Liam’s mouth sinks into a pout. “You’re disgusting, Liam.” Theo nudges him in the calf with the barest hint of a claw. “Just take two minutes and clean up in the bathroom.”

“You clean it. It’s only fair since it’s your fault I can’t moooove,” Liam says, drawing out the O. “You fucked all the energy and motivation right out of me.” He raises his ass in a half-hearted thrust and hears Theo smother a laugh. The sound is so light and happy, so free of sharp edges, that Liam wants to record it and play it back on repeat. His lips twitch with the desire to arc in a dopey smile; he lets them. It’s nothing Theo hasn’t seen before.

A hand curves around his flank and kneads. The touch, tender but confident, coaxes a sigh from Liam’s kiss-bruised mouth. If he had any sense left at all, he’d stifle it. But that would take energy Liam doesn’t have, and besides, he knows it’s too late: he let Theo in on most of his secrets, the dark ones and the stupid ones and the in-between ones, too, long ago—including the fact that he morphs into something soft, malleable, and totally, utterly, deliciously whipped in Theo’s long-fingered hands.

“Are you complaining, little wolf? 'Cause that sure sounded like a complaint.”

“Mmm-mm.” Liam bites his lower lip and shakes his head from side to side where it lays on the pillow. “Just stating facts. Definitely not complaining.”

“I hope not. 'Cause ten minutes ago you were all, ‘I need you, Theo. Fuck me, Theo.’” Amusement and affection coil around and through the words.

But the wickedly accurate mimicry sends hot blood rushing to Liam’s cheeks. “Are you done?” he says, voice frigid.

“‘I need your cock, Theo,’” Theo adds, undeterred by Liam's disapproval, and apparently not finished eviscerating Liam’s pride. All with a complete lack of malice, of course.

He loves this man—the coyote; the wolf; the shadows; the nightmares; the tender, vulnerable parts Liam can still scratch if he isn’t careful—fuck, does he love him, but Theo knows exactly where to apply pressure when he wants to be a dick. “Idiot. I do not sound like that,” Liam says, and yeah, okay, maybe it comes out a touch whiny. “Shut up.” Eyes scrunched tight, he smacks the bed, not trying very hard to aim for Theo.

Theo tsks and cards his big, warm hands through Liam’s hair in a lazy drag that soothes his bruised pride and threatens to melt him into exquisite, boneless ease. “That’s exactly how you sound, sweet cheeks. You know it; I know it.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.” Liam surges up, catching Theo off-guard, and shoves him onto his back. “Take it back, you assmunching twatwaffle,” he says, straddling Theo’s lean hips and digging his fingers into his ribs, his favorite tickle spot.

Theo grips Liam’s thighs and beams a laugh at him, with his head thrown back, teeth flashing white, eyes crimped at the corners. Liam blinks; fuck, if normalcy doesn’t look amazing on Theo. “Such a dirty mouth,” Theo says through his laughter, gasping, “for such a pretty face.” The words drip with mock reproach.

Fortunately, Liam can give as good as he gets. He grins. “You love my dirty mouth when it’s wrapped around your dick.”

“Hmm,” Theo replies, sounding non-committal. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. You really think I’m pretty?”

“Are you fishing for compliments?”

“No.” A pause. “Maybe.” Liam lifts one shoulder in a shrug and rubs his thumb across Theo’s bottom lip. “Is it working?”

Using the barest hint of fang, Theo nips at Liam’s thumb, then releases it. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” he asks, eyes dancing, just before he rolls Liam onto his back. The pads of his fingers glide over Liam’s cheek; he leans into the touch and fights not to purr his pleasure. His wolf, on the other hand, because it lacks any dignity whatsoever, seems to give a contented snuffle and rolls over, presenting its belly for a thorough rub and scratch.

“Definitely you,” Liam quips.

The mattress dips when Theo leans in closer. The salt sweat scent of his skin sends fresh heat spiraling deep inside Liam. “No, you, pretty boy,” Theo murmurs on a warm puff of air, and Liam’s eyes slip shut again. “Your cheekbones are sharper than my claws.” His voice curls smoky and whisper soft against the shell of Liam’s ear, pulling goosebumps and a helpless shiver from his sensitive, love-drunk body. “And your eyes . . . Those blue, blue eyes . . .” The words trail off; Theo clears his throat.

