#is it just sawdust in there? is it just fucking empty hot air inside your head?

[theropoda]

the amnt of times people accuse palestinian fundraisers of being scammers with questions that can so fucking easily be answered with "theyre desperate" or "theyre first language is not english" or "theyre not familiar with tumblr culture" or "the person running the fundraiser is older and out of touch with internet/online/texting manners" the last of which baffles me most often because like. "IF THEYRE NOT A SCAMMER WHY DO THEY TYPE AND POST WEIRD???????????????? #SHOTSFIRED" have you never fucking met, in your entire life, an uncle who's a little awkward with texting and social media? where's your fucking empathy? are you stupid?

[kashimos-hajime]

sawdust and plastic | g.t.

summary: you learn two things from your first real fight with goro. 1) he apologizes through cooking. 2) he hates it when they argue.

WARNINGS: spoilers for the gimme danger main job, swearing, slight angst, theye just communicating pairing: goro takemura x fem!street-kid!v word count: 2.2k

a/n: written with a fem!street-kid v who used to be a corpo kid. also dont yell at me but i rearranged v's apartment so the couch goes on all 3 sides bc comfortable :^) crossposted on ao3! enjoy :) 

part of the tales of a two-bit thief series

Sitting down on the couch, you kick up your feet for the first time in what you feel like has been ages. From Jackson Plains to reconnaissance on the Arasaka warehouse, you haven’t eaten shit besides the yakitori Takemura had ordered at that booth which already felt like ages ago. It’d been good—better than the trash you’ve eaten as a kid so you don’t really get picky—but you can’t help but recall the disgust on Takemura’s face when he had taken a single bite.

“Sawdust and plastic.”

You snort, running hands over your face and tilting your head back. Stupid fucking Japanese man with an endearing sense of dry-humour and… zero tolerance for your cheeky smiles. 

Then he had to go ahead and bring up Jack.

His words, cold, callous, echo in your skull like a goddamn radio and you squeeze your eyes tight, raking your hands down your face and melting into the couch. No matter how much you wanna stop it, you can’t help hearing it over and over and over.

Grabbing the remote, you’re about to switch on a channel in hopes you catch something that cna take your mind off everything when there’s a knock on your door.

For a moment, you truly debate telling them to fuck off but then, there is a pause.

“V.”

Eyes widening, your body goes rigid at the sound of his voice.

“V, let me in before I look anymore foolish.”

In the back of your head, you tempt the idea of just leaving him out there, pretending like you’ve fallen asleep, but then you get up anyway against your better judgement. You drag your feet over the floor, picking up old takeout boxes you haven’t had time to clean up and tossing clothes into a hamper to make your apartment look more like an organized mess than the dumpster fire you know Takemura will scold you for.

When you reach the door, you let him in without a word and you note the bags he holds on, hoisting them over to your living room counter.

“What’s this?” you question wearily. “Goro, I’m not hungry.”

“I realized I must apologize for my harsh words.” Beginning to pull out the groceries, you walk over and peer inside the bag, frowning. All the stuff inside is cheap synth shit, nothing you haven’t eaten before, but you’re still confused as to what’s going on since you don’t exactly have a kitchen in your place, but then out of one of the thicker bags, Takemura pulls out a big box.

“For saying them?”

“Yes." He sets the box down before continuing with groceries. “Earlier, I told you if I had time and resources, I would cook onigiri.”

“With cod, or grilled salmon. Or umeboshi plums, because they were Saburo’s favourite,” you finish and he sends you a look that could’ve been a smile if his lips had curved more and his eyes meant it. “I remember.” Helping him with the big box, you cut it open and find a rice cooker within. Eyeing the contraption with an arched eyebrow, you can’t help but ask: “Where’d you find this stuff?”

“It was difficult. I had to lower my standards.” 

“Lowering standards,” you echo dryly, unable to help your empty smile. “Yeah. We do that a lot in grand ole NC.” He doesn’t seem amused by you even trying to help as you sit down on the couch, twist to watch him work. “Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”

“I am cooking to apologize. It would not be honourable for you to help me,” he replies shortly and you nod to yourself, turning back around to watch the news. Nothing about a break-in with the floats, nothing at all indicating… anything.

For some reason, it makes you uneasy. The last time you snuck into an Arasaka building, everything went to shit and it made its mark. The lack of visible ripples makes you feel like nothing’s happened at all. Like it’s all been a fever dream, and you and Takemura didn’t sit on that roof for hours, watching the cat, just… talking.

Jesus, you need to get laid.

“Still don’t know why you bother cooking,” you say. Takemura noticeably stiffens and even though you don’t see it, you can almost feel the way he manipulates the air he stands in. He has that power—pure corpo power—and you clench your jaw. “Why waste time on someone so lazy as me?”

“V—"

“Nah, my bad. Arrogant. Hell, you probably see all the takeout around here and think I’m taking some easy route to food.” The bitterness is enough to puncture holes in steel as you stare blankly at the screen. “After all, I dirty my hands for money,” you quote. Your chest tightens as you hear his voice echo in yours, the way he had said it so coldly. Stomach turning, you shake your head. “Not in the name of some fucking principles.”

There’s a silence on his end and you close your eyes, swallowing through the bruising in your throat, a telltale sign you’re holding back tears. Just the mention of Jackie makes you want to spiral and you take a deep breath, trying not to react.

For the first time, you think Johnny might be right.

“Damn right, I am,” a voice says and you open your eyes, gaze fluttering to the side to see Johnny lounging against your couch. You turn around to see Takemura’s moved to the bathroom, probably to clean rice… however the fuck you make onigiri. You don’t know. You’re too tired to care about food, or feelings, or anything. “Never can trust a corpo. They all want one thing.”

“I don’t need to remind you that I was a corpo kid, do I?”

“Not anymore. It’s about principles.” Johnny’s tone is wry and you scowl at him. “What? If there’s one thing you might be able to relate to is that you both have ‘em. His might be wrong as shit, but…”

“Yeah, whatever.” 

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re gonna forgive him. This guy’s got you wrong, V. You don’t waste time on people like that.”

“I don’t have time to stay angry with him,” you argue. “The fact is, I’m dying and he’s gonna be the only one who can save me.” Johnny sits up straight, leaning on his knees and you sigh, shaking your head. Resting your arm along the back of the couch, you fit your hand to your face, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Fuck.”

“Stop. Don’t do it, V. It’s not worth it,” Johnny warns, standing up and you wrench your gaze up as you shift your feet on the floor and lean forward, burying your face in your hands. “I can feel everything you are feeling, and if I have to deal with your indecisive debates on whether or not it’s worth it to become attached to this corp piece of shit, I’ll kill myself.”

“You’re already dead, Johnny.”

“Let me live a little.” He stands and edges around you as if he were real and you rest your chin in your palms, watching as his holographic imagine crosses you before glitching back into view again across the table. He sits down. “The truth is, you’re gonna have a hell of a problem.”

“I know.”

“So, stop.” Johnny says it like it’s so easy and you chew on your cheek as the faucet turns off and you turn around to see Takemura begin to leave your bathroom. His pale eyes catch yours and you turn around only to see your brain tumour’s gone and left you alone. It’s eerily quiet in your head and you stand, clearing your throat.

Takemura slips the clean rice into the rice cooker before closing it and you cross your arms below your breasts, squeezing yourself tightly. You feel bare in your clothes despite wearing your scuffed jacket. He regards you warily, and then he sighs, gesturing to the couch—a silent ask.

 You nod, stepping back and letting him take where you were sitting earlier. You retreat across from him, where Johnny was sitting and he glances around your apartment. You wonder if he’s judging even more of you, but then he looks into his hands, swallowing visibly. 

“V—"

“You’re not the only one with principles. Just because I kill for money don't mean I'd do anything for it,” you begin coldly, leaning back and studying him. “And nothing about my life has been easy. When I said you did what you had to do to keep food on the table, that wasn’t me judging you. That was me getting it, alright, Goro?” His eyes meet yours and you arch an eyebrow, scoffing. “Not my problem if you don’t believe me. Yeah, I oppose corps, because they ruined my life, and so many other people’s lives no one can count 'em, but that doesn't mean you're any better than me. You don’t get to make assumptions about me. You never get to make assumptions about Jackie.That is all I have to say.”

He nods, accepting your harsh tone and you bite your tongue, trying not to burn down the bridge anymore than you need to as you prop a foot up against the table. Takemura doesn't say anything for a hot moment and you think you've wasted your time. Your knee jiggles. He doesn't even look at you.

Then: “I must again say that we are both still grieving. We ache to lash out. That is why I said what I said, and why, I presume, you say what you say.” He steeples his fingers and regards you with those eyes, gorgeous in their own right. “I understand what I said was callous. You have been nothing but understanding to my own loss.”

“No shit.”

“And I understand Mr. Welles was your friend.”

“He was like my brother,” you correct icily. “He’s been there for me since the beginning, I—I can’t forgive you saying something like that about him so easily, Goro.”

He dips his head. “I understand. It is why I cook for you. It is how I best express myself." The corner of his mouth tugs up faintly in a mirthless facsimile of a smile before he exhales sharply through his nose, looking at you again. "I confess I have not had time recently to cook, but I will do my best.” Johnny’s link comes to life at the mention and your own stomach squirms silently. “We are in this together, V. I do not wish for you to be angry at me.”

“Don’t do it, V. Don’t take it.”

“Fuck off, Johnny. I’m starving.” Aloud, you say: “I’ll be angry for a while. Just… let me sleep on it and we'll see from there.” He nods and you let your arms fall to your sides as you sit up. “It’s been a long few days, so I just… I just want to not think about anything for a while, you know?”

“I understand.”

He says that a lot, you notice. 

“Thank you for apologizing, at least,” you continue grudgingly. “Thanks.” You stand and gesture vaguely around the place. “Make yourself at home. I’m… I’m going to shower and scrub this grime off.” Dried blood, sweat, dirt, et cetera. He nods and stands as well, returning to the tiny cooking station he’s made for himself. You head to your closet, managing to pick out a clean shirt that’s a bit big and a jacket you ripped off a 6th Street goon a few weeks back. You just picked it up from the cleaners.

Heading for the bathroom, you set your crap on the toilet cover before poking your head out. Spotting Takemura sitting in front of the table, carefully sharpening a knife, you wait until he’s noticed you staring and he prompts you silently to ask.

“How’d you even know where I live, anyway?” 

He turns his gaze back on the blade.

“Ms. Olszewski marked it in my map, should the need arise.”

“This was a need?” you ask, curiously sardonic. Takemura doesn’t smile back and again, you get that impression he either doesn’t know how or he doesn’t do it often enough to remember. For some reason, that makes you sad. "Could've left it well enough alone. You know that."

“Oh, come on, V,” Johnny murmurs in your ear. “Don’t wax poetics on this guy.”

You ignore him.

“I do not enjoy the thought of a rift between you and I,” admits Takemura. He sets down the knife and sighs, eyes flitting to you briefly. Your hand wraps around the doorframe and you press your lips into a faint frown. "I... I have grown used to you."

You nod despite the words punching into your chest. “I don’t like it when we fight either.” At least, that you don’t have to fight twice to figure out. Your expression eases and your shoulders drop. “I’ll just hop in. Help yourself to whatever you can find. Really.” He accepts your offer with another nod and you close the door. It locks and you press your back against the metal, tipping your head back.

“For the love of—“

“Shut it, Johnny. Just… just give me a second.”

And on one of the rare occassions that he listens to you, Silverhand says nothing about how your heart doesn’t feel like wrought iron anymore.

[rugbypolycule]

what more could you do

pairing: arisu ryouhei x karube daikichi

characters: karube daikichi, arisu ryouhei

rating: general audiences, no warnings apply

words: 1788

summary: freshly dropped out of university and knee-deep in depression, arisu ryouhei breaks up with karube daikichi with no explanation. months later, unable to deal with the fallout, arisu goes to his apartment. wounds that have yet to fully scab over reopen.

ao3 link

Karube didn’t need Arisu. In spite of his poignant absence, the sun still rose every empty morning and set at frigid night. The cold still crept through the cramped apartment, through the creaking floorboards and in-between cracks in not quite sealed windows. The earth turned, it turned, and it turned without Arisu. In this, there was no argument.

So, Karube didn’t need Arisu. If the suffocating world outside his slowly encroaching walls continued its screaming persistence, then Karube too would refuse to bow out. He would grit his teeth, hunch his shoulders in his too-thin jacket, desperately not recalling an exasperatedly fond voice that would nag him to dress warmer. He would curse as he woke up to flecks of snow on his window pane and wrestle with his useless heater. He would not ache for the childlike wonder of someone who was no longer there.

Eventually, the snow would melt. The man who had left would take the rent money with him, and Karube would have to figure out where else he could take up space. Karube would go to work in a run-down bar in the sticky heat of the coming summer, cicadas filling the silence in his mind where a plan for the rest of his life should sit. Karube Daikichi would be, in all senses of the word, alive.

Even so, his chest was empty – so he filled it with tar. Karube was never particularly interested in smoking before the hole in his life abruptly dug itself. Now, the nicotine numbed the disquiet in his head, and his throat burned, and for a brilliant moment nothing felt real. For mere seconds, he could shed the sense of loss that hung around him like a bad smell. He tried his best to heave his heavy hurt out with every exhale, to no avail. He kept smoking, kept treading the smouldering ashes into the concrete beneath his boots outside his apartment building. Kept telling himself this was the last one, that this would be the last time he allowed himself to feel like this.

Eventually, the pack emptied. His hands trembled with it, fingers clenched around cool air. Pressure blossomed in the centres of his upturned palms, stomach knotted, the spaces between his ribs drawn tight.

He shoved his frostbitten fists in his pockets, steeled himself to face a space that was not his home. But as his eyes followed his cloud of exhale, they caught on a figure on the other side of the empty street.

Karube Daikichi realised he did not need a heart.

What was the point of a muscle which tore so easily? Which couldn’t regulate its sole function when it was confronted with such devastating eyes? His heart, this useless lead pump in his chest, that supplied blood to his forsaken limbs. To the legs that would halt for nothing tangible on this earth as they made their way towards Arisu. Like a pitiful asteroid in its hapless orbit around a star, Karube fell into place in front of the man who had left him.

‘Daikichi,’ was all it took to break him. To snap the thin wire that ran from head to heart, built to forbear embarrassment in times like these.

‘Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore.’ His voice was abrasion in the quiet evening air. Arisu, tensed and taught, raised his hands in cautious surrender.

‘Sorry. Karube, then. Karube.’

There was always something wounding in the way Arisu said either of his names. As if it was something precious. As if he hadn’t swirled the taste of it in his mouth and resolutely spat it out at Karube’s feet. It made him feel untethered, strings cut all at once and without warning.

‘You kept paying the rent. You left, without telling why, and you never stopped paying the rent. Do you think I need your pity, Arisu? Do you think I need your father’s money?’

Part of Karube wanted to spit more poison at Arisu. To ask if living as a constant disappointment to his father was really so much better than living with Karube. To ask if he really did hate him that much, that he would run to someone who had never tried to understand him, who never tried to love him. Karube had given him so much love. Why did he throw it away?

‘It’s not pity. I would never pity you.’ Arisu’s speech was often soft and hesitant, but in this statement there was an unmistakable firmness.

‘So then fucking explain! You left, Arisu.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘Why do you keep apologising? If you’re really that sorry then just…’

‘Just what?’ And his eyes. Glassy with unshed tears and rimmed with red from many previous. Arisu was a man exhausted. That his spine was curled forward, that his shoulders almost grazed his ears made him seem smaller and more fragile than Karube had ever known him to be.

The useless muscle in his chest constricted itself again. Karube’s veins throbbed with it. Had he ever really known Arisu? Had he ever meant anything to him? He bit his tongue to stifle the pathetic question he so miserably needed to ask. But brittle eyeteeth could only do so much against a brain on fire.

