#if i get told i have to be modest one more fucking time i might blow a circuit

[llegato]

shes so controlling its actually fucking crazy

[deepestnightcolor]

Oml I love your writing, I just binged all the Sam fics! I saw you take requests for Harvey 👀 any chance for a “confidential check up?”

Hello, dear anon!~ Thank you so much for both the compliment and request. This was my first time writing a full-blown Harvey fic - and I hope I did suffice :D

Thanks for your request, and thank you so much for your time and love! <3

ᴀ/ɴ: as I said, this is my first time writing a Harvey fic and I am still sick, so I hope it will suffice!!

PS: I hid two Easter eggs this time. >:)

PPS: maybe 2,5, one being a slight nod at @sashiavi >:))

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Harvey (SDV) x Fem!eader

ᴡᴄ: 4194 words

ᴍᴅɴɪ ✧ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: medical misconduct, unprotected sex, light nipple play, seductive reader, Harvey's a little insecure.

☾ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴅʏ ☽

A secret that you'd never share? Simple and carnal, your secret was. Primitive, even. You had only made the appointment with Doctor Harvey to finally wrap the man around your finger.

You had tried it fair and square at first, you seriously had! Coming by whenever he had time, bringing him little gifts you were sure he'd like; trying to engage him in conversation.

However, Harvey always seemed so busy, so professional. Telling you to take care and stay healthy and giving you advice on how you achieve just that. Always looking out for you, always gentle in his words and behavior. And by Yoba, it made you want to break him even more.

Also, what better way was there to implement your plan than to catch the little lamb where it felt the safest and most confident? Of course, it was a little unfair, pretending you needed his help and skills to treat an injury, but then again you did. Just not in the way Harvey would expect. He had loads of chances to get the hint, but nothing had worked. Not even when you had fished out the shortest skirt possible out of your closet and wore it with a top that left barely anything to one's imagination, accidentally falling on your knees right in front of Harvey, showing off those lace panties of yours. No, that hadn't worked either. Harvey had let out a gasp that made you believe you had finally done something to him, just to rush to your side and ask if you were okay. If you needed help, if you were dizzy. Fuck did you want to cry out that you were dizzy for him, his touch. Instead, you gave him a sweet smile, fluttering your lashes at him as you told him no, you were fine. But thank you so much, Harvey!

You had scrambled to your feet and made your way back to the farm with your head hanging, and that was the point you decided it would probably need to be all or nothing.

“So, what brings you here today? Maru only noted that you requested to see me. I hope you didn't hurt yourself?” Harvey asked, scooting closer on his rolling chair. You were already propped up on the table, smiling sweetly at Harvey.

You had picked out an excellent outfit for the day, if you were allowed to say so. A blouse that was easy to open up and discard, and a skirt that seemed modest enough yet was nothing but of the mere purpose of covering up your lack of panties. And you were hurting. Terribly so, even. For him.

“Nono, Doc. I just, you know. I've been feeling some kind of way. Under the weather, you might say.” You leaned forward a bit now, running your fingers through your hair before twirling a strand around your finger. You were met with a pair of green-brown eyes, so full of consideration and empathy. It made you want to just sit on his face and make him spill all of his care onto your sweet pussy until you could feel it in every part of your body.

“I see! And how does that show? Do you have a headache? Do you feel more tired than usual?”

So sweet and caring, Doctor Harvey. Too cute to not bite.

You let out a sigh as if you were contemplating, biting around on your lower lip. “No, that's not it. I don't know how to describe it, it's…embarrassing.”

The doctor looked up at you again, putting away his notepad now. He gave you a sweet, genuine smile. A hand landed on your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"There’s absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. This is a safe, confidential space; nothing will leave these walls.”

Go on, little lamb. Step right into the trap.

You leaned back a bit, pushing out your chest now. “Well, it's my chest. It's been so…so tender lately.”

A hum. That's all you got. A hum. Or so you thought. Because if you looked closely, you could see more. His moustache was twitching as his eyes flickered down to your breasts. Harvey was a professional, though. He quickly cleared his throat, nodding at you.

“Alright, I will glad- I would be happy- let's take a look, shall we?”

It took a lot from you to not break out in a grin; having the man break out in a stutter like that? It definitely was a step forward.

“Yes, please.” You needed to pretend to be innocent now - you didn't want to scare him away, after all.

Your fingers were quick to unbutton your shirt and your upper body was already bare before the doctor could even properly turn back to you. For a moment, his motions seemingly stuttered to a halt, his hands still clasped together from rubbing the disinfectant on them.

His moustache twitched again as he approached you, taking a seat on the chair again.

“Alright, my hands might be a little cold from the disinfectant, but I should be quick.”

Fuck, you hoped that he wouldn't be. You gave him a nod and what you hoped to be a shy smile, pushing your chest towards him a little.

And then, finally…Fucking finally you felt tender fingers on the soft skin of your breasts. It left you breathless for a moment, helpless as he traced the curves of your tits so expertly.

The moan falling from your lips really wasn't an accident, but Harvey, dear sweet Harvey, decided to let you off the hook. Ever the gentleman, wasn't he?

“Did that hurt?” He asked, his eyes flickering up to you, gently squeezing the flesh again. This time you looked straight into his eyes as you moaned, licking your lips. “No, it just…tingles,” you grinned, eyes following Harvey's dropping hands with dismay. 

“Well, I did not find any lumps or irritations that could explain the tenderness. Did any lifestyle changes happen? Or perhaps a new medication?” 

Pretending to be thinking, you swung your legs back and forth. One of your feet got in contact with his shin, slowly tracing upwards only to slide down again.

The man’s face was stoic, eyes trained on your face with a stern look. 

Yet again, the twitching of his moustache betrayed him.

The thought that you hadn't responded yet reeled you in a little: “No…Well. Maybe kind of? You know…I've been having, well. Thoughts about someone. Thoughts about them touching me, wanting me,” you began, your foot wandering to his knee.

“Could that be it?”

A blush had spread on his cheeks now, and Yoba did you love to see it. He picked up the notepad and quickly jotted something down, then nodded.

“I assume that could be it-”

“And what do I do about it, Doctor? It hurts, after all.”

Immediately, his attention is  back on you completely. “Hurts? Where?”

A vague pointing to your body made Harvey's hand reach out, touching your stomach. “Here?”

You shook your head, letting your foot wander down again. “Lower.”

His brows furrowed now and he let his hand slide towards your abdomen. “Here? Are they cramps?”

Again, you shook your head.

“Lower.”

He was hesitating now, looking up at you with an uncertainty you had never seen before, and it felt like another small victory.

“Could you…uh. Point me to where it hurts?”

Click - the trap was snapping shut.

It didn't need many words; you opened up your legs without an ounce of hesitation, revealing your cunt, all wet and ready for the doctor. “There.”

Harvey swallowed thickly, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the words. Words that wouldn't have him lose his license. It wasn't like he hadn't seen genitals before - much more than one would expect from a small town like this - and he had never been affected. So why was his throat dry now? Why was his heart pounding like this?

“It's getting like this whenever I see handsome men like you, what could that be?”

“It’s getting like…what?” by now he was thankful that he was able to get some words out with his head feeling as light as it did right now.

“I dunno…wet?”

His eyes went straight back to your pussy, staring at it. You were wet. And you looked delicious. But he was a doctor. A professional. He had done so much to be where he was right now!

“Oh! That…uh. That…it- well. It stems from attraction. It's so..so sexual intercourse can happen more easily, you see. All natural. There's no need to worry at all.”

He was pulling back, this damn professional. Even though you could see that you were getting to him. “But…isn't there a remedy?”

Harvey wanted to just sink into the ground. His head still felt light, and he could feel his pants tighten - he had been mesmerized by you ever since you had introduced yourself. And of course, he had noticed your attempts to catch his attention - he wasn't stupid, after all. Yet Harvey had promised himself. Promised himself to not get too involved anymore. And now you were here. Exposed, and seemingly ready for him. So close but- he had to be strong. Be a doctor.

“Well, for one…You could do some self-care. Masturbation is quite healthy for the human body and mind.”

Like hell he'd recommend you to have sex with someone else, not even someone like him could be so professional. You called him handsome after all, for crying out loud!

“Oh! And…how does that work?” 

Your patience was running thin now, but you felt like you were so close to having him where you wanted him, despite him being so oblivious. His face was motionless now as he stared at you, Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He was obviously looking for words.

“I-”

“Come on, Doctor Harvey. You're supposed to help me, aren't you?” You cooed, interrupting the clouding thoughts before they could really rain on him.

“But- that is the thing. I am your Doctor-”

You didn't answer him right away, your hand wandering to your clit first, giving it a gentle flick.

“And what if you prescribed yourself to be my remedy? I think you're the only thing that can help me,” you moaned.

The groan coming from his direction certainly wasn't professional anymore. A hand, now warmer than before, settled on your thigh. “You said it hurts here?” 

Before you could look where his finger was pointing you could feel the pad of it trace through your wet folds. 

“Exactly,” you breathed, spreading your legs a little further. 

“I can't see much,” he murmured, his cock twitching painfully in his pants. “I'd need to clean you up first before I run some more tests...is that okay with you?”

The bobbing of your head was enough for Harvey to finally break down.

He leaned forward faster than he would have guessed from himself, his fingers spreading your folds, and by Yoba, you were wet. All the more reason to examine you closely, wasn’t it? Keeping you healthy wasn’t bad, after all. It was his job. And if that was what it took, he would oblige – for the sake of medicine, of course. Not because of his throbbing cock and the desperate need to taste you on his tongue; not because he was salivating from the thought alone.

His tongue slowly slipped out of his mouth, a sliver of hesitation lingering in the air. He could see your hole contract when you thought him close, he could see the shivers making the muscles of your thighs twitch whenever his hot breath hit the wetness of your cunt, and yet…wasn’t this wrong? Had he somehow taken advantage of you?

“Harvey, fuck, please?” A small rock of your hips followed your words. Urging him closer. He could smell you now, and holy life, did you smell good. Lured him right into taking a deep whiff, as if he didn’t know he would get drunk on you immediately. Yet he did know and he willingly took another deep inhale. The impatient whine above him caused his eyes to flicker up to your face. You looked down at him, your lower lip tugged between your sets of pearly whites. No words needed to be spoken, and yet Harvey still followed your order.

His tongue slowly slipped out of his mouth; eyes glued to your face. He wanted to see how you would react to that first contact, wanted to see if you felt as hot as he did right now. His pants were really straining against his aching erection, his zipper pressing against the shaft through his boxers. He was pretty sure those were wet too by now, with all the pre-cum he had been leaking. He finally pressed the muscle against your entrance, licking a flat, thick line upwards. And he took his time doing it; so much so that it had your toes curl and your thighs close in around his head. The brunet was quick to react, though, one hand holding your leg open, while the other busied itself with spreading open your pussy for his hungry tongue. His licking had become faster now, but precise enough to avoid your clit. He was, after all, only cleaning you up now, wasn’t he? Still, that didn’t mean that his hot tongue licking up whatever you gave him didn’t make you moan for him. How long had you been thinking about this? Having Harvey between your legs, in any which way he would have offered? Too long. And now he finally had his head buried between your thighs, licking and sucking you up like a starved man offered a meal after ages of going hungry. His tongue licked up and down, from one side to the other, but he still ignored your hardening clit with apparently the same professionalism he had ignored your advances before.

He gave your lips a light suck, then sunk his tongue deep inside of you. A groan left his glistening lips, eyes shut tight while he lapped at your walls eagerly, trying to get as much of you as possible into his mouth. “Harvey, oh fuck, right there,” you breathed, hand flying in his hair to hold onto the strands between your fingers tightly, giving a tug that was harder than you had intended it to be. But that only seemed to spur the male on more, his face burying deeper, tongue and lips working in unison now. And by Yoba, he had never tasted anything this good; so sweet, so…you; and you were addictive.

Your hips bucked upwards for him, if to grant him easier access or just because you couldn’t keep them down anymore, you didn’t know. You didn’t really care, either. Harvey’s moustache rubbed against you in a way that made your head spin, his lips sucking on you while he circled his tongue within you made your whole body tense. Even when pussy-drunk he seemed incredibly precise, knowing just where to brush past, when to suck and when to lick.

 You weren’t able to do much anymore, just hold onto his hair and wait for the sweet, sweet release to wash over you and in turn, Harvey’s tongue.

It was close; you could feel it in the ripple down your spine, in the way you clenched around him, you could feel it in the pit of your stomach, too. You were dangerously close to the edge, and one well-placed flick would push you over. You were ready for it; the string of moans that left your lips were dirty, raw, carrying all the words you couldn’t form anymore.

You awaited the feeling of your orgasm crashing over you, not to suddenly feel empty and cold after being engulfed in the warmth of his mouth. But Harvey was standing now, his face wet and his glasses fogged up from the heat that had reached the cool surface, and yet you knew that he was staring right at you. You opened your mouth, but you didn’t trust your vocal cords just yet, so all you did was letting out a confused hum, to which the brunet in front of you smiled.

“You are all clean now- I believe you are ready for further tests.”

Fuck, you were. More than that. By now, you really felt an ache in your body, and the only remedy was there, right in front of you, fumbling with the buttons of his pants. His hands were shaking, enough so for you to lean forward, popping the button open for him. The doctor let out an awkward laugh, moustache twitching from the embarrassed rumble that went through him. “Sorry,” he whispered but quickly switched gears when you pressed a kiss to his lips. The taste of you mixed with his spit made you whimper, the appetite for him only growing within you. You wanted to help him tug down his boxers as well, but instead of fabric, you were met with the soft skin that had been hidden beneath until now. Your throat went dry; you just had to pull away and look at him. He was big, tip coated in a layer of pre-cum, his shaft girthy.

“Harvey, please,” you stammered, leaning back on the table so he could lean over you more easily.

The brunet followed you like a well-behaved lamb, leaning in again to kiss you. You could feel the tip of his dick against your entrance, slowly pushing forward. The stretch the head of his penis caused made your eyes roll back, excitement for the rest of his girth stretching you bubbling inside of you.

Harvey, ever the gentleman, took it slow. Rutting inside of you, centimetre after centimetre, eyes fixed on your face for any signs of pain and discomfort. He brushed your hair to the side to whisper sweet nothings in your ear, telling you how good you felt, how wet you were for him, and holy Yoba, did he ever feel anything like this before?

You had to admit, at first, the stretch did hurt a little, but with both him being so tender with you, so gentle, the pain quickly turned into a cloud of lust and despair. You wanted him, and you weren’t afraid to show him anymore. “Harvey, oh, for fuck’s sake, fuck me.”

A twitch, and then a shove that made him bottom out inside of you. A groan from him bled into the moan that tore from you, but that didn’t make Harvey pause. Not anymore.

His thrusts were shaky, unsure at first. He was just so adorable, wasn’t he? His eyes searched yours as if to ask for approval, as if to make sure he was doing this right, and it made your heart swell within your chest.

“You are so good to me, Harv,” you whispered, shamelessly letting your moans slip for him. The brunet’s eyes lit up, and he pushed his hips forward faster, more eagerly now.

Smiling to yourself, you let your head lull back. Harvey’s dick felt so good within you, filling you out with clumsy thrusts that steadied the more confidence he felt. Your back arched in as the brunet found a rhythm that seemingly fitted both your tastes; fast strokes that reached deep within you. The little grunts that left his slightly swollen hips only added fuel to the fire, only made you want him more.

Your legs hooked around his soft hips as he fucked into you with quick thrusts, body working with him to get him to go harder, more ruthless. Lucky for you, Harvey was a quick learner. Dick now fucking into you harder, red tip still pounding as deep as he could go.

The man’s face was a mix of pleasure and astonishment as if he wasn’t able to believe this was really happening to him. You just felt so damn good around him, walls clinging to his hot cock, sucking him off with each thrust. If he had a say in it, he would have never left your sweet pussy again, keeping his dick buried inside of you, thrusting into you whenever he deemed fit.

The moans and whines of his name that filled the examination room made his vision blur; his balls incredibly tight all of a sudden.

“Harveeey,” you gasped out, your hand reaching for his in an attempt to hold onto something again, fingers gently brushing along his knuckles before intertwining. The brunet above you was panting now, his hips never stilling as he fucked into you. His eyes, however, weren’t focused on your face anymore; they had fallen onto your tits that were bouncing oh so nicely for him with each of his thrusts. He just couldn’t help himself; it was too tempting – his head dipped down, teeth catching one of your pretty pink nipples, nibbling on it just to suck it into his mouth moments later.

You could feel the feeling start to grow inside of you again, your orgasm approaching you, even though you didn’t want this to stop yet. You didn’t want this to end just now, now that he was filling you up so perfectly, cock sliding against your squishy walls with such ease; you didn’t want his balls slapping against your wet cunt to stop just yet, you wanted, no, needed, more.

As if hearing your thoughts, Harvey picked up his pace just a little more, his mouth switching to the other nipple to pay it the same amount of attention. The squelching sound of the wetness between your legs was to die for, just like the feeling of his orgasm hot in his veins.

You just felt so deliciously good, better than any neat whiskey ever could have, and it made him go crazy. He felt hot, he felt like he was just about close enough to heaven to feel it, but not quite there. The bucking of his hips grew more desperate as he chased his orgasm, going hard and deep inside of you while his mouth busied itself leaving hickeys on your bouncing tits. The insecurity from before had vanished, and the groans, the begs, the whines, the praise, all coming from you was enough to keep it away.

“Harvey, I am- fuck, I am so close-“

He would have answered, had he been able to. But he had basically gone mute, aside from the whimpers and groans, as well as high-pitched moans that dared to tumble from his tongue. Instead, he just nodded at you and did his best to pick up the pace some more. It was just so hard with you sucking around him so nicely, drooling all over his dick. So hard to focus when he could feel you shake beneath him, making his body ache for the final push.

The bite to your tit he gave you, combined with his deepest thrust yet was enough for you. You squeezed his hand tightly, your toes curling and your back arching in as finally allowed the release to flow over you. You cried out his name, your sweet, pretty cunt spasming around poor Harvey, who was, admittedly, both absolutely pussy-drunk and empty-minded.

His breathing now came in forceful, laboured pushes, and if he had ever heard a patient breathe like that, he would have sent them straight to bed and run endless tests on them. But this – this was nothing but the sheer hunger for one person.

He suddenly slammed forward once more, his back arching in as he moaned out your name loudly, penis twitching as he came inside of you, cum painting your walls white. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to not lose focus, his mouth hanging open as he fucked you through your orgasm. Your legs were quivering with each thrust that sent shocks up your spine from the overstimulation that slowly started to nag at you.

Panting, the brunet tried to keep himself from crashing down on top of you, a thin layer of sweat covering his forehead. His eyes were still hazy as they took in your fucked-out expression. You looked ruined but also completely…satisfied.

Your hand was still shaky as you reached up to let it run down his flushed cheek, a smile on your lips. “That definitely helped, Harv,” you whispered, voice slightly more hoarse than it had been that morning.

Harvey cleared his throat, and after a moment or maybe two – maybe also three, he just felt so good inside of you – pulled out of you, shaky legs carrying him over to the sink where he wettened some paper towels to clean you up.

“I am glad I was able to help.”

Disappointment settled in your stomach. Was that it? Did he just go back to his professional self like the table beneath you wasn’t drenched in your wetness and his cum?

“But I need to run a few more tests. I think home visits would be best; I’d need different surfaces and times.”

Click. Two lambs had fallen for the trap

[oh-babylove]

~7k. copia/f!reader. explicit. established relationship, smut, filth and fluff. copia does date night, and you show him your appreciation-- it's only fair. mdni.

thanks to @copia for showing me how to put images in a grid-- top right image by instagram user susitse.art. @enjoy-my-swearing and @photiniainsummer, this one's for you. <3

when the red comes over you - ao3

rhrn spoilers. blowjobs, masturbation, dirty talk, light degradation, a small piece of light cum kink, a touch of hanky-panky in public, some thigh riding, face-fucking, fluff, tw: references to past sexual assault/dubious consent/sexual trauma

You’re holding the same pole on the subway car as Copia, his gloved hand over yours, swaying with him, forced into his space by the crowd. It gives you an excuse to stand close to him, in the circle of his scent like cold smoke. You're not complaining– well, not much. Keeping your balance is a bit of a challenge– you aren't used to doing this in heels, even these modest Cuban heels. Riding the subway truly is riding, the rhythmic thrum of the rails swaying up your body, through the balls of your feet. Riding the train feels like riding a living thing.

“I like this,” you say, as if coming to a decision.

“Hnn?” Copia replies, raising an eyebrow as he looks down at you.

“Riding the train. I like it.” You lean in to murmur in his ear, not that you have far to go. It’s a matter of tilting your head until you can feel the warmth of his skin against your cheek. “But I’d like riding you even more.” It’s just the kind of cheesy nonsense that you’re both into.

Your body keeps brushing against his– a particularly hard bump has your belly pressed against his erection, and his choked-off gasp scores a direct hit to your brain stem, bypassing your ears, cinching something tight around your diaphragm. His hand tightens on your hip, possessive. Holding you up, keeping your balance.

“You little minx,” he hisses, frustrated--with a ragged edge of delight. “You wait till I get you home.”

“You caint blame that on me, now, that was the train,” you say, but you're close to laughing, yourself. You can hear your accent getting thicker, but damned if you can stop it. Besides, Copia loves it, loves ruffling your feathers enough that he can get you to slide back into that slurring hillfolk drawl. Someday he might even make you less self-conscious about it. 

Truth be told, you’ve been practically vibrating since before you left the apartment, restless and swollen between the legs, a low-grade ache that Copia has not been helpful with.

(The apartment. Your apartment. Yours, plural, now, you think. You’d never been a co-religionist of his, and he’d had a toothbrush at your place for a long time. Then a drawer in your dresser. Then he’d brought over his best frying pan, his best chef knife– simply because he couldn’t stand it, gattina, you cook with that? And now there’s as many of his books as yours on the shelves– shelves you put up with your own hands while he did ‘the heavy lookin’ on.’ His name isn’t on the lease, but he paid the rent for the next two months anyway. In full.