Liam’s eyes open by slow degrees, as if in a dream, and he glances up at Theo. Strands of dark, tousled hair fall across his forehead—hair that Liam had gripped and pulled while they’d loved each other—rendering him boyish and carefree in a way that Liam knows Theo wasn’t when he was actually still a child. But now . . .  Now his eyes aren’t hollow and edged in bitterness like they once were. Now he doesn’t reek of loneliness and regret like they’re clawed deep into the very marrow of his bones.

Now Liam’s heart speeds up, like a wolf racing through a midnight forest crisp with moonlight.

Theo’s mouth, still kiss-pink and soft at the edges, twists in a knowing smirk, as if Theo hears the increase in Liam’s heart rate. (Of course the bastard hears it.)

“Why are you flattering me, anyway? What do you want?” Liam narrows his eyes and flicks Theo in the stomach, watching with languid interest as the muscles there flex in response. “You already got in my pants.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s the truth, Dunbar.”

“Oh, goody.” He bats his eyes in Theo’s direction. “So I guess my pretty ass is just gonna lie here and be a sloth,” Liam says, and it slips out wrapped around a smile.

Theo’s eyebrow quirks up. “And that would be different from any other day how?”   “Remind me why I keep you around.” Liam lets his eyes flash gold for a moment

“That’s easy.” Theo shrugs, face impassive but for the unholy light in his beautiful eyes. “‘Cause no one else could fuck you like I do,” he says, eyes glowing yellow right back at Liam. Coming from anyone else, that statement would sound ridiculous. Coming from Theo, it simply sounds matter of fact.

“Nope.” Liam presses his lips together and shakes his head. “That’s not why. I bet tons of other people could do what you do to my body—”

“—I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Cocky motherfucker.” Liam rolls his eyes and covers Theo’s mouth with his hand. “Let me finish, asshole.” His tone mellows. “But no one else could do what you do to my heart.”

This time Theo’s heart picks up speed; Liam hears it but doesn’t react, just drops his hand and lets a spark of satisfaction ping through him. He breathes into the comfortable silence that covers the room like a worn, nubby blanket and waits for the response he knows will come eventually. Head cocked to the side, Theo asks, “Are you a hopeless romantic, Liam?” A twinkle flares in Theo’s hazel eyes, igniting a traitorous, answering warmth that spreads from Liam’s chest all the way down to his toes.  

He chooses to answer the question with another question. “I married you, didn’t I?” Liam stretches until his fingers find their home, woven together with Theo’s.

Theo swallows, throat working, and Liam’s eyes track the motion. “That you did.” Still naked and radiating toasty heat, Theo rises over Liam, bracing his free hand on the bed, by Liam’s shoulder.

Liam inhales sharply, watching the light and the shadows in their dim bedroom play along the muscles beneath the skin of Theo’s arms, chest, and shoulders. His husband’s pupils are dark and blown wide. He unwinds their fingers, and Liam fights an aching sense of loss at the absence of contact.

“I’m still a mess, Theo,” he feels compelled to announce, gesturing at his chest, when Theo tips his chin back with a single finger.

“Baby, I don’t care,” he says in a low rumble just before he dips his head to mouth at the sensitive skin at Liam’s throat. “So am I. Not sure I ever stopped being a mess,” he adds, almost under his breath, and it has the tenor of a confession.

Liam understands the double meaning, so he circles his arms around Theo and pulls him in as close as he can, taking all his weight, then closer still.

“Fuck, you smell good.” Reverence, awe, and affection entangle the words, and Theo shudders. Liam feels it through every single point of contact between their skin. The scruff on Theo’s jaw prickles against Liam’s neck, a bracing counterpoint to the softness of his words—and his heart. “Like sweat and come and you . . . and me.”

“Ew”—Liam curls his leg around Theo’s and drags his foot against the coarse hair on his calf—“Sounds gross.”

Theo shapes a laugh against his skin. “It should be, but it isn’t.”

“Geez, Theo,” he says, and taps him lightly on the ass, “when did you become this ginormous sap?”

“Probably when you freed me from hell.”

“Best thing I ever did, even though I didn’t do it for you.” Liam moves his hands from where they’re stroking circles on Theo’s back, to his hair.

“About that”—he lifts his head to look Liam directly in the eyes—“I, um, don’t know if I ever said thank you."

"For what?"

"For letting me out. For not sending me back." Theo pauses, mouth open, then sighs with a swift shake of his head. "And for everything after that.”