‘It’s not fair. None of this is… is fucking fair, Arisu,’ and he makes a fist around the urge to reach out, to touch his frost-reddened cheek, to gentle a thumb at the thin skin of his eyelids. He buried such bile once again in the pockets of his worn jeans, glared at the pavement like it would fix any of this. And he had to clench his diaphragm, swallow once, twice, to kill the sob that clawed its way up his throat. He could feel Arisu’s stare itching at his scalp.

‘I’m sorry. I’m- fuck I’m so sorry, Karube. Please,’ and the waver in his words stuck like needles in his skin, ‘you have to know that I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.’

And all too suddenly, a hand cupped his cheek. It was the cruellest thing in the world, the warmth of it. How Karube’s neck arched towards its softness, how Arisu’s palm was moulded to fit his jaw like they were fired in the same kiln, forged in the same fire. Who was Karube to stop it, when the seam of his lips smoothed ever so slowly against the length of Arisu’s thumb? How could he have halted the splintered shudder that parted his lips against the tendon of an unfurled fist?

Small, like the first patter of rain on a cloudy day, Arisu begged.

‘Won’t you look at me?’

Could he have? Was it possible stare bare-faced and guileless into the sun without burning? Karube was willing to go blind with it, if it was Arisu asking.

Some of Arisu’s tears had spilt, shimmering rivulets grazing his cold-stung features. Karube’s treacherous thumb carved its home in the hollow of Arisu’s cheekbone. Ridiculous. Both men, all fragile lungs and wounded eyes, stood holding onto one another as if he couldn’t quite believe he was real. As if the other would stay for as long as he was held.

Like breathing, like the most natural thing in the world, Arisu closed what little distance remained between them.

He kissed him, a whimper leaking from between the searing heat of their mouths. It was torturous, and roiling up the arched column of Karube’s throat came a smouldering ire. Arisu always did this, always dealt the blow while looking like the most injured person in the room. It made Karube want to hurt. Thus the kiss became more teeth than lips, a grab for purchase on whatever chilled skin was exposed to him. Karube kissed to mark, kissed to plea, kissed to hollow out a space for himself that had long since closed.

The inside of Arisu’s mouth was hot, and Karube was a man starved for warmth. His other hand settled, curling against Arisu’s jaw, and all at once Karube was cradling Arisu’s face. He crushed their mouths together again and again, lips stinging and teeth too blunt to cut deep enough to make it right. Karube’s rage rose like steam out of him in the slick kiss, leaving a gentle simmer deep down in his belly.

Arisu cradled Karube’s jaw like one would hold a baby bird. His fingers gentled against his jugular, feeling the searing jackrabbit pulse of his blood under the goose-fleshed skin of his throat. His chapped fingers ran feather-light up and down, ever-so-slightly grazing the beginnings of karube’s hairline. In days gone by, Karube’s favourite thing to do was let Arisu run his fingers over his scalp, working through the tangles in his long hair until he was satisfied. This caress now was more of an echo, ringing hollow in Karube’s chest. His lungs burned with it as he gasped for air into Arisu’s mouth, gasped for what he no longer had.

It was like being crushed.

Pulling away was like pulling glass shards out of Karube’s tongue. His lips stung and his eyes burned and his heart hurt.

‘Why are you punishing me for loving you,’ he choked out, mouth filled with sawdust, ‘why can’t I have you?’

The moment shattered, red string of fate slashed to pieces. Arisu recoiled and almost snapped back, spine ramrod, eyes red-rimmed and wild. The spell broke as Arisu remembered what he came here for.

‘I’m just here to drop off my key,’ he said, voice broken but tone flat as he could muster. Arisu was a different man with the same face, a crude impression of the object of Karube’s tragic affection. Nothing felt right in the cold street, not in Karube’s palm where the cruel metal of Arisu’s key was pressed, fingers moulded over it into a fist by Arisu’s pitiless hand.

‘Just like that.’ It wasn’t a question anymore. The air that had so violently filled Karube’s chest as they kissed had seeped out and then some, leaving him deflated and exhausted. What little hope he had left had been dying a slow death since Arisu turned the corner onto his street.

‘I’m sorry, Karube,’ and Karube didn’t doubt that he was in the slightest, no matter how much it made his ears burn and his pulse ache.

He replied, ‘thanks,’ as devoid of emotion as he could muster. Karube didn’t need Arisu. Not his hands nor his kiss nor his apology. Crossing the street and unlocking the door to the apartment he resolved to move out of as quickly as possible was as easy as breathing glass without choking. Karube didn’t need Arisu.

He didn’t look back.

[you-are-my-neverland]

Positive Self Analysis Challenge

Rules: Post an excerpt you are proud of, and talk about why you’re proud of it! Choose a few sentences and talk about why you like them/what you were aiming for while you were writing.

Tagged by @commasinsidequotes ! I know it’s been like a month or whatever, but I kept getting distracted from writing. 

I’ll tag @semblanche & @landfillmp3 & @acrimoneous if you guys haven’t done this already ;-;

This excerpt is from Fairbone and there are, like, kind of major spoilers mentioned, and I couldn’t edit them out without messing up the scene. It’s also long, because I couldn’t find a good place to cut it lol.

“For the dead.” Aurelius raised his glass into the air and clinked it against nothing. “No one asked me to go into the fire, Xanthe. No one asked me to let your brother burn alive either.” Xanthe flinched at how crudely he said it, let your brother burn alive. “No one asked me to leave Ashe behind. No one asked me to make any choice I made, but I made them, and now I’m paying the price and it’s fine, I’m fine with that. It’s just karma, right?” His eyes were red rimmed, from exhaustion, from pain, when he looked at her with his smile twisted in all the wrong ways.

“Aurelius.”

“Don’t say anything.” The words were a whispered plea. “Don’t say anything. I don’t—I don’t even want to be speaking to you right now. I just want—” He trailed off, voice wavering, and dug both his hands into his hair. The glass dropped to the floor and shattered apart, Xanthe watching it fall as if in slow motion and making no move to attempt to stop it.

“I want it to be quiet,” Aurelius whispered into his hands. “I want to die.”

Xanthe’s heart constricted, painfully. “Aurelius,” she started, but he turned away from her before she could even begin to reach out to him.

“I think…” He paused, looking up at her from between his spread fingers. “I think I want to go to where I belong.”

“Where is that?” Xanthe asked, but she thought she already knew.

Aurelius looked at his thin wrist and traced the empty space there languidly. “Someplace not where you are.”

Her heart squeezed even tighter. “I understand,” she whispered, but the words tasted like sawdust in her mouth. “I don’t know when you’ll be able to, though. Ruka’s been imprisoned.”

Aurelius raised his eyebrows, eyes darkening. “Bluespeer?” he guessed.

“How did you know?” Xanthe asked, tilting her head.

“The righteous are the most ruthless,” Aurelius responded. He looked up at her, and Xanthe could see the wheels turning. “Luckily for us, we’re neither.” Xanthe didn’t know if it was a compliment or an insult.

“I won’t see you for a while,” she said softly.

“You won’t,” Aurelius acknowledged. “Not unless you plan on leaving.”

Xanthe touched the place where the rose was tattooed over her skin, and felt it burn beneath her thumb. “I can’t,” she told him. “Not yet.”

Aurelius’ lips twitched, almost. “It’s probably for the best,” he said, more soberly than he had spoken before. “We probably shouldn’t see each other for a while.”

“What does that mean?” Xanthe asked, feeling a lump in her throat. She felt like she was being slowly torn to pieces this whole conversation, each word from his mouth another piece of her being thrown to the wolves.

“It means that you’re painful for me, right now,” Aurelius answered. “And I don’t think I can look at you without remembering Ashe. I don’t...I can’t heal if you’re here with me every step of the way.”

Xanthe swallowed, but it got stuck. She hadn’t been expecting him to say it so bluntly, like something had been stabbed between her ribs and stuck there. 

“Am I the problem?” she asked, so softly that she thought, for a moment, it had gone unheard.

Aurelius looked away from her. “I think we’re both the problem,” he whispered. “Because whenever we’re around each other like this, people die.” Xerxes, Xanthe thought, back then, what had broken them apart. Ashe, breaking them apart now. 

She couldn’t even argue with him and say that it wasn’t true, because that was a lie she would be unable to say. The girl that had seen the death and the man who had led them into it. They were both a pair, weren’t they? A type of dysfunctional that had worked when they were younger and didn’t have to suffer the consequences as much, but now the blood had found their hands and dried there.

“Okay,” she whispered, sliding off the counter, her bare feet touching the cold ground. “But if this is the last time we’ll talk, can I do something?”

“What?” Aurelius looked at her.

Xanthe swallowed. “This,” she whispered, and then she kissed him as hard as she could. He stumbled back, against the counter, and Xanthe pressed forward, trying to feel anything, but he was unyielding, shoving her off. She broke away from him, gasping, and wiped at her mouth sloppily.

“What the hell, Xanthe,” Aurelius said fiercely, his words biting.

She shrugged, feeling tears in her eyes. “I’m not sorry,” she whispered, and his eyes softened. He took a half step towards her and then he was kissing her instead, lips soft against her own. Xanthe felt heat in her body, tingling in her nerves, as if her blood was on fire. She felt the counter behind her, scrambling for balance against it, the edge digging into her back. She leaned forward, to deepen the kiss, only for him to gently pull away from her again.

“We shouldn’t,” he whispered, shaking his head. “It’s grief.”

Xanthe looked away. She felt guttural and raw. She felt like something had been ripped apart inside of her. “It’s fine,” she whispered, but the words stretched her tongue the wrong way, made her feel all wrong, because it wasn’t fine, it wasn’t fine.

“Why…” Aurelius broke off. “It was my mistake,” he said instead, pressing his lips together. “It was my mistake, I’m sorry. A lapse of judgement.”

“I don’t want to be your lapse of judgement,” Xanthe whispered. She couldn’t raise her voice. “I’m in love with you, Aurelius. I’ve been in love with you for a long time. I was going, I was going to tell you at the River of Forgetting, but I couldn’t, so I’m telling you now.”

“Go, Xanthe,” Aurelius said, rubbing at his temples. He sounded tired, looked exhausted, but Xanthe was unwilling to let the conversation simply filter off. Not when her words were in the air, not when they had finally been said.

“Is that all you have to say?” she asked bitterly. “No comment? You can’t even reject or accept me?”

“It’s your feelings towards me, I shouldn’t have anything to do with them,” Aurelius retorted, a snap in his voice. “What, you need me to validate your teenage love for me? Even if I feel the same, even if I don’t, that won’t erase your feelings. It’s not my responsibility, Xanthe.”

“Fuck you,” Xanthe whispered.

“Too late for that.” His eyes were ice cold chips. “You don’t get to fucking say you love me, Xanthe, not after we both nearly died and Ashe did die and she died because of us.”

“That’s not our fault!” Xanthe cried. “If you were me, Aurelius, you would understand that I can’t accept responsibility for every death that happens just because I had a vision about it!”

“And what about your brother?!” Aurelius shouted back. “You’re telling me you saw Xerxes was going to die and you did nothing to stop it? Because I was the one who dragged you out of there, Xanthe, and you were screaming to go die with him.”

She felt tears in her eyes. Everything was hot and bitter and burning. “Don’t bring him into this,” she said.

“Xerxes is as much of a part of us as the two of us are,” Aurelius responded. “He’ll always be there.”

“So what, that’s why this will never work?” Xanthe questioned, hands curling into fists where she held herself tight. “Because of my dead brother?”

“You tell me,” Aurelius said with his dark eyes and his golden hair and his ruination, all over him. She said nothing and he turned away from her, looking somewhere that was not her, somewhere that did not have her. “Go, Xanthe.”

She left.

Analysis

When I first wrote this scene, I wrote it all at once, and I didn’t exactly feel that good about it, but I liked it all the same, because I kind of just like Xanthe and Aurelius...anyways, it was a lot of raw emotion, and when it comes to raw emotion, I tend to write it, well, rawly (which can sometimes be re: messy). So I wasn’t really sure how much I actually liked this scene, but I kept coming back to it, and it still really jumps out at me, now. 

Mostly, because this is, in a way, the ending to Xanthe and Aurelius’ story. The whole theme of them throughout the book is that they keep coming back to each other, even after everything that happened, but here is where they end, this is where they know they’re not coming back to each other. 

“So what, that’s why this will never work?” Xanthe questioned, hands curling into fists where she held herself tight. “Because of my dead brother?”

Xanthe saying this kind of encapsulates their whole relationship - even if they have feelings for one another, they never acted on them. At first, when they were teenagers, because Xanthe was his best friend’s sister, and then because Xerxes died and neither of them could save him. Even when they reconnected, after three years, Xerxes is still there, in the empty space, even when they’re not thinking about him.

“What, you need me to validate your teenage love for me? Even if I feel the same, even if I don’t, that won’t erase your feelings. It’s not my responsibility, Xanthe.”

I’ve always liked the concept of someone...not being responsible for your feelings, if that makes sense, and not having to reciprocate feelings. Aurelius and Xanthe deal with their feelings and emotions for one another in slightly peculiar ways; they’ve never really confronted them, even if they’re definitely there. There’s always been a sort of understanding between the two of them that they are more than friends, but it’s never something they’ve acted on, due to external pressures and circumstances. This scene is basically Xanthe considering why not and going for it, but once again, circumstances hold them apart.

Xanthe and Aurelius are basically the definition of two people who might be destined for one another, but keep meeting at the wrong time, if you know what I mean? There’s a quote or something that could explain it better, but I can’t quite remember it...anyways.

This scene focuses a lot of emotions. I wouldn’t call any of the characters in Fairbone to be particularly emotional people, besides maybe Ashe and Thieu, and while Xanthe and Aurelius have practically clashed in all their scenes, here is where it all overflows. Aurelius, on one hand, finally lets it all out:

“I want it to be quiet,” Aurelius whispered into his hands. “I want to die.”

Aurelius, in a way, has been like this the whole book. He’s broken. He’s suffering. He’s lost. But we as the readers might not really understand this so explicitly until he finally admits this: that he’s tired. That he’s so tired. And he’s been tired. Now he’s just plain exhausted.

This turned out long and I kind of just talked in circles, but in conclusion, it’s an emotional scene, if not a good one, and I like that.

[impala-dreamer]

Lost In The Blue

SPN FanFic

~A party at The Padalecki's turns steamy when Misha turns his eyes your way.~

Misha x Reader, Gen Padalecki, Jensen

1,760 Words

Warnings: NSFW. Porn. Breathplay. Oral. Messy Orgasm.

A/N: Sometimes you just need Misha between your legs....

Feedback is Gold ~ My Masterlist ~ Become A Patreon

It hit you like a tidal wave. That slow tingling desire that had been with you all day suddenly exploded into a rush of desperation. It flooded your veins, it rolled your hips, it kicked your pulse up a thousand notches.

Misha saw you shiver from across the room. Blue eyes shone bright even in the dimly lit area, falling over you with interest. A smile caught his lips as you tried to bleed your own, stabbing your bottom lip with your teeth to hold in a moan. He knew. He could see it in the way your nostrils flared and your chest rose with a heavy breath. Fuck, he could practically smell you from across the room.

He winked subtly and the entire world fell away. The Padalecki's living room was no more. The party surrounding you, the low din of human voices ceased to make any sense to your fragile mind.

There was only Misha.

He laughed at something Jensen said as he lifted a crystal glass to his lips, responding to his companion but not looking at him. He was locked in on you. His stare pierced your being; you could feel the blue dancing downwards over your body, lingering by your heaving breasts, caressing your stomach and thighs. Your pussy clenched, thighs tensing shut as he swallowed his drink, muscles in his throat slowly pulsing. His eyes shot back up to yours and you gasped, knees refusing to hold you in place for a second.

