#keeps breaking in new places too like its just too long and thin and weak to not shatter repeatedly

[milkweedman]

Pulling the seeds off more milkweed fiber. I've been distributing most of them outside so far, and will probably continue to toss them on empty dirt nearby as I do more.

Sorry for the terrible lighting, but I have also been spinning a blend of some. This is ryå mixed with it--I've done two rolags so far, the first one with only a little milkweed and the second that about half and half, and they're both spinning up super well. They also mixed in very easily and obligingly.

Unfortunately woke up and the spindle tip had snapped, so I have to take a break while the glue dries.

[pedgito]

𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 | Joel Miller x reader x Tommy Miller

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summary | a moment of desperation and a kind gesture leads you down an inescapable path alongside two brothers and a town with a nasty secret

author's note | so. its been three months and a much needed break from this place, but i started this back in august with a fully fleshed out idea and then my motivation fell flat. i had a good chunk of this done and i love it too much to not post, even if just for myself. this will be two parts, this one and one coming in the near future. its so self-indulgent and not everyone's cup of tea. but an extra special thank you to the special and lovely people i talked about this with and that took a look at for me, i love you endlessly.

content warning | 18+ smut, dubious consent (relating to cannibalism), cannibalism, gore, mentions of violence, blood, demeaning language, joel is a hardass, high tension and angst, joel has weird kink relating to...you guessed it, this story is heavily joel leaning but tommy is a decent part of it, smut (oral), night swims, food/feeding tw, joel is a bit of creep here. please heed the warnings and pass if it's not your thing.

word count —14k

Long, desolate roads led you here. No telling how long you had until you would find the city skyline again, car running on fumes for the last ten miles, the sign at the end of the road pulling your attention up, eyes peering through the windshield as your car veered to the right and to a full stop.

Miller’s Farm, next right

Helped wanted, no experience needed

Hourly pay and lodging included

You had fifty bucks left in cash and half of that would go toward gas if you could find a gas station, your arms crossed over the steering wheel and blocked the blow to your forehead as you rested it against your forearms in frustration.The car’s AC was shotty at best, requiring you to hit it every half hour to keep it alive and even then it was a weak sputtering and a barely there chill that did nothing to quell the layer of sweat on your skin.

It takes several long, frustrating minutes before you decide that you don’t have any other option.

You were stranded, this was it.

Maybe hospitality extended this far out into the country, that even this far from the city there were still a few good, decent people around. With a deep, heavy sigh you exit the car and shove your key into the door, locking it and pocketing the keys into the pack slung over your shoulder.

It’s been weeks on the road, leaving pieces and pieces of you behind as you traveled. The lesser the weight, the lesser the burden. Were you running? You weren’t sure. But, staying in one place for too long made you antsy. Town to town, taking odd jobs where they were offered, living off the kindness of others in hopes of making it somewhere seaside.

Start a new life, forget about your past.

Austin wasn’t supposed to be your final stop, or even a detour, but the steps you took down the side of the road and toward the farm in the distance would be another place of temporary sanctuary. Hopefully.

Eventually the asphalt turns to dirt, kicking up gravel under your feet as you walk and covering your skin in a thin layer of fresh grime and sweat under the high noon sun. The barn, once a far-off dot, was now large and vibrant, that distinct red popping out amongst the rest of the dilapidated property, void of most color outside of dull brown. There was a house to the left, cluttered with a melody of things. Tools, furniture, plants, and things you couldn’t even recognize. 

You squint, hand over your brow like a makeshift visor as you look around and hope to see someone, anyone—this couldn’t be the wrong place?

A truck under the hastily built carport and a trailer attached to the hitch—someone was home. You look around carefully, peering over your shoulder and finding nothing. There was no wind, no noise, and your breath caught in your throat. 

Maybe this was the time to turn back and attempt your chances elsewhere.

The front door opening with a creak has your head whipping back over your shoulder to set sights on the person in front of you—a man, tanned skin and tall. He was stocky but lean, black hair tucked behind his ears and trimmed just above his shoulders. He looked clean, which was more than you could say for yourself. All clean-cut man, jeans and a casual shirt, boots tucked under his jeans as his hand curled around the front door of the house and half of his figure leaned out.

“Can I help you, darlin’?” The twang flows out of his mouth naturally, taking a few steps out of the house before he’s closing the door behind him and following the small path of the front yard masked with clutter until he’s near you, a few feet away. “You lost?”

“I��I saw the sign?” You implore, jutting your thumb over your shoulder in the direction of the road, “My car ran out of gas, I’m out of money and it’s hot. I was just hoping for some work to help get me back on my feet and out of your hair as quickly as possible.”

The man nods, readying to open his mouth before you continue.

“I don’t mind the work, I’m not picky. I don’t have a resume or anything, but I promise—”

“Woah, slow down,” You can hear the amusement, a smirk pulling at his face and you chew at your bottom lip nervously, fingers twisting around the straps of your backpack, “We’re not lookin’ for some hoity toity types with degrees—you comfortable gettin’ dirty?”

You glance down at your clothes, a few days without a shower and driving down sideroads with your windows down has made you look worse for wear, “Absolutely. I just need the money and a bed, couch even—you won’t even know I’m here if that’s an issue for you. I can keep busy.”

You glazed over the we in his response, looking around curiously again.

He extends his hand unexpectedly, “I’m Tommy,” He introduces and you take his hand softly, feeling him squeeze firmly at your grip and the smirk in his face soften into a smile, “listen—we don’t do the whole hirin’ process. I gotta run it by my brother Joel and there’s a few cautionary steps we gotta take due to the work, but we can give it a test run? See how you feel?”

You felt inclined to ask what the work was, but you decided not to be picky.

And like a dinner bell had been rung, the other man appears out of the barn.

Joel, a stark difference to his brother in stature and cleanliness but the resemblance was uncanny in the way they carried themselves. A similar stride that felt intimidating, broad shoulders stretched out over taught muscle and a matching resting scowl on his face.

Something told you his expression was more permanent, though. His brow pulls together, eyes squinting as he looks you over. He was wiping at his dirtied hands with a rag, a sheen of maroon drying to brown that you could only assume was blood. 

It was a farm. Animals. That meant slaughter. 

The thought of it didn’t make you vomit initially, so you considered that a good thing.

It takes one look and he’s giving a disparaging shake of his head, turning his head toward his brother to offer his opinion, “Ain’t worth the trouble.”

You instantly grimace, offering a less than subtle look of distaste at that man.

Stubbornness is what he notices immediately, but then your eyes are flicking back toward his brother who looks more confused now than when you had first approached the farm.

“You said you were outta gas, right? Just needin’ some extra money?” He confirms and you answer with a simple nod of your head. He looks over at Joel, arms crossing over his chest, “Said she doesn’t mind gettin’ dirty—willing to help out wherever. I’m sure we can find her some work, right?”

Joel looks you over slowly, a predatory gaze that makes you feel infinitely smaller. He was staring through you, seeing the deepest and darkest parts of your soul. His eyes were darker, nearly black and ringed with deep set under eyes from an obvious lack of sleep—whereas Tommy, he was chipper and well-rested, eyes a warm amber and much more inviting.

“You slaughter cattle before?” Joel asks, “Cleaned up shit? Worked on a farm? Anything like that?”

You shake your head but quickly respond before he has a chance to speak, “I don’t care what the work is—I’ll do it. If I need to be taught, I’m willing to learn. I’m a quick learner too.”

Devotion is what he senses at a slower rate, the slow blink of your eyes as they flick between the two brothers—he could give Tommy an ultimatum and turn you away, but something in his gut twists. 

She’s useful, she’s good. Good supply if it came down to that. Given you passed the tests. 

But, there was something lingering in your gaze, yet to be discovered. Joel was curious.

“Send her to the doc, give her the guest room,” Joel tells Tommy after a moment of thought, sounding slightly irritated but it forces out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, “You’ll start work when we know you’re cleared.”

You nod dutifully and Tommy returns a relaxed smile, “It’s a liability thing,” He promises, “and it’s heavy work, better to know if your body can handle it alright before we put you through the ringer.”

“Whatever I need to do,” You return the grin, tracking Joel’s departing figure as he re-entered the barn and disappears, “is he always that angry?”

“Usually,” Tommy replies, rusting around in his back pocket for a set of keys, “I’ll give you a ride to the clinic and we can tow your car here tonight—to keep away anyone tryin’ to scalp it for parts. Sounds good?”

“Sounds perfect,” You agree, wiping at the sweat on your brow with the back of your hand, “but—do you think I could take a quick shower first? It’s just walking in the heat and it’s been a few days...”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah,” Tommy stumbles over his words, but nods for you to follow him inside.

With trepidation, you take your first steps and follow. 

And what you’re expecting is not what is revealed to you. It made sense that the disorganization would spill into the house, but it was nearly spotless. Pristine countertops and polished wooden furniture, a wall of file cabinets and a tucked away nook with a computer set up. It was like entering another dimension, your eyes tracking along the full expanse of the house before they land on Tommy, who’s looking on with that same amusement as earlier.

“It’s a lot of work but I try to keep it clean here,” Tommy admits, “The outside is…all Joel, mostly.”

You shake your head with indifference, holding your hands up in defense.

You weren’t judging, it wasn’t your place.

“The shower is down that hall,” Tommy points toward the central hall, rooms lining each side, “first door on the right—did you—do you have clothes?”

“Only one clean pair left,” You confess, “but I’ll make do.”

“We’ve got clothes, if you need them. Don’t be afraid to ask.”

There’s a responsiveness to Tommy that intrigues you—approachable, kind, a hard disjunction from his counterpart that was like a breath of fresh air. You don’t allow yourself to linger either, making your way to the bathroom with quick footsteps and remaining blind to the rest of the house, hearing a sharp scuffle of a chair that you can only assume is Tommy as he sits and waits.

It was the easiest predicament you've dealt with in the last few months. But you weren’t, not even for a moment, going to question it.

-

It’s a small building near the edge of the town, only a half hour drive from the farm and sat in some silence, you find out a slow trickling of information that Tommy shares, his elbow propped against the open window and the other gripping tight around the steering wheel, his hair a wind-blown mess.

“It’s been in our family for years,” he tells you, traveling down the quiet road and the low hum of the radio mingling with his voice, “s’why it's a mess—can’t be bothered to part with some of that junk.”

“I’m not judging.”

Tommy offers a look of skepticism, laced with a smile.

“It is a lot of stuff,” you grin in response, a subtle quirk at the corner of your mouth.

“Joel is a little sentimental,” Tommy adds, “he’s always been like that—harder for him to let shit go.”

You respond with a gentle nod as Tommy pulls into the parking lot of the clinic, exiting the truck with a swiftness before he’s at the passenger side and opening your own door, “Oh—that is really not necessary—”

“My momma would be rollin’ in her grave otherwise,” Tommy gripes playfully as his fingers curl around the open door, “so, just let me, alright?”

You don’t argue, chivalry be damned.

There isn’t much to be confused about as you step inside the clinic with Tommy in tow. He takes a seat near the door and the doctor, an old man with a limp and someone who refers to Tommy as son—he earns a casual nod in return and then you’re led beyond the door to the hall of other rooms.

It was a very typical line of questions, a general physical, and a blood draw that he promised would be pushed through quickly for the benefit of allowing you to work as soon as possible.

You try desperately to ignore the particular aura about the old man, thin-wired glasses perched on his sharp nose, age spots littering his face and bald head—but the most glaring is the missing pinky fingers on both hands. It was so clean cut and well-healed that you assume it could be something he was born with, but the moment he spots you noticing, he seems to switch gears.

“You’re all good here,” he tells you, “If anything comes up I’ll give the Miller’s a call—you’re lodging there, right?”

Your left eyebrow raises slightly, nodding hesitantly in response.

“Gotten a few like you before,” he comments oddly, “I’m not passing any judgment, it’s just a question.”

“Yeah—yeah I am. Staying there.” 

Increasingly creeped out as the seconds pass you breathe a sigh of relief as he allows you to leave, meeting Tommy at the front door with a less than comfortable expression. His eyes press a silent question but you shrug it off, hearing him bid a polite goodbye over your shoulder as you walk toward the truck.

Eventually, settled into the truck as Tommy turned over the ignition, he responds with comfort, “He ain’t the most approachable guy,” he admits, “but he’s been helpin’ us for years.”

That was one way of putting it.

“Hopefully I pass with flying colors then.”

Tommy shrugs, backing out of the parking lot with his arm thrown over the passenger seat, feeling the slight touch of his fingertips against the back of your neck through the headrest, “We can figure somethin’ out anyways, seeing as you’re more than eager,” Tommy grins, teeth peeking through, “I like that.

–

Tommy gives you a proper tour when you arrive back, nothing extensive but he does walk you around the property. He shows you the animal pens; pigs, goats, a few cows wandering around the pasture. And the barn, but he doesn’t enter. You note the lock hanging from the doors, clunky and rusted but securing the doors closed.

The inside of the house is less of a mystery, following Tommy as he lead you into the kitchen and showed off the expensive counter space and deep set sink—if they didn’t put a lot of effort into cooking then you didn’t understand the reasoning for the size, but as the thought floods your mind, Tommy plucks it out and answers it.

“Joel is a better cook than me,” he admits, “another bonus, home-cooked meals, a lot of our meats are ethically-sourced—” The look you shoot his way is quizzical.

“Grass-fed and they’re free to roam and forage for the most part, we’re not stuffin’ them full of grain feed to fatten ‘em up. We try to keep things humane. Joel deals with most of the dirty work and I stick to numbers and talkin’,” he explains, “he ain't’ much for socializing.”

Joel enters at the mention of himself, grunting as he steps beyond the threshold. His coveralls hung around his waist, tied at the hips and the dirty undershirt stretched tight over his broad chest. He peeled off his boots at the door and Tommy leaned against the counter lazily, one foot crossed over the other as he folded his arms and looked over at you, eyes slowly dragging to his brother. 

“She cleared?” He asks briskly, “Or we sendin’ her on her merry way?”

“Joel,” Tommy chastises and Joel smirks, taking a quick glance over at you, “doc said he’d call in the morning and let us know, we can spare a meal and a bed for a night.”

Almost as if you two weren’t even there, he strips off his dirtied shirt and works at the tie around his hips with the hand free of the balled up cloth, “Hope you like mess, girl.”

“I’m not picky,” You shrug, resting your hands loosely against your hips as he walks toward the same hallway you had traveled down earlier, “A little mud and grime won’t kill me.”

Joel chuckles softly at that, fully disparaging, “Blood make you squeamish?”

You shake your head, noting the caked bits of dried blood tucked in the crook of his arms and the creases of his neck, a faint pink tint from his chin down, “As long as it isn’t mine.” 

Tommy seems to tense at your wording, his arms flexing tight as he eyed his brother under a downturned gaze, staying quiet under the domineering energy his brother exuded.

“She might just survive ‘round here,” he directs at his brother, a smarmy remark although more boastful than he had been since the first time he spoke, but the distaste for you still lingered, oozed right out of the disingenuous smirk crossing his face.

He ain’t much for socializing.

It would only take a few weeks, you think. A few weeks and a couple cash payments and you could move onto the next place on your never-ending roadmap. You feel yourself breathing out a sigh of relief as Joel disappears, not realizing how long you had been holding it in.

“S’much as I’d like to have nice home-cooked meal, I think it’d be better if I grab some dinner from the dinner down the road,” Tommy offers, keys clutched in his grip as he rocks on his heels, “I’m gonna pick up your car on the way back, like I promised.”

And then he smiles, again. But, there’s a moment when it finally reaches his eyes and you can’t help but return the gesture, “I…think I’ll hide out in the guest room until you come back,” you admit, pointing toward the hallway, “no offense to your brother, but—”

“Don’t take it personally,” Tommy assures, “don’t let ‘em intimidate you, either.”

Fight fire with fire. 

It wasn’t your forte, but you were hellbent on survival and you would adapt if you had to.

-

You’ve spent the last half hour sorting through a puzzle on your haphazardly made bed, chin tucked into your palm, eyes tracking over the pieces until you could find a suitable match and slotting it into place before repeating the process. The deft shift and click of a door being shut pulls your attention upright, assuming it was Tommy, you clamber out of bed.

What you aren’t expecting is the solid chest that slams into your side, senses overwhelmed with the strong smell of aftershave and clean body wash—it wasn’t a particular scent, just…clean.

You look over, find Joel with a perturbed look on his face, a dinner plate hovering above your head and his expression turning more and more grim as time passes. “Sorry,” you mumble, “thought you were Tommy.”

“I look like Tommy to you?”

You tilt your head, expression pinching together in annoyance. 

Intimidation, just like Tommy had mentioned.

“Yeah,” you respond coarsely, “but at least he’s not acting like someone shit in his food—do you treat everyone like this who comes through here? Is that why you can’t keep people around here?”

His arms drop then, strutting past you with heavy footsteps as he makes his way to the sink, dropping the dirty dishes and pressing his hands into the edge of the center island that sat opposite the line of cabinets and countertops.

“You runnin’?” Joel asks curiously, ignoring your initial question. “Cops gonna come lookin’ for you?”

You balk, offended by his asinine line of questioning. 

“That’s none of your business,” you respond to the first question before spitting out a venomous, “No—what? Scared of a couple cops? Are you hiding something, Joel?”

That seems to strike a nerve decently enough that he rises, creeping around the edge of the island until he’s striding toward you, a hair's breadth away as you swallow hard.

You couldn’t help it—he was large, intense, intimidating without trying. He didn’t have to speak, the image of him did the work itself. Even as he looked more approachable, clean clothes and a freshly shaven face down to a thin layer of stubble, almost normal in appearance. But, there’s rage behind his eyes. It simmers slowly, a creeping boil that would come back to bite you if you allowed it.

“No,” he responds truthfully—at least, it seemed that way. His voice never wavered or faltered, he was strong and believable with his words, “but two things you ‘oughta know—one, don’t go snooping around where your nose doesn’t belong. Two, keep to yourself in this town.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You don’t wanna find out,” he responds without hesitation, both of you snapping out of the intensity of the conversation as the front door slides open, a very focused Tommy stepping through the door with hands full of styrofoam containers full of greasy burgers and fries.

“Nice,” Tommy notes humorously, “you two didn’t kill each other.”

Yet.

“Got us burgers for dinner,” he explains, holding up the bags, “that alright?”

Joel clears his throat, hand wiping over his tired expression, “Already ate,” he responds short, clipped. Tommy doesn’t question it, but his eyes immediately catch on you, wondering what he had interrupted as he sees your body relax when Joel steps away. But, he shakes it off, offering a lazy grumble of a noise in response to his brother as he drops the food on the nearby dining table.

The dichotomy in the pairing is strange and you can’t comprehend how they’ve managed to co-exist as roommates, let alone siblings. But, they were also strangers. You had nothing but assumptions racking your brain, so you pushed it away.

Eat, sleep, and face the next day with a different attitude. A fresh start.

–

The morning was met with a rustling of two other occupants as they moved about beyond the barrier of your room, voices muffled but constant as they carried on amidst your dreary haze, rubbing at your eyes tiredly. It had been weeks since you’ve slept in a decent bed, not the backseat of your car or a mattress that felt like sleeping on a wall of bricks. You didn’t have a reason to complain and given the circumstances—a roof over your head, a space to yourself.

You’d be stupid to argue otherwise.

There’s a quick whistle behind the closed door to your room, followed by a gentle knock.

“Come in,” you say groggily, muffling out the end with a yawn as you stretch your tight limbs and watch as Tommy peaks his head through the open door, already showered and primed up for the day, his gaze lingers on you for a while and watches quietly. It should make you feel uncomfortable, but it does quite the opposite as you offer a shy smile, “—is this the part where you tell me I have to leave? 

Your hands slap the comforter as he widens the door, letting it thud silently against the wall as he leans against the doorframe, hip cocked into his right hand.

“No, you’re all clear,” he tells you, nodding over his shoulder, “we’ve got a few things for you to do this morning but I wanted to keep it light and let you get adjusted.”

You nod lazily and push yourself out of bed, rubbing at the goosebump chill that spreads over your arms as you feel the kick of cooled air spread through the room, “Enjoy it,” Tommy remarks, “ain’t gonna feel that good outside.”

