#if any of this is messed up or looks ugly not its not and keep moving pls.. brain is mushy

[geniusboyy]

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 33

Pillars of Salt

WARNING: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence. Read at your own discretion.

Ford was hunched over his workbench, a mess of notes and blueprints spread before him, their edges curling under the weight of sleeplessness. He hadn’t moved in—what? Thirty-six hours? Maybe more. His wrist ached, his fingers stained with ink, but he was on a roll, muttering feverishly to Bill between scribbled calculations. He could hear Bill’s laughter in his mind—all teeth.

“That’s it, Fordy,” Bill purred, sharp and teasing. “Keep going—oh, you’re so close. Just a little more. Spread it wide open—”

Ford smirked. “Would you cut that out? It’s obscene.”

“Oh, come on, Poindexter, I can’t help it.” Bill’s voice was honey-slick, thick with amusement. “Look at you, all flushed. Hard at work, fingers twitching—”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Do you ever shut up?”

“That depends. You gonna make me?”

That earned a sharp exhale through Ford’s nose, more amused than he’d admit. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“I’ve got a couple ideas.” Bill mused, the words brushing against Ford’s neck, earning a light shiver.

The schematics were starting to make sense, the plans for the system unfolding in jagged lines and half-finished equations. He could see it coming together, finally, finally—

“What was that?” Bill asked, tone suddenly alert.

At first, Ford didn’t register it, too absorbed in the moment. The wind had been howling against the cabin all night, its moans working their way through the cracks in the old beams. The foundation creaked sometimes. It was nothing.

But then the sound came again—above him, this time. A shift in weight. A slow, careful step. Ford stilled, the pen hovering mid-stroke. The silence that followed felt cavernous.

The radiator rumbled to life, filling the room with a low, shuddering hum, swallowing the sound. Maybe he’d imagined it. He almost went back to his work, but then—another step. And another.

Someone was upstairs.

The pen slipped from his fingers, rolling off the page, tapping once against the wood before settling between the stacks of papers. His head tilted up, listening, his breath caught somewhere between his ribs. Fidds isn’t supposed to be home yet.

Ford listened, straining, the space between each breath growing taut. The floorboards overhead groaned—slow, deliberate, the gait heavier than Fidds’, lacking the familiar unevenness of his stride. No, he recognized the way those steps landed—a pattern written into his nervous system.

Then came the smell.

It reached him before reality did, curling thick through the air, unmistakable. Smoke. Not just any smoke, but that smoke—dense, bitter, laced with something faintly sweet, the way paper smelled when it burned slowly. The way the inside of a Cadillac smelled. A smell that lived in the lining of coats and the cracks of leather shoes and holes of the telephone receiver. A smell that clung to the rough hands that struck his cheek.

He stayed still. A childish instinct—if he didn’t move, if he didn’t acknowledge it, maybe it wouldn’t be real. Maybe the air was playing tricks on him. Maybe it was something else. Maybe he was imagining it. But it curled thick at the back of his throat, coating it in something dry, something ugly, something he had never been able to scrub from his memory—cigars.

He forced himself to stand.

His ascent was slow. His knees felt locked. The creak of the wooden steps beneath his feet sounded too loud, like he was the intruder in his own home. When he reached the doorway, he saw him standing in the kitchen.

Broad-shouldered. Thick hands stuffed into the pockets of a wool coat, the winter air still clinging to it. He stood with his back to him, scanning the cabin like he was appraising something cheap, something disappointing.

“So this is it, huh?” His voice came with a rough Jersey accent, full of smoke, full of dismissal. “This is what that fancy education amounted to… a shack in the woods?”

“Who’s this clown?” Bill sneered—his tone a bitter echo through Ford’s mind.

Ford swallowed. Cleared his throat.

“Hi, Dad.”

Filbrick turned slowly, his tinted lenses mostly shielding his eyes—but Ford could feel the weight of his gaze all the same. It was a quiet pressure, one that slipped under the skin. He had a cigar clamped between his teeth, leaving a smoggy haze where he stood. The older man smiled before pulling the cigar away from his mouth, stepping forward and pulling Ford into a tight embrace. His arms wrapped around him with a familiar force, a quick pat on his back. “It’s good to see you, son,” he said, his voice rough, but something warmer lurking behind it.

He pulled back just enough to grip Ford’s arms, inspecting him with a sly smirk. “You alright? You look like you seen a ghost or something.”

Ford adjusted his glasses, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “Yeah… yeah, I’m alright. Just been working a lot.”

Filbrick gave a small nod, letting go of Ford’s arms with a knowing smile. His gaze roamed around the room once more. “You’re a hard guy to get a hold of,” he said casually, almost like it was a joke. “Didn’t want to see me?”

Ford’s throat tightened, but he swallowed it down. He wiped his hands on his pants, trying to keep his voice steady. “No, I just—I meant to send you the new address, but it’s…” He trailed off, eyes darting to the floor. “How did you find me?”

Filbrick chuckled, a deep sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “I looked you up in the yellow pages.”

Ford’s head tilted slightly, confusion pulling his brow together. Filbrick saw it and laughed louder, this time full of amusement. “I’m fuckin’ with you, kid,” he added, waving a hand dismissively as he stepped over to the kitchen. “I got my ways—don’t worry about it.”

He paused, eyes catching on a bottle resting in the corner of the counter. His lips curled into something that might have been approval—or amusement. “Black label, huh? Just like your old man.” He reached for the bottle and cracked the top, leaning into the cupboards with a familiarity that made Ford’s stomach turn. The quiet rustle of glass and metal filled the silence as Filbrick poured himself a drink, his back turned to Ford, oppressive clouds of smoke floating around his head. The older man’s movements were deliberate, almost possessive of the space around him.

Ford didn’t say anything, his gaze flicking between Filbrick’s back and the silence of the cabin.

“You still take it on the rocks like a fag?” Filbrick asked over his shoulder.

“No.”

“Good.” Filbrick poured, unbothered, measuring nothing. When he finished, he strode back, pressing one of the glasses into Ford’s hand. The scotch sloshed slightly, the rich amber catching the dim light.

“L’chaim,” he said, clinking the rims together before knocking half of his back.

Ford hesitated only a second before lifting his own to his lips. The burn spread fast, settling in his ribs, steadying his nerves a bit.

They stood there for a moment, the space between them thick with unspoken things. Filbrick looked down at Ford. Ford looked down at his glass.

“What’s the matter with you?” Filbrick said.

Ford glanced up. His father swirled the last of his liquor, watching it move before gesturing outward with the glass. “Aren’t you gonna show me around?”

Ford hesitated. “Yeah, it’s—it’s not much.”

“I can see that,” Filbrick said, taking another slow sip.

Something about the way he said it—calm, matter-of-fact—made Ford’s jaw clench. He swallowed it down and turned, leading his father into the living room.

Filbrick followed, taking his time, moving with that same quiet confidence, like a man who knew he belonged wherever he decided to stand. His gaze swept the room, assessing, weighing, until it landed on the side table. He leaned down, plucked up a magazine, flipping it over in his hands before letting out a scoff.

“GQ? You read this bullshit?”

Ford barely glanced at it. “It’s not mine,” he said. “Fid likes the—”

“Fid?” Filbrick cut in, his lip curling slightly as he slapped the magazine back onto the table with enough force to rattle a half-empty ashtray. “Still shackin’ up with that queer, huh?”

Ford groaned, the sound rough in his throat. “God, Dad, would you give it a rest? Fid isn’t gay—he’s married. He’s got a kid.”

The words came sharper than he meant, the vowels rounding, the consonants shortening—his voice picking up the weight of home again, pulled back into the shape of his father’s. He exhaled sharply, rubbing at his jaw. “He’s with ‘em now, actually. For the holidays. Remember those?”

Filbrick took another slow drag from his cigar, rolling it between his fingers, letting the smoke seep from the corners of his mouth. Without looking, he ashed onto the floor.

“Your mother was the only reason we did all that shit,” Filbrick muttered, adjusting his coat. “What, you want me to make a fuckin’ brisket?”

Ford huffed another laugh, but this time it felt like it belonged to someone else.

“Yeah. Sure. That’d be a sorry sight.”

Filbrick’s head snapped toward him, fast, his expression flickering—something like amusement crossing his face before it darkened, cooled.

“Don’t be fuckin’ rude,” he said, low and sharp, like a knife slipping between ribs.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the air between them gone brittle. Filbrick took another slow pull from his cigar, his eyes hard on Ford.

“Sit down,” Filbrick said lightly, like an afterthought. Like a suggestion. But it wasn’t one.

Ford didn’t respond right away. The words hung there between them, settling in like dust. He glanced at the couch, then back at his father, reading his posture, the way he stood so still.

Filbrick didn’t repeat himself. Didn’t shift his weight or so much as raise an eyebrow. Just waited.

So, Ford sat. Slowly sinking into the couch like testing its give. He leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His thumb brushed over the crease of his palm—an old habit.

Filbrick, meanwhile, made himself at home.

He took the leather chair—Ford’s chair.

The way he sank into it was almost theatrical, a heavy drop that made the frame groan in protest. There was a crack—wood splintering, or maybe metal bending under stress—and Ford’s fingers twitched at the sound. He felt it in his gut, the quiet destruction, the claiming of space. But he didn’t say anything. Didn’t react. Just watched.

Watched as Filbrick settled himself, rolling his shoulders back. Watched as he stretched out, took up space. Watched as he kicked his feet up onto the coffee table—his shoes leaving smudges of snowmelt against the wood. How he pulled from his cigar, held the smoke in his lungs, then let it spill from his mouth in slow, lazy rings.

Ford’s thumb stilled against his palm. He let his breath out evenly through his nose, gaze flicking toward the wet streaks darkening the wood.

The silence between them settled, stretching out, but Filbrick wore it well. He nursed his cigar, watching Ford through the thin haze of smoke, his expression unreadable. Not searching, not challenging—just looking.

Ford finally broke the silence. “What are you doing here, Dad?”

Filbrick didn’t answer right away. Just took another slow pull from his cigar, letting the smoke curl lazily between them. His gaze drifted around the cabin, taking it in like a man sizing up a horse before placing a bet. Then, finally—

“I think a better question is, what are you doing here?”

Ford’s jaw flexed. “I’m working,” he said simply.

Filbrick’s eyebrows lifted, his tongue flicking across his lower lip like he was holding back a laugh. Then, with an almost careless flick of his wrist, he gestured around the room.

“You call this workin’?” He shook his head. “Sittin’ up playing in the woods all day? I thought you were a scientist, not a goddamn park ranger.”

Ford clenched his jaw but didn’t rise to it. Filbrick leaned back, rolling the cigar between his fingers.

“So you think you can just run off, huh?” His voice took on a rougher edge, his hand sweeping toward the window. “Disappear to bum-fuck-nowhere and leave everything behind? Your responsibilities? Your family?”

Ford let out a scoff, shaking his head. “What family?”

Filbrick raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. “What, we’re not family now?”

Ford just exhaled through his nose.

“Since we’re on the subject,” Filbrick went on, leaning forward slightly, “where’s your family, huh? Where’s your wife, your kids? What are you doin’ to carry on the bloodline?”

Ford exhaled sharply through his nose. “Dad, I have a career.”

Filbrick scoffed. “So what? I worked. Still managed to settle down, pop out a couple kids.”

Ford let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. Look how that all turned out.”

The words hit hard. The silence after was worse.

Filbrick’s expression didn’t change—at least, not at first. But something in his eyes darkened, the creases at the corners deepening just slightly. He rolled the cigar between his fingers, his jaw shifting like he was working his molars.

Then, in one sharp movement, he jabbed a thick finger toward Ford.

“You watch that fuckin’ mouth, Stanford.”

Ford’s hands rubbed together, slow and deliberate, before settling between his knees. He inhaled, steadying himself. “I’m doing real work, Dad. Not just some hustle, alright?”

Filbrick let the silence stretch, then gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Real work, hm? You wanna sit there and bust my balls?”

Ford said nothing.

Filbrick flicked more ash onto the floor. “Let me tell you something, kid.”

Here it comes.

“When my father brought us to this country, we had nothin’.” He took a slow drag, exhaling through his nose. “And we didn’t get some warm fuckin’ welcome, neither, believe me. They couldn’t even spell our goddamn name right.”

Ford’s fingers tapped against his palm, a rhythm he couldn’t help but fall into.

“But he did everything, everything—to get us on our feet.” Filbrick huffed, rolling the cigar between his fingers. “And it didn’t amount to shit—nothing more than a plot in the dirt. And the buck passed to me. I worked day and night, keepin’ a roof over your head, food on your fuckin’ table—so don’t go acting like you’re above it all of a sudden. You think any of that was easy?”

Ford let out a breath and gave a dry, mirthless smile. “Oh yeah, Dad…between all the booze and the gambling and the whores…must’ve been terrible for you.”

Filbrick’s cheek twitched—he leaned in, just enough to make Ford feel the heat in his gaze. “You tryin’ to be cute with me, you little prick?” His voice raised just a little, the tension in it pulling tight, like a string stretched too thin. “You got somethin’ you wanna say?”

Ford felt something stir inside him, a flash of anger buzzing against the base of his skull. “Several things,” Bill said, his voice in Ford’s mind coming through clenched teeth—but Ford resisted.

“Let me handle this.”

Filbrick exhaled a breath full of smoke. Then, without breaking eye contact, he ground the cigar into the ashtray, crushing the ember with a sharp, controlled twist of his wrist. The last bit of smoke curled up and died.

“I granted you a liberty that was never granted to me.” His voice was lower now, cold and precise, every word measured. “You weren’t cut out for the family business. Fine. I let you go.” He leaned in further, his elbows resting on his knees, eyes like iron. “But under one condition.” His mouth curled, just slightly.

“‘Fuckin’ millions’, is what you said.” Filbrick said, the echo of Ford’s own words from over a decade ago. “Remember that?

His fingers drummed lazily against the leather arm of the chair. Then, a shrug—casual, almost amused—as he cast his hands out to the side.

“Where are the millions, Stanford?” he asked, voice deceptively light, but the edge in his tone was unmistakable. The words dropped like stones, heavier than they sounded. “You know how much I hate bad investments.”

“I… need time, Dad,” Ford finally said. His hands, clenched between his knees, trembled slightly despite himself. He pressed them together, trying to still them. “Fid and I—we’re working on something big. Something revolutionary. It’s gonna change everything.”

Filbrick tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “And what’s that?”

Ford hesitated. Just for a second. But it was enough. He saw the flicker in his father’s eyes—the way his mouth barely twitched, catching the hesitation like the scent of blood in the water.

Ford forced out a slow breath, steadying himself. “I can’t tell you,” he said carefully. “It’s a government contract and it’s classified.”

Filbrick didn’t say anything. He just rubbed his fingers against his knuckles, eyes flicking over Ford like he was measuring every word, every shift in his posture.

Ford’s gaze dropped, unwilling to meet his father’s eyes. “I’m telling you the truth,” he said, quieter now. “I promise you, it’s… it’s a dream come true.”

Filbrick’s lips twitched into a sneer, his head shaking slowly, almost with pity. He held up a hand, cutting off Ford before he could say anything more.

“No,” he said, his tone flat but hard. “No, no…I don’t wanna hear about your dreams, your fuckin’ wishes.”

He wrinkled his nose, the disgust clear in the gesture. “Feh.” He spat the word out like it left a bad taste on his tongue, and then shook his head slowly, like Ford had just said something too ridiculous to even acknowledge.

And then—he leaned forward.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was inevitable. The movement was so slow, so deliberate, that it felt like the space between them compressed in a way Ford couldn’t avoid. It was almost like the room shrank around him, like there was nowhere left to go but into that steady, suffocating advance.

“I want you to stand up and be a fuckin’ man,” Filbrick said, his voice lowering, the words landing with a weight Ford could feel in his chest.

“Dad—”

“You owe your dues,” Filbrick cut him off, his voice growing tight with control. He jabbed a finger toward himself, like it was something Ford had to remember. “Here’s the piper.”

Then he stands. Adjusts his belt, his cuffs, smooths the crease of his pants. It’s posturing, all of it, but it works—Ford feels himself shrink, just a little, a breath, a centimeter. Feels the way Filbrick’s shadow stretched long over him.

“For everything I did to put you where your sittin’ right now. For all the sacrifice. For all the guidance.”

And Ford laughs—he doesn’t mean to, but it spills out. “Is that what you call it?” He looks up, meeting his father’s eyes, and he knows—knows—he shouldn’t have said it, shouldn’t have let it slip.

Filbrick’s expression doesn’t change, not at first. The sneer is still there, subtle but present, a thin curl of the mouth, but the eyes—there’s nothing there, nothing at all. No recognition, no warmth, no light, just a kind of flat, animal-like vacancy—the look.

Filbrick rubs his thumb over the heavy gold ring on his index finger, slow, thoughtful, deliberate. A movement so familiar it makes Ford’s skin prickle.

“You always did need a firm hand,” he says, almost musingly, almost to himself. His gaze flicks over Ford, cold, like looking at a dog that won’t hunt. “Needed to learn discipline.”

Ford exhales, quick, sharp, a breath through his nose. “That what you told yourself?” He can feel his pulse in his throat, in his temples, in his hands. “when you were beating the shit out of me?”

“Oh, poor you.” Filbrick mocked. “You’re not some kind of martyr, Stanford. So spare me. I gave you everything I never had—a way out of the slums. And now you sit there with your fuckin’ degrees, your fuckin’ acclaim, lookin’ down your nose at me—thinkin’ your better than me—You are me.” he spat, shaking his head. “So fuckin’ ungrateful…Maybe I should’ve hit you harder, that way you wouldn’t think you can talk to me like I’m some kinda schnook.”

Ford didn’t think, he just moved—his legs pushing him up off the couch, a knee-jerk reaction, instinct overriding everything else. He rose, almost meeting his father’s height now, eye-to-eye with him.

“This your big plan? A fuckin’ shake down?”

“Oi, look at the balls on you!” Filbrick jeered, stepping closer.

Filbrick’s finger jabbed into Ford’s chest, hard and insistent, like a silent accusation. His voice dropped low, thick with menace, wrapping around the words like a vice.

“You feeling froggy, there, four eyes?”

Ford’s gaze didn’t waver. He pressed his chest into that prodding finger, forcing his father to feel the pushback. “I’m not afraid of you, Filbrick.”

Filbrick’s smile barely moved, a cold twitch of the lips—disinterested. Then, with a casualness that made Ford’s skin crawl, Filbrick raised his other hand. The movement was slow, deliberate, almost lazy, toying with him.

His fingers brushed Ford’s cheek—just barely, a touch that felt more like a flicker than a contact. The subtle touch caught Ford off guard, and, despite himself, he flinched—a reflex, something that lived deep in his muscle memory.

Filbrick’s hand didn’t move away immediately. It lingered, just long enough for the tension in the room to coil tighter. Ford’s chest sank, the breath leaving him unevenly, quick through his nostrils. Ford felt the sting, something on the edge of his eyes, but he refused to blink.

And Filbrick? He just stared back, his grin somehow colder, more satisfied. He let the silence stretch, let the unease sink deeper into the space between them. Finally, he nodded slowly—no words needed. He just soaked in Ford’s reaction—in his fear.

He lowered his hand, a small gesture—almost anticlimactic. But Filbrick’s eyes never left Ford’s as he spoke, his voice low but cutting, “Yeah,” he said, almost amused. “That’s what I thought.”

Ford’s breath came harder now, each inhale jagged, his lip twitching. He felt small—shrunken beneath his father’s presence, suffocated by it.

And then, the words slipped out. He didn’t know where they came from. Didn’t know why.

“Just a meal ticket to you, aren’t I? And you came all this way just to fucking remind me—to rub it in.” Ford said. “Did you ever… love me? Even for a second?”

Filbrick laughed. A sharp, scornful bark.

“Who gives a shit if I loved you or not?” His voice was full of mockery. “I made you a success story. I gave you a gift.”

Then he scoffed, shaking his head. “And what a waste… Thirty-two fuckin’ years old, hidin’ in the ass-end of nowhere, playin’ house in the woods with some twinkle-toes pansy.” His lip curled. “All that potential, and what do you got to show for it?” He sneered. “Who could ever love that?”

Ford’s eye twitched.

Filbrick leaned in, voice dropping to a cruel whisper. “Your own mother couldn’t even stand the sight of you.”

It snapped

Ford lunged, his hands clamping onto the front of Filbrick’s shirt, fingers twisting deep into the fabric as he yanked him forward, popping two buttons clean off. His fist reeled back, muscles tight, ready to strike—

But Filbrick was faster.

A wall of iron—his palm slammed into Ford’s chest, shoving him back just enough to throw his punch off-course. Ford’s knuckles barely grazed his father’s face before Filbrick’s grip latched onto his shirt, yanking him forward in one brutal motion, straightening him out—lining up the shot—before driving a fist square into Ford’s jaw.

The crack echoed in the cabin. Blood spattered onto the wall as Ford’s lip split open, the copper tang flooding his mouth. His vision blurred for a second, breath hitching as he struggled to regain the air knocked from his lungs.

He stumbled, gasped, forced himself upright—

Filbrick hadn’t moved. Solid. Unshaken. Still looming over him, bigger, stronger, a man who’d lived his whole life in fights just like this.

Ford, bleeding, vision swimming, squared his shoulders, spitting the blood from his mouth—

He lunged again.

This time, his knuckles connected. A clean shot, straight to Filbrick’s cheek. The force snapped his father’s head to the side—

But Filbrick barely stumbled before rebounding, his body moving with the kind of ingrained violence Ford couldn’t match.

A fist crashed into the side of Ford’s face.

Then another.

His skull rattled, stars bursting in his vision, the room tilting sideways—Filbrick, steady as ever, just cracked his knuckles.

Filbrick’s palm came hard against Ford’s face, the sound sharp and sickening. His head snapped sideways, glasses flying, clattering uselessly against the floor.

Before he could react, another punch landed. Then another.

Ford barely had time to register the pain before another blow sent his ears ringing. His balance wavered, his body struggling to stay upright as Filbrick pressed forward.

“Think you’re fuckin’ tough?” Filbrick snarled, his fist crashing into Ford’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him. He wrenched him up by the collar, slamming him against the wall. “Think you’re a big fuckin’ man?”

Ford could barely breathe, his nostrils gushing blood, his chest heaving.

Then Filbrick’s hands found his throat.

A sudden, crushing grip.

Ford’s feet scraped against the floor, searching for purchase as his father lifted him, pressing him harder against the wall. His hands clawed at Filbrick’s wrists, prying, scratching, but the hold was vice-like, squeezing his windpipe shut. His chest spasmed, his vision spotting as he fought to draw in even a sliver of air.

“I gave you life.” Filbrick spat, his face close now, his breath hot against Ford’s skin. His fingers clenched tighter. “You think I can’t take it away just as easy?”

Ford’s face darkened—red, then purple. His throat seized, his body thrashing instinctively. He gagged, choking on nothing, eyes burning as blackness crept into the edges of his vision.

Filbrick bared his teeth, and the look in his eyes—wild, unhinged—made Ford’s stomach turn.

Desperation took over.

His fingers curled into a claw, swinging blindly—nails raking through Filbrick’s cheek, cutting deep, dragging through flesh.

Filbrick roared, releasing Ford with a violent, instinctive jerk, his hands flying to his face.

Ford dropped like a deadweight, hitting the floor hard. He sucked in a ragged, wheezing gulps of air between coughs. His throat throbbed, raw and bruised, his lungs burning as they tried to catch up.

Above him, Filbrick wiped a hand across his cheek, smearing blood across his fingers. His nostrils flared, chest rising and falling—just watched as Ford writhe on the ground.

Filbrick knelt down, fisting a hand into Ford’s hair and yanking his head off the floor. Ford barely reacted—his breath coming in ragged, wet sputters, blood bubbling between his lips. His swollen eyes struggled to stay open.

Filbrick gave his head a sharp shake, forcing their gazes to meet. His other hand jabbed a finger toward Ford’s face.

“I tried doin’ this the easy way,” he said, voice almost conversational. “Look what you made me do!”

Ford barely heard him past the pounding in his ears.

“I’m gonna give you a month.” Filbrick’s grip tightened. “And if I come back here and you don’t have what you owe me—my fucking money!” His voice snapped into a bark, the rage flashing hot—then cooling just as quick.

His teeth bared, his voice lowering, deliberate. Mean. “Then I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.”

And then, with one last brutal motion, he slammed Ford’s head back down against the floor.

Filbrick stood again, straightening his jacket with an almost casual grace, then turned towards the door. “Happy New Year. Thanks for the fuckin’ whiskey,” he muttered, ripping the door open hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Ford lay on the floor, chest shuddering, vision blurred and wavering. His body ached, his jaw throbbed, every breath dragging in more pain than relief. Blood dripped from his split lip, pooling warm against the chilled wood beneath him.

A tremor ran through Ford—small at first, just a twitch in his fingers against the floor. Then his breath hitched, his entire body tensing like a wire pulled taut.

A strained grunt escaped his throat as his muscles seized, his neck jerking to the side. His spine arched, his shoulders rolling back unnaturally before his body stiffened.

Slowly, deliberately, his arm bent at the elbow, fingers splaying wide as his palm pressed flat against the wood. A shudder rippled through him as he pushed up, knuckles smearing through the blood streaking down his chin.

He stilled.

His breath dragged in slow, unsteady. His eyes—pupils stretched so thin they nearly vanished—lowered to his hand, studying the dark red smeared across his skin.