Misha laughed smugly to himself and looked away, knowing just what he was doing to you. He was in total control of your body and didn’t even have to say a word. One flick of his tongue against his lips was as good as against your clit; a turn of his wrist in conversation may have just as well been deep inside your cunt.

You were losing your mind and he loved every second of it.

Someone spoke to you, trying to pry your attention from the Sex God across the way, but the thin voice fluttered passed your ear with no impact.

“Y/N?” Gen tried again, holding out a refill of your drink, but you couldn’t even move to take it. “You OK?”

Misha snuck a glance at you, sapphire eyes turning at the corner. He smirked and you gave up the facade, jumping to your feet and nearly knocking Gen off of hers.

“I’m good, thanks,” you mumbled absently as you rushed across the thick carpet to take what you needed.

Jensen was gesticulating wildly as he spoke, turning with the action and blocking your path to Misha. He was no obstacle for you, just a cone in the road. You moved around him like you were slipping into a hot bath, toe first, body sliding against him, pushing him gently out of the way.

He startled and laughed. “Hey, Y/N/N, what-”

Misha grinned as you attacked, utterly ignoring Jensen and sliding your right hand up Misha’s hard chest, wrapping it around the nape of his neck. Your fingers dug into the forest of soft black hair and pulled, urging him to dip down to meet your lips.

“Hey, babe,” he chuckled when you loosened your grip.

“Don’t babe me,” you grit, reached down between you to tug on his belt. He lurched forward, spilling a bit of his drink down your back, but you didn’t care. You pushed up on your toes and down with your hand as you licked his ear. “Need you. Now.”

You heard his swallow, felt his cock twitch.

Misha cleared his throat and stood up, turning just a bit to nod at Jensen. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”

Jensen laughed as Misha’s arm circled your waist and turned you towards the door. “Have fun!”

The bedrooms were unlocked, the upstairs was empty.

Halfway down the hall, you grabbed Misha’s arm, spinning him around so you could jump; shoving him hard against the wall and biting his big pink bottom lip. His scruff scratched your face, tongue jabbed at yours. He was wet and hot and his hands cupped your cheeks, holding on while you breathed into him.

“What’s gotten into you tonight?” he asked, eyes huge and darkening by the second.

“Just...I don’t know,” you said honestly, a hint of a moan on the end of each word. “I can’t stop thinking about you fucking me on Jared’s bed.”

His jaw dropped slightly and you nipped at it, tugging on that sweet juicy lip as your desire rolled around in his head.

“Uh…”

“Please, Misha… please.” You rolled your palm over his quickly stiffening cock and he hummed happily.

“Yeah. Yeah, OK.”

Third door on the left. Fresh flowers on every flat surface. Huge window looking out over the pool. Bed big enough to get lost in for days.

Misha popped the snaps on your bra as you raced to the bed. You yanked at your dress, pulling it up and off as he fiddled with his pants behind you.

“God, you are so fucking sexy,” you moaned, watching the deep cuts of his hip bones move as he pulled off his shirt.

“Have you seen yourself lately?” he teased, hair a mess as he emerged from his shirt.

Kicking off your panties, you fell to your knees at his feet, thumbs hooking around the elastic of his orange boxer briefs. “You don’t need to sweet talk me tonight, Misha. I’m ready to go.”

Misha sucked in a quick breath as you licked a long line down his cock, tip to root and back before pulling the head between your lips. “Fuck. Yes, you are.”

He was hard on your tongue, thick and heavy. You swallowed him down, slowly burying your face in the black down at the base, loving how he jabbed at the back of your throat. Misha dropped a hand to the back of your head and held you there for a long moment, waiting until you gagged to let you go. You pulled back with a gasping breath and looked up longingly as you fisted his cock.

“Please fuck me, please.”

Misha dropped his chin and stared deep into your eyes, the blue pushing out everything but the motion of your hand steadily pumping his cock and the hot slick between your thighs.

“Is that what you need, Pretty One?” he asked, wiping a line of spit from your cheek with his wide, calloused thumb.

Your clit was throbbing painfully, your cunt aching to be filled. You whimpered pathetically and nodded, almost at the point of tears. “Please!”

Misha smiled and tucked your hair behind your ear. “Up on the bed...”

The mattress was firm but the blankets were soft, cradling your back as you lay down, spreading your legs wide for him, bending your knees high.

Misha stepped forward, fingers teasing his shaft. “You are totally soaked,” he reported, watching the arousal trickle down from your pulsing cunt.

“Yeah…” you whined, pawing at your naked tits. “I told you.”

“Maybe I should grab a towel. Don’t wanna make a mess of Gen’s nice bedspread.”

He made a move to turn away but you yelped dramatically and reached for him, clawing at his arm as you sat up.

“I. Need. You to fuck me, Misha,” you commanded firmly. “Now.”

The bed shook as he jumped up, sliding between your thighs as he kissed you hard, pushing you back down onto the blanket. You moaned around his tongue and your hands roamed upwards, fingers dancing over the thick muscles of his arms, the deep dips of his collarbone. He was so hard, so thick, that it made your body ache.

He rolled his hips slowly and nudged at your clit, the instant rush of pleasure making you cry out.

A big hand covered your mouth and Misha peered down into your soul. “Shhh…”

Lost in the blue, your heart began to race, nostrils widening as the pulled in the air around his heavy hand, taking in his musky sweet scent with it. Your eyes rolled and Misha sunk deep inside your cunt, filling you up completely.

He felt you shudder and the next cry was muffled nicely by his palm.

“So fucking tight, Y/N.” He jerked forward, rolling your hips up with him, making you work for it. “Love this little pussy.”

You clenched around him, body gripping him tight.

“You gonna cum already?” he asked, amazed but almost there himself.

Your eyes went huge and you nodded, still caught by his big hand.

“Take a deep breath,” he whispered, removing his hand. You sucked in a lung full of air and held it as he dropped his fingers to your clit, rubbing hard and fast. “Cum, Y/N.”

At last that terribly delicious ache was relieved and you came hard on his cock, leaking down and around him. It dribbled down your ass onto the blanket and Misha bucked his hips hard, following suit.

That first breath was magical, filling up your lungs and entire body; every cell so full of him, every sense beating and living for Misha.

You went limp beneath him as he kissed you sweetly, mapping your cheeks and neck with tiny wet kisses that tickled your skin. When his arms refused to work any longer, he dropped down on top of you hard, pushing you fully into the bed and then rolling away, pulling you along for the ride.

“You’re amazing,” you sighed, cuddling into his warm chest. He smelled like pine and sweat, sawdust and hardwork; sex. You kissed his nipple playfully and he squirmed, pushing your face away and up to take a proper taste.

“That was incredibly hot,” he said, letting you go after a moment. “But, seriously, what got into you?” He laughed and sat up slowly, running a hand through his messy hair.

“No idea, honestly.” You shrugged and sat up on your elbows. “I was just sitting there...watching you watching me… and… do you know how fucking sexy you are?”

Misha laughed again and tossed your bra at you. “Do you know how much trouble we’re gonna be in if Jared comes up here and sees this mess?”

Bashfully, you looked down at the spot you’d left behind. “That’s...oops?”

“We’ll pay for the dry cleaning,” he said assuringly, pulling up his briefs.

You cringed and hopped up off of the bed, worry creeping up your spine. “Gonna be expensive.”

Misha slapped your ass lovingly and squeezed. “Worth it.”

2019 Forever Tags:

@akshi8278 @amanda-teaches @arses21434 @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @because-imma-lady-assface @burningcoffeetimetravel @colagirl5 @cosicas-cuquis @cosmicfire72 @courtney-elizabeth-winchester @covered-byroses @crashdevlin @dean-winchesters-bacon @deansenwackles @deansgirl215 @deanmonandnegansbitch   @dolphincliffs @dubuforeveralone @emilyshurley @emoryhemsworth @ericaprice2008 @eternal-elir @feelmyroarrrr @flamencodiva @focusonspn @gayspacenerd @hella-aj-the-trickers-son @herbologystudent252 @hobby27 @ilsawasanacrobat @justcallmeasmodeus @katymacsupernatural @lastactiontricia @maddiepants @mariekoukie6661 @meganwinchester1999 @missjenniferb @mrswhozeewhatsis @mysticmaxie @onethirstyunicorn @our-jensen-ackles-love @peridot-rose @pisces-cutie @risingphoenix761 @roonyxx @roxyspearing @sandlee44 @shadowkat-83 @spnbaby-67 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @spnficgirl @supernaturaldean67 @supernatural-took-me-over @thehardcoveraddict @tmiships4life @wegoddessofhell @winchesterprincessbride

[bittermarrow]

At the End of the Day // (Bubba x Reader NSFW)

A/n: Holy fuck, this took me forever to finish! I’ve been writing this for 2 days now, but I’m happy with the end result. Here’s some Bubba, because he’s a babe, and I’m thirsting for him specifically at the moment.

Prompt thingy: “As long as you’re here at the end of the day.”

Warnings: Straight up smut. (I’m shameless)

Words: 3400+ (O.o)

.   .   .

You wiped down the last table as you wrapped up your shift, brushing the drops of sweat that settled at your hairline with the back of your hand. You worked at this small bar a few miles from the Sawyer farm as a waitress, it helped you keep busy in a comfortable flow. A city kid at birth, you'd grown used to working shifts like these, and you continued to work even after meeting the Sawyers. Hey, you were a creature of habit, even when it came to work. Bubba didn't like that you worked away from home three-four days a week, but after some gentle reassurance and promises to come home, he caved. Drayton didn't mind since he believed in everyone pulling their own weight in the household -and you helped pay portions of the utility bills. As you started to get ready to leave, Amanda, another waitress you got along well with brought up a familiar conversation. "Y'know ya could always take an earlier shift, Nick's been wanting to trade with somebody for a while, it could be good for ya." You sighed, trying not to appear as annoyed as you were, this was the fifth time Amanda has brought this up with you this month. You knew she just wanted her boyfriend to have the same shift so they could flirt in between waiting tables. This shift worked best for you, and you weren't going to give it up to Amanda's sugar daddy because it was a nice thing to do. Amanda was a nice girl, she really was, but she didn't know when to stop. "Look, I know you're just looking out for me, and you want Nick to have the same hours as you. But I can't do any other shift." Amanda looks disappointed but smiles anyway, if it were the first time she asked you would have felt bad. "Oh, okay I get it. Um, but... think about it maybe?" She was particularly persistent today, that boy better like her. "I'll think about it, but it's a 'no' for now." She nods with a glimmer of hope in her green eyes and you clock out, though, with no plans to 'think about it'. You use the bar's phone to call Drayton and ask him to come and pick you up, to which he grouched at but complied. He may bitch and moan a lot, but you know he wants you home safe, the Sawyer's consider you family now. Even if Drayton was a huge dick and you didn't like the way he treated Bubba, he was family-bound. It took about twenty minutes for him to pull up, and you were eager to get home. Another twenty minutes and you’re hopping out of the truck and making your way up the porch stairs. No doubt Bubba was waiting at the door for you like a puppy and was all smiles, babbling happily when you walked through the door. You barely get a few steps away from the door before Bubba is tugging you along, most likely to the kitchen to get out the leftovers for you.

There was no “Oh, I ate at work,” with this family, you didn't turn down meals under this roof. First of all, it will one-hundred percent offend Drayton, which will ultimately result in you getting shit from him. And of course, the… the cannibalism part was just something you had to get used to, there was no getting around it. But, as you’ve noticed, the more you eat of it, the less it will occur to you that it's human, that it's supposed to taste bad. The fact that it doesn't is as unsettling as it is relieving. Your body has grown accustomed to the taste of human flesh, but your mind still battles you over it. The morals you grew up with were hard to shake, the kind that continuously reminded you that you weren’t supposed to eat other people.

You sit next to Bubba at the otherwise empty table as you eat the meat stew he'd warmed up for you. Beside you, Bubba was sewing wet strips of flesh together with just a needle and thick thread, no doubt working on a new mask. He had a sewing machine in the basement but he still liked to hand-stitch them sometimes, it reminded him of when Mama first taught him how. You liked to watch him make his masks, always surprised how careful Bubba could be. But you also knew that besides butchering and slaughtering trespassers, this was the only thing Bubba thought he was good at.

It hurt your heart to think about it, that he grew up believing that he wasn't good for much else than cutting meat. You wanted to tell him all the things you thought he excelled at, but like Bubba, you weren't very good with wordage. Him for obvious reasons, and you for a reason you still have a hard time understanding. All the thoughts sound fine in your head, but then they tumble out of your mouth sounding completely different.

So you kept the depth of your admiration and thoughtfulness behind your teeth, and instead expressed it through actions.

You say you work because it keeps you busy and helps you adjust from city life, but you actually work because you want the Sawyers to always have a backup plan if things go wrong. You said you let Bubba sleep in your room because he was afraid to be alone when you actually let him stay because you wanted to keep him close to you at night. You joke that you stick around because the family would be lost without you when in truth, it is you who would be at a loss without them.

You live in a constant cycle of contradiction between what comes from your mouth and what comes from your heart. You can only hope that Bubba knows that you need him as much as he needs you.

Shaking the thought from your mind as the metallic edge of your spoon clinks against the bottom of the now empty bowl, you rise from your seat and carry it over to the porcelain plate-filled sink. Sighing you and rolling up your shirt sleeves, you start scrubbing at the dishes. You hear Bubba make a noise of disapproval at the familiar sight and you smile to yourself, knowing he was likely planning on doing those himself. Bubba knew better than to argue with you, but he still didn't have to like it, you just got off work to do more work?

Two-thirds of the way through the dishes you startle slightly at the feeling of thick arms wrapping around your waist from behind. You huff and grin, leaning back against Bubba who buried his face in the back of your neck, his hair brushing against your skin. You reach back with a slick hand to pat his head and return to your task, his call for attention hesitantly ignored. You are forced to wash the last set of tableware one-handed when Bubba seizes your other one, playing with your fingers and mumbling incoherently into your shoulder.

Finally, you wipe your hands with a hand towel and turn off the tap. The squeak of the faucet catches Bubba’s attention and he immediately clings harder into you, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and making small excited noises. You laugh as you are pushed forward against the counter under his weight and brace your hands on its surface. Before you attempt to turn around you suddenly feel Bubba’s hips rest against your backside and in the process noticed the hard shape pressing against the back your thighs. The lighthearted mood mixes with something heavy when he starts brushing his lips against the sensitive flesh of your neck, his whole body shuddering as he takes in your sweet scent.

Bubba isn't necessarily experienced in the art of sensual build up, preferring to get to the point— and inside of you as quickly as possible. But the few times you've coaxed him into some sweet and slow lovemaking, he's loved it. It's definitely better than the quickies you two normally have, he can't even count how many times you've been interrupted or nearly walked in on.

You sigh as the dull ache of your sore muscles begins to dissolve at the feeling of Bubba’s warms lips against your neck. You lean forward onto your elbows over the counter and push your hips back into his, grinding back onto his erection. Bubba whimpers at the contact and bucks gently against your ass, hands gripping shakily at your waist. Feeling yourself start to dampen your panties, you start craving for more direct friction. You wriggle out of his grip and turn around in his arms before looping your arms around his thick neck and pulling him down to your lips.

Bubba’s moan vibrates against your tongue as he eagerly returns your kiss, hands moving to your face to pull you harder against his plush lips. The hot press of your soft lips absorbs him for a moment before the almost painful throbbing of his cock reminds him of himself. He needs some sort of friction or he's going to combust, go insane with want. And as if hearing his silent prayer, you pull him forward into you using his shoulder and the counter as leverage to wrap your numbing legs around his hips.