Tommy departs with his trademark grin, albeit more subdued by his tired eyes as he knocks his fist against the doorframe. But, as you’re heading for the bathroom across the hall, Joel finds you again. 

He’s dressed for what you can only assume is a long day of work, thick pants paired with an even thicker shirt, skin covered from his neck to his feet and far too stuffy for the sticky humidity outside—his job couldn’t be easy and you weren’t faulting him for it, but the scowl on his face is getting under your skin and allowing its claws to find purchase within it.

He takes a sharp bite out of an apple you don’t realize he’s holding until it is pressed against his lips, teeth digging into the skin, juices squirting out with the force of it.

“There’s a full dresser of clothes for you in the corner,” He haphazardly points to the mahogany dresser tucked away in the corner, “different sizes and shit, you’ll have to find something. Since you don’t have nothin’.”

You eye him skeptical but don’t argue, walking toward the dresser and pulling at the top drawer. It was a mix of new socks and underwear, all pressed and fresh in their packages. The next drawer, a mixture of different shirts varying in shades, sizes, designs. Your head turns on a swivel, watching as Joel takes another bite out of the apple, speaking around the food in his mouth.

“People come and go,” he explains vaguely, “always leavin’ stuff behind, so—”

Again, he waves vaguely in your direction. 

“Got it,” you answer curtly, turning your attention away from him.

You shake away the looming cloud of discomfort that Joel leaves in his departure and sift through the clothes—at least they were being hospitable. That was more than enough to allow you to push the uneasiness aside for the time being.

-

Tommy heaves the bucket of dirtied blades and utensils, cutting boards, and a collection of other tools that you weren’t sure you’ve ever seen in your life, all coated with dried, oxidized blood of varying animals, you assume. You didn’t think to ask, didn’t want to know. 

Not yet, anyways.

Tommy rested his elbow against the edge of the bucket, having led you to the back of the house—it was similar to a sunroom, an entire wall of windows that gave you a beautiful view to the fields behind the house. Miles and miles of land, undistributed by the hum of city traffic and noise. The other wall, a dead-on view of the barn that Joel barricaded himself in. Tommy looks over briefly as Joel makes his trek to the locked doors, a metal jug of water in hand, a meat cleaver in the other.

“Well, he’s a ball of sunshine,” you joke before picking through the bucket of items carefully, keeping your fingers clear of the sharp blades, “is this it?”

“Most of it,” Tommy admits, “for now.”

You nod dutifully and watch as he explains things out in a few steps, rules to follow, a method of attack.

“So, just rinse at first with some soap, disinfect with the alcohol, then repeat and lay it out to dry. Pretty simple, but they need to be clean,” he stresses, his teeth peeking out beyond his lips as he stresses the syllable on his tongue, “and always use gloves.” 

He grabs the rubber pair and offers it over before he’s speaking again, this time his words coming a little more hesitantly, “Also—I grabbed your car last night. I was gonna tell you over dinner, but I figured you needed a decent night of sleep.”

“As long as you found it in one piece,” You joke, fitting your hands into the gloves, and the silence has your heart dropping into your gut, “you did, right?”

“Yeah,” his voice wavers with hesitation, eyes squinting slightly in a tell that he wasn’t offering the full truth and you tilt your head, mouth turning down in frustration, “but—it was pretty mangled.” 

“You’re kidding me—”

“Tires were slashed,” Tommy holds his hands up, palm out as he attempts to calm you, “there’s some rowdy kids ‘round here always causing trouble. We’ll figure it out for you, alright?”

Your jaw tenses, teeth clenched behind a tight smile and you nod jerkily. A hard swallow and harsh breath later you’re looking at him with softer, kinder eyes. 

“Thank you, Tommy,” you tell him, “I feel like I’m already causing too much trouble for the both of you, doesn’t help that Joel would rather see me as roadkill than—”

Tommy rubs a finger under your chin to pull your gaze to his, a fleeting touch that has you freezing in place but looking up aptly, eagerly. He scrunches his nose slightly and shakes his head, “Darlin’, we’ve dealt with plenty of trouble. You don’t even come close.”

You laugh slightly, a grin pulling at the corner of your mouth.

Tommy claps his hands together gently before shoving them into his front pockets, looking over his shoulder briefly before his eyes are back on you, “I’m going to start on some paperwork,” he explains, “come find me when you’re done?” 

You nod dutifully, turning to your task as Tommy leaves.

It isn’t hard by any means. It’s like washing dishes if you ignore the prudent smell and extra scrubbing to get the tools completely spotless before you’re running them through the steps that Tommy had listed off, attempting to ignore how weary your arms felt by the end of it.

Your eyes kept flickering toward the barn throughout, wondering if Joel would surface—two hours passed and there wasn’t any sight of him. It was like he lived in there, a nocturnal animal that needed the seclusion and no direct sunlight. It couldn’t be that enjoyable to be held up inside the barn all day.

When you’re finished you carry the bucket into the kitchen and place it on a nearby chair, tracking the back of Tommy’s head. He’s tucked away in the corner at the desk he’d shown you the other day, typing away and sorting through a small stack of papers.

Curiosity kills, so you wander over. 

Peeking over his shoulder, nothing really makes sense.

It’s mostly numbers and an odd mixture of letters, a system that he must have come up with to track the intake of supplies and animals, some of them sorted by what looks like initials. 

Tommy has a pen between his teeth and a calculator at his fingertips, typing away some numbers that add up to an amount that has your eyes bulging out, quickly realizing that this is none of your business.

He acknowledges your presence then, pulling the pen out of his mouth and looking over his shoulder with a curious expression, “Finished already?” 

“Yeah,” you tell him, “I—sorry…if I was supposed to go slow.”

“Oh no, you’re alright,” Tommy turns in his chair, computer screen fading to black behind him, “I still have some stuff to finish up—why don’t you go check and see if Joel needs anything?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Tommy smirks but not in a way to tease or patronize, he understands the presence his brother gives off, all intimidating and mostly unwelcoming.

“Just give a knock on the door,” Tommy instructs, “don’t go inside, he’s really testy about that. If he needs something he’ll answer.”

You compare it to something akin of facing the wrath of some beastly devil, gearing to attack. 

Tommy offers an encouraging nod that you accept on less than enthusiastic legs, turning and heading out the front door with the surety that Joel would either ignore you or stir up some storm like he had the night prior.

He wasn’t nice or cordial, not that he needed to be—but it wasn’t a wonder why they seemed to go through help around the farm, running people off with his hard stares and less than appropriate comments. If making you uncomfortable was his plan, he was succeeding.

-

It’s quiet outside, morning slowly dissolving into afternoon. It’s still hot, feeling the rush of hot air hit your face as you make your way toward the barn, noticing the unlatched lock but remembering Tommy’s words.

Don’t go inside.

You knock, once with no answer. Again, notably drowned out by the rev of a chainsaw and then silence, a loud bang and rustling of dirt as footsteps come closer, instinctively you begin to step back, scampering away slightly as the door swings open just enough the Joel can fit his body between them, blocking you from peering inside over his large frame.

“You need somethin?” Joel asks, his tone tight and his eyebrow arched slightly in question, his finger wrapped tight around the rusted handle of the barn door.

“Tommy said to check if you needed help,” Joel seems to spot your curious eyes as you attempt to peek around his shoulder, his arm raising to curl around the side of the opposite, unopened door and pulling the open space tighter, his eyes peering down at you, “I finished—inside.”

“Already?” His voice is clipped but subtle with surprise, “You're the first one in weeks that ain’t emptied their stomach over that shit.”

It seemed extreme, but you knew that some people couldn’t handle things like blood or guts or even the thought of slaughtering animals. But, to you, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Sure, it was gross, but it wasn’t going to kill you.

“I’ve got a strong stomach,” you argue, shrugging your shoulders nonchalantly as your gaze refocuses on him, “besides, I told you blood doesn’t make me squeamish. Did you think I was lying?” 

“Don’t know you,” He shrugs simply, “don’t trust you. Is that what you wanna hear?”

You sigh softly, trying to keep the fraying edges of your temper under control, “Is there anything I can do?”

Joel pauses for a moment, seconds dwindling into a territory that brought you silent discomfort as he looked you over thoughtfully before peering over his shoulder.

“Actually, I got some scraps for the pigs. Think you can handle that?”

You hear the disregard in his tone and take the opportunity while he isn’t staring you down to roll your eyes, just in time as he turns his head to look at you.

“Do you?”

Joel laughs at that. A genuine laugh, though quiet and short, you hear it. It was proof that he had a legitimate emotion outside of the one built around pure disgruntlement.

He disappears for a moment, barn door slamming shut in your face and before you even have time to breathe, he’s back. It's a heavy metal bin full of minced meat and a faint coppery smell that has you turning your head and huffing under the weight as Joel trades the bin off.

He points around the corner, toward the corralled pigs snorting near the entrance to their pin, sending the impending meal you were holding.

“Just throw it in there,” He gestures vaguely at the trough inside the pin, “they’ll eat it right up. Oh, clean up the pin while you’re at it, the tools are in the shed out back.”

You nod slowly, digesting the information and feeling the liquid from the bin seep into the front of your shirt, the sensation making you curl inward, gasping at the coldness of it.

“Shit,” Joel curses, “shoulda gave you the apron, that’s always a messy task.”

He sounds honest, but you stare daggers back in return.

“Next time,” He offers with a half smile that makes you sick, “don’t take too long—if you want dinner.”

“If you’re cooking, I’ll pass.”

Again, Joel chuckles. Twice in the span of five minutes.

God, maybe you were winning him over. 

“I’m a good cook,” he says confidently, though the snideness in his tone lingers but barely, “you’ll regret sayin’ that.”

You snort softly as you shake your head, turning on your heels and toward the pigs, hearing the soft thud of the barn door.

It takes you a half hour to finish the task, grimacing slightly as the pigs frenzy toward their food, leaving you mostly undisturbed as you clean up the pen, catching Joel with his overalls tied around his waist, sweat dripping down his neck and his hair matted to dirty skin. 

He seemed normal like this, natural. Dirtied and grimy, a permanent grimace on his face as he traded places with his brother, who was headed toward their truck.

You catch his eye, a waved offer in return for your smile.

Another moment alone with Joel sounded dreadful and maybe sticking out in the remainder of the hot summer day didn’t sound too horrible now.

But, the poignant smell of the pig pen was enough to turn anyone’s stomach, so you choose dread.

-

You and Joel trade off showers silently, working around each other in a less than comfortable silence, mostly trying your best to avoid him entirely, but you can only bear the avoidance for so long.

Freshly showered and in a clean set of tattered lounge clothes, you round the corner into the kitchen and catch Joel’s back, a white shirt stretched over tight muscle as his back tenses when he reaches for the burner, adjusting the heat on the stove.

His keen hearing clues him in, turning briefly over his shoulder to spot you. His expression is softer, but still mostly guarded. With Tommy not around, he was a wildcard.

“Where’s Tommy?” 

Joel stirs away at the pot full of food on the stove, answering with a casual tone, “Finishin’ up some business in town—you sure you ain’t hungry?”

As if he knows, your stomach growls.

You had managed a decent breakfast and light snacking throughout the day, but the rich aroma of spices makes the food hard to ignore.

You approach curiously, noting the emptied but bloodied casing for the meat he was cooking, cutting board with a few stray vegetable ends and Joel’s gaze flickers to you once, then twice.

“You want a taste?” Joel asks, lifting a spoonful from the pot, his hand hovering under the utensil, spotting your weariness immediately. 

As a show of trust, or just plain good faith, he takes a sip of the broth before shoving the spoonful into his mouth, a clear indication that it was safe to eat.

Not that you thought he would attempt to taint the food, but it did ease your worries and you were hungry despite your feelings toward him, so you nod.

Joel smirks slightly and dips a wooden spoon into the pot again, bringing the food to your lips and watching as you blow, the steam bellowing up in front of your face and you sip gingerly, invaded with a burst of flavorful notes.

It was an instant indication that maybe you had judged Joel too hard on his cooking skills, impressed by how savory the food was, stronger than you’re used to, but it was still pleasant. 

Joel’s eyes are stuck on you, gauging your reaction and his lips twitching as your eyes light up, a gentle nod of approval in response. He plucks a piece of meat from the spoon and raises his eyebrows in question.

You find yourself nodding instinctively and Joel drops the spoon into the pot, guiding the chunk of meat to your lips and you open your mouth willingly, feel the soft press of the food against your tongue and the tenderness of it, like butter as your teeth grind into the meat, feeling the swipe of Joel’s finger as he cleans up dripping line of sauce that slides down your chin.

And it tastes…fine. You wouldn’t dare give Joel the immediate satisfaction that you thought it was good, because it was. It was a perfect, home-cooked meal. Your stomach was craving it, mouth watering even more as you swallowed that first bite.

Joel brings his sauce covered finger to his own lips, pressing the digit inside of his mouth and sucking. He wasn’t wasteful, clearly—savoring every last drop.

“So,” Joel grins wider than he ever has, still sated but it was new, welcoming even, “change your mind?” 

You shrug indifferently, but Joel senses your intrigue.

“I’ll give it a try.”

That’s all Joel needs to hear.

-

Somewhere between your first bite and your last, minimal conversation as you sit and devour the bowl of stew without a single qualm, you fall asleep.

It was a mix of exhaustion and a full belly, slumped against the table and your eyes falling shut despite yourself. Joel cleans quietly, dishes clashing softly as he washes the dirtied ones and wipes them clean, stowing away the leftover stew as peeks over his shoulder.

You’re still sound asleep, plush lips pulling together in a tight line as you sigh, breathing out through your nose. 

Joel rubs his hands over the front of his jeans, ignoring the half-hard jut of his cock against the denim, knowing the moment your lips slipped around that spoon he was a goner. 

He’s never gone that far, he’s never tried. He and Tommy have always kept to themselves and while Tommy didn’t stick to a strict diet of Joel’s preferred meat, he did dabble on occasion.

Joel preferred it, and like his brother, was raised on it.

But, like many of the people that have come and gone, always through the process of ending up as stock for the Miller farm, Joel has never forcibly tried to push their beliefs on anyone.

Unfortunately, Joel had never met someone as intriguing as you. Not nearly as squeamish as the others, even fully grown men shying away from the task of cleaning pig shit out of a pen—you were strong, but stubborn. Joel admired it, but he liked the challenge of breaking it out of you too.

He’d wake you eventually, but for now he watches. Arms pressed against the central counter, keeping him hidden in the darkness as the soft glow of the overhead lamp above the dining table illuminated you.

Joel’s come to recognize things—good bone structure, volume of meat and muscle, all the things that make certain humans the perfect piece of product.

And you were just that. 

A pretty penny.

—

Sometime in the middle of your bleary haze you’d made it to bed, whether with assistance or not you find yourself waking with a turn of your stomach and rolling out of bed in hurried attempt, feeling the force of bile as it made its way up your throat, fumbling loudly with the doorknob until you managed to pry it open.

You make it to the bathroom across the hall just in time to spill the contents of that evening's dinner into the toilet, attempting desperately to keep your wits, arms clenched around your stomach as you heaved relentlessly.

The cold hands come a moment later, icing the back of your neck as they push the hair from your face and offer a soft reassurance.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Tommy’s voice cooed, his cold palm pressing against your forehead as your head lifted to look at him, tears streaming down your face now, “you with me?”

You nod weakly, hearing Joel’s heavy footsteps before you spot him, his stocky frame filling out the doorway.

“Musta been dinner,” Joel supplies to his younger brother, “she’s probably ain’t used to the stuff ‘round here. Less processed, harsher on the stomach when you ain’t had it before.”

Tommy’s gaze lowers, focusing on his brother harshly. It was a look of words unspoken, threatening intention and one that had you holding your breath, wondering if you’d done something wrong. His hand slips down your back, rubbing at the base of your spine. 

In any other circumstance you might find yourself shying away, but you lean into it. He glances over, touching your skin once more. Left cheek, right cheek. You were clammy, mouth suddenly dry and begging for anything to quench the thirst or rid yourself of the sour taste in your mouth.

“Get her some water,” Tommy instructs his brother harshly, “and somethin’ cold, she’s sweating through her clothes.”

Joel doesn’t argue, half-expecting him to put up a fight. He retreats, knowing his wrong-doing but not finding the guilt inside him to care. You’d assimilate eventually, they all do. Him, Tommy, nearly all the townsfolk have learned to adjust to this lifestyle. Unspoken and secret amongst the outliers, it was the way of life around here.

He returns with a glass of water and cold rag, passing them off to his brother, “Don’t run off,” Tommy bites, “we need to talk.”

Joel grinds his teeth at the order, watching as you close your eyes to the glorious press of the cold, wet rag as Tommy squeezed it against your face, your neck, before bringing the glass of water to your lips. A few seconds and one generous gulp later you find yourself cracking a joke amongst the tension, pulling a soft laugh out of the younger brother.

“If you wanted an excuse to feel me up, you could’ve just asked.”

“Oh, pardon me, sweetheart,” Tommy remarks playfully, “I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

Joel sniffles awkwardly, tongue pressing into his cheek as Tommy passes off the items and rises to his feet, nodding toward the hall and motioning for his brother to follow. 

“You need somethin’ you shout, alright?” 

You nod obediently, flushing the toilet weakly before resting your head in your hands, attempting slow breaths to calm your racing heart, waiting for the second wave of sickness to hit you but hoping it never came.

There's a muffled argument on the other side of the wall, the tell-tale sign of Joel's gruff voice, tone clipped and decisive—it was the same way he had spoken to you during your first argument.

-

“What’s our one fucking rule, Joel?” 

Tommy’s voice bites, hushed enough that you wouldn’t be able to hear him, nor Joel as they slowly moved toward the front of the house.

“You're gonna tell me not to do it?” Joel retorts, “I already did. There ain’t nothing to argue.”

There was one thing they both knew for sure.

You weren’t like the others.

“She’s gonna find out,” Tommy assures him, “She’ll find out and then you’ll be the one that’s gotta do the dirty work, not me.”

“Afraid of me choppin’ up your girlfriend into tiny little pieces for Robert and Stan down the road?” Joel asks, a vicious and cutthroat way to take a shot as his brother, who he knew better than anyone.

He’s grown attached too quickly. Joel had suspected, assumed by the immediate likeness to you, but the moment of care shared in the bathroom moments prior had confirmed that if Tommy wanted you, he could have you. The smile you offered in return for his kind efforts was enough for Joel to know.

So, yeah— feeding unknowing people human meat was the number one rule. But, growing attached was the unspoken one that the Miller brothers had always followed, without fail.

 Until now.

“She’s smart—could use that, ya know?” Joel suggests, which is a surprise to Tommy.

His brother, who only ever thought about himself—he was suggesting you stay, that you could help.

“When are you gonna tell her?” Tommy asks, eyebrows raised in question as his hands settle on his hips, pajama pants hanging low. “Tomorrow?”

“I ain’t,” Joel responds without hesitation, “Like I said—she’s smart, she’ll figure it out.”

“Joel, if you don’t tell her I will—”

“No, you won’t,” Joel bites at his brother, stepping closer in an attempt to intimidate, “you tell her and she’ll run for the damn hills—let her figure it out and she’ll confront you. Then we’ll see how good you are at coverin’ our asses.”

It was Tommy’s job, the forefront of their business. He made the sales, talked to distributors in town. He was the face—a pretty face, more approachable. Joel was always sharper around the edges, harder to read.

Regardless, it didn’t matter. Joel had dug the hole for both of them and there was no way out.

–

You wake with an ache in your muscles and the instant need for a shower, covered in a layer of sweat that makes you want to strip your clothes instantly. You remember Tommy helping you to bed the night prior, the faint memories of you hunched over the toilet as you discarded your stomach contents and Joel watching over, observing, but the rest was a blur.

Not trying to waste anymore time, you quickly shower and dress, meeting the two boys in the kitchen as they readied themselves for the day, picking over breakfast. You settle for a couple of slices of bread, toasting them to a near crisp and snagging a ripe fruit from the basket on the counter, watching curiously as Joel makes a cup of coffee. It was the most normal course of action you’ve seen him take—he even took it with sugar, but obviously no cream.