When you tried to fight him on it, he’d just shrugged. “Babydoll, I’ve been here more nights than I haven’t for the last four months, this is just… ehh, consider it backdated, yeah?” He’d kissed your forehead. “We can do half each after that. If you haven’t gotten sick of your dirty old man by then.”

It was hard to argue with that.

Copia kept his room at the Ministry, even after his… promotion. His term as Imperator, he’d decided, would be more hands off. You’d talked about it a little. Mostly in bed, sweaty and spent and a little sticky. “Mister Psaltarian is more than capable of running most of it. The administrative things. I’m better with the ghouls, I think, but there’s Kevin, and Ashley, they have it well in hand. I want the new guy to– to be able to be his own man, yeah? I’ll show him the ropes, of course, answer any questions he has, but he doesn’t need me looking over his shoulder all the damn time.”

The new guy. Hell of a way to refer to his long-lost brother. “And you ain’t ready to be around him twenty-four seven just yet.”

“...And that. Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “You’re too perceptive, gattina. Keep it up and I’ll have to fuck you again, till you don’t think so good.”

“So… you sayin’ you gone fuck my brains out? Say, you ever notice that your man Psaltarian loses his train of thought whenever Kevin comes into the room?”

“That’s it, back in the handcuffs with you. And remember, you brought this on yourself.”)

As ever, he’d insisted on doing your makeup. (It should have been your first clue that you were in for it.) It only makes sense-- he’s better at it than you’ve ever been, and he loves doing it. You love it, too, if you’re honest. He had to take his gloves off for it, to hold your chin firmly and keep you in place. It was terribly intimate, his breath ghosting over your lips, the skin of his hand against your cheek. His quiet, gentle command held something still in the center of you, made it sing like a struck tuning fork– a calm vibration that sank into your bones. The cool brush of the eyeliner on the delicate skin of your eyelids. How meticulous he’d been, how precise. That calm focus he brings to everything that he cares about. How his whole being focused on that point, painting cat eyes sharp enough to kill a man.

Your lipstick had been worse, barely holding your mouth open, the brush sliding over the curve of your cupid’s bow, stretching out your lower lip ever so slightly. You hadn’t even known they’d made brushes for lipstick. Copia has taught you so many things.

Copia knows just what shades of red match your skin tone, knows just how to bring out the color of your eyes. He knows, too, the best cut of a dress to accentuate your figure, to flatter your curves. This one was lovely, shaping your breasts, with a little bit of flare to the skirt. He bought you this dress, these heels. This lingerie. He’s taught you how to fasten a silk stocking to a garter belt, that the underwear goes on over the garters, not underneath.

He’d taken the liberty of fastening your stockings tonight. “So the back seam is straight, gattina. I know it’s tricky to get right on your own, yes? Let me help.” His hands, his clever fingers, so high up on your thighs, his face level with your pussy.

“Oh yeah, sweetness, you're helping something, alright,” you choked out, a little strangled. 

He must have seen how wet you were already, if the self-satisfied hum he made behind you was any indication. He bit the crease of your ass, just lightly, making a goofy little rawr noise that made you actually giggle.

Embarrassing, the noises he gets out of you.

“You shaved,” he said, and it was supremely gratifying to hear him a little hoarse, himself. 

“Did you wanna do that, too?”

“Hnn. We’d miss our reservation.” He wasn't moving from his place on his knees behind you. “Miss the show.”

“Sound like you're enjoying this show purt’ well,” you said, but you thought it best to step into your underwear, anyway. 

Pain shared is pain lessened, isn't it?

…He didn't need to know that you only kept them on for a couple of minutes, just until you used the bathroom one last time on the way out the door.

You almost never know in advance where exactly Copia will take you when it's his turn to plan date night- generally your only clue is what clothing he picks out for you, how he does your makeup, if makeup is required. You've ranged over the city hitting up obscure museums before, taken tours in the underbelly of the public transportation system, gone to aviaries and magic shops and tiny greenhouses.

(You like to think you hold your own. Dive bars and twenty four hour diners, sidewalk art festivals and night markets, one memorable instance of a graffiti lesson– that had been an unexpected delight. 

Your man can be blisteringly uncool sometimes– most of the time, even– but there's no snobbery in him. No fear, either, not in the way most people are afraid: of embarrassing themselves, saying the wrong thing, of looking like a jackass. He hadn't been good at it, but he threw himself into the attempt wholeheartedly, listened to the man in the baggy jeans with the paint-stained fingers explain technique and theory and the history of the medium with total attention and enthusiasm. 

Never will you reach the bottom of him. His openness and his generosity and his good, good heart.)

Dinner and a show is almost a little pedestrian, for him, but there's comfort in the classics. A bar paneled in blond wood and washed in warm light, specializing in rare vinyls piped in on a very serious sound system as much as the cocktails. 

He’d been very good, kept his knee between yours, but otherwise, hadn’t even tried to put a hand up your skirt– a rarity, with him.  His eyes told a different story, watching you with obvious, predatory hunger. The second time you caught him ogling your cleavage he leaned into it, dragging his eyes salaciously down your body with enough force that you nearly felt his gloves snagging on your skin.

The cheeky motherfucker actually licked his lips at you.

You barked out your unlovely laugh, and the way he grinned took the sting out of the sharp glances cast your way– the aim was to listen to the obscure bossa nova, not to your fellow patrons. Your face was hot. “Ah, gattina, you cannot blame a man for looking. Not when you are as ravishing as that.” It wasn’t helping the heat in your face.

A glance at the mirror over the bar, old and pitted and a little smoky, the perfect self-aware touch of authenticity. You’d never have recognized the woman looking back, not when you first met Copia, this exquisite creature with perfect makeup. Sharp. Sexy. 

You don’t hate it.

“...Y’outdid yourself,” you said, slow. You didn’t look real to yourself, this absolute pinnacle of femininity. Copia’s gaze softened, warmed, less the slavering predator and more– a naked adoration that was hard to look at.

(Of course, neither expression was comparable to the first time he’d put you in an exquisitely tailored three-piece suit. You’d thought the man was going to pass out from how quickly his blood rushed south– but that’s a story for another day.)

He crowded your space, just this side of indecent, his knee halfway between your thighs. Copia fed you little morsels from his own fork of– whatever this was. A vaguely mediterranean inspired amuse-bouche. He took his time with it, making you duck your head while the cool tines slid against your lower lip. You kept his eyes for it, moving slow, relishing the way his mouth hung open. 

It’s a little much, in public, truly.

You weren’t even sure what you were eating, something perfectly balanced with rich cream, phyllo dough, an acidic tang. Spanakopita when it’s got a Michelin star or two, you thought. Copia’s little shudder at your groan of appreciation didn’t escape your notice, but you managed to keep the smugness out of your expression with truly heroic effort. 

From there, it was a short taxi ride with his gloved hand heavy on your knee, Copia keeping up a stream of polite chatter that you barely heard a word of. He’d gotten box seats in a lovely little jewel box of a theatre, for a revival of a classic two-man existential tragicomedy starring a couple of aging comedic actors known for their roles in a cultural zeitgeist film from around the turn of the last century.

It was a good effort, all told, and the actors weren’t bad– they had a chemistry borne out of twenty years of friendship that’s impossible to replicate. But Copia proved that he’s a true and faithful servant of the Devil somewhere around the start of the second act, when he peeled a glove off with his teeth.

Your chest went tight.

No wonder he wanted box seats, you thought, as he settled his hand back on your knee. Like it belonged there, like he had perfect possession of it, every right to edge just under the hem of your skirt. 

(His hands-- you love his hands. He’s self-conscious about the hair on the back of them, the dusting of freckles. Large and well-made and skilled, seeing them is like sharing a secret. A gift. He’s squeamish about textures, too sensitive, the slightest scrape will make him shudder-- and not in a fun way. Sandpaper would be torture. Anything gelatinous is right out. You get used to the constant grime and the vague awareness of filth you get on your hands, living in a city. It’s not so bad, for you, you invest in hand sanitizer and don’t touch your face. It’s the price you pay for living in a place with something like a subway, where things pulse and hum and never truly sleep, to be a microbe in the gut of this beast of a city, to be a tiny cog in the great machine.

You love it here. You didn’t think you would. Hell, you didn’t think you could. “It’s growing on me,” you told Copia one day, cool as you like, as if you weren’t giving anything away. “A little.”

“You have no talent for bullshit, babydoll,” he said, both dry and terribly fond.)

All of your awareness focused on the soft warmth of him enveloping your knee, the rough scrape of his calluses on the inside of your thigh– a new sensation, he’s taken the acoustic guitar back up recently. Not moving, just–holding. 

You kept your eyes forward, and your breathing even.

His thumb slid over your kneecap, absentmindedly tracing little circles. Your legs fell open a little wider, just so your thighs weren’t touching. You were terribly, achingly aware of the air on your cunt.

A soft stroke back and forth, a gesture that could have been reflexive, thoughtless– if it wasn’t for the beatific expression on his face, his eyes forward and too-innocent. It would have been more convincing if he hadn’t been inching his slow way upwards, featherlight touches, tracing up and back down, up and back down. Just a millimeter higher each time. An agonizingly slow drag, a glacial pace.

Your grip tightened on the armrest. 

Copia leaned forward, his breath in your ear. “Why, gattina,” he purred. “I do not think you are even paying attention to the play.”

“You are,” you managed, “a real sunnavbitch, you know it?”

He only chuckled low, and ran his touch to the top of your thigh. The side of his hand brushed up against your wet cunt and you both gasped.

“You little slut,” he hissed, with obvious pride. “So eager for me already.”

He dragged the very tip of one finger up between your lips, so slick it was almost frictionless, pulling away just before he could touch your clit. You took a ragged breath that was nearly a whine, bereft at the loss of his touch. You felt your cunt clench over nothing, an involuntary contraction. 

Copia hummed in mock-sympathy, and took mercy on you, cupping your whole cunt with his broad hand, steady and even pressure that was nowhere near enough, but at least took a little of the edge off. 

His middle finger slid naturally between your labia majora, and settled there, his fingertip crooked so he could just barely feel the inside of you.

The bastard stayed that way for the rest of the performance, sometimes giving you a gentle squeeze, sometimes pulling away to slide his fingertip back up to circle your clit. Just often enough to keep your attention focused where he wanted.

Evil, evil man.

Copia retracted his hand before the lights went up, giving you one final squeeze. He kept your eyes as he brought his hand up to his face, inhaled deeply, and surreptitiously licked his palm before fitting his hand back into his glove for the applause.

“Play weren’t that bad,” you said, weakly. “No call to do- alla that.”

“Oh? Didn’t you tell me you had a crush on the– which was it, the one with the dark hair– as a little girl? You want to wait around, go to the stage door, get an autograph?” All innocence, all the accommodating boyfriend.

“I revise my previous opinion. You are the Lebron James of being a sunnavabitch.” Despite your discomfort in heels, you couldn’t drag him to the train home fast enough.

So now, here you are. You shiver a little, in this hot and humid subway car, remembering. You bite your lip and can taste the wax of your lipstick.

Copia sees it, of course he does, how your eyes go just a little glazed. He smirks a terribly self-satisfied smirk. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Oh, this’d cost you at least a dollar. Maybe five nintey-nine.”

“Inflation is just outrageous these days. Highway robbery. I’m shocked.”

“Not yet, you aren’t.”

“You are talking a big game, babydoll. Be careful, I think, ehh-- your mouth is writing checks your ass can’t cash.” His hand heavy on your hip, almost indecent. His boot between your shoes, the sweet curve of his thigh displacing your skirt. He’s so close, so warm and solid. The train is packed, but he’s all you can see, all you can feel. His breath in your ear, pitched low. “Your pussy can’t cash.”

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from grinding on his thigh in the middle of the train. “Sweetness,” you croak out. “We’re in public.”

He leans back, conciliatory. Terribly smug. The world fades back in. You catch a teenager in a hoodie smirking at the two of you, a direct and uncomfortable gaze that feels more taboo in this city than even the way your hips keep shifting, restless. You feel almost drunk, stepping into the warmth of his body and his hard cock between your hip and your belly, a little vindictive, relishing his frustrated little grunt in your ear. 

“Two more stops, gattina,” he murmurs, as much for his benefit as yours. You see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “We can make it.”

“Mm-hmm,” you manage. 

He drags you roughly by your elbow off the train, in a way that has your fellow passengers actually making a faint murmur of disapproval at the way he growls. He might be leaving a bruise on your arm. Can’t be helped. You’re laughing up the stairs, your heels loud on the concrete and metal, giddy, just this side of hysterical. 

He’s clumsy with the keys when you get to your apartment building, following you up the stairs so he can look up your skirt. “Can’t believe– I watched you put those on.” 

“You just mad you didn’t get to watch me take ‘em off.”

He’s on your neck like a lamprey when you get to your door, and now it’s your turn to be clumsy while you paw through your purse, his hot wet mouth insistent, just under your ear, his teeth grazing your skin. His hands firm on your breasts, pushing the neckline of your dress down so he can fill his hands with them, gripping almost hard enough to hurt. He’s trapping you against the door, grinding into your ass while you fumble with the lock.

“What’re you– you tryna fuck me in the hallway?” you gasp. He’s reaching up your skirt now, his bare palm at the top of your stocking. When did he take his gloves off?

“I will,” he growls, “if you don’t hurry the fuck up.”

You somehow make it in the door without breaking the key off in the lock, and you give him just enough time to slide the bolt home before you’re shoving him onto the couch. You’re in his lap just as quick, your mouth on his, nearly biting him as he laughs into your mouth. Christ, you didn’t even get out of your heels. 

He’s warm under you, solid muscle under a sweet softness around the middle, and you can’t unbutton his shirt fast enough. His tongue in your mouth is making you clumsy, making it hard to keep track of how buttons work, shorting out basic motor functions. When you make it, you groan at his fur under your palms, and then he shoves his thigh between your legs and you whine when you grind your wet cunt against it. You have to break off from his mouth for it, clinging to his shoulders.

Your lipstick is all over Copia’s face. He’s grinning, rapt, delighted, impossibly fond. The man’s face is so pink it looks like he’s been slapped around. “Good, eh?” He pushes his thigh forward again, his hand up your dress and on your ass. “You like that?” He’s pulling you into it, making you drag your cunt over his tight jeans. The seam running down the front of his thigh hits your clit and you gasp. “So fucking desperate you need to hump my leg, filthy little thing.”

You roll against him once or twice more, because he’s right, it feels so good, those long runner’s thighs, the coiled power of him. That hard muscle and rough fabric against you, his body between your knees, so warm and familiar and beloved.

But his smirk is just a little too smug for your taste, so you have to make yourself stop before you fall too deep into a rhythm. Even if you actually hurt with being so turned on for so long. You get his shirt the rest of the way open, have to bend your head to suck a nipple into your mouth– the terrible brand over his heart level with your eyes– and bite. It’s not hard, but it does raise his back off the couch, and distract him from you eeling down between his legs to kneel on the floor.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, looking down at you, knowing (some of) what you have in mind.

Your hand is on his belt buckle, and the sheer Pavlovian reaction you have to the sound of undoing it with one hand forces you to press your cheek to his thigh and focus on your breathing for a moment.

You laugh, shaky. You left an actual wet spot on his jeans.

Copia’s hand is in your hair, fingernails running along your scalp, soothing, grounding you. “Baby?” he asks. “Babydoll, are you alright? We don’t have to–”

“No.” You catch your breath, look back up at him, and his mismatched eyes go from soft and sweet to almost afraid, when he sees your expression. The hunger there– you could eat him alive. “No, I was just– too turned on, for a second.”

“Oh.” He pets at you again, then his smile turns predatory as he sweeps your hair up in one hand and pulls tight. “Then why don’t you get to sucking my cock, puttana?” 

Just for that, you lean up and bite at his belly, the sweet furry softness just below his navel. You laugh with a mouthful of his flesh at his yelp, how it turns into a groan as you unzip his jeans and take him in hand. 

It isn’t as if you aren’t intimately (haha) familiar with his dick, but it’s always nice to see. You’d called it pretty, the first time you’d slept with him, and it really is an accurate description. (It had been emotional for a great many reasons, but that had touched him in ways he still couldn’t articulate.) Silky soft skin over the hard length of him, his head already shiny with precum. It’s the same color as his lips, under the paint.

“You see what you do to me, gattina?” he murmurs above you. “You wreck me. You’ve ruined me– or at least these pants.”

“It’ll come out in the wash,” you say, and take him into your mouth, slow suction, tasting salt. He fills your mouth, fills your hand, blood-warm and firm in your grip. You watch his eyes when you start to suck him down, loving, as you always do, how in that first moment he looks at you, whimpers at you, like you're breaking his heart. 

You hear the dry click of him swallowing as you pull the soft skin of his cock further towards your mouth, your grip twisting, the slow churn of it. How his veins give under your lips, under your hand. It doesn’t take long to get him slick, the thick ridge of the underside of him heavy on your tongue. The musk of him fills your whole senses, thick and animal and a little gross.

His hips shift, and before you have to pull yourself off of him to tell him to talk, he’s doing what you want. “Look at you,” he breathes, reverent. “You’re so good at this, fucking made for this,” a twitch upwards, a movement too small to be called a thrust, “aren’t you? Born for this, your god made you to suck my cock. My perfect– ohh– perfect little cocksucker. Want it so bad, don’t you?”

His hand is heavy on the back of your skull, pushing you down with that even, steady pressure just how he likes. How you both like. “Don’t worry. I’ll give it to you, give you what you want.” He’s not choking you with it, you have plenty of room to work with your hand. Still, as you take him down further, swallowing around the thick length of him, you feel hot tears running down your cheeks, sheer dumb animal reaction. You slip your other hand to cradle his slick balls, rolling them gently, the weight of them a little cooler than the rest of his body. He makes a strangled noise, an “Ohh fuck, baby, babydoll, so good for me, so good to me, fuck, fuck–!” 

His stutter and his loss of control are just too much, finally, you feel the air of the apartment cool at the top of your slick thighs, your swollen cunt, and you have to do something about it. You take your hand from his balls and slide it up your skirt, slowly enough to feel your silk stockings under your fingertips, slow enough that Copia catches it.

Just as you register how fucking wet you are, his eyes go wide and his hips shudder, the smooth hot head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. 

Your grip tightens on the base of his cock, a warning. You freeze, staring blank and unseeing at his soft belly, before looking up at him imploringly. “Okay,” he says, gentling you like a frightened horse. His big hand moving in your hair. “Okay. But baby,” he's nearly whining as you slowly suckle on the head of him, faint living salt in your mouth, “I know you want it, you’re too fucking good at that to not want it, I. Ohhh.” His hand grips tight in your hair as you swallow around him, thick and hot on your tongue. “Oh, fuck.”

You’re finding your pace on his cock again, a little faster, your hands working in time on his cock, on your clit. Freshly shaved like this, you’re fantastically, impossibly slippery. “Ohh, fuck. Oh, sweet Satan. Oh my dear Lord Below.” Copia absolutely doesn’t know what he’s saying, he so rarely gets outright religious on you. It’s an unspoken courtesy you’ve extended to each other, so to hear him break it sends a smug little charge through you. You whimper a little around his cock, give yourself a little more pressure on your clit. He can’t keep still, not all the way, even though you know he’s trying, making little aborted movements of his hips.

Copia swallows. It’s remarkable how you can see him trying to pull himself together. “Knew you loved this,” he says, his voice creaking. “Can’t be that good at something if you don’t love it. Didn’t know you loved it this much, gattina.” A little more pressure on the back of your skull, his nails scraping your scalp. He isn’t exactly holding you down, but he isn’t letting you pull off, either. “Never had my cock sucked this good, never even had a man suck my cock this good, thought I liked that better, before you came along. Had so many people suck this cock–” and that hurts, a hot bolt of pain and arousal that hits your heart and your clit at the same time. Your pace falters, and it must show, because Copia slows as well.

It’s a sore spot. You know that his own inverted form of celibacy in the Ministry included a certain implied… availability that could be, charitably, unpleasant for him at times. Clergy take no wives, no husbands, but give themselves freely to their congregation. You haven’t pushed him on the things that happened to him, he usually insists it was fine, expected, normal– but you generally have to go for a long walk and break something after you talk about it. You know, too, that he had positive experiences there, genuinely caring relationships. It doesn’t exactly help matters that your own knowledge of partnered sex, before Copia, falls radically short of the mean for someone in your age group.

All of that goes through your head in a flash, and he knows it, he can read you so well, even between one stroke of his cock and the next. “Only– didn’t know you’d have a natural talent at this.” Petting at you, soothing, his thumb moving tender on your cheekbone. “Remember, how I had to teach you how to kiss, those hours in the park.” You make a noise on him, not sure if this is helping. “Loved that, babydoll, loved doing that with you, teaching you, drove me wild.” He’s murmuring low to you, his voice a little rough, a little too exposed. “But I– I was ready for you to bite it off, the first time you went down.” 

Awkward thing, laughing with a mouth full of dick. But he keeps going. “I didn’t know, my baby. I didn’t know how it could feel. Didn’t know how good it could be.” He twitches in your mouth, in time with a tiny movement of his hips, so warm and alive in you. “Taught you how to kiss, but babylove, I swear I felt like a virgin when you took me to bed.” His voice is low and wrecked for different reasons than it was before, and oh no, his eyes are wet.

You let go of him, turn your head to wipe your mouth on your shoulder, quick and perfunctory. You can't take your eyes from him. "Sug," you say, unsure how to continue, the twisting in your chest too much for words, beyond anything you could articulate with language. Your knees creak a little as you start to get up, to do what you don't know. Kiss him or touch him or say something, anything, to the way he's looking at you. 

Copia pushes you back down, his hand heavy at the back of your neck. His thumb slots right at the base of your skull, right where he likes to keep it when he kisses you. “No, no, you’re too good at this, I wouldn’t interrupt an artist.” Back in some semblance of control. “You’re too good, you make me feel too good, show me. Will you--? Please, baby, will you show me how it can be good--?"

"Well," you say, pumping slow at his cock. "I can try." You press a tiny kiss to the head of him, too sweet for the situation, relishing the way he shivers. You take him in, how his hair is a disaster, sticking up in the back, his shirt open, your makeup smeared all over his face, his body, the parts of his thighs that you can reach. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes a little glazed, his lips swollen from the way you kissed them and the way he's bitten them. He's wrecked, and he's yours. 