Liam smiles and pushes Theo’s hair off his forehead. “You never said the words”—he pauses and kisses the smooth skin at Theo’s temple—“but you didn’t have to; I heard them anyway.”

Liam pulls the blanket over them both, then tightens his arms around Theo, inhaling their commingled scent, and damn it all to hell and back, he must be as much of a sap as Theo is, because, well, it is a good smell.  

Theo. Pack. Mine, he thinks, with nary a trace of smugness. It just is.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve you,” Theo whispers against Liam’s cheek, a tremor in his breath and his pulse.

“Shhh”—he presses his hand gently to Theo’s mouth, gaze flickering to the gold band on his ring finger—“Stop. You already do.” They're treading ancient ground now, a dirt path littered with the vestiges of old paw prints and weathered, storm-blown branches that snap and crack under their feet.

Theo shakes his head and swallows, eyes dark as a night with no moon.

Theo, stubborn Theo, always Theo, calls to Liam’s blood with a pull as strong and inexorable as the full moon when she crooks her bone-white fingers and beckons to Liam’s wolf.

When Theo calls, Liam always comes.

Letting his hand drop back to stroke along Theo’s shoulder, Liam raises his head and reaches for his husband’s mouth, slowly, so slowly, a millimeter at a time, giving him a chance to retreat if that’s what he wants. But Theo doesn’t retreat. Instead, he angles his head, light catching on the fan of his lashes as his eyes fall shut, so Liam presses onward until their lips finally meet.

It’s a journey they began years before, but one they have to take again and again. Together. Some of the roads are the same; some of them will be different.

But Liam kisses Theo soft, slow, and achingly sweet, coaxing, coaxing, until he moans his surrender into Liam’s mouth, and Liam thinks he’ll never hear anything more beautiful than that. He kisses Theo and tries to tell him all the things he’s told him a thousand times before. Things like I love you, and I want you, and I need you, and you’re mine, and I’m yours.

And if there isn’t a God, maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe there’s nothing holier than this: naked skin, warm hands, and kisses strung in a rosary like every silent prayer Liam knows Theo never uttered.

I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m . . . yours.

A/N:  Thanks for reading! Please comment if you feel up to it. :) If you want to send me a prompt, feel free.

[majorxbennyxboy]

Mom Watches TURN: S1E1

First of all, good news, lads, she likes it! She says it’s a little slow starting off but she’s definitely intrigued and Ready to Go. Fair warning that the following commentary contains her uncensored first impressions of certain characters and may be considered offensive by some audiences. Hell, I was offended by one of them. That said, *Hamilton Voice* Le’z go.

We’re two episodes in and so there may be some overlap contextually, but alas,

First time hearing Abe speak, "his voice made me think of that guy in...in...Unfortunate Events- the guy who was also in Last Samurai! The Scottish Guy, just- rewind it- RIGHT THERE." (Billy Connolly. She thought Abe sounded like Billy Connolly.)

Baker comes out of the house, she makes this derisive, kind of ‘judging him’ noise, "Was he just out of the whorehouse" "that's THEIR house ma" "was there someone in th-" "MA"

While Mary's making the bed and they talk about Baker staying there, "aw do they take in people as a little extra wage?" She was horrified when I told her the Woodhulls are not getting paid.

She cringed pretty expressively at the shot of red water, and then, and the exact quote, as Welsh walks around stabbing people, (imagine, if you will, a YIKE tone) "OOHHHH!! Oh Wow. AH!"

First sight of the Rangers, "who is on whose side"

there's really no accurate transcription for the Soft Gasp™ when Ben opened his eyes, but it was followed by,

*Gasp* “HE CAN'T LET NOBODY KNOW HE'S ALIVE. OH NO. OHHH Oh goddd GGASP OOHHH “ *sucks breath through teeth as Welsh approaches* “AwwwwWWW”

As Ben stabs Welsh, "GOOD FOR YOU BUDDY GOOD FOR YOU"

*pained sounds as Ben stabs the dead dragoon* *soft “oh :( “* Doesn't react at all when Ben gets shot but the second he gets up and keeps running, she says, completely deadpan but also vaguely distressed, "He ain't got a chance"

I have reason to believe she thought he died or something bc later when Ben's talking to Abe (more on that in a minute) she didnae realize That Was Him but idk maybe she just assumed after his convo with Scott he was still actually Recovering or something idk

"why are there bugs in the cabbage that's nasty" she sounded so disappointed. There was this air of being personally affronted by the fact that there were bugs in the cabbage. It was amazing.