The pleasure of being pressed against him so intimately was sending shockwaves of awareness from your buzzing nerves and lower extremities, straight to your brain and back, telling you everything you were feeling. As if you need to be told. Your hand twisted in the hair of his mask, grabbing a good hank of it and yanking his head back. You stared into his clouded brown eyes, seeing the submission you were looking for before diving in for his neck.

You pushed the neck of dried flesh up to access his real skin and started pressing open-mouthed kisses there, to which Bubba shuddered at the feeling of. He lolls his head to the side obediently to bare more of his throat to you. You dragged the tips of your teeth his sensitive spots, his musky, sawdust-esque scent filling your nostrils as a constant reminder of everything that was simply and utterly him.

The abrupt sound of obnoxious laughter cut through the air and also the two of you apart, you both jerk away and turn your heads to the entryway, ready to scatter. But, thankfully, no one had been or was standing there. You come to the hazy-minded conclusion that it had been one of the boys making a racket in the living room, most likely Chop. You relax and turn back to Bubba, who is already looking at you, with that breathless but loving look you adored. You lean forward and kiss him briefly, trying not to linger in fear of getting carried away, even if it was painful to pull away from those plump lips he had. Bubba, however, was not ready for you to pull away yet and chased your lips stubbornly. You let him get away with it a few more moments before you pulled away from him. You should move this out of the kitchen, preferably to the bedroom, or basement. Wherever you got to first. You were ready for him to fuck you now, or for you to fuck him. Whoever came out on top first, both options were equally appealing.

You were a switch. While you lived to be held down and given some good, hard lovin’, you also loved to be on top, riding Bubba for all he was worth as he squirmed and squealed beneath you like a man possessed. Your tongue slipped out from behind your teeth and you dragged the tip across your lip. The sight had Bubba shaking with the anticipation of being inside of you, you could tell he was thinking about all the things he wanted to do with you too.

“Bubba… upstairs please, now.”

Bubba nodded quickly and slid his hands under your thighs to hike your body higher up his body, you clung to him as he carried you towards the stairs. You knew he was strong enough to carry someone twice your size so you never needed to worry about being too heavy. Before you knew it your warm back was pressed into cool sheets, your weight sinking into the mattress and the springs groaning under Bubba’s added weight as he draped himself over you. He buried his face in your stomach and hugged your curves trying to ignore the pressure building in his groin, the urge to grind himself against the sheets proved too tempting. You watched as Bubba rubbed himself against the covers, and it occurs to you how hard he’s trying to go slow.

You ruffle the hair of his mask and suddenly feel a strong aversion to it, so you fingered the ends of it and pulled it off. Bubba lifted his head to allow you to remove it before his warm forehead dropped back onto your belly. you raked your fingers through his real hair, tangling them into his black curls and massaging his scalp. Bubba was comfortable in his own skin around you, so he never saw a reason to hide his face from you anymore. He knows you loved him no matter what his face looked like, you drilled that into his head early on. If you thought he was handsome then who was he to insist that he wasn’t? He believed anything you told him.

“Sweetheart, I need you to get undressed for me now.”

He perks up at that and nods eagerly, reluctantly pulling himself away from you and your softness to start tugging at his clothes. You slip out of your work clothes and perch yourself on his thighs as he sits up, your sex drags across the underside of his length and Bubba groans at the heat radiating from you onto him. You slip a hand down and wrap your nimble fingers around his girth and give him a few encouraging strokes, he thrusts into your palm, desperate for more of your intoxicating touch.

You take his hand and lead it to the cradle of your hips to brush his thick fingers against your core, Bubba moans audibly at how wet you are. He doesn’t need any more instruction before he’s sliding his rough digits over your lips and dipping a finger inside to gather your arousal. You groan breathily as he pushes a finger inside of you and your hips involuntarily roll into his hand, you shudder. A few minutes later and he slides a second digit inside of your spasming cunt and you keen, resting your forehead against his collarbone as his fingers pump inside of you, your slick walls clenching around them with every push and pull of their thickness against your insides. Your hands brush together as you stroke him in time with his fingers as they press inside of you, knuckles rubbing together as you gain momentum.

The way Bubba starts panting and bucking into your hand as he shoves his eager fingers into your pussy tells you he’s not going to last much longer, and while you don’t want to have to wait even more… you can’t find it in yourself to deny him release. So you start pumping him with both hands, adding more pressure and speeding up, his pre-cum making it slippery and each stroke makes a wet sound. Bubba’s heavy breathing picks up until he’s almost wheezing and his noises rise in volume, melting into each other as the pressure continues to build up in his groin, his balls swelling and shaft throbbing with the anticipation of his orgasm.

Like always, Bubba’s free hand strays to help you finish him off, but you swat it away and instead push him down onto his back. You slide yourself on top of him so you are facing his cock and his face is dangerously close to your core, Bubba takes the hint and grips your hips and thighs, massaging the generous flesh there and licking a long stripe up your cunt. You gasp and moan, thighs quivering around his face as he starts enthusiastically eating you out, his fat tongue sliding against your labia and dipping into your entrance. His hips jerk upwards into your grip and you remind yourself of your task.

You wrap your lips around the pink head of his pulsating cock, your tongue sliding over the slit before you take him into your mouth. Swallowing him down as far as you can, it’s not so much his length that makes this difficult, it’s just that he’s so damn thick. Bubba’s hips stutter and thrust up into your heavenly mouth and tongue, a loud moan vibrating against your flesh. Your eyes cross and you start sucking him for all he’s worth, already beginning to chant his name and ‘more’ inside your head as your nerves begin to buzz out of control. He’s got you right on the edge of one of the strongest orgasms you’ve experienced yet, it’s a race to see who can make the other come first, and when you’re convinced he will, Bubba starts sucking on your clit. Not only that, but he slides two fingers inside of you to substitute the absence of his tongue. You moan around his erection sending vibrations down his dick as you throw your head back, his member slipping out of your mouth but your hand still furiously pumping him as you come harder than you’ve probably ever had.

Your walls convulse and clench wildly around his fingers and the feeling sends Bubba reeling as it triggers his own undoing, his hips bucking into your grip, pulsing and jerking as his warmth spills from his aching cock. His cum paints your knuckles white as he groans and whimpers his pleasure into your soft inner thigh, you can faintly feel his rapid breath against your skin. You both collapse in a heap, tense muscles going lax under the numbing effects of the afterglow, just laying there and learning to breathe correctly again.

As you come down you take notice of the way Bubba is stroking your thighs and waist, fingers rubbing in small, soothing circles. It’s not an initiation of another round, rather an apology as he traces the darkening bruises he left on your backside, legs, and hips. If there’s something you’ve learned about Bubba over al this time when it came to sex, it was that he was big on aftercare. Making sure you weren’t hurt, that he's satisfied you completely, and that you don’t need anything. He was often like this in between rounds, especially ones that left you exhausted like you were now, nuzzling and cuddling you while checking you over.

Sighing into his hip-bone you moved your leg so your lower half rested beside him instead of on top of him, you rested your chin on your elbows and looked over your shoulder at your big, strong teddy bear of a boyfriend. His eyes gazed lazily but affectionately back into yours, his hand running up and down your lower back, but he stopped over an indention in your muscle finding a knot there that made you wince upon being touched. Bubba started rubbing his thumbs around the area, pressing down on the afflicted muscle until the knot finally relented. You moaned at the release of tension in your back, and nuzzled his thigh, mumbling a ‘thank you’ into his skin.

You decided that was all you had the energy to handle for one night, and an equally spent Bubba agreed with you, barely able to keep his head up under the weight of exhaustion. So you clean the both of you up and snag one of your old oversized band T-shirts and plop down on top of Bubba to rest. He was big enough to be a bed to you and definitely soft and squishy enough to fall asleep on comfortably. You trailed sleepy butterfly kisses all over his cheeks and lips as you talked both of you to sleep, just random things and sweet nothings until you couldn’t keep your eyes open any longer.  You don’t remember who fell asleep first, but you slept like a fucking queen that night.

You work pretty damn hard, but you can always thank Bubba for being there at the end of the day.

[noel-byers]

What monsters do you fight? || chapter O3

Chapter O1 • Chapter O2 • Chapter O3

Words: 1570

⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉

After almost throwing Will's bicycle in the back of the playroom, I walked in with a few strides and found myself standing in front of Kit, intent on munching a packet of chips like usual.

"Taste bbq?" I asked with a small smile.

"Don't try Byers. It is onion taste your most hated taste” Kit answered with his usual rabbit smile. I raised both eyebrows and put both hands on my hips.

"You really are ungrateful, if it weren't for me, you'd have twice your pounds, you need a poor wretch to help you finish the fries” I commented, rather disappointed, but keeping a slight smile of defiance.

"However you are late I will have to take ten dollars off your pay" my friend said at one point, continuing to crunch noisily.

"What?! And I, who had also taken care to bring you my acne cream, but since all of a sudden you became all asshole, then keep your onion breath and your volcanoes on the epidermis" I replied with theatrical making leaving myself behind a Kit that now implored my forgiveness and the divine ointment.

I started doing my reconnaissance lap inside the club, being careful that no one broke some machinery or just having fun seeing the children rosicare when they were game over. But my gaze stopped on a little girl who was playing Dig-Dug and immediately it occurred to me how much Dustin boasted about his "unbeatable score".

So as soon as I saw the girl cursing for yet another game over, I approached her.

"Twice on, one on the right, four on the left, two on the bottom and a counterclockwise turn with the keys" I said, laying a hand on the Dig-Dug machine, the red-haired girl looked up and her pale eyes met the my.

"What?" He asked with a questioning grimace.

"I'm revealing a trick to boost your character and upset the record list" I replied vaguely, shrugging my shoulders.

"And why are you telling me?" The redhead asked at this point, crossing her arms over her chest with a small interested smile. At his request I looked up at the ceiling for a few moments, pressing the index finger several times on my chin.

"I have a weakness for red hair" I replied in an amused tone.

"And how should I take this answer, like an advance?" The girl asked ironically.

"Nah just like a desperate request for friendship, a teenager who gets bored in the arcade" I replied with a small laugh, which she reciprocated.

"Do you agree, bored girl, and how do I know you're not fooling me for fun?" She asked at this point, raising an eyebrow.

"You are a very suspicious girl. We make a bet, if you are right, I offer you a hot dog, otherwise you will have to offer it to me if you are wrong” I proposed with a tone of challenge and she accepted the bet turning immediately to the Dig-Dug screen and pressing the proper buttons as I had told her.

At the end of the game The red-haired girl remained with her mouth wide open and turning to me trying to contain all her euphoria.

"Ok redhead fetishist, you won, I'll offer you this goddamn Hot-dog" he nodded with a broad smile.

"I very gladly accept, dear!" After taking a hot dog for both of them, the girl proposed to sit on the stairs outside the room, just ahead of the entrance. We sat down and as we ate another conversation started.

"Anyway, I'm Max" he said as he chewed.

"And I'm Noel, nice to meet you" when Max heard my name raised an eyebrow but said nothing about it "I've never seen you in these parts, you're new here in Hawkins?"I asked, taking a bite of the hot dog..

The girl at that point nodded but didn't seem to be of many words about it. I decided not to feel something unpleasant, also because I didn't have all this confidence yet.

"You'll be fine here, Hawkins may seem like a city too monotonous and quiet, but if you look hard you will find many unusual and interesting things" I commented gently.

"I hope so in the end...this place doesn't look so bad, it's great for skateboarding" replied Max nodding several times.

"Now I'm really curious to see you at work" I said putting both hands under my face and then looking at her with an amused air.

"Next time I could take him to the arcade" the redhead suggested.

"I find it an excellent idea" I concluded with a nod, only to be interrupted by a deafening roar of cars, which approached a few meters from us.

My throat knotted dangerously when I saw Billy Hargrove get out of that car, what the fuck was he doing here? Don't tell me he had a secret passion, hidden under that sawdust brain?

He leaned close to the hood of the car, lighting a cigarette, and looked with unfriendly eyes at Max, who looked down nervously, but Hargrove's eyes bulged when he recognized my figure.

Probably if he could have punched me he would have done it in that instant but probably being around a public place prevented him from putting his bestial desire into action.

"What the fuck are you doing here with her?" Billy asked frowning, earning a puzzled look from Max.

"I work here, asshole. And the girl is able to understand and decide what to do on her own" I replied without fear, but the blond's gaze was causing me a slight sense of anxiety.

"She's my half sister, bitch. And she does what I say, when I want and how I want to” Billy replied, then looked at Max, who looked at me almost sorry.

"You can't always behave like that with the Hargrove people as if they were all under your iron fist, you will realize that all this security is all in your imagination" I said to Billy as he entered his car and lowering the window he said to me:

"Take it in the ass, Byers"

"Well you do as a target first, Hargrove" I yelled back, while Max inside his car bit his tongue to keep from laughing, while Billy with a disgusting bitter in his mouth darted home.

⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉

I made my way back home at midnight, my eyes had grown heavy and all I wanted was to throw myself into my bed and not think about anything but sleep.

I started towards our small kitchen, uncertain of a little water to drink and as soon as I found the bottle I poured a small amount into the glass. In the air reigned a heavy silence, almost unusual for our apartment, maybe Will would have slept quiet dreams that night. I was hoping for it with all my heart. My thoughts stopped abruptly when I heard a creak at the front door, as if someone had opened it ... was he a thief? He carefully opened the cutlery drawer and picked up a knife with the tip not out of tune, hoping it could be useful and turning around I saw only the figure of my younger brother who was going out of the house with an empty expression. "W-Will?" I whispered, frightened but at the same time perplexed, but he didn't seem to hear me. So after putting down the knife, with a small step he followed his path, until I saw him stop a few centimeters from the entrance door. He looked at the sky in a terrified way but there was nothing, I didn't see anything! His small hands trembled like dry leaves, while his eyes were wide with terror.

I knelt in front of him and with both hands grabbed his slender shoulders trying to shake a little. "Will what's up? what's scaring you?” no answer “Will please, can you hear me?” it looked like an ice statue “Will, please answer me!” I begged with eyes that started to contain more tears. His gaze dropped to me in a lost way.

"Noel...?" As soon as he heard those words, I looked into his shocked eyes and without thinking twice I greeted him in my arms.

"Will...holy god, what happened to you?" The child seemed to think about it a little before answering.

"I think suffering from somnambulism is one of the symptoms...of the trauma, the doctor told me" and yet there was something that did not come back to me.

"Are you really telling me the truth?" I asked frightened, he nodded "Swear me"

"I swear" he replied without hesitation as if he wanted to avoid the subject. I looked at him again for a few moments, stroking his face with one hand, then getting up and leading him back into the house.

"Do you want me to keep you company, little brother?" I asked in front of his bedroom door, he shook his head.

"No son’t worry, you know, I'm not a child anymore" he replied, raising his eyes to the sky and I nodded defeated, moving away to the bathroom to put on my pajamas and give me a fix. A few moments after putting on my pajamas I approached Will's room again, who seemed to have taken sleep immediately, I let a sigh escape from my dry lips and as far as I knew I was going against my brother's will, I approached his sleeping figure and taking a pillow I lay down beside his bed, on the floor and watching him like a sentinel, I let my heavy eyelids and defeated fatigue slowly take possession of my body, catapulting me into a deep sleep.