You love him. With all your heart, all your mind, and, you're afraid, all your soul. It hurts to look at him, you think he might sear your eyes right out of your skull. 

You close your eyes against it, at how it stings, and nuzzle into the silky skin of his cock. Copia's belly is soft, warm, furred, delightfully sticky under your touch, as you run your hand up the front of him, up until you're cupping the sweet curve of his pectoral, until you can feel the cruel scar of his branding under the pads of your fingers. You trace over it, mapping the vector of those interlocking sixes. You feel his pulse under your palm, under your lips. You drag your mouth back and forth, just to feel the soft, delicately crenelated skin, the coolness of his flesh here soothing your feverishness. 

Copia makes a tiny wounded noise as his hand presses over yours. As if he could press his heart into your hand. He’s better at language than you’ve ever been, but you can see it falter and fail for him. All you know how to do is– action. It feels inadequate, somehow.

Your dear man. He sees you, and raises your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles in a courtly gesture. It should be absurd, with you on your knees for him, with the delicate skin of his cock against your mouth. Somehow, it isn’t, the alchemy of his tenderness conveying exactly what he means. What you mean, with the most vulnerable part of him between your teeth. “D’you want me to take you to bed, babydoll?”

“No,” you say, pulling off of him long enough to murmur it against his slick head. “Later, maybe. If you’re up to it. Right now, I want–” It’s easier to wrap your lips around him again, to tell him that way. You’re more eloquent with your mouth this way than you ever were with language.

“Alright,” he says, almost a gasp, as he returns your hand to you. “Touch yourself for me?” Almost pleading. As if your pleasure were a favor to bestow on him. “I want– wanna see you get off, my baby, wanna see how much you love doing this. So fucking hot–” His voice breaks off into a whine as you pull him further into your mouth. 

His big hand on your head, stroking your hair back, so sweetly. “Do you want me to be a little mean? I know you like that.” 

You moan around his cock in an unmistakable affirmative, rut a little harder into your hand, plead with your eyes. 

Copia’s smile turns sharp, wicked. “My perfect little cocksucker.” The deep affection in his voice belies the words. “Perfect little cumslut.” Your hand is already back between your legs, and you might– might– be moving your hips a little more theatrically than strictly necessary. 

He holds the back of your neck, the base of your skull, his grip tight. Just this side of painful. “You know how to tap out. How to get me to stop.” He pushes you down on him as he tilts his hips up to you, not quite cutting off your air. “But you’re not gonna do that, are you?” 

Copia licks his lips. He looks feverish, making shallow little thrusts into your mouth. “No, you. Ohh, you like this too much.” He’s so careful, even like this, testing just how hard he can thrust, finding your limit and pushing just past it before backing down. It makes you moan, makes you shiver, makes your hand speed up on your cunt in time with the way he’s pushing into your throat.

“Cruel to me,” he croons, as he uses your mouth. “Keeping that sweet little pussy from me.” He’s panting. “I can hear it, hear how wet you are.” As he says it, you realize you can, too, the wet noise in counterpoint to the sound of you working his cock. “M’gonna make you pay for it. Hope you’re ready, gonna eat you out till m’hard again.” He’s got both hands on your head now, and he’s too far into you for you to use your hand on him.

“You’ll. Hnn. You’ll need me to, to eat you out. Make you cum on my face.” If it weren’t for the sheer adoration in his eyes, this would be brutal, the way he’s pushing into your throat. The speed of your hand on your clit. Moving with him, point and counterpoint. “Fuck, I’m gonna wreck it, gonna split your pretty little cunt open– I’ll last longer, after I cum down your throat.” You whine around his cock, your cunt clenching on nothing, shivering against your hand.

Copia sounds like he’s in pain. It feels like he can’t stop himself, the way his hips are working. “Gattina,” he whines, helplessly. “Can’t– can’t last much longer, you looking at me like that.” You can feel him trembling under your touch. “D’you. You want it?” Movements a little more shallow, holding himself in check. “You want this cum in your mouth?” A rough, jagged thrust. “Little slut–!” he hisses, and he’s not quite too far gone to grin in smug delight at the way you moan in reaction. 

“Gonna cum like this?” he croons, taunting. His white eye bores into you, too bright, and he looks crazed. Deranged. It’s almost frightening, the way you can’t look away from it. Your eyes burn, hot tears on your cheeks, and you couldn’t stop rubbing your cunt if you tried. The way he’s watching you, the way he sees just how turned on you are by him using you like this. Like it’s shameful. “From me fucking your slut mouth like a little cocksleeve.” His voice is creaking, nearly out of control. “You want this cum? You want it? Hmm?”

You’re hanging on by a thread, your nerves strung out like piano wire, helpless before him. Your jaw hurts, his hand so tight in your hair. “Then take it.” He’s beckoning you over the edge, chanting, rapt. “Take it, take my cum, take my fucking cum–” he rasps, knowing exactly what will set you off, will snap the bright line of you.

You see his smile as you break, whining around his cock. How he lights up at it, overjoyed, crooked and tender. You hold his eyes the whole time, giving him as much of it as you can, letting him see all of it, the shining abyssal affection that crashes through your body for him, catching your nerve endings like fire through tinfoil. 

“Ohh–! Precious,” he says, almost crying, “my precious girl, my baby, my–” his voice breaks on your name, the syllables like a song, like a prayer, like something more than holy, like the shahada, like the shema, like it's the last thing that he knows. You never knew your name until he held it in his mouth like this, at the uttermost end of himself. He’s flooding over your tongue, slick and bitter. Like the first jet from the fountain in school, sun-warmed metal, iron from the earth, living water. 

His cock jumps in your mouth, and you’re shaking, trembling through your aftershocks and his as you swallow all of him, pull all of him into you, watching his eyes and his blissed out expression until his voice does– something wrecked. “You–!” he gasps, delighted. “C’mere, come up here, you’re too– too far away–” he’s pulling at you, babbling, delirious, so soft now. 

Copia’s pulling you up, into his arms, his lap, too quick for you to wipe his cum and your spit from your mouth. “Dunno if I like it, you that far away, wanna feel your pretty little body when you cum, you–” And then he’s kissing on you, shivering, laughing, little pecks along your jawline till he reaches your mouth. He makes a deep, appreciative groan when he tastes himself on your lips. He pulls back to look at you, almost scandalized in delight. 

You have to laugh at him. For once you can’t be bothered to be self-conscious about it. “Oh, I do like that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before he dives back in, like he has to get all of it. You’re still shaky, a fine shiver all down your spine. He’s almost clumsy, licking into your mouth, a real rarity for him. You try not to feel too smug about it.

You can’t stop smiling, when you finally get your mouth back. “Acceptable, then?”

“So good. Every time, I can’t believe–” he’s nuzzling at you, his nose against yours, totally uninhibited in his affection. “So perfect, so sweet, love you so much, thank you, thank you, baby–” Nonsense babble. Incoherently effusive. He scoops your legs across his lap and runs his hands over all of your skin that he can reach. “Perfetta…sei perfetta. Angioletto,” he murmurs, and you shiver. You haven’t heard that one in a while. “Angioletto mio,” he’s saying, into your hair, your skin, and it’s rare that you blow him all the way back to Italian. “Sei tutto ciò che voglio del Paradiso.” You’re a little too fucked-out to parse that all the way, but it still snags in your heart a little.

(He knows, usually, how you still aren’t used to being loved on this much. You know he restrains himself, tries not to overwhelm you. It breaks your heart, sometimes, when you see him hold himself back, even as his consideration makes you warm.) 

Now, though, it’s good. It’s perfect. His pants are half off, his dick out, ridiculous. You think you might have snapped a garter, and you definitely put ladders in these stockings. You couldn’t give less of a shit. You loop your arms around his shoulders and bury your face in his neck, letting out a deep, contented sigh.

Copia’s still petting you– appropriate enough. You feel like a cat in a sunbeam, even supremely disheveled like this.

He squeezes you lightly, again, and makes a little noise in the back of his throat. “The, enh– the talking. It wasn’t too much?” Like he’s shy, all of a sudden.

“Noo!” You have to pull back to look up at him. “No, holy shit, sweetness, it was inspired. Even for you! Hot damn, baby. ‘Cocksleeve,’ where did that come from?” 

“Ehh– a couple of times, there, I’m, ah. Not even sure I remember what I was saying.” Is he blushing? It’s adorable.

“No, it was great. I’d tell you if it weren’t, honeybunch.” You lean your head back against him, boneless and warm all the way through. “Naw, this was awesome. Ten outta ten, go Team Us.” You hold up your hand for a high-five, and your sweet man, he’ll never leave you hanging– the slap rings loud through your living room. 

He tilts his head back onto the couch, looking up at the Devil’s Ivy crawling over your bookshelves. “Although,” he says, slow, considering. “I do seem to recall that I promised you I was gonna make you cum on my face.”

“And split my pussy open,” you remind him. “Or was you writing checks your dick can’t cash?”

“Babydoll, don’t you know by now?” He’s turning back to look at you, his mismatched eyes full of predatory adulation. “The Devil always keeps his promises.”

[reysdriver]

Hey, I was thinking about something with best friend!Eddie and fem!best friend!reader, but they secretly like each other.

Gareth invites the Hellfire club to spend a weekend at his beach house but Eddie and Reader decide to share the same room/bed.

(I would like things like them going to the beach or helping each other put on sunscreen... 🫣🫣)

Sorry if it's a very large or very specific request, you don't have to fulfill the request in parentheses if you don't want to

thank you!❤️

you and eddie share a bed on the first night of your beach house stay — bestfriend!eddie x fem!reader fluff

warnings: language, that's it i think

words: 1.6k

a/n: I might make this a 2-parter (or more low-key) cause I want to space it out and have the absolute max amount of pining and friends-to-lovers tension hehe

Gareth stared down at you, disapproving of you calling him ‘rich boy’, while unloading your bags from the back of Eddie’s van. 

“I’m not rich, my parents just own a beach house.” He defended. 

You raised an eyebrow. “You know that’s the richest fucking thing you’ve ever said, right?”

“They bought it back in the day when shit was just cheaper. You can go if you don’t want to be here, by the way.” Gareth said it with the sass of a true non-rich boy, and you decided to lay off the teasing. 

You put your hands in the air in mock surrender. It’s been a long drive from Hawkins close to Cleveland, you weren’t turning back now. “Alright, fine, I’m done.”

You and the guys returned to grabbing your duffel bags and backpacks, then you closed the van’s back doors and went towards the front door of the brightly-painted building. Gareth put the lock into the key but faced you all before turning it. 

“So, here it is, my family’s beach house. Ready for the tour and the house rules?” Gareth asked the three of you. 

Everyone was ready for the tour, but you all seemed disappointed that there were rules you had to follow on your mini-vacation. Nevertheless, you all nodded—not necessarily agreeing to anything, just wanting to get inside and put your stuff down. 

Gareth opened the door to reveal the inside of his modest beach house. Okay, maybe he wasn’t rich rich but you still thought about teasing him a few more times throughout your stay. The inside walls of the building were mostly made from light wood, with painted accents peeling in certain places. There were seashells and sand-filled bottles as decorations in the main hall—same as most beach houses, even though the whole point of them was that they were close to the beach all the time. 

“First stop is the kitchen.” Gareth said, leading you all and stopping in front of the table. “If you want to use it, you have to promise not to burn the house down.”

Eddie shook his head. “Now, Garebear, you know I can’t make any promises like that.”

You and Jeff laughed at Eddie’s joke, but Gareth didn’t seem amused. 

“I’m watching you, Ed. I’m serious, my parents will be pissed if anything happens to this place.” He looked back to you and Jeff as he continued. “Next, we have the living room. The tv works, plus we have some movies on those shelves, so we could maybe have a movie night or something tonight.”

Jeff went to look at the shelves that his friend just pointed at. “Yo, these movies are trash!” He laughed. “I’m not watching any of these.” 

“Thank you so much for that valuable addition to the tour, Jeff. And they’re for my parents, obviously.”

“What about where we’re sleeping?” Eddie asked. 

Gareth had told you all that the sleeping situation might be a bit problematic, and that he’d try to think of a best solution, but he hadn’t even told any of you what the issue was. 

“So, we have the couch, it actually even pulls out…” Gareth paused, then started walking down a bright hallway to a pair of doors next to each other. He opened one of them. “Here’s my room; I’m sleeping here, of course.” Before you could even take a good look inside, he shut that door and opened the other. “And here’s the main bedroom. Two of you will have to share the big bed.”

All three of you looked at him with wide eyes at the idea. At the exact same time, you and Jeff tried calling dibs on the couch, then cringed at the fact that you both wanted it. 

“Eddie, you don’t want the couch?” Gareth asked, noticing he seemed pretty calm about it all.

He shrugged. “Have you seen my room? I couldn’t give a shit about where I sleep.”

Even though you’ve seen his room and understood where he was coming from, Eddie seemed like he wasn’t being completely truthful. Unfortunately, you were too focused on having your own sleeping place to ask him what was wrong. 

“Since you said it together, I may have to flip a coin.” Gareth said, already digging in his pockets to find one. 

“No way, I don’t want to sleep next to Eddie.” Jeff protested. “No offence.”

“Offence taken, actually. I’ll have you know I am a lovely spooner, both big and little.”

Gareth laughed. “Yeah, like you’ve ever gotten to spoon with someone.” Before Eddie could even respond, he held out a quarter and stood between you and Jeff. “Alright, tails means Jeff gets the couch, heads means he gets to be Eddie’s first spooning partner.” 

You nodded, watching the coin intensely as Gareth tossed it in the air. It was spinning too quickly for you to really see the sides, so you just crossed your fingers and looked at his face as he read it. 

“Tails.” He looked at you. “Looks like you and Eddie can find a way to share the big room.”

You tried keeping your sigh quiet and hiding your upset, but you had to admit you were a bit disappointed about not having your own bed. You thought about it all throughout dinner and your movie night, and it stared you in the face when it was time to go to sleep.

Eddie dug through his duffel bag to find a pair of pyjama pants and a band t-shirt—of course. “If you want me to leave the room while you change, I can. I feel like that’s what girls want, right?”

You shook your head, fiddling with the fabric from your own set. “No, no, don’t worry about that. Just turn around for a second, maybe?”

He did just as you asked, turning around to face the corner of the room and getting changed himself while he waited for you to do the same. You quickly stripped yourself of the clothes you had spent all day in, and changed into the short black set you had packed with you. 

“Okay, you can turn around now.” You told him after you were done. 

He turned as you had said, but you both hesitated to get in bed, even though there was nothing left to do. 

“You know, I can sleep on the floor or something if you don’t want to share the bed.” He offered unnecessarily. 

“No way, I know you said you don’t care where you sleep, but that’s ridiculous, Eddie. I would never ask you to do that.” You slid underneath the bed sheets on your side. They were actually nice sheets; you would be sad to see Eddie sleep on the floor and miss that sweet thread count. “We’re basically grown-ups; we can share a bed without it being a big deal.”

He seemed less reluctant than before as he laid down next to you. “Well, I just wanted to err on the side of caution.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “You never want to be cautious, Eddie. That’s like, your whole thing.”

“Yeah, well, it’s different with you.”

You weren’t quite sure what he meant by that, but you chose to ignore it in case it was something negative. There was no way you’d want to share a bed with a friend after finding out he secretly hates you or something like that. 

The two of you were lying down on opposite sides of the bed on your backs, but you leaned over to whisper to Eddie. “Goodnight, Eds.”

He wished you a good night in return, but it didn’t do much in the way of easing your nerves. For that, you just shut your eyes, clutched the blanket, and tried your hardest to fall asleep. 

You weren’t sure about how long it took, but you did eventually sleep; and you woke up practically cuddling with your best friend. You were hugging him, your head was on his chest, and his arms were wrapped around your torso in return. You also weren’t sure how you got into that position, but you knew you had to get out of it. In an attempt to be soft and silent, you unwrapped your arms from Eddie and snuck out of his grasp. 

You stood up and walked over to the nice kitchen to make yourself some morning tea—and get away from the friend you were just accidentally snuggling. 

You didn’t even let the water in the pot fully boil since you didn’t want to wake anyone up, but it seemed your attempts to be quiet were unsuccessful, since you heard footsteps coming down the hall from the bedrooms. 

Of course it was Eddie and this was the one time he woke up before the clock hit a double-digit hour. “Morning.” He mumbled, rubbing his eyes. 

“Good morning.” You held out a mug for him. “Do you want some tea?” 

“Absolutely not. But I’ll make myself a coffee if there’s any here.” 

Eddie started rooting through the lightwood cupboards to find what he wanted, but you knew where it was, so you just handed it to him. 

“Thanks.” 

“No problem.” You told him. “So, um, how’d you sleep last night?”

“Really well, sweetheart. What about you?”

You nodded and held back a smile. “Same. I slept great.”x

[pugh-bug]

Marooned

Art Donaldson x ex wife reader

Part: 1 of 2

Word count: 2,488

This was supposed to just be a one shot but I got carried away! If you want to be added to my permanent taglist for all Art Donaldson x reader works please let me know 🫶🏻

——————————————————————

A seagull flew over your head, narrowly missing your ear with its wing as it passed. What were you doing here out at sea alone? It was reckless and you hadn’t done reckless for quite some time. You thought a boat ride alone might clear your head after the argument. He meant well, your boyfriend, but he could be a naively hurtful prick when the mood was ripe for it.

The engine moaned and groaned as you got further out to sea, the waves rising and falling gracelessly. Night had fallen and you had no signal and no way of knowing the way back to shore. It hadn’t seemed so far away moments ago but now every edge of the world seemed to be filled in with ocean. You tried to steady your heart rate as a large wave approached your modest boat and the engine whirred and creaked with fear. Just as you braced yourself for the wave a loud horn announced itself nearby. When you opened your eyes you were looking at his.

——————————————————————

‘Art?’ Your voice was hoarse as you looked up at the man pulling you up. The wooden, glossy floorboards told you you were no longer on your own boat. The man tried to explain to you what had happened and where you were but all you could focus on was the icy water dripping down your skin.

‘Let’s get you inside Y/N.’

You followed him into a lavishly decorated, wood panelled room. If it weren’t for the rocking beneath you you’d swear you were on land in some hotel. The lamps were Tiffany and the tables were mahogany, as expected your ex husband had done disgustingly well for himself. Even the scent in the air was rich.

Art fetched you a wool blanket and a towel before guiding you to sit on the inviting leather armchair opposite him. You shivered as he poured you both what appeared to be whisky, no doubt some 100 year old stuff no one had access to but him.

‘Do you need anything else?’ He asked as he sat down, his voice steady. You could hardly believe your eyes, 10 years it had been since Art Donaldson had been in your presence. 10 years since the divorce. Life had been kind to him, he looked older yes but he still had a youthfulness to his face. He was still handsome, still no doubt the tennis player most young female fans had posters of in their bedrooms.

‘I’m okay,’ you breathe, gathering yourself. ‘Thanks for pulling me out.’ In truth your memory of the night was already hazy and cloudy, almost in black and white. You remembered the gurgling of your engine dying and the size of the wave coming for you but nothing more. A familiar voice?

‘I couldn’t believe it was you when I saw your face. What the fuck were you doing in that out here on your own?’

Art was equally appalled as he was amused. Perhaps he was impressed with your attempt at independence and bravery, something he hadn’t got to see much of throughout your marriage.

‘To clear my head.’ It came out as more of a question. You needed alcohol to settle your nerves, a few more drinks would satisfy.

——————————————————————

‘Are you still writing?’

‘About tennis?’

Art pulled a face to say about anything, as if he didn’t believe you had the guts to write at all anymore. He wasn’t wrong.

‘No, didn’t have much opportunity after the divorce.’

Art raised an eyebrow at your comment, and the casual way you sipped your whisky afterwards. He watched you fade from view, metaphorically of course as you were in fact only inches away from him, as you remembered something. A memory from long ago that you’d tried to forget but couldn’t. It lived in the line between your eyebrows, the downturned smile you gave when you were concealing a lingering sadness and the constant sipping of your drink.

‘That day,’ you suddenly weren’t looking at Art across from you, you were looking at the memory of him ten years younger. ‘I was waiting for a call before you came home from Aidan - my agent - about the new book,’ Art nodded, remembering the man in the Prada suit who insisted on interrupting his time alone with you with phone calls about blurbs and font sizes. ‘And he picked up, must have rang him twelve times before he did, but when he did he told me he didn’t want me as a client - that my writing was average and he wanted better representation.’

‘Isn’t that supposed to be your line?’

You shrugged, still looking through your ex husband not at him, and sipped once again. ‘He got angry when I asked him why, started ripping apart my last articles and my last book. I think the word that came up,’ you pursed your lips at the memory. ‘The most was disappointing.’ As the boat bobbed, you pictured your old desk in yours and Art’s home where you’d received that call and you pictured Art arriving quite suddenly finding you staring at it.

After a long pause Art sighed a simple: ‘I never knew.’ because he didn’t. Of course he didn’t, why should he? That day had been painful enough without your failures as a writer coming into play. ‘Well, it’s not what stands out the most from that day anyway.’ You smiled, your down turned smile, at Art’s pensive face.

‘No, I think the toaster you smashed still wins.’ Art chuckled and you let yourself laugh at the absurdity. How were you on his boat? You didn’t believe in fate, it was all too simple an idea for you to take seriously, but something about it being almost ten years exactly since that day was alarming. Perhaps satisfying too, if you’d admit it to yourself.

Art stood up to fetch himself his jumper. ‘For what it’s worth, I always liked your writing.’ This you had to hear.

‘Really?’ It had come out even drier than you’d intended. ‘Because I seem to remember you selling any copies I gave you.’ That was only partially true. Twelve years ago Art had been spotted outside a hotel the two of you had been staying at by a desperately excited kid. Art had had nothing on him to give the poor fan but a copy of your latest book he’d planned to read in bed that night. Being the sweetheart he pretends not to be Art gave it away - only for the kid to pass him his last note and hightail it down the street smiling. Maybe sold wasn’t the right word afterall.