Then, his gaze flicked up. The open door gaped before him, the cold air from outside curling at the threshold.

A breath. A shift—The body lurched.

Bill braced him against the wall, Ford’s fingers curling against the grain of old wood, nails scraping, trembling. A ragged breath tore through battered lungs, the taste of blood thick at the back of his throat. His other hand found the floor, trembling, pushing—muscles straining, every inch of movement a battle against the wreckage Filbrick had left behind.

A low, shuddering groan rumbled from Ford’s throat as Bill forced him upright. His palm skimmed over the wall, his weight shifting, rolling onto the ball of his foot. The world pitched for a moment, his vision swimming—his equilibrium thrown off by the pounding ache in his skull, the swell of his split lip, the heat pulsing through his jawbone.

A breath—curling into a fog in the frigid air. “You call that ‘handling it’?” Bill’s voice came through his lips now. He looked down at Ford’s blood stained hand. “Oh, Ford…”

His fingers twitched, flexed, tested their grip. His shoulders rolled, slow, agonizing, the sockets grinding as they adjusted. But the pain meant nothing. The cold, the blood, the bruises—nothing—Bill’s mind was already made up.

Bill pressed Ford’s hand against the wall and shoved.

Ford’s body staggered forward, the weight uneven, the battered bones stiff and slow—but Bill forced it onward. One step. Then another. The movement smoothed, the balance found again, the momentum building like a slow, heavy drumbeat until he was out the door.

He swayed when he reached the porch, the wind ripping past, slicing through Ford’s clothes, biting his cheeks, but he barely felt it. His vision was locked ahead, tunneling in on Filbrick’s retreating back—he was nearly to the car now.

They moved.

The pace picked up—air came hard through burning lungs, muscles twisting and locking in protest, but Bill pushed harder—faster. A sharp exhale broke from him, more growl than breath.

The last few strides were a full-bodied sprint, Ford’s ribs stabbing sharp beneath his skin—Bill drove forward, forcing through it, body low, coiled tight against the impact to come—

A guttural snarl tore from his throat when the bodies collided.

The force sent them both down hard, Ford’s full weight slamming into Filbrick’s back, tackling him into the ice-packed earth. The impact rattled through both of them, a bone-jarring shock that sent a tremor through the frozen ground.

Then Bill moved.

Ford’s fingers twisted deep into Filbrick’s coat, yanking, flipping, forcing him onto his back. Snow scattered around them in the moonlight, catching in the hot rush of their ragged breath. Ford’s knee drove down, slamming into Filbrick’s ribs, locking him beneath his weight.

For a second—just a flicker—Filbrick’s pupils retracted, his breath hitching, when his eyes met Ford’s—those haunting slits.

“What the fuck?”

Filbrick’s elbow jerked, slamming up into the bruised mess of Ford’s ribs. A bolt of agony shot through Ford’s torso—enough to stagger him, enough to make the grip slip—

Filbrick seized the moment.

A fist crashed into the side of Ford’s skull. His head snapped sideways, a white-hot explosion of pain tearing through his vision. Another blow—wild, desperate—drove into his stomach, stealing the breath from his lungs. Filbrick twisted, heaving, using the force to buck him off—

Bill snarled.

Ford’s hand shot out, catching Filbrick’s wrist. He twisted, hard. A sickening pop. A strangled shout.

Another growl rumbled from deep in Ford’s gut.

Filbrick’s other fist was coming up—Bill caught it mid-swing, fingers clamping down like a vice, crushing, grinding bone against bone. Filbrick grunted, his breath hissing between clenched teeth, legs kicking, trying to shift weight, trying to throw the upper hand back—

Bill shoved Ford’s knee harder into Filbrick’s ribs, forcing a sharp, strangled gasp from him. Then—fast, vicious—Ford’s forehead slammed down into Filbrick’s nose.

The crunch was wet and brutal.

Blood spattered across the snow. Filbrick let out a harsh groan—

Ford’s jaw fell open, Filbrick’s blood dripping from his forehead. His chest expanded, and something in him twisted, convulsed—

Then came the sound.

It tore out of his throat in a screeching, gnarled pitch, something that scraped the air like metal on bone. It wasn’t just a cry of pain or rage or triumph—it was something deeper, something warped and unnatural. It reverberated, a wrath that had festered in the marrow of his bones, forcing its way up from a place buried deep—years of bile and resentment left to rot—now unearthed, spurred by Bill’s reckless, eager fury.

It bled directly into Filbrick’s battered face.

Filbrick froze.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for Bill to keep going.

Ford’s hands came together, lifting high over his head, his entire body arched, before snapping down—then back up—and down again. Each hit cracked through the night air, a dull impact, punctuated by deep, ragged grunts.

Knuckles split against bone. Filbrick’s head snapped sideways, blood bubbling from his nose, his mouth. A rattling, wheezing gasp choked out of him.

“I hate you—”

The mantra tore from Ford’s lips, rasping, guttural, filled with something beyond rage—pure venom, pure loathing, raw and unchecked.

“I hate you—I hate you—I hate you—”

Filbrick’s hands shot up, shaking, desperate, trying to block the next hit, trying to shove him back—but Bill caught one by the wrist and wrenched it sideways.

Something tore.

Filbrick shouted—a loud but broken sound.

Ford’s breath shuddered. Then hitched into something broken, something ecstatic.

He was moving.

No—Bill was moving.

His fists cracked down again and again, his knuckles raw, slick, numb with pain—but he couldn’t stop. He wasn’t stopping.

Ford felt it all—the impact rattling through his bones, the sharp bloom of pain in his fingers, his wrist, his shoulder with each strike. His body was breaking down, muscles screaming, exhaustion creeping in, burning hot beneath his skin. His lungs ached, his ribs flared sharp with every breath.

But Bill didn’t stop.

The fists kept swinging, knuckles smashing into Filbrick’s face, his ribs, anywhere Bill could reach. Blood spattered, warm against Ford’s skin, clinging to his clothes, seeping into his fingernails. Filbrick’s breath was ragged, thick with gurgling wet gasps. His face was swelling, shifting—becoming unrecognizable under the sheer force of each blow.

Ford tried to stop.

“Bill—”

His voice barely surfaced, a whisper in his own mind, drowned beneath the pounding rhythm of violence.

His body was begging for rest. His arms shook, his grip faltered. He could feel the failing strength in his own limbs, the way his movements slowed, the fatigue settling deep into the marrow. His body wanted to stop. It needed to stop.

“Bill.” A little stronger this time. A shove against the pressure holding him down. He could feel the edges of himself, the boundary between where he ended and where Bill began—but it was blurred, warped, slipping between his fingers like blood in the snow.

“Please,” desperate now. “Bill, enough. Stop.”

But his hand—Bill’s hand—just fisted into Filbrick’s collar, jerking him up, dragging him closer. Ford’s breath tore from his lungs, hot against Filbrick’s face. The cold had long since settled into his skin, numbed his fingers—but the rage still burned, wild and all-consuming, licking at the edges of every thought, feeding into every strike.

Ford could hear Bill’s voice curling in his mind—over the sounds beneath his fists. “This is what you’ve always wanted.”

“Yes.”

He had wanted this. He had imagined this moment, played it out in his mind over and over again, the thought curling in his gut like a sickness he never dared acknowledge. He wanted to see fear in his father’s eyes, wanted to be the cause of it. He wanted him weak, powerless, crushed under the weight of everything he had done.

But not like this.

Not like this.

The world began to fade around him—darkness creeping at the edges of his vision. The blur of the fight, the pounding of fists, the sickening crunch of bone, the wet sound of blood—it was all muffled, distant now, like it was happening to someone else.

“Go to sleep…”

Bill’s voice was low, almost soothing, a sick kind of lullaby.

And Ford—Ford—didn’t have the strength to resist, the last of his awareness slipping into darkness.

Read the Entire Work Here

[apollo-zero-one]

Man I can't believe I had the chance to go to a performing arts school up through middle school and I fuckin quit after 6 months just because I got bullied. BRO YOUR HOMEWORK WAS POETRY!! YOU HAD TO PRACTICE DANCING TO COTTON EYE JOE AS YOUR BIG UNIT TEST. GYM CLASS HAD A CIRCUS UNIT!! YOU HAD A WHOLE DAILY CLASS ON IMPROV!!! YOU FOOL!! YOU ABSOLUTE IMBICILE!! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN A YOUTUBER!!! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN ONE OF THOSE TWEENAGERS GETTING LOADED BY MAKING SHITTY YOUTUBE SHORTS IN 2008-14!! But noooOoooOOOoo little miss Noellie (who WANTED TO GO!! who worked SO HARD and sent in an application essay and did an INTERVIEW to get in!!) couldn't handle disruptive classmates or little scuffles and petty grudges and general Attitude of the other students and cried to mommy to put her back in public school. I am EATING MY HAIR over what Could Have Been. I COULD BE SOMEONE'S ANNOYING YOUTUBER!! I could be a DISGRACED DISNEY CHANNEL STAR!! I could be an America's Got Talent winner! A mild to moderately successful comedian! I could be making short films!! But no no no precious thin skinned baby me heard a few new cus words and watched a teacher get heckled and begged to give up The Dream in favor of?? Quiet math tests?? I am such a fucking quitter I quit everything the second it gets too hard I always take the out as soon as it's offered what's my fucking damage.....

[nothomegal]

HIII I MISS YOU :(( straight to the point, I need a yandere pyramid head fic!!

I´m sorry for the disappearance ;v; Can't post much due my studies.

Anyways, I ADORE your suggestion! And boy if our little (Y/N) is going to have a rough time with a yandere creature like Pyramid Head ._.)

Welp, let's start the story!

"Innocent lamb"

(Yandere!Pyramid Head x GN Reader)

Summary: the entity's realm was hell for some, heaven for others, and an inconvenience for the rest... But when one of the creatures encountered you, he made it everyone's problem, even the entity's that brough him there in the first place. But he meant no harm to you. He likes you. He wants you. He needs you. And he wͦ̀ͯi̸ll̩ͩ have Y̛̗̰͇͚͓͈̣͕̰͓̗͛ͤ̀̇̍ͥ͒̓͝Ơ̵̔_̰̅U̵̷̡̧̡̨͖̟̹͙̙͓̥̗̫̣̙͉͕͉̣̬̇ͭ͗̉͂̅̍͗��̇́́̈͟͞

Warnings: yandere/obsessive behavior, violence and violent acts, quite angst(y) mood in general, (understandably) terrified reader darling :(.

Word count: 4.2k

The moment they entered the trial, all four survivors knew right away who the killer was. Either its the dread they all felt as soon as their feet made contact with the ground that gave it away, or the fact that the entity had placed all of them in the same spot next to two generators just to have any chances to make it out alive.

But they know it's in vain, they know they're doomed for a long long death by bleeding out.

They know it... Because (Y/N) is with them.

Said survivor had to bite their lip to avoid crying, as guilt and terror embraced them. Just because the monster had this unholy obsession with them it didn't mean they were okay with it, if anything it scared them more.

He, Pyramid Head, the Executioner... Or however you want to nickname him, is said to be one of the most powerful creatures the entity had the pleasure to bring, so powerful in fact that the spider-like being had to make a deal to bring him.

So it's not surprising that they are absolutely horrified, but who wouldn't? This monster, an embodiment of pain and punishment, almost a god, has been hunting them relentlessly ever since he laid his gaze or... Helmet? On them.

At first it was all jokes and gags;

'Aww look, (Y/N) has a boyfriend!'

'Watch out, here comes your crush (Y/N)!'

'Uh-oh, the triangle man seems jealous, look how pissed he is at Nea for healing you!'.

But the jokes stopped when it got clear how truly messed up and sinister said 'crush' is.

They still remember it, it was a regular match against that one masked knife wielding guy that runs a lot, he's called 'Legion' they think. The trial was going relatively well, just like many previous ones. Until it suddenly got an 180° turn when one of the walls to the realm was literally destroyed by a hulking mass of muscle and a giant knife. To say both (Y/N) and the killer nearly had a cardiac arrest was an understatement, things got so ugly that the entity had to intervene and cut the trial short.

That incident could be a fuel for a new wave of jokes, could... If it didn't happen again. And that next time was even worse, the beast nearly made his way into the survivor side of the realm, somehow bursting through the barrier the entity had created to keep the survivors separated from the killers to avoid any pity fights after trials.

Ever since that event, Pyramid Head was strictly kept in 'his' realm, aka Midwich Elementary School.

Sometimes, after escaping through the gates and running back into the camp through the fog, (Y/N) could swear they can hear the monster roar in the distance. Loud, distorted and fierce howls resonating somewhere behind the dense fog, as if the creature was desperately trying to yell out their name. Either to let them know how badly he wants them or a promise to break free and get them... Both possibilities giving them chills.

The entity of course wasn't okay with this, it was pissed! But it also could do so little... The great deal now had turned into a major curse. If the deal is broken, the Executioner won't hesitate to damage the realm to get what he wants. But if it remains, the monster will find new ways to bend the rules and make it everyone's problem.

Why the entity doesn't just give (Y/N) to the beast or gets rid of them ones for all? No one really has the answer. Some think it's due the entity's pride, or the possibility of the executioner going ballistic. For now, it's more of a silent (and petty) battle between two stubborn beings, each of them refusing to back away from their goal.

Goal. The entity's goal, though still confusing, is more or less clear; force people and creatures to play these twisted games and feed on those who get sacrificed. But the executioner's goal? It's straight up a mystery. (Y/N) know it has something to do with them, but... Why them exactly? Why not Cheryl? Didn't she come from the same place as that beast? What the monster even wants them for?

What will he do when he finally gets his hands on them? Wh-

A rough shake snapped (Y/N) out of their internal break down.

They blink a couple of times, tears of fear nearly sliding down their cheeks as their body shivers. They were scared, more than the other three survivors combined.

The survivor holding them by their shoulders, David, sighs when he finally notices them react.

—"Look, I know you're scared..."— he starts talking, his voice surprisingly calm.

—"I'm-... I- I'm sorry, I'm s-so sorry-..."— you choke out in a weak wobbly voice, guilt eating you from inside.

—"No no. Just listen for a sec. I... Well, we all can tell that you aren't enjoying it neither. So, let's not break down into a soap opera, okay? Don’t think of this as hopeless match, but as another chance to woop that asshole's ass and escape."—

—"And also leave him empty handed!"— Feng announces from her place while already working on a generator.

—"Yeah, screw that triangular piece of shit! Let's try out Dwight's strategy this time. You remember it, do you?"— he asks you, not letting go of your shoulders yet.

The surprisingly positive and reassuring words of their teammates towards them really soothed and even cheered (Y/N) a bit. With a small smile they quickly wipe their eyes before nodding.

—"Good, see? We're already starting on a good note!"— he lets go to then pat your back, basically pushing you forward. —"Now go help with a gen before putting the 'plan' into work."—

Though the push hurt a bit, (Y/N) didn't care at all about the pain, too focused on keepings all the negative and pessimistic thoughts away.

For the first minute and a half everything was going well, (Y/N) and Feng were working on one generator while David and Jonah were working on the other one. The four of them were dead silent, straining their ears for any of the sounds the creature makes, such as heavy footsteps, the scraping of his gigantic knife or their own heartbeat. Weirdly enough, everything was calm... Too calm.

(Y/N) nearly choked with air when a cold chill ran through their spine.

Spine Chill. The beast... Is watching them.

They attempt to subtly alert Feng by carefully tapping her leg, but as soon as their fingertips touched the other girl’s skin, their heartbeat started to get louder and louder, until…

—“WATCH OUT!”—

(Y/N) exclaimed as they pushed Feng, just in time to dodge a bunch of sharp and rusted metal pieces coming out the ground.

—“Holy-...”— she mutters.

Now that the monster is here, the four survivors decided to put in action the mentioned strategy.

They all let go of the generators and run away in different directions, (Y/N) being the most desperate while running since they know exactly who the beast is targeting.

His pattern is always the same; chase after until sending them into a cage to then down all of their teammates and then come straight back to all caged and helpless (Y/N) and then… Stare or touch them until the others bleed out or the entity has enough.

The difference in the current case, is that (Y/N) is not playing just cat and mouse. In fact, chasing them is the worst the killer can do. All of their abilities are chase oriented, another teammate lurking around has all the boon ones, while the last two have all is needed to rush through the generators. If everything works out, the monster will get himself in a situation where he's be forced to leave (Y/N) alone.

The chase was intense, at least for (Y/N). Despite never catching a clear view of the Executioner, they could feel him close behind, following them methodically like a wild animal on a hunt, waiting for the right moment to strike while keeping up the tension.

It was hard to maintain the focus, every single hallways in The Game looked the exact same. Did they vaulted that window already? Didn't they pre-dropped that palled over there? Did Feng placed it up again? Are the other two working on the generators? Have they taken this left path before?

So many questions where swarming their mind as their legs kept carrying them on, only momentarily relaxing when two generators finally made that distinguish noise.

Two done! Tree left.

A breathless laugh escaped from them. Great! This is already going better than all of their previous encounters with the Executioner, which would always end with the first generator barely reaching 30%.

However, their smile was quickly swept when they realized they no longer hear their heartbeat or thundering footsteps tailing behind. It was silent, dead silent, with no other sounds that their own breathing.

A wave of anxiety flushed through (Y/N) like a tsunami wave and started to drag and drown them deeper into their own worries.

What the?... Okay, this was not part of the plan. The Executioner had never left the chase with them, never. So the fact that he finally did, and apparently a while ago, made them shake.

With nothing else to do, they gather the courage to start moving again. Where? Somewhere! Anywhere but to stay in place and be an easy target to the beast that so desperately wants them.

They keep running, stopping only for a brief moment before turning a corner, making sure they don't hear any muffled breathing that at times resembled growls. They learned the hard way with the Shape that some killers like to wait around corners, and they don't want to commit the same mistake right now.

Their heart jerked when they heard a scream resonate from their left, and a faint reddish aura in the shape of a human gleamed for a second before disappearing.

David is down.

And it seems like he's not getting picked up, which could either mean that the monster is setting up a trap or chasing someone else. Whichever the case is, they shouldn't go-

They hear a bunch of footsteps come their way, and in a set of panic they crouch behind a bunch of boxes, silently praying that their disguise is mildly good.

They can't see much from their spot, but they can clearly recognize the shape of Jonah running away from something massive.

As soon as the two figures passed by, (Y/N) gets up and takes off running towards David to check on him.

After some wondering around the labyrinth-like place, they finally reach their injured teammate, who was still on the ground and groaning from pain.

—"{David!}"— you whisper-yell as you start running towards him.

He weakly lifts his head just enough to see them. When he recognized who it is, he starts to frantically shake his head.

—"NO! GET THE FUCK OUT!"—

Huh? What-

As (Y/N) is about to reach David, a path of sharp metal pieces and razor wires had emerged right in front of them, just when they're about to make contact with the floor again, making in impossible to dodge.

The second their leg got tangled into the sharp metallic mess, everything went too fast. They don't even have time to pull away as something sliced them on their side, sending them directly on the ground.

They send a guilty and ashamed glance to David, who had an frustrated expression.

—"{Sorry...}"— you mouth.

(Y/N) has no chance to see David's answer as a massive hand suddenly curled around their throat and forced them to look away from the other man.

Their eyes wide at the sight of the beast menacingly hovering over their helpless form, holding their body in place between him and the ground. The muscles of his extended arm were tense, his breathing heavy, almost like he's holding back the anger and displeasure caused by them giving attention to someone else.

Their heart skipped beats, their breath uneven, their eyes watered as they tightly closed them, not wanting to witness whatever this thing was about to do. They can feel the warmth coming from his body, his breathing slowly stabilizing, as if staring at them and watching them slowly submit was enough to calm the monster. Ironically, it did the complete opposite to (Y/N), as their own heartbeat raised from the anxiety of having to face the unknown, attempt to predict the unpredictable and prepare to witness another massacre unfold around them at any second... Just to then end up caged and at the mercy of this-

—"LEAVE THEM ALONE ASSHOLE!"— David angrily yells from his place, struggling and trying to stand up. —"You're fucking terrifying, of course they don't want to look at you!"—

They can feel Pyramid Head's hand tense and start shaking, his fingers twitching and pressing further into their skin. (Y/N) was beyond terrified now, just a little bit of pressure and the creature could crush their throat like a cardboard tube.

David, though clearly using all of his strength, ended up falling back on the ground, as if some invisible weigh is actively pushing him down.

—“You freak! Absolute sick fuck! Let them go already!”—

As the waterfall of profanities continues, (Y/N) slowly places their hands around the monster’s wrist to attempt to push his hand away, unfortunately he didn’t budge at all.

Suddenly, David’s stops screaming and the very next second (Y/N) feels something warm and slippery press against their cheek.

They jerk in place at the uncanny sensation and shoot open their eyes, a breathless gasp escaping them at the sight of a… Wh-What even is that? A freaking tentacle? A tongue?…

The dark pink muscle wiggles in front of their face for a moment before licking another stride, wiping some of their tears and blood in the process, making (Y/N) shiver in discomfort.

They shoot a confused glance to David, desperately wanting to know if he’s witnessing this too. The man had an expression of pure ‘what the fuck’; eyes narrowed, brows furrowed and mouth slightly gaping.

This eye contact was brief though. (Y/N) got startled for a loud growl that reverbed from the beast's chest and helmet. The hand finally leaves their throat as the beast stands up to his full height and starts making his way to David, leaving them alone, as well as his knife?

(Y/N) throws their teammate a scared look, but David responds with a forced smirk.

—"Ah, now you decide to drag your big ass towards me."— he mutters through gritted teeth.

The monster seem to not react to his taunts. With each step that he takes towards David, his mask of confidence seems to crack.

Nevertheless, the man didn’t back out from his insults, he never does.

—“What’s wrong? Why so pissy, huh?! Jealous that (Y/N) prefers us?!”—

Saying their name was a sore spot to hit, and the way Pyramid Head reacted confirmed that.

The monster roughly grabs David by the neck, completely ignoring the fact that he’s not even holding his weapon. Instead he uses his bare hands to silence him.

Nasty, wet and crunchy sounds resonated through the room and hallways as the creature began to tear the man’s body limb by limb, piece by peace, unbothered by the pained screams of his victim or the low groan of displeasure that resonated from above for again not playing by the rules.

(Y/N) froze in horror at the sight in front of them. Blood, chunks of flesh and bone pieces where flying everywhere, never before they’ve witnessed this type of gore, not even during the ‘mori’.

Though it felt like the massacre lasted hours, it was actually second. The monster threw the whatever remaining he had in his hands and slowly turned back to (Y/N), who was still frozen and unable to look away from what was left from David. They know they will meet again in the fire camp, in one piece and alive, but god they felt sick...

Their shock breaks only when the thundering footsteps began to resonate again, shaking the ground underneath them with each the creature took. He grew closer, and closer, with them being able to do absolutely nothing aside from attempting to crawl away.

But that pity attempt was stopped when the same sharp wires and rusty metal pieces emerged from the ground and wrapped around their body, pulling them slowly underneath and sinking them further into the ground. And before they realize it, their body is already trapped in that rotten metallic cage.

Cold metal spikes just inches away from their flesh, so close to penetrate their skin, a wrong move and they would undoubtedly get hurt. But even if they wanted to move, they couldn't really. The space in the structure was small, claustrophobic even, each spike perfectly adjusted to keep their form in place. In some twisted way, it felt like a hug, a very cold, unwelcoming and unnerving hug.

They flinch when they hear a scream resonate from somewhere, which was cut by a loud slam.

Feng was caught.

It seems like the Executioner didn't bother to down her, rather getting rid of her directly, most likely because he's aware that Jonah is not keen of going for rescues...

And speaking of the man, there is his aura flashing before (Y/N)'s eyes as his body fell on the floor.

He's down... Which means that-

Before they even finish their conclusion, the tall figure of the monster appeared. Just by looking at them his behavior seemed to change; movements more erratic and pace uneven, almost like he's hypnotized.

He makes his way to them, slowly, as if purposely building up the tension.

(Y/N) wanted to look away or close their eyes, but whenever they did so the cage felt painfully small. It hurt, literally, so they stare at that beast grow closer with wide shaky eyes that struggled to keep their focus on him. This is something Pyramid Head was always good at, he could always make you fear, even the toughest bravest ones would inevitably succumb to the terror his presence brings.

Ones in front of them, the creature stops in place and simply stares, like he always did.

(Y/N), though still scared, was a tiny bit relieved that this is what the rest of the trial would be; them being pinned like a butterfly with the monster observing.

It would be just that.

Just this bizarre staring contest.

...Right?

WRONG.

The creature suddenly let go of his weapon and grabs the edges of the cage with both hands quite violently.

Now the little hope and comfort (Y/N) had was thrown out the window, as now they realize they no longer have any idea of what will happen next.

And by what it looks like, the entity is not planning to intervene, as if curious itself to see what will happen next.

Pyramid Head remains like this, his big hands tightly squeezing the imperfect metal bars, bending them slightly and making the already miserable looking material groan from the pressure he was applying.

It looked like he wanted to destroy that cage, rip it apart and get to them, but didn't do it by holding himself back... Why? What's even the point of this build up? What's even the point in wanting them?!

—"{Wh-...Why?...}"— you choke out in a very quiet voice. —"{Why a-are you d-... doing this?...}"—

(Y/N) knows is stupid to ask, Pyramid Head can't even speak! But they can't help themselves, they're too scared, their anxiety is unbearable and their thoughts are too out of control. They need answers, anything that could even hint for a possible explanation of the killer's intentions.