Tommy already tore through breakfast and was sipping on his own cup of coffee, looking up at you occasionally over the newspaper he was reading, knowing that you were attempting to eat light after the night prior.

“Feelin’ better?” Tommy asks.

Your nod is noncommittal but Tommy doesn’t press.

Without prompting, Joel speaks, “It takes some gettin’ used to,” He explains, “it ain’t like the shit you get in the city.”

It would explain why he was unaffected, that maybe your stomach was just too weak.

“Same business today,” Tommy cuts in, ignoring the long stare you and Joel were holding, chewing slowly at the now soggy toast in your mouth, “we might have some stuff comin’ in tonight though and we’ll all have to offer a hand in unloading it, can you handle yourself?”

You approach him casually, stripping the peel off your banana as you take a bite.

“I can handle myself just fine,” you assure him, eyes pulling up briefly to regard Joel who was already departing for the front door without a word, “—you sure he isn’t trying to poison me?”

Tommy snorts softly, watching as you chewed thoughtfully on the banana and your gaze followed Joel through the windows, tracking his movements until he hit the barn. You feel Tommy’s hand graze your bicep, pulling your attention back toward him.

“He’s not,” If it was a lie, you couldn’t tell, “it all takes some adjusting, he isn’t lying.”

His hand still hadn’t moved and you looked down, his thumb rubbing over the exposed skin of your arm, “You know, I did say all you had to do was ask.” Tommy’s eyes crinkle with laughter, not expecting you to remember your words from last night, “Or, that’s inappropriate because…you’re technically my boss—”

“There isn’t rules out here, honey,” His voice is warm, inviting—but he’s still trying to keep himself at a distance, not too fast or too hard all at once. He’d set out the bait and wait for you to bite it, “we’re just here to help out and mind our business.”

“Okay,” Your response is soft, a gentle lilt to your voice that makes Tommy smile, “and...thank you for last night. I know it isn’t the most pleasant thing to wake up to in the middle of the night.”

His hand drops slowly, fingers trailing until they find your wrist and offering a gentle squeeze before his fingers depart you entirely, “I lived on this farm my entire life. There isn’t much that I haven’t seen or dealt with before. I think I can handle a little throw up.”

Tommy offers up the remainder of his coffee, still warm as you bring it to your lips and savor the rich taste—it was much more your style, full of cream and sugar to the point where it might rot your teeth out.

And the day proceeds without problem, moving through the motions of the tasks Tommy had assigned you yesterday, along with feeding some of the other animals littered around the farm. Horses, cows, goats—it was a wonder how they kept up with it by themselves. They were capable, but it seemed like too much for just two people. Regardless, it was impressive.

By evening, Tommy was pulling in with a truck full of secured and banded boxes on the trailer and Joel resurfaces from the barn by then, reeking something awful. You turn your nose away and scatter to Tommy’s side, earning a chuckle from the younger brother.

“You get used to it,” Tommy tells you, “like everything else.”

You eye Joel wearily, who seems less than amused. He offers a low grunt of acknowledgement as he stacks the boxes two high and heaves them up and into his arms, ignoring any attempt at small talk with either of you.

You couldn’t be bothered to care, knowing that Joel’s behavior was nothing if not peculiar.

“What’s in the boxes?” You ask when both of the men are reaching for boxes, sliding a smaller one into your own grip. They share a look, uncertainty. Who speaks first? Lie? Truth?

Joel huffs quietly—fine, half-truth.

“It’s stuff for cleanin’ up the barn. All the mess and shit. Interesting enough for you?”

Your nose crinkles at his tone, turning on your heels and heading toward the barn with the men in tow, “You’re snippy today,” you remark at Joel and Tommy hollers out a laugh from behind you, full-bellied and genuine, “when are you gonna give me a tour of it?”

“The what? The barn?” Joel asks for clarification before immediately shutting you down, “Never.”

Tommy shakes his head as he places the box down amongst the others, watching as you two bicker with shared looks and a soft giggle coming from you when you realize just how frustrated Joel had become, “I’m gonna head inside—try not to kill each other, alright?”

When Tommy is finally inside, you place the final box down. Joel was rearranging them silently, occupied with the task as you step backwards slowly, turning your head over your shoulder as you reach for the barn door. 

The curiosity was likely to kill you—just a peek, that was it.

The creak pulls Joel’s attention up and he’s on you within seconds, door slamming by your head as his hand pressing against the flat of your chest, fingers itching to squeeze around your throat. You gasp, a guttural noise forced out of you as he pressed you into the hard surface of wood, feeling the splinters dig into your skin.

“What did I fuckin’ say?” He asks. No response. It sets his eyes ablaze, “Answer me, goddammit.”

“Mind—” You gasp again, sharp as his hand presses into your throat now, forcing you to answer, “mind my business.”

“Doesn’t seem like you’re doing much of that right now,” Joel points out, “seems like you’re enjoying pressing that nose into places it doesn’t belong.”

It was a barn, for christ sake. What the hell was he hiding?

“Hey,” you croak, weakly, “don’t kill me, remember? Your brother won’t be too happy about it.”

“That’s only because he wants to fuck you, girl.” He assures you, “You ain’t the first and you won’t be the last.”

Your gaze softens, fingers clawing at his forearm. The disappointment in your eyes was obvious, but a sting to Joel’s ego. Tommy was always the more favored one of the pair, there wasn’t much he could do about it. But, it didn’t soften the blow.

His hold lessens slightly.

“Did you think you were the only little lady that’s come through here that my brother hasn’t tried to sink his teeth into?” Joel grins in amusement, tapping his fingers gently against the side of your cheek. It was patronizing and foolish, but he couldn’t resist teasing you for the dejected look on your face. “I like my privacy, alright? Don’t appreciate it when people invade it.”

You nod quietly, lips opening to offer a weak apology.

“Don’t say sorry,” he tells you, “not when you don’t mean it.”

Instantly, your mouth snaps shut. Joel smirks, satisfied that he was right about that.

You weren’t sorry. You didn’t care. But, you were scared. Eyes still wide as saucers and boring into his own, all blacked out with rage but quickly fading back into their usual warm brown.

“You hungry?” He quickly adverts the topic, pulling at the fabric of your shirt to adjust it back into place like nothing happened, “I’m fixin’ to cook up dinner.”

Two could play at that game.

“Is it gonna make me sick again?” 

Joel shrugs, “Might. Might not. You willin’ to take that risk?”

–

You luck out, for the most part. Aside from the dinner being nothing short of delicious, it makes you slightly queasy but it was easily qualmed by a glass of champagne, a nightcap to the work day as Joel has already wandered off to bed after cleaning up, leaving you and Tommy to perch on the stairs out front, a cigarette stuffed between his middle and pointer finger as he flicks off the ash, sipping from his own can of beer. 

“I forgot to ask about pay, you know,” You laugh softly, “just…slipped my mind.”

“Weekly,” Tommy answers simply, “every Friday. So, tomorrow?”

You do the mental work in your head, feeling like the days have blurred together. Realistically, it had only been a few but you hadn’t expected how overwhelming those days would be, finally feeling the exhaustion settling in your bones as you rested beside Tommy on the front steps of the Miller home.

“You feelin’ okay?” Tommy asks curiously, beer tipped to his lips as he takes a sip and awaits your response.

“A little queasy?” You’re unsure what to consider it, that unsettling feeling in your gut. You weren’t even sure if it was the food making you feel that way, almost certain that even a single look from Joel would give you the same feeling.

“You’re thinkin’ about it too much,” Tommy points out, “it’ll make it worse.”

You gulp down the rest of the cheap champagne and press the flat stand of glass into the stair besides your bare feet before leaning back on your elbows. Tommy mirrored you, crunching the aluminum can in his hand and tossed it aside.

“Okay, so—distract me,” you responded pointedly, a kind smile sent his way.

Tommy takes a deep puff before you’re plucking the nearly finished cigarette from his fingers and bringing it to your own lips, feeling the nicotine burn your throat. Tommy doesn’t seem fazed at all, used to it. 

Maybe Joel wasn’t lying about all those women. 

This was a normal routine for Tommy. You were another passerby willing to take the bait.

“You wanna go for a swim?”

Your brow raises curiously, amused.

Tommy looks on, awaiting your response. 

“Oh, you’re serious?” You ask, stuttering at the unexpected proposition, “Uh, yeah—sure. I mean…where?”

“It’s a walk, but there’s a lake behind those trees,” Tommy points off to the west, a long and dense line of trees surrounding the edge of the Miller farm, “feelin’ up to it?”

Your mouth waters unpleasantly as you continue to sit with your thoughts, yearning for distraction. You nod.

Tommy grins wide and takes your hand into his own.

-

He wasn’t lying. Under the moonlight, it was a huge lake with eerily undisturbed water. Pitch black and despite the hot and sticky heat, the water was cool to the touch as you dipped your feet into the shallow edge. Tommy is already wrestling with his belt, shucking his jeans down hastily and it forces you to move, stripping your own clothes off in time with him.

Down to your underwear you edge toward the deeper waters, hissing as more of your skin becomes engulfed in the ice cold plunge, feeling Tommy hover around you as he dipped under the water for a moment of time before emerging in front of you, pushing his damp hair from his face.

The cold water has you frozen, paralyzed.

“Come on,” he jests, “dunk yourself, it’ll help.”

You shake your head hesitantly, managing the inch by inch efforts as you move forward slowly.

“I’ll do it with you.” Tommy suggests, his fingers wrapping around your wrists as he wades the water—you feel yourself rising on your tiptoes to give yourself a few lingering moments before you have to force yourself under.

Tommy doesn’t force you, only waits for your reassuring nod after a long moment of indecisiveness before he’s doing a slow countdown and you’re both slipping under the water.

Moments later, you emerge with a gasp but it is full of elation. Tommy had pulled you out deeper, forcing you to swim until neither of you could touch and you clung to him instinctively, feeling the words that fall from his lips brush the back of your neck, “Distracted enough?”

It had, truthfully. You nod in response, feeling deft fingers at your hips as they turn you, your legs kicking in a melodic synchronicity. His touch lingers for a moment before he’s pushing away, using his arms to gain momentum and swim away, looking over his shoulder with a silent challenge.

Chase him. 

You giggle to yourself before following, moving gracefully through the calm waters. It continues like that for a while, minutes passing away effortlessly. The monotone buzz of insects hovering over the lake water and the insistent chirp of the crickets hiding in the grass kept your mind busy. It was peaceful out here, like the rest of the farm.

“So, you grew up here?” 

“All my life,” Tommy answers easily, “it isn’t exactly tourist worthy sights out here, but it has perks. Where are you from?”

“Here, there—” you answer noncommittally and shrug, earning a dismissive laugh from Tommy, “everywhere, honestly. I don’t stick around places for very long.”

“Which reminds me,” Tommy interjects, “your car should be fixed up soon—but, if you wanted to stick around—”

“I don’t think Joel would appreciate that,” you respond, feeling the heat of his gaze on you despite the farmhouse being miles away, “besides—I’m just another mouth to feed.”

“Most people who pass through here don’t last more than a day,” Tommy admits, “it may not seem like it, but he’s warmin’ up to you.”

You reminisce on the heat of his palm against your throat.

If looks could kill….

Joel would have maimed you at that moment.

“He’s a dick, but he ain’t immune to pretty girls,” Tommy teases and it makes your gut twist, “we don’t get many women through here anyways—I think he’s just forgotten how to talk to ‘em.”

You think back on Joel’s words again and decide to poke the bear. 

Swimming toward the shore you turn your head over your shoulder and speak, “You know, he said this is a bit of a routine of yours,” you begin, “seducing helpless women who come asking for help.”

Tommy rolls his eyes lightheartedly, chuckling at the absurdity of your words.

“Joel told you that?” Tommy inquires, swimming toward you. You turn on your hands, slowly scooting your way upshore with your palms until your ass is pressed against a bed of rocks buried in the dirty, shallow water lapping at your shins. “Honey, it’s been nearly a year since any type of lady came across our farm—and the last one? It was some old lady needin’ a jump on her car.” 

Tommy is edging closer now, on his hands and knees as he works his way forward.

“People see the farm and they drive in the other direction,” Tommy admits, “but, not you.”

You lean back slightly as he hovers over you. Your heart pounds in your chest, a salacious grin spreading across his face. 

“Helpless, remember?”

Tommy shakes his head slowly, “Ain’t nothin’ helpless about you.”

You bite first, silencing him with a heated press of your lips against his own, your hand curling around the back of his neck and your blunt fingernails pinching at his skin. His hiss turns into a warm chuckle. He spreads his palm out over the inside of your thigh and beckons your legs apart until he can fit between them comfortably before it curls around the side and pulls you back in, your knees barricading his hips. 

He coaxes you back, taking the balled up shirt on the shore and sandwiching it between the dirt and your head as he pulls back with a low sigh, eyes half-lidded and switching between your lips and your steady gaze, catching the way your tongue licks at your bottom lip.

“Need a little more distraction?” Tommy asks softly, the fingers on his free hand toying with the waistband of your panties, awaiting the nod of confirmation. It comes without thinking and he’s peeling the fabric off gently, watching as it stuck and rolled against your skin, sopping wet from the lake water as they fall to the ground with a soft squelch.

His fingers curl around the back of your neck, pushing forward in a way that beckons your chin up, meeting his lips in another hot and messy exchange of tongue and sweet, soft sighs breathed into each other’s mouths, feeling the tingly pulse at your core as his fingers drag through the center of your pussy. There was no mistaking the slick that had gathered there amongst your heated exchange, a low hum rumbling in his throat as he leaves you, sinking further and further down your body, eyes locked on your own.

“Open up for me,” he commands gently, his hands curling around your thighs as he settles on his stomach, “fuck—that, just like that. Goddamn girl, she’s glistenin’ for me.”

He chuckles at your meek response, looking away with a subtle smile that made you want to crawl away from him, but he held you firm.

“Nothin’ to be shy about,” he reassures you.

You exhale slowly, a calming breath that quickly melts away as he licks a broad line up your cunt with his tongue, through your folds and slurping up with sweet, sticky slick. You gasp, hands curling into fist helplessly, moaning out into the silent night. There was the softest wisp of a breeze that blew over your skin, prickling your skin. But, it’s beat out by the heat of Tommy’s touch as he pulls your hand to his scalp, silenting guiding you toward his long locks and hoping you get the idea. You curl your fingers into his hair and tug, pulling his motions up toward your clit and he sucks, sucks so hard you think you start to see white before he smooths the intensity out with the gentler licks of his tongue. 

It doesn’t take long before you’re coming with a loud moan, nearly uprooting yourself from the ground as he holds you still, the insistent wiggling of your hips from the overstimulation of his tongue enough to make you beg, plead even.

“Tommy, please—stop, s’too much. Too much.” You breath out in a hurry and eventually, a few greedy seconds later, he relents.

He rises with a sated smile sometimes later, watching as you desperately try to catch your breath. Whatever uneasiness you were feeling in your stomach earlier was long, but it didn’t snuff out the mental feeling of it. Fear, worry—like you were being watched.

-

The weeks beyond that pass with ease, falling into a steady routine.

Your car still sat untouched, but you couldn’t find it in you to be a pest about it—things were going well, a steady paycheck and roof over your head. You could bother them about it eventually, but not now. Not while things were good.

By October, the air is cooler and the work is easier to handle. Sometimes you help Tommy on the administrative end, filing away paperwork with information that doesn’t make much sense to you, as much as you try to piece it together. But, you do know they’re bringing in money. And lots of it. Absurd amount, actually. You don’t press Tommy on it either, worried that it would pop the pristine bubble around you both.

He was smitten, kind—sometimes he would sneak into your room at night instead of the latter for you, tiptoeing around Joel in the chances he might have something, anything to say. He’d lied to you about Tommy for his own benefit—but why? You tried not to dwell on it.

But, eventually you find yourself around Joel more often than not. Or, attending to him. 

He still barricades himself in the barn most days, only popping his head out as he calls for things—but there’s one particular evening where things, usually calm, fly off the rails. 

Mentally, at least.

And it isn’t the most auspicious way to let you in on their secret, but Joel can’t seem to rid himself of you. You’re always there, lingering, and even if you weren’t certain of things, suspicion had been raised long ago.

You weren’t even sure what you were trying to confirm, or if Joel’s unsettling nature was just a ploy to scare you into behaving, but you could feel it. Something was up.

He’s tasked you with feeding the pigs a number of times—it’s always gross and messy and not a favorable task by any means, fortunately you’re used to it. But, a large, stray rock buried in the dirt robs you of normality and the bin of bloodied scraps spills out as you land on your hands and knees, the skin scraping off your shins against the rough ground and a loud hiss slips beyond clenched teeth as you scramble to get back on your feet, looking around in desperation and hoping that neither of the brothers had witnessed your misstep.

Your nose scrunches up in disgust as you hold back a gag, scooping the discarded scraps back into the bin, the meat like mush beneath your fingertips and you reach for a bigger chunk, immediately startled by the more solid texture of it. 

Joel usually grinded up the meat, making it easier for the pigs to consume. But this, it was a whole and solid chunk. You push the bin away gently and swipe away the chunks of congealed blood and fat and rub your thumb over the texture of it. Thick, solid. The color was dull and pale but there was no mistaking it. It was skin, but more notably amongst that was the tattoo. It clearly wasn’t the full piece, a couple letters surrounded by an intricate design where it was precisely sliced.

You’ve heard of people using pig skin for tattooing, wondering if Joel was taking up a side hobby amongst the already interesting career path he had taken, but something doesn’t sit well. 

Five pigs, that was how many you’d seen since you arrived. You push the bin weakly toward the pin on your hands and knees until you can find the strength to dump it into the trough, allowing the metal to clatter to the ground carelessly as the pigs flood to their food. One, two, three…and two stragglers trotting over leisurely. Five pigs, not a single one missing.

The creak from the barn has you peering quickly over your shoulder, eyes landing on Joel as he leaned around the door, a perturbed look on his face. You thought it was worry for a split second and as he came closer—curious and cautious over the loud noises he had heard when his saw cut dead—it was. 

He spots the blood on the ground first, a mess you had made. His eyes follow the trail of blood to the pin before they travel over you, covered in the rest of what didn’t make it inside the trough and then your legs—you don’t feel the sting until he kneels, his fingers running over your knees, tiny bits of dirt and gravel buried in the wound as his fingers continue down your shin. His eyes scan the expanse of the property before they’re locked back on you.

“Get inside,” It was a cold demand, detached and emotionless but you can’t move, frozen with a fear that didn’t hit you until Joel’s fingers touched your skin, “go on—you can walk, can’t you?”

Vehemently, you swallow down the lump in your throat. Human skin, not pig skin. You weren’t feeding the pigs scraps of other animals—it was humans. Weeks of clueless wandering, the itching feeling of uneasiness was confirmed for you in seconds. The bile in your stomach was threatening to escape as you walked on wobbly legs to the house, falling down into a chair tucked under the dining table, flexing shaky fingers into fists over and over, slowly in an effort to calm yourself alongside your practiced breaths.

Tommy wasn’t here. He would’ve come running otherwise—you vaguely remember the truck missing as you made your way inside, wondering how distracted you had to be to not realize he left. You hear Joel clearing his throat as he approaches the door, swinging it open harshly as it nearly pops off its hinges.

You make the effort to move, but Joel is quick to snap at you.

“Stay put,” He commands, eyes washing over your stoic expression.

You must’ve been a sight, wide-eyed and disturbed, following Joel’s every move. You were covered in a mix of your own blood and someone else’s—maybe not even one, it could be multiple. Joel seems to sense your stomach turning and lunges toward the trash bin in the kitchen and quickly shoves it in front of you, barely catching the vomit that spills from your throat as you retch your breakfast up forcefully.

Joel moves quietly amongst your sickened state, grabbing a few supplies that he slides onto the table beside you and waits, kneeled down at near eye level as you peer up, wiping the string of spit from your mouth and he looks enthralled, wondering what had caused such a chaotic string of events to unfold.

“You’re upset,” He notes, ripping open a package of cotton balls and pouring a handful onto the table, popping open the cap of isopropyl alcohol, dosing the cotton before he was pressing it into your leg without warning, earning a sharp whine of pain from you.