T O   B E   C O N T I N U E D …

⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉⑆⑇⑈⑉

Tag list:

@xxemoluverxx @sledgy14 @ellenna

[absollnk]

Censored and Slightly Refined version of “Three makes a fucking Burrito” I’m using for school (to clarify this is 2k words of agent 24 fluff)

Censor count (excluding minor swears): 8

Three's apartment was divided into four main sections: Bedroom, Bathroom, Living Room, and Kitchen. All of them had their own set of odors, but the Kitchen had the most by far. While the others wouldn't have more than a couple, the Kitchen's got butter, burnt microwave pizza, garbage, burnt cheese, vanilla air freshener, burnt tortilla,  T h e   S i n k…   That's all Three can remember off the top of her head. It's an omnipresent reminder of the fact that she isn't physically capable of actual cooking, or baking, or anything else of the sort. And that's a problem, because she wanted to surprise Eight with a nice, homemade dinner at least once before one of them kicked the bucket. And why not today, she thought. It would only be harder as she got older.

     Homemade. That's it. The thing that Three can't do. Her skillset is limited to cereal, kool-aid, and stuff with instructions on the package. Anything else never happened, and that's a problem because yada yada Eight, yada yada surprise. 

Damnit, now Three's procrastinating.

Three snapped back to reality and was staring right at her tiny electric stove. It had only two panels for pots or whatever they're called, and only one of them has she ever used. It had a huge black burn mark that's been building up over time that Three hides with a pan whenever the landlord visits. It was probably mostly cheese and ramen juice. 

Who was Three kidding. There was no way she could cook anything even remotely fancy for Eight. Not without help from the Bastard™.

Three sat herself on the counter, pulled her phone out of her pocket, and almost called Four before messaging her instead. It would be harder for her to ask questions.

Three: Hey

Four: This is already suspicious

Three: I need your help with something

Four: I'm honored, what do you want grumpy

Three: Im going to ignore that

Three: I need help with cooking something

Four: Hmm

Four: Is it for Eight?

Hmph.

Three: No

Four: I know you aren't cooking for yourself, you sad little swamp monster

Four: And there's no way you're doing it for anyone else

Hmph.

Three: Well played

Three: Help me or I remove a corner of your head with a brick

Four: Fine

Four: I'm only helping because I know you love me :)

Three: I love you like a sister

Three: >10% of the time

Four: :}

Three: Help me

Four: First of all, what do you even want to make for her?

Oh, that's another thing. Three doesn't know what Eight likes. All she had for most of her life was basically nutritious sawdust, so nearly everything up on the surface is fantastic to her. It's hard to tell what she likes more than other things.

Three: No clue, she likes everything

Four: Well, then what does she like more than average?

Four: Gee whiz, Three. Use your head!!! Do you have any more brain cells than your name implies?

Three: Listen

Three: If I knew, I would've told you, twat. It's hard to tell what she likes extra

Three: Wait just had an idea

Three: I should make her something she's never had before

Four: That might be difficult

Four: Didn't Eight gain like ten pounds right after she escaped because Off the Hook took her to so many food joints?

Three: Yeah but

Three: Im like 84% sure she's never had a burrito

Four: Gourmét

Three: Shut the hell up

Three: You know just as well as I do that her first burrito better be a damn good one

Four: True

Four: So a burrito it is?

Three: Yeah

Four: Ok that's not that hard

Four: What do you think she would like in a burrito?

Three: Probably just bean and cheese or something

Three: Maybe a little bit of hot sauce

Four: Do you have those things?

Three: Damnit

Three: Hold on I'm gonna go get those real quick

Four: Are you serious

Three: Yeah give me like ten minutes

Four: Good luck

Three checked the time as she dashed to the door. 6:03 P.M. She had exactly twenty-seven minutes to have a perfect bean n' cheese ready before Eight finished clothes shopping with Off the Hook. 

Three was fully aware of how illegal it was to super jump anywhere in Inkopolis that wasn't currently being used for recreation (turfing/ranked/league). She was also fully aware of how unenforced that law was. Every other day or so, you would get to see some random idiot land on the rooftop of some random building because they're in a rush. It was Three's turn to be that idiot. Again.

Three ran up her apartment complex's stairwell until she reached the door to the roof. It was covered in mechanical nonsense that she didn't recognize but found familiar after being seen so many times. Three was very confident in her super jump accuracy. Working for the NSS is the reason, no doubt. All those launchpads every other minute… Ever since Three chewed up and spat out and on Octavio, she hadn't missed a single jump. Except for the time she was in a panic and almost got flattened to the road.

Three aligned herself with the closest grocery store, shifted into a squid, and took off. She soared through the air and landed right on the roof of a MakoMart. Not the one modified for turfing. 

She dropped off the side and jog-ran around to the front entrance. The automatic doors slid open and Three dashed inside.

It wasn't too busy, being Thursday. It looked to be mostly filled with Jellies and older Inklings. Three was very familiar with the store. She's bought food almost exclusively from here since moving into her apartment 3 years back. She still had almost no idea where anything was because she only buys six or seven things over and over again.

She snatched a basket and walked along the outsides of the aisles, scanning the signs for the things she needed. She knew cheese was at the back with the other refrigerated stuff, she'd get that last.

Three saw "tortillas" on a sign along with other bread and bread-like items above an aisle near the center of the store. Unlike most MakoMarts, this one carried almost exclusively food and a few other essentials. It didn't have to be so disgustingly large like the rest of its locations.

It occurred to Three that she had no knowledge on the difference between the two types of tortillas. She knew that one was good and that the other should be reserved only for the residents of Extra-Hell, but she didn't know which was which. She had no choice. Time was running slim already, it's 6:06. Only 24 minutes left. It's time to call.

Four picked up on the first ring. "Sup?"

"I don't remember which tortillas don't taste like garbage."

"Just get the name brand ones."

Three dropped a pack into her basket and instantly had second thoughts. It was like one of those scenes in cheesy horror movies when Protagonist picks up the object that just happens to be cursed.

"Are you sure? I think they hate me."

"Were they more expensive?"

"Yes."

"Then you're good. Now go get some canned microwaveable beans. You don't have the time or equipment to make anything better." Four hung up.

After Three found all that she needed, she speed-walked back to the front of the store. The place's only downside was the lack of self checkout; talking to a cashier was necessary.

On the contrary, the amount of open lanes was usually more than the amount of customers, so that was a plus.

Three found an empty lane and threw the ingredients onto the conveyor. She started fumbling with her watch before anything even reached the dude about to scan her stuff.

He seemed to notice Three's hurried state and tried to work quickly to match it. Because Three only bought three things (tortillas, bag of shredded cheese, mild hot sauce), the cashier had her total in under 15 seconds.

"927 g, please." Three held out her wrist and he scanned her watch, taking the needed money. "See you again on Friday," he dismissed her. Three gave a thumbs-up and dashed out the automatic doors.

Three ran back around into the alley and super jumped back to the roof of her apartment building from there. She took the stairwell back to her floor and ran to her apartment and kicked the door open. She left it unlocked because:

A. she would only be gone for a short time, and

B. no one would want her stuff anyway.

Three dumped the food onto the counter and called Four. She answered on the fifth ring.

"Hot sauce," she said immediately.

"I'm back," Three replied.

"What.. the hell? You were only gone for, like, 6 minutes."

"Yeah, and Eight gets back in 22."

"Okay, you need to slow down," said Four. "Making a burrito takes less than five minutes and you know her moms are always late. In fact, I'd recommend just waiting for a bit so Eight doesn't have to eat cold burrito."

"I.. fine, you're right. What should I do in the meantime? Should I turn on the stove early? What pan should I- nevermind I only have one. I should rewash it to make sure it's clean..."

"Girl, chill out," said Four. "You have so much time right now. Your pan is clean. Put the cheese in the fridge and wait like twenty minutes before you start doing anything. Then call me back."

Three took a deep breath. "Ok. Talk to you then."

"Now you're getting it. Bye." Four hung up.

Three spent the next twenty minutes mentally preparing for 6:28 p.m. and the events that would follow. It was like preparing for a hard boss fight, except losing wouldn't just mean wasting a few hours. It would mean disappointing her. Gorl. Eight.

And that can't happen.

Finally, Three watched as the timer on her phone hit zero. It was time. She called Four yet again and she answered on the first ring.

"I was expecting you," Four said.

"It's been twenty minutes," Three replied.

"You're an absolute child," Four said. "Turn on the burner."

So that's what it's called. Burner.

"How high?" Three asked.

"It literally doesn't matter. Just remove the tortilla once it gets nice tan spots on both sides."

After a hectic five minutes of preparing a burrito, four more of starting over, and Four's patience being worn thin, Three had something she was satisfied with. She had to admit to herself, it looked good. She wrapped it in tinfoil to preserve the heat.

No more than 24 seconds later did Three hear a knock on the door. "I'm hanging up," Three told Four matter-of-factly.

"Oh, come on!" She complained. "I worked hard to get you here. I'm going to see.. hear the payoff."

"Fine, but shut up."

There was another knock. "Hello? It's Eight."

“And us,” Marina shouted.

"Be there in a sec!" Three turned to her phone. "I said shut up."

"I didn't say anything!"

Three opened the door and Eight was there, flanked by Pearl and Marina. "Hi," Three said.

"Why are you smiling so unnaturally wide?" asked Marina.

"No," responded Three.

"That doesn't even make sense," said Pearl. "What's burning?"

"No I'm not," said Three. Eight snickered.

"You know, you're lucky," said Marina. "Any other time I would do a full-scale search of your apartment, but we have to announce a Splatfest tomorrow."

"She'd also interrogate you detective-style," said Pearl.

"Ah" was all Three could generate as a response. It's not like what they said deserved a better one.

"We'll be fine," Eight told them.

"Well, alright then. See you soon," concluded Marina. 

"Be safe," added Pearl as the two ran off.

"Three?" Eight called after a few seconds. "You there?"

"Yeah, sorry," Three said. "Those two know how to get into my head."

"Everyone does," Eight pointed out.

"Soooooo, I, uh, made you a burrito."

"Ooohh! Is that what's on fire?"

"No! That's just what my stove smells like. Here." Three lead Eight to the section of her counter that functioned as a table. 

"Tada," said Three with minimal enthusiasm.

"Uh, eating metal doesn't really.. work. I've tried."

"Oh, l need to take off the foil… now tada."

"Ooooooohhhh!" Eight oohed. "That's what that is! I've seen them in commercials and stuff but I didn't know what they were called. They looked good."

Eight took a moment to figure out how to hold the burrito and took a bite as Three watched in anticipation. It felt like one of those cooking shows but completely not at all at the same time.

"It's good!" Eight said after swallowing her bite.

"That's all?" asked Three, slightly disappointed.

"Well, it's warm and it tastes good and it's a little spicy, which I really like, but the crust is kinda weird."

"Crust? The tortilla?" Three asked. And then it clicked. She took another from the bag to make sure. She took a bite out of the tortilla and gagged.

"Haha, got ‘em," said Four through Three's phone.

Three threw the phone into the dishwasher, slammed it shut, and started it.

[littlewerewolfsmutoven-blog]

Ready, Set, Focus

Explicit | 2,913 words | Power Dynamics | archive of our own

Summary: Scott doesn't have any grasp on how to control his newfound werewolf urges, including anger and lust. Derek offers up himself as a helpful solution.

Scott peddled hard, shoving his feet down against the resistance of his bike pedals whilst he veered through the dirt road of the Beacon Hills Preserve. His ferocious emotion boiled over—hot and heavy—fueling his motivation and unyielding anger as he continued alongside the road to the soot-covered bones of Derek’s old house.

Derek’s persistent interference into his life was grating. Scott just wanted to be a normal person, in a normal town, with a normal girlfriend. He wanted to forget about getting turned into a werewolf. Just a couple weeks ago, werewolves were a myth. But now, everything was fucked…and Derek was hellbent on sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. Derek was hellbent on being the lasting reminder of what Scott wanted to ignore…and Scott was finished with it—he was finished with Derek.

“Derek!” Scott roared, hopping off of his bike. He tossed the metal down onto the wild weeds of Derek’s poor excuse for what some people would attempt to call a front lawn. “I know you’re in there! Step outside! You’re starting to piss me off even more!”

“Get pissed.” Derek mocked dryly from where the sun threw heavy shadows down onto the rickety porch of his ruined house. “It’ll help to prove my point.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you’re trying to prove.” Scott responded. “I want you to get the fuck out of my life and stay the fuck out of my life…for the rest of my life!”

Derek jumped off of the wooden porch and swaggered over to where Scott was angrily standing—fists balled up in an empty, childish display of weak anger. It made Derek want to roll his eyes and wave the entire situation away. But he couldn’t. It was more than clear that Scott needed some sturdy foundation for being a werewolf. And Scott’s lack of self-control and lack of logical thought was dangerous.

“Your temper—it’s going to get somebody killed.” Derek announced smugly, pointing his finger into the meat of Scott’s chest. “It could get your friends killed, it could get your little girlfriend killed, and it could get you killed.”

“Really—? Because I just want to let it get you killed.” Scott sneered, leaping forward into Derek’s sturdy frame.

Scott’s eyes flared bright beta yellow, his fangs and claws elongated, the hair on the sides of his face thickened, and he roared out—knocking Derek down into the dirt and dead grass. He clawed violently into the fabric of Derek’s shirt, ripping it into shreds, whilst trying to dig the sharpness of his claws into Derek’s chest.

Derek shifted, getting his legs underneath where the front of Scott’s body was pressed against his own, and then kicked the unskilled beta off of his muscle. He watched as Scott flew through the air—bashing into the thick wood of a tree with a pained cry. And as Scott picked himself up from the ground, even angrier than before, Derek calmly recollected himself, stood up, and dusted his torn clothes off.

“You’re out of control. You’re feral. You’re unpolished, unskilled, outmatched, and ignorant to what I’m supposed to teach you.” Derek clicked his tongue unsympathetically. “You need to channel your anger into something that can handle it—something that can drain you and send you on your way with a levelheaded mind.

Scott charged at Derek yet again, reaching out with his claws. However, Derek quickly dodged the attack and spun around—kicking harshly against Scott’s backside and watching the outraged beta collapse momentarily against the ground. Derek reached down and grabbed a fist full of Scott’s sweater fabric, hoisting the boy up into the air, and then dragging him into the shadowed husk of the Hale house.

Derek dropped Scott onto the dust-covered floorboards of the house’s charred foyer, clapping away the dirt from his own hands as he let Scott simmer. He beamed down towards the beta, focusing in on how Scott’s heartbeat refused to come down, how Scott’s pores continued to ooze out wrath, and how Scott blatantly continued to fight against words of advice.

“I’m – supposed – to – meet – Allison – tonight.” Scott growled, piercing his yellow gaze up into Derek’s blue. “

Derek scoffed. “And that’s your problem.”

“Allison isn’t a problem. You’re the problem!” Scott retorted.

Derek hovered over where Scott remained hunched over on the floor, nudging the boy’s rips with the bluntness of his leather boot, just enough to flip Scott over onto his back. He stared down at Scott’s heaving chest and glowing eyes. He analyzed the lines of anger that prominently creased on the skin of Scott’s sweat-beaded forehead. Derek was amazed at how unwilling to listen and learn Scott was.

“It’s hormones, dumbass.” Derek said, kneeling down so that one of his knees rested in-between Scott’s spread thighs. “You don’t think with your head, you think with your dick….and it’s going to keep fucking up your life until you learn how to separate the two.”

Scott roared out again, this time, kicking Derek away from his body. Derek flew into the air and smashed into the wooden door frame that had seemingly retained enough structural integrity through the fire; because Derek’s heavy body didn’t into shatter it into sawdust. Instead, Derek’s back hit against the solid wood—momentarily stunning him.

Derek shook the stars out of his dazed head, prepared to counter with another attack. But then, Scott lunged forward and pressed himself up against Derek’s body—pinning the two of them back against the wooden door frame. Derek waited for a moment to see what Scott was going to do or what he was going to say, but surprisingly blanketed the entire situation when Scott ultimately decided to dive in for an animalistic kiss—which nicked at Derek’s bottom lip.