As Abe heads to the tavern,"So what side is he on"

*pained noises during 'fight’*

No reaction to seeing *annavoice* Hewlett *normal voice* but after he got in a few lines she just,"WAIT A MINUTE. GET OUT. GUPPY???" *Richard walks up* "THE PIRATE? Woooowwww. They've lived many lives, haven't they."

As Hewlett speaks, "I'm not believing that VOICE"

(On Richard and his relation to Gibbs) "He needs the long long long thick sideburns and something else" (as Selah's being frogmarched to the stocks)"Are they gonna kill him???"

Abruptly, as the Cabbages come back in view, "don't they say something about maggot-y crops in lord of the ri- MAGGOTY BREAD. THREE STINKIN DAYS"

Seeing Mary as if for the first time, "He has a wife?? But he's in love with that other woman????"

(After Richard's speech about the Smiths, the Strongs, the Tallmadges) "That's what's wrong with us. We married into the Smiths. They chose the wrong side long ago- or are they on the right side?" "They're Patriots ma" "...oh. So we just got some bad Smiths."

(Turpin Hero starts up) "What's he gon try to do with that cabbage. he tryna replant? or just dig up the old???? Where's he going with rotted cabbage?"

"He's there with the rotted cabbage. To what avail"

(On Caleb) "oh, now he looks- LOOKS" (I have not deciphered what this particular reaction Means. )

(during the Abe + Ben interview. The Benterview I'll show myself the door) "He looks familiar" "Who, Ben?" "mm the other one" *shot pans to Ben* "that Thing" "..that's Ben" "OHHH"

It was at this point I Realized and was compelled to explain that in this case he is Familiar because she just saw him a few scenes back. "He's the Boy? the 'we need a friend in-' OH."

(On Abe's bartering) "I'd want more than twelve pounds"

(utterly dismayed) "He's gonna bury his money right there that close to the-???"

(on Simcoe) "THAT UGLY GUY THERE. HE'S HIDEOUS LIKE FRANCIS. I grew to love Francis but I will never love this freak. He's awful, I can't stand that guy. I've sniffed him out already. I hate him."

(As Simcoe crawls out of the safehouse)

"simcoe LIVES? gah."

"ohhh GAH he looks like a HIDEOUS version of Francis"

*laughs at Robeson's expression after Abraham's Sham-Vow*

"He didn't want to do that, I guess. Did his father want him to do that? Is his father playing both sides of the fence? Oh."

(this just in, she does not find Anyone 'particularly delightful' and has professed a desire that "a tasty morsel will come along" she said her tastes were leaning toward "the guy who got shot but he's getting on my nerves"

"What the what mom what has he possibly done in the space of two episodes to-"

"-He's all over that girl!"

"mom who are you talking about Ben doesn't even know what girls are he hasn't been anywhere near a girl"

"The guy who got hurt he was laying down and stabbed the guy who was going to stab him- he was gonna be a spy!"

"Mom no that's Ben and he has not- he wasn’t going to be a spy, he said they need spies- Abe's the one who's got the Tension with Anna, but-"

"No not HIM, they were in Bed and talking about spies"

"JANDRE MA. THAT IS JOHN ANDRE" "mm. andre.  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) " "YEAH? AND HE'S A REDCOAT MOM DON'T BRING BEN INTO THIS" "...oh. well in that case I’m leaning toward the soldier who got shot. There’s Hope for him, there’s Potential" shes gonna lov my son *thumbs up*

"...what's the pirate's name" "Gibbs???" "Gibbs I like his son" "Richard's son" "Yeah but not in a swooning way I like him because he seems like a helpful sort of person" "just u wait ma" "what" "I have a soft spot for him but the fandom hates him and its so sad because he deserves love too" "WHY WOULD THEY HATE HIM HE'S HAVING A HARD TIME HE'S GOT BUGS IN HIS CABBAGE GIVE HIM A BREAK" "RIGHT?"

[princeasmodaios]

Did I actually mean this, once upon a time?

Let me start by asking you this one, very common, exceptionally over-analysed question:

What is love?​

To some it's the rush of endorphins flowing through the body when your crush's hand grazes ever so softly against the delicate skin of your knee, for others it's the wind blowing through ones hair as they throw their arms wide with spiked adrenaline in an attempt to encompass life while they reach constant velocity on their free-fall to the surface of the mighty globe we call earth. Perhaps for you it's the awkward hand scrawled letters to the girl that sits across from you in chemistry that inevitably make your heart leap into your throat and silently strangle you under your teachers piercing gaze. Now go on, I dare you- ask me that same question... What is love?