They began to second guess their decision to speak when the creature froze in place, even his breath was now inaudible. This was the first time (Y/N) spoke directly to the monster, but they didn't expect him to react at this fact, not like this, or at all.

But he did, he did acknowledged that little detail, and he will make sure they acknowledge it too.

The creature soon moves again, by slowly leaning closer and slightly tilting his head to the side, almost like trying to get a better look at them.

His breathing got heavier, low huffs and growls resonating from that metallic helmet of his. It really looked like he was actively holding back some major urge or desire, but what it is?

(Y/N) wanted to ask again, but decided against it as there is little Pyramid Head could do to answer, and even if he could, why should he? Maybe it's more amusing to him to see them helplessly wondering in the dark and unable to comprehend what's going on.

Or maybe, there is simply nothing to explain?... Maybe he does what he does just because? Human mind is way too used to seek for reasons and explanations for anything and everything, often forgetting that sometimes the answer is way too simple or straight up null, could that be the case?

The same groan coming from the cage bars pulled (Y/N) out of their thoughts. They forget how to breathe at the sight of the structure slowly collapsing as the monster starts to rip the bars with his raw strength.

A scared yelp escaped them as they try to back further into the cage as much as they can, ignoring the sharp edges that scratched or pierced their body. They barely felt pain, none at all actually, the adrenaline and basic survival instincts keeping their body resilient and ready to run. The sad part is, is that there is nowhere to run, nothing to do. It's sweet that their body tries so desperately to keep their hopes up and reassure their survival, but their mind is more than aware of the cold desolated reality...

The front part of the cage was eventually ripped off and thrown against the floor violently. (Y/N) can only cover their eyes with their hands and quietly sob as they wait for whatever the monster had planned to do next.

Even when no further actions are made, they refuse to look. They no longer want to face this thing, they no longer want to suffer this torment. Regardless if they believed in any religion or no, they mutter silent prayers under their breath, but not no save them, but to make it end and to know how sorry they are for any evil or harm they've did in their life that leaded to such tragic conclusion.

But this is where the catch is... They've committed none. At least from the Executioner's perspective.

Despite their whispers being so silent to a non-existent point, Pyramid Head heard them loud and clear. And the more he heard their voice, the more he felt the inside of his chest burn and the desire for them grow even more. (Y/N) is not perfect, they're human after all, and all humans have their fair share of flaws and defects... But unlike the rest, (Y/N) has the ability to acknowledge said imperfections and genuinely try to make up for them, to fix them... Regardless if they get something in return or not.

This, this is the true purity in a human being. An innocence and kindness so genuine that it would be a sin not to worship and protect... And who is a best fit to take care of it other than the fearsome Pyramid Head?

(Y/N)... So pure... So innocent... So kind... He must keep them save.

He must keep them...

He wants them...

W̴͕̳͈͔̭̝͠ͅ a̶̩̰̲̎̓͊̈̓̕ ǹ̴̢͇̬̘̗̯̜̍̋͊͠͝͠ ṭ̶͇̃̔͝ s̶̭̩͔̹̝̼̅̍̆̉͌͝

As the monster is about to reach them, a spider like legs burst out through the floor and wrap themselves around (Y/N).

The trial... Is over.

And while the absolutely livid roar gets overshadowed by the groans of the entity as the black fog surrounds the whole place. (Y/N) only keeps quietly sobbing as they cling to the spider leg sticking out of their chest. And though they knew the entity is the main responsible of their current torment, they were too overwhelmed with emotions to properly process their actions.

Surprisingly, the spider-like being didn't disappear right away, probably feeling pity for their situation and allowing them to cry for a brief moment, most likely to compensate this unplanned mess they have to deal with.

To everyone's surprise in the camp, when (Y/N) finally arrived they where unconscious, either passed out after such emotional roller coaster or the entity wants them take some genuine rest. Whatever the case it, it didn't matter, what matters is that their fellow friend is back save and sound, right?

As one of the survivors decided to take them closer to the bonfire for warmth and comfort, they could swear they heard some weird noises from afar.

It resembled a demonic cry filler with rage, so distant yet menacing. Everyone instinctively shivered.

And though (Y/N) successfully 'survived' yet another trial with the executioner, almost everyone had the gut feeling that the next encounter they have with the beast, it will not end good...

They all take a glance at their still unconscious form.

Poor (Y/N)...

[cumikering]

Gym bro Soap x reader 3 (end)

3.7k | fluff You never had to ask again (part 1)

It was close to three months before you saw each other again.

Johnny was on the incline bench with his weights when you called his name. He froze. Nobody needed to know that soft voice still made him weak.

“H- Hi.” He turned to you, placing his dumbbells on the ground before searching your eyes. “I hope you’ve been alright.”

It felt forever ago, since the last time he saw your smile or heard you laugh at his lame jokes, since the last time you made tea at his. It had been forever since you wounded his heart.

“I have. I hope you are too.” Your gaze dropped to your feet.

“Aye. I’m fantastic, of course.”

“Right. Um- well, I didn’t mean to disturb.” You took a step back. “Sorry, I’ll leave you to it.”

You walked away before he could protest. He took a beat before picking his weights back up, surprised by the wave of emotions that rushed back from the innocent exchange.

He wasn’t facing the door so you could have walked out if you wanted to avoid him, but you went out of your way to greet him. Were you trying to be friendly? Why was it only a hello before you rushed away? Did you change your mind?

It was stupid, but he would be lying if he said he’d stopped thinking about you, let alone missing you. He wondered about how you were doing, about work and your fitness progress. How had you been shopping without him driving you? It was too far of a walk to carry your groceries.

But you must have already found someone. Any man would want you, and would claim you as his you as soon as he could – the way Johnny never had the balls to. He should have spat out the flickering hope out of his mouth and extinguish it under his heavy boot, so why was he walking over to you on the elliptical after he finished his set?

“I was wondering if ye’d like to get dinner? Just to catch up a bit?”

You should tell him he was insane, and break his heart once and for all. Maybe then he could finally let go.

But you smiled so gratefully at him instead. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

Did he hear you right? He wasn’t helping himself, but he was a hurting man with a hole in the shape of you in his chest.

You spotted each other. It unwedged something from his chest, like a dead clock finally moving its rusted hands once more. Working out alone could never compare, and the satisfied smile on your face after each set still made him swell with pride.

Half an hour after the session, Johnny knocked on your door before strolling to the nearby kebab shop. He willed himself to not get ahead of himself, for his heart to stop fluttering as he pondered what the dinner meant – the dinner that hadn’t happened yet.

“Have you got a deployment coming up?” You glanced at him.

“Not yet. I just came back last week, was away fer almost a month.”

“And you’re alright? Not hurt?”

“Bruises here an’ there, but nothing time can’t fix.” He clasped a hand over his chest.

“You got a new haircut,” you noted, nodding at his hair.

“Och, aye.” He ruffled his short hair with a chuckle. “I… I needed the change. Somethin’ easier t’maintain.”

He used to enjoy standing out with his mohawk, but if you weren’t looking, it didn’t matter. He only wanted your attention.

“The beard too?”

He’d forgotten he’d let his stubble grow out. Was it ugly?

He rubbed a self-conscious hand down the side of his face. “Just tryin’ things out. Not sure I’ll keep it.”

“You look different, but I like it.”

He averted his gaze from your reassuring smile and continued his steps.

He let you split the bill that night, already thankful you said yes to dinner. At the table in the far corner, you popped open your meal.

”Erm- I finished the papercraft. I messed up a few times and had to paint over some parts so it took forever.”

“I hope you like how it turned out.”

“I do. It’s real pretty. I can take a photo fer ye.”

“I’d like that.”

That smile made his stomach flip again so he shoved another bite into his mouth. What kind of voodoo hold did you have on him? Someone please smack Johnny across the face, because how dare he fantasise that this was another Friday night date with his missus when before this, you hadn’t even spoken for over two months.

He cleared his throat. “Hav’ ye been? To Edinburg Castle?”

“No, which is weird come to think of it.” You laughed. “I love castles and Scotland isn’t even that far.”

“How so?”

“Oh, I guess I just never had a reason to go.”

“Well, it’s beautiful this time of year. Maybe my maw’s stew can be it,” he pretended to tease. Pretended, because how mad would you be if you knew he meant it?

You let out a small laugh as you held his gaze. “Maybe.”

Did you miss me too? The words threaten to claw up his throat and he forced them down with another sip of his drink.

You probably only spoke to him because it’d been long enough, thinking he’d have moved on. You wouldn’t think he was pathetic if you knew the truth, would you? That he was close to tears from how much his bones hopelessly ached for this, and how natural it was to be with you even after the void.

After the meal, he dawdled. Would time sit down and catch its breath? It didn’t have to hurry, really. His chest had just stopped bleeding, and he wanted to be here a little longer before it poured again.

He told himself to not think that maybe you lingered too. That you leaned back with that shy smile and toyed with the straw of your empty cup, pretty lashes flicking as your gaze went between his eyes and the floor… Like looking into his eyes too long would shift the stars and make you change your mind.

He didn’t mind at all.

Alas, the shop had to close. Johnny let out a resigned sigh as he pushed the glass door open of you, accepting that the magic would vaporise with your exit. At least he’d had another taste – his last. Maybe it would be easier now. Maybe in a few more months, it didn’t have to hurt anymore.

He dragged his feet to yours, bracing for the finality of the goodbye. His chest had started to ache again. The way you looked at him with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes – was that sympathy? Like an unspoken agreement that this was a bad idea all along, like this was only dragging the pain on.

Still, to him, it was not one to regret.

But the doormat squelched when you stepped onto it.

“Erm- hen?” He pointed at the puddle seeping from under your door.

You gasped and promptly unlocked your door, only to discover your flat pooled in an inch of water.

He hurried to the bathroom, learning that a trickle of clear water poured from the ceiling. “Shit, I think yer neighbour’s got a burst pipe or somethin’.”

“Oh, no, no no…” You ran a hand over your face. “I can’t afford the repairs.”

He grabbed you by the shoulders, eyes trained on yours. “Hey, it’s not yer fault. Call the landlord.”

Meanwhile, Johnny got your belongings off the floor. Thankfully, the water hadn’t ruined anything apart from the carpeted floors.

Your landlord lived a few floors down and promptly inspected the flat above yours. Your neighbour wasn’t home, but his sink’s pipe had burst and flooded his place too. The landlord assured you that the building was insured and that you didn’t have to pay for damages. If any, you were covered for yours.

She moved you to another flat, a bigger one for the same price, for how bad she felt. However, it was freshly renovated so it needed a major clean and some furniture hadn’t been moved back in yet.

You figured you could spend another night in your soggy flat, but Johnny insisted it couldn’t have been good for you, especially not in the weather. He promised to help you move the day after.

He could tell you wanted to say no, but the exhaustion gripping your shoulders made you pack your necessities for the night without a fight. When you said you’d take the couch, he firmly told you to take the bed. How could he let you have anything less than the best? It was the least he could do in such a misfortune.

While you cleaned yourself up, he hurried to tidy his room and change his sheets. Later when he emerged with a bundle of dirty sheets and shirts he’d picked up off the floor, you were at the kitchen counter, your back to him.

“Sorry fer the mess, but the room is good t’go now.”

You turned with a smile. “Thanks, Johnny, really. Here, I made you tea.” When you placed his mug on the table, you paused, gaze fixed on it.

When he realised what you’d seen, he sprinted to the dining table where he’d been sketching that afternoon. He didn’t plan on meeting you today, let alone have you in his flat.

“Aw, no, no- fuck.” He scurried to shut his sketchbook, clutching it to his chest with hot cheeks. He looked up at you, a stunned or perhaps even pained expression across your face. “I- I swear it’s nothin’ weird! I can throw em’ out-”

“Who’s that?”

“What?” he said incredulously.

“Who’s that, that you drew? Is she…” Your eyes darted to the ground before you continued in a small voice, “Are you seeing her?”

He blinked. Did you think it was someone else?

“I fockin’ wish I was!” He tilted the sketch he was working on towards you, the one where he was supposedly cupping your smiling face, mindless doodles of hearts piled in the corner of the page. “It’s you!”

“No, I don’t look like that… It’s not me.”

“Did ye just insult my drawing prowess?”

He flipped back to a page of smaller sketches from your last dinner. It was the night his lovelorn mind kept drifting off too, the only time you dressed up for him, the closest he had been to having you.

He did a full body sketch of your outfit. Next to it, you at the table across him with the prettiest smile. He drew each dish, even the one you didn’t like, as he didn’t want to forget a thing from that perfect moment.

“She’s beautiful,” you muttered, eyes softening as you took in the illustration.

“Because you are. I love looking at you. I love drawing you,” he confessed. “But I guess yer too busy avoiding me to care.”

Your eyes met his blue ones as your shoulders sagged. “Johnny…”

“M’ sorry. I wasn’t trying to make ye feel bad.” He closed his book again with a sigh. “But if I’m honest, it hurts. A lot. But at least yer not leading me on, so I’m just… trying to forget.” He chuckled humourlessly as he shook his head. “It’s stupid how I can’t stop liking ye.”

“You like me?” you repeated.

His brows furrowed. “Isn’t that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“No! Oh God-“ You held your hand over your mouth. “I was… I started liking you too much and I had to stop before it was too late, because you don’t like me like that.”

“Me? I don’t like ye!?” He pointed at himself. “Who the fuck said that?”

“Well, no one, but-“

“I can say with certainty ah’ve never not liked ye.”

You paused before your gaze shifted to the mug in your hand. “I didn’t think it would matter to you.“

“Of course it matters, hen.” He rounded the table and placed his hand over yours, lowering the mug onto the table. “It hurts, losing ye like tha’.”

“I’m sorry, Johnny. I didn’t mean to,” you mumbled.

“So do ye still like me or not? Because I like you a lot.”

You couldn’t meet his baby blues, but you gave a small nod as you supressed a smile.

He set the sketchbook down, a grin forming on his lips. “Will you finally let me hug you now?”

You reached out for his hand, your touch feather-light as you stepped in. He wrapped his arms around you with a content sigh. You felt better than what he’d always imagined – softer, warmer. He didn’t let go for a few moments as he smiled to himself, still not believing his mind-boggling luck that you liked him.

With his lungs full of your scent, he pulled away to cup your smiling face, just like in his last sketch. It was perfect in his rough hand. Was he allowed to touch something so beautiful with it?

He didn’t expect you to lean in as your eyes locked with his, but it was second nature to pull you closer. Your lips against his made his knees tremble. When your hot tongue swiped across his lower lip, goosebumps broke out on his arms. You lit him up with a zap up his spine.

His lips parted as he let out a noise, something between a gasp and a moan. Another pathetic whimper escaped him when his tongue swirled with yours. He could only hold onto you tighter as he melted against you.

This was how it was supposed to be like all along.

When he pulled away, he couldn’t help but bring his fingertips to his wet lips. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Was tha’ real or am I dreamin’?”

“Kiss me again, Johnny,” you said breathlessly, cupping his bearded jaw.

“You never have to ask again.”

Johnny didn’t think it would ever come to this, but you and him became the gym couple.

“Can I get a kiss for every sit-up, hen?”

“Bon, let’s make out between sets.”

“Do ye want to see how many times I can hip-thrust yer weight, love?”

You’d giggle, swatting his arm as he gave you a smug grin. But you were the one he pressed up against the far wall of the deserted gym, your hips squirming against his.

“So glad there’s no cameras here,” he muttered between kisses.

“I still would prefer no possibility of someone walking in.”

“Everyone knows not to walk in when we’re here.”

It was true. People didn’t take long to learn to give you space, lest the muscular Scot stared them down. That, and he imagined it was rather awkward to witness him smack your butt not-so discreetly.

You laughed against his lips, pinching his ass lightly.

“Ye know I like it when ye do that harder, bon.”

He should start wearing oversized shirts that hung past his groin again. He didn’t need a compression shirt anymore when he could rip his shirt off anytime to tempt you now that you were his - in the privacy of his or your flat of course.

Before his next deployment, Johnny gave you his key and let you drive his car in case you needed it. When he came back two weeks later, you greeted him with a new papercraft kit. He didn’t have enough time to thank you because he dove right into your lips. Did you have any idea how much he missed you?

Spending time at his sketching or crafting became a nightly routine as you joked and chatted about the day.

Across him, you hunched, laser-focused on attaching the conical roof to one of the castle towers with a pair of tweezers. The way you furrowed your brows in concentration always made him smile.

“Hen,” he said again, finally gaining your attention as you looked up at him. “I said I can take a leave next month.”

“Oh, how long? Have you got anything planned?”

“I wantae take ye t’see the real thing.” He nodded at the half-built Glamis castle in the middle of the table.

The smile bloomed on your lips. “Are you serious?”

“Aye, of course.”

“That would be wonderful.”

He shifted his attention to the piece of paper in his hand. “Ye know, I could- if you want to see my home, meet the rest of my family… Maybe have my maw’s stew.” When you didn’t respond, his eyes flicked up to your warm ones.

“I’d love to, Johnny,” you muttered.

He gave you a relieved smile and you continued the activity until you called it a day. You washed the tea set as he put away the papercraft.

He watched you for a moment, your back to him at the sink wearing one of his shirts. It was a familiar sight, you in his flat. It was silly, but even after hours of being with you, he grew clingy when it inched closer to bedtime on weekdays as it meant you had to go back to yours.

While he was grateful for each night spent in each other’s arms, it was never enough. These walls had never been this much like home before you. It was your home too, wasn’t it?

He shouldn’t have asked. He didn’t want to scare you or make you uncomfortable, but his heart belonged to you. How could he not be honest?

“Love,” he placed a gentle hand on your hip. “Would you consider moving in with me? It doesn’t have to be anytime soon, but later on. In the future, whenever you want to.”

You turned to him with a teasing smile. “You sure you won’t get sick of me?”

“Never, bon,” he said under his breath. “I’ll take care of rent, and you can use the savings to take that course you always wanted.”

You held his gaze for another beat. “I’ll only consider if we split rent.”

“In that case, I’ll just have to find more ways to spoil you.”

He planted a kiss on your forehead, making you smile. He’d make sure you’d never think of him as anything less than the best boyfriend.

Johnny couldn’t stop bouncing as you boarded the train to Scotland. He hadn’t been able to wipe that grin off his face either.

“I’m so excited, bon.” He gripped your hand with two of his, holding it against his chest as his eyes sparkled. “My maw’s going to love ye.”

Under the clear blue skies, the city tapered into a line as the train bolted through vast grasslands.

You turned to him with a small laugh. “Why are you saying that as if I don’t know her, like she hasn’t been giving us cooking lessons on video call?”

“Ah, well, that’s true.” He shrugged. “But she’s gonnae love ye even more. And my niece and nephews.”

“I can’t wait to meet them.”

“They grow so fast, some could only sit on my lap last year. Don’t know if they still can this time.”

“What if I also want to sit on your lap?”

He grinned. “There’s always space for ye between my legs.”

Johnny took you to his nan’s to meet his extended family, which included his niece and nephews who were devastated that their favourite uncle didn’t have a mohawk anymore. Looking at the dejection in their little cute faces, of course he promised he would return with it next time.

His mum and aunts gushed over how sweet you were together. His cousins included you in the conversation, asking about your itinerary in Scotland and recommending spots to check out. Of course they’d also asked how you two met. They weren’t surprised you found the rat in the gym.

After lunch, the energised kids took Johnny and you by the hand to the backyard to play. Because he’d been bench pressing you, he could swing the kids around as they latched onto his arms and legs, shrieking in glee. The others formed a line for their turn with a giggle while you gave his niece a piggyback ride.

Before heading back home, Johnny gave you a tour of the town. It was quiet, but he showed you his schools, the hip places he and his friends frequented as teens and the football field he used to play on. Lastly, he drove past his first ever gym - the one that started it all.

“Tha’ fine summer day when I was 15th, I decided I needed t’carry all my maw’s shoppin’ in a go,” he lamented in front of the small building. “Mr. Russel’s the owner. He was always so nice, gave me free protein shake every Saturday. He was so proud when SAS accepted me.”

You unbuckled your seatbelt. “Alright, let’s go.”

“Wha’?”

“I know you’ve been itching to lift. Come on.” You climbed out of the car.

He followed with a grin. Perpetually dressed in athleisure clothing had its perks. “This is why I love ye, hen.”

Mr. Russell was scribbling behind the desk when the door swung open.

“Hiya, welcome-“ His face lit up when he saw the sergeant. “Johnny!”

“Good t’see ya, Mr. Russell.”

The middle-aged man patted his shoulder firmly, looking him over with pride. “Looking huge, pal. Are you following a new split?”

“Ta, mate, but it’s the same as always.” He grinned. “Giza day pass, would ye?”

“Don’t be daft, Mactavish! Yer free t’walk in whenever.” He swatted his hand and turned to you. “An’ who’s the lady?”

“Och, sorry, this is m’friend.“ He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and shot you a teasing smile.

You frowned, but immediately recovered with a smile. “We’re super best friends actually, and flatmates. Nice to meet you.”

He laughed, his thumb rubbing your shoulder. “No, she’s ma pretty burd. We’re staying fer the weekend.”

“Hope ye enjoy yer stay, miss.” Mr. Russell chuckled along. “Go ahead then. Have a good session ye two!”

Past the turnstile gate, your hand slipped down to pinch his butt making him jump.

Yeah, he should stop teasing you in public, or at least wear baggy shirts when he did it.

Masterlist

Thank you so much for sticking around until the end :D I'm grateful for the support this fic has got, always enjoy writing for you guys. Hope to see you around again. Take care!

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@lovebookbunny @sil-ver-shadow @illegirljoonie @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen

[phie04]

CW: death, angst, war etc

no thoughts just how 141 comforts dying!teammate reader

(tired to make it as gn as possible but if you’ve got any advice pls send it my way xoxo)

Price: cradles your head with both of his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, half brushing away your tears, half trying to comfort you, as the others still fight outside, trying to secure the perimeter. Whispering gently, telling you how good you’ve been, how many people you’ve saved. “What about-“ “Don’t worry ‘bout the others luv,” he’ll say gruffly, setting your head in his lap. “they’ll take care of things for now.” He‘ll whisper sweet nothings in your ear, telling you how lucky heaven is that they’re getting another angel, how he’ll make sure to behave from now on, to ensure he’ll join you when its time.

For once, he takes his boonie off and sets it on your head, and tearily says “suits you, i think I’ll let you keep it.” When he leaves the half bombed building to provide cover for the others, they don’t have to ask, they just know, from how Price rains hellfire down on the bastards that got you.

Gaz: He’s in denial himself, but it’s not fair on you, so he swallows his grief and kneels next to you, trying, needing to find a quick fix to your injury, but its not enough. you gently pull his hands away, setting them on you, one supporting your neck, the other in your hair. “S’okay, you’re gonna be okay yeah?” he says thickly, his fingers gently combing through your hair. After a couple of minutes, he realises the horrible truth, and tries his hardest to make you feel comfortable. “You were always my favourite,” he’d mumble into your hair. “always. thought Price was a nutter bringing you in, but god was i wrong. You were absolutely phenomenal love, and I’m gonna stay with you, just you and me yeah? yeah, just the two of us, like it should be.”

His eye’s would water as he feels you begin to slip away, begging in his mind for you to hold on, but his stupid rational empathic mind will remind him it’ll just prolong your suffering, but the stubborn ass inside of him is screaming to find a way to fix you. But he holds it back, holding both your hands in his as you go. “Thats it love, I’ve got you, you don’t need to worry anymore, the boys’ll take care of me, you don’t need to worry anymore, you’re safe, you’re safe with me.”

Soap: is trying to hold it together for you, but he’s a crying mess as he holds you in his lap, stroking your hair, pressing kisses to the back of your hand. “ye, your the strongest o’ all of us aren’t ye? Fought so well, protecting us all.” He’d mutter, brushing the dirt and dried blood from your face, smiling sadly as he looks at your weary expression. “Feelin’ tired? Aye, yer look it.” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, his heart sinking at the sight of your drooping eyelids. “Don’t yae worry, i’ll hold yae whilst yae sleep. Don’t worry, Johnny’s ‘ere, Johnny’ll stay by yae side ‘til the end my love.” His hands shake as they pass over your body, gently soothing you, his head only glancing up when the sound of gunfire gets closer, but it always stops. Ghost makes sure of that.

As your breathing starts to slow, as your tears start to flow, he’s there, shushing and soothing you the best he can. “S’alright darlin’ Soap’s ‘ere, I’ve got yae.” he hums, kissing your forehead as you still, squeezing your hands tightly, closing your eyes with the lightest, most revered touch.

Ghost: grunts, pulling your weak frame against him, sitting you in his lap, his hands circled around your waist, as your head rests on his shoulder, gazing up at him. He takes a deep breath, and pulls his mask off. “M’ a right ugly fucker eh?” “nah-“ “Nah? C’mon Sergeant, don’t lie.” He mumbles, knowing you’re telling the truth in the way you gaze up at him. His grip tightens around you, not enough to put a strain on your injuries, just enough to try and reassure you that you’re safe, he’s got you. “S’alright luv, s’alright.” he mutters, a hand coming up to brush the hair out of your face. “Gonna be in a better place yeah? Gonna feel a lot better too.”