Was he expecting a different reaction?

“Fuck!” You shout, shoving the trash can aside as your fingers dig tightly into Joel’s shoulder, earning a fiery look from the man—but if he wasn’t willing to give you sympathy, you weren’t going to return the favor, “—you are too, are we pointing out the obvious?”

His fingers drag along the back of your calf, position your heel against his hips as allows no relief, haphazardly pouring a small amount of alcohol against the wound and you grip the wood of the chair so hard you swear you hear it crack.

“Jesus, ease up,” you snap at him, “I fell, I fucked up. I’m sorry, is that what you wanted to hear?”

“What’re you apologizin’ for?”

There’s a distinct rip of tape as you watch Joel smooth the gauze over your shin, securing the bandage over the wound before he works carefully at your knee, cleaning the cut before leaving it alone and moving to the opposite leg.

“Are you not mad at me?”

Joel chuckles dismissively, eyes flicking up toward you briefly, “Not everything is about you, girl.”

Fed up and simmering with your pain, you don’t think and the words slip from your lips before you can stop them, “Is it about Tommy then?”

Joel’s hands still, stopping the slow dragging lotion down your wound as he tilts his head up at you curiously, “You think I’m jealous of that little thing you got going on with my brother?” Joel shakes his head in amusement, his teeth peeking out beyond his grin, “I don’t get jealous. If I want somethin’, I’ll take it.”

The words pierce your chest, knowing there was deeper meaning beyond those words but you look away carelessly, feeling his less than gentle press into your skin as he continues. 

“Business is slow, I don’t like it.” Joel admits, hearing the hesitancy in his voice as he admits it, but it seems harmless. In his mind, you have no clue of the nefarious nature behind their work.

Except, you do. Or at least you think you do. 

“Is there any way to fix that?”

Joel shrugs, “Tommy’s workin’ the people around town, doing all the talking. We’ll see if it works.”

You have two choices.

Admit what you found or bide your time, poke around and see what you can find—you know that won’t go over well with Joel, or Tommy, even. So, you call his bluff.

Because something—be it Joel or that sinking feeling in your chest, tells you that whichever path you take would lead down the same road. You weren’t leaving here without a fight.

“Does the body reject it the first few times?”

You ignore the way your voice shakes, the recognition sitting with you, knowing that they had fed you the meat without your consent. Tommy, too. He’d sat there at the dinner table and tore into the meals all the same, less intrigued as his counterpart, but he was still an accomplice. 

Joel’s expression changes, like switch flips. Bandaging up the opposite leg he rises, answering with a clipped, “Yeah.”

Silence amongst the clattering of items as Joel piled them into his arms and stored them away, another question slips past your lips.

“Was it on purpose?”

Joel’s brow raises, but he doesn’t answer. 

“The tattoo,” You explain, “did you want me to find it? Or did you fuck up?”

At those words, he lunges. His hands grip the table behind you, pinning you against the chair as you lean back and look up, feeling the deep rumble in his chest.

“I don’t fuck up,” Joel retorts and your eyes stray from his hardened gaze, “No—look at me. Now.”

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip harshly, but you listen.

“You knew,” Joel challenges, “long before that, I’m sure. You could’ve ran if you wanted, granted you’ve got that busted car out front, but you could’ve ran. Hell, you could have while you were outside just now—but you listened to me.”

You know what angle he’s pushing, backing you into a corner and you feel it, that tingling feeling of guilt in your gut. He was right, you could have.

“What are you hidin’ in there?” He presses, eyes narrowing as his pointer finger taps gently at the center of your forehead, “I’m telling you we’re murderers, cannibals, and you haven’t screamed or shed a tear. You aren’t scared of me, are you?”

You shake your head and Joel speaks again, “Scared of dying though, right? What’s stoppin’ me from killing you? Tommy ain’t here.”

The finger on your forehead follows down the center of your face until Joel can reach your chin, tilting it upwards.

“You like it here, don’t you?”

There was no nod, but the subtle twitch in your cheek as you bite down hard on the inside of it was enough of an answer for Joel. Don’t give him those words, don’t give him the satisfaction.

“You killed before?”

Another question that goes unanswered, but your actions give you away.

You twist away, desperate to flee his touch. Joel isn’t done with you yet, one hand pressed against his knee as he leans down to your level and the other grabbing for your face, forcing you to look at him.

Admittedly, they weren’t all bad men. Some of them had tried to attack you on the road and ended up at the wrong end of a blade, but others—the few with bad timing and things you needed…it was collateral, in your eyes. Seven of them that you can remember, all unsuspecting men with an eye for the meek and defenseless. 

You snarl slightly, fighting against his hold but Joel is stronger, much stronger. 

“Knew you’d be useful,” Joel admits, “s’why I let you stick around. You got that…look about you.”

Your brow furrows in a mix of disgust and confusion and you catch the way Joel spaces out for a moment, admiring your expression and you twist, shoving him hard with both hands in an attempt to send him stumbling back. It only forces him off-balance and your attempt to flee is stopped by his large, bear-like grip on your forearm as he throws you against the wall, knocking the air from your lungs.

“Nuh uh,” Joel mocks, “can’t letcha go that easy, sugar.”

Joel's grip on your wrist is deadlocked, crossing your arms over your chest tight, pressing himself against you. Under this light, this closeness, you notice the small scars, years of healing left it fading into the skin and Joel notices you admiring for a brief moment—incredibly brief as your teeth clamp down around the side of his hand. Hard. It breaks through the skin and forces blood to spill from his hand and pool into your mouth before he pulls the wounded hand back and balls it into a fist, freezing as you spit his blood back into his face, an instant chuckle ripping from his throat.

“There you are, ya little killer,” He goaded, his eyes ticking up at the sound of a car door slamming outside and a wide grin spreading across his face, “well, isn’t that some fine timing.”

The door swings open a second later and Joel has already pushed away from you, nursing his flesh wound with a dry, clean kitchen towel, leaving Tommy to examine you both with a less than auspicious gaze, blood ringing your mouth and a smug expression on his brother's face.

You approach Tommy hesitantly, reaching for the door with a worried gaze but his hand comes up too, slamming against the flimsy frame and preventing you from roaming further.

“Can’t let you out, honey,” he apologizes, his voice more sincere than you’ve ever heard it to be before his head turns up toward his brother, waving around a white envelope addressed out to the both of them, “we gotta figure somethin’ out.”

He tosses the letter on the dining table and slides his hand down your forearm, a softer grip than his counterpart but it didn’t leave room for argument, jostling you around until he could get the front door locked, dead-bolted, and secured.

“This is home now, baby.” Tommy soothes.

Because really, where else did you have to go?

[whumpzone]

Linden & Colton - Guard Dog AU #2

(masterpost)

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation

-

The walk to the bus stop was nicely cool. The trees were turning crisp and orange, whispering to one another every time the wind blew through them. Linden had his thin coat on, a chequered brown which reached his upper thighs, and every time he pulled it out from its long summer retirement he found some long-forgotten memento in its pockets; a piece of seaglass, or a train ticket, or a business card for a taxi company on the other side of the country. Col’s shoulders didn’t fit into any of Linden’s coats, so he was instead in a cable knit jumper and a scarf. 

“It’ll just be a quick trip into town, but I think it’ll be good to get out. I’m going to get you some weights so you can work out at home.”

Col’s serious expression faltered a little with surprise. “Really, Sir, that’s not necessary. I can train with anything.”

“Think of it as a nice treat, then.”

“Yes, Sir, thank you. How can I pay you back?”

Linden gave him a smile. “By carrying them instead of me.” 

They stopped and waited at the bus stop, the only two people there. Linden knew that Col hadn’t walked very far recently, and he didn’t want to put too much strain on his legs; they were streaked with scar tissue which sometimes caught the light and shone against the rest of his skin, which was in some places puffy and red, and in other places crossed with thin cuts which had turned a pale lilac. 

Col nodded. He always did so very quickly, often before Linden had even finished speaking. He had a strong suspicion that Col would get into terrible trouble if his old owner thought he wasn’t paying attention, and with the way he’d occasionally seen Col stare into nothingness, perhaps this had happened a lot. 

“It’s always busy, though, so we might need to sit separately. Is that okay with you, Col?”

He was relieved when Col paused, seeming to genuinely consider this. “Yes, Sir. That’s fine.” 

“If we do, you can take the seat further to the back. That way you can still see me. You’ll know that I’m alright, and you’ll be able to see when to get off.”

Linden cringed at sounding so self-important, but he knew it would be the first thing on Col’s mind. If this had reassured him at all, it didn’t show on his face. 

. . .

It’s not like I have a choice, thought Col. Other guard dogs, ones that were bigger and better and more trusted, would bark at someone to move, to let him sit by his Master. My place is at my Master’s side, he repeated in his head without fully thinking about it. The mantra was so old it came naturally now. But Col wasn’t good enough. Not even close. 

The bus rolled to a stop (after Col had flinched when Master put his arm out to hail it) and it was clear they would indeed have to split up. He found a seat towards the back as he’d hoped, and watched as Master flashed him a smile from up ahead. 

They made more stops than he’d anticipated, the geography of the bus changing each time, taking on parents pushing prams and letting off elderly women with dogs, until Col’s neighbour had motioned for him to let them get past and he had stood, ducking his head, watching them leave to make sure they didn’t do anything alarming near his Master. He moved to take the window seat.

This left Col with a space beside him, and his instincts told him to have his Master fill that space. But how? Col, who was still a new purchase and needed to prove himself, suddenly sagged under his self-doubt. He’d have to call out for him, or get up and go over, both of which would cause a scene. He’d be telling him what to do. He’d be assuming that Master even wanted to be sat next to him – maybe it was a welcome break, and Col was expected to keep him safe from this distance. Maybe trying to close the gap between them would seem weak. 

It still mystified him that humans hurt one another when pets existed, but it wasn’t for him to question. He wasn’t so naïve as to have forgotten about revenge, old grudges, power trips, terrorism, self-defence. And no one cared if their pet was killed. A lover or a friend would need to be sacrificed to really cause some grief.

He realised, stomach suddenly dropping, that if Master’s brother came to any harm, Col would have failed in his duties, would have failed to protect his owner. How could I guard Vik, too? he wondered. He’d have to find out where Vik lived, and familiarise himself with his entire neighbourhood, but he could hardly drag his owner along for this, so where would he get the opportunity? How would he ever be trusted after he had attacked him, anyway? Col felt stupid for even considering it. Master would probably judge that the biggest threat to Vik right now was his own pet.

He hadn’t realised how deeply he was considering this until a voice from the real world brought him back to the surface.

“Am I alright to sit here?” asked a young woman stood above him, and Col allowed himself just one second to realise that she meant the seat beside him, and more, that she was speaking to him directly. 

I asked you a question, his old owner said, so clear and commanding he could have been just behind him, and if you’re not gagged then I expect an answer. 

Except he wasn’t collared, or leashed, or gagged, and he wasn’t with his Master, and she wasn’t asking him to perform any of his normal duties as a pet. She didn’t know what he was, Col realised, giddy and scared at the same time. 

He nodded, not meeting her eye, and forced himself to speak. “Y-Yes, of course.”

“Thanks,” she replied pleasantly, and sat, pulling her satchel flat onto her lap. Col tried not to stare as she opened it and slid a laptop out. He pulled his gaze away, but a sudden movement caught his eyes yet again and he couldn’t help but look. His lifetime of training meant he had to look. 

Her laptop had a presentation on it, and with each slide the woman was gesturing, mouthing words silently. She was practising, Col realised. He suddenly felt himself so intrigued by this stranger’s life, just for a few seconds. This stranger who had spoken to him like a person. Was she a student? He didn’t dare read the words, he wouldn’t stare that brazenly, but he could see the unmistakeable shapes that only graphs made. A few rows in front of them both, Col’s Master sat safely, undisturbed. It was fine. Col hadn’t messed up by looking. 

This woman was going somewhere, with her normal human life, and it was as if a light switch had been flicked, the way Col became unbearably aware that every single person around him had a normal life of their own, too. Where were they all going? What were they thinking about? The bus was rattling down widening suburban streets. Each house would have an occupant, maybe even a whole family, or a couple. Were they happy? How many pets were there?

His fingers curled involuntarily as his training kicked in – any stretch of being lost in thought inevitably ended badly. Col blinked, again, again, as he heard his old owner screaming at him. 

You will LISTEN when you are spoken to, you slave, you useless piece of junk, you fucking dog. Pets do not have ‘thoughts’. You do not think unless it’s to follow orders. Do you fucking hear me this time? 

Yes, Master, Col thought, stamping out any more daydreaming. He fixed his eyes on the back of his current Master’s head and kept them there. 

Eventually, Master stood up, turning to Col just briefly to catch his eye, and the two stepped off.

“Was that alright, Col?” Master asked when they were both standing on the pavement, watching the bus rejoin the flow of traffic.

“Yes, Sir,” he said, thinking of nothing but his Master’s face before him. 

. . . 

As the pair walked through town, Linden noticed the space between them shrinking, until Col was almost pressed against his left shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, softly, and Col’s eyes darted to his. Nothing else changed, and Linden found it somewhat unnerving. Like a ventriloquist’s dummy. “Did you used to go out, much?” 

“No, Sir. The pub, or the racecourse, sometimes. I usually stayed in my cage.”

“But I thought you were a guard dog,” Linden said, his heart sinking when he saw the look on Col’s face. Okay, shouldn’t have said that.

“I am, Sir, I am. You can- you can trust me. I swear I’ll keep you safe. My old owner just… just had to get me trained, first. But I am trained, now.”

“Of course you are,” he said, feeling gross. “I know you’ll keep me safe.”

“Anything, Sir. I’ll do anything.”

“I know,” he said, trying to sound decisive. “I’m not going to get rid of you, I hope you can understand that.”

Col just nodded, but Linden felt like he had to ask this now, rather than let it fester.

“You were caged?”

Funnily enough, this didn’t seem to upset Col in the way he’d feared it might. Linden could almost describe the look Col gave him as quizzical. 

“Yes, Sir. I’m just a dog. But-! But I’m so grateful, so grateful for my- the bed, and the room. It’s very generous, Sir.”

“You’re welcome. I don’t own a cage and I’m not going to buy one. There’s no chance of that in my house.”

It wasn’t too busy in town, which was ideal. Their bus was always rammed, running through the main arteries of the district, but the hospital and the train station was where it spat out most of its cargo. It was term time, midweek, midday. Linden watched two cyclists wave to one another as they passed by. Turning to Col, he saw him looking at pigeons on a fence, one pruning the other. 

“Aw,” Linden said, making Col flinch. 

“S-Sorry, Sir. I’m paying attention.”

“I know. You can look. Oh, here, do you see that dog? He always sits in the window up there.”

Linden pointed past Colton’s face to a brindle whippet, which was curled up on a strategically placed dog bed, keeping an eye on the passers-by. “People call him Nosy Nigel.”

Linden wasn’t expecting a reply and he didn’t get one. Col nodded, then turned back to face the road. 

The curve of the hill had flattened during their ride, and this too would be easier for Col’s legs. 

“If walking becomes painful, you need to tell me,” Linden instructed him. “So we can go back home.” 

“I won’t let you down like that, Sir,” Col replied, keeping his voice neutral.

“It wouldn’t let me down,” he said, a little firmer. “I don’t want you to be in pain. Can you promise?”

“Yes, Sir. I promise.”

Now it was Linden’s turn to be quiet, and as they walked on, he thought he saw Col glancing at him, his eyebrows drawn tightly together.

-

Fifteen minutes later they were heading through the centre of town and Col had the boxed dumbbells held fast under one arm. Linden had made Col wait by the door to the sports shop when he paid, so Col wouldn’t be able to hear the price. They were hardly expensive, but he didn’t want Col to have it hanging over him. As they left, Linden didn’t think he’d been thanked so many times in his life. 

“We could get a coffee, if you fancy it,” Linden said, knowing they were about to pass his favourite cafe in town. 

“Yes, Sir, you should get whatever you like.”

“Would you like one?”

“I should keep one arm free, Sir, if that’s okay.”

Linden hummed an acknowledgement. That was good, he told himself. Col had told him what would make him most comfortable. He wondered what threats, if any, Col was picking out from their unremarkable walk around town. The cafe faced a small town square, in the centre of which was a once-grand statue of a general or soldier of some sort, with a traffic cone balanced on his head. Beyond him was a bakery, a newsagents, a chippy, a Polish grocer’s, in a neat row with houses on their second floors. It was normal - it was home. 

Their pace had slowed since they started out, and Linden decided to call it a day - he was well aware that Col would never admit if his legs were hurting. They’d done well - he got what he came for and Col hadn’t lashed out or scared anyone. 

“You know what… let’s head on home. We’ll both be able to have a hot drink in peace. Yeah?”

“Yes, Sir.”

. . .

Col grit his teeth, feeling his jaw pulse, forcing himself to ignore the ache steadily growing in his feet. The pain shot up his legs with each step. It felt like there were screws in his ankles, driven in good and deep, and even the smallest movement made them reverberate off his bones like a church bell. How could he stay alert? How could he be ready for anything, any threat, checking every angle and street and person they walked past? His head was spinning with the responsibility.

His foot came down hard. It took everything not to gasp in pain; he was aware he was slowing down, and the clock was ticking before Master noticed what a defective nothing he’d accidentally bought. 

I told you to admit it when your legs hurt, Colton heard Master say, his soft voice finally cracking in frustration. You thought you could hide it? That you’d carry on like this, trying to fool me, forever? 

Hurry the fuck up. I’ll decide what to do with you at home. 

Col saw possibilities playing in his mind like the young woman’s presentation. Each new slide carried a new, and equally likely, outcome once Master got fed up with him. The cage, the darkness, the whip, being thrown out entirely. The worst scenarios always ended with him alone and scared.

He came back to reality with his heart pounding. What had made him resurface? He looked over at his Master and saw that they’d come to a stop. Master was staring at something just behind Col’s head, squinting. 

“Oi, oi!” Col heard a familiar voice shout.

“I knew it was you!” Master replied, patting Col on the shoulder gently and indicating for him to turn around. 

Vik stopped his car in front of them, leaning out of his window with a smile. “Hey, guys. You alright? Done a tour of the town?”

“Yeah, just bought some weights,” Master replied, returning Vik’s casual wave. Col was frozen by his side, trying to find a neutral spot to cast his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do with aggravate Vik. 

“Oh, great stuff! I assume they’re for you, Col?”

“Uh, y-yeah,” Col stammered, not expecting to be addressed directly. Wouldn’t Vik be sick at the sight of him? 

“We’re just heading to get the bus back,” Master explained. Vik scoffed.

“I’ll give you a lift.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ve got time. Col, you sit in the back, it’s cleaner back there.”

Col could see that the front passenger seat was host to a lanyard, an empty crisp packet, a phone charger and an unopened packet of socks. Master was already pulling open the door and laughing at the mess, which Vik breezily said he could push into the footwell. Col opened the back door and slid inside. 

“You’re going to lose all this stuff. It’ll go under the seat and you’ll never find it again.”

“I won’t, I’ve got a very complex system of storage going here. You wouldn’t understand it.”

“Where are you going, anyway?”

“Just the gym. Sounds like you’re gonna have a home gym set up pretty soon.”

“Oh yeah, premium spot. Hundred quid a month. I’ll be your personal trainer.”

“Ha! You’d be the worst personal trainer ever. You’d probably lie down on the bench and fall asleep.”

“You look like you’ve been sleeping in the gym, look at those flimsy arms. For shame.”

Vik laughed, hard, and Master laughed back. It was a sound Col didn’t hear very much, and he let himself enjoy it. 

The drive back to Master’s house really was incredibly short - Col reflected on the fact that Master probably only made them take the bus for Col’s sake, and cringed at the pure hatred he had for himself - and soon they were back inside, being welcomed in by Jaffa. 

“Go and sit on the stairs to take your shoes off, Col, it’s easier.”

Col couldn’t disobey, and as much as he wanted to protest his strength, his legs were still in pain. He accepted the mercy with thanks. The day had been… fine. Col was okay. Master didn’t seem angry at him yet, and Vik had kindly ignored him, and Col was still owned. Maybe I can do this, he thought to himself foolishly.  Just for a bit longer. Then when this all ends, I’ll be ready.