To me, love is the tapestry of evolution.

Let me explain.

People spend their lives going through relationships, dating, figuring out who's traits are best suited for them. Since the art of courtship is decreasing, the real gentlemen are becoming more difficult to find due to the fact that every man that will hold the door open for a woman is inevitably taken already. Desirable traits, be it looks or personality are crucial in finding true love, you wouldn't want to settle for someone substandard with a bad attitude now would you? Part of the Darwinism effect is survival of the fittest- it's part of evolution- when you find your one true love it's the person whose traits are best suited for you, the person you click with will be best for you physically and mentally, regardless of how others view them. No one is free from evolution, let's be real- And for me, nature's paired me up with the best of the best. You see, I've been gifted with a beautiful brunette with long luscious curls that cascade over her shoulders and rest above her chest, a girl with teasing eyes that are constantly lit up, whispering the undiscovered tales of life under the bright blue canopy of the ocean, a woman whose dimples reflect the childhood innocence of days long past, and whose figure displays the painstaking effort of late nights out in the gym perfecting the ageless art that her inner heart compels her to do. Let me tell you my friends, this woman is the one nature destined me to be with. Fret not though, if you're still fighting the Copenhagen Interpretation- with all of the potential outcomes- only one will will be suited properly for you and she will absolutely and undeniably tear you from the roots of your world and send you spinning out of earth's mere atmosphere. The undeniable pull of endorphins, the rush of adrenaline that comes with the first kiss- that is what you look forward to right? Well you have yet to make it through the first date. Good lord- let's talk about the first date. Simply put, the girl(or guy) you're with is either going to be everything to you, or nothing. For the time being however, you are a living interpretation of Schrodinger's cat. Neither of you can tell, nor can the rest of the world, your partner is either a decaying nuclear atom that will trigger the geiger counter and utterly end the life of your passion with one another in one swift blow, or an atom that hasn't yet begun to decay, and therefore you're intimacy remains alive. Only after the progression of a tragically beautiful thing can one tell if your love lives on or is suffocated in poison- much to the same effect as the cat. So now let's say the first date goes exponentially well and you're feeling like you won a million bucks- and the odds aren't exactly in your favor since you would be 1 in 750 million.. But that's besides the point. First date went well- hopefully the two of you feel pretty comfortable and confident with yourselves and each other- inevitably the two of you will end up sleeping together- which is again, another make it or break it scenario; you'll find out if you're actually in love or just in lust with your partner; you see-  Biologically, love is a powerful neurological condition like hunger or thirst, only more permanent. We talk about love being blind or unconditional, in the sense that we have no control over it. But then, that is not so surprising since love is basically chemistry. While lust is a temporary passionate sexual desire involving the increased release of chemicals such as testosterone and oestrogen. In true love, or attachment and bonding, the brain can release a whole set of chemicals: pheromones, dopamine, norepinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin and vasopressin. However, from an evolutionary perspective, love can be viewed as a survival tool – a mechanism we have evolved to promote long-term relationships, mutual defense and parental support of children and to promote feelings of safety and security. Reflect on that for a minute. So at this point I believe I've effectively communicated my understanding of the act of love, so perhaps you might be wondering how I feel when I am struck by the unnerving power of love without the scientific portion. Per- say, you want to know the "magical" side of the emotion, the soulmate principle and what-not. Go ahead, ask me again;

What is Love?