He rocks you gently, staying quiet as the two of you gaze at each other, pressing a kiss to your hand or forehead whenever you whimper in pain. “Don’t need to hold on fo’ me, yeah? Don’t stay in pain, just to be with me yeah?” He murmurs, internally cursing at himself at the sight of your eyelids immediately drooping. “There ye go, tha’s it, you’re safe.” He murmurs, feeling you get weaker and weaker. Just before your final breath, he mutters, “say ‘ello to Johnny for me? Take care of ‘im for me love, he’ll take care of you.”

i woke up and chose violence apparently

[the-californicationist]

Cali Cali bo-bali banana fana fo-fali me my mo mali! Cali!

I'm three Budweisers in and got an itch for alpha Price with a sudden need to breed (yay! Surprise rut!), and there's his sweet smelling omega neighbor who he's been keeping at arm's length because he's a professional dammit and has complete control of his urges, thank you very much.

Honestly, I just wanna see Mr. "I'm Married to My Job" lose it and show back up on base abashed and mated, and also ridiculously proud of his lil omega's claiming bite, because "she turned into a wildcat, lads. I couldn't stop her." *wink-wink*

Or not. I'm happy with any smutty Price fic you bestow on us, really. I'm just being weirdly specific because— alcohol = horny thots. 🍺😏🥴🫠

Drunken hugs 🫂 from Random Thot

RTG!! You are the most amazing person, and every time I see your pfp on AO3 or tumblr, I just get all gooey inside. Thank you for the ask! I wrote (and fully deleted) this fic three times because I wanted to get it right. I just pray that I could deliver. <3 <3 Hope this is what you were hoping for!!

MDNI/NSFW -- TW: damsel in distress, ABO dynamics, knotting, fuck-or-die scenarios, CNC, fluids, PIV sex, female OC

Glory, Glory

It was his last beer of the night, and he was ripping it apart. Curling, soggy shards of the torn label were stuck under his thumbnail, darkening the translucent edge and making it look dirty. They littered the sticky, lacquered bartop like ugly snow, falling in a tiny, chaotic mess. His hands were more than just dirty, the captain thought to himself as he used his wide thumb to itch at the glue-covered glass, rolling little, paper shards away from the smooth surface to reveal the amber liquid swirling within. The captain’s hands; they were covered in blood. Not innocent blood, but blood all the same. They’d never be clean again. 

But, that was the job, and he was good at it. His hands were a direct reflection of his hard work. Killing evil bastards kept the world safe. Some poor sob in a factory could clean out the glue-painting machine that pasted these fuckin’ labels on all of these bloody beer bottles because of one unshakable truth: John Price was good at killing evil bastards.

Unfortunately, the killing would need to wait until after the mandated leave window closed again. His argument with Kate still grated inside of his head. He could almost hear her harsh, Yank accent in his ears.

“What do you want me to tell payroll, John? You can’t be here. You’ve got too many days. Go home. See your mom.”

“I see her plenty, Katie. Let me run that ops gig with Keller. C’mon. I’ll do overwatch,” he tried his best to weasel his way back into a bit of active duty.

“You’d be the world’s most expensive overwatch. Hell no. Here’s your ticket,” she shoved an envelope in his hands, “...and your money,” another envelope, “Go the fuck home, Captain. That’s an order.”

An order. More like a toothless threat. 

But, alas, here he was, staring at a freshly shaved, buzzcut version of himself in a filthy pub mirror, undressing bottles left and right. 

“Another, mate?” The barkeep pointed to his almost-empty drink, making a slight grimace at the paper graveyard that was sprinkled across his bar.

“No,” John sighed, pulling out a few notes from his wallet, “I’m off.”

“Happy Christmas,” the barkeep took the bills and didn’t bother to look up again, setting himself to sweeping the torn strips off of the surface, preparing for the next paying customer. 

“You, too,” John muttered, tugging his black wool beanie over his ears before braving the classic cold, wet, and windy Liverpudlian night. 

He didn’t live far. John’s mum had kept up his loft down by the docks, but it certainly didn’t feel like home. Home wasn’t real. Not anymore. As he walked along the Mersey’s edge, he peered into the black water, wondering if he’d ever truly go home again. 

All of a sudden, he heard a shrill scream. Every sense that had been dulled by his lager was now as sharp as a blade and set on its edge. Again, a high-pitched shout pealed through the night air, beckoning him back to his heroism. That keening was the sound of some evil that needed stamping out, and he was hungry for it. 

He sprinted through the warehouse district, chasing the noise of scuffling, ducking behind alleys and abandoned garages, looking for the source. Finally, there was a flash of red that caught his eye, so he ran towards it, his mind making sense of the scene in front of him. 

Voices were jumbled and mashed up together, barely registering in his mind.

“Out here in a fuckin’ heat. Dumb bitch! C’mere.”

“She’s got a knife!”

“C’mere, you little slag. Get –”

In the middle of three huge, stinking Alphas, a tiny Omega was struggling, arm outstretched, brandishing her knife at them to keep them at bay. John came up behind the biggest one, some bald fuck with a dirty coat, and dropped him, cracking his spine in two places with well-placed fists, and breaking his jaw on his way down to the ground, leaving him groaning on the concrete. 

One of his mates, a older man with thick, black eyebrows, lunged at Price, a look of indignant surprise on his face. The Omega screamed, her red coat yanked back over her face by the third man, her knife clattering to her feet. Price focused on Mister Eyebrows, dodging a lazy haymaker before popping him twice in the nose, drawing out his blood and knocking out at least two of his front teeth. Then, John grabbed him by the collar, pulling his jaw into his raised knee and listening to the satisfying splash as he fell into a murky puddle. 

Finally, he set his sights on the last Alpha of the pack whose ropey arm was looped across the Omega’s neck, choking the air from her lungs. He growled at Price, his scent turning to rancid fear,

“Stay back! She’s mine, you big bastard.”

The captain had nothing to say. With a practiced ease, he side-stepped her assailant, breaking the elbow that controlled her throat, making him release her immediately. The evil bastard stumbled back, hand outstretched, bargaining for his life, 

“Wait, wait. I’ll share her with you, how’s that? I’ll even let you have first go!”

A deafening howl came out of his mouth as Price’s boot heel made contact with his kneecap, forcing it to snap at a terrible angle. John’s hand shot out and grabbed the man by the hair on the crown of his head, tugging cruelly at his scalp. Without mercy, John slammed his face into a nearby bollard, and the howling stopped.

It was quiet again aside from the Omega’s trembling breaths. She had recovered the knife and was now pointing it towards John with shaking hands and wide, determined eyes. 

“You alright, love?” Price asked, holding his hands up in a sign of peace, edging towards her in gentle, predictable steps. 

“Y-yeah… Stay! Stay right there,” her voice was bright and clear, and he could hear her strength laced through her words. He stopped in his tracks, respecting her wishes.

“What are you doin’ all the way out here, darlin’?”

“They dragged me over here from Baltic Fleet,” she straightened up, getting her bearings, wiping the blood from a small cut in her cheek, “Fuckin’ bastards. Thank you, by the way.”

“Jus’ doin’ my job,” Price shrugged, waiting for her to lower the knife even further before he continued his approach.

“Police?” She asked, a little confused. 

“Not exactly,” Price smiled, offering a hand out to her, “John Price, Captain of His Majesty’s RAF service.”

“Oh,” she studied him for a moment, and then her eyes fell to the hand, ready to bite but deciding to shake it instead. 

When he touched her skin, Price felt her fever. Shocked, he tightened his grip, not meaning to startle her but too surprised by her temperature to ignore it.

“Christ, love. You’re burnin’ up.”

As quick as a flash, she yanked her hand out of his grasp and retreated back towards the wall of the warehouse behind her, scooting her way towards the corner to get out of his range, ready to bolt. She didn’t respond, but John watched as she wiped her brow, dotted with sweat and covered in concern. 

“Hey,” he moved forward again protectively, “You can’t be out here alone. Not like this. At least let me walk with you. I’ll stay ten paces behind. It’s not safe.”

“I’m fine,” she said with more strength in her voice than what she was ready to produce.

“You’re not. You’re in a bloody heat. When did it start?” He watched as her knees began to tremble, and against her obvious wishes, he helped her sit on the warehouse deck, letting her keep the knife so she could feel safe. 

“Yesterday…” She closed her eyes, trying to shake it off, “It’s… I’m fine. It’s never this bad.”

Now that he was close to her, Price was smothered by the scent of her body. The Omegan glands in her neck smelled like thick, wild honey, and her heat was mixing with her aroma, turning an already sweet smell into a lucious, decadent gourmand, pulling him in like quicksand. 

“C’mon,” he helped her up, “Where’s your place? I’ll get you close.”

The clang of her knife made him glance up to see her eyes closed and her mouth slack. She was out, too weak to withstand the fever and the physical exertion. 

Price felt his body react to her need. He was filled with rage, white and hot, at her situation. Those goddamn monsters were trying to take advantage of her in this vulnerable state. She should be home in her nest, being taken care of by her Alpha, covered in soothing oils and cool compresses, her needy little cunt stuffed full of his knot, staving off these symptoms and enduring them for her. Instead, she’d been hunted, chased, made to fight for her dignity out here in the middle of the docks. Something else inside Price’s chest curled around his anger. 

Possession. 

He tried to shake it off, knowing it came from being unmarked, but it had been so many years as a lone Alpha that he knew how to control it. Or, at least he thought he did. 

Now, though, he found himself pulling at the neck of her coat as he held her in his arms, invading her privacy to check for a bite. He felt the shame wash over him as he covered her skin back up. He had no business searching for a mating bite. She was not his Omega, and he was not her Alpha. 

After a few minutes out in the chilled wind, he made it to his apartment. Thankfully, it was late enough that his neighbors weren’t outside to witness what looked like a literal kidnapping, and he shuffled her inside without much trouble. Price lay her down on his long, leather sofa, careful to rest her head on the soft arm. He went to the kitchen to retrieve a cold rag and pressed it to her forehead, hoping to hold back the fever for as long as he could.

“C’mon, pretty girl. Wake up,” he whispered, trying to gently shed her coat and sweater, peeling her layers off to bring her temperature down to a more manageable level. 

She moaned, her eyes wrenching shut even tighter, her face twisted in pain,

“My head…” She sighed, desperate for some relief. 

“I know, love. C’mon,” John propped her up a bit, moving the rag so that the coldest parts would be against her skin, “What’s your name? I can find an address. Do you have your purse?”

“They… took it? I don’t… I dunno…” She muttered, obviously having a hard time stringing her thoughts together, “I don’t feel so good.”

This was not ideal. Price knew what came next. A high fever, exhaustion, fatigue, nausea, increased heart rate, and then… 

“Alpha?” Her eyes were open, glassy and dark, the pupils fully blown, looking up at him with an outpouring of unfathomable need. Her scent rolled off of her in mind-altering waves, shoving Price’s carefully-built walls out of the way and sending shocks of desire straight to his heart and his fat, growing cock. 

“No, baby. I’m not your Alpha. Who is he? Can you give me a name?” John asked, checking her coat pockets in a rushed panic. He was running out of time. 

“Alpha, please… I need… Help me, please,” her shaking hands reached under his jacket and shirt, her knuckles rubbing against his furry belly, her strong fingers digging around for his belt buckle, getting right to the point. 

Price felt the room flex around him, and he tried to breathe in air that wasn’t saturated by her vanilla spice, searching in the deepest recesses of his mind for some semblance of his self control. 

“Easy, love. I can’t m–mmngh!” Her mouth slotted over his as he tried to protest, stopping his heart and his words at the same time. 

She was heaven. Her smell was making his skin tingle all over his body, down his arms and up his legs, rushing to his central, sacral core. And her taste was even better. His little cinnamon roll, so sweet and warm, burning for him like a flame, hot and ready to scar him for life. 

“Mngh… Love, mmm… Wait…” Price held her back, using more force than he thought he should need, surprised by her sudden power. 

“John…” He met her eyes and found a particular clarity within them. She was coming out of her haze. But, it wouldn’t last. This was his final chance to keep her from doing something she would regret. 

“Darlin’, I can’t. I’m not your Alpha.”

“You smell like you are,” she mewled, rubbing her wounded cheek across his engorged neck gland, spreading his scent all over herself. 

“I can’t,” he moved away from her, trying to hold her in his arms for comfort rather than to bask in her expressive heat, “My work… I can’t leave you here, pretty girl.”

She sobbed out, trying to hold back from writhing against his body, doing everything she could not to make it harder for him to turn her down. Her eyes were rimmed red and pink from exhaustion, and she was staring down at her own hands, vibrating with tremors, slurring her words,

“Just lock me in the bath. I’ll run cold water. I’ll be fine…”

Something ancient and feral snarled in Price’s mind. 

No.

“No,” he said, involuntarily, the voice in his head escaping from his throat. 

“Please… I can’t stop myself… I want your knot, Alpha. Lock me up before I do something to you… Something you don’t want…” She could barely put two words together. Every thought was a struggle. He was losing her again. 

He grabbed her and held her to his chest, clutching her like water in his palm, using all his strength to keep her with him,

“I want you, love. I want… Fuck, I need you.”

All of a sudden, the energy around their bodies stilled. That cracking, sparking electricity that bound them together was roiling just beyond John’s consciousness, ready to surge. But, he stayed perfectly still, waiting to see what she did next. She locked eyes with him and leaned in close, as if she would kiss him. But, she didn’t. She dipped her head down until she found his Alphic gland, swollen and bruised purple from him holding back his lust, nuzzling at it with the tip of her nose, rooting against him, testing his patience, checking to see if his temperament was true. Then, when he let her sniff him in his most potent spot, when she knew his soul was as pure as his scent, that he was true, she sucked his flesh between her lips, drawing his musk onto her tongue.

She’d accepted him. He reeled from it, unable to hold back a groan, his cock jerking against his zipper, thrashing to escape, flooding with hot blood and threatening to fill his knot before he’d even had a chance to taste her. 

John pulled her mouth off of him and stared at her eyes again, in awe of her beauty, his mind swirling and yet perfectly sharp, begging her darkly,

“Give me your neck, Omega.”

The ritual had begun, and as she swept her hair away from her shoulder, pulling it around her back, she bent for him, arching her head down in a submissive bow, revealing her Omegan mating line. It looked like a keloid scar, the raised skin swollen and painful, like a pounding vein that ran from below her earlobe down to the top of her shoulder, full of her hormones and thick with her magic. One bite, and he would be in her thrall, pliant to her every whim, beholden to her needs until her heat had run its course. 

Price had never given his bite to anyone. It had been easy to abstain. In fact, in his youth, he had a hard time understanding his mates’ commitments to their Omegas, scoffing at their lack of duty to their stations, doubting their commitment, and - moreover - doubting their loyalty. He remained a captain through and through, and he’d never made room for anyone or anything else. But, here he was, his teeth aching in his jaw, bigger and sharper than they should’ve been, his every sense heightened and taking her in like a drug, compelling him to punch through her delicate flesh and suck her nectar deep into his belly. 

The feeling of her skin against his lips was enough to send a chill through his body. He was cooling from the inside out, and his body needed her heat. She was forcing a rut to take hold in him, and he could feel himself changing for her. Then, he bit down as hard as he could, breaking the thin seal of her mating line with ease, feeling the searing mixture of her oil and her blood filling his mouth and throat like a ripe plum, wet and sweet, and promising pleasure if he chose to swallow her. 

He drank from her for as long as he dared, taking her in long, slurping gulps, letting her essence coat his throat, feeling the hot fluid burn inside of his chest and down into his stomach where it pooled and lingered, warming him up from the inside out. 

“Alpha…” She moaned, raising her hand to cup his cheek as he sucked her life into himself, rubbing her thumb so softly over his shut eyelashes that he barely felt it. 

John pulled away from her, his eyes fluttering open, her bright orange blood iridescent with her mating oil, making the red cells burn bright like a fresh-cracked yolk, gleaming, trapped between his teeth like gold. He watched it drip down her chest, staining her clothes, and he began to tear them off of her. She let him, limp and mute as he peeled her open, making her naked and pulling her into his arms. 

He carried her into his bedroom, kicking open the door and busting the bolt through the strike, splintering the wood and not giving a shit about the damage. John lay her in the middle of the mattress and set to surrounding her with whatever softness he could find; his shirts, his blankets, even his scarves. Anything warm and comfortable was added to the nest, giving her as much support as he could before standing back to admire his work. 

She eyed him from her recumbent throne, commanding him with her gaze. John stripped off his shirt for her, raking it up his back and over his shoulders, feeling as if he was moving his body for her and only for her. All of his motions, even his ragged breaths, were only escaping from his lungs because she wanted them to. His buckle clattered apart, and he popped open the button of his jeans, lowering the zipper in a sharp, metallic rip. 

Once free, his heavy prick flagged, leaping forward and pulsating for her, proudly showing her his gleaming head. He was drooling an unrelenting stream of iridescent precome, his balls tight and full of Alphic oil, ready to coat her warm insides with his shining sex. 

John climbed onto the bed, his face focused on her wet mound, admiring the plumpness of her, imagining her - in every delicious way - like a tender peach. He crawled to her, his mouth still stained neon orange from her gland, and he smeared her wet quim all over his lips and tongue. He wasn’t licking her so much as he was wearing her like warpaint, moving his nose and cheeks through her to ensure he was soaked in her heady slick, his body making wild, unbridled choices purely on instinct.  

“Yes, baby, please…” Her voice went straight through him like a bullet, tightening his cockhead to an uncomfortable degree, and it jerked against the mattress in protest. Her hands were in his hair, scratching through his scalp, encouraging him to sink his tongue deep inside of her hole. 

John obeyed, helpless to her desire, his mind wiping clean and being rewritten by her will. He was swimming in her scent, drenched in her slick, and gasping against her pussy, his eyes fixated on her form as it writhed above him. When she met his eyes, she bit the inside of her lip, crying out for him, rewarding him for his prostrated fealty. Then, she began to rock her hips against his jaw, fucking herself on his face, and he let her use him to her heart’s content, staying strong and sure, allowing his body to be used, objectified and glorified by it. 

When she began to come, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He followed his tongue inside of her with two of his thick fingers, pressing against her walls, pushing her over the edge. She bolted upright, wrapping her thighs around his face, smothering him with her body, trapping him breathless between her legs. Her whole being trembled for him. He could feel the shimmer of her very soul, rattling and writhing with her siren-like keening. And just when he started to see spots in his vision, needing air just a little less than he needed to please her, she lay open for him, blooming outward like a flower, releasing him from a limbo he longed to return to, oozing with a stream of rainbow-tinted come, the Omegan oil within her womb escaping to advertise its promises to her mate. 

Without knowing why, John found himself lapping it up from her pulsing hole like a hound, swallowing mouthful after mouthful and grunting with each pass of his broad tongue. 

“John, I need... Please, put your knot inside me. I’ll be good…” She begged, tears shining at the corners of her eyes from her come-drunk bliss, her hands plucking at her nipples and trying to soothe herself down from her high. 

“My pretty girl wants this knot, yeah?” John grinned devilishly, dipping his finger into her over and over and licking it clean like she was a jar of endless honey, “Wants me to breed this gorgeous cunt…”

At that comment, she spread her legs even wider for him, opening up for him like a blossom for the sun, ready to take whatever he had to give her. It was mesmerizing for John to see her like this. Everything about her was filled with intoxication and need. He was just a vessel for her pleasure, pouring himself into her to make her full again. Dizzy and drunk with adoration, he notched his girth at her entrance, struggling to fit even his cockhead within her. 

“Fuck… so bloody warm…”

Her body was burning him with every millimeter he sank into her, the heat of her tight sex in such high contrast with his cool rut. It felt like he was swimming in a roiling pot of sugary caramel, clinging and cloying and sticking to every part of him, and yet it was not enough. He needed more. His hips thrust forward, savage yet steady, reaching deep inside of her like an anchor, rushing to settle himself within her darkness. 

The way his Omega cried out this time was different, and it snapped him to her attention, his mind immediately sensing a new need. 

“Love, tell me what you need.” He purred, his mouth kissing her lips and her neck, lapping at the now-healing wound his own fangs had made, talking to her between long licks of his tongue, “Tell me, and it’s yours.”

“You’re so big. I’ve never…” She sounded ashamed. 

Price slowed to a creeping pace, focused fully on her face, 

“Never had a knot before?”

She shook her head, her eyes full of worry. John wrapped her up in his arms, dragging himself out of her slowly before filling her up again as carefully as he could.

“Tha’s alright, baby. You’re mine, and I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

“Feels like I’m burning alive,” she sighed, her brow furrowing with distress, “John, I need… I don’t know how…”

“Look at me, alright?” He helped her focus her eyes on his, “Don’t… Just stay with me, right here. You’re gonna come for me, and then… I’ll give you what you need.”

“Please,” she whimpered, her voice so small. 

Price set himself on a path with a purpose. He used his hand to rub small, rhythmic circles beside the rigid body of her clit, coaxing her pussy to drop even more slick around him, using every ounce of willpower he had left not to let his knot slip inside of her prematurely. His thrusts were jerky and restrained, but he felt her begin to rock back and forth with his hand’s movements, bringing her closer and closer to her glowing joy. 

“Good girl,” he praised her, watching her as she began to fall apart around him, “Tha’s my good little Omega. Come for your Alpha just like that. Just… mmf-fuck! Like that! Holy fuck.”

The feeling of her slick pussy clenching and twisting around his cock’s tugid body was enough to make him see stars. He felt almost sick with pleasure, his whole core lighting up like a roaring fire, spitting and aching to bury himself within her. 

At the end of her crescendo, he felt himself let go of the chain, and he rutted his knot inside of her, humping himself forward ruthlessly, his body contorting itself to fit her needs. His knot sealed him within her, and although he was not yet orgasming, he was filling her with his come, the creamy flow of it spilling out of his tip, filling her hole and coating his prick from inside of its hungry little sheath.

“Your come… I can feel it inside of me. Oh, my God,” she sighed with some sort of relief, her eyes rolling inside of her head, her arms losing their strength, and her back arching towards him, lifting up as if she would float right into Heaven. 

And just like that, her fever began to abate. With his knot stuffed inside of her, locking his seed within her hole, his Alphic oils could soothe her heat, bringing her back to the realm of consciousness and delivering her from her wild state. 

“John,” she lay back, her hand pressed to his cheek. 

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he bent forward on his elbows and kissed her mouth, chastely at first, and then languidly, exploring her taste. When he did finally pull away, she was awake and alert, sated and happy. He smiled down at her, 

“Hey, pretty girl,” he whispered, wiping her hair back from her face. 

“Hey,” she smiled back at him, wrapping her ankles around his back for comfort, not knowing that it was just enough to set his cock on edge again, his Alphic instinct rejoicing at the feeling of being trapped by his mate. 

“You alright?” John asked, a tinge of worry at the edge of his voice.

“I am now, thanks to you,” she sighed, tucking herself in beneath him, rubbing her hands along his ribs and the soft fur of his back and arms, feeling every bit of him as if she was seeing him with her touch, “You saved me, Alpha.”

“Aye,” he nudged her jaw with his nose, asking her wordlessly to give him the vulnerable softness of her neck. She obliged, and he spoke to her between sucking kisses, “All mine. My Omega. Innit that right, baby?”

She was practically lambent beneath the scrutiny of his possession, rolling in it like a wave in the sand, captured by it and surrendering to the riptide of his unbreakable grip. She nodded, humming her ascent, her expression turning a little rueful right at the end of his kisses. The sorrowful timbre of her voice broke his heart, 

“I’m grateful. But, I know this isn’t what you wanted, and I’m so sor–”

“No,” he kissed her words away, feeling his length throb inside of her, urging him to kiss her again, “No, love.”

“I won’t bite you,” she promised, her gaze still full of apology, “You won’t be stuck with me.”

“Bite me, Omega,” he bent his head and buried his face in her shoulder, giving her his gland in total surrender, “Go on. I’m yours.”

“John…” She hesitated, but he could feel her body flood her hole, excited beyond measure at the thought of binding him to her as her mated Alpha. 

“Go on,” he commanded in his smoky growl, holding her tighter and bracing for the ecstasy of her teeth.

He felt her lips first, and his balls tightened, ready to fling him into a messy orgasm as soon as he felt his gland shatter in her mouth. Her Omegan teeth wouldn’t break the skin, but he knew she was strong enough to crack the shell around his swollen node. The anticipation of her bite was wrecking his mind, and he was gasping for breath by the time he felt her jaw set itself against him. 

“Baby, please…” He whined in her ear, his hips thrusting in short, jerking thrusts, unable to move much with his knot still trapped up inside of her, holding his gushing come in her hole, pushing it into her womb from the sheer volume of it. 

Her teeth connected, and he could hear his unbroken shell give way beneath her strength, the hormones inside of it rushing through his system like wildfire, burning through his veins and making him scream for her. At the same time, John felt his core throw him into a raw orgasm, his whole body trembling above her, wringing himself from the inside out. 

“Alpha,” she sighed, licking his neck to comfort him, “My Alpha…”

“Yours, baby. All yours.”

— — — — — 

The new trainees filed out of the gym, sweaty, bloody, and eager to be out of the captain’s sight. Price had run them ragged, forcing them to spar with practice weapons, pitting them against each other in a strained, exhausting competition. Ghost and Soap sat with Gaz as they eyed their commander, their eyes glued to the fresh bite mark on his neck, shocked into a silent stupor. 

“I cannae believe it. Mated? To which lassie?” Soap asked, dumbfounded.

“I didn’t think he’d ever take a mate,” Gaz marvelled.

“I thought he was savin’ himself for marriage,” Ghost quipped, earning himself a scuff from Soap.