Art sat back down. ‘Adrian was a miserable agent and clearly stupid to have fired you.’ The whisky had started to have an affect because his words warmed your heart more than they had the right to.

‘You just never liked him because he didn’t find you funny.’ A playful smile edged itself onto your face, mirroring Art’s. He placed his glass down on the mahogany table, his eyes gleaming and not leaving your own, before scoffing. ‘He was alone in thinking that.’ Arrogant bastard.

‘I think, if you refreshed your memory you’d remember that I was the funny one.’ You couldn’t pass up the opportunity to swill your glass like a Bond villain to add some flourish to your comment. The atmosphere on the boat had shifted completely. You were starting to feel ten years younger and if it weren’t for logic you’d swear Art was looking ten years younger too.

‘You looked pretty funny flailing around in the ocean.’ Art quipped, enjoying himself a bit too much. You had to disagree. ‘You’d have felt bad if I’d have drowned!’ A giggle threatened to escape your chest.

He considered that for a moment, how bad he would feel if his ex wife was nothing more than a memory. Would he be allowed at the funeral? He didn’t know how badly the divorce had affected your scathing parents. The only thing your Mother had said to him on the day of the wedding was ‘Take care of her’ and that had felt more akin to a threat than advice. ‘Not sure your parents would have forgiven me.’

You scoffed, taking another rather large sip of whisky. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, my Mother thought a lot of you. She’d probably bail you out of prison.’

‘I didn’t mean her.’

The insecurity and guilt was evident on your ex husbands face, even through the slight haziness of your whisky lenses. You knew what he was remembering and it wasn’t just the offhand snide comments your Father would make at family meals or New Year’s parties, no. He was remembering that day.

‘Well…it doesn’t really matter now does it.’

Art adjusted in his seat, not ignoring your frown. He wanted to ask you something while he had you to himself for the first time in a decade. He might regret it. He might wish not to hear the answer, if you’d even be gracious enough to allow him one, but he had to know.

‘Can I ask you something?’

You shot him a just go ahead look.

‘I was always confused about - I mean about why you married me.’

‘Hmm.’

It took you a moment to figure out the write answer, an answer that was a mix of honesty and restraint. You’d already had a shitty, stressful day but something about him even daring to ask that after such a long time of no contact made you curious. Perhaps you needed closure for the ending and he needed closure for the beginning. You had to allow him that, he had saved your life after all.

‘We were twenty two I mean, doesnt everything seem like a good idea at that age?’ But giving closure was harder than you thought as that was a bullshit answer and you both knew it. You didn’t think you’d ever see Art again, let alone be trapped on a boat with him in the middle of the ocean discussing your marriage. All of your feelings, strong as they were, had been buried with the divorce papers and the box of his stuff he’d never come back for.

You had another sip, a nervous one, feeling Art’s eyes on you growing increasingly frustrated. He wasn’t going to let you change the subject that much was clear. If you were staying the night on his boat you were going to have to open up about this.

‘Okay,’ you sighed. ‘When I first met you you were the only boy who even tried to understand me, in any capacity. You didn’t want me to be your cheerleader and you didn’t treat me like a sexual exploit. I actually,’ this was harder than you thought. ‘Laughed harder around you than any of my friends. You made me feel great pretty much all the time and you listened to me. I didn’t have to fake anything with you. When you asked me to marry you I didn’t have any doubts.’ You looked at his eyes pointedly. ‘Did you?’

Art was stunned but he knew he believed you. He’d never forget your face when he proposed, not if he lived a thousand lifetimes. ‘No.’ Without question the answer was no.

‘Then-‘

‘Then why’d I do it?’

You’d never asked so he’d never told. He wasn’t sure he had a proper answer. No answer would rid him of the decade long guilt that festered its way through his veins like a cancer.

‘It was only once, I know that. Just tell me why.’ You kept your voice calm but the hurt revealed itself anyway. Even after all the promises, all the if I ever see him agains here you were showing your decade long pain to the man responsible for it.

‘I think the ‘forever’ part of marriage had started to feel like pressure. More pressure I couldn’t fucking handle.’

He’d lost the U.S Open the week he went to her flat behind your back. While you were watching the results on tv in the family room, shedding tears for your beloved husband and all the work he’d put in, he was with her.

‘It just sort of happened when-‘

You raised your hand, almost like a lawyer. You suddenly didn’t want to know, didn’t want to picture that woman - that girl really - writhing while she road your husband into the bed.

‘I’m good.’

Art was relieved at your gesture. He didn’t want to relive that life changing mistake. The mistake that lost him you.

After a long and cold silence, you let Art off the hook with a quip about her. About if they were still together - which of course they weren’t and you knew anyway. As much as you’d tried to avoid Art like any other ex, Art was no ordinary ex. His face was plastered on magazines, your television and your phone. You’d know if he sneezed, what time and whom he was with.

‘No,’ Art smiled at you knowingly. ‘We didn’t really gel as it happens.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘She wasn’t-‘

‘Tennis?’ You raised an eyebrow at him, knowing the only real threat your marriage had been sport not another woman.

‘You.’

He let you sit with that for a moment, looking pensive as he drank more. You took a large swig of your whisky yourself, as a way to fill time more than anything else. Art’s eyes were fixated on your face and on your features, comparing and contrasting them with your younger self you imagined.

‘You haven’t changed much.’

‘Is that a compliment or an insult?’

In your marriage it had gotten increasingly difficult to decipher the two. When he referred to you as ‘Mrs Donaldson’ it was once clear that he found you particularly alluring that day but the honorific had become sour. Patronising on occasion towards the end.

‘Compliment.’

…and yet you missed being Mrs Donaldson.

‘Is this where I tell you whether I’m single or not?’ You sat back in your chair, analysing his reaction. Wanting information. Wanting him to give a shit who was with you, touching you - holding you at night. Art’s eyes flickered at the subject you’d brought into question, feeling your daring nature come into play.

‘Are you?’

‘No.’

His jaw clenched as you smiled sweetly, as if you’d just informed him you were now a nun and only had eyes for the Lord. ‘Why wasn’t he with you on that boat?’ Art questioned, leaning forward slightly.

‘Argument.’

‘Who won?’

‘We never finished it.’

That seemed to amuse Art even more.

‘We always finished ours didn’t we?’

You smiled at his wistfulness and the strange pride he seemed to take in that fact. Suddenly you felt very far from your boyfriend and new life indeed.

‘I won almost all of them.’

———————————————————————

Taglist: @amorisxx

Part 2

Masterlist

[rafesbunny]

brothers best friend- r.c 🎀

topper was your older brother by two years, he was well known round the island and you less well known. people knew you for being toppers younger sister and that was about it, you didn’t have anything extraordinary about you or what you did. you never got in trouble, had okay grades at school, didn’t wear short skimpy clothes or too modest clothes. everything about you was just okay. that wasn’t to say you didn’t have any friends or anything, you had a small circle of girls and would hang out with them at your house, or one of your boats, or at the beach. you didn’t go to parties unless it was midsummers, one of your dads business parties or a party your older brother would throw when you’re parents were away for the weekend. and it was one of those weekends.

your parents had decided to have a vacation for just the two of them for a few weeks, leaving you and topper home alone. he took this opportunity to throw a massive party. everyone was there, one because it was a party who was going to say no? and two because topper was popular on the island and people wanted to be in his group, his clique. topper had a lot of friends, his two best friends though was kelce and rafe. rafe was the leader. he was cocky, rude, and could get away with anything he wanted. you never really spoke to him despite him being your brothers best friend. if you saw him at your house you’d say hi maybe even ask how he’s doing but that was it. you were a shy girl, so talking to scary rafe took a lot of courage, you were sure he hated you, only responding with little grumbled out heys and never stopping to ask how you are. he doesn’t care for girls feelings even if he’s fucking them, but unbeknownst to you he did like you, you were sweet, polite, not too much.

it was nearing the end of the night, and the house was still packed of drunken people, there were girls crying, boys doing lines, and couples hooking up everywhere. topper always gave you a tough time about not getting involved in social events and hiding in your room, so to avoid this you invited some of your friends over. you also decided to get dressed up, put something on that isn’t a baggy shirt or a maxi skirt. you don’t know why you bought this, but last year you got this little black dress that showed off your body in all the right places, and complimented your hair, eyes, skin, and nails simultaneously. you and your girls were sitting outside, where it was quieter, on sun beds, all with a drink in their hands except you. you knew something was bound to go wrong and you knew you needed to be the responsible sibling who fixes it, even if you were the younger one.

inside the house, it was filled with people and the music was blaring, and rafe stumbled over to your brother, “yo man, gonna head off. see you tomorrow” but before he could walk away topper told him, “yeah not gonna let you drive rafe, you’re too fucked up” at every party rafe wouldnt drink much but he would deal and take lots of coke. he could always handle himself but it still scared topper to think something might happen to him, he would never explicitly say this to rafe as he would get called “gay” or something, but he was his best friend after all. rafe tried to protest, “it’s fine, i’ll walk-” but still topper would not let rafe leave, “look, go outside by the cars and i’ll get my sister to drive you”. while mumbling something about he can look after himself, rafe made his way to your car.

surprisingly, you had a nice night, not to say you were going to be going to more party’s any time soon, but it was nice seeing everyone have fun and talking with your friends. however, this good mood you were in quickly dissipated when you saw your brother walk towards you, knowing something had happened, “can i talk to you quickly” he asked after clearing his throat to get your attention making all your friends go silent, slightly intimidated by him. silently you got up and followed him to a quieter spot, “y’know i hate to ask you for favours-” he was quickly cut off by a raise of your eyebrow, challanging what he had just said, knowing he was no stranger to asking you to cover for him, “shut up. anyways i really don’t want to have to ask you this but can you please take rafe home?” you sighed, but thankful for staying sober tonight, you agreed, “yeah whatever, fine.” topper smiled and ruffled your hair endearingly, “thanks, be safe okay? call me if you need anything” although rafe was his best friend, topper knew how rafe could be towards girls especially when coked up.

a bit annoyed you had to leave the fun to babysit a coked up- nearly grown up- man, you dragged your feet over to your car where rafe leaned up against the drivers door, clearly not happy with your brothers request either. you said nothing as you walked closer to him, only giving him a little smile, and classic rafe didn’t smile back, but he didn’t move either. it wasn’t like he didn’t notice you, in fact he was staring right at you. maybe you were imagining it but you swear he was looking you up and down, you brushed it off unsure if your eyes were deceiving you. you both stood their awkwardly for a bit waiting for rafe to move so you could get in the car before saying, “rafe i need to get in the car”. perhaps it was the lighting, but was rafe blushing? “oh yeah…sure- sorry” he stumbled over his words and his feet making he way to the passengers side, letting his eyes linger on your figure a second too long that made you notice. “god, topper was right not letting you go home” you joked, getting into your seat and buckling up. rafe copied your actions but didn’t acknowledge your comment, he was annoyed at himself for getting to out of it to even be able to do a five minute walk down the road to his house. what kind of a man was he? “you look good tonight y/n/n” he mumbled, as if he was embarrassed to compliment you. you weren’t surprised someone made a comment on how you looked tonight, no one has ever seen you like this before and not to toot your own horn but you did look stunning. but the fact it was coming from the big bad wolf of kildare was slightly shocking. “thanks rafe, i never wear these kind of clothes, it’s weird, but i think i like it? i don’t know” you continued to ramble, completely blind to the way rafe wasnt listening to you but instead staring at the way your eyes has a sparkle in them and looking as if they brightened up your face despite it being pitch black, and the way you still had a big smile on as if being taken away from your friends to babysit a very capable man wasn’t a burden at all. he continued to ‘listen’ to you for the rest of short journey and didn’t realise when you were parked outside of his house. lightly chuckling at rafes lack of awareness you informed him, “we’re here rafe” and quickly he snapped out of trance and abruptly got out. but before making his way to the front door he circled to your window, knocking it with his knuckle, commanding you to roll it down. when you did what he wanted he said, “see you around, yeah kid?” and you went back to the girl too scared to talk around him, offering him a gentle nod as he walked away. “he was acting so weird, he must’ve been really high” you thought to yourself, pulling out his drive way. “fuck, what’s gotten into me” rafe thought while unlocking his front door. topper would kill him if he knew he was starting to harbour a crush on his little sister. what was he going to do?

[corruptedcaps]

Contraband

"Miss Black, how many times have you been told you that running shoes are not part of our uniform?" said the kind but stern Principal Kent, catching Kelly between classes. "I know, sir, but my shoes were taken by the other girls, Samantha and her gang. I only have my trainers left."

Kent looked at her, still stern, but a flicker of empathy registered in his face. "One of these days, Kelly, you're going to have to stand up to them. You need to be more aggressive. For now, here take this key, it will get you into the confiscation room, there is surely to be a pair of shoes in there you can borrow. Quickly now!" he said hoping no one would see his obvious favouritism to Kelly.

Kelly nodded, feeling the weight of isolation as she walked down the corridor. Bullied and friendless, the boarding school seemed like a never-ending maze of hostility. As she entered the contraband room, she wondered if there would ever be a day when she could break free from the clutches of Samantha and her gang.

Kelly scoured the room, scanning through a sea of forgotten and illicit items. She passed a whole host of things that ranged from cigarettes all the way to dildos. There seemed to be items from every decade in there.

Finally her eyes fell upon the box marked 'shoes.' Inside, an array of styles and vintage greeted her, but one pair seized her attention immediately. Sky high white stilettos, barely acceptable within the dress code, beckoned her. These were shoes she would have never considered before; too sexy, too trashy, she thought, for her plain, boring body.

And yet something about them was nearly daring her to try them, to step outside her comfort zone. Hesitant, Kelly pulled the stilettos from the box. As she ran her fingers along the shiny material them, a rebellious spark ignited within her. Perhaps it was time for a change, a departure from the identity imposed on her by Samantha and her gang. She tried them on, the unfamiliar sensation of height and confidence taking hold.

She unsteadily walked a few feet to a nearby lengthwise mirror and took in her reflection. The shoes looked ridiculous on her, her messy hair, glasses and oversized clothes clashed immediately with the shoes. She cursed to herself. For even thinking they might look good on her.

However as she reached down to take them off the stilettos suddenly seemed to tighten around her feet of their own accord. A strange sensation washed over her, making her lightheaded. Dark purple wisps wafted off the shoes, swirling up her legs and around her body. The room crackled with an energy both electric and foreboding.

Kelly gasped as the purple cloud shot into her mouth and slithered down her throat making her cough. Despite the discomfort she felt a most pleasurable sensation start in her stomach and radiate outwards. She felt her very bones creak and her skin stretch and go taut in equally measure. Her body somehow changing.

The shoes, now snug against her feet, seemed to sculpt her legs, elongating them with an ethereal elegance. Her posture shifted, adopting a more defiant stance that hinted at newfound confidence. The curves of her silhouette became more pronounced, as if the magic sought to highlight a beauty that had long been overlooked.

“Ohhh god what’s happening to me? I feel so… nasty.” She groaned as the changes continued.

Her clothing, seemingly touched by the same mystical forces, clung to her transformed figure with a provocative allure. The ordinary uniform tightened around her increasingly shrinking stomach. Her shirt tied up at the middle to expose her new flat midriff and to act as a bra for her now bigger tits. The once modest knee length skirt shortened to a length that would expose her privates with the most subtle of breezes.

The very thought would have made Kelly blush previously but was now turning her on. So much so that she was delighted when she felt her underwear dissolve away leaving her pussy bare.

“Oh fuck yes it’ll be so much easier to fuck studs like this. Oh god what am I saying? That’s not the kind of girl I am! Mmmm but I could be.” She groaned in pleasure.

Her messy brunette locks underwent a startling change, gradually transitioning to a lustrous and thick mane, gaining several inches in height as if was made of hairspray.

Simultaneously, fake nails snapped on her fingers. As if guided by an unseen hand, they took on a polished white sheen to match her new shoes. Finally her skin took on a bronzed fake tan look from head to toe and thick sexy makeup covered her face.

As Kelly eyed herself in the mirror, a personality crystallized in her mind. The girl staring back at her wasn’t some delicate well spoken wallflower who bent to the orders of anyone, not least Samantha and her clique of stuck up princesses.

No, Kelly was now a girl who did whatever she wanted and fuck the consequences. She was a trashy bitch who lived for life’s pleasure’s. A wicked grin crept across her face. "Fuck, look at me now, I’m proper changed, innit? No more being the soft target for those posh sluts. I feel so nasty and mean, I fuckin’ love it!"

She played with her thick hair, and started chewing on gum that had somehow appeared in her mouth. "Gone from plain Jane to a fuckin' babe. Never thought I'd look so good as slutty chav."

Her eyes glinted with a rebellious fire. "Those slag bullies won't know what to do with me. I'm not a fuckin’ pushover anymore.” She laughed to herself as she picked up the box of cigarettes she had seen earlier and sparked up on.

She breathed in deep its smoke, letting it coat her lungs. She blew a perfect ring as if she had done it a thousand times. She ran her fingers along the shelves of the room pocketing or wearing anything that caught her eye. She quickly lost track of time and ignored the bell ring signalling the end of class.

She was just eying a huge dildo when Principal Kent, concerned by Kelly's prolonged absence, entered the room with a purpose. However, as his eyes fell upon the transformed figure before him, shock and disbelief painted his features. "Kelly, what in the world..."

She looked at him first like the authorial figure he was and was about to scowl but then something started to grow inside of her, a sudden lust. Kelly had always been fond of Kent and that fondness had transformed into a newfound need to fuck him. She couldn’t help but salivate at the thought of tasting his dick and making him cum inside her. She stubbed her cigarette on the ground with her new heels and walked over to him like a panther.

She walked past his open mouthed stance and closed the door. With a turn of the lock she sealed the two of them in. She put her hands behind her butt and arched her back at him, pushing out her cleavage. Kent gulped.

“Ohhhh sir, I’m so glad you came, I got locked in here by mistake. You’re my knight in shining armour.” She said with a dangerous smile as she slowly approached him. He backed away into a shelf, pinned in by the new Kelly.

“Miss Black, I think we need to find you some help, why don’t we…” He began nervously.

Her wicked grin cut through his words as she stood confidently in his path. "Principal Kent, no need for help. I’ve learned the one thing you’ve always said I needed to be. Aggressive. And call me Kelly, babe."

In a bold move, Kelly seized Principal Kent by the head, pulling him into a deep and unexpected kiss. As their lips met, the magic within her stomach rose up and out her mouth entering Kent’s body. Kelly pulled back from their kiss and found Kent to be in a sort of trance.

“Well isn’t this a surprise?” Kelly said waving her hand in front of his face to no reaction while tasting the lingering magic on her lips. Smirking to herself she undid his belt buckle and let his pants slide to the floor. Pulling his underwear down she was dismayed to find a fairly insignificant penis staring back at her.

“Let’s see what my slutty magic mouth can do about this.” She grinned as she wrapped her pink lips around his cock and began sucking. To her delight she felt it grow larger in her mouth. However Kent seemed to break from his trance by her slurping but rather than stop her he grabbed her hair and guided his cock in and out of her mouth.

“Oh fuck yes you dirty slag, suck my big cock. Oh what am I saying? What are you doing to me.” He groaned in confusion but finding it hard to stop himself. Kelly looked up at him with satisfied dirty look on her face as she watched the magic start to spiral out from her mouth, down his shaft and infect the rest of his body.

His body began to bulk outwards along his arms and legs, becoming strong and muscular. His flabby middle aged stomach sucked in and became a toned six pack. He aged backwards, going from his 40 something self into an 18 year old hunk with a stylish haircut and chiselled jaw line. His muted suit turned into one of the school uniforms that barely contained his new bulging form.

He couldn’t help but look at himself in the mirror as Kelly continued to suck him off. He flexed his muscles and practiced a scowl. Like Kelly before him he found a new persona emerge the more he looked at his reflection. One that was mean, cruel and loved to bully. The only thing he loved more was his bitchy girlfriend Kelly.

He felt his huge dick start to spasm as he let the new personality take over, he was about to cum but Kelly had other plans. Pulling his dick out of her mouth she started to stroke it slowly as she stood up and slipped her wet pussy onto it. They both moaned in unison as she did.

“Ohhhh fuck babe I don’t know what you did to me but I fucking love it. I feel like such a bastard now.” He grinned.

“Stop bloody talking will ya and fuck me!” She said with a cheeky grin as he lifted her off the ground and pushed her against a wall. She groaned in ecstasy Ashe rammed his member into her wanting pussy again and again.

“Cum in me you fucking bastard!” She groaned loudly that she was sure most of school would hear. Kent obliged by thrusting long and hard into her. The magic that she had imparted on him was now re-entering her body. With each drop of cum coming in Kent started to revert back to his older form.

“No! No! What’s happening to me?” Kent cried out as he slowly dropped Kelly to the ground unable to hold her with his weaker arms. Kelly smirked to herself as she watched Kent turn completely back to his normal self.

“Sorry babe, but the magic likes to come back to me, I can’t help it can I? But tell you what, you be a good little principal and let me do whatever the fuck I want and we can make this a daily thing. Deal?” She said as she toyed with her hair.

Kent looked at her tight body and her sexy smile and knew he would do anything she asked. Anything to feel strong again and anything to feel her warm pussy again. He nodded. With that Kelly disappeared into the shelves to retrieve something.

“Good. First things first, the uniform code doesn’t apply to me anymore got it? I can wear whatever the fuck I want from know on got it?” She called out from deep in the room.

“Oh I don’t think I can do that, it will be obvious favouritism….” He started but trailed off as Kelly emerged dressed in a new outfit. He gulped and felt his dick get instantly hard.

“Don’t worry baby, I’m going to be your new student liaison, or something proper like that, so I’ll need to stand out from the rest of school or make up whatever excuse you want I don’t fucking care. Either way we’re going to be spending a lot more time together and you’re going to help me rule this dump. Aren’t you babe?” She said more as a statement of fact than a request.

She didn’t need to sink to her knees and suck him off again but she had gotten so horny thinking about what a mean bitchy queen chav she was going to be that she wanted big strong Kent back and Kent wasn’t going to argue.