Let me tell you my friends, it is one of the most painfully exhilarating, passionately destructive things in the world. It's the draining trek through the Himalayan mountain range- the long frigid nights, sore feet, blisters, aches and pains; But it's the view from the peak- the hawks soaring eons below, the clouds drifting over the gently rolling hills into acres of farmland, the lakes and ponds, feeling the dizzying sense of life as you face the crest of the cliff, toes peeking out over the edge of a 5,000 foot drop. It's the waves cascading over your body in the ocean- throwing your helpless figure against the unyielding sandy floor, causing painful discombobulation and excruciating burns; but its also the thrill of discovery, the excitement of something new, the sensual cooling whisper of the water against your shoulder-blades, in a spot where the scorching tongue of the sun landed for a little too long. Love, god it's such a difficult thing to explain. The moment it happens you can feel it in your chest, the building of pressure, suppressed excitement, impossible to contain just aching within you to be released but to the rest of the world you look completely normal but something inside you just has to give! You can't contain all of the emotions inside of you, pouring over you, drowning you in a tidal wave of wants, needs, desires- oh, the insatiable desires just for that one person! Nothing else has that effect, that soft brush of their skin against you will make you want to swoon, landing in their arms, your face flushed with exhilaration. the choking desire to have them close to you, to feel their soft lips parting, the quick breath before a kiss, the minty taste it has- the tug of their teeth against the sensitive skin of your unprotected throat and oh the glory of them touching you! The ache behind your rib cage, the yearning of just wanting to hear their voice again.. But wait.. I'm getting ahead of myself, let me elaborate..

Have you ever sat down next to someone, had them look at you sideways out of their eyes, feeling the ghost of a smile lurking around the corners of their mouth, not noticing until it's just one moment too late that their hand had traveled the short distance between the two of you and now rested on your knee? Have you ever felt the jolt of electricity run through you, starting at the point of contact, a literal spark lighting your system on fire- you now hide behind a curtain of hair, smiling coyly at your partner as if this were a hidden game only for the two of you to play? There's that quick catch of air in your throat, the hot rush of blood to your cheeks, every nerve ending in your body is tingling as her hand brushes up your thigh and comes to rest almost too close but simultaneously too far from what you really truly want. Just that simple movement from your knee to your inner thigh has you on fire. You're aching for a more intimate caress, and your very face reflects your thoughts as you draw in a shaky breath and bite your lower lip, eyes travelling from her hand to her face. Your eyes meet and you see something more sinister lurking in the depths of your partner's eyes, she's squeezing your thigh now, digging her finger into that one spot that drives you wild- your ability to focus has decreased, your breath comes quicker, you lean towards her, feel her lips part on your throat, trailing steamy kisses up to your ear- whispering to you, pulling you in... her hand travels up your shorts and strokes the thin silky fabric of your briefs and you know that you've lost all inhibition, you want more..

The trust, the lust, it's part of love. Try this for taste too:

She comes to pick you up, arriving at 7:15- exactly on time. Standing in your driveway adorned in grey vans, jeans, and a blue flannel shirt; She puts her keys in her pocket and walks up to your door, not once reaching for her cell phone to text "I'm here". You can't resist smiling at her old fashioned way- she hadn't once ceased to make you feel anything less than the only girl in the world. The door swings open. Excitement shoots through you as you rush to greet her at the door, to introduce her to your father and siblings, hopeful that they will like her as much as you do. Semi- formal introductions bring laughter from your family and most importantly from her, and relief cascades over you knowing that she will fit in here just fine. She places her hand against the small of your back to put you at ease and let you know that she would be there, that you could relax now and that everything would be okay.

You see, Love is expressed differently in both scenarios, but it's the same beautiful irresistible love in both, and that creates a more pristine and perfect relationship than any other- a true bond between two people- a passion, a mission, an unconscious addictive feeling. God, god bless those that fall in love.

-Allie

[sundayeveningthoughts]

Sadness

Sunday Evening Thoughts

                                                        Sadness

September 9, 2018

Dear Rachel and Paul,

The earth shall be utterly laid waste and utterly despoiled; for the Lord has spoken this word. Isaiah 24:3.

       I have never thought very highly of THE LORD in this instance because THE LORD “utterly laid waste and utterly despoiled” the earth. It seems to me that THE LORD should have something better to do. It seems to me that we have enough “utterly despoiling of the earth” being allowed by the current lord of the manor. And honestly, that is my biggest fear of the Trump administration — environmental devastation. I do not think Trump will drop a nuclear bomb on North Korea, Palestine, or Iraq and Iran — that’s just talk, but the long-term damage to the environment (i.e. the huge increase in cutting 400-year-old trees in national forests) will be felt for decades, perhaps centuries.

       But it has gone on before. Utterly laying waste and utterly despoiling the earth occurred twice in World War II: Once by Hitler and Germany in the holocaust by attempting to utterly annihilate Jews, and by Truman and the U.S. for dropping atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  There is no moral justification for either.

       Recently this became even clearer to me when two of you alert Thinkers went to Japan for a month and brought me a small book of essays titled, An Anthology of the Experiences of Hiroshima Atomic Bomb Victims.