Price made his way across the mat, pulling his sweaty shirt off his back to trade it for a clean one. The red welts and nail-marks across his shoulders and down his belly made Gaz let out a low whistle. But, his commander’s glare stopped him mid-note. 

“Wha’s that, Garrick?”

“Nothin’, sir. Just… admirin’ your battle scars,” Gaz smiled, wishing his two teammates would stop snickering so loudly. 

“Looks like a hell’uva fight, Cap,” Ghost added, looking everywhere but into Price’s icy eyes. 

“Wha’s her name?” Soap asked outright, skipping over the double entendres and going right for the point. 

Their captain sighed, zipped up his gym bag, and stood in front of his three officers, glaring down at them with a look that was on the border of dead-seriousness,

“If I told you that, lads, I’d have to kill you.”

[deanstead]

Worth It

Pairing: Matt Casey x Reader

Requested: no

Summary: Y/N struggles with demands from a friend, and Matt solidifies the fact he will always be in her corner.

Word Count: 2.6K+

Warnings/Tags: toxic friendships

A/N: something bugged me recently so here’s a fic! This can be a bit of a controversial take based on the context but didn’t want to go full on in the fic so anyway~ just needed to get this off my chest.

“Baby, I’m…” Matt’s voice drifted off slightly before he completed his sentence, “…home.”

You could only imagine being Matt and coming home to this sight.

You were seated in the middle of the living room in the apartment you shared with Matt, surrounded by yarn, bits of fluff stuck in your hair, sheets of sketched designs strewn across the floor.

You could feel the panic rise even more as you took in the look on Matt’s face. Especially since you couldn’t read his emotions as the anxiety clouded your brain.

“Matt, I…” 

You couldn’t continue as you felt your chest tighten just a little, the anxiety and panic clawing its way to the surface and rearing its ugly head at you. 

This had all started with Amy.

Amy.

She was a friend you’d known for almost your entire life. You’d laughed together, cried together, dreamed about the future together and talked about those dreams. Along the way, you both had stumbled, you saw less of each other, and Amy reached out less, sometimes forgetting to respond to your messages. Despite what everyone told you, you convinced yourself that it was just how life was and you made excuses for Amy’s growing absence in your life.

Then, she’d reached out to tell you she was getting married.

You felt the excitement first, remembering it like it was yesterday, how you had both talked excitedly about how you would be each other’s bridesmaids. It wasn’t a conscious memory, but it was like your brain had pulled it up, triggered by the words Amy was saying.

You didn’t even feel any apprehension when she asked if you would make the flowers for the bridesmaids. You weren’t too confident because crocheted flowers weren’t really your thing. In fact, you’d only tried it out once. So you’d told Amy you’d give it a shot, make a prototype and see how it went.

You could tell Matt hadn’t been thrilled with the idea but he didn’t say much, only offering opinions when you asked for them and keeping most of his comments focused on the task rather than Amy. Yet, you knew he was holding back. You knew Matt didn’t feel great about Amy, mainly because of the things he’d witnessed, in particular, the way she blew back into your life when it was convenient for her.

But things had been going downhill ever since you’d made the first prototype. She kept changing what she wanted, and even you were getting a little frustrated, mixed with a desire not to disappoint her.

So, having Matt stand there with a surprised look on his face in the middle of an extremely messed up living room only added to your current panic.

You felt your breath quicken and very soon, Matt’s figure was clouded by the tears you didn’t realize had pooled behind your eyes.

Without saying anything, Matt dropped whatever was in his arms, heading straight for you and folding you nice and tight into his arms. 

“Y/N, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Matt whispered quietly, and you felt the rumble of his chest before your breathing slowly evened out once again.

Matt didn’t move immediately, but his fingers brushed off the residual tears that were rolling down your cheeks.

“Sorry, I don’t…” 

Matt just tightened his arms a little and pressed a kiss firmly to the top of your head.

“Sorry,” You mumbled, scrubbing off the remnants of tears on your cheeks before glancing up at him.

Matt shook his head and leaned down for another kiss and you leaned into his embrace, temporarily forgetting about the mess in the living room.

By the time you woke up the next morning, there was barely a trace of the mess last night. The yarn was back in the boxes you had in the corner of the room and the half done flowers were laid out neatly on the kitchen counter.

No one else would have guessed what had happened the night before. 

Matt was almost on his way out, draining the last sip of his coffee and smiling as you walked into the kitchen.

He didn’t ask but just studied your face for a little longer than usual.

You smiled back at him and nodded. “Go on, I’m fine.” You assured him, even though you stepped toward him and nuzzled your face into his shoulder.

Matt pressed you lightly against him and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“You know where to find me if you need me.” Matt whispered gently into your ear.

You smiled into his shoulder with a small nod before both of you pulled away and you let Matt go before he was late for shift.

Even as the door closed behind Matt, you felt it rear to the surface. This time, the feeling was different. It wasn’t even residual anxiety from the night before. You couldn’t put your finger on it but it was bugging you.

Deciding that it might be good to have a change of pace, you grabbed the materials you needed, slung the tote bag over your shoulders and left the house, figuring you’d find a nice cafe to work out of.

So you did and you had been right. A change of environment had done wonders for you and you finally had a final prototype for the new flower idea Amy had had.

You snapped a photo and sent it to Amy, quoting as reasonable a price you could for the materials and stitches. You even gave her what she called a ‘friend discount’. 

But for someone who sometimes took days to respond to you, her response was quick now.

It’s a little out of my budget.

Thereafter, she proceeded to give you a price she was willing to pay that was such a lowball, you almost dropped your phone.

It took you a moment and another few breaths to register that feeling bubbling up in your chest now. You recognised it as a more intense version of what you had been feeling that morning. Now, you could indeed put your finger on it - Disappointment.

It was disappointment that raged within you. Especially when you’d always treated Amy like a sister.

You felt it swell as you thought about the effort you’d put in all these years, even just the effort in designing flowers she would want for her wedding, and then you remembered the many times she’d blown you off, and when she’d been dating that toxic ex of hers and had cut you out of her life for more than a year until the break up.

Resisting the urge to send her a scathing reply, you stuffed the rest of your belongings into your bag and headed out the cafe, only realizing where your legs had taken you when you looked up at the firehouse in front of you.

The trucks were all parked which meant everyone was around. 

Now that you were here, you had second thoughts and you were about to retreat, thinking you’d talk to Matt during breakfast the next day when you heard an all too familiar voice call out to you.

“Y/N?”

Of course today would be the day Kelly came to get something out of his car.

“Hey, Kelly.” You greeted back, your voice sounding weird even to you.

Kelly either didn’t notice or chose not to mention it. He just smiled and nodded. “Come on, Casey’s in his office.”

You didn’t protest, letting Kelly lead you in as if it was your first time visiting the firehouse.

Everyone called out toward you with smiles and you waved back at them as you made your way through the common room and toward Matt’s office.

“Look who I found,” Kelly called with a casual rap at Matt’s door.

Matt sat up, glancing at you before smiling. “Thanks, Sev.”

Kelly winked, more at you than him, before leaving the both of you alone.

Matt got up to close his door and glanced at you. “Everything okay?”

After all, you rarely came to the firehouse without a call beforehand. Usually, you were worried about being in the way so you only came to bring them some food, especially when you’d heard it was a difficult shift.

You nodded. “Nothing big, I just…”

You held back a heavy sigh and just handed him your phone.

Matt’s eyes moved across your phone screen as he read the message and you could see the slight darkening of his expression, even though he was trying to keep it under control.

Matt looked back up at you and handed your phone back to you. “So what are you thinking?” Matt asked.

You shouldn’t have been shocked by Matthew Casey’s complete focus on your feelings, but you couldn’t help the little jolt of warmth that still filled you even though you and Matt had been dating for a long while.

You shrugged and Matt gave you a look, which just made you smile.

“Fine, I’m annoyed. It’s like every single moment with her has been flashing in my head since I got that message and the annoyance has been piling. That’s why I haven’t responded.”

“Go for it, babe.” Matt said, matter of factly.

You glanced at him with half a smile.

“You deserve to be treated with respect and I think it’s high time someone told her. And if you don’t want to do it, I’d be happy to.” Matt said, his voice laced with a subtle protectiveness.

You pulled him toward you, just so you can lay your head against him and smiled. “Thank you.”

The conversation had gone about as you’d expected. 

You tried your best to keep your side as light as possible while remaining firm, and ultimately, the decision had been for you to try to do little flower wristlets for Amy’s flower girls, instead of a large order of flowers.

You weren’t too thrilled to do it anymore, but a part of you felt obliged to, so you’d agreed.

It was only two days later that you had run into Amy when Matt had taken you out for dinner.

“Hey, I…” You greeted her even from a distance, trying to keep things as normal as possible.

But you didn’t miss the look on her face as she turned away, as if she was pretending not to see you.

Instinctively, you glanced up at Matt, your expression one of disbelief.

Matt just squeezed your hand but you could see the strain lines on his face which were a clear telltale sign he was using all his effort to hold back.

Matt was trying to reassure you, but the only thing you felt now was anger.

There was no more second-guessing on your part about whether you had been too harsh or too mean. You knew the answer. 

You were about to open a small side business for your crochet. All your friends, including Amy, knew that.

In fact, anyone who tried to ask you to make something for them had always offered you more than what you quoted, reminding you that friends didn’t take each other for a ride.

Amy was the exact opposite and what really grinded at you was the fact that she thought she was well within her rights to be angry at you.

You were a little confused but the anger had swallowed it all up.

“You want to go elsewhere?” Matt offered.

You glanced up at him.

If this had been anyone else, it might have made you avoid the situation altogether. But right now, the indignant feeling had turned into anger.

“Why should we? You put in so much effort into trying to get a reservation here. Let’s just have a good dinner.” You answered.

 This felt like a huge breakthrough moment for you, even Matt felt it - you could do anything you had set your mind to. 

You sat down with Matt in a corner of the restaurant, pretty sure that Matt had used one of his superpowers to get the both of you a great table and you turned your back on Amy, focusing all your energy and attention on the one person who was worth it.

Once the appetisers were served, you’d thrown Amy to the back of your mind, sinking into Matt’s company and enjoying the date night that both of you deserved. 

It was just as the both of you had stepped out after paying the bill when someone grabbed your arm. 

“Food’s great here, isn’t it?”

You blinked back in disbelief at Amy, who was smiling as if nothing had happened.  

It would have been much better if you hadn’t met her in front of the restaurant earlier. Now, you were just wondering what the hell she was doing.

Matt didn’t say anything, just stood by your side and waited.

“What are you doing?” You asked, unable to hold it back any longer. There was a slight tremor in your voice that no one but Matt picked up on. 

The saddest part was Amy used to be able to. Now, she just didn’t care.

That realization hit you hard but also allowed you to look her straight in the eye.

Frustratingly, Amy was staring at you as if she was confused by your question.

When you didn’t offer her any explanation, she swallowed and spoke, “Come on, Y/N. I told you I was on a budget. You’re my friend, I didn’t expect you to try and profit off my wedding.”

You glanced up at Matt just a little and he merely nodded in encouragement.

“Profit? Amy, you agreed to pay! You are literally the only person that has lowballed me for anything crochet related. I’m not even asking you to pay me for the prototypes or the materials used for it. Have you looked up the prices online? I’m profiting nothing.” You paused and looked her directly in the eye. “Look, I think this isn’t a good idea. “

“What are you saying? You don’t want to talk about it?” Amy asked, and you could hear the tone in her voice change slightly.

You sighed. “I’m saying I don’t think I can make anything for your wedding, or be your bridesmaid. I’ve said everything that needs to be said.”

“Y/N, you… What am I supposed to tell my family?”

You couldn’t hold back the chuckle that escaped your lips. You shouldn’t have expected anything else but the fact that she was more worried about having to explain what had happened to her family members who had always treated you as one of their own, spoke volumes.

“You can tell them what happened, Amy. Just remember that if anyone calls me, I’m telling the truth.”

Matt smiled and slung an arm around you, turning to lead you away before he paused.

He glanced back at Amy before he spoke, “She cared. She really cared and you threw it back in her face. She deserves someone who treats her as a friend.”

You tugged at Matt’s arm and Matt sighed before taking you away with him.

The journey home had been pretty silent and Matt only broke it as he closed the door behind the both of you and hung both your jackets by the door.

“You okay?”

You glanced up at him and nodded before you pulled back again and shrugged. “Kind of, you know? I’m upset but like it also feels lighter? If that makes sense.”

“It just has to make sense to you. The only thing important to me is how you are feeling right now.”

You stepped into Matt’s embrace and smiled against him. 

“With you? Matthew Casey, I’m on top of the freaking world.”

Matt smiled, leaning back enough to take a look at you before pressing his lips gently to yours in a deep kiss.

THANK YOU FOR READING!! PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT OF THIS!!

If you want to support me, buy me a coffee!

Character taglists are open, hit me up if you would like to be added!

[pedge-page]

can you write something where pregnant reader has trouble holding her bladder and joel messes with her a bit? 🫶🏻

Joel Dealing with Preggo Wife drabble - Hold It

Notes: This is NOT Piss kink, just a little Joel and Preggo reader torture amusement. I have separate PK x preggo wife request coming up soon

-

The one thing that women aren’t best at as they get older is holding their bladder. When you gotta go, you go.

And the number one thing that having a fat ass baby shoved up your uterus and pushing aside every organ and pressing the full weight of their tiny bodies on—is your fucking already-terrible-to-hold bladder.

Bumping up and down in Joel’s ugly ass truck with suspension that feels like shit because you can feel every single crevice from every single crack in the road does NOT do well for anything except stir up the amount of liquids inside you.

“Joel,” you whisper warningly, legs scrunched together.

Joel knows the difference between your “Joel” with legs scrunched together and the other “Joel” with legs scrunched together.

“You better not have to p—“

“I have to pee!”

He shakes his head with hearty laugh. “I told you to go 30 minutes ago when we were at the stop.”

“I did go,” you retort venomously. “But now I have to go again.”

“We’re 30 miles from the nearest exit. What do you want me to do?”

“Drive faster?!” Are you fucking dumb?

“We’re an hour late as is. I told you—“

“Don’t you dare fucking scold me like a child Joel Miller, this bitch needs to piss and she needs to go right fucking now.”

“You going on the side of the road?” He suggests with half hearted venom.

You whimper and shake your head. You do NOT want to squat down for a piss next to the highway on the road. You wouldn’t do it not pregnant, but definitely definitely not WHILE pregnant.

“Just—just drive faster. And shut up,” you rasp. You hold your hands between your legs and close your eyes, focusing on willing your baby to help you squeeze that lemon for once. “And don’t breathe. Or cough or just —just don’t exist.”

Joel has to wipe his face to hide the smirk on his lips. Your sheer concentration right now, all burled up and shaking side to side has him holding in a laugh.

 He checks his rear view for any signs of cops, then begins to lean into the gas more. You would pay for the turmoil you’re putting his poor truck through—not in any type of obvious payment of course, but in a more satisfying transaction.

Joel balances the wheel with one knee as he opens a bottle of water set on the dash.

He keeps his eyes on the road and makes the loudest, most grating, obnoxious slurping sounds known to man.

Your head slowly rotates towards him as if a killer hawk were seeing prey landed right next to her. He only peeks over and see the absolutely thinnest lined lips on you, and your exceedingly horrifying wide eyes ready to murder him. 

“MMmMM,” he moans, gulping down the bottle with big swallows so you can hear it sloshing down his jugular with each bob.

“You—you shithead,” you snarl.

He raises his eyebrow. “Do you want some?”

You shake your head, neck bowed low because you can’t concentrate on a scolding your asshole husband and holding your urine at the same time.

“M’ gonna ruin your seats.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t be so bad. Got all kinds of your juices on here already, what’s another variety to the blend—“

“SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

“Okay okay, I’m pulling off.”

You tumble out of the car before he’s even fully parked, crouching low to the ground begging to God as your last resort to keep. it. In.

Joel just puts his hands on his hips. “You gonna do It through your pants?”

shutupshutupshutupshutup Ohfuckfuckfuck.

He can hear your tiny whimpers, looks down upon his poor little wife and her even tinier bladder about to make a fool of both of them and piss yourself all over your stretchy pants—

He decides you've had enough torture.

“Gas station is 7 feet away, honey.”

You look up and lo and behold, you’re crouched in a parking lot right outside the quaint convenience station, its glowy neon signs and cigarette flyers and “2 for 3” signs illuminating like you had just won the lottery.

“OOHHHH” you gasp, sitting up and holding your vagina in your palm as you wobble into the quaint store like Road Running and down the alley to the bathroom.

Joel comes in afterwards and does the courtesy of buying a few snack for the trip. 

“Pregnant wife,” he muses to the clerk as he slams a few jerky sticks on the counter.

The two of them are startled by a very loud, satisfied moan coming from the women’s toilet room.

The clerk just chuckles and rings up the items.

-

He checks his watch again, tapping his fingers on the wheel impatiently. What the fuck is taking you 20 minutes?

Its not until the gas station door chime goes off outside as the door swings open, and you’re coming out with a 32 oz Big Gulp cup of Frozen Pepsi ICEE while happily waving goodbye to the clerk as you waddle back to the car.

You settle your bumbum into the seat with a little wiggle and slam the truck door closed, sipping away happily with two hands fisting the styrofoam cup.

Joel has one arm over the steering wheel, facing you with a frown and deadpan eyes glancing between you and your cup the size of Africa, your annoying slurps filling the silent car.

You don’t pick up on his silent aggravation at all, offering him a chipmunk smile. “M-ready now,“ you chirp.

He grits his teeth while looking at the cup you can’t even wrap your fingers around. Holds his tongue and doesn’t say anything, faces forward and turns the key into ignition.

-

25 minutes later, with your empty Big Gulp cup rolling around on the floor mat:

“Um, J-Joel,” you warn again, this time voice wavering timidly. “Joel, I have to—“

“NO!” 

- - - -

Permanent Taglist

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[alyslittlehaven]

In What We Keep

DragonBorne!Reader X Azriel.

One fateful night after a mission, the three bat brothers need to seek refuge from the cruel winds past the mountains of Illyria, after a little debating, Azriel decides to take his brothers to the slice of life he took for himself

Warnings: Self Made Fae Race, swearing, talks of sex/sexual interactions, lewd jokes and or conversations, Pregnancy, Pre-established Relationship, mates, fated, Soft Azriel, secret relationships and more ACOTAR IS NOT MY BOOK, NEITHER ARE THE CHARACTERS

(Due to my motivation being messed up and me not knowing how to genuinely continue this story, I have made it into a singular shot story. Both parts are still available separately on my profile. If you want more on this series please, put in requests and help me love this story as much as you lol)

“This storm isn’t going anywhere, Az.”

Cassian’s voice strained as he squinted through the heavy snowfall. Their footsteps behind them quickly being covered up as they continued on through the cold. Cassian groaned, his body shivering harshly.

 Azriel grunted as he tightened the fur that hung around his body. The black dire wolf pelt kept out the wind just for a little longer as the snow picked up around them all. Azriel looked over his shoulder, his hair swaying lightly in the wind as his brothers stopped behind him. There was no way they could continue on like this. Flying in this weather would be a death wish and the creatures that they were hunting were extremely sensitive to magic. Their noses picked up the slightest bit of arcane and followed it like it was food. 

The snow continued to whip around them. Azriels wings shifting as the wind blew in between the membrane and his back. The cold slowly seeps into his bones as the three of them pick up the pace once again. Rhysand let out a huff, looking around slowly and yelling over the blizzard. “There is no way we can get to RoseHall like this, let alone the camps! We need to find shelter!” Cassian nodded, looking at Azriel with a pleading look. Rhysand was right, there was no way the storm was going to let up, and if anything was just getting worse the longer they walked. Rosehall was nowhere on the other side of the mountain and the winds of Illyria were unforgiving to travellers during the summer months. What would happen to the three of them if they continued to trudge through the snow?

Cassian crossed his arms, his lips turning blue as they stood still huddled together. His wings spanned out and fluttered to get the snow off of them. The weight on his shoulders now dispersed as her shook himself off. Azriel looked around, looking for any kind of landmark that could tell him where they stood on the mountain. His eyes locked into a bundle of lights in the distance. A relieved breath left him as he saw the small, broken sign with a carved dragon egg on it. 

His brows furrowed as he thought, his arms wrapping around himself as he took a couple of steps. Dread slowly made its way to his stomach as he realized where they were heading.

He could bring them into his home. The small cabin he had built with his own hands inside of the heart of the hearth. The home that his mate was in while he stood out in the cold with his brothers. Her body probably curled up on the couch with that ugly knitted blanket she made draped over her as a book remained under her nose. The fire probably roaring in the fireplace and leaving the room in a nice orange glow.

Azriel sighed, quickly pulling up his hood before beginning to move in the direction of the light,. His voice hoarse as he spoke. "I have somewhere we can stay. if you don't mind walking for a bit more, that is." Cassian rolled his eyes, his feet moving without him having to think about saying yes or no as he followed his brothers closely. 

“Azriel…where are we going?” Rhysands teeth chatters, his breaths coming out as fog due to the cold. His whole body nearly froze at the question. He had worked so hard to keep this part of his life a secret from his family. The relaxing life he came to every night and woke up the day after next to. The happy cabin he filled with love and work that he made sure he separated his work life from his mate. His wonderful, beautiful mate pressed kisses to his hand when he came home from work and tried out new Illyrian recipes so he would feel at home in the hearth. The best woman he had met, and the calmest. They had spoken about it a few times, introducing her to his family and the inner circle, and despite her wanting to meet them he just didn’t want to yet. Wanting to keep her to himself just for a little longer.

“To…a friend's house. She lives right up here in this cabin.”

Rhysand and Cassian looked at each other, a small shrug was all Cassian responded with as they walked up the stairs of the porch. Azriel quickly opened the door, the wood creaking under his weight as he ushered the two in. A frown on his face as he shut the door behind them. “Y/n?” Azriels voice carried through the small cabin, some shuffling in the distance going dead silent.

“I’ll be there in a second love!” A couple of pans knocked together before she walked into the hallway, a small pep in her step now that she saw who was in her home. Cassian, ever the gossip, repeatedly hit Rhysands arm like a teenage girl. A smirk on his face as he raised an eyebrow at Azriel.

Rhysands jaw dropped as she untied her apron, the large and evident bump now on full display as she put down the fabric and pressed a hand to her stomach. Her eyes raked over the two unfamiliar men with a gentle smile. "You must be Azriels brothers...welcome to the Hearth. Come- Sit down, please."

If there was one thing they weren't expecting, it was exactly this.

Cassian and Rhysand expected their brother to bring them to a rundown shack he retreated to occasionally, holes in the couch, a dusty old couch, and maybe even a fireplace; but not this.

The cabin was cozy, with three dragons crawling around the floors of the abode like it was theirs as well. Dragons had been long unheard of, their presence in the world no longer scaring children but creating more theories of what was before. The fireplace blazed as the woman gently escorted them to the main area. The couch was littered with pillows and blankets of what seemed to be all kinds. Cassian chuckled, gently running a hand along the fluffiest blanket he saw. A satisfied smile on his face at the feeling.

"Make yourselves at home. Any friend of Az's is a friend of mine, I just finished soup too." Azriel smiled at the woman before beginning to try and undo his leathers. The heat getting to him now that the wind was no longer harsh on his skin. His wings - thankfully- thawing out by now, basically icicles on his back previously. The woman slowly left through a doorway, somewhere that seemed to relate to a kitchen in the room off to the side. Cassian turned to Azriel, a smirk on his face as he spoke. "A lady friend of yours?" Azriel huffed, rolling his eyes with a small smile. A small groan left him as he pulled his hand away, the small knick on his thumb irritated already from the leathers.

"I've known her for a bit, sweet lady." Cassian nodded, mumbling some remark under his breath as he sat down on the couch. A sigh left his large form as he melted into the cushions.

"She seems wonderful." Rhysand shook his head, sitting down on a chair next to the fireplace. The two others not even bothering to try and take off their soaked leathers.

They cared about the warmth tho.

"Azriel, let me help you with that." Azriel jumped slightly as the voice cut through the air, his frame quickly softening as she placed down some soup for all of them on the coffee table. Giggling as Rhysand and Cassian jumped to get the food. The woman waddled over to Azriel, a huff of laughter leaving her as she managed to get one side of the leathers off. The two of them sat in a comfortable silence for a moment before Azriel spoke up.

"How are you?" She looked up, smiling.

"Could be better, the dragons have been very insistent in feeding me rats they found." Azriel chuckled, nodding slowly as she managed to get the other clasp. His leathers fall to the floor. "There, that's better." Azriel looked down at her bump. Tilting his head slightly as a finger brushed up against her stomach. "'Been giving you trouble lately?" Samantha laughed lightly, nodding as she gently grabbed his hand and put his palm on her swollen belly.

"Movin' a lot, the healers say that they are excited to come out. I think I'm nearly cooking the poor thing with how hot the house is nowadays." She smiled up at him, a small sigh leaving her as she hugged him.

"That's good at least- not the boiling the baby part though." He pressed a chaste kiss to her head. Pulling away to help her to the couch.

"So, Rhysand and Cassian. It's nice to meet you." She gently picked the bowl up with her two hands, the heat not affecting her like it did them. The two of them finally looked at the two of them, now getting comfortable on the couch. Azriel was tucked into the corner of the furniture, his wings gently stretched out behind him as his arm rested on the back of the board. The woman was neatly tucked into his side, her legs up and folded to get her comfortable.

Not that much was comfortable nowadays.