As surprising as the kiss was, it wasn’t one-sided. Derek quickly figured that if this was going to get Scott to listen and drain his anger into something—a vessel—that would be able to absorb it and file it away elsewhere—it was fair game. So Derek bit back, harshly licking into Scott’s mouth, gnashing their teeth together, swallowing down each other’s moans and growls.

“You’re listening—” Derek breathed, digging his claws into the plump meat of Scott’s jean-clad ass.

“Shut up.” Scott said, with a rolled growl tunneled inside of his throat.

Scott grabbed onto Derek’s shoulder, using them as leverage, then flipped the bigger wolf around. He shoved Derek forward into the wooden door frame and wall that they had already been pressed up against, but made sure that they were no longer face-to-face. Scott ran his nose and lips against the side of Derek’s neck —breathing in the scent of musk and power, and then thrust his bulging crotch against Derek’s thick ass.

“That’s right.” Derek urged. “Nice and slow. Don’t rush. Center yourself, focus on control, don’t get overwhelmed.”

Scott seemed to whimper, reaching his hands down and around the front of Derek’s waist, quickly unfastening the button and zipper to Derek’s tight jeans. Whilst he continued to nose at Derek’s neck, Scott tugged down Derek’s pants —far enough down so that Derek’s bare ass could properly thump itself out of the pressed confines that it had been stuffed into.

“Get them wet.” Scott said, bringing his fingers around to the front of Derek’s face, letting Derek’s draw some of them into the wetness of his warm mouth.

Derek sucked and finessed Scott’s fingers, moving slow and bobbing his head around in controlled motions—almost as if he were giving somebody sensual head. Scott’s claws eventually retracted and Derek felt the beta’s wet digits slide out from where they had been settled between his pressed lips, only to make a reappearance at Derek’s bare hole.

Scott immediately tried to shove in a couple fingers where Derek was still resistant and not yet worked over, prompting Derek to click his tongue in disapproval. It made Scott growl out in frustration, which only made Derek respond negatively for a second time, this time with words.

“Control, Scott. Center yourself on patience. Find it.” Derek explained, grinding his ass back against Scott’s slick fingers. “Start with one, your index finger, take your time…fuck me slow, fuck me loose, then fuck into me with more.”

Scott huffed, but followed direction. He eased his slicked up index finger into Derek’s tightness, making sure to control his speed and fight back against the desire to ravage Derek’s hole with more and more. But as time passed, Scott worked his way up to using three fingers, fucking them slowly in-and-out of Derek’s body, listening carefully to the trembling exhales of breath that poured out of Derek’s mouth.

“Curve them.” Derek instructed, gently rocking backwards into Scott’s fingers.

Scott did as he was told and curved his fingers, reaching forth into Derek’s prostate. At first, Scott didn’t think his curved fingers were doing anything, but then he felt Derek’s heartbeat flutter from deep inside. He touched something. So he did it again and again. He pressed deeper, yet retained his slowed movement, dragging moans out of Derek’s mouth which grew increasingly louder over time.

And then Scott felt Derek’s entire body flutter around his fingers. Scott was overpowered by the incredibly sudden smell of arousal, and desire, and desperation. The potent smell of cum flooded the air. He continued his pace, continuing to curve his fingers into Derek’s ass, and watched Derek’s orgasm spew out against the soot-darkened wall.

When Scott felt as though enough time had passed between Derek’s orgasm and the older wolf’s breathing returning to normal, Scott tugged his fingers out of Derek’s hole and reached around to grip at Derek’s jaw —spinning the man back around for the second time. He stared deeply into Derek’s eyes, noting in teary gleam that sparkled alongside the bright beta blue, and then smiled.

“Drop down.” Scott ordered. “Take out my cock.”

Derek sunk down to his knees. He hooked his fingers onto the beta’s loose jeans, lifting up Scott’s shirt just enough so that he could see the tanned abs and lines of lean muscle that dipped below the waistband of the washed denim. Slowly, he pressed his mouth to the dusting of soft hair that trailed down from Scott’s navel to his jeans, lapping his tongue against the salty-sweat of Scott’s stomach.

Eventually, Derek undid Scott’s jeans like he was instructed to do so. He tugged them and Scott’s boxers down the beta’s hairy legs, letting them rest untouched at his ankles. Scott wasn’t big, he wasn’t small. He was average in length and girth, but the slight curvature to Scott’s cock was undeniably unique. Derek wanted to know what that would feel like pressed deep inside of him.

As Scott’s fingers slipped into Derek’s hair, Derek took Scott into his mouth. He let the heavy head of the beta’s cock initially rest against the pad of his warm tongue for a moment, and then took more of the length inside of his mouth. Derek took Scott right down to the hilt, gagging slightly, but allowed himself to pull back and forth gently enough to find a pleasurable rhythm. And Scott seemed undeniably responsive to it.

Scott tried to increase the pace by tugging harshly at Derek’s hair, which only prompted Derek to pull back and glare up into Scott’s eyes—carefully reminding him that everything that was happening was less about pleasure and more about learning how to find control and contentment when barraged with overwhelming surges of emotion. And although the slow pace annoyed Scott, a warm mouth on his cock was still a warm mouth—regardless of speed.

Derek pulled off of Scott’s cock with a lewd pop, wiping his forearm across his own mouth to clear up some of the saliva and pre-cum that had drooled down the corners of his lips. Scott groaned at the loss of stimulation, but Derek didn’t care much. He wrapped his fist around Scott’s throbbing cock, slowly stroking at the length, preparing himself for the final part of the lesson and a completed absorption of all the anger and animosity that Scott had been carrying inside of his body.

“I’m going to ride you.” Derek explained, pulling Scott down to the ground — laying him flat against the hardwood floors. “You’re going to want to take control, to dominate me, to pound all of your energy into my body, use me, and bend me to your power…but you’re going to control yourself and let me ride you.”

Scott just nodded and stared up expectantly to where Derek stood up and completely undressed himself. And then, Derek stepped above Scott’s body, turning to face away from Scott, and slowly lowered himself down onto Scott’s spit-slicked cock. Derek slowly took in every inch of Scott’s length, feeling the curvature press tightly against his inner walls in a way that he hadn’t even experienced with somebody else before.

As Derek started to bounce himself up and down on Scott’s cock, finding a steady rhythm, Scott’s palms flew to grip at the sides of Derek’s waist. His claws dug slightly into the delicate skin of Derek’s body. It just felt so good…he needed to grab onto something…he needed to control Derek, take him, and use him….it was an impulsive feeling that surged through Scott’s body, making it hard to formulate thoughts and actions.

“I said, ‘control’.” Derek alerted, prying away Scott’s hands. “Restrain yourself and give yourself over to what this feels like.”

“I—I can’t.” Scott grit through his teeth, fighting back against the urge to snap his hips upwards into Derek’s body. He watched his cock spear into Derek’s body, watched the wobble of Derek’s thick ass, and wanted nothing more than to see it wobble harder and bruise with faster thrusts.

“You can, you will.” Derek reassured. “Focus on control, focus on restraint, I’ll take care of you. I’ll drain you.”

Derek rolled his neck and shoulders —stretching out his tension. He continued to bounce around on Scott’s hardened cock, feeling the way that it carved deep into his body. He could actually feel the head of Scott’s cock strike against his prostate, which fired shots of static throughout his body. It was a pained pleasure, something that Derek quickly found himself addicted to taking. He didn’t want to stop…and he really didn’t have to, because the longer that he could ride Scott, he more control he could gift the beta.

And whilst Scott remained laid out, palms quivering against where he tried to keep them planted against the wood floors as he fought back against the urge to take Derek for himself, Derek quickened the rhythm —hungry with lust. He started to slam himself down harder onto Scott, letting the beta spear deeper into his body. Derek could hear the meat of his ass violently bash down onto Scott’s hairy thighs and he could hear the squelch of Scott’s drooling cock fucking in and out of his hole.

“Derek—” Scott gasped, watching the way that Derek’s ass swallowed up every inch of his cock. “Derek….”

“Focus!” Derek shouted, breathlessly staring down to the way his own hardened cock bounced around and spewed out another powerful load whilst he worked himself around Scott. “Let everything flow into me. Drain into me. Fuck into me. Breed me, Scott.”

With a grunted howl from both betas, Derek slammed down onto Scott’s cock —cementing himself in the position, grinding down, clenching around Scott’s length, and refusing to let up. The pressure was intense. Derek could feel Scott’s load pump into his body like a slush of hot lava, coating his insides and drowning his prostate with an inescapable surge of precious heat.

Derek felt Scott’s body convulse underneath his weight. He zeroed in on the heavy patter of Scott’s delighted heartbeat and continued to allow the beta to pump out every last drop of feral anger and foolish desire into his body. He wanted to make sure that Scott released everything that he had to give.

It wasn’t a quick process, either. Scott continued to spew heavily into Derek’s ass without any signs of slowing down the flow. Scott’s orgasm was so plentiful, so much that Derek eventually felt the excess seed ooze out around where he remained clenched down around the beta’s hardened cock. He could feel Scott’s brew make a mess of where they remained together on the ground —all over Scott’s hairy thighs and all over the back of Derek’s thick ass.

“That was good.” Derek commented, standing up from where he was seated down on Scott’s cock. “You did well.”

Derek composed himself, spinning around to face towards Scott’s direction. He could still feel his hole fluttering around where Scott’s cock had been lodged and found strange comfort in the slick ooze of beta cum that leaked down the back of his thighs to pool around his feet. He stared down to Scott, smirking to himself slightly as he observed the mess. Scott looked like a drenched rat —coated heavily in sweat and a flood of his own cum.

“Can I stick around?” Scott asked, sitting up from the ground—tucking his knees up to chest.

“Aren’t you going to be late for your little date with Allison?”

“Yeah—” Scott acknowledged, seemingly unconcerned. “—but I want you to teach me some more. I don’t think I got all my anger out.”

[chezzkaa]

Numb pt 6

Click here for more Numb content OR JOIN THE NUMB DISCORD

Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 3000+

“So,” starts Ryan conversationally as the pair of you begin to pack up after another productive and messy day, “are you coming in tomorrow? I was going to head into the forest and find some materials, but it’s kinda a two person job.”

You think about it, brushing free a cloud of sawdust and shower of curled wood shavings. You’ve been working at Hay Woodworks for the past week - even coming in on a weekend more so to selfishly hang out with Ryan than get any work done - and every time you step through the entrance his face lights up. “I might do in the morning,” you say into the shelf you return your project too, “but not for very long. Can we postpone the lumber hunt for another day? I’m volunteering down at the community garden with Geoff in the afternoon.”

“With the kids?”

“Yeah.” You smile, undeniably excited to be getting involved in the community again. As much as you love working with your hands, and spending as much time as possible with the awkward and blushy man you’ve grown so fond of, you can’t wait to get your hands dirty in the fresh air. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

“I can tell,” he teases softly, and you turn to see he’s watching your expression, taking in the warmth of your cheeks and peel of your lips. “You look like you’re going to explode.”

“This isn’t my explosion face,” you laugh, returning your gloves and mask while pink touches the tops of his ears. “Not even close.”

He looks like he’s struggling to find a witty comeback, eyebrows drawn together and teeth working his bottom lip. With your hands on your hips, you wait expectantly. Ryan lets out a noisy sigh. “I’ve got nothing that’s even remotely appropriate for the workplace.”

“That’s no fun,” you pout, catching his eyes widening, “and that’s never stopped you before.”

“Yeah, but now I actually really like-” he cuts off abruptly, looking uncomfortable.

Your eyebrow quirks. “Really like what, Ry?”

“Err, what?”

“You heard me,” you dismiss, watching him fidget anxiously. “What do you really like?”

“I really like having a professional work environment.”

Damn, that’s actually a good save. Your expression turns rueful, fingers weaving through your hair to swipe away the thought that he might actually be interested, that he might actually really like you. Still, you don’t mind, rather enjoying his company as it is. “Sure thing, not-boss.”

“Oh, about that! Wait here.”

Before you can respond he’s gone, quickly tracking his way to the lone office at the far left side of the building with a series of thunks. You let him go, sighing and trying to calm your hammering heart by rubbing your thumb reassuringly against the small marking decorating your wrist. Gathering up the rest of your things doesn’t take long, swiping your scarf from the chair you’ve claimed as your own and collecting your empty mug. The cold bites now he’s not around. And it’s too quiet, the silence as numb as your fingers become.

Your skin aches beneath the hot water you start running, managing to fill the sink and cleaning away the crockery before he returns. Hands buried in a tea towel, you raise an eyebrow at the envelope he clings too, but he doesn’t offer you an explanation. “What’s this?” Still nothing, but he holds it out for your curiosity. Taking the offending item, you drag your eyes from the sparkling depths of his, peering inside. “Oh my god, tax file forms?”

“I figured, if you get it in by tomorrow, you’ll be in the system by the end of the week.”  Something in his smile makes your heart flutter, but not in the way it normally does. It’s not butterflies this time, it’s knots. Warm bundles of comfort constricting your windpipe so you can’t speak. So you can’t quite catch your breath. Blinking furiously, you urge the tears back as his expression grows soft. “Hey, you alright?”

You don’t respond immediately, instead rocketting forward and wrapping your arms around his waist. Caught off guard, you both rock back until he’s embracing you, holding so tight that you’re not sure he heard the mumbled ‘thank you’ that’s choked into his shoulder.

---

“Are you serious Alfredo? Another 2 weeks?”

“Yeah, I’m so sorry Y/N. Treyco and I just can’t get the airline to budge. And we’ve been tryin’ like a motherfucker.”

You groan into the receiver, wandering through the throngs of children squealing gleefully through the community garden. Like wading through knee high water, you’re careful to give each a smile and gentle nudge forward when the line to collect supplies starts to move. Glancing up at the sky, you scowls accusationally towards the cloudless expanse. “It doesn’t even look like its thinking about raining, let alone a snow storm.”

“That’s what I told them!” Interjects Trevor, and you can practically see him fisting the front of his hair. “But they didn’t want a bar of it.”

“Well,” you mumble, waving your hand like you’re trying to shake free the frustration crawling under your skin, “at least they booked you onto another flight.”

“Hell yeah dawg,” chimes Alfredo, relief dripping through your phone and pooling in your palm, “we’re just lucky we already got the place. If you weren’t there to secure the payment we’d be homeless.”

“Yeah, Fredo’s right. We owe you one, Y/N.”

“So nothing new then, yeah?” They laugh, and this time your smile is genuine, watching Geoff and the large, freckled man with kind eyes and a bushy red beard - of who you’ve come to know as Jack - man the craft tables. Neither seem at all overwhelmed with the group, making sure each child waits their turn and says thanks before being handed a pouch brimming with pencils, lollipop sticks and cotton balls. Geoff’s arm is already littered with colour, kids having wrestled him willingly to the ground and attacked the empty spaces between his tattoos with colour. “Don’t worry about it guys, seriously. You’ve got a place to stay until the next flight?”

“We’re all covered here,” reassures Trevor, “Lauren’s looking after us. She leaves for her flight just after we move.”

“Don’t get in her way, she already puts up with enough of your shit, Trev,” you chuckle, eyes drawn to the ‘oooh!’s emanating from the children, flashing lights catching your attention.  The patrol car pulls up slowly, Jeremy’s hair a stark contrast against the pristine landscape as he pulls himself out of the drivers side. Geoff casts Jack a bewildered look before turning his suspicions to you. “I’ve gotta go soon guys, duty calls. But how about you don’t wait a week before talking to me next time?”

“No deal,” rejects Trevor. “Lauren has to put up with my shit. It’s what girlfriends are for.”

“I agree with ma boy. She knew what would happen when she started dating this asshole.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” you laugh, grinning into the phone, “she’ll kill you. But speaking of, make sure you wish her my best on her trip back to New Zealand, and get her to say hi to her folks for me.”