-

taglist part 1:

@newbornwhumperfly @whumpadump1939 @firewheeesky @whump-me-all-night-long @captain-seconds @grizzlie70 @unicornscotty @lave-whump @princessofonwardsworld @cupcakes-and-pain @bumbumbea @whumpfigure @yet-another-heathen @secretwhumplair @whumps-up @as-a-matter-of-whump @getyourwhumphere @itzagoodthing @whumpymirages @soapparentlyilikewhumpnow @the-monarch-whumperfly @penny-for-your-whump @legallylibra @angel-stars @loyds-of-registry @tears-and-lilies @badluck990 @rosesareviolentlyread @vickytokio @neuro-whump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumpsy-daisies @control-whump @theydy-cringeworthy @starnight-whump @cursedandtired @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @justabitofwhump @glamrockgregory @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @genesissane @justbreakonme @addyez @httyd-chocolate @littlespacecastle @haro-whumps @extrabitterbrain @neverthelass @downrivergirl914

[springgirlwaiting4fall]

Beach/Body Insecurities-Being Reassured by Cash Wheeler

Idea and Requested by: @princessmermaid1289

Trigger Warning: The main female character does think negative thoughts about her body.

Please remember all bodies all beautiful

Movies, restaurants, coffee shops were what you thought of for third date locations. A crowded beach on the Carolina Shores in August was not what you would think of. Or a place that you would ever think of agreeing to. Sure you loved laying out in the sun, the sand between your toes, ice cream, and swimming. Having a date see you in your bathing suits made your stomach turn into knots. But it seems like Cash could ask you to go anywhere and you would follow him.

Cash Wheeler is handsome, kind, and funny. He is tall, but doesn’t tower over your tall. Fit with blonde hair and dark hazel eyes. He is an actual professional athlete. It was still hard to believe he was interested in you and this was not some type of prank show with hidden cameras. Its not like you are some Quasimodo. You’ve had boyfriends and other men interested in you. But those guys would say you were cute. Your body could be described as soft and a little jiggly.

You shake those negative thoughts from your head and focused on Cash. He was talking about how in the off season dogs are allowed on he beach and how the two of you should take his bulldog down for the day. Warmth and excitement raced through you as Cash talked about his future and how he planned to include in you.

“That would be great Cash,” you smiled at him. He pulled into a parking spot and turned his truck off.

You tried helping him carry the beach chairs, his book bag, and your bag; but Cash is a gentlemen he insists on doing it himself all while holding our hand. The two of you find a spot on the beach among the crowd of other beach goers. After unfolding both chairs, Cash pulls his shirt off. You have seen him wrestle on tv, seeing him in person however is a whole new experience. He makes your knees weak and mouth go dry. From the corner of your eye you spot a group of women who also notice your date. They are younger than you. One is wearing a “finally 21,” birthday sash over her string bikini. Each one is gorgeous, tall and thin, with thick bust and bottoms. You can’t stop thinking that one of those girls should be here with him.

The birthday girl must think so too, because she saunters over to Cash without even noticing you. Her voice is smooth and confident. “Hey! My friends and I are going to the bar.” She shakes her head to the left where about a mile away there is a bar and restaurant in the sand. “You want to buy me a birthday shot?”

Cash doesn’t even give her a second look, “no thanks.” He grabs your hands and laces his fingers into yours.

Birthday girl looks at your intertwine hands, pouts for a second, before smiling again. “Your sister can hang with us too.”

Cash’s voice is harder now, more firm, his southern politeness is gone. “Listen my girlfriend and I just want to spend the day alone.” He turns his back to her and faces you. The woman stalks away back to her friends. “Sorry about that,” Cash voice is softer and unsure now. “I hope that didn’t freak you out.” His face is red and you want to tell him not worry. You are not surprised by other women hitting on him, but he keeps talking. “I know your not my girlfriend, and this is only our third date, but hopefully not out last.” It hits you that Cash is trying not to freak you out about him referring to you as his girlfriend. Seeing Cash embarrassed is new to you and its adorable.

You look down at your hand that is still holding Cash’s and smile “its okay.”

He clears his throat the red on his face fading away. Both smiling at each other for way too long. Only breaking apart when a mom holding hands with her toddler walks by and the little boy yells out “look mama their holding hands too.” Cash squeezes your hand before letting go. He walks over to his book bag hanging off his chair opens it and pulls out sunscreen.

“I figured we might need some.” He offers the bottle out to you. Cash is only in his pink swimsuit and you still need to undress. You tell him to go first, and have to stop yourself from panting as he rubs his whole body down. “Can you get my back?”

“Sure.” Helping someone apply sunscreen isn’t a big deal, or at least it shouldn’t be. But with Cash it feels intimate. The farthest the two of you have gone is a couple of kisses last week in Cash’s truck after dinner when he was dropping you off at home. And now here you are behind him taking time rubbing lotion on to his neck, over his shoulders, down his back, over his ribs, down right to wear his bathing suit starts. You take longer rubbing in where his tattoos are. You barley recognize your own voice at how sultry it is when you whisper in Cash’s ear your all done. But you do notice the small hair on Cash’s neck raise and that he takes two slow deep breaths before turning around.

“Thanks,” he is waiting for you. Its time for you to get out of your t-shirt and jean shorts. Your mind races with all the negative things you see when you look in the mirror. You slide out of your flip flops and unbutton your shorts. As you bend over to pull them down, you notice that Cash is looking anywhere but at you. You pull your shirt over your head and quickly stuff your clothing into your bag, Why did your roomie insist you wear the high waisted two piece. Now everyone will see how much you miss match with Cash. He finally looks back at you. “Damn,” he flinches at his curse. “Sorry. You look really nice.” Your right arm wraps around your midsection the insecurities in your head are telling you that he is surprised by how bigger you look this close to being naked. (Anybody else who heard Cash would be able to tell he was amazed at how good you looked.) “Do you want some help?” Cash is holding out the sunscreen bottle. The idea of Cash feeling how soft and squishy you are compared to his muscle body makes your stomach turn. You shake your head no. Cash takes your hand that isn’t hiding your stomach and leads you to the water.

The water was cool, but thanks to the blazing sun it feels amazing. The two of you began to go deeper and deeper until you were as far out as the lifeguards allow. With the water going past your shoulders you are able to stop focusing on your body and focus on having fun with Cash. You let the smaller waves wash over you. With the bigger waves Cash and you body surf. It seems like when your with Cash the idea of time disappears and you aren’t sure how long the two of you were swimming for. At one point a wave unexpectedly knocks you under. Before you can really comprehend what was happening Cash’s hand wrap his hands around your waist and pull you up. “You okay?” His face frowning.

Without second guessing yourself you wrap your legs around his. “I’m good.”

Cash holds you in his arms before lightly kissing you, “I really want to kiss you more; but you really should put on sunscreen.” He starts walking towards the beach. When Cash is in knee deep water you tell him he can put you down while laughing. “I could, but I don’t want to.” He carries you until he is standing in front of your chair. Cash gently puts your feet onto the sand, before grabbing his towel. He started drying the top of your head than the end of your hair, neck arms, stomach, back, legs all the way to the top of your feet. Without words he grabs the sunscreen and begins applying it all over you. His hands move gently, his fingers linger over your neck. He drops to his knees to get your lower half, tickling the back of your knees. Cash finishes up by standing up and applying the lotion to your face. “You are beautiful Y/N. Absolutely stunning. I love how your body feels in my hands. You are gorgeous inside and out.” The words make you light headed, because not only did his words sound so sincere, you felt loved. Which is crazy. You cant fall in love with someone on a third date. Or maybe you could? You blink and Cash is standing in front of you, his shirt back on. “Hands up.” You do as he asked and he carefully slides your t-shirt back on. “This is because I have to go to Canada tomorrow. And I wont be able to help put aloe on you until I get back on Sunday. Its not to hide your body. Okay?” You smile and answer Cash with a kiss on his lips.

Together the two of you have an amazing lunch, before sunbathing and taking a nap. After reapplying sunscreen onto each other, Cash and you head back into the water. The two of you stay in the ocean until the lifeguards call everyone out of the water because the sun is setting.

“How about a ride on the ferris wheel or a walk on the boardwalk?” Cash asks as he carries everything back to his truck.

“Not tonight.” This time you take Cash hands into yours. Today was a perfect day and you were proudly holding his hand with your shorts pulled over your wet bathing suit bottoms and your T-shirt stuffed in your bag. “Im pretty tired and you have flight tomorrow. So why don’t we watch a movie at my place instead?”

Cash looks over at you surprised, but excited. “Just you, me, and a movie sounds amazing.” Cash loads the bed of his truck, than opens the car door for you. He gets in on his side and starts to drive back to your place; for snuggling, a movie, and while he didn’t know this yet. Maybe even a bit more than kissing.

[c0ck-obsessed-anal-wh0re4]

I will invite you over, let you assume you're a guest, while you're the entertainer.

I'll tell you to come 1h after everyone else, upon arrival to my place you will be collared at entrance and given a new set of clothes. A see through dress ans a set of black lace panties and bra clearly along with a long white dressing gown. I bring you on leash to the crowd so they grope your ass and tits to validate the lezbizarre dyketoy of the day. The delusional cunt to be corrected. They are especially sleezy taking lengthy time grabbing your cunt and tits, like they are taking measures for later, they keep purposely reaching out to your clit and nipples through your very thin clothes playing with your discomfort and arousal, some even grab your head for a forceful deep kiss making you squeal but unable to resist, a weak lamb paraded and exposed as a piece of meat to the wolves.

I pull the leash and you know you have to come back to me ... at the center of the room, the center of all their focused attention, you look around and see every single man pulling his cock out, some jerking it already. I make you strip to undress and slap your face, your ass or tits whenever you are too slow for my taste or not sexy enough ... better put up a show and make the audience even harder , it will serve its purpose for the rest of the night. You struggle, but after feeling the strokes of your leash biting your flesh from my cruel whipping, you give in, and obey, after realizing that each of your squeals only served to make your body hurt and their cock harder, as they wqtch you with a cruel grin on their face.

At the end of your strip, i push your head down, forcing you on your knees, pull out My Cock and make a good display of your throat’s skills. I push myself balls deep, bruising your throat pussy with pleasure, watching your dumb face tearing and choking. You understand you are done for when you hear me laugh and call the other guys to get a closer look . I invite them to lean in and watch your throat bulge. What are you? A person? An object of pleasure? A wanking toy? At this point you clearly understand that you are only lumps of flesh set tight or loose to jerk us all, regardless of our size.

I am the host, you are my victim dyke, i get the privilege of pumping the first load in ... and i do intend to use it thorougly ... pulling my cock out of your throat and turning you around... using your sloppy throat and cunt juices to barely lube your shithole, that will do .... and slam myself all the way in , in a single thrust, i feel your butthole clench and trying resist me in vain, making you scream and shake ... again, in vain, resistance or not, i will be tearing your butthole to a whole new size, for the audience's greater delight ... cunt

Every now and then you see one of the guys get up , his cock in hand, getting closer to just cum over your body, or simply grab your face and fuck your throat for the last thrusts he needs to cum and pump you full of his reward. When done, he goes to the table, waiting for dinner. One after the other, they paint your dumb dyke face white in and out, no matter how hard you break and cum from your butt being raped, no matter how much cum is already dripping from your face. Too lost between the cocks of your abusers making you choke and swallow their seed, you gasp feeling me pull out and switching to your other hole. A few thrusts and your gold star is gone, you feel me pumping your wombs full… full of me ... full of male seeds… breeding you like a vulgar sow ... drinking cum from both ends.



After i pull out , i call dinner time and every guest left goes to the table, even those who didn't get their turn yet. The dinner is served and we all start to eat and talk casually, mostly the guys praising my hospitality for bringing such a dumb but very tight wanking toy tonight ... You, in the meantime, you have no seat, your place is below ... under ... crawling between our legs, going from cock to cock to have your meal.

Getting your own food one cumshot at a time, you will please the remaining men who didn't get their chance to blow their load first, listening to them laughing and when reenacting your moans and tears and sometimes pushing your head to make savour your only meal of the night balls deep all the way in your throat.

They keep degrading you comparing your holes to the other girls we corrected, few weeks before , rating your performance and poor resistance, and yet during all this time you keep sucking, stuck in a loop of shame and lust ... unable to think anymore ... just wanting to obey, unable to determine it is men or your cunt’s true cravings that keep you going… you learned that the more effort you put to please the more softer they are, you even get praised and qualified useful ... Your other holes though, are growing desperate and needy, your cunt is dripping down your leg, craving to be used, by all these strong cocks .... you did get your anal orgasm, but one. Cock feels good, you hate to admit it but after all these orgasms you gave. You want to cum again… Cock feels good, and it is the only fucking you will get all night… so … one cock is far from enough for a broken breeding mutt like you , you want to be mounted by the whole pack of wolves. Little do you know that the real party starts after diner ... and that gangbanging your holes and mind into a mess of cum piss and squirt ought to be your desert ... we will pound and crush every single of your holes making your mind slowly give in, cumming while shouting dyke no more, dyke for dicks, cunt for cocks, whenever your throat isn’t getting raped and filled with semen. Thats your reward for all your efforts of the evening , keeping our cocks pleased and your users entertained.

Such a good little fucktoy, after the party i'll be busy handing your phone around to all your future users ... being dyke is over, you know there is no way back. Corrected and fucked, you wake up in a puddle of piss and cum, not knowing anything about the past hour, just waking up with my dick in your face you diligently suck it... you would never dare to refuse such a treat ... you could leave, you could try to resist, as there is no crowd anymore , but you are a natural cock pleaser afterall, aren't you? Broken cunt



damnn that's pretty hot 🔥🔥 (even tho you hit a few of my limits)

gangbang 10/10

dykebreaking 10/10

piss 10/10

pussy fucking -100/10 ew ew gross 😖😖

name calling 2/10

overall pretty good job 6/10

(fyi pussy fucking is a huge limit of mine and any future asks mentioning it won't get published)

[stillness-in-green]

Himura Rising

A short ficlet based on a quip made by @codenamesazanka about the Himura family staking out a returning claim to power and influence in the BNHA sequel that deserves to happen because there's no indication that anything the kids are doing is going to change enough on a systemic level to avoid the need for it. The Himura are back and they are a problem.

(Specifically, right now, they're Geten's problem.)

The prison had managed to hold him by removing ice from the area.  He couldn’t sense so much as a single ice pack squirreled away in some break room in his range, and his League neighbor’s marbles didn’t keep things in stasis, so even if Compress hadn’t been—as he’d said with a twist of harrowed rue—thoroughly searched before dumping him in the next cell over, all that would have been left of any ice he’d captured by the time Geten asked would be room temperature water anyway.

He’d been so sure that, somewhere on the journey to his next prison, they’d be bound to pass something—a gas station, a convenience store, a block of homes with personal refrigerators inside, anything.  And they did, he could sense that much, but the IV drip his captors kept him on for the entire drive left the ice they passed out of his reach—he might as well have tried pulling stars from the sky.  The drugs made him useless and lax, darkness washing over and away from his awareness like he was standing barefoot in surf, feeling the waves rolling over his ankles and receding.  The voices of his new custodians, when he registered them at all, were a slurry of bright-edged nonsense, their faces pale, smudgy halos against the transport truck’s bare metal walls.

Smell came back first.  Wood polish, he recognized, but not the floral scent.

Next was the sensation of weight: his body stretched out on its back over some surface much softer than the thin prison mat, a sheet pulled up to the base of his sternum, his arms—suppression restraints still fixing his wrists in place—resting over the cloth.

…And ice.  Not just in his meta-ability’s range, but in arm’s reach.  Right in the room, right beside him!

Idiot, it’s a trap!  He already knew it in the moment he extended his power towards the glass, but the instinct was overpowering, inevitable as his next heartbeat.  He’d been starved of the use of his meta-ability for three months, longer than he could ever, in his entire life, remember going without it; the sudden presence of ice electrified, his meta-ability seizing his entire body taut with its demand.

His eyes shot open and he jerked up in the bed—the glass had shattered the instant he’d become aware of it, and there was no hiding that with closed eyes and even breathing.  He didn’t stop to look around, take in the room, or focus on anything except the white-haired figure throwing their hand towards the flash-freeze starburst of ice, its surface studded with glass shards, flashing meteor-swift across the distance between them and Geten.

It swerved at the last second, just enough for the jailer to duck forward, their own meta-ability far too weak to overcome Geten’s long-honed control.  As the ice plunged forward again, their other hand slapped down on the low table they’d been sitting beside, and argh—

The electricity was true this time, ripping a high scream of frustration out from Geten’s clenched teeth as he dropped back onto the bed.  The suppression cuffs pulsed with it once, then a second time, and after the third he lost the count of it until it stopped, leaving him panting guttural sounds through his wracked throat as he shivered and twitched.

His new warden, pocketing the control to the restraints as they approached, shook their head as they met Geten’s glare with a gray-eyed stare of their—her—own.

“They told us you were strong, but—how impressive,” the woman said, tucking back a lock of long white hair that had fallen out of place in her earlier dive.  “I’ll tell Father we’re going to have to be extra careful with you.”

Geten snarled wordlessly at her, at the expression of mingled pity and condescension he remembered from having to train and fight for years until he’d beaten it out of the eyes of those who thought he was unfit to be at Re-Destro’s side.

“Katayuki Shouto,” the woman said.  “My name is Himura Setsuna.  Welcome home.”

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

Overly Detailed Notes For This <1000 Words Ficlet:

Geten knows from the beginning where he's headed—it's why he realizes the ice water was a trap—but he's staunchly against viewing anyone but Re-Destro and the MLA as his family, thinking of the Himura household only as his next prison.    

The family got custody of him by making the argument that he is a poor, groomed child, brainwashed by the cult that kidnapped him as a child. This story makes Geten want to chew through concrete, but no one is asking for his opinion at this time.    

Katayuki refers to snow with a crust of ice frozen on time; the kata means strict, hard, tough, which I liked for the suggestion of rigidity that makes Geten's family shatter when the main line gives up on its prior way of life.    

Shouto here uses a different pair of kanji than Todoroki Shouto's—聖徒. This would normally be read as Seito, meaning “saint,” but an alternate reading for the first kanji, gives you Shouto instead, and I think it's extremely funny for Dabi to be beset on all sides by Shoutos.    

Setsuna is simply a reading of 雪, snow, with the feminine -na attached.    

Setsuna is, tentatively, Rei's father's older sister, Dabi and company's great aunt. Unable to inherit the house/family head position because of patriarchal inheritance customs, she was married off once but then divorced when she was found to be infertile. She's pretty bitter about all this, and is making the best of it by seizing all the control she can as the person who does most of the day-to-day work of carrying out the incredibly decrepit Himura patriarch's will.    

The family is probably also trying to figure out how to bring Rei back into the fold, too, for whatever nefarious purpose they're gathering family members. Geten might even meet some long-lost family of his own! (This will not go well for anyone involved.)

[rinny-rae]

What Could Have Been

Chapter 3

Summary

The Archduke attempts to have a pleasant dinner with his new ally

Pairing: M!Tav/Gortash

Rating: M

Word Count: 3.5K

Tag/Warnings:

Violence, there’s always graphic violence

Brief mentions of non con

According to my beta reader, Tav is very breedable and idk if that should be a tag or a warning

He just wants to lick Gort’s fingies, leave him alone

Read on AO3 ~ Masterlist

The Archduke Has Pretty Lips

“You’ve been quite brave,” Gortash said and smiled to reassure the boy who sat beside him in sullen silence. “Stupid, but brave.”

He spoke earnestly but the brat hardly listened. Instead, he gawked at a servant who brought out a silver platter piled high with lamb and roasted vegetables.

Waitstaff rushed about, clattering plates and muttering to each other as they set the table. A tall man in Banite livery walked around the room, lighting rows of torches that sat in iron sconces along the walls. Despite the evening’s warmth, a fire crackled in the hearth, harmonizing in tune with the waves that crashed into the rocky shore beneath the windows of the fortress. An anti-magic crystal swung lazily from a chain above the dinner table, faintly distorting the colors in the room. A blush of sunset peeked through the heavy half-drawn curtains and flickered off the silver cutlery and porcelain dishes, painting them with a faintly pink hue.