THE END

[thefreakandthehair]

@eddiemonth prompt, oct 19th: Scifi/tech | Electric Eye - Judas Priest | Bewildered a/n: eddie pov, eddie & dustin friendship, dustin & steve friendship, and an excuse for me to weasel one of my favorite steve headcanons into something. un-betaed because I'm challenging myself to write these in under an hour. read on ao3 + masterpost | tumblr masterlist

After his release from the hospital and the unfortunate news that his trailer had been destroyed, Eddie goes from functionally homeless to having multiple spaces that feel like home. 

He’s been all but adopted by Claudia at this point, an offer extended immediately after hearing the version of the story everyone’s agreed upon— that the ground split open and Eddie nearly ate it pushing Dustin out of the way. It’s not quite the truth, but the theme is the same and anyone who’s willing to sacrifice themself for her son is welcome any time. 

Especially when he’s been called upon to help with Dustin’s science fair project. It’s out of Eddie’s league a bit, the actual science part, but he and his mechanical brain prove helpful. Kinda nice, actually, to use those hotwiring skills for good. 

Of course, it also helps that the government set him and Wayne up in a modest two bedroom house down the road, and that Eddie can practically smell Claudia's cooking when the windows are open. Like Garfield, he’s drawn to the Henderson house with the scent of a fresh lasagna. 

Bellies full and completed project sitting confidently on the kitchen table for tomorrow, they’re watching Star Wars movies in Dustin’s living room, one after another, and he feels just a touch like a traitor. Star Trek will always have his heart and Wayne can never know. 

“How’d you get into Star Wars anyways?” Eddie asks, sprawled across Dustin’s couch. 

“Can you believe Steve actually got me into them?” Dustin replies, curled up on the recliner. 

There’s an infinite number of ways a child might be introduced to the Star Wars franchise— a parent, a trailer before another movie, a carrier pigeon dropping a flier at their fucking feet— and they’re all more believable than Steve Harrington introducing Dustin Henderson to the sci-fi epic. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie turns with wide eyes and a crooked grin to face Dustin. “What?”

“I know, right? It was uh, okay this is a little embarrassing.” Dustin cuts himself off, justifying some secret Eddie somehow hasn’t been told yet. 

He knows about the Mind Flayer and the Russians, and all the other Dungeons and Dragons lore that’d lived beneath his feet for years. What could possibly be left to make Dustin cringe like that? 

“Oh, do tell.” Eddie raises an eyebrow and gestures with an arm towards the expanse of space between them. “Floor is yours, young Bard. Spin the tale.”

Dustin rolls his eyes and throws popcorn at him. He tries to catch it in his mouth but he’s never been that coordinated. 

“It’s not really a tale. A few years ago, there was this school dance, the Snow Ball. I got all amped up, Steve helped with my hair, and then the night was a total fucking dud. Nancy danced with me which was like, super awesome of her, but I felt like shit after anyways.”

Eddie listens with rapt attention, pissed off that Dustin had such a relatable middle school experience and intrigued at this new sliver of Steve lore. Not that he cares. Obviously. Why would he? The idea of Steve helping Dustin get ready for the Snow Ball doesn’t conjure up words like adorable at all. 

He nods him on. 

“And uh, I called Steve the next day. He came over and we had pizza and he brought some of his favorite movies he thought I’d like. Star Wars had spaceships so obviously, easy choice. And here we are now with Return of the Jedi.” 

Okay, yep, that’s gonna be hard to tamp down the next time he sees Steve. Stomping his ill-advised crush into the ground beneath his Rebooks has been hard enough but now? Motherfucker. 

It’s also not lost on him that Dustin chose these movies today. Eddie feels like he’s stepping into some tradition that doesn’t belong to him, but he can’t squash the kid’s enthusiasm with his own insecurity. 

Instead, Eddie goes for the low hanging fruit.  

“Wow. Gotta tell you man, that’s maybe weirder than finding out about the monsters and shit. Steve’s favorite movie is Return of the Jedi?” 

Dustin snorts and laughs, toothless and free. Happiness isn’t new for Dustin, not anymore, but it’s still nice to see after all they’ve been through. 

“Well, that’s one of them. He always calls it ‘the ones with the teddy bears’, so people assume he means Return of the Jedi. But I know the truth. That dork loves Caravan of Courage.”

Eddie flips through his mental catalog of sci-fi movies and lands on a VHS cover: a couple of humans, a few Ewoks, and something that looks like a machine gun. If he remembers correctly, it has something of a cult following but wasn’t touted as a high point in the series. 

… And it’s Steve’s favorite. The one with the teddy bears. 

“Wait… what?!”

[hlficlibrary]

✤ Coming Out Fics ✤

A series of posts with the top five fics of each category by kudos plus five more hidden gems from that category! Remember to leave kudos and a comment on the fics you enjoyed to show your appreciation! You can find the library's other recs here.

- Top 5 H/L Fics -

1️⃣ And Then a Bit by @infinitelymint (E, 158k)

“We’d like to give the fans what they want.” Magee states, placing his hand on the table in front of him and leaning forward. “We want to give them Larry Stylinson.”

Or, take a parallel universe where Louis and Harry were never together, mix in a two year hiatus and an impending comeback, pour in a dash of lost fans, two tablespoons of strong friendship and a Modest! employee with a good idea. Add a squeeze of pretending to be a couple, lots of kisses and a tattoo or two. Stir. Serve: the mother of all publicity stunts.

(aka Harry and Louis fake a relationship for publicity. Eventually it becomes a lot less fake and a lot more real.)

2️⃣ led by your beating heart by @missandrogyny (E, 33k)

Nick leans over. "Oh," he says, his voice smug. "Who is that?"

Harry just blinks at his phone. "Um," he manages to stammer out.

"Who's that, Harry?" Nick asks again, but this time he raises his eyebrows and smirks. Harry knows Nick is just teasing, and that he's not really looking for new Harry Styles gossip, but, um. He might have found something. Accidentally.

Harry opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is another 'um'. He really needs to work on translating his thoughts into words. But then it probably wouldn't be any help right now, would it? His mind is as blank as a newly erased etch-a-sketch.

"Oh," Nick says again, this time gleefully, seemingly having picked up on Harry's distress. "Looks like we've got a story here! Are you going to call or delete her number?"

Her number. So Nick thinks it's a girl. Well, Harry can't blame him: 'Lou' is kind of an androgynous nickname. His stylist's name is Lou.

But this Lou, well, Louis, he's kind of, really, really not a girl. He's really pretty though, which, is something.

(Or: AU where Harry's in One Direction, Louis isn't, and they reconnect over a game of 'Call or Delete'.)

3️⃣ California Sold by @isthatyoularry (M, 123k)

Notoriously closeted boyband member Harry Styles is famous on a global scale, meanwhile Louis, as his best friend, is back home in Manchester, living the typical life of a 24 year old. When Harry needs Louis with him in LA, a publicity stunt gone wrong changes their friendship forever.

A fake-relationship AU between two lifelong best friends.

4️⃣ Shake Me Down by @agreatperhaps12 (NR, 208k)

Harry's new to college, fresh out of Catholic school and conversion therapy camp, and Louis runs the campus LGBTQIA organization.

5️⃣ Time Bomb by ThisSentimentalHeart (M, 291k)

“Why exactly are you here?” Louis asked, feigning annoyance and failing pathetically at it. “My publicist told me I can't go anywhere near you.” Harry said, eyes still smudged with last night's eye liner. “That makes you my favorite person in the world.”

Or the one where Louis has everything: a lead role in a giant Hollywood franchise, a glittering new house with an entertaining Irish neighbor, and a steady, normal boyfriend who he probably loves. Louis never expected to become a household name among young Hollywood overnight. He also never expected to find something endearing about the enigmatic rockstar who keeps showing up on his back porch.

HIDDEN GEMS:

💎 Caught In Your Gravity by @lululawrence (NR, 62k)

It felt like the blood froze in Harry’s veins even as he got a bit lightheaded. He hadn’t even made it two practices, only one of which he was remotely in charge of, without giving it all away and now he and Liam were both absolutely fucked.

“Shit,” Harry breathed out. “Who all have you told? Does everyone know? I thought I covered it better than that…”

“No, no,” Louis said quickly. "They’ll figure it out soon enough, though, because they’ll get used to you changing things up, but you’re only going to trip over your so called Americanisms for so long before they realize it’s because you don’t actually know fuck all about football.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. I figured. I just need to bullshit for long enough to allow Liam to get the situation figured out from his end.”

“Right, which brings me to my entire point. I think we can find a mutually beneficial arrangement with all of this.” Louis leaned forward. “You need to learn the ins and outs of the sport incredibly fast. I can help you with that.”

“What do you want in exchange?”

Or, an AU inspired by a 30 second trailer of Ted Lasso that doesn't actually have much in common with the show at all.

💎 That Smile and That Midnight Laugh by yeah_alright / @uhoh-but-yeah-alright (T, 50k)

Harry’s never noticed how lovely Louis really is. Maybe it’s just that she’s usually so guarded – a little tense, a little irritated, a little put out. At least when she’s at school, and also usually when she’s around Nick, which are the only times Harry has really seen her. Until tonight. Tonight Harry’s seen her with her guard completely down. Too busy laughing and enjoying herself to remember to be prickly, maybe. She seems different.

It feels different.

A Ferris Bueller's Day Off AU that picks up right where the movie leaves off, and imagines what might happen if Ferris' girlfriend and sister become friends. And maybe something more, too.

💎 some evening in springtime by delsicle / @eeveedel (M, 20k)

Fresh out of veterinary school, Louis moves to a sleepy small town in Texas to take over the local animal clinic. But his new life is quickly interrupted by a middle aged rancher with a bad leg and a mysterious past, who really needs Louis's yoga skills.

💎 still feel the same around you by momentofclarity / @gaycousinlarry (E, 13k)

Twenty-five years is a long time to fall in love with someone, to learn all the ways a person can fit into one's heart. It’s also an awful long time to lie to one of the most important people in your life.

The Act My Age Girl Direction AU.

💎 Glass Heart by @musketrois (G, 7k)

“26-year-old West Ham footballer Louis Tomlinson was seen getting acquainted with 24-year-old pop sensation Harry Styles and others. Although it is not unordinary for these two professions to be social, we can’t wait to see what this budding relationship will bring to London’s social scene.”

-Celebrity Blurb 25 March, 2017

[hauntedjpegcollection]

in my restless dreams, i see that town

wc: 5398 au: silent hill au ch: yasiel, benji, lethe

My favorite memory of you is the swing set. Rusty and neglected, lonely and ignored.

Our backyard, you remember? You finally let me push you until we thought you’d go the whole way around. You didn’t, but it was enough that we thought it was possible. And you let me and I never told you how much that meant to me. You trusted me. No one ever trusts me.

Don’t come for me, Yas.

It isn’t safe. And you’re not strong enough.

I’m sorry.

I love you, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry and I love you.

Don’t

—

The rustle of the forest is like whispers; ominous, cruel, and taunting. So similar to his twin. Nelsy could be a forest, undefinable by map with too many paths that wind to no true destination. Nowhere authentically safe. She was scary and unknowable and cold—and so is Yasiel. Standing on the overpass that leads to Silent Hill, the wind sending murmurs through the leaves, cutting the bare skin of his high, freckled cheekbones.

He's fucking cold.

Yasiel’s lighter clicks a few times before it finally sparks and washes his light brown face in ambers and reds. The flame flickers a few times and threatens to go out before it can complete its simple job of lighting the cigarette dangling between his lips. The nicotine doesn’t warm him up, but it soothes a thrumming nerve inside him. An anxiety that can’t ever truly calm.

Don’t come for me, Yas.

His head tilts back, smoke pluming above him from parted lips. The sky above is cottony with roiling clouds, dark and fat on rain that hasn’t shed yet. Mouse had picked a perfect time to disappear; she always knew he hated fall. The slow death to winter. A season that held too many bad memories for both of them. And he hates the fucking cold. His black denim jacket is all flash and no substance, made to make him look pretty but not offer any actual warmth.

Maybe being warm would just make him feel guilty anyway. What does he deserve, after all? What, indeed.

Yasiel stamps the cigarette out on the railing of the overpass, then flicks the butt out into nature, watching it fall down the steep ravine into the forest surrounding Silent Hill. Adverts online made it seem like a pretty little place, someone’s cozy small town getaway. Writers would book a motel room and finish their next big project, or dads would drag their families to move in and start new. The sheriff from a town over takes a new placement in Silent Hill and feels restless because people aren’t doing cocaine off each other in bathrooms and ending their night jacking cars.

There’s no seeing the town from this far away, but the road into town is shut down. Looks permanent, no less. A rusted gate is padlocked closed, a few plywood boards haphazardly strapped to it. People have dumped trash all around it, like the dumpster off to the side was a suggestion to ignore. Yasiel, if he were athletic like his sister, might have been able to vault over the fence.

Instead, he’s forced to leave his car and take the scenic trail.

According to the map he’d snagged from a rest stop a hundred miles prior, that route funnels directly into Silent Hill’s graveyard before opening up into town.

“My fucking luck,” he mutters aloud to no one but the haughty, laughing wind. Yas folds the map, tucks it into his back pocket along with his lighter.

Then he descends.

—

The fog only seems to thicken the closer Yasiel gets to Silent Hill, and with it a palpable sense of dread. What starts as a modest mist quickly turns into a heavy blanket—and the way forward becomes trickier and tricker. He stumbles over forest roots, slides down the path as it suddenly becomes a gravely hill. More than once, he slips and palms a tree beside him and comes away with a scrape on his hand. The sting follows him.

So does the growing frustration that simmers into fury.

A farm sits desolate beside the trail as it opens from forest into wide open dirt path. A rusted windmill creaks slowly in the wind, the shadow falling over him. The sun is barely able to peek through the grey fog, the heavyset clouds. The farm makes him feel uneasy. It reminds him of an empty airport at four in the morning, or a lot to a gas station where the OPEN light flickers nonstop where he’s the only car parked. He’s reminded of the stairwell in his apartment building, how it goes on and on and on forever as he stands at the top and stares down. It’s a place abandoned except for him.

Yasiel’s heartbeat is loud in his ears as he walks past the abandoned farm. His breathing is uneven and raspy and he can’t entirely blame it on the hike. Grass and dirt crunch underneath his sneakers but otherwise, there is no noise. The severe lack of it is almost loud. He pats down the inside pocket of his denim jacket, reminding himself of the inhaler kept there. It does little to comfort him.

He resolves to hate his sister a little harder as he finally finds the winding path to the graveyard. Flowers, dying of course, line the path like droopy used tissues. The gate is as worn down as everything else Yasiel has encountered, but the rusted chain that barely keeps the back entrance together is easily yanked off. He rubs the metallic dust from his hand onto his jeans, slipping in through the little opening he’s made.

A “Welcome to Silent Hill” sign would have been appreciated and yet all he has is the fog, the tombs like broken teeth burst from the ground and a dark silhouette just a few paces in front of him.

—

“Hello?”

The stranger whirls to face him and Yasiel regrets saying anything. He’s not sure what made him approach in the first place—herd mentality perhaps. The fear of being alone and spotting the singular other person he’s seen since the rest stop prior to entering Silent Hill’s radius.

Rusty and neglected, lonely and ignored.

Whoever they are, they’re angry. The word might not even justify it. Their jacket hood is up, but snakes of curly black hair peek from underneath it, framing his furious expression. Thick, dark brows pull in tight, creating a crease on their brown forehead. The stranger’s eyes are red rimmed and shiny, deep set with purpling bruises underneath them. His lip curls up, revealing teeth in a snarling expression.

Yasiel instinctively steps back.

“You from this fuckin’ town?”

“What? No, I—”

“Is this a joke? Some dickhead havin’ a proper fuckin’ laugh at me, then? Who did this?” The graveyard stranger throws a hand toward the tombstone he’d been standing in front of. Yasiel only realizes then that there is a hole in the ground, coffin shaped and six feet deep. A plot freshly dug for a burial. Nausea wells in his stomach.

“Man, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! I don’t live here, I just—I just got here. I’m looking for—” He cuts off as the stranger’s face flickers with fear and pain and then lastly, worry. All three mingle into something devastating before it’s wiped clean, flat and apprehensive.

Yasiel looks at the tombstone once more. There doesn’t seem to be anything else he can do.

XAVIER WOLFFE

1996 – 2024

ARE YOU GOING TO STOP IT, BENJI?

YOU SHOULD TRY, IT MIGHT BE FUN!

A booted foot kicks out, striking the tombstone and sending it falling backward, the sound of marble slapping on loamy soil a wet smack. Yasiel flinches, taking a sidestep from the man—from Benji? He’s shorter, but broad and his hands, clenched at his sides, shake with unrepentant fury. There’s a glint of something gold at his neck, but Yasiel doesn’t look closer.

“Who is it?” he asks, taking another step away, cautious. Yasiel glances down into the grave to make sure it really is empty—there’s no dead body or even an empty casket, just a depression in the dirt, man sized. The hairs along his arms and the ones at the back of his neck stand to attention. The fog rolls in on the two of them, no less heavy, no less dense. It’s day time and yet the ever present grey makes this graveyard feel like a bog.

Mouse had read Wuthering Heights to shreds, he remembers. Her paperback copy had fallen apart in her hands one night, as she sat bent over in bed, a pen behind her ear. She would have loved this graveyard, and this chilling stranger.

Benji—if that’s who he is—doesn’t answer the question. He stares down at the tombstone, a muscle in his jaw feathering. He looks like he hasn’t slept for days, his clothes rumpled. There’s a drawstring bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, listen,” Yasiel says quietly. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who isn’t?” Benji snaps back, black eyes sliding upward to him. “I’m looking for him.”

“For—For Xavier?”

“He’s not dead if that’s what you’re thinkin’. Someone did this, someone fuckin’ sick and disgustin’ did this.”

Yasiel can’t place the man’s accent directly, besides distinctly British. His voice is rumbly, from the chest and deeply hurt. Words fracture a bit here and there, notably on dead and disgusting. Yasiel goes to ask another question—when’s the last time you saw him or where are you from—any semblance of polite socialization that might lead him down a path where he can ask about Mouse.

Instead, he sees another figure. Not that far from them, partially hidden by a statue of a crumbling angel. The mist in the graveyard has made it almost impossible to see anything other than the smattering of graves and Benji. It thins, only just barely. As though the graveyard wants them to see this.

Only, Yasiel doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to know. He steps back, eyes wide as the dark silhouette materializes little by little. Fear makes his veins cold, make his limbs feel limp and useless. His hand twitches to his lower back, underneath his jacket. He’s horrified at himself, at the sudden dread and terror that seems to be controlling his actions. So, his hand pauses.

That’s when the figure shambles forward.

“Xavier?” Benji asks, startled, his voice tipping high with hope. Dirt scatters into the open grave as he steps closer. Mist unravels around them. Yasiel’s hand shoots out and grabs him by the bicep, earning a dangerous look—he misses it entirely. Benji’s warning glare is wasted on him, because all Yasiel looks at is…is…it.

A distinctly canine jaw opens, mangled tongue lolling from its maw, high pitched whine splitting the otherwise silent graveyard. Drool pours from it’s mouth, mixing with dark, oily blood. The beast is shaped mostly man like; it stands on two long denim clad legs, nude lengthy pale torso tapered to wide shoulders, it’s arms behind it’s back cruelly bent and bound by slick wire. For a moment, a feeling of odd, misplaced sympathy cuts through the fear. It’s in pain, wolflike head rolling back and forth, nose snuffling the air, whimpering. It’s fur is dark auburn and shaggy.

“Xavier?” Benji repeats, his voice a horrified whisper.

The dog head snaps up, large white teeth gnashing together.

“Holy shit,” Yasiel whispers. Then screams as the beast charges toward him.

Everything happens too quickly. The breath is knocked from him as he collides with the ground—Yasiel raises an arm in defense, screaming wildly as an eyetooth catches on his wrist. The skin splits, fresh blood splattering across his denim jacket. Adrenaline is the only thing that keeps him from feeling the pain immediately. Yasiel kicks out his legs, flailing underneath the creature as it snaps its jaws open and close. Its wide open mouth smells like a dead thing, breath hot and foul. It snarls, lips curled back, snout wrinkled.

Then it squeals, spasming on top of Yasiel, who jerks out from under it. He rolls away on the grass, scrambling backward. There’s more blood on him. Dark and slick. This time, it belongs to the creature. Benji straddles it, with something wicked and glinting sharp in the grey filtered sunlight held aloft in his hand.

The doglike sounds of pain continue as Benji stabs, his own voice frantic and loud. Over and over, he plunges the—scalpel? The scalpel. Over and over until the wolf man is just twitching on the ground, bent at a horrible angle with it’s arms tied behind its back. Then slowly, it sighs out one last sound and—and it dies.

“Fuck!” Benji screams standing. He kicks, one final slam of his boot against pale flesh. “Fuck!”

Yasiel must say something too, but he isn’t sure what. It draws Benji’s attention, his focus sharp. And then he’s there, kneeling beside him, holding Yasiel’s hand, as his wrist continues bleeding. The wound is looked over with a clinical eye. It hasn’t started hurting yet; it only burns, like he’s gotten too close to campfire, like he’s laid out under the sun too long, like he’s fallen asleep in a car, baking in the backseat.

“Oh my God,” Yasiel whispers, realizing that it’s not the first time he’s said it. That maybe he’s been repeating it ever since the dog had been pulled off him and killed. His entire body shakes, a pit of cold opening in his chest. Yasiel’s vision is blurry until he realizes that his glasses had been knocked off. Awkwardly, he pulls himself away from Benji to pick them up. When he stands, he stumbles. His elbow is caught, steadying him enough to stand there without falling.

“Thank you,” he says, awe struck and dumb.

“Gonna faint?”

“No.”

“Y’sure?”

“No, I—What—what the fuck was that?”

Benji shakes his head. Yasiel didn’t expect him to know, and yet he still feels lost. Is this a dream? It can’t be. Oh God, it can’t be. He knows it isn’t and that’s worse. That makes it all so much worse. Reality catches up to him, the adrenaline dump draining; and then he’s doubling over, vomiting onto the blood stained grass. He heaves, hands on his knees, panting, stomach muscles clenching. He raises a shaky hand to stop his glasses from falling off once more.