“I will,” confirms Trevor, rather sullen. “I’m really going to miss her.”

“Perk up, man. She’ll be back in a couple of months. Hell, we’ve got a room for her here if she wants to move in.”

“You know what?” He’s eager again, and you can practically see the smile splitting his cheeks. “I haven’t actually asked her cus I didn’t wanna get in the way of her work, but now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t see why I shouldn’t ask her to move in with me.”

“Us,” you correct, “and wait, you’ve never asked her to move in? You’re fucking kidding me. We’re moving halfway across the country, and you didn’t fucking ask before hand?”

He’s not listening, forcing the phone into Alfredo’s hands while his calls for his girlfriend echo through the house. You roll your eyes, forcing your goodbyes down the line before tapping the call into submission and slipping your phone away. Geoff sidles up beside you, still in shock while Jack goes to welcome an uncomfortable Jeremy into the fray of eager children. “How the fuck did you get him to turn up? I’ve been trying for months.”

Offering a shrug, you bump your shoulder against his before approaching the excited group that’s forming. “He owes me a favour. Besides, I like watching him squirm.”

“You’re evil,” laughs Geoff, following your lead, “absolutely evil.”

“I can’t even deny it.” Now standing in front of Jeremy, you put on your fondest smile, hoping to ease the tensions you hadn’t entirely expected. “Inspector Dooley, how nice to see you again.”

He grunts a nondescript response, and Jack beams, clapping him on the back. “I guess I should be thanking Y/N for getting you here?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy admits sheepishly, shooting you a more welcoming smile, “but I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing.”

You return the beam enthusiastically, looping your arm through his and leading him back over to the patrol car while Geoff and Jack disperse to gather up the kids, some of them practically vibrating with excitement. Even the parents seem eager, gripping steaming cups and tiny hands. One woman watches the pair of you walk, her eyes distant, as though she doesn’t really see you.  

Once out of earshot you turn to your friend, concerned. “Jeremy, are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He’s not defensive, but his question throws you.

“You look…” He’s glaring now, and the word you try to pluck from the air worries you far more than his reaction. “Scared.”

“Scared?” His arms cross over his chest, shoulders tight and chin dipping just a little.

“They’re just kids, Jeremy. They’re not yours, and you don’t have to look after them. Are you really frightened?”

“Well…” He lets out a noisy breath that rattles through the fingers you place on his shoulder. “Yeah, okay. I’m scared.”

It takes you far longer than it should, but when the realisation hits you it’s like a bus. Colour drains from your face, lungs struggling to catch a breath as you watch the man who normally exudes confidence cast a worried glance at the group lining up to see him. “Jeremy, oh fuck, I’m so sorry. I should have known with the case and everything that kids might be a little diffi-”

“You see that woman over there?” You follow his directions, taking in the figure that’d looked right through you moments before, but now your skin screams. A sharp prickling sensation crawling across the base of your skull and seeping across your shoulders. Her lime green coat clings far too large over her fragile frame, eyes in hollow sockets and mousey hair a messy bun that would’ve, honestly, been neater if she’d left it down. She’s looking over, but not at you. Instead her eyes remain locked on Jeremy without quite seeing him, until her fingers curl in a halfhearted wave. “That’s Mrs. Dawson. I had to tell her that Tom wasn’t going to be coming home a few weeks ago. And that she would need to come in and positively identify the body of her son before we could release him into her care. You saw the file, Y/N.” He turns to you, eyes wide and pleading for you to understand why he’s struggling.

And you do. You an see the pain bouncing inside of him, feel the agony and the fear that comes not just by being around the families he’s reduced to tears in their own living rooms, but with the hearts still surrounding him that he’s yet to break. Looking around you can see the nerves, the fluttering of hands around children’s shoulders as parents pat their families to make sure they’re still there. And suddenly you can’t look at their faces, can’t take the beaming smiles and rosy cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he replies with a strong sniff, readjusting his uniform and offering what you want to accept as a smile, “this is a good thing. I can’t let a case get in the way of me living my life, or being a part of this community.”

“Are you sure? I can tell Geoff what’s happening, I’m sure he’d understand.”

“Nah, and deny these tiny fucks the chance to crawl in the back of a police car?”

 ---

 The day goes smoother than expected, afternoon drawing to a close with the pink streaking the sky. To your left Jeremy pretends to handcuff a child for throwing a snowball, which is arguably more like slush at this point, at him. The kid’s enthralled, running around the car while Inspector Dooley chases him clumsily. Relieved would be an understatement. You’re absolutely elated to see that he’s grinning, if not a little breathless, and shrugging his responsibilities and fears from his shoulders. He seems completely unaware of the stone you’d slipped into his pocket, the weight lost with the lightness of his newfound mood.

You share a smile with the supplies you’re gathering up, folding the pouched before returning them to one of the plastic bins lining the crop trays. A couple of well timed shots see balls of wool tumble into the containers, and you’re cocky as the final few follow in quick succession. But you’re more careful when handling the tiny sheep you’ve been given, children beaming when handing over the slightly damp creations before running for cover behind their parent’s legs. You take it as a positive, that they like you, and that you’re welcome back; something that Jack and Geoff insist on.

They stand just a little further away, lower halves of their bodies buried in the foliage Jack so diligently tends to, hands gesturing animatedly as they talk.

“They’re great guys,” comes a murmur from behind, and you whirl in surprise to face Ryan; his expression soft as he takes in the two men moving out of the cold and onto the porch. “They’ve done nothing but good for this place. Oh! Hey, by the way.”

The smile’s there before he finishes talking, cracking your cheeks. “Hey yourself. Did you come all this way to see me?”

He smirks, the cup clasped in his hand smelling distinctly of chocolate. “If by ‘all this way’ you mean that I walked for 15 minutes across town to get here, then yes. But not for you, I came for Geoff.”

You know it shouldn’t, but your face falls. You do your best to hide the disappointment, nodding to the pair and wrapping your scarf around your neck. “Your prince awaits.”

“Thanks,” he replies, moving to start his ascent towards the two men before he turns quickly, pressing the cup into your hands and leaning incredibly close to whisper in your ear. “And I did walk all this way for you, silly.” He pulls away, pleased by your shell shocked expression and the undeniable blush rising in your cheeks, one you’re certain mirrors his. “Wait for me? I’ll be back in a bit.”

And you do. Not sure whether it’s because you want to, or whether you’re frozen in place; but you watch him follow Geoff and Jack onto the porch, his silhouette casting large shadows against the wooden panels in the warm orange glow. Somehow the cup makes it to your lips, a tentative sip thawing you out. Fingers drift to your pocket, touch of the warm stone nestled away releasing the nerves and helping you calm your hammering heart.

The light is going quickly, streaks of pinks now mixing with the dark blotches of the night sky. Busying with the remaining jobs to be done, you’re soon proudly standing before 2 well packed bins - arguably neater than when you’d received them. Considering the balancing act that’ll be required to get them into the house, you’re grateful when Jeremy joins at your side. Close enough for you to pickpocket back your charml his face is flushed, bitten by joy and the cold of winter. His smile is equally pleasant. “You need some help?”

“That would be fantastic.”

He grabs the container on the left before eyeing up your half empty cup suspiciously, and you swipe and down it before he can drain the contents. “Where’s mine?”

You shrug, collecting your bin and heading towards the porch, the men that’d occupied it now disappearing inside. “Guess Ryan doesn’t have a big enough crush on you to bring you a drink.”

The scowl setting his features is obvious, even in the dwindling light. “Ryan’s here?”

Again paranoia takes refuge in your stomach at the sight of his shift, as as your boot hits the first step you cast him a look of concern. “What’s your problem with him? He’s nice.”

“You only think that cus he’s hot.”

“Well, he is hot,” you insist, “but that’s not the reason. Whenever he’s mentioned you it always seems like you’re friends. But you’re very… aggressive about him.” 

He struggles this time, chewing over the words he wants to say, hoping they form a sentence. All he forms is a measly, “yeah, well. Whatever.”

Your eyebrow quirks, shoulder gently easing the door open for warm air to engulf you, cheerful voices and laughter bouncing against your skin. Facing the gentle whistle you recognise instantly as a kettle, you smile into the comfortable room and take in the plush chairs begging for your attention.  “All I get is a whatever, Jeremy? I’ve known you for, what, 4 years? And I get a whatever?”

But he’s gone, the bin places beside the door as it clicks shut. The distant sound of the patrol car starting accompanies the chimes of your aching heart, peering out the window with a frown while he peels away. 3 men join you, all watching him go with similar expressions.

“What did you do to piss him off?”

“I dunno, Geoff. I really… I really don’t know.” You turn to them, looking for the answers you know they don’t have. All look puzzled, but Ryan’s face crumples with his attempts to keep from seeming hurt. At the sight your heart doesn’t just ache, it screams, your hand shooting out to take his. “C’mon, fuckface. You’re walking me home.”

He shakes out of it, his usual blush colouring his cheeks as that damn smile decorates his lips. “Yes ma’am.”

[desdemonafictional]

The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (pt. 4)

continuation of the October People fanfic

>part 1

The crowd rolls in, without rest, from the moment the last of the twilight fades from this little underworld. Edgar watches them for a while, thinking of himself as both party and outsider to their mortal concerns. He watches them funneling into Sharktooth’s tent, squeezing each other’s shoulders, spilling popcorn. It must be a hell of a show, if the shrill of gleeful screams are any indication. Somewhere between telling himself that he’ll just pass by for a listen and actually passing by, Edgar finds his hand on the red stripe of canvas. He wonders if the creature on the stage is thinking of him, as he weaves his siren summons for the delight of the audience. He wonders which gentle lady will fill the space that his body christened first.

Edgar pulls the tent open and slips inside, tucking himself into the empty place behind the bleachers. The darkness glows with the light that flashes on the leviathan’s back, its rows of saw-bladed teeth, the crash of its titanic neck. Edgar watches the crowd reel back in fear, all of their faces cast in green underlight, and feels a strange sense of pride and jealousy.

Afterwards, as the crowd files out (short a body or two, now), Sharktooth reaches for a coil of rope on the floor, his back to the dwindling audience. Edgar makes his way up to the front and perches on the barrier that separates the stage from the seats.

“I like your show. The part I saw, anyway,” he says, palms against the barrier as he leans forward.

Sharktooth stops, hand on the rope, before snatching it up.

“Do you want something?” he says, without turning.

Edgar considers this. His heel taps the barrier gently. “You know I can’t go home,” he says.

“Yeah,” Sharktooth says, “I was there.”

“I mean I can’t ever go home,” Edgar says. “I feel like a spectator, like I’m waiting for closing time but it never comes. I feel like a person trying to live inside of a museum.” He tries to ignore the leviathan as it grinds its huge, open maw against the glass tank, not many feet away. “Wouldn’t that be weird? Sleeping in the wax figure’s bedrooms? Brushing your teeth in public?”

“Can’t be worse than living out of a truckstop,” Sharktooth mutters.

His coat, the red and black wool, shines with brass buttons. Underneath it all, Edgar notices for the first time, he is the kind of thin that screams of boxcars and alleyways, flesh barely enough to cover the taper of his waist.

Edgar tilts his head. “You came from out there,” he says. “Now you live here.”

Sharktooth turns to Edgar for the first time, his glinting black lips pressed thin. “Where’re you going with this?”

“Was it hard for you?” Edgar asks him. He’s losing steam as the words he practiced get jumbled on his tongue. “I just wonder—how it comes so easily to you now—”

The fragility of this moment crackles in the air, a single hard breath away from shattering. “I was born with a death sentence,” Sharktooth says, jaw working under his white cheek. “In a singlewide with every spare son of a bitch in the county breathing down my neck. I never had the luxury of a private life.”

“What do you mean?” Edgar says.

Sharktooth breaks his gaze at last, focusing on the looping and knotting of his rope as he says, “I got in the usual way, the first time. Hole in the rock quarry, footsteps, all that shit.” He slings the finished coil over his shoulder, marching away. “Difference between you ‘n me is, I was used to running.”

Edgar frowns, sliding down to his feet. “You think I had an easy life,” he says, trailing after.

“Course you did,” Sharktooth says, “you’re soft Vargas, the shit you pull—the risks you take—you believed the first fuckin thing I said to you, didn’t even stop to think if I was lying.”

“I see how that was not my best moment, in retrospect,” Edgar says, “but if you’re trying to say I deserved to get boiled into nutrient slush for it, I beg to differ.”

“Nobody deserves anything but what they get,” Sharktooth answers viciously. He tosses the rope up onto a hook at the side of the tank and keeps going.

Edgar thinks of poor Tess in her shivering limbo, a fate that’s hard to justify by any metric. He’s not as credulous as Sharktooth believes him to be. The trouble is, his skepticism came at just the wrong time.

“So you deserve this,” Edgar says, instead, nodding his chin up at the gloom of the canvas strung tent.

“I worked for this,” Sharktooth retorts. “I grind up boys like you to make my bread, and for that I get to turn the lights off when I’m ready to leave the stage.”

“And for your sins,” Edgar says, with a wry little shrug, “I guess you get me.”

Sharktooth bares his teeth in a mirthless little smile. “My first sin was a good American boy,” he says.

There is something grim and awful in that expression, in that tone of voice. It’s the black blossom of a bruise under the skin, the sound of a noose synching closed. Edgar thinks that if he were smarter, he would recoil from it. Instead, he chases it.

“Back home,” he says, “I was a nothing. A no one. Sometimes I thought … if the wind came through too hard —” He blows into his empty hand, a puff of air he releases into the gloom, “—I’d just blow away.”

His fingers drop. Beyond them, Sharktooth is watching him warily.

He wonders if he should cop to the fucked up counter he’s been keeping, the old if I had a nickel I’d be rich jar, which he is almost proud of in the way that some people are proud of the number of pins in their bones. The number of people who have fucked him because he was pliable and convenient and they were feeling drunk or depressed—the number of people who did not even remember him afterward—the number of people who, days or weeks after rearranging his organs, had the unmitigated gall to introduce themselves to him as if they had never met.  

He finds himself running his fingers over the chains of the stage set, the intimately familiar manacles, the impossibly perfect glass angles, blown as if from a single molten bubble.

“My first sin,” he says, “I guess, was pretending that I didn’t mind.”

Above him there is rigging, chain and bars, intricate pulleys hidden in the shadows of the big top. He can see them glinting in the light of the water. An enormous eye blinks at him from beyond the murk, black as an unfeeling mirror. It must be something to be a part of this.

“Hey, stop that!” Sharktooth says, and all at once he is crowding against Edgar, peeling his wrist off the rigging by force. It’s the closest they’ve been since the fraught test run, and Edgar’s heart gives a treacherous thump at the proximity.

“Fucking nosey,” Sharktooth mutters, hauling him back away from the set. “Who are you talkin to, me or Rahab?”

“You seem frustrated,” Edgar says.

“Frustrated!” Sharktooth says, his voice breaking.

“By me,” Edgar says, “specifically.”

“I’m frustrated,” Sharktooth said, “because you just—with your tight little— like constantly, I am trying to work here—”

Edgar muffles some doubtlessly unwelcome laughter against his wrist, watching the tempest in a tea cup that is this inarticulate rage. When Sharktooth has reduced himself to panting, shoulders heaving, Edgar says, “You’re the first person who has ever dreamed of implying I’m disruptive workplace influence.”

Sharktooth eyes him, hunched a little from his efforts.

“But I am,” Edgar says, his smile fading, “aren’t I…”

He hasn’t forgotten—cannot forget—the sight of this man trembling before the court of Johnny Sea’s judgment, the longing that softened his features as Johnny railed against the immorality of hot coffee, gentle as warm wax.  