Cassian raised a brow, quickly swallowing his food. "It's nice to meet you..uh.-"

"Samantha, my name is Samantha." Cassian nodded, picking up another spoonful of soup as Rhysand spoke up. His violet eyes no longer scanning around the house they sat in. Now staring straight at her and Azriel. "This is your home? What's with the dragons?" As if they heard him, the purplish-colored dragon in the fireplace screeched, its wings flaring behind it as it got comfortable, now lying down on the burning wood like it was nothing. Rhysand flinched lightly, his eyes remaining on the odd creature next to him with a weary feeling building in his gut.

"Think of them as my babies, I've raised them since they were in their eggs. " Rhysand nodded, smiling at the little thing before adjusting himself in the chair. "Do you only have three?" Samantha shook her head quickly, swallowing her food before speaking.

"These were just the youngest, they couldn't fly when winter came so me and the village thought it would be best if I kept them for the cold season. Their mother and brothers are out in daycourt somewhere" Rhysand nodded, a small oh left his mouth as he took a bite of the warm food. A hum leaving him. "It took a while for Azriel to get used to them, I don't expect them to come flocking to you now since you're new." Azriel leaned back, his eyes closing for a moment as he basked in the orange light the fire sprayed on him and Samantha. The fire seemingly calling to her now that she relaxed.

"Samantha has a way with wayward beasts." Samantha gently smacked azriels arm, a smile on her face as she let out a huff. Cassian's eyes darted over to the two. "So you two are...Friends?" Samantha perked up, a hand on her stomach as she thought for a moment. Thinking about whether or not Azriel would be okay with them even knowing. "I mean we are, but the official term is mates if you didn't know." Azriel looked at the two of them. No guilt swirling in those hazel eyes of his. Rhysands eyes widened, nearly spitting out his food out the information with Cassian choked on his own words.

"Mates?" Azriel nodded. His wings shifted behind him as one of the dragons swayed under them. Attempting to get warm.

"Been mated for a year, that a problem?" Cassian quickly shook his head no. His eyes still widened compared to his usual look. His wings tense behind him. "-mates? As in True mates? You're his pregnant mate?" Samantha nodded, tilting her head at Cassian. "Have been for about 7 months. Afraid I'm stuck with the pregnant title for a couple more weeks." Rhysand laughed, putting his empty bowl of soup down before speaking.

"Azriel- how have you hidden this from us?" Azriel shrugged, his hand moving to gently rub against his mate's shoulder. "Not too sure, Maybe I'm good at keeping secrets." Cassian leaned back, Eyes furrowed as he pouted over the implications of missing out on so much of his brother's mating.

"Did you have a ceremony?" Cassian's voice broke through the cackling from the fire, Samantha's eyebrows shooting up before answering. Thinking back to the day and attempting to get as much information as she could. "We did, it was my village present- I don't think anyone was there from azriels side though." Azriel shook his head no.

"Well...I guess we have a lot to catch up on then?" Rhysand spoke once more, his eyes filled with a bit of betrayal as he looked at everyone in the room. Cassian nodded, putting his own bowl down.

[bellarkeselection]

We’re All Family Here

Reader is Carter’s younger sister and she has a prosthetic leg and the reader is worried that Rip and Beth will kick her off the ranch if they found out. Wattpad request from - @Quackity_bwead

Pulling down the Jean of my right leg I sighed staring at myself in the mirror that was in my room in Rip and Beth’s house. My brother Carter was already up for work in the barn but I got to sleep in this morning which was rare. Walking out of the house I headed to the barn with large Y above the doorway. The sun had just started to rise above the mountains and everybody was busy already working. Taking my horse out of the stall I climbed on feeling my fake leg hanging over. “Alright boy, let’s go.”

Kicking my horse we rode off towards the sunset with the wind running through my hair. I was wearing a tan dark cowgirl hat and my hair was tied in a braid. Riding through the fields I saw my older brother Carter who was trying to rope a cafe but it started running at me. “Y/n, watch out!” He cried when the cafe got underneath my horses leg and it spooked causing the horse to throw me off its back.

“Sis I’m sorry. I just couldn’t get a good hold on it.” My brother apologized coming over on his horse while Ryan rode past me to go grab my horse that had ran off somewhere else.

Rubbing the back of my neck I winced feeling some pain but it wasn’t as bas I have normally been through. Shifting my gaze away from my brother I saw that Rip was riding over to us. He dismounted his horse quickly dropping himself on a knee in front of me. “What the hell happened, kid. You can’t be injuring any of our guys!..are you hurt Y/n?”

“No just sore a little.” I shook my head not understanding why his deep brown eyes seemed to be filled with concern.

Rip moved closer to me touching my right leg and he pulled up the fabric of my pant. Once he saw something odd sticking out of your pant leg he knew something must be wrong. “Then what exactly is wrong with your leg here?” He questioned me where I finally noticed that he had seen my fake leg.

“I….uh….” I yanked my leg back feeling my face turn red being embarrassed over this. Carter wasn’t with me the night of the accident. I was just driving back to our place with our dead beat dad until someone rear ended me harshly.

Rip saw that I wasn’t going to answer him so he called to Ryan who had brought back my horse. “Ryan, take her back to the ranch.” Getting to my feet I climbed back on my horse and followed the ranch hand back to the ranch then he went back to work like Rip had asked him.

Laying on my bed inside my room I stared at the ceiling in silence and a pit of nervousness. Sitting upright I knew I had messed up or more so my brother had. I had done my best to keep the fact that I had a prosthetic leg a secret. In fear that if they knew I would be removed from the ranch. Someone came down the hallway and I lifted my head up seeing it was Beth. “Hi mom….uh what’s up?” I nervously asked since she had just started letting me call her that.

“I heard about your fall today from Rip. I’m happy you shook it off but we need to talk about something.” She entered the bedroom before I saw that Rip was also walking in behind her heels.

Playing with my thumbs in my lap I avoided their gazes when they came to sit down on the bed. Well Beth did leaving Rip standing directly in front of me. “So are you going to tell me about your leg or no?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it…” I gulped trailing off in my response already knowing the answer they would give me.

It was hard enough for Carter to prove that he would be a good worker. I already was a good hand but the fake leg wasn’t a good look. John Dutton had the greatest ranch in Montana and that means he should have close to the best people working for him. “You better tell us otherwise things will get ugly.” Beth warned me with her annoyed look and I froze knowingly.

"It's...it's about my prosthetic leg..." Rolling my pants leg, I made it visible to their gaze, and I didn't dare make eye contact with either of them. "I didn't want to tell you about it because I've been sp terrified of what you would say. Even though I get my work done, nobody else on this ranch has one. So I....just assumed that you would kick me off the ranch over it."

Rip put his hands on his hips, tilting my head to the side slightly. "That's totally ridiculous, Y/n. We would never do that."

"This family may be complicated, but we don't abandon our family members." Beth shifted on her spot on the bed, grasping my hand in hers.

Hanging my mouth open I couldn't believe it. "Really but I thought that-"

"That what us having some cowboys from the prison and others in debt wouldn't have given you the message that we take in the trouble so they can have a home." Rip declared, coming to sit down beside me, tucking hair behind my ear.

I parted my lips without thinking I fling my arms around his neck hugging him tightly. Rip stiffened up at the embrace but calmed down after a second and wrapped his arms around me with the same comfort. “Thank you….I didn’t think you would let me stay.” I sniffed against his chest.

“Anyone who has a problem with that will have to deal with me.” Beth responded after I hugged her and she actually hugged me back too to my surprise. I smiled at the pair knowing that Carter and I were gonna do really good here. This wasn’t just a rnhc, it was a family for everybody.

Comments really appreciated ❤️

[ranx0]

Steve's liked cars since before he knew. He's just always liked them. He stared at the fancy ones people from across town drove, and he liked to admire the one his dad kept the the garage.

Ten years ago Steve Randle met Sodapop Curtis. Sodapop was six going on seven, and Steve was seven. The former was a loud outspoken kid with an average home life. Two loving parents and two brothers to keep him company. The latter wasn't so lucky, his parents were going through an ugly divorce and they didn't bother to make sure he was okay during any of it.

Steve, like any other little boy, craved attention. He knew Sodapop got attention, he knew it almost as soon as he became friends with the boy. He could tell from his jokes, his smile, the way he talked like everyone was listening, and his confidence that he was a boy everyone always noticed. Maybe that's why Steve stuck by him, copying his confident nature in a way that came off as cocky. Copying his loud volume in a way that made him annoying to most.

Soda figured that Steve liked cars one day a few months after they had just met. Steve always had a small toy car from home stuffed in his backpack hidden away from his parents in case they decided he was in trouble for the day. He had it out during recess, which immediately caught Soda's eyes. It was old and beaten up, but he could tell it used to be a model of those fancy bright red cars that looked like they had a mustache in the front.

Soda plopped down next to the boy, watching him zoom the car back and forth on the grass, opening and shutting the door then walking his hands with his fingers away from the car. Soda was amazed, the car looked fancy. Much more than any toys that Soda had, his were all one solid piece of plastic but Steve's- Steve's had functioning doors, fancy seats, and if you had something small enough you could probably stick it in one of the seats.

But its paint was chipped, there were a few dents in it and one of the car doors wouldn't close correctly. He learned that after observing Steve try and shut it a few times after playing with it for a while. The car was well-loved and had clearly been through a lot.

"That's a cool car." Soda stated, then Steve looked at him.

"It's my only one." The little boy mumbled, tightening his grip on it. Soda didn't understand why, he wasn't going to take it away from him or anything.

"What is it?" The blonde asked with a genuine curiosity that Steve couldn't help but fumble at. He picked the car up from off the ground and sat crisscrossed on the grass. Soda waited patiently for his response.

"It's, uhm, a Ford Convertible," Steve played with the car in his hands, then looked up at Soda. "You could see some around town if you look hard enough."

"I think I have," Soda replied quickly, "They look real fancy."

Soda looked at Steve in awkward silence for a few more moments, and then Steve awkwardly held the car out for Soda to take. "Here," He mumbled, looking away from Soda as he gave him the toy. "You can play with it if you want."

Soda beamed, grabbing the car quickly and zooming it around the floor. Steve's hand almost followed after the car when Soda took it harshly, but he held it back when he saw the excited look on his face.

"Just be careful with it," Steve grumbled as he watched.

That day Soda forgot to give it back, it had just slipped his mind. Recess ended abruptly and everyone rushed inside to continue the school day.

When Steve got home that day he placed his bag down in his room, and later when his parents started fighting he retreated back to busy himself with his prized possession. He was scrounging through his bag trying to find it, and when he couldn't he almost started to cry.

He must have been making too much noise because then it alerted his dad. He doesn't know what necessarily ticked him off, the mess he made while throwing around everything in his bag or the crying from Steve. But his father gave him something reasonable to cry about after he found him.

The next day in school Steve's hands were balled up into fists, trying to distract himself from crying over something stupid again as he tried to confront his new friend. He'd told Soda how he must've accidentally taken the car home with him, and the other boy was extremely apologetic.

Despite how apologetic he was though, he didn't get that car back for a while. Soda kept forgetting. Steve would ask at least once a week, and Soda would always look so genuinely crushed every time he was reminded.

When he finally got the car back it was around December. He'd given the car to him in October.

Soda invited Steve to his house for the first time and was excited to introduce Steve as his best friend. Soda had claimed that if he'd just waited for his parents instead of getting on the bus like he usually did his parents would be happy to have him over.

They waited for Soda's parents outside the school, and when they pulled up they almost expected the little boy standing next to Sodapop. They introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, and they seemed like sweet people. They had the same genuine smile as Soda did, and they always spoke gently. The complete opposite of his own.

“So, Steve, you and Soda just met this year, right?” His mother asked, and Steve nodded in response. He regrettably wasn’t paying much attention to the questions, just nodding along to whatever his parents had said.

He was focusing on the car that they had, what condition it was in, and how much it would be worth. He was way off, but that was only because he was seven and didn’t understand the concept of capitalism much. It was some type of Ford, but he personally thought his model was better.

When they pulled up in front of the house he noticed some stark contrasts from his own, although the house looked poor enough it had a well-taken-care lawn, its front door was open and its screen door was closed, and it had a nice paint job.

When he entered the house it had this warm aura to it, comforting and happy.

"Soda, why don't you go get Steve that surprise you had for him?" His mother urged, and then Soda bounced up and down excitedly. The younger boy ran off into a room, slamming the door. Steve flinched slightly at the loud noise, then turned to look at Mrs. Curtis quizzically.

He didn't get a response before Soda came barreling in holding something in each of his hands. He held them out to Steve, smiling at him excitedly. There he was holding Steve's old busted-up red Model Ford Convertible and a second one that Steve recognized as a dark blue Model 1947 Cadillac.

Steve could almost cry.

"They're both for you! I told Mama about how I kept forgettin' your car and felt real bad," He said shyly as Steve took the cars from his hands, "So she helped me get another as an apology!"

Steve looked up at Mrs. Curtis, he wasn't stupid, and he knew Soda couldn't buy one himself. Obviously, Mrs. Curtis had done this. He tried to hold back tears and mouthed a quick thank you.

So yeah, you could say Steve Randle liked cars. He liked them a lot, actually.

[idliketobeatree]

dead boy detectives characters as art objects and sculptures; extended ---

hello, i remembered i made some subjective explanations and notes on few of my choices for this post, and i thought some folks might enjoy it. soo let's get into it.

1.

monty finch

author: anders krisár

pretty self-explanatory; it's a moulded male torso with visible inprints on its skin.

anders krisár’ artistry explores the themes of loss, separation, and the condition of the psyche through the lens of a human body in duality: perfectionism meets unsettlement, skin meets marble and bronze and polyester, to create sculptures spanning geological time far beyond the living's capabilities.

monty's creation by esther was already stripped of any human agency. "he was made a boy, not a person", small, almost doll-sized, with a singular purpose: to seduce and entice the chosen dead boy into their doom. the naked skin and specifically the position of its arms are mildly erotic, but in a way that makes your skin crawl. the imprints are intimate, placed possesive; notice the thumbs digging close to especially sensitive areas like nipples and the belly button.

the latter seems to connect the "creator" to the subject, the navel here as a symbol of cruel, invasive motherhood. the fact that the torso is cut off in the middle and at the neck furthers the uncanny valley feeling of a young male body, but then again. this is a realistic portrayal. so was it ever a person? what does it have inside to make dents so profound? how deep you can press until it breaks?

--- i'm leaving out crystal and edwin (for now?), but @nicheoverhere brilliantly noticed that it was the same author for both. that was intentional! because glen martin taylor is all about taking kintsugi, which is a beautiful art form of repairing fine china and generally delicate things with veins of precious metals, but with materials like— nails. scissors. barbed wire. all ugly. the repair after a great shattering is seldom pretty after all, they really are similar in this regard. ---

2.

charles rowland

author: robert hudson

okay, strap in. this funky dreamy world belongs to robert hudson, and i picked it for charles rowland because it's all first impressions. the colours? the composition? they give you the 80s vibes, almost; like something a kid would design if you asked them what a time machine would look like. it could probably move in several ways. the pieces seem mismatched, but hold themselves together surprisingly well. or maybe you underestimate it?

it's neither big nor small. you can't tell its size at all. it's a bit overwhelming to look at, at first, and at second, and after a while, but it carries that comfortable familiarity and nostalgia for— well, nothing in particular, because the longer you look, the sadder its past seems. the bold pops of contrasting colour are fighting for your attention. they want you to like it! and yet, the major material seems to be just. rusted steel. made from tools.

and look at that botched up sphere, it wants so badly to be a perfect sphere and it knows it'll never be one. fine!! perhaps it could be a football ball instead! or maybe a head. if you close your eyes, that is. and this facing-up horseshoe? a lucky charm, made to collect good luck and keep it from falling out cause god, it needs it.

---

3.

niko sasaki

author: justin cloud

---

niko sasaki, now how do i describe her? let's start by saying— she's cleary a her. this one is a she. and there's something to be said about blooming, and femininity, and delicacy, because pink is a hopeful girly colour and a surprise and a delight.

what are you doing in a gallery, little flower, shouldn't you be at home? in a field? look how pretty you are! mind you, of course there's something wrong with her as well, but you're not sure if that is because someone messed it up, or because of a different entity alltogether. was it always half-electric? its elegance seems purposeful— the iridescent metal fits all too well with the white-pink petals— but also uncanny. and oh suddenly you can't stop looking at the stigma from which a pollen should release aaany time now.

when i look at her, at her black artificial stem and the small leaves imitating the real ones, i wonder if she doesn't want to lure me into a trap. is it her fault?

the beautiful petals seem like the only thing left real of the flower. whichever way she turns, it will probably mean— death. and flowers are ephemeral. what is a flower mounted to a wall, fortified with steel, connected with cables and enfused with electrical energy, then?

i think she's a self-preserving survivor. ---

4.

the night nurse

author: elizabeth turk

---

now. the night nurse.

of course it's the only piece in the collection where the background needed to be dark. no one here is older than her. there is no inoffensive, fading-into-background white for this absolute pillar of truth. or maybe something like a totem, quite protective in nature. and it's terrifying, 'cause you're immediately hit with the feeling that you're looking at something out of this realm, something you're not supposed to witness. the perspective is all wrong. is it downwards or upwards? why does it seem unstable when the pieces are so perfectly centered and seemingly well-balanced? child, you should calm down, it's not like you will destroy it with a stronger puff of air. will you?

this sculpture is called "tipping point — echoes of extinction", and it's actually a mix of technology and sculpture and sound, with elegant visualizations of the lost voices of birds and sea mammals. the author said it "was conceived in reverence to the astounding lives the species which envelop humans have lived and the mysterious ways they have contributed to our well-being. the shadows of their memory, whether a shape or a sound, have inspired this project." so the piece deals with death. moreover, it deals with murder. it records the harsh reality and makes sure the ones that suffered horribly at the hands of humans are, in a way, celebrated. but also— categorised. like epitaphs. the birdsong, once a living sign, is only visually represented by the lines of varying lenghts in 3D, and you can do nothing about it anymore, right, you can't bring back the dead, you can't help the innocent dying in any way other than— stacking them on top of each other and moving on.

---

so that's for now, i might someday write more if anyone's curious. :")

[magicalbats]

Kinktober 2024 Day 3: Al-Haitham x Reader

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 6757

Warnings: Afab!reader, gendered language, power dynamics, petplay, collaring, predicament bondage, spanking, vaginal fingering, tail butt plug, object insertion

A/N: A few people asked for a follow up to Al-Haitham's piece from last years Kinktober and I'm personally always glad for any excuse to write about more petplay scenarios, so here we are! I hope everyone enjoys! 🫣

⭐

“So,” He intones, casually slouched to one side so he can brace his shoulder against the door jamb. With his arms crossed over his chest he looked the picture-perfect image of idle, confident arrogance standing there before you in the faint glow of a nearby street lamp. It was enough to almost make you sick. “You really decided to muster up the courage and come here after all. Consider me impressed.” 

Hands balled into tight, sweaty fists in the front of your breezy skirt, you pointedly keep your eyes downcast so you won’t have to look him in the face. Damn Al-Haitham and damn you for being fool enough to go through with this stupid idea. Hadn’t he humiliated you more than enough the last time? 

“Is that alright? I could always come back some other day …” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re already here, why send you away?” Straightening up, Al-Haitham shifts to the side to unblock the entrance to his home and grant you entry despite looking anything but welcoming. “Come in. And try not to look so scared.” 

You can feel your cheeks quickly growing hot enough to fry an egg on but you stubbornly shove aside all the uncertainty and ill opinions you had of the scribe in favor of focusing only on your objective. Of course that was in many ways exactly what had gotten you into this mess in the first place, yet it seemed you still hadn’t quite learned your lesson. You wouldn’t have shown up at his doorstep like this otherwise. 

Steeling yourself, you stiffly move forward to shuffle past him to stand just inside his foyer while he closes the door behind you. His home isn’t particularly large but it's finely furnished and surprisingly quaint in its own way. You wonder at that as you take in the decor, noticing an odd disconnect between one piece of furniture or knickknack and the next. While some of it was quite stylish other bits and bobbles leaned more towards an eclectic taste that didn’t seem to match. 

And then your eyes land on the neatly lined up row of shoes just off the main entrance. 

Two different sizes. 

“Don’t worry. My roommate is out on business tonight.” He says, supplying an answer to the unasked question, and you bring your head up with a quick snap. 

“I didn’t know you had a roommate.” 

His hand is suddenly right in front of your face when you turn towards him, making you startle, but he merely slips those long fingers underneath your chin to further nudge your attention up at him. Verdant gaze studying you closely, Al-Haitham searches your expression for a drawn out beat — for what, you do not know — before deigning to speak again. “Well, I do. Have one I mean. He won’t be bothering us any time soon though, so tell me what it is you want.” 

Your natural disinclination for him quickly rears its ugly head, and you narrow your eyes up at him in annoyance. “How do you know I want something?” 

“Please. You wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t. Now spill it.” 

Clicking your tongue, you irritably pull away from him and take a step back to put some distance between you two. Hopefully that would be enough to give you a chance to think straight, even though it was clear you hadn’t been doing much of that at all recently. “Look. I know you and I don’t exactly get along even under the best of circumstances but … do you recall what you said to me back in the Grand Sage’s office?” 

“My office, at least for the moment, and yes. I said a great many things to you that day. Which are you referring to specifically?” 

“Gods, you’re such an ass.” You murmur, wondering why you’d even come here when you knew good and well how he was. It’s much too late to start giving this second thoughts though, so you lift your chin in defiance of his surly attitude. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Acting Grand Sage, but I believe you told me I could come to you if I ever wanted a refresher course on our last — lesson. Does that offer still stand?” 

“Oh?” Looking really quite smug now, Al-Haitham allows his roguish mouth to curl into a brief smirk. “Is this supposed to be your way of asking nicely for something? Gotta’ say, your methods could still use some work but I can see we’re making progress. It’s better than the last time, at least.” 

“Are you going to answer the question or not?” You demand, feeling your jittery nerves start to get the better of you. 

If you’d had any other option here you would have gladly taken it before ever subjecting yourself to this particular man’s presence ever again but you just couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the time you’d spent with him in his office. By the end of it you’d been all but preening at his soft spoken praise only to then be cast back out into the real world where people in polite society didn’t talk to each other like that. It was maddening in the worst possible way. 

Worst of all, he still hadn’t signed off on that damn expense sheet even after saying he’d give it another look and yet that seemed to be the farthest thing from your mind anymore. The only thing you really wanted at this point was to experience the same warm buzz of satisfaction you’d felt when he spoke to you in that uncharacteristically soft, doting manner as before. Was that seriously too much to ask for? 

“Just relax. We really need to work on that impatient streak of yours.” He says, evidently recognizing the frazzled look on your face for what it is. “And don’t worry, my offer still stands. I’ll play with you again. Good timing, actually. I recently bought a few things at the bazaar that I think you might like.” 

“Huh?” You blurt, turning to follow him with your eyes when he brushes past you into the rest of the house. “Don't tell me you actually knew I’d come here like this?” 

“That’s a bit of a stretch. All I did was calculate the odds that you would eventually decide to seek me out again, so the expense was justifiable despite being preemptive. Get undressed while I grab everything and wait for me until I get back.” 

And just like that he’s gone, disappeared down the hallway into a room on the far end of the house by the sound of it. 

For a long moment you just stand there, too stunned at Al-Haitham’s gall to take action. You weren’t sure who he thought he was but as usual it was already giving you a headache. Nothing ever went as you hoped it would whenever he was involved. 

Rousing yourself though, you quickly get to work. Far be it that you were any more comfortable with the thought of being naked in front of him than you were the first time, but you’d known what you were signing up for when you chose to come to him like this. And you’re glad to find it’s a little easier without him standing there, looming over you like some scrutinizing gargoyle while more and more of your body is slowly revealed to him, so there was that perk. If anything you were just glad he hadn’t sent you away. 

But once you find yourself standing nude in his living room some of the uncertainty starts to come back. Just what the hell were you doing here? And how were you supposed to position yourself, should you sit or stand? Did he expect you to seamlessly fall into the role of obedient dog again even if he wasn’t there to guide you through the process like before? 

There was no clear cut solution to any of these problems you now faced, and you at last decide to err on the side of caution. You would prostrate yourself for him, since he seemed to get so much satisfaction out of that, but you’d wait for further instruction before doing anything else. It was undeniably silly, but you didn’t want to seem too eager. 

Thus when Al-Haitham returns after another moment or two, he finds you kneeling on the ornate rug laid out across the floor with your legs neatly folded underneath you. He noises a soft sound of acknowledgement as he strides across the room and you attentively zero in on the wooden box he’s got in his hands. 

“What’s that?” You chance to ask, earning a quick, vaguely amused look from him. 

“I wasn’t aware dogs knew how to speak to ask such questions of their masters.” 

Flushing all over again, you breathe out a soft huff through your nose but remain otherwise silent. You’re much more interested in observing him anyway, particularly when he sinks down to sit on the nearby sofa before placing that mysterious box next to him on the cushions. 

Then the full brunt of his attention is back on you. “Come here.” He commands, indicating the spot next to his feet. 

You catch yourself starting to prickle, your pride almost getting the better of you once again, but you quietly remind yourself that this was what you’d wanted. After being hounded by indecent thoughts for weeks now, all of them revolving around the scribe, there was no point making any qualms about it or pretending otherwise. 