“Can you get back then?”

“What?” Yas straightens slowly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. The bile’s made his lips burn. He almost registers that more than the slash on his wrist, even as the blood clots and dries.

“Up the way you came, yeah? Trail in the woods leads to the road, right?”

“Yes. Yeah, it does.”

“Can you get back?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not leaving this fucking place without my husband,” Benji points into the fog. Into Silent Hill. His hand trembles, but his expression is hard and final. Yasiel can still taste vomit in his mouth, the bitter tang of it on the back of his tongue. He looks down at his hand, where blood has pooled into his palm, into the creases. His life line, his love line, the identical match to his sisters.

It isn’t safe. And you’re not strong enough.

“Let me come with you,” Yasiel pleads, stumbling toward Benji, hands upraised. The scalpels been cleaned on his jeans, making it shine in the dull fog once more. Benji’s hand tightens around it, tendons standing out starkly. Yasiel doesn’t even flinch. He can’t afford to be afraid, but he is. He is so afraid. “My sister is here. I’m looking for her—I have to find her. I’m not leaving, either.”

Wherever she is. Yasiel thinks of the dead wolf man creature on the ground, blood soaking into the dirt and a spasm of fear tightens his chest. His heart turns over wildly. Half of him is out there, in this town, with these things.

“You don’t get in my way of finding him,” Benji says calmly, slowly. The scalpel disappears into a pocket. He pulls his hood back, letting tangles of black curls free. The subtle graveyard wind shifts around them, tickling exposed skin, laughing in their ears. “Then, c’mon.”

—

They don’t encounter another creature—they don’t encounter anything at all. No people, no remains of them either. Just emptiness; cars parked with nothing in them, flyers and newspapers scattering empty roads. Everything is covered in layers of grime, as if Silent Hill stopped being a town a decade ago, frozen in time but not immune to decay.

Which doesn’t make sense because Mouse had been here just last year. Yasiel had dropped her off at the train, watched her go, and then picked her back up just a week later. Silent Hill had existed back then, as a town full of people and life—a hotel to stay in, doctors and nurses and medication and a little diner that she took pictures of. Mouse had even charmed her way onto someone’s tug boat for a ride on the lake. Like it was a vacation, a holiday stay, instead of a sleep study to solve her night terrors.

“Why did your husband come here?” Yasiel asks, breaking the long, cautious silence that’s crept up on them. They walk down an empty street, the fog everlasting and obscuring anything not ten feet in front of them. He’s anxiously straining to hear anything that might resemble a dog. Whining, barking, that terrible sniffing. But it’s just been his own heavy breathing.

“You wanna chat right now?” Benji throws Yasiel an incredulous stare, a pinch between his brows. “More of those fuckin’ things could be out here.”

Yasiel stays quiet for a moment, observing the abandoned street. They pass storefronts, equally empty or boarded shut. Some of them have broken windows, glass scattering the sidewalk. A chill makes him bundle into his denim jacket further.

Then he finally clears his throat and says, “You called it Xavier?”

“Listen, dickhead.” Benji rounds toward Yasiel. His face pales and his hand reaches out, jerking the slender painter by his jacket. Yasiel stumbles, feeling Benji’s body heat suddenly; the clarity that he is a real, living person. “More of ‘em. Like I said. Down the alley.” A tremor runs up Yasiel’s spine, sweat pooling under his arms. He dares to look sideways, shaking so bad even his glasses slide down the tip of his nose.

And Benji’s right. There are more of them, these half human dog wolf things. A bundle of them down a decrepit alleyway, a dumpster overturned, ancient trash piled everywhere alongside cardboard boxes, a rusted shopping cart. Two of the wolves fight each other, arms bound, snapping their maws, catching delicate pale skin and rending flesh. Without balance, they fall on each other, on the ground, tangling and fighting still. They howl and yip and snarl and bark madly, while three stand around them, watching. The bystanders cackle, fangs dripping spit and blood. They laugh, like hyenas, heads rolling back and forth, unhinged.

Yasiel slaps a hand over his mouth to stop a whimper.

“We’re gonna cut this way, alright?” Benji’s voice is close. Real. Real person, really alive. “Slowly. Goin’ for the diner behind us.”

Mouse’s diner. For a moment, he thinks of the picture she’d sent him of the burger she’d ordered. Stacked with the works, as she liked it, thick cut fries and her mayonnaise and ketchup mixture on a side plate. Yasiel wants to cry. He wants to burst into tears and run away screaming, he wants to pretend this isn’t happening. The dogs scream down the alley. Benji’s hand tightens on his jacket.

Yasiel looks over his shoulder. The neon light—Diner 52—miraculously flickers. The glass windows are intact. One single car sits parallel parked outside of it, door open and almost off its hinges. His tongue is dry in his mouth, awkward and fat. He nods once and Benji slowly eases himself off the sidewalk.

The dog wolves never pay them any attention. They kill each other in the alleyway, laughing and barking.

—

The diner tables are dusty, as is the bar where residents must have sat and drank milkshakes and asked a waitress named Marge for the “slamming special” as it’s called on the crumbling menu board. The floor is dirt caked, but the inside of the diner feels oddly safe. Secluded, almost. Respite from whatever is happening outside, with the monsters. Yasiel sits himself down on a stool, peeling his jacket sleeve back to look at his…bite wound.

“Lemme see.”

Benji slings his bag up onto the counter and begins to rifle through it. He’s handsome, despite the anger and the hostility. He has a curved nose and thick facial hair, the kind that looks soft to the touch. When he pushes his black curls from his face, the effect is downright astounding. Lucky bastard, Yasiel thinks of Xavier, then immediately feels guilty for it. Not really time or place, but he’d never been very good at that.

Slut. Mouse’s voice, affectionate and teasing. Her needling fingers tickling his sides, laughing while they smoke on his balcony. Get it out the gutter, Yassy. She’d hated his last girlfriend and loved his last boyfriend and declared herself free from accusations of misogyny anyway. He just simply had bad taste fifty percent of the time, and fifty percent of the time he’d be dating a woman. Yasiel closes a hand over his mouth again, when his throat thickens with the feeling of tears.

He holds his arm outstretched.

Benji’s poured something onto gauze, a little white kit open in front of him.

“Are you a nurse?” He grunts in reply as he begins cleaning the small gash on Yasiel’s arm. The rubbing alcohol burns so bad he flinches, earning a severely annoyed look. “Kind of a pussy, if you haven’t noticed.” It softens Benji’s expression. He snorts out what must be a laugh and reaches for his supplies.

“S’how I met ‘im.” The wound gets dressed tightly. Benji’s efficient, but his movements slow. His eyes stray to the side. “Poor fucking boy got a concussion playing hockey. Came in to the ER and was on my chart. When I was pokin’ him with the IV, he asked to marry me. Was fucking stunned out my mind. Couldn’t really do anything but laugh. Then he got all teary eyed with it. Told me if I gave him my number, we’d end up married someday.”

“Wow.” Yasiel lets his hands fall between his knees. He realizes he’s smiling, but doesn’t feel like trying to stop himself. Benji’s eyes narrow, a nasty smelling sanitizer rubbed between his hands as a poor mans bath.

“Don’t really tell that story,” he admits quietly.

“Guess I have the sort of face that invites honesty.”

Benji’s nose wrinkles, face screwing up as if he can’t tell whether or not Yasiel is joking. He is, for what it’s worth, but Benji still snorts again and says, “You really don’t, mate.”

They lapse into silence. Not long enough either of them can adjust to the insanity of their situation. Yasiel suddenly pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He has no service and he didn’t expect to either—this wouldn’t be a nightmare if he could just call 911 and be done with it all. Still, seeing the NO SERVICE at the top of the screen, where his battery symbol waits at 75% makes his heart plunge.

“This is my sister,” Yasiel says, handing over the phone. On screen, Mouse smiles in her knife like way. They have the same eyes, same heterochromia. One brown, one a green hazel that looks brighter under direct sunlight. She sits on the beach, her knees tucked to her chest, one of Yasiel’s baseball caps backwards on her head. Waves of her wild, brown hair are sea salt tangled. He can’t think of a picture that describes her better. And he can’t look at it as Benji does.

“You’re twins.”

“Oh, yeah,” Yasiel replies, locking the phone and tucking it back into his pocket beside his inhaler. “Down to the eyes and everything. When we were little, people would get us confused all the time. We’re uh, nothing alike in personality.”

“Feel like I know her,” Benji murmurs, his eyes on the floor. “The picture of her. Just felt familiar, that.” Finally, his hand pats his back pocket. First, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lazily lighting on. Yasiel wants to point out that they’re inside, but realizes how stupid that is. Then, Benji finds his wallet and flips it open.

There’s something sweet about him having a polaroid tucked in with a few bills and a receipt. They’re perfect strangers, yet Yasiel feels like that makes sense. Benji holds it for a second, as though unwilling for it to leave his possession even for a moment. Then finally, he holds it out, taking a long drag on his cigarette and looking away.

Yasiel’s heart betrays him and he thinks of the gravesite. The tombstone. He looks down at the picture and wonders if this man is actually dead and Benji is insane—but that would make two of them probably. They both saw those dogs. Yasiel grits his teeth, breathes evenly through his nose, and forces himself to look at the picture and think—alive. Missing. Just like Mouse. Needs to be found. Loved. So loved.

And he is, if the picture indicates anything. Benji has a subdued sort of smile, his eyes purely on Xavier. The photo is of both of them, sitting in a bar, with low lighting and pints of half drank beer on their table. A pale, tattooed hand peeks into the photo, holds fingers behind Benji’s head, in a mockery of bunny ears. Xavier takes up most of the frame, this giant, lanky red head, who is smiling ear to ear. He has an arm slung around Benji’s shoulders, pulling them together close. He is so traditionally handsome that it seems fake, for someone to be that pretty.

Yasiel thinks of the wolf thing, half human. Pale, with its shaggy oxblood fur. He forces the image away, commits Xavier to memory instead.

“I think I know what you mean,” he says, handing the photo back. Benji takes another hard drag on his cigarette, flicking ash onto the already dirty tile floor. The smell of nicotine is oddly comforting. “I mean, he sort of has one of those smiles, but—feels like I know him. Like we’ve met before.”

He’s about to ask what made Xavier come here. Why would anyone come here? Why had Mouse? But it used to be a town before, used to be a real place, where people got hamburgers with all the toppings, and took tugboat rides on the lake. It used to be. But right as he’s about to ask, an old fashion radio crackles to life down the counter.

“The fuck?” Benji startles off the stool, standing in front of it. His cigarette drops to the ground, cherry burning. Something old fashioned, classical plays from the staticky speakers. Crooning and lullaby like, a piano melody that makes Yasiel’s temples throb. He presses the heels of his palms to the sides of his head, groaning for a moment.

Then a voice, clear and direct.

“Listeners, are you out there?”

It’s a soft voice. Spoken with deliberate care and enunciation. As melodic as the music, as distinct and otherworldly.

“What is this?” Yasiel mumbles, stepping closer. He drags the radio closer. Dust puffs into the air around it, leaves an almost clean streak across the counter. The dial lights up, flickering with the radio waves. Something old and show tune like plays beneath the voice. Benji crowds in closer, a nervous look over his shoulder to the windows still blanketed in grime and fog.

“This is your host, Lethe, and tonight I’ll be your guide. Are you out there? Are you listening? No ad breaks tonight, darling. I’m here for you, if you’re here to listen.”

Yasiel fumbles for the map in his pocket, yanking it free and spreading it across the counter in front of him. He trails an ink stained finger until he finds SILENT HILL RADIO TOWER. It’s not close.

“I know it’s hairy out there right now, listeners. Trust me, I know.”

The voice is dry, doesn’t chuckle, but the laughter is nearly implied. Benji and Yasiel share a look toward each other, a mixture of shock, revulsion, and an eerie sense of hope. Someone else in the town. Someone else who knows about the monsters.

“Things have gotten spooky in our lovely Silent Hill. But I want to help you—you want my help, don’t you?”

“Who is this fucking loon?” Benji asks, voice quivering. Yasiel’s fingers scramble over the radio, turning it up a fraction. His heart slams against his rib cage, working up his throat. What a beautiful voice, he thinks, his head fuzzy and aching. “What you doin’?”

“Note down these roads for me, listeners. They’re the bad ones you don’t want to get lost down. Avoid them and follow the posters. The Radio Tower is open, and the call line is on. You have me all night. Do you hear that? All night.”

The radio crackles. Yasiel leans in. He swears if he gets close enough, he hears something else. He hears the radio jockey—he hears Lethe—saying his name. Do you hear that? All night, Yasiel. A series of streets follow in staccato rhythm. He yanks a pen from his back pocket, a trusty friend he’s never without, and hastily slashes out roads as Lethe lists them out.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Yasiel whispers, staring at the map.

“See you soon.” Yasiel.

The radio crackles to dead silence.

“I know what to do,” Yasiel says, turning to Benji, holding up the map. His shaking finger stabs at the Silent Hill radio tower.

“Alright, mate, no offense—you got off to a lunatic on a radio with a smooth voice, and I’m not here to judge, even if m’judgin’ a bit, yeah—”

“No! Shut up!” Yasiel shakes out the map again, bumping their shoulders together, forcing Benji to look. He grunts in disapproval, moves just a bit so their arms are no longer touching. “If this person—this, Lethe—is playing on the radio, we can get them to broadcast something. Do you get me?”

A flicker of understanding plays across Benji’s face. He rears back, staring at Yasiel with wide eyes. A stray curl falls across his forehead. There’s blood on the underside of his jaw, from the thing he’d killed earlier.

“If—” Yasiel starts and then stops and stares at this stranger. Someone he hardly knows, has only just met, has been saved by once. He licks his lips and nods toward the radio.

“If you ask Xavier to come, will he?”

“Yes,” Benji answers with no hesitation. His jaw flexes, tightening, nostrils flaring. He looks to the ground, where the cherry of his cigarette slowly dies, smoke curling in the air.

“Yes. Always.”

—

Alright, listener. Don’t lose me. Everything’s too easy to lose in Silent Hill if you’re not careful—and you are careful, aren’t you? With your possessions and your people.

Are you shocked I know so much? Don’t be. You’ll find out more about me too. We’ll never be on an even playing ground, you and I, but we can get close. If you’d like.

I’m going to help you out of here, but you have to be careful. Have to listen, understand? Don’t trust anyone else. Not even yourself. You know that already, don’t you?

Never have been good with trust. If I say I’m honored to have yours, would it be inaccurate to imagine you blushing? Too far, listener? I understand, but you’ll forgive me. I’m going to be with you through it all.

Why?

You shouldn’t ask those kinds of things.

You’re going to remember soon enough and then you might turn this station off. Things are easy to lose in Silent Hill, after all.

I don’t want to lose you just yet.

[sanguinarysanguinity]

Oooo, I have no clue what "Extravagantly" might be - let's hear about that!

Before I close, I must tell you I met an old Acquaintance of yours this week, one Lieutenant Paton, formerly of Campbell's Regiment. I admit he had the advantage of me, I being preoccupied by more immediate matters on the occasion of our former Acquaintance. But he remember'd me and begged my Pardon most handsomely for how I had been treated as Guthrie's prisoner. He remember'd you, as well, and your Anxiety over me, and inquired whether we had ever met again. He was glad to hear that we had, and are even Fast Friends now. Whereupon he told me the most extraordinary story about how you came to be imprisoned with me in Fort Augustus! But I shall speak of that again when I next see you, which, God willing, will be soon…

Funny you should ask about this one; it's a smutfic that I could use your help on. There's an incident in The Flight of the Heron where Keith loses his temper at the commanding officer of the fort where Ewen is being held prisoner. What with Keith being the modest sort and Ewen not being hooked in to the fort's rumour mill, Ewen never hears the story -- which is a shame, because 1) it is a good story, 2) made even better by the CO being Ewen's hereditary enemy.

But what is fic for, if not to supply what was so cruelly taken from us in canon??

So this is the fic wherein, years later, Ewen finally does hear the story, and is so taken with it that he decides that Keith is going to get the most extravagant fuck of his life.

Which is all well and good as a precis until it's time to write the smut, and you realize that you have to live up to your synopsis, alas.

Anyway, if you should be up for helping out with this one when we're done with the current collab, that would be greatly appreciated...

[itsthedoodle]

This Love Is Alive Back From The Dead

Summary: The last time Feyre and Rhys saw each other was senior year when she abruptly decided to end things between them. Ten years later, they meet again at their high school reunion.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: none

@officialfeysandweek2023

Read on AO3

Day 1: Night Triumphant & Stars Eternal

Here's my first humble offering for Feysand Week 🩵

Chapter 1

She was not supposed to be this nervous. 

Feyre liked to think of herself as someone who looked at life in a very pragmatic way. Growing up, she had never had time to daydream—her mother had died when she was barely eight. Her father had tried, for a while at least, to take care of her and her two sisters, and then he had gotten sick. Her sisters hadn’t known the first thing about taking care of others and as if that wasn’t enough, her mother had seen it fit to make young Feyre promise on her deathbed that she would take care of her family. So, the moment Feyre had turned fourteen, she had started working. 

For the past fourteen years, she had somehow managed to keep her jobs, provide for her family, get an education and have a social life. All these things combined had made it possible for her to function well on little sleep and keep a cool head at all times. 

Except for today. Today was not a regular day. And she was fucking nervous. 

The reason behind her not-yet-but-quite-possibly-soon meltdown sat neatly on her dresser in the form of an innocent-looking envelope. Somewhere in all her occasional self-loathing (which she was aware of, but wasn’t quite ready to address the root cause of), a whole decade had passed since her high school prom, and someone had had the glorious idea to relive that particular evening for their ten year high school reunion. 

Reliving prom was the last thing Feyre wanted to do but she’d be damned if she let people think she was a coward after all these years. Hair falling down her back in loose curls, her makeup a little more intense than how she usually wore it, she looked at her reflection and tried to convince the person staring back at her that she was fine, that everything was going to be fine. 

Her phone pinged at the incoming message and she looked down to find a single line from her best friend Lucien:

“I’m here.”

She typed out a quick response and looked at herself one last time. 

Her favorite thing about tonight was her dress, and the fact it was a dress made by her best friend only made it more special. It was a tight-fitting, sleeveless gown of a gray so light it almost looked translucent. Woven all over the fabric were tiny gems, so small one would have barely noticed them if it wasn’t for the way they sparkled. The front was modest and it gave the impression of a turtleneck, but the back was a cut so low she was surprised her ass wasn’t showing. The gown fell and pooled at her feet, a slit on the left side rising to her upper thigh. 

Grabbing her purse and keys, she headed out the door and spotted Lucien’s car parked on the driveway. 

Lucien whistled. “I know I said you were my muse when I designed this but wow, seeing it on you is something else.”

“This might be the best work you’ve ever done,” she answered truthfully. “Vassa told me you kept calling it ‘The Feyre Dress’.”

Lucien smiled and glanced back at the traffic. “How are you feeling?”

Feyre tipped her head this way and that. “I shouldn’t be so nervous and yet I am.” She bit her lip then mentally chastised herself, remembering her makeup. “Will he be there?”

Lucien nodded. “Mor was the one who organized the reunion. As her cousin, he was the first one to confirm.”

“Of course. Those two were always more like siblings than cousins.”

Lucien parked the car in front of their old high school and turned to face her. “Are you ready?”

She wasn’t. Not even a little bit. She was going to be sick, or faint, or both, and she hated that a decade later, she was dealing with the same feelings. But she nodded, fully aware her best friend did not believe a single lie coming out of her mouth. 

They headed down the small path taking them to the school’s gym entrance. “Do you wanna go through the school hallways too?” she asked. “For nostalgia’s sake?”

Lucien looked at her pointedly. “You’re stalling, you do not feel nostalgic. We are going to go straight to the gym entrance and rip off this bandaid.”

She grumbled but followed him nonetheless, fully out of choices. 

Mor had replicated prom night exactly. The decorations were the same, the music was the same, the table settings and placements were the same. The only thing that hinted that time had passed was the amount of new faces (who she assumed were partners), and the fashion choices. She looked around, trying to spot anyone she’d been friendly with ten years ago.

“I’ll go get us drinks, yeah?” Lucien said. 

She turned to look at him. “You’re sweet, but you don’t have to babysit me. Go have fun, I’ll be fine.”

He seemed to chew on that for a moment before reluctantly nodding. “Come get me if you need anything, even if it’s sitting in silence.”

Feyre nodded, smiling at her friend. Her friend who had stood by her for years, who had called her out on her bullshit every single time, who had seen right through her when she tried to distance herself from everyone, him included.

Lucien’s background couldn’t have been more different than hers. Born Lucien Vanserra, the youngest of seven sons, he had spent his childhood with a father that he had eventually found out wasn’t his father at all. Instead, he was the result of an affair his mother had had with Helion Spellcleaver, CEO of Day Corp. She had eventually left her husband Beron and went back to Helion, who she had spent years secretly in love with, taking her sons with her. Helion was everything Beron Vanserra had never been, and had claimed Lucien as his own, proudly presenting him to everyone as his son. 

That first year after high school had hit Feyre hard and had it not been for Lucien, she didn’t know if she would have survived it. 

Lost in thought, she didn’t see someone approaching until she felt the touch on her arm. “Feyre, you came!”

She turned around to look at the source of the voice, putting a smile on her face. “Hello Mor, it’s good to see you.”

It wasn’t a lie. Mor had been one of her closest friends, before Feyre had iced her out like everyone else who hadn’t been part of her original friend circle. Mor had tried to break through to her, had told her she would be waiting for whenever Feyre was ready to talk, but Feyre had never taken her up on the offer and after several failed attempts, Mor had taken the hint and stopped reaching out. 

So here they were, ten years later, standing on foreign ground. She didn’t know how to talk to Mor without it being awkward, and could only hope Mor had forgiven her at some point in the past ten years.

Feyre couldn’t blame her if she hadn’t. Mor was his cousin, after all. If she had ended up taking sides, Feyre understood.

Mor seemed to hesitate for a split second before she surged forward and wrapped Feyre in a crushing hug. “I missed you,” she said, rubbing circles on her back. “You just… never reached out.”