       I think it is important to listen to the voices of people who experienced the devastation. It creates empathy for the victims. There is a subtle but noticeable sadness in their writings.

Takato Michishita writes, “Dear Young People who have never experienced war, ‘Wars begin covertly. If you sense it is coming, it may be too late.’”

Please read that again.

Hiroko Uchida states, “After the A-bomb was dropped, there was a huge flash. I was shocked and lay flat on the ground. I then realized I couldn’t move. I was pinned under the house. It had collapsed. I managed to dig my way out, and looked around. Everything was gone… As I ran [the fire was spreading], I stopped to help some people. Other people asked for help, … but were pinned under rubble. I was most shocked by a woman pinned by a column of stone from a gatepost… The fire burned for two days. On the third day, I found the body of a boy… about four, dead with his head trust into a water tank. I kept thinking about the woman pinned under the gatepost and how she must have burned to death… I have never forgotten her.”

What a sad image.

Masako Yamamoto, “I heard a huge boom… I headed home [after the destruction of their school] and met father. Where’s Mother? On August 8 [the bomb fell August 6, 1945], we were able to make it into the city… There were piles of corpses lining the roads of the city. There was a strange, indescribable smell permeating the streets. There was a cart overturned on the side of the road. The horse that had been pulling it was dead, split open, with its organs bursting forth from its body. Both were charred black… We found a set of white teeth; with a few gold caps… bones bleached white. They belonged to Mother.

There are a dozen similar stories from the hibakusha — a term used to describe survivors of the atomic bomb which literally means  "explosion-affected people." All of the stories are quite sad.

       But the most compelling story of the atomic bomb is in the children’s book Sadako and the Thousand and One Paper Cranes by Eleanor Coerr.

       With great sensitivity and compassion, Coerr describes the story of Sadako Sasaki who was two-years-old at the time we destroyed Hiroshima. She developed leukemia at the age of 10. To soften the news, her classmate told her the Buddhist tale that if you fold 1,000 cranes, before you fold 1,001 you will be healed by the Spirits. Sadly, she only folded about 644. (There are conflicting numbers as to how many she actually folded.)

       I highly recommend Coerr’s Sadako and the Thousand and One Paper Cranes. Ideally written for a 9—11-year-olds. I believe that children do need to hear the truth about the horrors of war. On the other hand, I know Syrian kids who have been directly affected by our war with Syria (even if they were hit with Russian-made bombs instead of U.S.-made bombs, I believe we do have the capacity to stop the war in Syria if we truly want to.) I pray those Syrian kids will be whole.

       Buy this book for your younger sibling, or niece or nephew, or a friend’s child ages 9-11.

       Less compelling, but beautifully illustrated for a younger child, is the children’s book Sadako’s Cranes by Judith Loske. I say less compelling, because the focus is on the cranes, though it does tell Sadako Sasaki’s story. Perhaps it is enough for a small child.

       I am partially writing this S.E.T. on August 6, 2018, the 73rd Anniversary of the Atomic Bombing on Hiroshima. In thinking of this incidence I am reminded of Ammon Hennacy, who shortly after the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki worked unceasingly to stop all nuclear bombs. On August 6th every year he fasted all day for “the sins of the U.S.”, and added a day to his fast every year until he became very ill. (I’m fasting today, but only until dinner… not a lot of suffering there!)

        Here is a famous picture of him with the quote, “May God arouse you from lethargy, separate you from all complicity, with tyrants and warmongers, and enlighten your conscience and strengthen your will in the work of reconstruction” on his sign.

       Let us pray that THE LORD does not ask us to “utterly lay waste” to the earth again. (For the record, I do not think THE LORD did the first time!) Even more, let us not be silent about nuclear war and bombs. Even further, let us work against it.

       I like Clem’s logic, “If THE LORD wants to utterly lay waste on the earth, THE LORD can do it without us!”

        Have a good week…

Love,

Dad

P.S. Here is a familiar song that encourages us to do more to end war.

Enjoy!

Mercy by the Dave Matthews Band

Don't give up I know you can see

All the world and the mess that were making

Can't give up And hope God will intercede

Come on back Imagine that we could get it together

Stand up for what we need to be

Cause crime won't save our feet or hungry child

Can't lay down and hope no miracles change things

So lift up your eyes Lift up your heart

Singing mercy will we overcome this

Oh one by one could we turn it around

Maybe carry on just a little bit longer

And I try to give you what you need…