So you somewhat grudgingly shift forward to brace on your hands and knees before crawling over to him. You’re acutely aware of the sway of your breasts while you do so, particularly when he was watching you do it and no doubt seeing every little detail of your body in this humiliating position, both the good and the bad. The crippling note of self consciousness that shudders through you is not nearly enough to douse your anticipatory excitement though, and you hesitantly tip your face towards him as you shuffle up to the sofa, earning a nod of approval. 

“Sit.” 

Obediently plopping your ass down on the carpet, you make a point of straightening your back for him to push your bare tits up and out. You felt incredibly foolish for being so concerned about his opinion of your body but that lingering sense of stubborn combativeness quickly fades when he reaches out to pet over your head with an indulgent gesture. 

“Good girl. I have something for you.” 

Feeling fuzzy and warm, you blink up at Al-Haitham through the growing fog as he reaches for the box. That he makes a point of opening the lid towards you so that you can’t see what’s hidden inside almost manages to annoy you but you quickly stamp it down in favor of simply watching him. With a faint rustle, he lifts what you immediately recognize to be a collar from inside and silently presents it to you, just observing your reaction. 

The flustered look on your face must be an interesting one though, because he chuckles a brief laugh only a moment later. “Do you know what this is?” 

Reluctantly nodding, you shoot him a wary look. 

“Excellent. Then I shouldn’t have to waste any time on explaining it.” 

His large, dexterous hands get to work on unfastening the little eyelet so he can pull it open while you frantically try to rationalize this in your mind. Unaware of how hard your heart is pounding in your chest, he leans down to wrap the surprisingly thick band of leather around your throat so he can secure it into place at the back and you just sit there as if in a numb stupor while he does it. 

You couldn’t believe this was really happening … 

“As long as you’re wearing this,” He drawls, still fiddling with the catch to ensure it was sufficiently snug on your neck. “You’ll be my pet and I expect you to act accordingly. I won’t hesitate to punish you if you misbehave but … I also won’t hesitate to reward you either. We can play this game as long as you’d like, and when I take this off we’ll go back to our usual roles. No questions asked. Does that sound fair to you?” 

You slowly nod your agreement, suddenly finding it incredibly difficult to even think a coherent thought. As if being collared by him had effectively pulled a hazy, disarming shroud over your head, you were struggling to formulate anything at all in your mind when the only thing you could seem to focus on was the brush of his hands against your skin, the smell of him. The domineering way he’s leaned over you from his elevated position and the close proximity that came with it. You’d understood on some innate, instinctive level that you wanted him to subjugate you to his will again but you hadn’t expected it to have such an all encompassing effect on you. It was as if your higher functioning ego was slowly slipping away, like sand through your fingertips. 

And when he at last deems the collar to be adequately secured, leaning back to look at you with an unreadable expression, you positively quake under the spotlight of his attention. Al-Haitham may have been able to irritate you far beyond what any other person had ever accomplished, but when he looked at you like that … Archon’s, you would have done anything he asked of you if it only meant he’d praise you for it. 

“You’re certainly being good this evening. Guess you must have really needed this.” His eyelashes drooping to attractive half mast to mirror a very small fraction of the anticipation you were currently feeling, he reaches out to casually flick at the metal ringlet attached to the front of your new collar. “It’s just as I thought. Pink really does suit you. That being said, you have no idea how long it actually took me to find one of these in this color. You should probably thank me for it.” 

You shoot a quick, hungry look at his lap, the muscles in your legs already bracing to lean forward and put your mouth on him, but he stops you in your tracks with another quiet chuckle. 

“Not like that, though I do appreciate your enthusiasm. As long as you continue to be good for me I think we’ll be just fine.” Straightening up from his comfortable slouch, Al-Haitham then reaches back into the box to dig for something else. The sound of metal clinking together makes your heart skip a beat and you anxiously fidget there on the floor while he pulls out a long, complicated string of chains that all seem to connect in the same spot. 

Having no idea what to make of it, you blithely glance up at him in question. 

“This is to help you stay in position. Think of it like a training aide.” 

Evidently that’s all the explanation you’re going to get and you swallow hard, nearly choking on your nerves, when he leans down again. With a simple gesture of his hand, Al-Haitham secures the topmost latch to the front of your collar. The links are slight enough that it doesn’t add much additional weight to your neck, which you’re rather grateful for, but you can tell that they’re still sturdy enough not to break easily.

You start to understand what’s happening in a far off, dreamy sort of way when he reaches for one of your hands next. Directing it up to about chest level, he makes quick work of securing the thin cuff on one of the other trailing chains around your wrist to keep it elevated, lest you pull unnecessarily on the collar should you try to bring it back down again. He repeats the process on the other side to leave you in an approximation of the same begging position he’d made you assume last time, and you just let him do it because … you have no idea why. 

By all accounts this should have been setting off every single alarm bell in your head but it just doesn’t. If anything, your fast thrumming excitement only ratchets up another notch to leave you all but vibrating there at his feet. 

And when he finally settles back to take up the last chain, this one longer than all the rest, you immediately recognize what it is. A leash. One that he wraps the excess length around his knuckles before slowly tugging on it to pull you up to your knees. A shuddering moan slips out as you rock forward under the steady guidance of his gentle yet insistent pulling with your hands uselessly restrained in front of your chest. This was so incredibly dehumanizing … 

“Good girl. You look lovely like this.” His mouth faintly curling again, Al-Haitham reaches out his opposite hand to casually flick his finger back and forth over one of your tightly coiled nipples. “Feeling comfortable?” 

Helplessly mewling, you force your sluggish head to bob in agreement. This was too much and yet somehow not nearly enough at the same time. You felt like you were going mad. 

“On the floor then. All the way.” 

Tense and shirking, you slowly ease back to sit on your haunches before carefully leaning forward to brace your arms on the rug. You have to go slow or risk yanking on your collar, and the insidious nature of this set up quickly makes itself known. Not only were you effectively restrained and at his mercy like this, but the short length of the chains forces you down close to the ground to leave your backside pointed up in the air. Completely defenseless and vulnerable. He could have done anything at all to you in this position. 

The thought alone is enough to make you tremble uncontrollably, and you suck in a deeply frazzled breath when you feel him lean over you again. His hand finds your ass to smooth over it before giving you an encouraging pat that only seems to rush straight to your slicking cunt, making you whine low in your throat. What was he going to do to you when the possibilities seemed limitless and each one made you feel that much more desperate than the last? 

You soon get your answer when he silently withdraws his palm only to bring it back down on the meat of your backside in a stinging, hard handed swat. The suddenness of the slap shocks you more than the actual sharp burst of pain does, and you rock forward with a startled squeak. But he’s quick to do it again, targeting the other cheek this time, to make you mewl and fitfully squirm on the floor. 

“Don’t move.” He warns, giving the now aching skin a mean squeeze. “I’m just going to get you warmed up first before the main event, but if you decide not to be good for me I’ll have to really punish you. Surely you don’t want that, do you?” 

Half delirious, you slowly shake your head and the resulting clink of the chains rattling with the motion further highlights your position here. Even if you’d wanted to fight it there was nothing you could do with your hands secured as they were, nowhere for you to run when you were stark naked and effectively trapped in his home. All you can do is kneel there and take it, feeling your ass jolt in the air when he brings his hand down again to spank across your sit spots in rapid succession before focusing back in on the fattest part of your behind. 

What was initially a briefly sharp starburst of pain quickly morphs into a constant, throbbing sting that seems to spread across your whole backside while he peppers back and forth between your cheeks over the next some odd minutes. It seems to stretch on for an eternity but, logically, you knew it must have only lasted for a short while. Just enough to warm up the skin and leave it tender in the wake of his hand. That’s what he’d said, anyway. 

And you’re so far gone in the hazy stupor you’d slipped into that you couldn’t even fully grasp just how humiliating this really was. Being forced into such a position with your ass shamelessly presented for him to do whatever he liked and yet he chose to spank you. You’d probably be furious with him later on, and rightfully so, but in this particular moment the only thing you can bring yourself to care about is how turned on it was making you. 

The single other instance you could recall where you’d been quite this worked up was the last time you and him had played this game, sequestered away in the relative privacy of the Grand Sage’s office. Never before and never since. 

Here you had real privacy though and a much smaller chance of discovery, particularly if what he’d said about his mysterious roommate being out for the night was true. And it’s clear Al-Haitham plans to take full advantage of the freedom allotted to him by doing this in his own home, because no sooner does he finally pull his hand from your throbbing ass do you feel his fingers descend upon your cunt. 

Yelping a mindless sound of startled delight, you eagerly arch your spine and rear back on his hand in humble supplication for more. He laughs a low, rumbling sound at the display even as the rough pads of his fingertips skirt down the seam of your labia to rub sedate circles over your clit. The gesture quickly makes you realize exactly how soaked you are with copious arousal when he smears it across your pussy lips in the process, making an even bigger mess of you. 

Bless the gods, but you were going to cum in record time. 

“I wish you could see yourself right now, trembling like that with my handprints all over your ass. If it weren’t for your usual attitude I’d even say you look like you were made for this. Do you enjoy it when I touch you here?” 

You let out a needy, faltering groan and jerk your head in a quick nod, making the chains jostle again. 

“Then let me hear you, darling girl. Speak.” 

It’s a real struggle to think clearly when he was still intently drawing his fingers over that sensitive pleasure button but your cotton stuffed head somehow manages to parse what he was asking of you. It was the same as last time. The same ‘trick’ he’d taught you in his office. The memory of idiotically barking like a dog had kept you awake many a night since, and not for the reasons you would have liked … 

You absolutely hate how much it excites you, your cheeks flushing incomprehensibly hotter even as you hang your head low and force out a weak, “Wh - woof!” 

“Oh? Is this not to your liking? My apologies then. Perhaps you want it here instead?” Abandoning your clit, Al-Haitham trails his fingers further up to your entrance where he quickly sinks one of those sinuously long digits into your cunt, forcing the inner sleeve of your body to stretch open around him. 

Stiffly lurching at the unexpected penetration and the jolt of friction that comes with it, you desperately ball your hands into tight fists against the rug in an attempt to ground yourself. “Woof! Woof wh - oof! Ahhn!” 

“Mmm, pretty sounds for a pretty girl. And so tight too. Don’t tell me you haven’t been playing with yourself at all since our last session? Too embarrassed or … were you just waiting for me to be the one to play with this needy little pussy for you?” 

You try to bark again, knowing he was likely to stop if you didn’t, but you can’t quite seem to find enough oxygen to do so. Your lungs were constricting much too tight with the short, labored gasps you rapidly suck in as the tension inside your cunt dizzyingly swells to near discomfort. You were beyond soaked, and the sticky wet clicks he pulls from your shuddering body when he adds a second finger only attests to that. The obscene schlucking sound that starts up when he begins to fuck you with them seems to echo in the space between your ears, adding to the total onslaught to your senses. All you could do was squeal helpless, dire tinged animal noises into the static charged room while he mercilessly pounds into you from behind. 

“Are you going to cum for me already, sweetheart? Gonna’ squirt all over this carpet just like you did on the one in my office? Huh?” 

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, neither slowing down nor ceasing his ministrations for even a moment, and your eyes soon begin to roll back when your impending orgasm suffocatingly bears down on you. The building pressure was too much, the deliberate jabs of his fingers far too concentrated on that receptive bundle of nerves within you. Your body simply couldn’t take it even as you continue to gush excessively around the intrusion, and then all at once the scales seem to tip. 

You cum with a shuddering jerk, frantically wailing in pleasure when you feel your pussy give out to release a fresh deluge of slick. Screwing your eyes shut, you deliriously ride out the juddering waves of pleasure that sweep over you in a torrent as your squeezing cunt uncontrollably erupts around Al-Haitham’s fingers, having once again expertly coaxed you to this unseemly state. It was like being stretched too thin on such a bone deep level that by the time you finally start to come down from the reeling high another moment later you barely even know who you are anymore. 

All that seems to register in your punchdrunk mind is his unmistakably masculine presence hovering over you, his hand slowly withdrawing from your cunt with a messy wet slurp that makes you sensitively twitch. The smell of him, his taste on the back of your tongue. In retrospect it was no wonder just that one fateful encounter with him had ruined you so irreparably. 

How in the world had you not seen it sooner? He was the singularly most infuriating man you’d ever met, yes, but he was also the only person you’d ever known who seemed to understand you better than you understood yourself. You hadn’t even thought you were capable of squirting before this. Damn him. 

Issuing a groggy groan into the rug, you slowly begin to stir from your semi comatose state. You weren’t sure when exactly you’d pressed your cheek into the floor but you force your head up as primly as you can manage given the circumstances. And still trembling with the lingering remnants of your release, you shoot a cautious look underneath you only to grimace when you spot the telltale wet stains bleeding into the carpet. Unfortunately you’re not allowed much of a chance to recover or find your bearings though, and you give a faint hiss when Al-Haitham nudges your attention up at him with a firm tug to the leash. 

That he still looks frustratingly cool and collected despite everything that had just transpired bothers you a great deal but you stubbornly keep those thoughts to yourself. He was going to get an ear full from you later. The least he could have done was put a towel down instead of purposely embarrassing you like this again! 

“Doing good so far?” Luckily he seems to take your nod at face value, and he reaches out to brush a bit of hair away from your face with an unexpectedly tender stroke of his hand. “Good. I’ve got something else for you, if you feel up to it.” 

Rousing from your hazy delirium a bit more, you somewhat roughly clear your throat after not using your voice for so long before venturing to speak. “I know I’m supposed to be playing a role here but I have to ask. When exactly did you find the time to plan all of this? You seem suspiciously well prepared.” 

“It’s not so much that I planned it, but rather I simply followed through on an idea that already existed.” He says, earning a skeptical lift of your brow, and he quietly clicks his tongue when he realizes he’s going to have to offer up a better explanation than that. “You seem to remember everything else I said the last time so I’m surprised you don’t recall this. I told you if I’d had some warning beforehand I would have purchased a few things in advance. Well, I decided that I wouldn’t be caught unawares again. If you came to me I  wanted to be ready.”

“The collar.” You murmur, idly reaching up to touch it with a brief rattle of the connecting chain. “You did say that, didn’t you? What else do you have in there?” 

“Want to find out?” 

Shooting him a wary glance, you consider your options here. It sounded like he’d let you go if that was what you wanted after already having gotten off once, which was unexpectedly conscientious of him, but … were you really satisfied with just that? You’d thought about this almost nonstop for weeks and now that you were in front of him, collared and kneeling at his feet, you weren’t so sure you were ready to call it a night just yet. 

Besides, he still hadn’t made any attempt to see to his own needs and the low simmering pulse in your cunt hadn’t been fully satiated. Perhaps if you played along a little longer he’d stretch you out and stuff you full with something hopefully a bit more substantial than his fingers. A girl could certainly hope, at least. 

“Alright. I’m listening.”

“That's a good pet.” He murmurs, sticking his hand out to lightly palm over your head and you don’t stop long enough to reconsider it before nuzzling into the gesture with a soft purr. It seemed your earlier impression was correct. As long as he kept praising you, you’d do anything he wanted. 

Pulling back, Al-Haitham directs his attention back around to the contents of the box again. You listen to him dig for something, wondering how many items he’d actually purchased for the sake of being prepared, but you can’t quite see what he finally pulls out from your position on the floor. Even when you try to crane your neck up for a quick look the only thing you can make out is him fiddling with something. 

“This might be a bit cold at first.” He warns. 

That’s all the notice you get before he leans over you, hand stretching out on a sure and steady trajectory towards your backside, and you outright squawk when you feel him smear something sticky over your asshole. He does it so casually, such idle surety in the motion, that it sends your heart shooting up into your throat. 

Mewling a soft sound of confusion, you shudderingly try to twist around on the floor to see what he’s doing but he just follows you when you angle away. His ministrations don’t even falter while he continues to smear that mysterious wet goop over your puckered hole to thoroughly coat you in it, your uncertainty growing by the second when understanding starts to dawn. 

Surely he wasn’t — 

“Don’t tense up. You need to relax.” He murmurs, slowly rubbing over your ass with concentrated strokes now to encourage the muscle to loosen. 

Oh, he most certainly was. 

“W - w - wha - -“ 

“No words now, pretty girl. Unless it’s to tell me to stop and that you don’t want to do this anymore, I’m not interested in hearing it. You’re going to be a good pet for me, aren’t you?” 

Whimpering, you screw your eyes shut and try to focus on your breathing. That was easier said than done though, of course. You weren’t used to being touched like this and the prospect of having something inserted up your ass makes you far more nervous than anything else he’s done to you this evening. But it’s clear that was what he’s working his way up to, especially when he starts to carefully prod at the center wrinkle where the tight muscle begins to slacken and give way. He only taunts you with it though, never quite fully slipping his finger inside to penetrate you, and instead he focuses on merely teasing around the interior rim. 

You quickly realize he’s making sure you’re as well coated with that slippery lubricant on the inside as you are on the outside, and it becomes that much harder to keep your head on straight. 

Positively squirming when he at last pulls away some time later to leave your asshole sticky and loosened, you seethe into the rug while you listen to him dig something else out of the box. You have a few guesses in mind, naturally, but nothing quite prepares you for when you crack your eyes open at his behest only to find him dangling a long, fluffy tail in front of your face. 

Attached to the other end is what you can safely assume to be a plug based off the smooth, rounded tip that widens out into a bulbous base before then narrowing down to a thinner stem. The faux fur appendage dangles tauntingly from the bottom of it, and you softly groan at the full bodied shudder that tears through you. He really was going to put that thing inside your body. 

“Take a deep breath for me and let it out slowly. That’s it. Again. Such a good girl you’re being. I want you to focus on relaxing into it and bear down when I tell you to, alright?” 

At your faltering nod of understanding, in far too deep to back out now, Al-Haitham scoots to the very edge of the sofa and leans over you again. Using one hand to spread your sore cheeks open, he brings the plug close with the opposite to gently touch you with it. You jolt at the contact like he’d electrocuted you but quickly still again with an anxious little sob. Helpless to do anything else, you just kneel there at his feet and accept what’s happening while he lazily draws the toy through the excess lubricant he’d smeared all over you. 

When he finally starts to push in on the slackened pucker after another drawn out moment you go stockstill at the unfamiliar pressure, gasping roughly into the carpet. He softly tuts at you, encouraging you to calm down with soft words of praise, but it’s hard. Almost impossible when this was completely foreign to you and the slow stretch of yet untested muscle seems so debilitatingly sharp even in your punchdrunk state that you don’t know what to make of it. 

It doesn’t hurt though, you’re quite relieved to find. Just uncomfortable and more than a little strange, particularly when you could feel your asshole slowly losing the fight. There was too much lube for you to reject it and keep him out, the plug sufficiently smooth to make the penetration more of an easy glide than you’d expected it to be. In tortuous slow motion, he makes you take one millimeter at a time until your hole is stretched wide around the thickest part before gradually pulling back to repeat the process. 

Again and again, he makes your body open up to him before at last issuing the command for you to push. You almost don’t do it, unsure if you even could when the once tight ring of muscle felt so horribly strained, but with a low groan you comply. At the same time you bear down on the intrusion he gives it a quick push, and all at once the whole thing slips inside you straight down to the base. You rock forward with a haggard gasp, mindlessly jutting your ass up in the air as you weakly squeeze around the narrow stem only to realize that it was already too late. 

The toy was firmly wedged inside you now and taking up space that only seems to highlight how very empty your pussy is. He pulls back to admire his handiwork, letting the long tail settle against your soaked cunt with a faint brush of the fur. Trembling almost violently, you dig your toes into the rug and nudge your pelvis up as if you were little more than a bitch begging to be mounted. 

You really didn’t want to think about how apt that comparison actually was right now. 

“Just look at you, darling girl. I can tell how much you’re enjoying this from here,” He says, breaking through the delirium just enough for you to pick up on the vague note of satisfied awe creeping into his voice. Like he couldn’t believe you’d really allowed this to go so far, or maybe he was just finally starting to notice the effect this was having on his own body. It was hard to say with him. 

Groaning fitfully, you press your hot face into the ornate rug and give your ass a brief, supplicating shake. The tail shifts with the motion where it dangles down between your legs, brushing your pussy just so, but it’s not nearly enough to feel good. If anything it just makes you more desperate for his attention, his hand, his cock. Whatever he wanted to give you would have sufficed.

But of course Al-Haitham doesn’t relent and give you what you want. He never does, not directly anyway, and you seethe through your teeth when you feel him stand up from the sofa to loom over you. 

“Sit for me.” 

Blinking through the disorienting fog, you gingerly comply. Push up onto your forearms and get your knees adjusted under you before slowly sitting upright even when you dizzily sway with the motion. The change in position seems to make the plug feel even bigger where it’s keeping your ass stretched open around its width, and you faintly groan at the sensation. 

Al-Haitham is as unreasonable and demanding as ever though, and he barely allows you enough time to get situated in front of him before issuing his next command. “Good. Now beg.” 

The mere thought of assuming that position again makes you wince, your body already a mess of aches and pains, and throbbing arousal, but you comply with this too. It takes a bit of effort on your part to get your legs to cooperate but you eventually manage, somehow. 

And once you’re squatted before him, precariously balancing on your toes with your hands securely fastened up by your chest, you look to him for his next order. You no longer have any wherewithal left to feel at all embarrassed or ashamed of having your cunt on display like this, nor do you have it in you to second guess any of it. All you knew with certainty was that you were drowning in it, this hazy feeling of absolution that seemed to rend you to pieces and mend you back together again in the same breath. Perhaps it was a bit fatalistic, yes, but you’d never felt quite so sexually satisfied in all your life. 

Especially when he smiles, pinning you with one of those exceedingly rare, genuine little tugs of his mouth to indicate that he was pleased with you. It’s fleeting and short lived but you don’t miss it by a long shot as he proceeds to gently pull on your leash to make sure he’s got your attention.  

“Wag for me, pretty girl? Think you can do that?” 

You don’t stop to rethink this either. You just do it, struggling to shake your ass in this awkward balancing act to feel the tail swishing back and forth on the floor underneath you. It’s humiliating and dehumanizing in equal measure, but you would have gladly done that and so much more just to earn another doting pet of his hand, another soft word from his mouth. 

Al-Haitham had awakened something inside you that day in his office, and now you were his responsibility. For better or worse, he was your master and you his obedient, loyal pet.

⭐

Crossposted: here

[honeygrahambitch]

One day passed.

Two days passed.

Three days passed when Hannibal finally decided to pick up the puppy that kept wandering around the building of his office.

He was so small he could lift it in one hand and so malnourished that he could easily count all his ribs.

For the past three days he had tried to convince himself that the puppy had a family and that he couldn't just kidnap him. Will would not appreciate that. However, the state of the puppy and the absence of any bigger dog in the surrounding area were enough to push Hannibal to make a decision.

Since Will had abandoned his dogs one year ago, he had given up on his habit of collecting strays. One of the reasons was that until recently they had kept changing their location but the real reason was that Will was no longer seeing himself worthy of having dogs.

"A dog trusts you with his whole life. My dogs were my family, they trusted me. I left them behind." Will had said once and then had never mentioned it again.

He did not want that to happen again.

Hannibal however knew that it was the time for Will to heal that part of himself.

The puppy made noises that Hannibal found rather annoying but he kept reminding himself that Will would be happy. He put the little animal on a towel on the passenger's seat of his car and drove home. The poor thing didn't have enough energy to leave the seat and patiently sat there.

Once in the garage of their new house, Hannibal picked the pup again and entered the house.

"You home?" He heard Will shouting from the living room.

"Yes." Hannibal replied and put the little thing on the floor. He heard Will's steps coming towards them.

"You won't believe what-" Will started but froze instantly when he saw the little creature that was trembling on all fours.

"He doesn't look like a dog but he has some potential." Hannibal explained, moving his eyes from the puppy to Will and then back to the puppy and back to Will who looked as if he was frozen in time.

To Hannibal's surprise, Will covered his mouth with his hands and started sobbing still not being able to move.

"I also think he is a bit ugly but if you feed it, he might look better. In time." He said not sure whether to go sooth him or just give him time to take in everything.

"He is perfect." Will whispered in between sobs and let himself fall to his knees. The little pup looked a bit traumatized by the sounds Will was making, so the fact that he did not seem as tall as before, made the poor thing crawl towards him.

"Come here." Will said while trying his best to hold back his tears.

Hannibal felt something melt inside his chest at the sight of the mess Will was turned into.

"I don't deserve him." Will said as he lifted him up, amazed by how perfect he seemed to him.

"Then I can just put him back where I found it." Hannibal replied. He was pleased when Will's answer came out as a laughter.

"You get to name him." Will said, still on the floor, playing with the squeaky thing.

"No, I am sure you will have more fun with that."

"I insist."

"Very well." Hannibal accepted and hummed. "Judging by its size, I would say he looks like a gnocchi."

"He does look like a gnocchi." Will approved and started sobbing again.

"Just make sure he doesn't have any parasites and that he is clean all the time. And preferably keep him away from the kitchen. And take him out if he..."

"Too late." Will interrupted him.

"Yeah, you will clean that. I will go prepare dinner."

[berryispunk]

10 Minutes

summary: 10 Minutes is all it takes to spiral. tags: (former) drug addiction, Frankie being his pathetic puppy self, struggling Frankie, inner turmoil, angst and more angst, a little sprinkle of fluff, Frankie's POV, established relationship, no smut notes: If you're uncomfortable with heavy topics like addiction this may not be for you and it's absolutely fine. Just be aware of possibly triggering topics.