Feyre returned the hug, glad her former friend had taken the first step. “I’m sorry, Mor. It wasn’t easy, with everything that went down. I didn’t want to force you to split your time between two people.” She pulled back and took the other woman in.

Mor was slightly taller than her, with blond hair spilling like gold down her back and brown eyes that always looked as if she saw beneath the surface. Born Morrigan Night, her biological parents had died when she was young, and she had been adopted by her uncle and his wife, who were one of the leading families of the city. Her family owned Night Corp. which, together with Day Corp. owned by Lucien’s father, were the two biggest players in the aviation field. 

Mor had been raised alongside her cousin and, being the same age, they had gone to school together as well.

“You never told me what happened, Feyre.” She was pulled out of her thoughts by Mor’s voice, looking both thoughtful and hurt. “You were my friend and you iced me and everyone else out. There were no sides to choose. Whether I’m related to you or not, you were both equally dear to me. I don’t automatically pick sides just because I'm related to someone.”

“I’m sorry.” It was the only thing Feyre could think to say, and she was. She knew that now. But who she was today was very different from who she had been at eighteen. “I had my reasons, and I can tell you what they were someday when we’re not in the middle of a party, but please believe that I’m truly sorry. Losing you as a friend was not something I wanted.”

Mor smiled slightly, tilting her head slightly to the side. “You never lost me. We just… fell out of touch. Had you called me, I would have come running, regardless of how many years had passed.” She then seemed to notice Feyre’s dress and took a step back in order to appreciate it fully. “Holy shit it’s gorgeous!”

Smiling, Feyre twirled to show her the full design. “Like it? It’s from Lucien!”

“One of a kind, if Lucien is to be believed. Inspired by the very person wearing it.” 

Feyre froze at the voice, taking small breaths, hoping no one could see the battle her heart and lungs were fighting—and losing.

“Hello, Feyre darling.”

Mor rolled her eyes. “Rhys, must you always be so dramatic?” She then looked at Feyre and squeezed her hand gently. “I’ll go find Lucien. I need to inspire him to design a dress for me, too.”

Feyre nodded, taking a deep breath and turning around.

Nothing could have prepared her for what she felt. If she had once thought Rhys was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, that had only been amplified now. 

Rhys, born Rhysand Night, was Mor’s cousin. His family had adopted her when her parents had died, and the two of them had been raised together. His father, Robert Night, was the head of Night Industries, and someone Rhys had never been particularly close to. It wasn’t that his father had been cruel to him, he simply hadn’t been there, opting to work all the time and have little to no relationship with his children. 

Rhys and Feyre had started dating their junior year, after a very long push and pull that had driven everyone around them crazy. The best way to describe what loving him had felt like was going up a roller coaster, slowly unveiling the beautiful view, and then tumbling down so fast that your insides scrambled in the best way possible. Loving Rhys had felt like gasping for air after drowning, like her entire being began and ended with him. And Rhys had loved her in equal measure, if not more. She had seen it, felt it, and treasured it. 

And then you went and ruined it all, supplied her brain. She chose to ignore it. 

Realizing she had been lost in thought and staring at the man before her—because gone was the boy she had left at eighteen—she cleared her throat, forcing her voice to stay even.

So much for always keeping a cool head, she thought to herself.

“Hello Rhys.”

They stared at each other, each taking the other in. She was cataloging every visible change in him, just as she knew he was doing the same. The changes would have been subtle to someone who had seen him more often, but Feyre hadn’t seen him in a decade. She took notice of his broad shoulders and his still lean frame. His hair was cut short, and she wondered if it felt as soft as it used to. She took in his sharp jawline and his eyes, that shade of blue so deep it almost looked violet. She noticed the way his hands flexed as if he was itching to touch her. 

Night triumphant had been his nickname all throughout high school, a play on his last name and the way he went through life with unfaltering confidence. He seemed to have retained that confidence, but she could read his small tells, and she knew he was just as nervous as she was. 

She was not supposed to be this nervous. She thought she had gotten over this, though in her bones she knew she hadn’t gotten over him. 

“It’s good to see you,” she said, making her voice sound as even as possible, though she was sure he could tell she was nervous. 

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” he said, and she could see his internal struggle at what to say, that unfaltering confidence gone. 

She shouldn’t have liked this as much as she did, but knowing he was as nervous as she was made her feel things she wasn’t yet ready to admit. 

“How’s it going?” Rhys asked.

How was it going though? She was trying to break the ice, the conversation painfully awkward for both of them. 

It’s your fault things are awkward. 

Feyre shoved that thought into a box within another box, and then shoved that box to the far reaches of her mind. Had she been sad and miserable ever since that day? Yes. Did she regret any of it? She couldn’t say she did. She had done it for him, had known he would sabotage his entire future for her if she hadn’t. 

Rhys’ future had been brighter than the sun. Despite acing his way through high school, being active in both sports and academic extracurriculars, loved by every teacher, and admired by almost every student, he had somehow still managed to stay grounded and had not let it go to his head. So it had come as no surprise when six Ivys had reached out to him, wanting to grab him as their student. 

Rhys hadn’t given which school he’d pick much thought, and when the time came, she had heard him telling Azriel & Cassian about how he was going to turn them all down in order to stay in town with her and go to community college. 

That had been unacceptable to her. She refused to be the reason Rhys tied himself down to this place when there were so many things he could do, could become. So she had concocted a plan and had found the worst possible moment to break his heart. 

“Feyre?”

She snapped out of her thoughts to see Rhys looking at her questioningly. 

"Sorry." She gave him a small smile. “Just… lost for a moment. I’m good, how have you been?”

He didn’t need to know she had been a nervous wreck and had barely slept the night before. 

“All good. It’s weird being back here.” He looked around and she wondered if he was thinking about their prom. 

She had been cruel that day. She was surprised he still wanted to talk to her. 

A month before prom, Feyre had dragged Rhys to this very gym and told him she couldn’t be with him anymore. Needless to say, Rhys was confused. They’d been good for each other, their relationship solid. There had been absolutely no reason or need for a breakup. 

So, Feyre made one up. She told him she didn’t see them surviving high school, and that it was better to rip the bandaid off while they could. 

It had been a lie, all of it. Feyre could picture the rest of her life with him, had dreamed about it so often she had lost count. 

She had left Rhys standing there, confused and hurt, and went to prom without a date. To drive the final nail in the coffin, when she had seen Rhys making his way to her at the dance, she had grabbed her ex boyfriend, whom Rhys couldn’t stand, and kissed him. 

The look on his face still haunted her. Rhys hadn’t tried to contact her again after that night, and Feyre had spent the remainder of their senior year acting as if she hadn’t broken both their hearts.

The thought still made her nauseous. 

“Are you here alone?” She mentally kicked herself the moment it slipped past her lips. Why would you ask him that?

He looked at her like he could see right through her question. “No.”

She froze. “Oh.”

“I’m here with the others. Cass and Az should be around here somewhere. I came with Mor, though.”

She blinked, realizing he was teasing her. Before she could stop herself, she asked, “I’m sorry but why are you being so friendly to me? We didn’t exactly part on good terms.”

Rhys cocked his head to one side. “We’re adults. I thought we could both put the past behind us, especially one with a plan as well thought out as yours.”

Feyre froze, but masked it quickly with feigned confusion. “What do you mean?”

She could see the beginnings of a smirk on his face, and she didn’t know if she wanted to weep or laugh at the sight of it. 

“That little plan of yours back when we were eighteen. Break up with me, and have me catch you kissing Tamlin.”

Feyre felt her face drain of color. “Rhys, I-”

“To be fair, I’m still mad at you. Livid doesn’t even begin to describe it. But I’m trying to think rationally here and give you the benefit of the doubt. So, Feyre. We need to talk.”

[avocado-writing]

heaven can’t help me now

White Death x Reader

Rated E, Minors DNI

CWs:  Hybristophilia, Hematolagnia, Violence, Slight Dacryphilia, Older Man/Younger Woman, Infidelity

A/N: This is the filthiest thing I’ve ever written, I think, and it’s about a fucking Michael Shannon character. Thanks as always to @lady-jane3 and my friend M ❤️

Your marriage to his son was one of convenience. Two powerful mob families unified in the traditional way: the wedding of an eldest son to a daughter. The fact that you had only met enough times to count on one hand was irrelevant.

Business came first. 

The White Death found it funny, you approaching the altar in white. The sacrificial virgin marched to the place where she would be offered up. Even your necklace reminded him of a slit throat: a red ruby choker cinched up tight. Your eyes were doe-wide and hands shaking, but you held your head high as you made it down the aisle. As if you were afraid of nothing. 

You met his son’s bored gaze with a level neutrality the White Death found secretly impressive. He half expected you to be sobbing. It is good you understand your duty: marriage, children, obedience and support. 

You were wedded under the grace of God and the White Death rolled his eyes at the awkward kiss his son planted on your mouth. You wanted it to be chaste; his son did not. But you would not embarrass yourself in front of the priest, so remained modest even when confronted with the boy’s lechery. 

He watches the evening pass. You keep an air of professionalism about you at all times. You know what is expected of you. You smile, but never bare teeth: you are a gentle thing and it would not do. 

What will become his obsession with you seeds itself in his heart. 

His working relationship starts with you the next day. The morning after your wedding night. In a stark contrast to the stainless white you were enveloped in yesterday, today you’re wearing a well-fitted black suit. It manages to be both professional and leave very little to the imagination. He ordered the presence of his son, and doesn’t let his surprise show when it’s you who appears in his stead. 

“Your new husband is not enough to keep you in bed?”

He expects you to be flustered, but you manage to swallow any embarrassment down. You speak plainly. 

“I want to be helpful to this family. I might as well learn from the best. The patriarch.”

Ah, he likes that. It isn’t often someone refers to him by his actual position. But he loves the way it sounds out of your pretty little mouth. 

So you learn. 

He realises you didn’t have much of a chance to show your worth in your own clan. You were written off, as daughters tend to be, as marriage fodder. But you have a sharp mind and a sharper tongue hidden in your head. You’re clever - no: cunning. And ever so attentive. You listen to every order he gives and take note of it; you’re a model student. His son is a failure, his daughter desperate to overachieve; but you. You are perfect. He was enchanted at first by your demure beauty, but now he realises there’s far more to you than meets the eye. 

He realises he was a fool to write you off as a lamb. There’s something lupine in you yet. 

A feeling of pure disgust crosses him when he sees his son by your side. The way he doesn’t even look at you, totally ignores you as if you’re nothing to him. It’s a palpable rage he can feel building, one he can taste on his tongue - he always knew he hated his son, but your introduction into their lives has amplified it. 

So he finds a reason to send his son away. A job to “prove his mettle”, as it were. Pretends it’s something of worth to the family, when really it’s just an excuse to get his him away from the compound. His son throws a petty tantrum about the fact he has to do something, but not over that he’s explicitly told not to bring you with him. 

You do not seem sad your newlywed husband is leaving. 

You take your place at the White Death’s desk, typing quickly on your laptop. Doing some administrative work. Unlike your husband, you don’t need to be forced into it; you are happy to volunteer your time to him. 

You are the only other person allowed to sit there. You look like you are made to be there, face the zenith of concentration. There is nothing unusual about him watching you work, but now he knows his son is far away and he is made bold.

He paces over to you, as if he were a wolf descending upon its prey. You don’t seem to notice. But your whole body freezes when he touches his hand to your back, gently correcting your posture to sit up properly. 

It could be an entirely innocent gesture. But from the tiny gasp you take, he knows you don’t want it to be. 

He listens to the sounds of your fingers on the keyboard, and he notices when they still. His hand does not move when he sees you’re staring at a picture he keeps nearby. There’s a melancholy on your face he’s sure you hope you’re hiding. You’re not. 

“Is this your wife?” you ask. Yes. His angel, now gone. She’s young in the photo, carefree, teeth showing while she laughs for the camera and for him. He wonders why you bring it up. Perhaps you feel guilt, him touching you in front of her. Him wanting you so brazenly. 

“She passed when she gave birth to my daughter,” he states. His heart still hurts from it, but it is not the same pain it once was. Now it has been reduced to a dull ache. You nod, admiring the picture. 

“She’s beautiful,” you confess, quietly. He hears the way you say it. The tiniest tremor in your voice. He cuts to the chase. 

“And you think you are not?”

You laugh, self-deprecating, as if you say, who would? 

His touch moves. He traces along your spine, up to your shoulder. Knuckles dust against the skin of your neck where your pulse beats, rabbit-fast; he cups your face. 

“You are beautiful, красавица,” he states. When he swipes your cheek in a caressing arc, he sees the way you part your lips. 

His eyes bore into yours. You are not frightened, though your breath hitches. 

Carefully he presses his thumb into your mouth, down onto the hot plain of your tongue. You close around it and suck, and he swears under his breath. 

The knock makes him retract his touch. He gives a moment for the two of you to regain your composure before he calls in the visitor (a grunt reporting on a tailing job). You leave soon after, and for the first time in years the picture of his wife is hidden away in a desk drawer. 

For the entire thing, and then the night as if follows, he can’t stop thinking about the feeling of your mouth on him. The soft sweetness of it. He hasn’t known such a feeling for years, and it stirs him up inside. By the time he retires to his chambers for the evening he’s almost gone mad with it. He considers taking himself in his hand; or perhaps getting someone to hire him some company for the night - but he knows both would be a poor substitution for you. Besides, he’d feel almost like he was being unfaithful to you if he chose someone else to lay with. 

The irony that he considers that while lusting after his son’s wife is not lost on him. 

As he drinks a glass of something strong he hears a gentle tap at his door. He is surprised, when he opens it, to find you. Your eyes are wide, and you’ve been worrying your lip with your teeth so hard you threaten to break the skin. 

He towers over you as he leans against the doorframe. A hunter whose prey has willingly come. 

“You are up late,” he states. You swallow thickly. 

“Can I come in please?“

He holds open the door and you obediently enter, fiddling with your wedding ring. It’s a nervous fidget he’s noticed that you do. As if your hands are looking for something to busy themselves in order to take your mind off whatever plagues it. You say nothing for a moment, instead just heading over to the window and staring across his land. 

“Speak to me, красавица,” he says, voice low but sincere. He walks behind you, leaving his drink as he goes, standing so his chest is almost flush with your back. He doesn’t quite close the gap though. Not yet. 

He revels in the way your breath hitches. 

“I… I was thinking about how you were touching me earlier,” you eventually manage. 

“And you want me to touch you again?”

As if you’re afraid to hear yourself say the answer, instead you just nod. 

He embraces you. One of his hands settles on your abdomen, the other comes to clutch your little face in his hand. He buries his face in your shoulder and smells the sweet scent of your perfume. You gasp at it and keen into his touch, hips gently thrusting forward, your body betraying your poker face and telling him straight away what it is you want. 

“Stay still красавица, hmm? You want this, do you not?” 

Another shaky nod. He holds you close as he guides you backwards to his leather couch, bringing you into his lap as he sits. He finds his fingers creeping back into your mouth where you dutifully start to suck them. His thumb rubs your cheek and the hand that had alighted in your stomach creeps down into your waistband. You moan at the first stroke. 

“Shh. You do not want anyone to hear you in here with me.”

He feels you swallow. 

His hand slips down to your willing cunt, soaked already from the promise of him. The rough pads of his fingers begin to press into your clit. You gasp around him, back arching; he smiles into your hair. 

“Tell me how it feels,” he whispers, mouth hot at your ear. He can’t imagine his son has pleased you like this, selfish little brat that he is. And you do so deserve to be pleased. 

“It… it…” you’re already struggling and you completely lose the power of speech when he slips a finger inside. It enters you easily, the wetness allowing him access. He adds a partner to it and begins to fuck you with a come-hither motion, rubbing the pads of his fingertips against your inner wall. You gasp and buck in his embrace but a tight arm around your waist keeps you restrained against him. He will feel every second of your orgasm every way he can. 

“You are so lovely,” he sighs, pressing a kiss against the exploded plain of your neck as your head rolls back. You whimper and one of your hands reaches back to tangle in his hair, just for something to hang on to. Something to ground you. Your breathing gets harder, your breath hitching as tears of overstimulation form in your eyes. Your poor body is likely unused to someone else trying to bring you to finish like this, but you can’t fight nature. You can’t fight him, nor his beautifully clever touch. 

“I think I’m going to - I can’t - ”

“Do it. Let go for me, красавица.”

Your first orgasm at his hands is an explosive one. You lurch forward to ball up around his hand, letting out a loud gasp bordering on a shriek as you flood his palm with your release. He smiles as your hips roll against him, riding out the feeling, chasing it to its conclusion. Afterward you collapse sweetly in his arms, breath heavy, sweat on your brow. 

“Oh,” is all you can muster. 

“‘Oh’ indeed,” he agrees, pulling his hand from out your waistband and getting you to suck his fingers clean. 

He does not ask you to reciprocate, not that night. Instead he sends you off after a drink of water, telling you to reflect on what you want your relationship with him to be. He’s clearly amenable to whatever decision you arrive at. He watches you trip back to your room, high on the euphoria of it all. 

When you’re gone he takes the hand still covered in your come and fists his cock, hard. He in turn releases more powerfully than he has for years, his orgasm hitting him like a fucking freight train as he remembers how pliant and needy you were in his arms. 

The next time he makes you come, he thinks, he’s going to watch your face to see it. 

He does not see you the next day. No doubt you are mulling over his offer. He certainly doesn’t expect you to darken his doorstep that night, dressed in only a silky black robe, and place a hand on his chest before backing him into his own room. 

He makes you come three times before he even thinks about letting you touch him. He wants to spoil you like you deserve. It’s worth it, afterwards, to watch the way your eyes go wide when you take him for the first time, feel him throb heavily in your palm. He’s hard from watching you write under him after all. You’re sex-drunk from your orgasms, but you’re lucid enough to realise what a size he is. He lets himself have a quiet smile as your eyes go wide. At least ten inches, and too wide for you to fit your fingers around properly. 

He covers your hand with his and shows you how to fuck him with it. Your breath hitches even from giving him pleasure, and he realises what a thing to be treasured you are. 

He continues these dalliances for a week, every day you continue your diligent work with nothing but subtle and teasing touches to suggest there’s anything illicit going on; and at night he touches you in just the right places to make you scream. 

When his son returns from his mission, his first night without you is aching. The idea of his son lying in bed next to you is infuriating. Squandering you, taking advantage. 

You should belong to him, thinks the White Death as he tightens his grip on his tumbler. Him and him alone. 

The next day, when he’s certain that the two of you are alone in his office, he lifts you onto his desk and eats your cunt for the first time. 

You clutch at his hands as he goes to pull your panties down over your stockings - he can only hope that you’re dressing like this for him, a present to unwrap - your eyes are wide and uncertain. But he presses a kiss to your inner thigh as if you say, trust me. 

You release your hold on him, hesitant, but the moan you’re soon letting slip suggests you’re more than amiable to what’s happening. 

His mouth is just as clever as his hands, and explores you to find what makes you cry out. Any attention to your clitoris with the flat of his tongue is welcome, and when he pushes it inside you grip his hair so hard he’s sure you rip some of it out. 

You scratch your fingernails against his scalp, quietly encouraging. After you come twice on his face, he doesn’t object when you return the favour, sliding bonelessly to your knees in front of him and pulling down his fly. You take him as far down as you can before your eyes go wide as you gag - he wants to tell you to stop but before he can you strengthen your resolve and try again. He feels himself hit the back of your throat, the lovely wet warmth of your mouth engulfing him. 

He sees the way tears prick at your eyes as your tongue works his shaft, swallowing him down the best you can. With one hand he caresses your face while he whispers what a good job you’re doing; his other comes to rest on your neck.

He can feel himself disappearing down your throat. 

Tears drip down your cheeks from overexertion and overstimulation, and he comes so hard it leaks out from between your lips. You look so beautiful with your face wet; he has no choice but to bring you back to your feet and give you a searing kiss. 

“Send him away again,” you beg. The White Death does not need you to ask him twice. The next day his son finds himself being shepherded off from the compound under the guise of business, leaving his wife safely with his father. 

That night the White Death wastes no time in lying you down on his bed and kisses every inch of skin you reveal to him, hitching up your silk lingerie to tease and tantalise. He worships you at this altar the two of you have created. Afterwards, when you’re exhausted and curled up next to him, chest rising and falling ever so softly, he realises what a hold you have over him and you simply have no idea.

The two of you start being… bolder. Well, nobody can say anything, can they? He’s the boss around here, and if his men want to keep their tongues in their heads, they’re not going to comment on the fact he seems to have become awfully close with his son’s wife. You sit next to him when there’s meetings, a diligent note-taker and wise participant in your own right, and with a smile he rests a hand high up on your thigh. He sees the looks those assembled give each other, but nobody says a word.

The day he realises that he might be in love with you is when he sees you kill someone for the first time. There’s a leak in his organisation, someone dripping information to one of his rival crime families, and they’ve finally weeded out which of the bastards it is. He has the man in the courtyard, bound and on his knees. You watch as he’s kicked to the floor.

“Rot in our ranks. He’d sell us out and see us fail. What should we do with a man like this, hmm?” he asks, mouth at your ear. You consider this for a long moment, poker-face unmoving, before you reach to the holster at his hip and take his gun. You shoot through the traitor’s skull without blinking. 

Blood sprays you, and the White Death has to be subtle about the fact it makes his heart race to see you commit the act with such ease. Later, when he’s between your legs with his mouth, drinking down the taste of your orgasm, he finds himself growing hard knowing you find killing as easy as he does.

You are perfect. You were sent for him.

He wants a piece of you to take around with him, to have in his pocket. So he walks into your bedroom one day to take a pair of your panties. You have many: lacy, ruffly things, including a few that he himself has bought you, and is taking his time picking them - when he sees your bed. 

It’s perfectly made, and one of his shirts is lying on it. His favourite one, the one he’s been looking for for a while. He puts two and two together and realises: you’ve been wearing it to bed. The idea of you swamped in his clothes, maybe spread out and touching yourself while dressed in it - it’s more than he can bear.

That night, he comes to your room before you can get to his. From the lust-blown darkness of his eyes as he towers over you in the doorway, you can tell that this is the night.