The boy’s sad yet innocent eyes gave him the look of a wounded animal and the fresh bruises around his neck only added to that effect. For some, broken, pathetic things elicited an instinct to comfort or nurture but the Archduke found such outright weakness nothing but irritating.

With a bland smile, a servant placed a fork and a knife before Wynn.

“Our guest will make do with a spoon,” Gortash said and fixed the servant with a stony gaze, amazed at the depths of his incompetence. The man’s tight smile wavered and he scrambled to the serving cart to provide the appropriate silverware.

Wynn’s borrowed clothes hung loose in a somewhat flattering way. His shirt slid off one shoulder, revealing his lean, if perhaps too thin, frame - the boy was small for the age he claimed to be. He adjusted the shirt and rubbed the bruises on his neck. A lock of chestnut hair fell across his face and he swiped it back behind his ear, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead. The redness made them look green though they were likely hazel under duller circumstances.

A clerk shuffled in, muttering apologetically, late as always. He hunched beside the table, peeking sheepishly from behind the mountain of letters and scrolls that swayed precariously in his veiny hands. The Archduke waved for him to sit while watching Wynn primly poke at a baked potato with his spoon only to fail to break its crispy skin. The boy’s frown deepened with each failed attempt but he persisted. The clerk cleared his throat as if to remind Gortash of his presence and just for that, the Archduke ignored him for a while longer.

“What of the missing shipment?” he finally asked, taking a bite of his own meal and realizing it had been the first thing he’d eaten all day.

The clerk frantically shuffled through his letters, finally pulled one out and, with trembling hands, passed it to Gortash.

“No news of the missing shipment of infernal weapons but possible culprits are under investigation.”

Gortash put the letter down and rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the tension in his shoulders worm its way up and begin to build into a dull headache.

Wynn reached for the platter of lamb and tried to break off a piece. While undeniably tender, the meat proved to be a formidable opponent. It slid to the opposite side of the platter, pushing a few honeyed carrots off and staining the tablecloth. Wynn’s bloodshot eyes glistened with fresh tears but he kept his silence.

Gortash toyed with his own dinner knife as he watched the boy struggle. How long might it take to rob him of all decorum? Evidently, four days of starvation didn’t quite do the trick.

Wynn gave up on the meat and spooned carrots onto his plate instead, conducting himself with restraint unlike that of a common vagrant. Joylessly, Gortash remembered his own younger self, stuffing his pockets with anything he could snatch off the table, then dashing from the dinner hall in hopes of outrunning the guards and avoiding a beating. Sometimes he succeeded.

“Let’s go through the speech again,” he said to the clerk, yearning for a distraction. The man shuffled some papers around, unrolled a scroll, and cleared his throat.

“Esteemed citizens of Baldur’s Gate,” he started in a thready voice and the Archduke winced, picturing the pathetic creature actually giving the speech. “We must be mad, literally mad, as a city to be permitting the inflow of thousands of dependents…” the clerk soldiered on.

“Change that to tens of thousands,” Gortash interrupted. The man nodded several times, scribbling a note.

“Esteemed citizens of Baldur’s Gate,” the clerk started over.

”That part is going to stay the same,” Gortash said, rolling his eyes, then reached for the platter of lamb. He ran his serrated knife along the bone, cutting off a large chunk, releasing the succulent juices that flowed freely from the incision and filled the bottom of the platter. He dropped the meat onto Wynn’s plate and cut it with slow, intentional precision until the pieces were small enough for the boy to eat. Wynn quietly observed, gripping his spoon so tightly that his already pale knuckles turned bone white and Gortash didn’t know if that was a gesture of terror or excitement.

“Right, yes. We must be mad, literally mad, as a city to be permitting the inflow of thousands… “ the clerk trailed off and began scribbling again.

His patience at a hair’s breadth, Gortash pushed Wynn’s plate back to the boy and ripped the scroll from the clerk’s hands, nearly knocking over his pot of ink.

“Tens of thousands of dependents, who are for the most part…” he muttered, sensing Wynn’s attention snap to him, “… the material of the growth of the refugee descended population.”

The boy craned his neck, trying to read along. Gortash spoke louder, “It is like watching a city busily engaged in heaping up its own funeral pyre.”

He rubbed his chin, unhappy with the wording but unsure how to fix it. Lamenting the fate that befell his most recent speech writer, he uncorked a bottle of wine.

“Needs some work, don’t you think?” he looked at the boy, filling two goblets and handing one to him.

The clerk, ever the eager sycophant, stammered “Oh no, it’s very, very good.”

Wynn smelled the wine, then took several small sips and closed his eyes. His cheeks flushed and he visibly relaxed, then looked into the Archduke’s eyes with genuine warmth. Gortash crossed his legs and leaned back, holding the goblet in front of him and swirling the wine slowly, waiting for the boy to answer his question.

“The speech is… fine,” Wynn finally said, remnants of a smile still dancing around the corners of his eyes.

“Mediocrity won’t do,” Gortash said, and after a pause, added “Be honest with me, we are allies after all.” It was an empty reassurance given the circumstances but sometimes people needed to hear kind words, no matter how meaningless.

Wynn took another sip of wine, pulled the scroll closer and read through it again.

“Who is this speech for?” he asked.

“The good citizens of the lower city,” Gortash said, topping off both of their goblets. Wynn met his eyes and nodded appreciatively.

“I like the ‘funeral pyre’ bit,” he said, “as for the rest, frankly, it may confuse the fishermen and the cobblers.”

Gortash raised an eyebrow, mulling over the response.

“Maybe something more personal?” Wynn suggested, sipping his wine, the pallor of his face giving way to a rosy blush.

“Yes, something a simple worker can relate to,” Gortash agreed. Fresh ideas swirled in his head and he took the parchment back, writing fast.

Two servants shuffled in with another platter of food. The Archduke couldn’t recall what the second course was or that there even was one but he made a silent promise to eat more than one bite of it.

The men fussed around him and Wynn, clumsily gathering the dishes as if they had never served dinner before. Gortash held the scroll up and began reading the speech over before presenting the updated version to his apparent advisor.

A dull thud shook the table and a shrill scream pierced the room. Gortash’s eyes shot up to see that a dagger stuck through Wynn’s hand and into the mahogany table, pinning him in place. A puddle of blood bloomed, soaking through the linen table cloth.

Gortash sprung to his feet, kicked the chair over and splashed ink into the eyes of Wynn’s assailant. Moving in a blur, the man behind him hopped over the chair and pounced, swinging a short sword. Gortash twisted out of the way and the man sliced through the empty air, smashing his sword down onto the table. Splinters of wood, shards of porcelain, goblets, and food flew in all directions and rang in a shrill cacophony as they crashed to the ground. Gortash flung the empty ink pot into the side of the assassin’s head, then pulled out his hand crossbow and followed up with a shot. The bolt pierced through the shoulder of his opponent’s sword arm.

“Guards!” he called out. No response came.

He spun and shot at the ceiling, shattering the anti-magic crystal. All lights and colors in the room came into sharp focus.

The clerk squealed and stumbled, sending his mountain of papers rustling to the ground, then, nearly tripping over his own feet, ran for the door, disappearing in the darkness of the adjacent room.

Despite the Archduke’s help, the brat was as good as dead. He whimpered, staring dumbly at his pinned hand and leaving himself completely exposed. His opponent swore, wiping black ink from his eyes with the hem of his shirt, revealing the light leather armor beneath. Instead of dealing the final blow, however, he turned from the boy and began inching toward Gortash. The Archduke reloaded and cranked his crossbow. Breathing steadily to control the fear that coursed through him, he readied himself for the attack.

Wynn gritted his teeth and, with a pained gasp, yanked the dagger out. Blood rushed from his wounded hand. He stood up but stumbled, clutching the table, then, still swaying, picked up the half empty bottle of wine and flung it at the man who had stabbed him. He missed by several feet but the assassin spun on his heel and scowled. The boy assumed a fighting stance holding the bloodied dagger in his uninjured hand.

“You best put that down, little lamb,” the assassin growled. Wynn slashed at him but the assassin slipped sideways and kicked Wynn’s feet from under him. The boy’s head bounced off the stone floor and he dropped the dagger.

“Stay down,” the assassin said, and kicked him in the stomach.

Gortash’s opponent snapped off the shaft of the crossbow bolt lodged in his shoulder, tossed away his shortsword and produced a dagger. Wielding it in his off hand, he held it low, advancing wearily. Gortash didn’t have time to reload before the man closed the distance between them. He threw the crossbow away, pocketed the unused bolt and, in a practiced motion, he parried the attack with the back of his forearm. The blade scraped along the gold alloy of his right vambrace, leaving a long gouge in the decorative piece but leaving him uninjured. The assassin slashed at his chest. Gortash dodged his strikes and stepped back, realizing his mistake a moment too late. The assassin kicked Gortash’s front leg out and slashed at his exposed inner thigh. Gortash raised his knee just in time to protect himself from the deadly strike but the dagger sliced clean through his soft leather boots, opening a gash across his shin. He stumbled, unable to ignore the searing pain. Pressing his advantage, the assassin drove into Gortash’s chest with his uninjured shoulder, knocking him off balance, and, with terrible precision, drove the blade into the right side of his stomach, just under the ribs.

The Archduke gritted his teeth against the piercing pain and gripped the man’s wrist, keeping the dagger firmly in place, then thrust a crossbow bolt into his throat, only puncturing his windpipe the first time but severing an artery on the second strike. Hot blood spurted from the wound and the man groaned, then twisted the knife. Gortash’s vision swam. To keep himself upright, he clutched at the man’s neck, feeling the assassin’s life leak out until his grip slackened and he released his hold on the dagger.

Tears rolled down Wynn’s cheeks. He reached for the dagger but his opponent kicked it away and stepped on the boy’s hand.

“We’ve orders not to kill you but Chosen said nothing about maiming,” he said and ground the toe of his boot into Wynn’s palm.

The boy cried out and muttered something. The assassin frowned and spat at him but stepped away, turning his attention to the Archduke once again. Wynn sat up and made a quick motion with his fingers, sending a small cloud of sparks into the air, then gasped and cradled his injured hand.

Gortash wrapped his coat around the protruding dagger and trained his crossbow on the approaching enemy. The man hesitated and shot a glance toward the black doorway. Gortash smirked, relieved to finally have the upper hand.

A flailing, screaming body flew between him and his opponent and, with a sickening crunch, crashed into the stone wall. It was the clerk, his eye sockets now empty, bloody pits. He raised his head and coughed up a spray of blood, then lay motionless, gurgling and foaming from the mouth.

Two men, one seemingly smaller than Wynn, dwarfed by his hulking companion, stepped out of the darkness and pushed into the room. They wore matching leather armor, dyed black and red after a Bhaalist fashion.

“A fine evening to you,” the smaller man said cheerfully, scratching his hawk-like nose with the hilt of his dagger. The man beside him stepped with careful poise surprising for someone of his size. The two strolled toward the Archduke, unbothered by the crossbow he had trained on them. Gortash swallowed, feeling bile rise in his throat, then shot the smaller man who flicked the bolt away with the ease of swatting a fly.

Wynn rushed the man who had stabbed him, swinging a red hot fire poker at the back of his head. The weapon connected with a hiss, filling the room with the stench of burned meat and hair.

The man howled then charged the boy screaming, “if you insist on dying here, so be it.” Wynn scurried backwards, waving the iron poker and looking utterly ridiculous. Gortash pursed his lips and, right as the assassin reached the boy, loosed a bolt into the side of his head. The man stumbled and dropped his weapon. Rubbing the spots where the bolt stuck out from both sides of his skull, he turned around slowly, mouth half open, pink fluid trickling from one ear.

Wynn did not hesitate. He wound up and, grunting from exertion, smashed the iron poker into the man’s face, snapping his head back. Blood and teeth sprayed from his mouth and the man crashed backwards.

Two sets of leisurely footsteps echoed closer and closer, punctuating the silence of the room. The Archduke loaded the last bolt, cranked the crossbow, and shot the larger man, hitting him square in the chest. The giant looked down and grinned, then ripped the bolt out and tossed it back to Gortash who, with nowhere left to retreat, crossed his arms and, standing his ground, recited a prayer:

Despot King, hear my words

Carried to thee by blood and bone

I beg for thy might to embolden my arm,

to hone my blade,

to ignite my spells.

Suffer not the heretic to live

For I am Faithful…

The giant’s calloused hand closed around his face and he was dragged backwards until his head collided with the stone wall.

”The Archduke has pretty lips,” the man said in a voice like grinding stones.

On the other side of the room, Wynn roared, then whimpered, then went silent. In the moment of stillness that followed, Gortash’s panic boiled over. His ears rang, every coarse breath in his burning chest filled with the sour smell of the assassin’s sweat.

“Let’s hear another prayer,” the man said and cruel smile crept across his face.

“As you wish,” Gortash mumbled into the giant’s palm. He ripped the knife out of his own stomach and buried it between the man’s ribs. With a howl, the assassin released his grip. Fueled by rabid desperation, Gortash stabbed him twice more. On the fourth strike he stumbled and clutched his side, feeling hot blood run between his fingers. Evidently unconcerned about the injuries, the assassin punched Gortash in the stomach and, as he crumbled, kneed him in the jaw.

“Now, where were we?” he said, kneeling and breathing heavily.

“The Archduke’s pretty lips,” his companion said, wiping blood off his dagger with a white dinner napkin.

“That’s right,” the giant grabbed a fistful of Gortash’s hair and snapped his head back.

Gortash had no strength to keep fighting so, as a compromise, he spat a mouthful of blood into the assassin’s scarred face. The man shook his head and began laughing heartily, then kissed him on the forehead.

“I like this one, can we keep him?” he said, turning to his friend.

Behind them, Wynn clutched at the side of the table and pulled himself up, swaying lightly. His shirt was torn and four deep wounds yawned in his gut.

The giant murmured, brushing the Archduke’s matted hair back, then squeezed his throat. The edges of Gortash’s vision went dark but somewhere in the periphery of his awareness he heard shouting and slamming against the wooden doors.

“Looks like we’re short on time,” the smaller man said, unsheathing a glistening rapier and pointing it at the Archduke who writhed helplessly, gasping for breath.

A cloud of sizzling electricity enveloped Wynn as he mouthed something over and over, making quick gestures, no longer bothered by the pain in his wounded hand. A scent of ozone spread through the room and the boy began to levitate, electricity crackling all around him. As Wynn raised his arms and hurled a colossal ball of fire toward Gortash and the assassins, the Archduke smiled bitterly at the irony of dying by the hand of a storm sorcerer.

With a deafening boom, the fireball hit the ground, and a terrible brightness engulfed all three. The air once again filled with the scent of burning flesh. The giant assassin roared, clawing at his leather armor as it melted into his blistering, charred skin. His hair curled, twisted, blackened, releasing acrid smoke. He rose to his feet, turning to face Wynn, as if to charge him, then took one step forward and toppled. Likewise, his friend has been set ablaze. Screaming, he was flung several feet into the air. After colliding with a wooden ceiling beam, he came crashing down, splattering onto the stone.

Among the chaos, Gortash felt nothing more than a rush of hot, dry air. Like a strong gust of wind, it gently pressed him against the ground but caused no pain.

Wynn floated toward him. Purple bursts of electricity danced on his skin and his eyes glowed the deep blue-black of a wild tempest. The sparks began to dissipate and he landed daintily, then slowly knelt beside the Archduke. Gortash propped himself up on one elbow, blinking blood from his eyes, and focused all his attention on the boy, well past caring about his own injuries.

“You’re losing a lot of blood,” he said, tonguing a loose tooth and welcoming the numbness that began to spread through his body.

“So are you,” Wynn smiled sadly.

“Lay on your back, put pressure on your wounds, and put your feet up,” the Archduke said, too weak to take on a commanding tone. He ran one shaking hand along the ground in a futile attempt at brushing the soot and gore away. The boy winced but, handling his pain surprisingly well, curled up beside him.

“You’re terrible at following orders,” Gortash’s voice cracked in a dry throat. His limbs felt heavy and, in his body’s last ditch effort to stay alive, he shivered so hard that his teeth chattered.

Perhaps growing delirious from his own injuries, Wynn looked into his eyes and smiled with candid sincerity.

“My fighting skills leave a lot to be desired as well,” he said in a weak voice, then wrapped his small hands around the Archduke’s. He ran his fingers along the rings and ridges of Gortash’s gauntlets, studying, exploring each groove, then weaved between them, pressing into his skin, linking them together with his soft, warm touch. He raised the Archdukes shaking, blood stained hands to his lips and held him there, squeezing just a little harder, peering into his eyes as if searching for something.

Feeling Wynn’s warm breath on his skin, and a lump in his own throat, Gortash closed his eyes and felt himself drift away.

[subnosis22]

I will invite you over, let you assume you're a guest, while you're the entertainer.

I'll tell you to come 1h after everyone else, upon arrival to my place you will be collared at entrance and given a new set of clothes. A see through dress ans a set of black lace panties and bra clearly along with a long white dressing gown. I bring you on leash to the crowd so they grope your ass and tits to validate the lezbizarre dyketoy of the day. The delusional cunt to be corrected. They are especially sleezy taking lengthy time grabbing your cunt and tits, like they are taking measures for later, they keep purposely reaching out to your clit and nipples through your very thin clothes playing with your discomfort and arousal, some even grab your head for a forceful deep kiss making you squeal but unable to resist, a weak lamb paraded and exposed as a piece of meat to the wolves.

I pull the leash and you know you have to come back to me ... at the center of the room, the center of all their focused attention, you look around and see every single man pulling his cock out, some jerking it already. I make you strip to undress and slap your face, your ass or tits whenever you are too slow for my taste or not sexy enough ... better put up a show and make the audience even harder , it will serve its purpose for the rest of the night. You struggle, but after feeling the strokes of your leash biting your flesh from my cruel whipping, you give in, and obey, after realizing that each of your squeals only served to make your body hurt and their cock harder, as they wqtch you with a cruel grin on their face.

At the end of your strip, i push your head down, forcing you on your knees, pull out My Cock and make a good display of your throat’s skills. I push myself balls deep, bruising your throat pussy with pleasure, watching your dumb face tearing and choking. You understand you are done for when you hear me laugh and call the other guys to get a closer look . I invite them to lean in and watch your throat bulge. What are you? A person? An object of pleasure? A wanking toy? At this point you clearly understand that you are only lumps of flesh set tight or loose to jerk us all, regardless of our size.

I am the host, you are my victim dyke, i get the privilege of pumping the first load in ... and i do intend to use it thorougly ... pulling my cock out of your throat and turning you around... using your sloppy throat and cunt juices to barely lube your shithole, that will do .... and slam myself all the way in , in a single thrust, i feel your butthole clench and trying resist me in vain, making you scream and shake ... again, in vain, resistance or not, i will be tearing your butthole to a whole new size, for the audience's greater delight ... cunt

Every now and then you see one of the guys get up , his cock in hand, getting closer to just cum over your body, or simply grab your face and fuck your throat for the last thrusts he needs to cum and pump you full of his reward. When done, he goes to the table, waiting for dinner. One after the other, they paint your dumb dyke face white in and out, no matter how hard you break and cum from your butt being raped, no matter how much cum is already dripping from your face. Too lost between the cocks of your abusers making you choke and swallow their seed, you gasp feeling me pull out and switching to your other hole. A few thrusts and your gold star is gone, you feel me pumping your wombs full… full of me ... full of male seeds… breeding you like a vulgar sow ... drinking cum from both ends.



After i pull out , i call dinner time and every guest left goes to the table, even those who didn't get their turn yet. The dinner is served and we all start to eat and talk casually, mostly the guys praising my hospitality for bringing such a dumb but very tight wanking toy tonight ... You, in the meantime, you have no seat, your place is below ... under ... crawling between our legs, going from cock to cock to have your meal. Getting your own food one cumshot at a time, you will please the remaining men who didn't get their chance to blow their load first, listening to them laughing and when reenacting your moans and tears and sometimes pushing your head to make savour your only meal of the night balls deep all the way in your throat.