Sharktooth releases him. If Edgar didn’t know any better, he’d say the general affect here was one of sullen embarrassment. “You’re just—” the showman says, “You’ve just got too much time on your hands. You need something to do. Fuck knows you could stand to earn your keep around here.”

Edgar closes his hand around his wrist, still tingling from the rough handling, “I may sleep in a wax bed,” he says, with a depreciating smile, “but I’m not made of wax, am I?”

“I don’t know what you’re made of,” Sharktooth says, irritably. He reached up into the set, tugging something back into place that Edgar’s probing fingers displaced.

Edgar can’t help it. “If you’re curious,” he says, brushing out his clothing so he won’t have to watch the expression that comes over that face, “I could show you.”

There’s a hard thump that rattles the apparatus of chains, as Sharktooth bangs his elbow against the glass, swearing so viciously that the sawdust starts to levitate around his feet. Edgar ducks out of range, before he can get his comeuppance, and backs out until he is safely in the bleachers. Sharktooth stamps his boot, arm clutched to his chest. “If I get my hands on you,” he says, “you’re gonna regret that offer. I’ll open you up like a butcher block.”

“Oh will you,” Edgar says.

The look Sharktooth gives is nothing short of a kettle boiling, his painted face screwing up into such rage that he seems actually paralyzed by it. Edgar claps his hands together and backs away, grinning sheepishly. He’s toeing the line between playful and stupid and he’s aware enough of it to quit while he’s ahead.

“Again,” he says, “I liked the show.”

Sharktooth watches him go without blinking, right up until his back hits the tent flap. Edgar pauses there, struck all at once by the lonesome shape of the man on the stage, dwarfed by the towering gloom of the big top, the monstrous heft of the leviathan.  Strangely fragile. Strangely powerful.

A pang of something flashes in Edgar’s chest, looking up at all of it. “Still—if you can make a place like this your home,” he says, “I want to believe I can too.”

[desdemonafictional]

The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (pt 2)

A continuation of my fic of Choko’s “October People” fic

pt 3

 Time doesn’t pass in the October world the way it passes elsewhere. Edgar is analytical by nature, but even for him it is difficult to keep track of the hours. Maybe it’s more difficult, because he is so analytical. Before he came here, he lived his life by a series of planners and alarms.

On an early night, when Edgar was still fresh and woefully confused by it all—the murky passage of time and the ghostly shapes that haunted the stalls, the way he could stare at his reflection for so long that he ceased almost to recognize it entirely—Johnny Sea came to visit him.

Edgar caught the soft sound of a breath sighing out and turned to find him at the edge of the vanity, craning his neck up to observe the ceiling. The antique silver chains that hung from the poles of the ceiling swayed in some unseen wind, or some deep insidious tide. Each of their glass-tipped ends glowed in the candle light.

“It suits you,” Nny said, reverently touching a single glowing shard. “It’s exquisite. Like you are.”

A pang of something almost painfully sweet knocked the breath out of Edgar, hard and intense. For a moment he was certain that anything he might have sold to be here was worth it, just to bear that feeling one more time. But then the feeling faded, and Edgar was cold again in the candlelight.

“That’s kind of you to say,” he replied, but distantly.

“Jimmy tells me you’re settling in,” Nny said. “Well actually, what he tells me is a lot of shit that I didn’t ask to hear, the devil knows why I didn’t install a mute function on that degenerate when I signed him on, but you were in there somewhere. Did you like the tour?”

Jimmy? Edgar thought, and then shook the thought away.

“What did you mean,” Edgar said, “when you said Tess and I made different deals?”

Nny crossed his arms in front of himself. “Oh, you know Tess. She tried to get clever with me there in the middle. We had a lot of fun that day! Me trying to lure her to her untimely death, her trying desperately to maintain her life and sanity, taffy, kettle corn….”

Edgar thought for a moment of the lonely sounds of chains in that dark hollow beneath the starless sky, of Tess’s ragged tearful breathing. It occured to him that what he regrets now isn’t so much his decision to take Nny’s hand as his inability to do anything for the only other human being in this monstrous underworld.

(Edgar has gone back to see her a number of times since that first night, and it has never once ended well.)

Nny flicked his wrist, shattering the memory. “Clever Tess! She caught on just in time. Fast talker, that one. You know she wanted to save me too. Well, at first…” He pursed his thin lips. “I don’t suppose she’s forgiven me yet. But you know how it goes with scorpions and frogs. We can’t help our nature.”

“And me?” Edgar asked.

Nny paused. He uncrossed his arms, thoughtfully, and came towards the cot, the striped silk of his coat lining flickering in the dim light. “You could have been free,” he said, “and you knew it. That means something. For your freedom, Edgar-Edgar-Vargas, with your hot little twitching heart, you could buy any prize.”

And then, as Edgar held his breath in something almost fear, almost longing, Nny settled onto his knees at Edgar’s feet. His lighthouse eyes looked up at Edgar, expressionless and alien, as he lifted his fleshless fingers up to Edgar’s cheek. The tips of his ivory digits hovered just above the skin.

“You wanted a home,” he said. “I’ve given you mine.”

.

The crowds come at night, smelling of smog and fast food grease, whole and human and carefree. Edgar watches them sometimes, how they move in herds through the carnival as the hungry machine picks off the weak and the careless and siphons them away into its dark stomach—rough and reckless boys eager to impress their uneasy dates, third wheels, precocious children.

This is their busiest season. Well that’s no surprise—the season of death, blood on the stones, the dying daylight. In this world it’s always October, so how he’ll know when the calendar truly changes is anybody’s guess.

It was on an evening as he was avoiding Tenna, who was friendly in the absolute most disconcerting way and kept asking him if he’d be willing to part with a finger or two, for purposes no doubt nefarious and perhaps cannibalistic, that Edgar finally found himself drawn into the mechanics of the monster.

There was a hollow thump on the crate below him, at which point Edgar looked down to find Sharktooth in full death-paint, sneering up at him.

“What are you,” he said, “the new lightning rod? Hell’s bells, we’re sure getting our money’s worth out of you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Edgar sighed. He wasn’t being entirely sarcastic. For all that the showman never seemed pleased to see him, he was at the very least a familiar face in this unpredictable world.

“If you’re not doing anything up there,” Sharktooth said, “maybe you wanna come down here and make yourself useful.”

A frission of interest caught Edgar by surprise. He considered the twilight for a moment, the damp wood beneath his hands, and then leapt down to the earth. He found the idea of spending any time with this strange creature as intriguing as the midnight call of a lamp-lit street, a mystery and an omen all in one.

The moment Edgar touched the ground, Sharktooth turned away from him, flipping up the wool edges of his collar. “I got a new toy for the show,” he said, “I need a warm body to test it out on.”

An odd anticipation prickled through Edgar’s guts. “What kind of toy are we talking about?” he said.

“Easier to just show you,” Sharktooth said, crooking a finger over his shoulder.

They picked their way through a maze of construction, under hollow-eyed strongmen lifting fresh signs for new exhibits, around the swollen footage of the freakshow. Edgar followed close on the showman’s heels, thinking a thousand curious thoughts. When he pulled back the tent flap to allow Edgar entrance, the single brief moment of passing underneath his shoulder filled Edgar with another wash of that strange anticipation.

It was dim here, the only light radiating up from below, from the set that sprawled sullenly across the ground. Edgar froze at the entrance, terrified by the shadow in the glowing murk. At the center of the ring was a clear tank more than twice the height of a man, in which something moved like living thunder. He jolted when sharp tipped fingers closed down on either of his shoulders, sucking in a shock of air, hairs prickling down the back of his neck.

“How about that?” Sharktooth said, a smirk twisting the edges of his voice. “You like swimming in the shark tank, don’t you, Vargas? You wanna take a dip?”

“I’m not dressed for swimming,” Edgar said, mentally swearing at himself even as he said it.

The creature behind him let out a snarl of laughter, squeezing and then discarding him. “Then you’re not gonna like the box,” he said, making his way lazily across the stage.

With a snap of his fingers, limelight splintered the darkness. On a platform below the tank, there was a box full almost to the top with luminous water, strung with chains. Inside its depth, open manacles drifted heavily. Sharktooth stopped in front of it and rapped it with his knuckles, baring his teeth.

“Daring escapes!” he said, “Miraculous revivals! A damsel in the jaws of death!”

Above him, strung in lights like a theater marquee, the words JAWS OF DEATH flashed and faded.

“Here,” he said, shaking out his wrists, “it goes like this.”

And then he threw out his arm towards the audience, to a ghostly swell of applause. “You, yes, any one of you!” he called out, passing his hand over the empty seats. “Any one of you may suddenly find yourself helpless in the jaws of death! To survive, ladies and gentlemen, you must surrender to the peril! Let your body succumb to the unknown, let it taste you—let it know you!”

His passage over the dark arena broke over Edgar, his gaze pausing as it lit there. For the first time, there was no irritation or impatience in his blacked out eyes, nothing save pure and sultry invitation. His open hand, thrown out before him, curled into a gesture of summoning. Edgar felt his throat going hot.

“You there,” he purred, “won’t you come up to the stage? The abyss is hungry to know you—it’s calling your name, pretty thing.”

Hot and dizzy with the pressure of that unbroken gaze, Edgar felt himself take an automatic step forward. His toe scuffed the sawdust. But before he could more than begin to move, Sharktooth flicked his fingers and cut the magic.

“Of course it would be a girl for the real thing,” he said, shooting the rows of the audience a dismissive sneer. “That’s all these troglodytes wanna see, a wet pair of tits. Give the people what they want, more flies with honey, yadda yadda.”

As he turned his attention back to Edgar, Sharktooth narrowed his eyes. “Hold on, Vargas,” he said, “—were you about to come up here?” At Edgar’s mortified silence, he clutched his hair, caught somewhere between fury and laughter. “Fuck me, you are the easiest goddamn mark I’ve ever seen.”

Edgar flushed. He bent down and, to avoid making further eye contact, brushed imaginary wrinkles out of his lightweight pants. After a moment, the wheeze of furious laughter died away.

“Anyway, the box is new,” Sharktooth carried on, righting himself. “I’m not sure what the effect in action is gonna be. You’ll be alright for a practice dummy.”

“I feel like you’re being unnecessarily insulting,” Edgar said, “for someone who apparently needs my help.”

“I don’t need your help,” Sharktooth corrected him. “You just happen to be the only person not doing anything useful right now.”

“So ask Tenna,” Edgar said. “I know for a fact she’s slacking off. She’s been after my fingers for hours.”

“Uhhhhggh, no,” Sharktooth said, addressing his complaint to the ceiling. “Fine, I’ll be like. The minimum of nice to you if you’ll just help me with this death trap.”

“Alright,” Edgar said, and made his way up the steps.

“What,” Sharktooth said, “just like that?”

Edgar shrugged off his jacket and set it down in a neat roll beside the box. “Honestly, I want to see the rest of the act. Anyway, I’m already bought and sold, there’s not much you can do to me now.”

Sharktooth cocked his hip, a grin slowly twisting the corner of his mouth. “Nah… I can’t take your soul,” he said, “you’re right about that. But what’s gonna stop me from taking your life?”

And then he snapped his fingers.

The world went cloudy and green tinted, in the very moment that Edgar’s heart screamed into panic in his chest. The cool weight of water closed and held him—glass bumped his fingertips—the loose fabric his white clothing went translucent as it dragged against him, drifted in the crushing space. Through the glass he could make out nothing except the shape of a man, one finger tapping a place just above Edgar’s head.

Air. The first thing he needed was air. He had seen a thin empty space at the top of the box—this thing was not actually designed to kill him, just shake him up a bit. As he kicked up, his toes bumped glass. He reached through the water and wrapped a length of chain around his wrist, lifting himself up to the surface, where he coughed and glared blearily down at the laughing figure below him.

“You could at least have let me take off my glasses first,” he said.

The hand clapped to muffle Sharktooth’s laughter was smudged with white greasepaint. “Gotta keep on your toes,” he managed.

Edgar blew out a wet puff of air as Sharktooth pulled himself together and stepped back, giving the tank a thorough look over. He held his hands up in the shape of a picture frame.

“Okay,” he said, after a moment, “that’s not bad. It’ll look better with the cuffs.”

Edgar eyed the open ends of the manacles. “Fool me once, shame on me,” he said. “Fool me twice, I don’t think so.”

Sharktooth scoffed. “Look,” he said, “there’s a whole routine here, I’m not actually gonna kill you. Johnny’d turn my gills inside out for one thing.”

Edgar considered him for a moment, measuring the likelihood of that thought. Although he was wary of this place—of the interest of cats in mice—something in his gut told him that there was too much left undone for this to be the end of the line. The nature of this fairy tale was beginning to come clear in the back of his head. “Yeah?”

Sharktooth grinned up at him. “Yeah.”

“Alright.”

The grin faltered. “Seriously? Seriously? You’re not even gonna make me fight for it?”

Edgar untangled himself from the length of chain, ready to let go as directed.  “You know how it is with scorpions and frogs,” he said, with a wry smile. “I guess we just don’t get tired of being stung.”

For a moment, through the wetness of his glasses and the glare of the stage lights, Edgar could not make out the exact nature of the expression on the face below him. And then there was a blur of motion, the movement of a hand, and matter shifted in the depths below him. A heavy tightness pulled his ankles, dragging him down below the surface once and for all.

It was a slow process of sinking, the buoyancy of his lungs fighting against the weight dragging him down. His wrists, secured behind his back, left him little to struggle with. Although his body rippled with the panic of a drowning thing, his mind was oddly calm. He could see the shape of his captor through the glass, motionless, and understood that he was being watched with rapt fascination.

Surrender, the memory of that showman’s pitch played again in his mind, succumb—

In the depth that drew him down, his clothing translucent against his thighs, Edgar allowed himself to settle at the bottom of the tank, his knees parting until they met glass on either side. The pressure in his lungs burned hot. Under the green swirl he was dreamily aware of the weight on his body, lovely and dire. He lifted his chin and breathed out a stream of bubbles, thinking—well, in for a penny…

There was no use in fighting his nature. It was becoming clear that he would eat the apple again and again, given half the chance to damn himself.

The sound of the snap rang through the tank like the crack of lightning. All at once the clarity of thin air opened up around Edgar—light burst over him—and he stumbled over the ground, falling against Sharktooth’s chest. Wool scratched the peaks of his bare nipples, hard from the chill.

Sharktooth startled, his hands coming up and closing automatically against Edgar’s shoulders. His skin was strangely cold, despite the fact that Edgar was dripping wet and just about anything ought to be warm by comparison. Goosebumps prickled under the sharp grip.

“Holy hell,” Sharktooth muttered, “forget the wet tits, that’s a show.”

In between heaving gasps, Edgar managed to reply, “—Thanks.”

Sharktooth stiffened. He pried Edgar off of himself, but his grip was tight—for all that he was pushing Edgar away, he didn’t seem quite able to let go. “You’re a reckless son of a bitch,” he said.

“Well,” Edgar said. “I obviously didn’t get where I am by being measured and reasonable.”

The showman’s gaze drifted down, over the length of Edgar’s prickling skin, to the sodden cling of the white fabric against his hips. Edgar suddenly did not feel particularly cold anymore.

Sharktooth let go as if burned. “Fucking hell, next time put some clothes on,” he said, jerking the skewed lapels of his coat back into place. Buttons flashing, blackened lips twisted into a scowl, he snatched up Edgar’s jacket and shoved it into his hands.

Edgar accepted the bundle, but made no move to redress. “I appreciate you not murdering me,” he said.

“You better stop tempting me,” the showman muttered, and stomped away into the darkness beyond the stage, until the curtains swallowed him and even the sound of his boots was no longer audible.

Edgar pulled on his jacket, one wet arm at a time. “I think that went well,” he informed the leviathan in the tank, who had nothing to contribute at that time.