So far you’ve only brought each other pleasure with fingers, hands; once when you rode his thigh while he recorded you, your breasts bouncing and face sweaty. But he feels like if he doesn’t know what your tight heat feels like around him he is going to lose himself. 

He presses you down into the mattress, drinking in the little gasps and moans you let out while he kisses the length of your neck. Your body has become adjusted to his expectations by now, so when he reaches into your waistband, he finds you plenty wet already. He takes his time in undressing you, peeling off each perfect layer, growing harder with each inch of skin he sees. He will never get tired of this. For the rest of time, he could indulge in watching you, and it would be time well spent. 

When he’s stripped and his clothes have been thrown to the floor with yours, he carefully parts your thighs and moves between them, taking his length in his hand and rubbing it between your folds. He begins to push inside of you, but when he’s got little further than the tip he hears the way you gasp.

It’s in pain.

He stops immediately. He could never hurt you; not unless you asked him to. He takes you in: the shaking breath, the wide eyes, the way you’re biting your lip.

“What is the matter?” he asks gently, reaching forward to caress your face. You nuzzle into his palm and its calming effect is obvious.

“I… I’ve never…” you look down to where your bodies are barely meeting, and the White Death understands.

“But you had a wedding night?” he asks, a little confused. You can’t look at him.

“He just used my mouth before he went to sleep…”

He will kill him. He’ll kill his own son for dirtying you, for taking advantage of your sweetness. A woman like you is meant for adoring, not for ignoring. He reaches down to kiss you, long and slow, not stopping until he feels your body relax beneath his while your arms slip around his neck.

“Do you still want me to?” he asks, forehead pressed to yours.

“Yes.”

“Then I will be gentle, красавица.”

And so he lays you down in your marriage bed and takes your maidenhood like his son was meant to. 

 He buries himself in you, inch by slow inch, stopping whenever you ask. It takes a while before he’s sheathed and you seem amazed you’re able to fit all of his surprising size inside. He fucks you with slow, determined rolls of his hips, stretching and adjusting you, never too much to hurt. Soon your noises of mild discomfort turn to ones of pleasure, tiny mewls and gasps at how thrilling penetrative sex can be. After a while he stops and pulls out, moving back down your body to your cunt, licking your sensitive vulva and tasting the metallic tang of your virgin blood there. When he’s made you come with his mouth he enters you again, a thumb on your clit keeping you high on euphoria while he fucks you harder. 

You come on his cock, spasming warmly around him, and he coats you with his release. 

Laying there, sweaty and exhausted, he thinks he will never be blessed with such a heavenly visage again. There is no God for him now. But there is you, an angel. 

He gets you a glass of water, forces you to drink, and gathers you into his arms as you come back to your senses. He traces nonsensical patterns on your back affectionately. The first words out of his lips surprise you.

“It is your birthday soon, is it not?”

You blink.

“Yes,” you confess, shyly. He presses his lips to your cheek to prove he means no harm with his question.

“What do you want for it?”

“I don’t want - ”

“Be honest with me, little one.”

You consider for a moment.

“A party. I want a party where I can be on your arm for the night.”

He chuckles, taking your hand and kissing each finger.

“Then a party you shall have.”

It is, of course, not the only present he gives you. Perfumes, clothes, a gun designed to perfectly fit your pretty little hand. And of course a white diamond choker. If anyone were to look at it - really look at it - they’d see his own name has been encrusted amongst the stones around your neck. 

And on his arm you are. He got someone with experience to plan it, of course, and it’s in the ballroom of his compound, but you seem delighted all the same. He’s invited some of the other minor families as guests, and all of them wisely choose not to speak as he dances far too closely with his son’s recent bride, your hand on his shoulder and his on the small of your back. The look of happiness on your face thaws his cold heart.

He has to step away for a minute - just a minute, no more - to talk business, but when he comes back, you are gone. He searches for you amongst the guests… and his blood runs cold when he hears that his son got back tonight. 

He moves through the crowd when he spots the boy involved in animated conversation with you on the other side of the hall. He’s angry, you’re angry, but when he grabs your arm and hauls you out of the door the White Death clenches his jaw so hard he threatens to shatter his teeth.

The two of you are in the hallway. In the sparse moments he took his eyes off of you, his son has done damage. He stands over where you are sprawled on the floor, his fist red with your blood. Your lip is split and red is dripping down onto your dress. There’s scratch marks across his son’s cheek - you clearly tried to defend yourself - but you were taken by surprise. He looks to his father, thunderous.

“The whore has been fucking someone behind my back.”

The White Death’s anger tends to be a cold thing. Patient, calculating. But the sight of this engulfs him in a white-hot fury he’s never felt before. 

“I know,” he replies, and he waits just long enough for his son to put the pieces together before he grabs him by his hair and drags him back into the ballroom. This is something that needs to be witnessed. It needs to be humiliating.

His son has never been a match for him physically. There are gasps as The White Death leads his son into the crowd, using the grip he has on his scalp to keep him still while he begins to beat him. His closed fist rains down on his son: he feels his nose break, his eye socket fracture beneath his blows. When his face is more blood than skin he lets him drop to the floor, the toe of his shoe finding the plain of his ribs and kicking until he hears an audible snap.

In the haze of red that clouds his vision, he manages to make out you stumbling towards him. You clutch his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

“Stop. My love, stop.”

The sound of your voice pulls him back. He takes your arms in his hands, gentle despite the fact your husband’s blood falls from his knuckles, checking over your injuries.

“Nobody ever touches you again,” he promises. The sincerity in his words is undoubtable. You believe he’d kill anyone who ever tries to lay a finger on you. He pulls you into his arms, vowing he will get your marriage to his son annulled, he will take you as his bride. 

He loves you.

And he will keep you safe.

[tu-naranja]

The Teacher Next Door - A Miss Circle x Miss Bloomie Fancfic

Chapter 3 - Substitute From Hell

"Sooooo~ how was you're first week of uni?!"

"..."

"What's wrong?"

"..."

"Tough week huh?"

"..."

"Did something happen?"

"Answer me!"

.

.

.

When I woke up, I was throwing up and had a skull crushing headache. I was in no shape to go to work today. "Fuck you Thavel..."

So, I called Grace and told her what had happen and that I wouldn't be able to make it today. I could hear the annoyance in her voice over the phone but she let it slide and told me to get better soon.

I took some painkillers for my headache and laid in bed watching YouTube videos from my T.V. .

I wonder who's going to take my place whilst I'm absent today.

.

.

.

MISS CIRCLE'S P.O.V.

"Okay class, Miss Bloomie isn't here due to unfortunate circumstances which means that I'll be your substitute teacher for today." After I announced that the class burst into cheer and chattering. It was funny seeing them think they'll get a free period but they probably forgot... I'm the Math teacher and nobody dears to be happy in any classroom I step foot in.

"Class!" I yelled, hitting my ruler against the desk gathering everyone's attention.

"Because Miss B isn't here doesn't mean you don't get work," I grinned as everyone's smiles slowly faded away. "Matter of fact, just for thinking you wouldn't get any work, pop quizzes for everyone!" Everyone sighed.

I grinned joyfully taking the stack of quiz papers from the desk and plopping it down on one of the student's desk that sat at the front of the class.

"Take one and pass it on," I instructed them," once you get your papers you may begin, you have 45 minutes." After that I went back to my seat and watched as the class worked.

Hmm being a substitute teacher isn't bad after all. All I gotta do is just give out work. I should do this more.

The thought of last night lingered through my mind. Whoever that was it definitely wasn't Bloomie. She's so modest and acts like an old lady sometimes. Seeing her show up dressed like that,I couldn't take my eyes off of her. I had to stare as long as possible because it might be the only time I see her like that.

But what caught me off guard was when she said "I'm sorry."

Thavel probably taught her a new word because I've never heard Bloomie say 'sorry' before.

But did she apologize for last night or-?...

BLOOMIE'S P.O.V.

I was in bed watching movies on Netflix when I heard noises coming from the front door. "Bloomie~" I heard Thavel's voice called. The clicking of her heels rang out throughout my apartment as she looked for me.

"I'm in my room!" I exclaimed. The clicking of her heels got louder then came to a hault at the front of the room.  The door slowly creeked open and out popped Thavel.

"How are you feeling?" She asked sitting on the bed.

"Terrible," I mumbled, " but I feel much better than how I felt this morning."

"That's good to here, I came to check up on you, make sure you're okay,"she said laying beside me on the bed to watch the movie with me.

"Did you take my place today?" I asked as we both stared at the flatscreen T.V. that hung from the wall.

"No," she answered, "Circle held down the forth while you were gone and a little birdie told me she did a pretty great job, I heard she gave a pop quiz on the second day of school."

I snickered to myself knowing that my class didn't get a chance to slack off, "that's good to hear, I'll make sure to thank her for it."

Thavel smirked," you should also thank her for last night, when you passed out she helped me carry your unconscious, heavy ass back to your apartment."

"What!" I blurted out. I thought that was a dream. A really weird dream. I couldn't remember much, everything was blurry with different sounds flooding my ears. I felt sick and couldn't move until I was picked up by someone. The person I saw was...Circle, she looked into my eyes and held me close, so I wrapped my arm around her neck, wondering where she could carry me off to. " I will thank her for that and taking care of my classes."

"I'm so lucky I found her, you were so heavy," Thavel whined, " Ya know, come to think of it, how does a speck of dust as yourself weigh like a ton."

.

.

.

"I finally decided what I want to be now..."

"Tell me, what is it?"

"I want to be a high-school math teacher."

"Ooo! We can work at the same school!"

"Promise, that when we become teachers we'd work at the same school?"

"I promise...".

[the-bar-sinister]

A Song for Ragpickers and Urchins (2038 words) by Dave Strider Chapters: 1/5 Summary: When a small-time band of young rogues and thieves take in a lost and lonely fallen noble their twisted star finally begins to rise. Urchins, vagabonds and slaves take up a scoundrel's life under a common banner— the jolly roger Donquixote— to claw their way to something like happiness in the miserable, cold-hearted factory towns of the North Blue.

-

Before they met Doflamingo, they were a gang, not really pirates. They had a ship, by sheer technicality, since you needed one to move even in between the islands in the little archipelago. They didn't fly under any kind of flag, and they operated at a small scale. 

Which was probably for the best, since they were still basically kids. 

The young man who had recently come to be known as Trebol was the oldest, at 18, and he had big ideas, which occasionally worried Diamante. 

Diamante had been just about 14, he'd broken into a comparatively well-to-do clerk's office looking to lay his hands on their cash and finance his way off of home island and off to somewhere more promising.

He'd been surprised to find a young apprentice, Trebol then barely 17, working through the night by candle light.

-

Diamante had put his knife to the apprentice clerk's throat. "Show me where the money is."

"Hey, hey there's no need for that knife," the clerk laughed nervously. "I'll show you right where it is if you'll get me out of here and split it with me."

"What do you mean, if I get you out of here?" Diamante had narrowed his eyes.

There was a clinking sound from under the desk. "See for yourself."

Diamante didn't have to look to know the familiar sound of a chain, but he stepped backward, taking the knife away from the young man's throat, and looked anyway. Sure enough, there was exactly what he had expected to see. A shackle around the leg chaining him to the desk he sat behind.

"You're a slave," Diamante said, feeling rather stupid immediately after it was out of his mouth. Beyond the shackle, another look at the man in the candle-light should have easily told him that he was a slave. Hunched shoulders, sallow, drawn face. Long black hair unkempt and heavy with soot and candle grease.

"Not for much longer, if you'll help me out," he said, smiling rather widely at Diamante, who was surprised by the man's demeanor. He wasn't begging– his spirit certainly wasn't broken. "What are you planning to do with the money, anyway?"

"Get away from this fucking island for starters," Diamante admitted. He didn't have much in the way of plans after that. He had some ambition to turning mercenary, but he wasn't sure what step two of that plan was.

The slave laughed again, deep from his chest, and coughed. "Excuse me. Well, getting away from this fucking island sounds great yes. Can you read?"

Diamante narrowed his eyes, unsure what he was getting at. "No. Why?"

The chained man gestured at all the books in front of him, where he'd been scratching away with his pen. "I can read. A man who knows how to read and a man who can handle a blade might make themselves well off in any number of ways."

Diamante looked him over. He looked neither strong, nor well fed. He could be easily dispatched if he tried to turn against Diamante and betray him. But beyond that, he seemed like a planner. And Diamante was a man desperately in need of a plan.

"I'll get you loose. Then show me where the money is."

"I'll show you. And tomorrow's manifests. I thought I saw a shipment coming in that would be much more interesting in our hands than its owners."

"I think I like you already."

-

And that was how they'd begun as a gang. He'd cut him loose and they'd fled into the night with a modest box full of gold and a week's worth of shipping paperwork.

"What's your name, anyway?" Diamante asked as they fled into the night.

"Mostly slave, or clerk. Whatever my mother gave me they never bothered to write down. What about you?"

"It's Diamante." He'd never felt self conscious for having a name before.

"That's a good name."

He felt even more self conscious. "Nah, I mean, not really."

The runaway slave laughed. "Whatever you say. Are you willing to take a gamble with me as a partner, Diamante?"

"Pretty sure I already have."

"Fantastic. Then, if you don't mind, if you're Diamante, then I might as well be Trebol."

"Good name," Diamante chuckled.

"Yes, thank you."

-

Three days later at dawn they were walking away from a merchant vessel, Diamante carrying a small chest in his arms.

He looked over his shoulder to make sure there was no one following them, and by some miracle, they were left unmolested.

"I can't believe they just gave this to us and let us walk away with it."

"That's the miracle of paperwork, my friend. Paperwork makes the world go round. Now let's get somewhere out of sight and open this up."

They ducked into a disused alleyway, tucking themselves into the darkness beyond the crates and dirty boxes that filled it. Trebol held the box, while Diamante forced it open with his knife. There was a satisfying pop as the simple lock broke, and he pushed the top open.

"There's fruit in here," Diamante observed incredulously. His brow furrowed as he gave his new partner a look that demanded an answer. "You said there was treasure."

"This is the treasure, my friend."

To Diamante it just looked like fruit. But he was willing to believe that the former clerk knew something he didn't. 

"Alright, explain it to me."

"They're called Devil Fruits. There are a limited number of them in the world and each one fetches an unfathomable price. Ask me why, Diamante." Trebol smiled thinly.

He hardly needed prompting. The idea naturally provoked curiosity. "Alright. Why?"

"Because they're mystical. Cursed, even, some say," Trebol chuckled, and coughed into his sleeve murmuring a 'pardon me' before he continued. Life as a slave had taken its toll on his health, Di had come to learn. "Each fruit grants the man who eats it some bizarre and wondrous power. It comes with a price of course, but all things considered, it's relatively minor."

Diamante didn't hold much truck with magic powers or curses. They were the sort of things old people talked about after too many ales at the pub. The sort of thing on which one blamed simple injury and misfortune which was always widespread.

Still he asked, "What kind of curse?"

"It robs you of your ability to swim."

Diamante glanced off down the alleyway in the direction of the port, off toward the vast and wide North Blue Sea.

"Oh is that all," he drawled. "Well, if they're as rare and magical as you say, then we ought to be able to sell them for an excellent price. Do you think it would be enough to get a decent boat and provisions to get to a larger island?"

Trebol grinned wider. "Many times over, I promise you. But we aren't going to sell them. Not these ones anyway, we're going to eat them."

Diamante could have been knocked over by a feather."You're joking."

"I'm not," Trebol shook his head. "The people who've eaten fruits like these have shaped the history of our world, Diamante. The legends of their exploits echo through tales and history books. Devil Fruit eaters fill the ranks of our world's powerful and elite. But if you'd rather have just money, well, I suppose we can sell yours."

"Now hold on!"

Anger flashed through Diamante's throat at Trebol's condescending tone, and he snatched one of the fruits up without warning, holding it jealously. He understood the implication. If Diamante didn't eat the fruit then Trebol would think he was a fool who'd trade a haul for an immediate pittance. He was not about to let that happen.

Besides, either Trebol was mistaken– or full of shit– and the fruit was essentially worthless anyway or he'd walk away from the experience with some kind of magical power. 

Diamante liked the idea of power. He'd had so little of it in his life. Holding Trebol at knifepoint the other night had been just about the pinnacle of it in his life so far.

The thought that he could just wait for Trebol to eat his and see if it did anything didn't cross his mind.

"I didn't say I wouldn't eat it," Diamante said, lifting his chin, his grip on the fruit tightening further– just short of breaking its skin with his rough nails. "What kind of powers will they give us?"

Trebol was grinning widely now as he shook his head. "I have no idea. It's a gamble."

"That's life then." He lifted the fruit to his mouth. "Cheers."

-

And that had been that. Trebol had later grudgingly admitted that his fruit hadn't exactly been everything he was hoping for, but 'power was power' and it was a useful ability, if not glamorous. 

"If I hadn't eaten it we wouldn't have been able to get any more, so it's not like I could take my pick."

Privately, Diamante didn't think his own abilities were much to write home about either– not that he would write home if he had one– but he could never say as much to Trebol without receiving a stern look.

"Glue." Diamante sometimes later caught Trebol muttering to himself. "Of all things. Glue."

But glamorous or not their combined abilities were devastatingly effective.

Their last activities on that godforsaken island was to rob a clothing shop in what passed for the nice part of town and steal a small two man craft from the harbor.

-

Diamante adjusted his new hat on head with pride as the wind carried them toward the largest island in the archipelago. The hat— possibly meant for a lady, he wasn't altogether up on fashions— along with the fine coat and the other clothes he'd stolen were probably the softest things that had been in contact with his body yet in his life. They were certainly the most expensive.

"Did you see the way the shopkeep fainted dead away when his gun went limp?" Already he was scheming clever new ways to use this weird new ability. If he'd sacrificed being able to swim, he was damned well going to make it count.

"Not a very bold one, was he?" Trebol chuckled along with him, thumbing the furred ruff of his own new coat, the largest and heaviest in the shop. "He wasn't getting up again after he went down, either, was he?"

"Not after you got done with him!"

They laughed and crowed about the petty adventure all the way to the next island, already starting to get along like old friends.

-

"Alright, Trebol, explain to me why we're robbing a fishing boat," Diamante insisted, giving his partner an increasingly common dubious stare. "I'm not particularly interested in stealing fish."

"Hey, we're not going to steal any fish, Dia," Trebol chuckled. "According to the ledgers in snuck a look at this ship's been docked for three days, and getting ready to put to sea in three days more."

"So?" Diamante knew he was going to continue explaining– Trebol loved explaining. But he also seemed to love when Diamante asked him what he was up to. "What does that matter?"

"It means the catch has been sold, and not yet banked. If the captain bothers with banking at all, he won't have been able to until it's open in the morning."

"So what you're saying is all the money from their last catch is on board." Dia stroked his chin. "That is better than fish."

"A hell of a lot better," Trebol nodded, flashing him with a toothy grin. "It's not just any fishing boat, that ship brings in hauls of North Sea Tuna. They fish up in the coldest part of the sea and only come back to port once every six months. Their captain will be loaded."

"Well now!" Diamante's own smile widened considerably. "How do you know all these very interesting things all the time, Tre?"

"Only by reading and listening. I've told you before, a man can do a lot with reading and listening. And a lot more if he's got the power to back it up."

Diamante very much found that he was beginning to agree.

[wastewaifs]

@vitalphenomena

funke's mother's apartment is three times as large as ruth and funke's -- this is the beauty of multiple (mostly) steady incomes, you see. nona funke, funke's mother, is now making an assistant manager's wage at the drug store; aunt isabella has a government job, although no one can say exactly what it is or what it entails; aunt rosa's husband died two years ago in an unfortunate accident that none of the other aunts are able to talk about with a straight face, and she plans to live on his pension for as long as she comfortably can. then she'll probably go back to prostitution. (which also pays well.)

it must seem like a palace to rebecca boy. yet it's really just a bog standard apartment, humbly furnished, and it's nowhere near big enough to hold all of the funkes. most of the funkes are concentrated in the living room. uncles and cousins and the like. am i fuck going to tell you about all of them. they are italian; there's fucking loads of them. all you need to know is that they are chatting and watching fraiser on the modest television set, and eating bruscetta, and talking about how cold it is. it's cold because all of the windows in the apartment are open and it's below freezing outside. all of the windows are open because funke is here.

aunt bambi and aunt linda have recently reconciled after aunt linda stole $100 from her and punched bambi in the face when she was caught in the act. they are practically bosom buddies, now, and they are side-by-side outside of the kitchen, whispering to each other about funke's hunky friend. they are drunk, so they only think they're whispering.

"how big? d'ya think?" aunt bambi asks aunt linda.

aunt linda sounds confident, although she actually misinterprets aunt bambi's question, which is for the best, considering the twenty-year age difference. "three hundred. three-twenty."

it's like beck is a prize bull at one of those agricultural shows, and bambi and linda are -- farmers. i guess? who else attends these things.

"no! no!" but aunt bambi can't quite put into words why this is not correct. she forgets instantly. "gawd, linds! the HEFT! check out the HEFT! ooooOOOOOOOOO!"

there's so, so much ooooOOOOOOO-ing going on, and cackling, and spilling of red wine onto cream carpets. it's getting on nona's nerves. she lost control of the gathering long before her son and his partner arrived. it's only gotten worse since.

funke and beck are in the spacious and disorganized kitchen, with nona. nona is preparing some more appetizers. nona is preparing things like stuffed peppers, stuffed olives, meatballs, risotto. she's put funke in charge of brushing the crostini. she has asked beck to stir the risotto.

nona is a small woman with large eyes, high cheekbones, and wild red hair. there is a pot boiling over, but she's too busy trying to light a cigarette to do anything about it. funke intervenes in the nick of time.

"where's aunt bella? aunt bella could help us with the appetizers," he suggests, mopping up the spill.

"aunt bella is takin' over for the entrees -- that wouldn't be fair, your aunt bella might start to feel like she's bein' taken advantage of," nona warns. she reaches out, touches beck's elbow, and confides in him. "aunt isabella has often been taken advantage of, in her life. has francis told you about that?"

(actually, funke has barely touched the surface of The Aunt lore.)