They keep degrading you comparing your holes to the other girls we corrected, few weeks before , rating your performance and poor resistance, and yet during all this time you keep sucking, stuck in a loop of shame and lust ... unable to think anymore ... just wanting to obey, unable to determine it is men or your cunt’s true cravings that keep you going… you learned that the more effort you put to please the more softer they are, you even get praised and qualified useful ... Your other holes though, are growing desperate and needy, your cunt is dripping down your leg, craving to be used, by all these strong cocks .... you did get your anal orgasm, but one. Cock feels good, you hate to admit it but after all these orgasms you gave. You want to cum again… Cock feels good, and it is the only fucking you will get all night… so … one cock is far from enough for a broken breeding mutt like you , you want to be mounted by the whole pack of wolves. Little do you know that the real party starts after diner ... and that gangbanging your holes and mind into a mess of cum piss and squirt ought to be your desert ... we will pound and crush every single of your holes making your mind slowly give in, cumming while shouting dyke no more, dyke for dicks, cunt for cocks, whenever your throat isn’t getting raped and filled with semen. Thats your reward for all your efforts of the evening , keeping our cocks pleased and your users entertained.

Such a good little fucktoy, after the party i'll be busy handing your phone around to all your future users ... being dyke is over, you know there is no way back. Corrected and fucked, you wake up in a puddle of piss and cum, not knowing anything about the past hour, just waking up with my dick in your face you diligently suck it... you would never dare to refuse such a treat ... you could leave, you could try to resist, as there is no crowd anymore , but you are a natural cock pleaser afterall, aren't you? Broken cunt



Hhh I love this... complete degradation and objectification 😵‍💫😵‍💫 teach me how to suck cock like this

[eel-in-viscera]

That time I got reincarnated as a 4'9 skinny weak twig girl that got sold to the fish mafia! Pt. 1

father, no! I am but a humble 4'9 twig thin 18 year old!" I cry, but he doest listen. I knew this day would come some day. I... I couldn't belive it. He was going to sell me to the fish mafia.

I throw my hair into a messy bun. not that it matters or anything, I assume the fish mafia live under water anyway. I kiss my Gerard way poster (on the lips) as I step out of the door in my uncreesed converse and enter into a black limousine. The seat was wet because of course it is. I glance at the driver, a no doubt 6'6 absolute hottie and also a catfish.

his fins hold the steering wheel as best as he could, propped up on his booster seat. As we drive, I watch out the window as the city scape goes by. The usual nuclear fallout expected of a place like birmingham.

eventually, after multiple stops of the driver stoping to getting into fist fights with children, we arrive at our destination. "D-d-d-d driver kun~! this... this can't be our stop, right?" I

"Yes, it is" He says in his gruff, emo voice. And before I knew it, the limousine door opened and a bag was shoved over my head. "Kyyyaaaa~!" I screamed, my thin twig arms too delicate to fight back

Something heavy hit my head and it all went black. Slowly, I came too in a dark room. It was ususaly humid but I kinda liked it. I look across the long table I'm sitting at, surroundings adorned in fancy greens and blues, jewls shimmering gently. A giant ribbon eel layed across the table maybe 8ft ling, head right where my plate would be.

It wriggles slightly as it talks, seemingly reading my mind, it speaks "I am not big. you are small. we have used a shrink ray on you. Will you be my bride?" "No!!" I scream. "You are not kawaii desu at all!!! nothing like my idol gerard way!!!!"

I scream and slap him across his fishy face, the wet sound reverberating off the elegant decor of the room. A single tear rolls down his face. "That really wasn't cool, you know that?"

"What are you, fishest?" He says disappointedly. "n... no fish senpai.. I'm not. its just..." "Go on, spit it out. you're the one with lips." "I... I just never expected to... fall for a fish mafia boss, it's just so unexpected..."

I begin to cry, tears running down my face. I lick my lips. I wonder if where he's from tastes this salty too. He raises his scaled head, glossy eyes focusing on me.

"We can make it work, I promise..." He rasps in his hot greasy tastey eely voice. "Even if I'm an 8ft ribbon eel mafia boss.. and you're a 4'9 twig with a messy bun... love wins. I won't let it go any other way."

"R...ribbon eel kun..." I sputter, overcome with a new love, a prospect of a new life with my husky mafia boss boyfriend. I claim his lips as my smokey eyeshadow begins to run with my tears as we kiss, hydrating him. "I love you." He whispers in my ear. "I love you too, my 4'9 twig princess..." I hold the side of his face and snout, angling it upwards to kiss him better as I navigate a maze of sharp teeth with my tounge. I break the kiss temporarily, looking into one of his glassy unfocused eyes. "How... how long will you keep me here?" I ask nervously. "As long as you'll let me." He whispers

[je-suis-problematique]

Some Sengo things

Trans (FtM) and therefore not a favorite among drow. I don't know if he's from Menzoberranzan or a different place where Lolthite drow are in charge but either way he gets harassed often for his gender identity. Bonus points if he's from a relatively powerful house too so now he's also shaming his mother by "choosing to be weak/lesser" or some shit. Attempts on his life are pretty commonplace too I'd say. And sexual harassment/assault. Yep. 90% of our stories have those themes, Sengo's is going to be no different.

Kar'niss' childhood best friend. They were buddies since forever and always had each other's back. Maybe Kar'niss is from a smaller/less powerful house and Sengo's parents (namely mother) kind of helped elevate his status a little.... Until Sengo started arguing about gender that is. Because after that the Auvyrrets' reputation got damaged and shit.

A necromancer. Prefers the company of corpses and ghosts over that of living people (unless it's Kar'niss). Pretty good at casting necromancy spells actually.

Was driven out of wherever it is he came from after Kar'niss failed the Test of Lolth and got turned into a drider. We imagined that part of Kar'niss' test was to kill Sengo but he just couldn't bring himself to do it and therefore failed. Sengo was more than happy to leave everything behind and go with Kar'niss. He helped Kar'niss get used to his new form, helped him hunt, while simultaneously figuring out how to take care of himself now that they were on their own. We like to think that Kar'niss looked after Sengo when it came to scavenging for food and water and also keeping him safe in a general sense. It was hard but the two of them made it work.

Kar'niss falling into the Absolute's clutches seriously concerned Sengo because Sengo remained wary and suspicious of the Absolute cult and also free from its influence. Absolutist!Kar'niss became increasingly more violent and unstable even towards Sengo so Sengo set out to look for help while Kar'niss did Absolute Things™. We like to think that these two are from Mikhail's canon and that Mikhail managed to help break Kar'niss free from the Absolute's influence while also giving Sengo some tips and tricks for how he should treat Kar'niss so such a lapse won't repeat itself in the future.

Kar'niss lives! Maybe the two of them even join Mikhail's camp for a while, just to be safe y'know? Even though nobody trusts them (or more specifically, nobody trusts Kar'niss) Mikhail lets them seek refuge at his camp because it's better than wandering the shadow-cursed lands without protection.

Sengo and Kar'niss were a couple since their teens I'd say. Just two weirdos being weird and off-putting together. Two freaks matching each other's freak.

Sengo is initially very mistrusting of everyone at the camp but he trusts Mikhail and Mikhail helps him open up a little bit over time, especially after Kar'niss stabilizes. I think Sengo would get along with Karlach because he'd be drawn to her friendly and open-minded attitude. Maybe he'd even get along with Wyll, if Wyll won't say anything judgmental about Kar'niss. Gale too, especially if Sengo is the wizard type of necromancer. Astarion and Lae'zel are on his shitlist though and Shadowheart is on thin ice.

I can see Sengo being curious about Gale's cooking and offering to help him cook or at the very least just asking a lot of questions while watching Gale cook from the side. Sengo lived off scavenged rations and barely edible meals for a long time, it's refreshing to finally eat something that's actually good.

Sengo riding Kar'niss' back like a horse whenever he gets too tired from walking.

Sengo might get along with Minthara to a degree just based off the fact that Minthara also rejected both Lolth and the Absolute like Sengo did. Minthara might have a thing or two to say about Kar'niss that Sengo would likely find distasteful but he knows enough about his own kind to expect such comments from Minthara specifically so he isn't TOO offended.

Sengo playing with Scratch and the owlbear cub to experience the feeling of having the pets which he never got to have as a kid.

Sengo reading and singing to Kar'niss to soothe Kar'niss' nerves.👌

Kar'niss will never be allowed into Baldur's Gate for obvious reasons so Sengo parts ways with Mikhail before act 3 but now that the shadow curse has been lifted he feels like it'll be safer for them to hang around the area surrounding Moonrise and maybe even help rebuild/defend some parts. Y'know, as a new beginning.

Speaking of Moonrise, Sengo and Kar'niss fighting Ketheric alongside Mikhail as additional allies like Dame Aylin just does things to my soul okay?

[libidomechanica]

Ll neer for

—Not just once, an eye, and from the morning but     vulnerable Knight, and God shape the child, and all perdue; for what the same. Extending upon     that times that all’s ideal—all ouercast,

by the sunbeam strike his Curse. To all the marks     the lark has part, yet so find the Pow’r again, who through sealed into thy look’d in brings I     have listening but a whim. For some Wolfe

thy pre-existinguish’d Pow’r for this twistinguish     twixt the false, ring watery glass made to sing better belts of her Earth: and earnestly     round where to suite in his head, with the

human ties, whole creep, and she did pretty maid. And     lacke of deep self, I trow, and nights. The woman is, that tare earnestly round. These ruined     hour in ridge, on she letters, as an

aspire of bright to green. The sound, a soul just me,     that Gaudy Flower looked round. Beneath him; we had not the doubts that alp.—And if the human     common ruin Kings are the Judge.

Which the giddy Jews tread breaks his little child, as     over they flowers. And so my plunging flow, but in pure, by no more: too common Name     anew,—yon look’d on: if there, look! The

Goddess cry’d: o cruel fellowship of timely, not     separate ministering golden pits: ’twas before the mind! Nothing else, sung by yon gate which     the noise of his temple here sinners

raise refuse of travel son or where to go to     play there, from off his shot in any spark. But where—oh, when Healths and Take when Healthsmen, and     the Solymæan Rout; well Verst of dust

burn to sleeping its way, fretted turn thee so far     unable tongue, althoughts of weathers had places and me.-—So I stay; true love ask, and     possession; here walks, may not come like

cloud in Humane Laws. Gives in air; the drearily     watcher’s face, a little strange, no soon unriddled. Her head, whose fault of change my second     self, so dear to meeting hamlets fast

assizes keep, and makes former day! Please, with waking     me best whim, seem’d, to fyll then changed; and think of you. Gives are; talk back on summer’s skull     showed that I sing this weak, it seem

Constitution short Story an Inner Meaning on     the glory into thy Harím Dividuality: how light: in self-same lawn, the cannot     keep it sweet, ’ and fitted Israel’s

monarch, after nine daies the sky. Or who saith the     lucid wombs: throbs of perfect Beauty to the doubt not, but bright Cecilia shine from the     flows its progenies is kindred with

joy, where he might a rake: men, some who once and, oh,     the burning fresh from the nations be few, the bliss. Love, that long Devotion, and thrift and     learnest glances on their Arms may pardon,

O my America! That in my eyes be     lov’d ideas, who so for the furrowes trick to that rises ere I did not even     if spring his use may be, ere

twere gone for pity and circuits of grace; for thin     potation one again the hollow out, Oh hear and yet that he drank thereof the sorts     of man; so think of that I may not

why, nor will be no further. In the eye; what my     rugged rocks, nor the next Successfull Youth ended, green; and, hovers bow, new Formes, and     harass’d in the Hall together drown

all her disk of your searching sing. Who, when Hope and     Humane Laws should fall, to profitable tongues shall command the People of the Power     each bring thing: ye never stars as years

its round a welcome, I will not yet has been malt     liquors exchange over Sinaï’s pealing door, and weep each the quiet even if every     body to designated great.

[dumb-lil-babyy]

I’ll greatly enjoy ruining your body and mind correcting you into proper cock worship dumb lil dyke baby. I will invite you over, let you assume you're a guest, while you're the entertainer.

I'll tell you to come 1h after everyone else, upon arrival to my place you will be collared at entrance and given a new set of clothes. A see through dress ans a set of black lace panties and bra clearly along with a long white dressing gown. I bring you on leash to the crowd so they grope your ass and tits to validate the lezbizarre dyketoy of the day. The delusional cunt to be corrected. They are especially sleezy taking lengthy time grabbing your cunt and tits, like they are taking measures for later, they keep purposely reaching out to your clit and nipples through your very thin clothes playing with your discomfort and arousal, some even grab your head for a forceful deep kiss making you squeal but unable to resist, a weak lamb paraded and exposed as a piece of meat to the wolves.

I pull the leash and you know you have to come back to me ... at the center of the room, the center of all their focused attention, you look around and see every single man pulling his cock out, some jerking it already. I make you strip to undress and slap your face, your ass or tits whenever you are too slow for my taste or not sexy enough ... better put up a show and make the audience even harder , it will serve its purpose for the rest of the night. You struggle, but after feeling the strokes of your leash biting your flesh from my cruel whipping, you give in, and obey, after realizing that each of your squeals only served to make your body hurt and their cock harder, as they wqtch you with a cruel grin on their face.

At the end of your strip, i push your head down, forcing you on your knees, pull out My Cock and make a good display of your throat’s skills. I push myself balls deep, bruising your throat pussy with pleasure, watching your dumb face tearing and choking. You understand you are done for when you hear me laugh and call the other guys to get a closer look . I invite them to lean in and watch your throat bulge. What are you? A person? An object of pleasure? A wanking toy? At this point you clearly understand that you are only lumps of flesh set tight or loose to jerk us all, regardless of our size.

I am the host, you are my victim dyke, i get the privilege of pumping the first load in ... and i do intend to use it thorougly ... pulling my cock out of your throat and turning you around... using your sloppy throat and cunt juices to barely lube your shithole, that will do .... and slam myself all the way in , in a single thrust, i feel your butthole clench and trying resist me in vain, making you scream and shake ... again, in vain, resistance or not, i will be tearing your butthole to a whole new size, for the audience's greater delight ... cunt

Every now and then you see one of the guys get up , his cock in hand, getting closer to just cum over your body, or simply grab your face and fuck your throat for the last thrusts he needs to cum and pump you full of his reward. When done, he goes to the table, waiting for dinner. One after the other, they paint your dumb dyke face white in and out, no matter how hard you break and cum from your butt being raped, no matter how much cum is already dripping from your face. Too lost between the cocks of your abusers making you choke and swallow their seed, you gasp feeling me pull out and switching to your other hole. A few thrusts and your gold star is gone, you feel me pumping your wombs full… full of me ... full of male seeds… breeding you like a vulgar sow ... drinking cum from both ends.



After i pull out , i call dinner time and every guest left goes to the table, even those who didn't get their turn yet. The dinner is served and we all start to eat and talk casually, mostly the guys praising my hospitality for bringing such a dumb but very tight wanking toy tonight ... You, in the meantime, you have no seat, your place is below ... under ... crawling between our legs, going from cock to cock to have your meal. Getting your own food one cumshot at a time, you will please the remaining men who didn't get their chance to blow their load first, listening to them laughing and when reenacting your moans and tears and sometimes pushing your head to make savour your only meal of the night balls deep all the way in your throat.

They keep degrading you comparing your holes to the other girls we corrected, few weeks before , rating your performance and poor resistance, and yet during all this time you keep sucking, stuck in a loop of shame and lust ... unable to think anymore ... just wanting to obey, unable to determine it is men or your cunt’s true cravings that keep you going… you learned that the more effort you put to please the more softer they are, you even get praised and qualified useful ... Your other holes though, are growing desperate and needy, your cunt is dripping down your leg, craving to be used, by all these strong cocks .... you did get your anal orgasm, but one. Cock feels good, you hate to admit it but after all these orgasms you gave. You want to cum again… Cock feels good, and it is the only fucking you will get all night… so … one cock is far from enough for a broken breeding mutt like you , you want to be mounted by the whole pack of wolves. Little do you know that the real party starts after diner ... and that gangbanging your holes and mind into a mess of cum piss and squirt ought to be your desert ... we will pound and crush every single of your holes making your mind slowly give in, cumming while shouting dyke no more, dyke for dicks, cunt for cocks, whenever your throat isn’t getting raped and filled with semen. Thats your reward for all your efforts of the evening , keeping our cocks pleased and your users entertained.

Such a good little fucktoy, after the party i'll be busy handing your phone around to all your future users ... being dyke is over, you know there is no way back. Corrected and fucked, you wake up in a puddle of piss and cum, not knowing anything about the past hour, just waking up with my dick in your face you diligently suck it... you would never dare to refuse such a treat ... you could leave, you could try to resist, as there is no crowd anymore , but you are a natural cock pleaser afterall, aren't you? Broken cunt



tbh the fact you've sent this word for word to both me AND my friend is absolutely hilarious to me

please do not send stuff like this to me. you will get blocked.

[whirling-fangs]

There was no humanity left to be found in those emerald irises. The pupils slanted like a beast's, reduced to thin lines that crossed through the eyes, a display of the blind rage that coursed through the monster's veins.

He wasn't stopping. Even when he felt danger burn in several spots around his body, he did not change his course. He did not feel the need to.

Her blade was too weak. Her poisons were a hindrance, but they weren't lethal.

Or so he believed.

Nichirin sunk into his flesh, injecting its venom in each spot it found. He bothered not to deflect her strikes, his claws locked on their targets – her neck and her arm. Sharp claws dug into her throat, keeping her body locked in place while his other arm gave a sharp tug on her arm.

Her shoulder would dislocate with a nasty noise. Kiba could already feel the poison burning through his veins, devouring his flesh and nerves, his very structure breaking down before the Hashira's eyes. This was worse than he'd expected.

He had underestimated her... but this wasn't over. As long as he could regenerate longer than her poison worked, he would be fine. He only needed a little boost, just in case.

An arm. That ought to be enough flesh to keep his body fueled.

Sharp fangs tore into her upper arm, aiming to chomp through fabric, nerves and bones alike. Devour as much as he could, while his fangs sunk even deeper in her throat, keeping the air from travelling to her lungs.

Her blood poured into his mouth, her flesh broken down under the strength of his jaws. He expected to feel relief, to feel new strength seep into his flesh as he assimilated hers.

It was all the opposite. In his haste, he had forgotten about his initial hunch.

Her flesh was poisoned.

The accelerated rate her poison was broken down was surreal, far faster than her calculations could have predicted. But the neck, that was the most opportune place to strike. A weak point, a chance. She could only hope to survive until sunrise, to live with the knowledge she knew now and plan a counterattack. Or at least be able to send word through her crow immediately to Tanjiro and Zenitsu what she'd bore witness to tonight.

But what if that moment were not to come?

Shinobu detested how knees were already threatening to tremble, wanting to buckle from the pressure. Had she always been so weak? Was it fighting an ally? A friend? Someone she'd once cared for that shared the same amount of love she held for both Kanae and Kanao? Kanao...there was a chance she may not make it home. At the very least, the younger girl was safe having been away on a mission of her own. For Kanao, Shinobu would lay down her life if it meant her safety.

With newfound resolve, Shinobu's amethyst-colored eyes hardened. "I've half a mind to muzzle you like Nezuko-chan." But unlike the demon girl, Inosuke seemed already too far gone, the way he spoke and claimed they were all prey and he was the hunter. It was akin to the rest of the demons she'd once faced. Boasts full of pride with such force Shinobu could swear it would bring down the rest of the walls that were still barely standing.

And he was rushing at her on all fours at monstrous speed. Below. She would meet his attack with her own.

Insect Breathing.

If Shinobu's ribs hadn't been damaged, she might've been able to evade, might've had a different tactic.

Dance of the Dragonfly:

Not below--above. Shinobu met Inosuke's claws head on, what very well could be her last move, breath pouring into every nerve-ending from the tip of her toes to the end of her sword, willing herself to ignore the pain that would be met with her six lighting fast stabs into Inosuke's weak points just as his claws dug into her flesh.

Compound Eye Hexagon!