Word count 1,1 k

After my warning, enjoy reading 🤍

He’s wandering restlessly through his dark apartment. He doesn’t need any lights for trailing up and down like a caged animal.

The walls of his apartment suddenly threaten to crush him any minute.

Ten minutes. She said she needs ten minutes to get here.

The cravings were bad, hitting him out of nowhere.

He fidgets with the keychain she gifted him a while ago. A photo of them, smiling and in love.

Happier times.

Something to hold onto.

10 minutes feel like a lifetime if all you can think about is your next fix.

He looks at the keychain again, tilting it in his hand. Pressing its plastic edges hard into his palm.

It hurts, a sharp sting. But he needs that, needs the distraction.

His mind is clouded, his throat dry.

As he musters the photo again he sighs.

She’s his everything. She is everything he dreamed of. He can’t fuck this up.

He promised to stay clean.

For a while he didn’t even think about their promise because the cravings weren’t strong enough to notice.

9 minutes and the world around him keeps spinning, the addiction screaming his name.

He was so caught up in her orbit, her presence grounding him, pulling him into the light when he had been in the shadows for so long, that he forgot the ugly side of being a recovering addict.

8 minutes and the monster extends its claws to drag him down. Down into the abyss she had finally found him in.

He had been happy. God damn, so happy.

He can’t remember the last time he genuinely laughed like he did in the last months.

She is his everything. His reason to show up. His reason to be better. She deserves nothing less than the best version of him.

7 minutes and his leg bounces restlessly while he sits on the sofa.

But how is he supposed to be his best version right now?

6 minutes and he’s contemplating if just one line would be that bad.

No, it would be.

He couldn’t stand the disappointment seeping out of her.

5 minutes and he starts sweating, his breath coming out in short bursts, his hands too slippery to hold onto the keychain any longer so he throws it onto the couch table. He can’t stand looking at the photo anymore, either.

Happier times reminding him of what he is about to lose. What he could lose if he fucks up.

4 minutes and he’s standing again, cursing under his breath.

“You’re a fucking loser Frankie. She deserves better.”

3 minutes and he’s punching the wall, gritting his teeth.

What does it even matter? She will move on quickly, find someone who’s not this big of a mess.

2 minutes and he can’t see straight. The call for the next high is too loud to ignore.

Everything is screaming at him. His body is aching and he feels like he’s about to vomit any minute.

What kind of sick joke is this? Is this the universe's way of telling him to stop believing that finally everything will fall into place?

That he’s worthy of a happy life? That he deserves to be loved exactly like he is, flaws and all?

1 minute and he’s a bundle of pain and self-pity on the ground.

He’s so pathetic.

He knows exactly where he hid his emergency stash. If she hasn’t found it yet.

Being high would fix this, he decides. Being high washes away all his self doubt and anger. A high Frankie is the best Frankie. He’s on top of the world. He is the version he so desperately wishes to be when he’s sober.

But he isn’t.

He is weak, so weak.

How can she even love him like this?

Finally his front door flies open, bringing in some light from outside, illuminating the dark room.

“Frankie?” Her voice echoes through the walls. It's soft and comforting. It’s his favorite sound.

“Here,” he whimpers from the ground, still bundled up.

“Oh my god, baby…” Her voice is laced with panic immediately as she leans down next to him, pulling his head into her lap.

Soft and warm. A stark contrast to the cold he’s feeling inside.

“Are you okay?” she asks, gently brushing some damp strands of locks out of his face. She’s handling him with so much care, almost as if he could shatter any minute.

Which he might have, if she wouldn’t have made it in time.

“I am okay,” he murmurs, his voice strained and hardly more than a whisper.

She scoffs, her hands still caressing his tousled hair.

“Are you sure about that?” she asks as if she doesn’t know the answer already. But he doesn’t even know what else to say.

“I am sorry…” he whispers and the words hang heavily in the air.

“No need to be,” she assures him.

His eyes are filled with tears.

He’s too weak to hold them back. Too weary to pretend.

So he just cries it out, silently. But the sobs shake his whole body and all she does is hold him, kissing his temple and his hair repeatedly. Comforting him without saying any words.

When the tears subside he feels lighter but still dizzy in his mind. The feeling of impending doom not quite shaken off.

“I would understand if you leave me now,” he finally breaks the heavy silence.

“Why should I?” she asks. He feels her questioning eyes on him even if his own are closed.

“Because I am a mess. You deserve better than this,” and he means every word.

He wants her to be happy, even if that means she breaks up with him.

Even if it’s breaking his own heart.

She is all that matters to him.

"I'm a mess too, Francisco. I am far from perfect myself. But you… you bring out the best in me.” Her tone is sincere. Even in his broken state her love is unwavering, he can feel it.

He finally lifts his head from her lap, his eyes finding hers. He swallows, his throat is dry.

He laughs sarcastically.

“Whatever I did to deserve someone like you in this life. Because hell, we know I did enough shit to be damned to eternity.”

She laughs softly.

He leans forward, her head in his hands now as their lips meet in a gentle kiss, filled with all the love and devotion for each other.

And maybe this is all the reassurance he needs to believe that, despite everything, she’s chosen him.

Feedback highly appreciated 🤍

Thanks so much for reading !!

[melodyofthevoid]

The Crane Wives: Beyond, Beyond, Beyond

(The finale, for now. Hard to believe that I've been working on these for almost 2 years. Anyways, enjoy)

Now we arrive at the threshold, album five. The first studio album in nearly a decade, and a testament to all that came before and between. Themed and defined by change in all its forms. The lack of, the desire for, the consequences in both its wake and absence. The price of moving forward and the price of standing still. Even the sound isn’t immune, with the newer tones and style developed over the singles shown off in solos that range from electric to more traditional. Some songs challenge ones from years past, others a continuation, but all part of an ongoing conversation that ends with resolve. A desire to cross through. 

The question is, will you follow through the looking glass?

Scars

How did this happen? It’s a question that comes naturally whether or not there’s truly a reason. Why am I like this? The eternal feud of nature vs nurture, whether the tangled mess of anger and bitter emotions stemmed from a single event or bloom from somewhere within. If the well was poisoned before the symptoms started to show. 

And does the source even know that they left the poison to begin with? 

The first few chords warp those of another song, a crooning cry from a parent who’s severed the ties and left the singer adrift. Their mournful tone twisted and distorted until it turns into the sharp twangs of a guitar, heavy footfalls that drive the song forward. A tired trudge burdened and haunted. 

The singer is not who they thought they were. The refrain that carries over and over again- starting each train of thought. They’re struggling to keep their head above water, aching in a way they’ve always known. Born to in a storm that left them with a piece of itself forever. The anguish hereditary. Or maybe there’s another reason. The effect is still the same. This misery is a constant companion, 

Ruefully they acknowledge all of the effort put towards them, the love and kindness, plans made with all good intentions to guide them towards a brighter and better future. Futile efforts made to no avail. They watched as they failed time and time again, trying to cross the gap to understand where the singer was and give a way forward, but a bridge constructed from only one side is doomed to fail. Letting that hard work near them risked vulnerability and letting the other close. 

And how could they let them close to who they are? Broken in some fundamental way from the beginning. Destined to fail and shatter leaving them scarred, to signal to the outside what was wrong within. 

Then the subject switches from those who’d tried to help, to the origin of their suffering. The piece is a companion to “Never Love an Anchor”, and the one left behind sees only the abandonment, the fact they weren’t enough to stay for. The anguish their parent felt at their personal failings and inability to care for the singer now passed on, a wound to their ego. A tire fire, caustic and toxic that refuses to be put out. 

They were meant to fall apart, to wind up with scars. 

Because isn’t it easier if there weren’t any other options? If this flaw sabotaged all of the work put in and rendered it all futile? Then there’s no fault, no blame to be laid. An easy surrender to the inevitable.

The question is will they continue to live like this. To allow the scars to fester, or seek out a balm despite the pain. For now, they accept their fate as the music cuts all at once. 

Bitter Medicine

Hard truths go down easier with a bit of sugar, you catch more flies with honey, axioms to explain the act. Of using a veil to cover up the unpleasant parts of life. Without it what’s left? Just the ugly, twisted, reality of it all. Sometimes it’s all you have. And it’s stifling. 

The singer looks at where they are. Wasted, inebriated either in a literal or metaphorical sense. Unable to be trusted to take themselves home or to drive their own life. A pathetic state of affairs, one they’re all too aware of. It’s the bed they’ve made for themselves, the consequences of their actions they accept with a blithe and self-effacing smile. They wonder how the one they love sees them. If they’re ashamed or if the front they’ve put on until now. A cheap imitation of some “better” person that isn’t long for this world. 

They could be worse, so much worse. Poison sits on their tongue and they swallow and bite it all back to keep it inside. The toxicity accumulates in their body and slowly kills them inside as it has nowhere else to go. No one else deserves it, to know how corroded and hollow they are on the inside. They’re sick, but they can’t let anyone in. They’ll play the part of everything they’re not in hopes it distracts and entertains but it’s hurting them just as much as the rest. 

And if someone sees through it, what then? Can look past the facade? The singer both yearns for it and fears it in turn. They need someone to clean up the mess around them, the mess they’re unable to touch. The accumulation of a thousand small cuts bleeding out into a river. Each on their own barely noticeable but together they build upon each other. 

Accepting an offered hand is another question in and of itself. Do they deserve it? Is it a gift given or is it taken? Someone’s else’s good intentions wasted on their act, for their own faults. It’d be a waste on them, and so they continue on as they were. Suffering in their own skin and hiding behind the mask that chokes them. 

In another life, they’d let it all go, but this isn’t that life. The singer’s convinced this is all there is. Convinced that their arsenic laced words are medicine. The truth. But they’ve decided that it is. 

And so it is.

Higher Ground

When you’re lost in the midst of an upheaval, when the earth itself is turning on its head, sometimes the only option, the only means of survival, is to go, to remove oneself from the situation. But there are things left behind, an impact not intended. A decision that can be as consequential as the event itself. 

Such is the singer’s predicament. They’re trying to look out ahead, but they can’t see the horizon, can’t see beyond today. Higher ground could give them a better view, a larger picture and save them, but there’s a cost to that choice. A domino effect is spiraling out after they spoke their mind, let go of the truth. What’s done can’t be undone and now everything is changing, shifting. What once was close drifts apart, what once was parted clashes, titanic shifting of tectonic plates. Inexorable forces that leave nothing untouched. 

And nothing undamaged. Someone’s going to get caught up, hurt. Once they come down they’ll see the full extent of it all and that terrifies them. But again, it’s out of their hands.  

Every warning sign is flaring, ravens and crows are heralding incoming danger. A predator. A threat to everything in sight. But with all that they’ve set into motion, is the warning for them? Or about them? This wasn’t the plan, not to hurt anyone, not to change everything, but they won’t know for sure. Not until the dust settles and they stand above it all. 

They’ve survived, at least. 

Predator

When every shadow becomes a claw, every smile hides a threat, the world becomes an endless hall of mirrors, reflecting back all of one’s fears. Nowhere is safe, not when you’re the world’s prey. 

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” The rhetorical question, that to the anxious, isn’t rhetorical in the least. It’s the risk they measure the outside against, the guide to all actions. If they can imagine the worst possible outcome then it can be prepared for, warded against. Because disaster will come, inevitably. Staying on guard at all times, lest their comfort come at the cost of their safety (even if the sky is not falling, it’s easy to panic at every little crack. Perhaps they’re too prepared.) 

When it hits, as it always does, it’s their own fault. They know better. They let in a predator, lowered their walls and their guard to someone who, not for the first time, left them wounded and vulnerable. Signs were missed that they’d seen before, a lesson they should have learned the hard way but failed to truly comprehend. So it’ll happen again. 

Regardless of the fact that someone else took those actions. It’s their fault. It has to be. 

To the prey animal, confrontation is to be avoided at all costs, so the response to danger is to fawn. Follow the path of least resistance and never put up a fight. If there’s a problem, it’s probably their own misinterpretation of the situation, because… If they say no, if they push back, there could be consequences. They could get hurt, cut by sharp teeth and sharper words. 

But there’s only so much that someone can put up with and stand before it’s too much. Gaslighting finally igniting a spark of resistance. They’re already struggling to breathe, struggling with the constant anxiety and fear and this? They don’t need this too. What if they didn’t have to live like this anymore, and they finally said no? 

And at last they confront at least one of their fears. Calling out their treatment, the fact they’ve been used. Trying to better this person, hoping that they’ll see the harm they’re causing on their own, they’ve done it a hundred times and it’s never happened. They keep getting hurt. The predator can’t see the blood on their teeth, doesn’t know their own strength, the bodies in their wake.

But no, not this time. 

Say It

No one wants to be the first to leave. The first to sever ties. Admit defeat. Even in spite of years of change, of what once was withering on the vine, sometimes there’s still hope that the garden can recover, however impossible and slim. A loyal dog that waits, tied to a post, for an owner that won’t come back. Because what if it goes back to the way it used to be? That honeymoon phase where everything blossomed and bloomed. But it won’t. 

The singer wonders where it went wrong? Staring at the person they once considered so close and begging for an answer. Was it them? Was the reality of their personality, their flaws, too much to bear? Erasing the idealized version that their partner once held of them? Were they, are they disappointing to know truly? 

Without an answer, they demand a different one: tell them it’s done. Let them out. Let them stop hoping for a spark to rekindle the flame of passion. Otherwise they’ll remain there in the dark. Pining for better times. 

Because once upon a time their lover gave them everything. Provided a haven and home. A gentle hand that wiped away their tears and pulled back their layers. All of those memories of warmth against the bitter cold of the present call into doubt their sincerity. Did they really care before? Was it all pretend? 

Would it be better if it was? 

The guillotine hangs over their head, a blade that could sever and end their suffering but instead hovers. A reminder that it could end at any point but won’t. They wait dutifully, a dog who can’t help but take what they’re given. Loyal and faithful even when that love and devotion isn’t returned. 

But if it was real once, they would do it over again. Wouldn’t they? Or would the one the singer holds so dear choose to avoid their relationship altogether. To alter their paths so that they never met. Have things fallen apart to where it was never worth it in the first place? Is the thought of what they’ve become so toxic, so tainted, that they'd give up whatever good came of it to spare themselves?

The question lingers, and so the singer does nothing but wait, too afraid to take the first step. 

Waiting for them to say it. 

Mad Dog

A fruitless pursuit, an endless chase, the eternal drive to reach for that promised oasis shimmering just beyond the horizon a few steps away. There is no exit condition when a paycheck is all that stands between you and losing it all. Enter the workforce at 18 (or younger), keep working until you’re 72 (or older), then you can maybe lie down. Can’t grind yourself to the bone too early, can’t run out of steam yet. If just a little more money is made, a few more spare coins stuffed away for later, maybe it’ll resemble happiness. 

The singer’s blinders keep them on the same track they’ve always known, striving to achieve when all it’s done is lead them further and further from home. Tunnel visioned and yet it’s never in reach. No matter how far they run. How hard they work. 

But no one else is keeping their bills paid, no one else is going to make them a millionaire, so they keep repeating and repeating. Hoping that they’ll get an answer back that isn’t the same as before. 

Thus, the chase continues, a dog chained to a post snapping after a rabbit it can never catch. Running, and running, and running, yet forever tied to the same spot. Once that leash runs out of room the retaliation snaps back with a vengeance. Punishing the hound for stepping out of its role and putting it “where it belongs”. Daring to yearn for more cannot be tolerated.

As if the empty race weren’t enough, there’s debt to be paid too. A rock burdening every step, forcing those bound to it to step lightly. Any misstep could spell disaster, drop the guillotine, it’s a constant tightrope cutting into their feet. And it’d be easier if someone else, anyone else, could choose which way to go. To give a direction that won’t lead to disaster. To take that burden off their shoulders. 

Because water’s coming in, the debt’s getting worse, and they’re going to go down. The shore’s visible, it’s there, there’s something beyond the current situation, but it’s not getting any closer.

Whatever hope there is, it’s almost manic. The only thing keeping them afloat. Maybe they’ll get lucky and strike it rich, maybe they can make this paycheck go a little further. But there’s no support, no one to wipe their tears, keep them from teetering off of the edge. 

So the race continues. The pull and snap, the desperate clawing up the hill until Sisyphus’ boulder falls back down again. Stuck in a cycle out of their control. 

At least until they can find the one that chains them. They may not catch the rabbit, but they can bite a hand.

Arcturus Beaming

There’s something special about that moment at rock bottom. Not in the state of it, the despair, the agony, no. There’s something about that moment when it changes. Changes from an endlessly growing pit to… simply the bottom. A moment in time where suddenly the perspective shifts and now there’s a way out and up, a perspective changed by a sight once taken for granted. Maybe it’s the leaves changing in the fall, the sound of people laughing and talking in a cafe. A favorite drink you want to have again. 

Or maybe, it’s the sky. That shimmering tapestry. Dotted with a trillion points of light (should you live far enough away from any pollution to see it) it has served as an inspiration for so many. Ever changing and yet… always there. 

Arcturus glimmers as the 4th brightest star in the solar system, visible during summer in the northern hemisphere. Visible to those even in more light polluted areas, reminding them that there’s more out there than the limited vision of the pit.

The singer begins there, thanking that dark place, where despair threatened to ravage them. They hid from the world there, sheltering to wallow in their pain as it became all they could see for a time. It shrunk their view of what could be, leaving a feat that seems all but impossible. Plato describes a scenario in which a prisoner lives their entire life within a cave like the singer’s own, shown only shadows of objects. Those simulations as their only context, all that they know. But the singer is curious, and that fear can only hold them for so long. They may understand the cave, the pain, but what else is there? 

Hurt accumulates over time, sediment that solidifies into a weight that’s carried wherever one goes. It can be an impossible challenge to free oneself of it, to breathe easy after lifting that stone for years. One’s ribs aching from the strain. But stone is not permanent. Not invulnerable. A steady drip of water can erode, a river can carve a canyon so impossibly wide it’s visible from beyond our atmosphere. Those layers, both easily added, can also be worn away. Leaving something new in its wake. 

That time spent has a cost, of course. Dreams left abandoned, relationships broken, so many avenues that could have been simply… gone. That grief will linger, and that’s alright. But what exists beyond that? What happens when we look up and dream? 

Beyond what we know, beyond what we understand, are there others who look at our sun and wonder? Beyond ourselves are there others crawling out of their caves and seeing more. Maybe we could all dream more

It’s not too late to do something once the revelation hits. To forfeit is the only ending, when we resign ourselves to suffering. But that’s not all life is, it can be changed. We just have to do it. Have to take the steps to push past the indulgent self-flagellation of the cave, and resolve to keep moving. 

This experience rings true for myself. I found I’d dug into a mindset where I feared so much. The future, stagnation, the impossibility of becoming anything other than what I was. Littered with the half started remains of failures, hesitant half starts cushioned by a numb resignation. Couldn’t be disappointed if I never hoped. Cycles of self defeat. Overwhelmed, I laid on the deck outside and stared up into the same sky that inspired this song. Clear inky darkness pinpointed by a million specks of light. I laid there for some time, the same music I’ve detailed in these pages my only companion to a realization that felt so obvious in hindsight and yet I… I needed to come to the conclusion myself.

I can start again. 

It doesn’t matter if I’ve tried a hundred times and the patterns didn’t stick. I can try again. Old behaviors, failed coping mechanisms, they can rear their ugly heads but there is tomorrow. There is a future that I can find. A me I can guide with new tools if the old ones don’t serve me. It may take time, it may hurt. But that’s my decision to make. 

Nothing will change until I change. And we can. 

Time Will Change You

The constant, the inevitable, the sensation of sand slipping through fingers and waves wearing down a shore. A metronomic beat follows the sound of a rusted hinge, thudding footsteps from a never ending march that never relents even as a guitar twangs above it. A companion in the flow. 

The singer too is dragged along with it, pulled along as they almost gasp out the words. It hurts, some part deep inside them finally gave way and broke. It aches and it won’t end- They’ve loved and lost, planted the remains of their heart into a grave, a seed watered by their grief that may or may not bear fruit again. 

And yet there is a twisted comfort on the horizon. Time will continue as it always does, seasons will pass, and with it, things change. For better or worse the singer will change. Everyone will change, and as they do they’ll leave behind what remains stagnant. Phases and traits that once defined are now locked in amber. No longer a part of the present. 

Time doesn’t affect all equally, there is no system that doles out appropriate fates, some can swim and survive the current while others are subsumed entirely. The rush overwhelming in the moment, and it’s impossible to tell which way is up. But the tide will ease, nothing is forever, good or ill. Relax, let time move you and you’ll float along it. 

And you’ll be changed. Like the stone smoothed by a river, edges worn away, the place you once rested, now far in the past. 

And letting go takes effort, make no mistake. Healing even more so. If the grief never grows, doesn’t evolve, doesn’t become more than what was put there before, then it can stay where it is. Left to fade into nothing more than memory. A step along the winding path to the end. 

The journey no one leaves the same.  

Black Hole Fantasy

The concept of a black hole needs no explanation nor introduction. The complete and total collapse of a star, pulling in all light and substance. The basis of many a metaphor for endless hunger, destruction. The end of all things. Yet- they’re often theorized to contain more. Maybe the end of one thing could lead to somewhere else entirely. 

For her part, the singer finds herself stuck in place, whether by some inexorable gravity or circumstance. Repeating the same orbit, going through the motions of life and losing sense of herself. If there’s more to living, a chance or opportunity for a different path, it’s fading from view. The longer one stays complacent, the harder it becomes to move. To find that missing piece that their soul longs for, but doesn’t have the words for. 

Every day blends into the next, the walls of their home becoming smaller as their world shrinks. At the center lies the Black Hole, the gnawing yearning, the pit of absence that they’re ignoring. Hoping it will go away, but it won’t. Ignoring hunger won’t fix a want of food, pretending not to hear a leak won’t prevent the damage. 

And they know what they’re yearning for, or rather- who. But it’s- surely it’s nothing. Nothing more than a chemical reaction, serotonin and oxytocin playing tricks on her. It’d be easier if she could suppress it. She doesn’t know if it’s real, and so what if it is? Confessing, taking a chance… There’s a cost. The foundations she’d build could all crumble to ashes. 

That is if the hole in their chest doesn’t collapse it all first, the time lost to routine is getting longer, time speeding by even faster, with whole weeks passing in an indistinct mass. 

So she goes to confront it head on, driving to confess on the doorstep. But then she stops. What happens next. What happens if it all goes wrong? What if they lose them forever? What if they don’t feel the same? How could they feel the same. The singer doesn’t believe in a happy ending, frankly. Why would any dream of theirs have one? Even in the best case there’s so much that could go wrong that it’d be safer to leave the car running. To leave. Retreat back into themselves where they won’t get hurt. 

But the world keeps crumbling in around them, their room is suffocating, as they’re consumed by the limitations they’ve put in place. Months, years, what does any of it even mean? None of it means anything… and the temptation to look into the black hole finally wins out. 

Instead of a small, enclosed world, there’s more on the other side. She catches a glimpse of herself and there’s light in her eyes, laughter on her lips, and- is she even capable of that? Could she be? Can she find what could bring that life, that joy, that love- 

No, she does know. 

Stars shining above, the singer returns to the dream she shows away from once. But this time she’s turning off the car. This is what she wants. Throwing away the keys and the fear and running up to the door. And it opens. Their love is there and every doubt is gone as arms reach out for her. 

Wrapped in an embrace, the singer can finally catch her breath, and when she pulls back, she smiles. Laughing at how complicated she made this simple moment. Maybe she wasn’t alone in that, as her love joins her. They were waiting on the other side of the door, after all. Twin stars pulled into each other’s gravity, destroying what was before and starting something new. 

Gentle guitar replaces the singer as she walks towards her new life, no longer bound to what was. Closing the scene, rolling credits. 

Red Clay

Work harder, just put more effort into it, the struggle makes it worth it, nose to the grindstone, phrases that are ingrained into the zeitgeist. The more pain experienced, the better the outcome. 

Right? 

An endless climb up a clay mountain, never fully able to get a grip, a Sisyphean struggle that feels like reality. With the Sun beating down, the top never coming closer, the question occurs: what is this for? Why keep pursuing this path that’s only lead to more suffering? Suffering that’s self inflicted no less. 

That one pause is all it takes to break through the tunnel vision, for the singer to take in all of their surroundings. Another path, shaded and just within reach was there all along. They don’t need to do this “the hard way”. It may be all they’d known, but they can see beyond that mound now. 

Their struggle wasn’t for naught, they were afraid for many years, yes. But they understand their fear now, they can be brave, even with that fear. They don’t have to keep on this path. 

The shaded trees beacon. 

River Rushing

Something finally gave. The frustration mounting day by day, it’s too much. Dammed up and now the singer’s had enough. They’re breaking down the walls, the barriers, everything that keeps them crushed under the weight of their regrets. They’re going to change. To let loose their desires and follow the river. 

The singer craves freedom, the person they once were buried under layers of concrete and expectations. If they hold onto these regrets, all the grief of time wasted, then they’ll never grow. Beneath every thought is the phrase they know is true: that there’s no shortcuts here. The only way out is through, charging ahead no matter what. 

Maybe they hesitated before, waited too long and lost something. Someone. But a voice reassures them to hold themselves steady. To go when they’re ready. Because they are ready now. 

Just believing that everything will work out kept them in place, they’re full of defiance, they have bite, a voice that demands to be heard. They’re going to pry the hand around their throat off once and for all. They’ve set their mind to it. 

They’re ready to go beyond.