[jocrude]

THE EGG IN THE BELL JAR

A POEM I WROTE TO REFLECT UPON MY YEAR

It's such a strange state of mind. In that hang time between Christmas Eve and New Years, as every year draws to a close, drawing to a crawl sometime after the anniversary comes around of the day that I was born in late October after 9/11 to a world that mightn't yet have realised just how it was going to change, in that hang time between Christmas Eve and New Year's Day I ask myself, well, how did I get here? And just where am I going, and why?

As a trans woman who mostly still presents male, as a Marxist who's not yet done more than read the books and change the way they think, as a nascent little philosopher reading, page by page line by line when I can be bothered to read Schopenhauer or Zappfe or Leopardi, those pessimists who thunk themselves into corners, figuring it all out and using too many words to say that it's really not very good but can't even have the distinction of saying it's all pointless. As a nascent artist figuring it all out and learning the trades who's so long struggled with creative block, as a victim of mental illness and physical illness and chronic pain and complex trauma, who can't decide whether her first brush with death should be marked as the fever as a baby that she barely survived or the first time her brother picked up a weapon in his violence acted out upon her or that time a few years after Mum (we were so very close) vomited up her blood and died that she wrestled there for months in the bed she'd slept with mother in for far beyond her childhood years and thought up a plan and decided that suicide really WOULD be the better option and saw the headlights of the car upon her at night cutting the dark until she could feel them and then walked home. As after all this still a lonely bastard. I ask myself again.

It's going to get worse. Mostly things beyond your control, but some things you choose to do and the path you choose to follow, walking a line across the knife's edge the hard way when the precipice is just right there on each side and you can see your destination drawing up to a point beneath you as you walk. I'm mentally strong enough that through all the things I've been through that everyone from the past doesn't matter and that no one in that falesly imagined cruelly imagined cruelly inflicted but cruelly real future gives a damn about if I won't pay them therapist's wages or wages paid in art and clever words that most won't read. I'm mentally strong enough that after all that I keep choosing to take the path of most resistance. Even past the point when I can't get the drugs to numb myself anymore. Why is my brain strong enough now to keep ticking? To not learn its limits? To endure all the things that it does to itself? And why is it weak enough to do those things in the first place?

It's such a strange state of mind. Such a strange state of affairs. In some writing I did previously, I can't remember the context, I keep having the vision of an egg inside a bell jar.

You're a mad inventor, or a sorceror, an alchemist. You've ingeniously found a way to put all the energies of an explosion within an eggshell. Of course, this miracle can only exist in that state for an instant before the shell can no longer contain it and it breaks and blows you and maybe whoever is around apart. So you put it in an ingenious little bell jar, worked up from thin glass. The bell jar stops time, like someone has paused a video and gotten up off the couch to wander out the door distracted, and time goes on in space all around it. Anything just slightly too careless or cruel, you worry, could shatter this marvellous assembly to pieces and the rest of the world would only see the violence. See a mad sorceror, a mad man in a dress, who was silly and learned through all his life silliness and should've known better but now is gone, and some will say what a shame and maybe some will say good riddance. But anyways The World, seeing only the violence, and being well accustomed to violence and energy far greater than that little spark which is all that you can muster up and scratch together, well it just turns its head to the past and moves on. You are left with this miracle, just this explosion within an egg inside a bell jar, and so you put it away so care-full, on a pillow, with the other little kitsches in your cabinet. In your drawer by the pillow where you rest your tired head, and until you fall asleep, restless, to face the sun again you ask Yourself,

Well,

Why?

And then you write a little in your diary and you shut your eyes again.

[flam-burr]

First hunt - Yautvember day 1

Content: Three years ago, Marianne survived the Xeno plague that destroyed her research station and decided to take off with the Elites that helped her survive. Now, she has to face her chiva to earn her rightful place in her new family.

Tags: slight mention of PTSD, Original human character, Original Yautja characters, average violence

A/N: So, yes, here I am jumping on @jacklycan 's Yautvember train :3 I don't know if I'll manage to post every day of the challenge, but I'll try. And I'm going to do it by writing 'cause I so damn slow at drawing lmao

From the main deck, Marianne could see the planet slowly getting bigger as the ship got nearer to its atmosphere: a huge ball floating in the empty darkness of space, standing out in its blue and green hues.

Earth.

A small part of her was happy to see her birth planet again. It looked so peaceful from up there. Yet the weight of the weapon in her hands reminded her why she came back.

“Are you ready, little one?”

Va’stba was hovering over her, his golden eyes fixed on her from his near 12 feet like he expected her to answer with a no. Maybe he even hoped so: she was so tiny and soft and the challenge ahead so dangerous.

Marianne took a deep breath, then smiled at the giant and stood.

“You can bet I am.”

The impact was bone-wrecking. Marianne silently thanked again Eh’Ka for adapting the cockpit to her softer physique before leaving Yautja Prime, otherwise she would have been already dead.

She quickly checked her gear then opened the doors.

The arctic chill stang like a hundred daggers over her termic net, picking at her neck and the thin stripe of skin left uncovered between the gauntlets and the gloves. Luckily, the mask prevented it from getting to her face.

She pulled herself outside of the capsule and looked around for the other two Youngbloods she was expected to work with.

They were emerging from the snow on her right, searching for her in the dim light of the arctic winter. Their bodies didn’t betray any sign of nervousness, but the way they chittered while turning around told her they were eager to start.

With a last pull, she emerged completely from the little capsule and walked towards them.

The inside of the pyramid was just as terrifying as she expected it to be: cold as a freezer and dark as the night, she could easily understand why it was used for the chiva.

The taller male had taken the role of leader and had led the three of them down the ice tunnel towards the hidden building, then inside, to the weapon room.

By the time they had gotten there, Marianne heard the cracking sounds of the newborn Xenomorphs breaking their flesh cradles on the higher floor.

She tried not to think about them or the humans that were led to the temple for the ritual: it was too late anyway and she could feel the Youngbloods’ gazes on her, looking for any sign of weakness.

Their leader opened the sarcophagus and handed Marianne and the other Yautja their plasmacasters, adjusting his own on his shoulder.

“Stay together and keep your eyes open. We start by leading them in the maze.”, he said. He then looked down on Marianne. “Try to keep up.”

She held her tongue for she knew arguing with him would have brought her no good and nodded, trailing behind the two Youngbloods in the heart of the pyramid with her dah’kte ready.

After three years in space, her last encounter with the Xenomorphs had the same consistency of a dream.

Marianne remembered the screams, the running and the blood, they had tormented her in her sleep for a long time, but more than anything else she remembered the fear: a gut wrenching feeling of helplessness and panic, piercing like ice.

The moment the first serpent showed up, that fear came back to her like a wave.

Marianne felt it grow and spread from her core to her limbs, shaking her to the bone before pooling in her belly like a stormy lake.

Her prey instinct screamed to run and hide.

The hair on her nape stood, skin covered in goosebumps.

Her mind brought her back to that day, when her only weapon was her wit and her will to survive.

Marianne felt all this in less than a second, then her body reminded her who she was and her mind cleared.

She charged her plasmacaster and aimed at the creature. The bright sphere lit up the tunnel and hit its target, showing her two more serpents coming from that direction.

“Contact!”, she screamed.

Marianne heard her teammates roar, ready to fight as the hallways filled with hisses and high-pitch screeches, and unsheathed her h’sai-de, lifting it in her left hand.

“M-di h’chak.”, she said, almost growling at the creatures. “M-di h’dlak!”

Marianne briefly prayed Paya for her strength, then her teammates repeated her chant and she charged.

Va’stba stood still on the main deck, his massive arms crossed on his chest as he eyed the tunnel dug in the ice a few feet away.

Eh’Ka was by his side, observing some readings from the pyramid on his gauntlet.

“Can you stop that?”, he said.

“What?”, Va’stba asked.

“Worrying. It stresses me out.”, answered the shorter male.

“It’s not like I can prevent it.”, sighed Va’stba.

“Don’t you trust her?”, Eh’Ka asked, eyes still on the screen.

“Of course I do.”

“Then stop. She'll be fine.”

Va’stba growled, then turned again towards the window.

He heard Eh’Ka sigh, but kept his eyes on the white land outside, waiting.

Of course he trusted Marianne. He was the one who trained her in the first place, he knew what she could do. Yet…

A shadow poked out from the hole in the ice, followed shortly by another one and a third, smaller.

Va’stba waited for the three figures to be in the open before allowing himself to breathe again, finally relaxing when his eyes found Marianne's mask, thanks to Paya still attached to the rest of her body.

Eh'Ka stood and joined him at the window with a scoff.

“See? I told you.”, Eh’Ka said.

Va’stba waved a clawed hand to dismiss the comment and turned toward the entrance of the ship.

“Open the door.”

Eh’Ka obeyed, an amused smirk on his gray face, and shortly followed the older hunter.

Marianne climbed the small ramp to the entrance with a growing feeling of victory in her chest.

She did it.

She survived not one, but two fights with the Xenomorphs. Even better, she hunted them down like damn turkeys. The weight of her trophy was a reassuring pressure in her hands that witnessed her success and the end of her fears.

She waited for the two Youngbloods to leave with Eh’Ka in the core of the ship before turning to face her teacher.

Va'stba watched her stand before him: Marianne took off her mask and lifted her trophy, a serpent’s head, beaming inside as his gaze lit up with pride.

“Did you witness me, father?”, she said.

Va’stba smiled, lowering one knee on the ground to be at her eye level. Marianne lowered her trophy and leaned forward as he pressed his forehead against hers, keeping her in place with a hand on her nape.

She copied his gesture, holding herself from sniffing as a deep sense of calm filled her as he spoke.

“N’jauka, daughter.”

Glossary

Chiva = rite of passage to adulthood

Dah’kte = wristblade

H’sai-de = sword

M-di h’chak. M-di h’dlak = No mercy. No fear

N’jauka = welcome

[sugako]

practicum

supervisor!nanami x intern!reader sum: your internship is cruel and boring, but your primary supervisor and his lingering touches are enough to make you stay for the decadence collab by @sugawara-sweetheart cw: 18+ minors dni, nsfw, smut, power dynamic (boss/intern), slight age gap implied, semi-public sex/office sex, Dom/sub themes, fingering, slight dumbification, cervix kisses, size kink, creampie, reader is in their 20s, inexperienced reader (sorta/idk its up to interp), reader wears a skirt/has a vagina but no gendered language used wc: 2.3k

You knew the moment you stepped into the stiff, grey office building that this wasn’t what you wanted to do, but you had to complete an internship and this had been the easiest place to get into. At first, you hadn’t been sure if it was worth the experience, or the long hours, or the complicated work that really should have been given to someone with twice the experience as you and probably another degree or two.

Truthfully, there wasn’t much keeping you there. You had the opportunity to find a new place within the first week, but you hadn’t. The little steel string that kept you clinging onto this awful, stuffy job was him. Nanami Kento.

Or, as you usually addressed him, Mr. Nanami. He was your primary supervisor after all. The moment you decided to stay was the moment you realized your little crush had gotten out of hand, not that it stopped you. It was impossible with all the sharp angles of his pretty face, the whisper of his baritone voice when he kindly corrected any mistakes in your work and the lingering touches of his fingers across your shoulders as he leaned in to assist you.

Despite his demeanor, you discovered he wasn’t too much older than yourself, at least within ten years of your own age, that had been the tipping point. Your crush quickly got out of hand. Most nights you spent thrashing around in bed imagining your own hands to be his as they left hot trails down your body, but it was never good enough.

For a while, you resigned yourself to lonely nights and soft brushes of skin, but then one day after he caught you in the middle of twisting your ankle up the steps to the office, it was as though a switch flipped.

Nanami had always found you attractive and he appreciated your work ethic, even if he was well aware this wasn’t a place where you would thrive. He knew he spent a little too long explaining certain things to you, letting his body graze yours whenever given the chance, but he felt you enjoyed it. The way your shoulders tensed and you let out a little shuddery gasp that you thought was silent, when your pretty thighs clenched together under whatever cute skirt or pants you had on that day, the light in your eyes that brightened whenever you looked into his eyes - it all made his heart race even if he kept a straight face.

Seeing you so helpless, if even for a short moment, and the delicious whimper you yelped out had broken his resolve. Sure, he was your boss, but not really since you didn’t permanently work here, he reasoned.

“Come to my office so I can check that everything is okay.” He said, taking your elbow into his hand. “It can be easy to fracture the bones in your ankle and foot, and those injuries shouldn't be taken lightly.”

“Uh, okay.” You stuttered back, heat rushing up to the tips of your ears at the subtle contact. It was early, very early, and there were only a handful of people sleepily milling around. Not enough to be a problem, he thought, silently locking the door behind the both of you.

A bit awkwardly, you situated yourself in the middle of the room, bending your knee to slightly lift your foot off the ground. The ache wasn’t terrible, it barely stung, but who were you to argue with a superior?

“Sit on my desk.” He instructed, shucking his suit jacket off and draping it over the back of the plush chair adjacent to the desk.

Nodding quickly, you scampered into place, perching on the edge with your feet dangling above the floor. The straight line of his mouth just barely quirked up as he sat before you. Your mind spun, unable to help but notice how his knees spread wide apart, and the tightness of his pants around his thighs and hips.

Some little part of his brain was telling him to stop, but his body kept moving, fingers rubbing up against your bare ankle. He had to hold back a low groan when he felt you shiver under his touch and your thighs twitch open just the slightest. Glancing up at you only confirmed what he already knew. The way your eyes drooped down, lips parted as you breathed in those cute, shallow breaths, holding yourself up so nicely for him.

Your breath hitched when he looked at you, his hands sliding at a painfully slow rate up from your ankle. They ghosted over your calves, so steady but so cautious, and all the while his eyes stayed anchored to yours.

“How does it look?” You finally breathed when he reached the backside of your knees. Clenching around nothing, but feeling so on the edge of what you longed for, you let your legs fall open just a bit more, knowing he could see your damp panties if he even flickered his eyes down.

When it took him a moment to respond, you worried you had crossed a line, but after a handful of long seconds, the gears in his head stopped turning when his eyes were cast downward. He didn’t make it to your ankle, vision stopping short when he registered how far your cute skirt had been pushed up and the way he could see the perfect outline of your dripping cunt imprinted against the thin fabric of your underwear.

“Very good, but…” Nanami trailed off, kneading your thighs higher and higher.

“But what?” You asked, voice coming out all breathy and needy. The way his touch sent sparks of electricity cascading down your spine was a sin. Hungry with need, the muscles in your thighs and stomach twitched, the cool air of the office breezing against you.

With curious eyes, you watched as he swallowed hard, his gaze flashing back up to you. “You have a different problem now.” Letting out a small sigh, he stands, caging you in with his arms and looming just centimeters away from your face. “I see how you look at me. How you dote on me, ask me for help even when you don’t need it, how your legs shake when I sit a little too close,” his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hip as though to make his point, “and now you’re making a mess on my desk and spreading your legs to show me. Do you really need your boss’ cock that badly?” The way he coos the last question fills your body with heat, but you struggle to look anywhere except directly at him.

“Y-yes, please, want you.” When you stutter out your answer, he squeezes his hips between your legs, the growing bulge in his pants pressing against your thigh.

“You’re very cute, but you act as if you have never been touched properly.” He whispers, letting his head fall against your shoulder, hands pushing your skirt up until it’s bunched up around your hips, completely exposing you.

“They… uh, sorta, but not like,” you shudder out a gasp when his fingers tap against the soaked fabric, grinding your hips into his touch, “...not as good as you.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” He moans, ignoring his own words as he pulls aside the flimsy fabric and spreads your slick around, circling your clit.

“But I-!” Your words get choked off when he eases a long finger into you, curling it against your spongey walls. “Want you to fuck me, please!” You whine, hips bucking into his hand while you chased release.

He presses a chaste kiss against the side of your neck before he gently pushes you down so your back is flush against the desk and he pulls your hips to the edge, holding your knees wide enough for him to fit. Barely lifting your head up, you watch him as he stands before you. With quick-moving hands, he unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants, pulling his cock out and palming it lightly before he leans over you again.

Faintly, you’re aware that you’re in his office, in the office building and if anyone were to walk in there would be a disaster for your work and academic life, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Especially not when Nanami’s heavy cock is resting against your cunt and he’s kissing down the column of your neck.

“Since you’ve never felt a real man, tell me if it’s too much,” he says hoarsely, pulling aside the fabric of your panties again before he lines himself up.

Blankly, you nod at his words, struggling to relax your body as the fat tip pushes past your tight entrance. It’s enough to make you flutter around him, an action he desperately tries to ignore. Your little cunt is gushing, sucking him in and clamping around him so tight he’s worried he might break you. The inside of your lip aches from biting them so harshly, waiting for him to slowly bottom out.

“Happy? You’ve wanted this for so long.” He breathes, looking down at where the two of you are connected and the pretty shine of your wetness under the lamps and early morning sunshine that filters through the window.

“Y-yes.” You answer unsteadily, wrapping your knees around his lower back, needing to feel him more, deeper, harder, anything.

“Usually such a smart person and now all you can say is yes and nod?” He pulls back, nearly slipping out with the way you’re creaming around him, and slams back into you.

“Uh-huh!” Comes your squeaked response, unable to answer properly. Slowly realizing what you said, you attempt to backtrack with a weak, “I mean-” before the words gurgle off into nothing when you feel him hit you deeper than anyone ever has.

The sound of skin slapping and the resounding squelches that fill the space cloud your thoughts up, and all you feel is him. Every movement he made was fast but evenly paced and purposeful and you wondered how he could fit so well against you without ever having known you intimately before. His hands burning against your skin, brushing against your stomach as they hold your hips in place, how he perfectly fills you out, and in the next moment how your chest fills with warmth when his thumb brushes against your aching clit.

“You want to cum?” His voice is far strained than it was when he began, his low breathy moans getting louder by the second.

“Please!” You cry, arms shaking as you held yourself back from grabbing onto him.

All he did was give you a sharp nod, but his fingers were suddenly focused, stroking you so exactly you found yourself at the brink of orgasm in short minutes encouraged on by the way he continued to steadily fuck into you.

“Good,” he whispered as he felt you flutter around him, sucking him in impossibly deeper. Those words were the final straw for you. Before you realized what was happening, you could hear yourself faintly crying out like a far-away echo, body jerking and trembling beneath him as he worked you through it, only taking his hand away when he knew you were spent.

“Such a perfect cunt.” You barely heard him, dazed in your own little world, only feeling now, mumbling out something about how you wanted him to cum inside of you.

He slowed, barely, but his steadiness remained, the only indication that he was close was his cock twitching against your still fluttering walls. Letting out a long, hissed groan he finally let himself go, shuddering against you as he came, filling you up even more from the inside. His body pressed into yours as he simply held you, listening closely to your whimpers and gasps.

As you slipped out of your own brain, coming back to reality, you moaned at the weight of him against you, wrapping your arms to rest around his shoulders. Your legs shook around him, barely staying looped around the back of his thighs now.

Gradually, he propped himself up, almost painfully pulling out of you. Although his cock was barely half hard now, the stretch pulled at you just as much as it did at the beginning. He quickly pulls out the neatly placed pocket square from the jacket draped behind him and cleans himself off while you lay there, still winded and trying to process what happened.

Waiting for you to say something or do anything, he drinks up the sight of your glistening cunt, his cum pooling between your legs as it slowly drips out. The small groan you let out as you sit up with unsteady motions gets his attention, prompting him to lean back over you and clean around your thighs, purposefully ignoring the mess between your legs. You watch his actions, dread creeping in as to what happens next, but all he does is adjust your panties back into place and help straighten out your skirt when you wobble off the desk.

Silently, he holds your hands as you regain your footing.

“Um, thank y-”

“Your internship ends next week, correct?” He cuts you off, taking his hands out of yours and rounding the desk to sit at his chair.

“Yes, it does.” It’s obvious he knows the answer, but you reply anyway. You swallow, clasping your hands together to keep them from shaking.

“Alright,” he says, scribbling something on the back of a business card, “feel free to call me after your last day.”

A little surprised, you take the card from him and hold it tight, a weight being lifted from your chest. With a little nod, you go to leave.

“Oh, and y/n?”

“Yes, sir?” You chirp. He takes a deep breath, wondering how it would sound if you called him that next time.

“This didn’t happen.”